It is frequently the case, as in the individual under consideration, that a person may live to mature age in comparative obscurity, and all at once, owing to a change of condition, rise above his fellows and secure for himself the title of a genius. Some fortune or it may be the reverse of fortune, brings a man out and shows to the world a real genius, where and when we might least have expected it.

The term genius is to many a stumbling block in the way of self-improvement. They imagine it to be some remarkable gift bestowed upon others, of which they are deprived. Consequently they remain inactive, mourning over their own deficiencies, and charging them upon their creator. Such men remind us of the peacock, in the fable, who complained bitterly to Juno, her mistress, that sweetness of voice had been denied her, whilst the nightingale, a contemptible bird, sung the sweetest; when told that the same gifts are not bestowed on all, she no doubt began to turn her attention to the gaudy display of colors painted upon her feathers. So let it be with those who are wont to despair rather than take courage when they see striking exhibitions of talent in others; for the creator, who fashioned the mind as well as the body, endowed it with capacities, in almost every instance, above what we are apt to suppose. Genius, in fact, is so closely allied to the terms desire and love, that we fancy we should not be departing far from the rules of correct reasoning by substituting either of these terms in its place. Show me a man who has a great love or desire for any particular branch of study, and I will show you a genius in that branch. This desire may not always have manifested itself in the individual, but been the creature of cultivation or strict discipline, and yet the person, from his great acquirements, may earn for himself the title of a genius. The great Kepler, if we mistake not, who is justly styled the "legislator of the skies," entered upon the study of astronomy with the greatest reluctance, but the love he acquired for the study, soon made him a genius capable of unfolding the laws by which the planets are regulated in their orbits. The commanding talents of the orator whose imperfect sketch we have given above, might have been forever obscured had not circumstances impelled him to action. Action, continuous, energetic action, begets in man love for the thing pursued or studied, and love begets genius.

Greatness in others should stimulate us to put forth more vigorous efforts ourselves. Though we may not arrive at similar attainments, or occupy so high a position as they do, yet there is a possibility that we may even go beyond them. It is to emulate their virtues, to rival them in excellence, that we should study the characters of great men; not simply to admire their attainments with passive emotions. With this view we should read biographical sketches, and keep before the mind the highest models, as the Romans kept before their eyes the images of their renowned ancestors, to stimulate them to like deeds.

In this way will many leave behind them a name that shall live and be esteemed like his, the mere outline of whose life we traced in the beginning of this article. For a full detail of which, we must refer the reader to it as portrayed by the glowing pen of Wirt, and he may there, notwithstanding our caution, bow and worship at the shrine of genius-such genius as glowed in the bosom of the deathless Patrick Henry.

LINES WRITTEN AT CHAMOUNI, JUNE, 1846.

O! not in those lands where the waving magnolia

Unfolds to the sunlight its silver-hued bloom,

And the mild summer-gales are unchangingly breathing
O'er dingle and streamlet their richest perfume

Not there, though yon clouds in the lakes and broad rivers
Are mirror'd in clearness so tranquil and bright
That their image but seems like a heaven-sent emblem
Of beauties that suffer nor dimness nor blight,

Doth the spirit ascend on the bright-gilded pinions
Of faith and affection toward Him whom it owns.
Such loveliness falls like the dreamy Æolian,

That lulls to repose with its soft-swelling tones.
O! give me the mountains! the sky-soaring mountains!
The thunder-rent crag and the forest of pine!
Where the cataracts gather to swell their grand chorus
Of praise to the name of their Maker divine.

Now, clothed in the glorious robes of the morning,

Comes forth the great sun, like the high-priest of time,
And tall flame-columns, kindled on hill-top and glacier,
Like altar-fires rise in this temple sublime.

And at evening, when shadows are deepening around me,
All life seems to pray-from the sky to the sod-
And yon high, solemn clouds bend in mute adoration,
As worshippers bow in the courts of their God!

How the heart prayeth with them! And lo! as it prayeth,
The doubtings and sadness of life all dispel

From its path, like yon sun-stricken mist of the hill-side,
'Mid dew-damp and gloom of the evening, that fell.
How the heart singeth with them! A psalm of thanksgiving,
One long Hallelujah to God doth arise

And the great mountains seem like a ladder of glory
From earth's utter dark to the light of the skies.

We will praise Thee, O Lord! our almighty defender !
And O! when these mountains in terror shall fall
From their deep-set foundation and earth be consumed,
May thy love be a mountain of strength to us all!

A CHAT WITH COUSIN KATE.

"My heart is sick! my heart is sick!
And sad as heart can be ;

It pineth for the forest brook,

And for the forest tree;

It pineth for all gladsome things,

That haunt the wood-lands free."-MOTHERWELL.

Do you ask me, Kate, why I look so sad this bright morning? Ah! cousin mine, I am thinking of those grand old wood-lands so many weary miles away. I am thinking of their thousand tintsof that glorious flood of golden light which bathes them now-of that blue sky which bends so lovingly above them. O, the wood-lands of my home! Let me tell you of an autumn day amid their pleasant glades-a nutting ramble. I know you will then no longer wonder that "my pausing heart loves best the olden time." How the fresh breeze rustles in our old home trees, this glorious morning, and how the scarlet, gold and purple of the autumn woods, is painted brightly against the soft blue of the sky, on yonder hillside. We are first to go to a farm house, miles away amid the meadows. So come, cherry cheeked Harry, my bright eyed Louise, and our gentle Carrie, find your places in our dear old roomy carriage, and away, away over the hills and along the quiet roads, sometimes fringed with the gorgeous wood-lands, and again bordered by short grass, with the little path worn by the road-side, and the tall blackberry hedges, bending over the rail fence, with here and there a great bush of sweet-brier, laden with its brilliant scarlet berries. Ah! here is the gate of the grass-grown road which leads to the farm house. It is but little travelled, but duly once a week the sleek horses draw the old brown wagon slowly through the meadows, and the dwellers here go reverently up to the house of God in the distant village. They linger awhile in the churchyard beside loved graves, for Death came even to this sweet solitude. Years ago the hoary-headed old father entered into his rest; but now there is a fresh grave beside him, and we miss another sun-burned brow and stalwart form;

"Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke,
How jocund did they drive their team afield,

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!"

But now they are laid cold-powerless-silent, and the farm is left to the old mother and her daughters.

We are in sight, now, of the homestead-a long, low, weatherstained building-its roof moss-grown, and the waving branches of an old silver-leaf willow sweeping around it. The green mea

dow before the door, spreads gently down to the little dancing brook, and there is the brown milk-house-the stream running through it, around the earthen vessels filled with rich milk, and great rolls of yellow butter. Little thickets of hazle bushes and wild raspberries are dotted all over the meadow, and, in June, there hide the frail blossoms of the convallaria, and there the spotted berries cluster now. And in the spring and summer days, there are thousands of blue violets, and star-grass, peeping out from the meadow-sweet by the water-side. Upon the slope above the brook lies the garden, rich in flowers. Worlds of hyacinths rise in that sunny spot, even amid the light snow-wreaths of March, and there are stores of the rare old English daffodil, and many quaint herbs mingled with great bunches of waving pinks and scented thyme. There below the meadow is a vista in the woods, and see what a glorious landscape is spread out beneath the bright heavens! The blue outlines of the distant hills bound the horizon, and nearer amid the gay woods and softened valleys, shine out the white walls of happy homes, all bathed in the misty light of an autumn day.

But here is kind Aunt Anne at the door, with her smile of welcome, and we pass up the worm-eaten stoop, with its benches on either side, where the family gather in the sweet summer twilight, through the wide hall, and into the great room, with its black oaken beams overhead, its high-backed wicker chairs, and its red cupboard with glass doors disclosing a store of gaily colored China. With reverent awe, we look up to the old mother, who in her ninetieth autumn is here patiently awaiting her last change. She sits beside a bright fire which is blazing on the wide hearth, with her snow-white locks parted beneath the full bordered cap, and her shrivelled hands clasped together. Upon a little old fashioned stand close beside her, is her Bible and Hymn book. Her dimmed eyes often look upon their pages, for they are in the dear language of her fatherland. A strange language is it to us, but in its full and sounding accents did the noble Luther speak those mighty words, which convulsed the nations and shook to its foundations the proud seven-hilled city-the mistress of the world!

How kindly do they welcome us here. They love us for his sake, to whose voice they have listened for so many years, in the village church. By countless memories, both of joy and sorrow, is he endeared to them. For many summers and winters has he broken unto them the bread of life, and mournfully have his tones been borne on the hushed air, in the solemn burial of their dead! How do they treasure up our childish sayings, and our pleasant sports, at each visit here. O! the truth of these warm, simplehearted natures! Do you wonder, Kate, that I am sick at heart of cold, false smiles, and freezing courtesy ?

But the sun is high in heaven, and we must forth to the woods. With our kind guide, we tread the short orchard grass, beneath the tall pear trees bending with golden fruit, and the boughs laden

with red-cheeked apples. We climb the cross-rail fence, and are in the woods. How the withered stalks of summer flowers rustle around us. How the dry leaves are heaped in little mounds, through the trees, and how the wind sports merrily among them. Here and there a white or blue woodaster lingers still, with a tuft of fluted fern. The "bright-veined moss," still fresh and green, creeps among the gnarled roots and over the grey stones, and there upon the slope, just out of the shadow of that old beech, a single golden-rod lifts its brilliant spire. How have the fair wild flowers of the spring and summer passed away-but there is no time now to moralize, for Harry is assailing a tall hickory, and the nuts are crashing down, their brown husks falling in showers around them. Ah! see the leaf-sprays of that old butternut covering the ground. We shall find scores of dusky-hued nuts there. This last frost has opened well the chestnut burs, and now gaily to our task.

Ah! Louise, you have a bloom on your cheek like the heart of our velvet rose, and see how Carrie glides, a very woodsprite, among the trees! What, Harry, is your basket filled already? But I see the smoke curling from the chimney, and hark! the horn. We must hasten back.

Dinner over, we again place ourselves in our well-filled carriage, and amid kindly farewells, turn homeward. On we rattle merrily, and just as the autumn twilight is fading into darkness, we see the gleaming light through the curtained windows of our home, and we are soon seated around the open fire, telling of the adventures of the day, while the mild, sweet face of our own dear mother beams with happiness as she hears of her children's pleasure.

THE ORATORY OF CHALMERS.

It is difficult to define with precision what oratory really is. W might call it the art of speech-making, or of convincing and persuading by words; but this would be little better than to say that oratory is oratory. Demosthenes, although great in the practice of eloquence, has left but a questionable explanation of its essence. Some tell us that he affirmed action to be the first, second and third requisite in oratory; others that by action he meant delivery. We apprehend that the Grecian statesman did not mean to give a complete definition of oratory at all; but only to enforce, with extraordinary emphasis, the importance of appropriate gesture and elocution. If he intended more than this, he fell into the manifest mistake of describing an actor instead of an orator. It is true that a finished delivery will set off a speech or discourse which may exhibit few or none of the higher properties of eloquence; and