John Nagle's philosophy . y of the dead, issweet from its sadness. Men, instinctively, rev-erence those airs whose inspiration is from thedepth of the soul. Vicious men, and thosemerry in their cups will sing humorous songs,but never one of the character under would seem sacrilegious, a wanton effort toinjure feelings peculiarly sensitive to impro-priety. The Irish are a people, though of a mercur-ial nature, subject to fits of despondency. Theirairs are the language of the soul and are im-pregnated with melancholy. There are nonesweeter, none more lasting. Scotch airs havealso a
John Nagle's philosophy . y of the dead, issweet from its sadness. Men, instinctively, rev-erence those airs whose inspiration is from thedepth of the soul. Vicious men, and thosemerry in their cups will sing humorous songs,but never one of the character under would seem sacrilegious, a wanton effort toinjure feelings peculiarly sensitive to impro-priety. The Irish are a people, though of a mercur-ial nature, subject to fits of despondency. Theirairs are the language of the soul and are im-pregnated with melancholy. There are nonesweeter, none more lasting. Scotch airs havealso a suggestion of tears in them and gain im-mensely by the touch of sorrow. A patrioticsong may stir, a lively one may amuse, but thereis none that will sink so deeply in the heart asthat which is born in sadness. THE HIGHEST PLEASURE. If Heaven ever touches Earth it is whenmortal man finds pleasure in bringing happinessto others; when the spirit of charity is abroadcasting out the demon of Selfishness from thehearts of AUTUMN. There is something in the approach of au-tumn, the border land of summer, that isdepressing, just as if the shadow of deathwere brooding over the future. There aredark clouds in the sky which cut off the sun-shine; there is gloom in the heart which dark-ens hope and makes life scarcely worth liv-ing. The wind has a mournful cadence, andthe trees sway as if the motion were a sigh ofsorrow. Everything seems to harmonize withthe prevailing spirit of sadness, and animatenature moans forth a dirge. Dew drops seemlike tears, and the evening breeze is a moon itself seems to wear a garb of griefand flits among the clouds, a tear-stained is a season for men to grow mad, for an-guish to gnaw at the heart, and for melancholyto usurp the throne of reason. The retinaonly receives dark impressions, the tym- panum transmits none but doleful is feasted on dismal thoughts on everyhand until it becomes a regular symposium ofsorrow. Those im
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