BY PRES. WHITE, D. D.,

WABASH COLLEGE, IND.

THE student will never think of keeping on his present intellectual costume. His growing stature should burst out of those garments, that fitted his early intellect and his incipient scholarship. He should never be found, like deer-herds, forever upon the same old stamping-ground. Overleaping all familiar enclosures, he will push, if he have the true spirit within him, into untraveled pathways, into uncultivated regions.

I desire to suggest a few explicit words to such as aspire to an education, in order to their best success in mental attainment; they shall be few, and I trust practical. I begin by exhorting you to study with a spirit of self-dependence.

Independence of mind does not forbid the reception from past generations, and from the present time, of all existing knowledge. It forbids receiving it passively as a hollow in a rock receiveth the rains, itself just as hard and sterile as before. It requires it to be received as the warm, mellow soil receives the showers of heaven, to be made itself more prurient of a rich vegetation. It requires it to be received as the physical frame receives the air, to imbibe from it a vital element for its whole circulation, just as the same frame receives nutritious food into its canals, to be elaborated, absorbed, assimilated into solid accretions for itself. You need not ride in every man's vehicle. But in one of your own, you may combine and use every improvement which human invention has suggested. So far as is practicable, let into your mind every light that has shone out from all previous generations. But be not content, like the insensate moon, to send back from a cold surface the same unchanged rays, which you had before received. Let them shine into and through your own spirit, and then emerge, collected, warmed, colored by the medium through which they have passed, and all ready to blaze in a focus at any chosen point. In your struggles after intellectual advancement, make no attempts at balloon ascensions, by means of borrowed gas; you will be quickly down again to the point from whence you went up. Go up, like the eagle, on your own wings. Independent-mindedness is specially important in the settlement of those permanent and practi

cal opinions, by which all the accomplishments of life are effected.

Receive nothing among your dogmas with a mask on, nothing in gold leaf and varnish. Tear off all disguises, tap heart-currents, and learn what constitutes the real nature and hidden life of what is offered to you. Hear all opinions, but construct your own faith; know the skill of all mental artists, but give temper and edge to your own armor. Admit no man's nostrum certificates. Throw all compounds that are hawked abroad into the crucible; subject them to the most searching analyses. This independent studying is altogether essential to your intellectual progress. Unless you strike ahead, and, self-depending, push your own pathway, you will spend half of life in threading out the by-ways and crossways, and backways, and crooked ways, and hedged ways of other intellects. Project, survey, grub, grade, rail-lay your own road! and then move away despite all obstructions.

The treasures of wisdom already accumulated are surpassingly rich-they are immense. Drink deep out of them, but forget not that new sources are open to you. Draw out of these. Besides picking up the coin floating upon the thoroughfares of literature, go down to the gold-beds underlaying large territories. Bring up the virgin ore!

Study intensely. Feeble efforts of mind construct a habit of debilities, of faint, nerveless exertions, which eventually render spirit and power impracticable. A man may accustom himself to slight and gentle muscular action until the panoply of the old Roman soldier would crush him. So a man may softly, untaskingly read, and think, and compose, until, under intense and powerful intellections, his mind would hopelessly sink. Gird up the loins to bold stretches of thought, to strong invention: make ponderous strokes: utter deep under-tones, that shall shake earth and air! Count no ocean too deep to sound, no literary country too remote to penetrate! Intensely think, intensely read, intensely write. Let every plea at the Bar, every argument before the people, every sermon to a congregation, every human malady, task all your powers, receive the

lumination of your way, the instrument of your power. Enter joyously, vivaciously, with the intensest interest, upon all your intellectual inquiries. Study, if you study at all, as if conscious you were walking amid gems and pearls; gems and pearls too brilliant and precious to be any of them left ungathered.

I have said much of the highly intellectual character of the spheres of life now opened before you. These same spheres of life have another interest-I refer to the eminent moral qualities, which they also demand and may be made to cultivate.

In respect to a pure, sound heart as a qualification for the services of life, I cannot speak too earnestly. In addition to intellectual, all the best moral qualities are indispensable to the highest accomplishment in every sphere of human action, physical or mental, secular or religious. Indispensable are they in order with the best success to drive the wheels of industry, to hoist the sails of enterprise, to hasten the car of improvement, to hold the balances of justice, to battle for the rights of humanity, to pour abroad the irrigations of benevolence, to stop the tide of sin, to push the advances of knowledge, to multiply the victories of truth, to augment the fruits of righteousness.

God has no scene of action for a man of unsound heart. Society, therefore, should have none. In all human occupations, incorruptible integrity augments mental ability; secures its right application; reconciles to difficulty; overcomes obstacles; inspires enterprise; invigorates resolves; begets confidence; cleanses intention; exalts motive; consecrates example; pleases Heaven.

Be it so that corrupt men are often successful and gain admiration; so does the sycamore

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on our low river banks for a time shoot out boughs and foliage upon a thin shell over a vast hollowness; so does the oak vine entwine and thicken itself upon a dry, dead trunk, until it appear a beautiful shaft of luxuriant green.

Value that healthy success, and that human and heavenly approval, which are based upon a good heart and crystal intentions. When inspired by a true veneration for all righteousness, when filled with a sincere love of all truth, when prompted to all practicable service by a hearty wish for the good of every fellow-man, it is a glorious thing to live! As there is no optimism here in our world; as everything is to be better; as for man and society there is a higher condition; as now the tide is grandly upward, it is blessed and great to consecrate and contribute yourselves to this vast upheaving of all human things! O! it is Godlike to image your own spirit large and sanctified in the spirit of other men; to send pure and lofty aspirations breathing and warm out of your own heart to beat and thrill in the heart of a contemporary generation. He has been called a benefactor of his race, who has made two spires of grass to grow, where but one grew before. How much nobler a thing will it be for you in the moral vineyard of the world to rear out of the soil new and numerous, and fruitful plants of righteousness!

He would be counted worthy of all praise, who, to save fleets of vessels from destruction, should hang out an ever-lighted transparency over some recently elevated rocks lying right in the pathway of the world's commerce. It is a loftier and holier vocation to hang out lights to the wayfarers of the world, to save them from being engulfed in waves, and depths, and destructions infinite and eternal.

THERE is a joy in outward things,
That comes not near the heart;
There is a pleasant smile in which
The spirit takes no part.
Bring not to me that surface joy;

I care not for that brilliant smile;
Thou must not cheat me to be gay,
And thou be sad the while.

Canst thou be sad while love is ours,
And faith points out the way
To regions where all earthly clouds
Are lost in perfect day!

Thou didst not take me for thy love
Through happy days alone.

Are we not wed for weal or woe?
Am I not all thine own?

Then let me share each new-found grief;

Bring all thy pains, thy sins, to me;
They are my heritage, and come
By right of love for thee.

By right of love I claim from thee
My portion of thy pain;
And love's transmitting power shall turn
Darkness to light again.

MONKS and monasteries belong so exclusively to the old world and the olden time, that it is difficult to produce them before the mind as they were in the palmy days of their prosperity. The monastic establishments which still remain in some parts of Europe are but monasteries " of shreds and patches," miserable, shriveled representatives of the monasteries of the middle ages. One would like to know from some vivid authentic description what a convent was in its prime, "when the cloisters were filled with devout servants of the rule of St. Benedict," when the abbot governed like a Lord with despotic authority from which there lay no appeal, and the fruits of broad acres were gathered by the labors of the Brethren into the cellar and the larder of the establishment. All this belonged to a state of things which happily has passed, or is fast passing away before the light of a better civilization; yet the mistaken piety which led such multitudes to seek the retirement of the monk's cell as a means to the more acceptable service of God, spread itself over so wide a space in history, and exercised so potent an influence, both for good and evil, that everything pertaining to it is matter of legitimate curiosity.

It is well known that among the famous monasteries of the Cistercian Order, none was so famous as that of Clairvaux in France, founded and governed by the great St. Bernard.

Near the beginning of the twelfth century, Bernard, then a very young man, together with near a score of recruits converted by his zeal, joined the new and feeble congregation of reformed monks at Citeaux. His signal devotion and eloquence soon gave eclat to the convent, and novices began to flock to it for admission. Citeaux became too strait for them; and two years after his own profession, Bernard led out a colony to found a new monastery, of which he, a small, pale young man, emaciated by fasting and vigils, was appointed abbot. The site fixed upon was a valley in the county of Champagne, something more than a hundred miles south-east of Paris. The ground had been given to the abbot of Ci

teaux by Count William of Champagne on his setting off for the crusades. It was a wild, sequestered region, in the midst of extensive forests; and on this account a favorite haunt of bandits. Its ill reputation had given it the name of Vallis Absinthialis, or Bitter-dale. On being transferred to holy personages, it was rebaptized Claravallis, or Fairvale.

Wild as the spot was, the monks could perceive that it possessed great natural capabilities; and their yet unbroken energy soon subdued and improved it, till the desert blossomed like a garden.

Of this monastery, in the days of its greatest outward prosperity, we have a considerably full description remaining. It is found among the works of Bernard, though by an anonymous and later hand. The gossiping, good-natured manner of the writer, with his rather elaborate attempts at ornament and pleasantry, set before us the picture of a perfectly well-fed, easy, and contented monk, seen through the vista of six hundred years. Indeed, a monk must have been a very unreasonable animal if he was other than contented when supplied with plenty to eat and drink, taxed with light labor, and surrounded by all the pleasant sights and sounds spoken of in the ensuing description.

If you would know the situation and appearance of Clairvaux (our friend proceeds), the account that follows will serve as a mirror in which you may behold it at a glance. The abbey stands in a level area, between two ridges of hills, which converge to an angle in its front. One of these acclivities is admirably adapted to the cultivation of fruit-trees, and the other to the vine. So our basket is replenished from the right hand, and our cup from the left. The sides and summits of these hills, elevated and quiet, afford a most agreeable field of labor for the monks in the various processes of vine and fruit culture. There are thickets to be cleared away. Brushwood is to be collected, and bound in bundles for the fire. Weeds, stumps, and undergrowth are to be extirpated; and the wild vines which

burden the branches, or strangle the roots of the trees, are to be removed; that nothing may hinder the sturdy oak from tossing its head toward the stars, the flexile ash from shooting upward, and the spreading beech-tree from branching forth its arms on all sides.

In the rear of the monastery extends a broad plain, an ample portion of which is enclosed within the abbey wall. Within this, grow a large number of fruit-trees of different kinds, furnishing repast and shelter to the inmates of the convent. Just within this grove, stands the Infirmary, or that portion of the building devoted to the aged, feeble, and convalescent Brethren; inviting them forth to wander in its avenues, or repose beneath its shade. The sick man sits upon the verdant turf, and while the dog-star raging, bakes the thirsty earth elsewhere, he is solaced with the cool retreat, and snuffs with returning vigor the sweet scent of the herbage. The verdure of the groves, and the exuberant beauty of the hanging fruit, gives a feast to the eye, while the ear is charmed with the sweet notes of feathered songsters; so that he may truly say, in the words of the spouse, " I sat under his shadow with great delight, and his fruit was sweet to my taste." Thus for one affliction the Divine mercy provides numerous solaces; while the pure sky smiles above, and the earth breathes odors around, and we drink in pleasure with all the senses at once.

Where the orchard terminates, begins the garden; divided into beds, or, I might say, into islands, by the streamlets that flow between. For though the water may seem slumbering, it glides on with a gentle current. Here also is furnished to the Infirm Brethren a most pleasing spectacle, when they seat themselves on the margin of the clear stream, and watch the sportive tribes below floating in the glassy wave, or clearing it together in a phalanx. The water, thus conducted through the garden, serves both for irrigation and the breeding of fish; and is fed with unexhausted supplies from the river Alba (Aube). This famous and noble stream, taking its course through the abbey grounds, leaves everywhere, by its faithful service, a blessing behind it; submitting to divide its forces and labor for the good of man as it flows onward. Pouring half its volume through an artificial winding channel cut by the labor of the Brethren, it meanders by the abbey as if to salute the inmates, and apologize for having come in part only, for want of a broader bed. And here at its first introduction it lays vigorous hold of the mill-wheel, and busies itself in preparing our bread. Careful and troubled about many things like Martha, it at the same time drives round the ponderous stone, and agitates

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the sieve which separates the finer from the coarser flour.

Flowing hence, it pours itself in an adjoining building, into the brewer's caldron, and consents to undergo the operation of boiling in order to furnish potations to the Brethren; if perchance a sterile harvest has ill repaid the labors of the vinedresser, and the daughter of the barley-field must supply the place of the grape. Even with this it does not get its discharge from service; but the fullers, whose shop stands next, invite the stream to enter their premises; reasonably insisting that as in the mill and brewery it has been providing for the wants of the inner man, it should also lend a hand in providing for the comfort of the outer. To this modest request the obliging river makes no objection; but laying hold of the fulling wheel, and alternately elevating and depressing the huge pestles, or, if you choose, mallets, or, better still, wooden legs, (which designation best suits the saltatory business of the fullers,) it relieves the Brethren of a most wearisome labor, and (if I may be pardoned a joke) bears the penance due to their sins.

Gracious God! what consolations dost Thou furnish Thy poor servants! What alleviations of the toil that would otherwise overwhelm them with fatigue! For how many burdened horses must stoop their backs, and how many strong arms weary their muscles to accomplish the labor which this sympathizing river gaily performs! And when all is ended, it asks nothing for its labor which it has labored under the sun, except to be permitted to flow freely on its way; and, indeed, having whirled around so many rapid wheels, it takes its departure, so broken into foam, that one would think it had itself been ground, and rendered softer in the process.

Leaving the fullers' shop, the stream next enters the tannery, and there applies itself with laborious industry to the care of the Brethren's soles (calceamenta); and thence distributing itself into numerous branches, it flows with a busy assiduity through various offices and rooms, everywhere asking what work they have for it to do, and applying itself without hesitation to the manifold occupations of cooking, sifting. turning, washing, sprinkling, and ironing. Finally, to complete the entire round of its good works, and leave nothing to be done after it, it condescends to the office of scavenger, sweeps away all filth and refuse, and leaves everything clean behind it. And now, having energetically accomplished

It is acknowledged that this poor pun is not to be credited to the author; but it is so much in his manner that he could hardly have missed it, had there been any suitable Latin sound conveying the double idea.