all the planetary irregularities on geometrical principles, and had received the sanction of nearly every man of wisdom and note that had lived since it was first promulgated. It must be remembered also, that the theories of Pythagoras, Aristarchus of Samos, and Seleucus of Babylon, which approximated more nearly to that of Copernicus, were scarcely known, and regarded only as pleasing myths, or the dreams of visionary enthusiasts. Such were the astronomical views which prevailed during the early part of the sixteenth century, that (as has been said, by one of the most noted philosophers of the present age,) "Copernicus was more noted, if possible, by the intrepidity and confidence with which he expressed his opinions, than for the knowledge to which they owed their origin."

Placed thus, did Copernicus set down to the great problem of the world, though at first he intended only to modify the Ptolemaic system. But becoming dissatisfied with its complexity, for by it the heavens had rapidly become with

"Centric and eccentric scrubbled o'er,

Cycle and epicycle, orb in orb-"

crossing and penetrating each other in every direction - he takes up the hypothesis, that the sun constitutes the center of the planetary system, and with unwearied diligence attempts to determine its truth. So pleased was he with this theory, that in his enthusiasm he exclaims: "By no other arrangement, have I been able to find so harmonious a connection of orbits, as by placing the lamp of the world, the sun, in the midst of the beautiful temple of nature, as on the kingly throne, ruling the whole family of circling stars that revolve around him."

In order to more fully develop and substantiate his system, be buries himself from the world, and constantly compares his theory with the appearances of the heavens, he collates facts and studies the views of others, he seeks by constant application, and profound thought for more than forty years, to obtain a clearer insight into the arcana of nature, until at length he succeeds in bringing out the main features of the system that bears his name.

But this system was not yet complete. The reformer Copernicus was far less orthodox in astronomy, than the reformer Luther in religion. New difficulties, almost equally great, still presented their bold front. To meet these Tycho Brahe must spend his life in making further observations; Galileo must pierce the depths of space with his telescope and Kepler must exhaust years in the severest study.

The greatness of these difficulties cannot better be understood, than from the language which Kepler himself uses, when, after struggling with one of them for years, he breaks forth in the following rhapsody: "What I prophesied two and twenty years ago; that for which I have devoted the best part of my life to astronomical contemplations, at length I have discovered. It is now eighteen months since I got the first glimpse of light; three months since, the dawn; very few days since the unvailed sun, most admirable to gaze upon, burst out upon me. I will triumph over mankind. The die is cast; the book is written, to be read either now, or by posterity - I care not which. It may well wait a century for a reader, when God has waited six thousand years for an observer."

Nor yet was the hill of difficulty fully ascended, when the old Pythagorean music of the spheres, had awoke again, like Memnon's harp, in the soul of Kepler, and he had discovered those laws which earned him the title of legislator of the heavens. Mathematical analysis, which, with its formulæ, condenses into a few symbols the immutable laws of the universe, had not yet unfolded its mighty power. True, the original system of Copernicus had been freed from its cumbersome appendage of cycles and epicycles, by the discoveries of Kepler, yet it still remained for the immortal Newton to discover the great bond which links together the different members of the system.

Of the difficulties attending this, and other discoveries, suffice it to say, that they were scarcely, if at all, inferior to those already overcome. And in conclusion, let it be remarked, that the difficulties that have already been surmounted, form but a prelude to those that must necessarily attend the outward progress of that science, which will afford matter for meditation ever deeper, for discovery ever ampler, for admiration ever holier.

THE SECRET BENEFACTOR.

Translated from the German of Lehnert.

BY MELANIE.

OLD FATHER JACOBS' little cottage, was nestled in a quiet, friendly neighborhood, not far from a small village.

His only care being to cultivate his little possession frugally and advantageously, he devoted himself almost exclusively to the education and amusement of his only child, his dear daughter Emilia, who was most lovely in the innocence of her pure, young heart, and who gave to her father the fairest hopes of future virtue and usefulness.

"My dear child," said Jacob, one bright morning, "I have no doubt that you will be happy to-day, for you are to visit your kind uncle who lives in Greenfield, and you will enjoy the society of his sweet children for several hours. Therefore, put on your holiday garments, and make haste that you may arrive there early in the day."

With joy Emilia received these commands of her father, and before fifteen minutes had elapsed, she was on her way to visit her dear relatives.

Her uncle, a great friend of every innocent little child, and himself the delighted father of four beautiful and lovely maidens, greeted Emilia with the greatest cordiality, and during her visit, sought to amuse her and his own children by joining in all their merry sports as heartily as though he himself was but a child.

Pleasantly and swiftly the hours of her visit glided away, until the sun sank low in the west. Then Emilia prepared to return to her home once more. Her uncle having invited her to visit them often, tied her handkerchief full of apples, pears, and other fruits, and gave her also a piece of silver. The child joyfully thanked him for all, bade a hearty farewell to her beloved friends, and with a glad heart went through the bright fields and verdant meadows toward her father's cottage.

Her homeward path led by a lofty and ancient oak tree, under which, on passing, she beheld a poor old man in tattered garments slumbering sweetly. A very small bundle lay near his head, which seemed to contain nothing except a few crusts of hard, brown bread. Emilia stood still as soon as she perceived him, and said, with a tear in her clear, dark eye, "O, God, thou art also a Father to the poor. What a comfort must that be to this gray-haired, slumbering sire."

She advanced nearer, and thought to herself, "Venerable old man, the good Father in his mercy, permits the cooling shade of this oak tree to become a resting place for your weary limbs. Truly, your tired frame reposes not upon a gorgeous couch, but your silvery head hides itself amid the fresh green grass and the beautiful little flowers, and this ancient oak stretches wide his sheltering arms to protect you from the burning rays of yonder sun. In this refreshing slumber your body will gain new vigor. By these brown crusts of bread here, I know that you must in truth be extremely needy, and it may be that I can make your waking hour a right happy one. Yes, that I both can and will do."

Then Emilia silently emptied the fruit near the head of the old man, and placed herself in some hidden spot near by, and patiently waited for him to awake.

He soon raised himself from his rustic couch, and cast a mournful look toward the still serene sky, but the bright, glorious sun, and the pure, cloudless heavens seemed to inspire no joy within his heart, for he said in a trembling voice, "Yon sun will be the only witness of my closing life! How often has it arisen to behold my misery! O, how long can this poor, worn-out body endure, before it finds a resting place beneath the sod? Ah! I shall soon be laid in the silent tomb. What a happy moment will that be, when my tired spirit quits this tenement of clay, and with angel wings soars up to heaven, for I am indeed weary of this life of suffering, and I am longing to depart to that glorious sphere where sorrow never comes, and there is nought known but peace and happiness."

As the old man said these words, he wiped the tears from his eyes, looked down and beheld both the apples and the glittering silver.

"What do I behold?" exclaimed he. "The good God who never forgets or forsakes us poor unworthy worms of the dust, has directed some tender-hearted, compassionate soul to come this way, and he has pitied me for my poverty. O, Father of goodness and mercy, shower down blessings upon his head, whoever he may be!"

Emilia, from her hiding-place, heard each word that the old man spoke, and her heart beat violently, and she now rejoiced that she had performed that deed of mercy.

Desirous once more to behold the object of her compassion, she left her retreat through a by-path, and soon came walking leisurely along, as if by mere chance.

"Good evening sir," said she, in a friendly manner, “you appear to be very cheerful and joyous to-night; what may be the cause of your happiness?”

"Child," said the old man, "I have good reason to be rejoiced; for while I was slumbering here, some good, kind angel has placed that fruit and this money near my head. O, that I did but know who was my benefactor, how would I pour forth my gratitude to him! How my hungry children will rejoice to-night!"

"Then you have children, my good man?" asked Emilia.

They are not mine," answered the sire, "for their father was my son, and he is now dead, and his good wife is also very sick; so to-day his desolate little ones came to me, begged me for bread to eat, and called me their father. They are even now waiting for me in that little cottage under the hill."

With these words he arose, and left her alone. When Emilia saw him some months afterward, his appearance was so changed that at first she did not recognize him. His countenance was as serene and open as a cloudless sky. But when he thought of the one who had done that secret deed of charity, tears of thankfulness and gratitude would flow down his cheeks, like the dew-drops upon the violets in the early spring.

That virtue which depends on opinion, looks to secrecy alone, and could not be trusted in a desert.