Human Mind") in the Monthly Review for October 1822, the writer of which I have never been able to discover; and another in the late "NEW Edinburgh Review."

I have only to wish that your health and concurrence may lead you to promulgate the scheme of "Relatives AND Relation." And that you may also advocate the NON-PERCEPTION OF external bodies; or, in other words, the nonexistence of MATTER-a truth which is certainly DEDUCIBLE FROM YOUR OWN VIEWS OF COLOUR; and from that of Locke and Newton; although it never led them to the rationale of visible lines, which rationale demonstrates that we never perceive any lines, or figures, but in the modifications of our own sensations. By the general recognition of this last, I conceive, can a rational physiology of mind, and a rational logic of relation be alone effected; that is to say, taking visible lines for one great species of Relation, in its being a line of partition between some two corelated colours.

It would be equally indelicate, and contrary to my habitual disposition, to obtrude unnecessarily upon the train of your highly interesting speculations. And I by no means desire to provoke a correspondence, unless you may require of me to explain any thing I have advanced. But, as your views are now upon the anvil, it may perhaps be interesting to you, on account of your future fame, that I offer the following remarks.

Your speculations on the Sense of Sight are, in the main, an illustration and promulgation of Bishop Berkeley's New Theory of Vision. But that beautiful department of science is no more that of VISION than it is of NECROMANCY. It is wholly a science of judgments consequent upon acts of vision. Hence, when I fell upon a science of vision, I distinguished it by the title of Primary vision, and imputed to Berkeley's department that of secondary vision. Now, Bishop Berkeley never knew, nor dreamed of Primary Vision; that is, he never conceived that visible lines are the meetings of our SENSATIONS of different co-existent sensations of colours. He talks of a red and a blue line added together into one sum, or lengthened line; he never discerning that the narrowest red, or blue, is not a line, but is only a narrow surface. He never dreamed of a BREADTHLESS visible line, which cannot possibly have colour, since it is only a line of demarcation between any two sensations of colour.

Now, I have to observe it is Primary vision alone (though Touch does the same in a less exquisite way), that solves the great problem of the intercourse between the mind and the external world. The train of judgments, which I have called secondary vision, have no part in this problem. Secondary vision is, Berkeley and you assert-a LANGUAGE. But Primary vision is not a language. It speaks of nothing but itself. It proclaims only perceived lines, which mean nothing but themselves, and the surfaces of sensations of colours which these lines either enclose or divide. It is a science of its own kind: And stands apart from all those judgments that may arise from it.

In fine, sir, if you shall re-imbody your beautiful speculations in an appropriate work, and thus consign them to posterity, that posterity will demand of your memory to know upon what ground you have virtually condemned Primary Vision, by not at all adverting to it in your writings. It has been before the Public Sixteen years and more. And the Reviews which I have mentioned may satisfy you that Primary Vision can never die. If it had been brought into existence by a University Professor, it would, long ago, have been bruited over Europe. But its time MUST COME; and, with it, the time of those who have oppressed it.

I am glad to find you assert the existence of relations between things themselves-a truth asserted by Barrow, as well as largely maintained in my own speculations. Dr Brown, on the contrary (following Bishop Berkeley), makes relation to be nothing but creations of the mind. And it must be owned that the Aristotelian definition of relation-namely, "a way of comparing things "is father to this enormous fallacy. If I live, I shall have to show that this doctrine results in the most dismal fruits in Ethics-fruits drawn from it by Dr Brown himself, in a revolting extent. As my Analysis of Language, entitled Anti-Tooke, is a fruit and a test of my scheme of Relatives and Relation, you may perhaps derive satisfaction from a perusal of the able analysis of the First Volume of that work, which forms nearly the whole of the Article

Philology, in the CYCLOPÆDIA EDINENSIS, the Second Volume being then not published.

As I perceive that some person has addressed you under the signature of a "SPIRITUALIST," I deem it proper to mention that I am not that person, nor have I a guess who it is. But I must suppose it to be some one who has seen and agreed with my speculations. Because BERKELEY was no spiritualist, his "Ideas" being no more modifications of the mind, than rats, which inhabit a house, are modifications of that house. And no writer in Britain has advocated the Spiritualism of Malebranche, or yet that of the Hindoos; both which, however, differ essentially from that which I assert. I altogether affirm that a SPIRITUALIST is a CORPOREALIST; so that you may surely prove your opposer to be the latter if he be the former.

I have now the honour to subscribe myself, with great consideration and respect,

Sir, your most obedient servant,

JOHN FEARN.

Late address, Tarlogie Lodge, Cheltenham, but presently at
No. 32, Sloane Street, Chelsea.

LONDON, November 1st, 1836.

HERO AND LEANDER.

FROM THE GREEK OF MUSÆUS.

BY F. T. PRICE, Hereford.

UP, gentle Muse, and sing the torch whose gleam
Shone o'er the tenderest scenes of secret love;
And him who braved the midnight sea to win
His mistress' favour; sing the warm embrace
In darkness shrouded, ere the morn arose.

I hear thee tell how fond Leander swam,
And how the torch, the beacon torch, led on
To nightly-wedded Hero's bed of joy

Sweet Venus' love-inspired ambassador.

That torch, that light of love! which father Jove,
Its nightly office over, should have placed

Among the bright assembly of the stars,

And called its blaze the lover's beacon flame;
For erst on earth its brightness ministered

To love's wild frenzy, when to the sleepless couch

Of waiting love it led, ere yet the wind

With envious blast had darkened every beam.
But come, sing thou with me their common fate,
The torch extinguished and Leander dead.

Opposite Sestos, fair Abydos stood,
Two neighbouring cities, both beside the sea.
But from Love's bended bow a single dart
United both; for in the one a youth,

A smitten damsel in the other, burned.
The youth, Leander, in Abydos dwelt,
While Sestos' wall enclosed fair Hero's home.
Of equal beauty both, both shone supreme
In either city, beauty's brightest star.
Stranger, if e'er thou chance to pass that way,
Seek out the tower where Hero used to stand
And hold the torch to guide Leander's course:
Visit, too, old Abydos' sounding strait,

Whose waves still mourn Leander's love and death.

But to Abydos, to Leander's home.

How came the love of Hero? say my Muse-
And how in turn was Hero's heart enthralled?

Hero, fair daughter of a noble race,
Was Venus' virgin priest, and in a tow'r,
Far from her parents, on the sea-coast dwelt ;
Herself a second Venus, Beauty's queen.

Her chaste and prudent wisdom bade her keep
Aloof from all assemblies of the fair;

She joined no dance, partook no youthful sport,
So dreaded she the envy of her sex

(Women with envious eye view beauty still);
But ever tending Aphrodite's shrine,

Oft at his mother's altar would she pour

A prayer to Love, whose glowing darts she feared; Yet 'scaped she not the fiery shaft of Love.

In course the public festival came round
Which they of Sestos annually hold
To fair Adonis and the Cyprian Queen-
And all the people crowded to the feast.
Then from the far-off islands of the sea,
Some from Hæmonia came, from Cyprus some;
In all the cities of Cythera staid,

Nor female form; nor one to thread the dance
Upon the balmy heights of Lebanon ;
Nor tarried any in the neighbouring lands;
In Phrygia none-in fair Abydos none--
And there was all the band of joyous youths,
Whose eyes in rapture banquet on the fair,
And who at every feast in crowds are seen,
Not half so much in honour of the god,
As of the lovely forms that cluster there.

When as the virgin Hero paced the fane,
Such lustrous beams her brow of beauty flashed,
As at her rising sheds the pale-eyed Moon.
Her snowy checks, with sweetest blushes tinged,
Bloomed, as at dawn the double-tinted rose;
Her limbs a very bed of roses seemed,

So deep with blushes were they crimsoned o'er :
And, as she walked, her snowy garment swept
The scattered rose her step had barely crushed,
While from each limb a thousand graces flowed.
'Twas said of old the graces were but Three;
But O! 'tis false; for see, in every glance
Of Hero's laughing eye, a thousand smile.
Venus in sooth a fitting priest had found,
Who all created beauty so excelled,
That she herself a second Venus seemed.
In every heart she dwelt, and not a youth
E'er looked upon her but his inmost soul
Craved above all desire young Hero's love.
Where'er she walked throughout the spacious dome,

Souls, eyes, and hearts attended on her step;

And thus some wondering youth would fondly say:

"In Sparta's loveliest city have I been,

Where is the mart and concourse of the fair,
Yet saw I never such a maid as this

So pure and yet so melting-surely now

To Venus' worship some young Grace hath come!

Mine eyes with gazing ache, but still my heart
Insatiate craves to batten on her charms.
O! welcome Death! if to thy murky realm
Through Hero's couch of love the journey lay:
I'd envy not your Heav'n, ye gods above,
Had I but Hero mistress of mine house-
Yet if thy priestess may not share my heart,
Kind Venus grant me only such a bride.”

Thus some spake out, while some concealed their wounds, And longed in secret for the lovely maid.

But thou, ill-fated youth, Leander, thou,

When through thine eyes her beauty reached thy soul,
With secret pangs consumedst not away-
But, by the burning shaft struck unawares,
Thy soul, apart from Hero, craved not life.
Her radiant eyes had fired the brand of love,
And in thy bosom blazed the quenchless flame.
Yes, spotless woman's beauty deeper strikes
Than winged arrows force the heart of man-
In by the eyes the mischief makes its way,
And gliding downward settles in the breast.
Thus wonder, boldness, trembling, shame, by turns
Possessed him; trembling seized his heart of hearts,
And shame enchained him in her modest bonds.
Then as her beauty fixed his wondering gaze,
Impassioned rapture hurried shame away;
And he, with all the boldness love inspires,
On tip-toe stole and stood beside the maid,
And on her rolled askance those longing eyes
Whose voiceless pleading won her soul to love.
But she, when she perceived Leander's flame,
Laughed in her heart at her own beauty's pride-
Anon she veiled the lustre of her brow,
And from her covert many a burning glance
Told the soft secret to Leander's eye,
Ere yet she raised her veil how leapt his heart
That she, the peerless, spurned him not away.
While thus, enraptured, for the secret hour
Leander waited, daylight calmly set,
And high uprose the shadowy Star of Eve.
Then stood he boldly by the virgin's side,
When black-robed Darkness hovered in the air,
And pressed her rosy fingers in his own,
While from his bosom's depth broke out a sigh.
Hero, in silence, and as though in wrath,
Pleased, yet offended, drew away her hand-
But he perceived the maid irresolute,

And by her dainty robe, with hand of strength,
Half led, half forced her onward, till they reached
The secret shadows of the inmost fane.
With slow and faltering step young Hero went
As one unwilling, and with girlish threats
Leander's bearing thus did she upbraid :—
"Begone, begone, Sir Stranger, art thou mad?
What! force a virgin?-fie, release my robe-
Brave not the mighty vengeance of our house—
'Tis ill to tamper thus with Venus' priest—
A thousand dangers guard my virgin couch."

Thus did she threaten-but Leander felt In all the fury of her woman's wrath

The surest sign of yielding maidenhood---
(For when at loving youths young virgins rave,
Their threats are Love's most certain harbingers).
And all beside himself with frantic love
He kissed her lily neck, and madly spake :-

"Thou second Venus! Pallas' other self!
(To earthly beauties I compare thee not,
For Jove's own daughters only are thy peers)—
How blest thy sire! thy mother too, how blest!
How trebly blest the womb that gave thee birth.
O! hear my vows, nor spurn my earnest love—
By Venus' priest should Venus' work be done—
Then come enjoy her tender mysteries-
For maids to Venus minister but ill,

And Venus loves them not-her dearest rites
Are rapturous wedlock and the wreathed embrace.
If then thou hallow Venus in thine heart,
Spurn not the gentle soothing rites of love,
But look with pity on thy suppliant here—
Thy mate, if so it please thee, hunted down
And given a prey to thee by Love himself.
As Hermes erst to lovely Omphale
The bold Alcides brought, her willing slave,
So Venus now hath sent me here to thee—
Then think how selfish Atalanta fared,
Who shunned the ardour of Milanion's love,
Till angry Venus in her heart enthroned
His image whom before that heart had spurned;"
And O! beware, beware of Venus' wrath."

Thus did he win her coy and shrinking heart, And rouse her passion by his words of love. But she, in silence, and as though ashamed, To hide her blushes fixed her gaze on earth, And with her foot kept patting o'er the ground, While oft around her shoulders would she draw Her tightened robe-all these, as lovers know, Are signs of soft persuasion; for a maid When wooed, to winning silently consents. And Love now struck his sweet and bitter barb Deep into Hero's virgin heart, which burned And raged with transport at Leander's form. But while she fixed her eyes upon the ground, Mean while Leander fed his amorous sight, Nor wearied gazing on her tender neck. At length she raised her sweetly trembling voice, While tears of rapture gemmed her blushing cheek.

"Fair Sir, thy words would rouse a heart of stone! Whence came that soft seducing gift of thine? Alas! who brought thee to my native land?

Vain, vain are all thy words, for how may'st thou,
A wandering stranger, faithless, too, perhaps,
Indulge thy passion for a maid like me?
In holy wedlock never may we join-
For never would my lordly sire consent―
Nor wouldst thou dwell an alien in my land,
Couldst thou retain the secret of our love.
For men love scandal, and the closest deed
In secret done is twitted in the streets.
But tell me now, I pray, no longer hide