altar and one God-but illuminated with a thousand John Newton, there are some silver, and there are other varied lights, and radiant with a thousand ornaments; golden books, but there is but one book of bank-notes.' it has substantially only one declaration to make, but Religion and poetry have been united in the finest it utters it in the voices of the creation-shining forth specimens both of poetical genius and of religious chafrom the excellent glory, its light has been reflect- racter. There is in the minds of many a prejudice ed upon us from an innumerable crowd of interven- against poetry, as if it were a godless thing; and against ing objects, till it has been at length attempered for poets, as if it were part of their profession to be irreli- | our weak and earthly vision-it now beams upon us at gious. We assert, on the contrary, that the poet who is once from the heart of man and the countenance of na- not religious is so far untrue to his high calling-so far ture; it has arrayed itself in the charms of fiction; it a traitor to the awful trust committed to his charge. We has gathered new beauty from the works of creation, and assert that genius is a gift of God, and therefore divine; new warmth and new power from the very passions of and that it is by desecration only that it can be, or has clay. There is nothing that is lovely, or refined, or ma- been, perverted to purposes of evil. We assert that the jestic, but has come in to lend its light and beauty to the greatest of poets have been the most pious; and that the illustration of the word of God. The Hebrew prophet most pious of saints, on the other hand, have often been was a poet-a poet of the most singular character. He carried, by the mere breath of their devotion, into the was essentially a lonely man, cut off from all human ties regions of the loftiest poetry. Look at Milton, whose and tender associations; he had no home; the foxes had soul was like a star, and dwelt apart,' and whose song holes, the birds of the air nests, but seldom had he any sometimes reminds you of a voice from a loftier sphere,' where to lay his head; the power which came upon him and might, says Foster, 'have mingled harmoniously cut by its fierce coming all the threads which bound him with those strains which, on the plains of Bethlehem, to his kind, tore him from the plough or from the pas- proclaimed the coming of the Messiah.' What muse did toral solitude, and hurried him to the foot of the tyrant's he invoke? Not Dame Memory and her syren daughthrone, or to the wheel of the triumphal chariot. And ters'-not even Urania, but a greater than she-the dovehow startling his coming to crowned or conquering guilt! like Spirit of God! What was the fountain of his inspiraWild from the wilderness-the fury of Heaven gleaming in tion ? It was 'Siloa's brook that flowed hard by the his eye-his mantle heaving to his heaving breast-his oracle of God.' Where did he lay the brightest crown words stern, swelling, tinged on their edges with poetry—which poesy ever wove for her votaries? At the foot his attitude dignity-his gesture power-how did he burst of the Cross. And when a vail of blindness fell over upon the astonished gaze-how abrupt and awful his en- those glorious eyes of his, and shut him up within his trance-how short and spirit-like his stay-how dreamily own soul, whither did he turn the silent pleading of dreadful the impression left by his words, long after they his sightless eyeballs, and the high aspirations of his had ceased to tingle on the ears-and how mysterious the unconquerable soul? It was to the Power which sits besolitude into which he seemed to melt away. Here surely tween the cherubim, and it caught him into heaven. were vehicles for the conveyance of the very highest Then there is Jeremy Taylor, who, if he had not been poetry. Here were poets in the noblest sense of the the greatest preacher, might have been the greatest poet, term-trumpets filled with the voice of God-chariots of of his day; and in whose youth, writes one of his friends, fire carrying blazing tidings-meteors kindled at the eye his graceful air, his deep piety, his young and florid and blown on the very breath of the Eternal. beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men take him for a young angel, newly descended from the climes of glory! Then there is Spenser, whose Faery Queen contains evidences of exalted piety as well as of the most gorgeous imagination. And can we forget rough old John Bunyan, whose Pilgrim's Progress places him, in point of genius, not far from the side of Shakspeare himself, and which is at once the best child's book, the best allegory, and the best system of theology, this or any language? or such illustrious foreigners as Dante, and Klopstock, and Fenelon, and Pascal? Nor can we omit Young, who uttered the memorable sentence abroad;' and wrote the Night Thoughts, the most eloon a stormy night, It is a very fine night; the Lord is up-quent pleading ever put forth for the immortality of man? or poor Cowper, who was scarcely, indeed, permitted to realize his own line, True piety is cheerful as the day,' and whose sun went down in clouds; but who was one of the gentlest and strongest of spirits-gentle as one of the tame hares he loved and fed so fondly, and strong as a Son of the morning; and who, though he was, in his own pathetic complaint, a stricken deer that left the herd,' yet was not forgotten, even in his deepest darkness, by one who had himself been hurt by archers,' and has, we believe, emerged from the gloom of despondency into the light and joy which are unspeakable and full of glory? Or need we mention the name of Robert Hall, who, possessed of powers almost cherubic in their clearness, and almost seraphic in their fire, was yet a Christian so humble, that, after a little heat and exasperation of temper in debate, he was heard exclaiming to himself in tones of bitter remorse, Lamb of God! Lamb of God! calm my perturbed spirit? The reader will remember, too, the silver pieces' of purest poetry which such minds as Pollok, and James Montgomery, and Wordsworth, and Wilson, and Heber, and Millman, and many more, have brought in to the altar of Godand the shrine did not darken at the offering, and the voice did not break forth in indignation or derision of It will be recollected, too, how we find in Scripture every variety of poetical composition. Is it the first and simplest of all the forms of poetry, the pastoral? Where shall we find anything so tender, so chaste, so true, as that Psalm which every child knows and can repeat 'The Lord's my shepherd. I'll not want. In pastures green; he leadeth me Is it the far-resounding and magnificent ode? The reader And, on the wings of mighty winds, Is it the elegy? Can we find any strain of sorrow more in the gift-'Who hath required this at your hands?' And never let it be forgotten that Coleridge-whom we do not hesitate to rank among the most gifted spirits of his age-who was at once a poet, a logician, a metaphysician, a scholar, a theologian, and the first converser of the day -lived and died a Christian; and that the last words his majestic spirit uttered ere passing into eternity were, 'God be merciful to me, a sinner! and that these were the closing lines of an epitaph which he wrote to be inscribed on his own grave : 'Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame, He sought, and found in Christ. Do thou the same.' The instances of disconnexion have been rare. We speak not of the hundreds who set up for poets, with little capital but conceit, and no stock but sin-who spice their pitiful verse with irreligion, to make it both putrify and pay; we speak not either of the vast host of clever persons, in the present day, who write clever verses, but who are not true poets; nor do we refer to the 'one-eyed leaders of the blind'-the captains of the army of scepticism, the Voltaires, the Volneys, and the Paines. All these were men of vigorous talent, of readiness, of information, of great powers of irony-but they were not poets: they wanted the loving and the worshipping characters of genius; they were essentially scorners-scoffers at all that was holy, lovely, and good. But we speak not of versifiers, but of bards-not of men to whom poetry was a mechanical art, but of men to whom it was a kind of inspiration: and we remember only three in this country worthy of the name poet in its highest acceptation, who have either openly avowed themselves, or been commonly claimed, as enemies of the faith of Jesus: their names are Robert Burns, George Gordon Byron, and Percy Bysshe Shelley. Poor Burns! We do not set ourselves up as his apologists, far less can we coldly trample on his ashes. We would wish to blend pity and blame in severe and equal proportions, as the true libation over his grave. For he was a great sinner and a great sufferer; he knew the right, he did the ill; he abused transcendent powers, and lost the noblest opportunities, perhaps, ever possessed or thrown away by Scotchman, to benefit his country and his kind. He was, we repeat, a great sinner and a great sufferer, but an infidel he never was. Witness the Cottar's Saturday Night! witness his 'Address to a Young Friend!' witness the fact that, during the whole course of his last illness, and it was long continued, he was seldom seen out of doors, or in, without a Bible in his hands. Who but must largely blame him? But who will refuse to blame still more severely those who first spoiled and then insulted him far more? Here is a specimen never published of the way in which he was treated:-He was invited to dine at a gentleman's house in East Lothian. He went, and found that a large party were invited to meet him; but found also, to his intense mortification, that he was not thought worthy of dining with them. Oh, no! He was to dine with the butler and the lady's maid; and then, after dinner, the greatest mind in Britain was to be brought in with the winethis Samson to make his betters sport. He took his dinner sulkily enough, waited, like a good boy, his summons to go in like a bagpipe player, and amuse by his wit, or perhaps wickedness, his honourable entertainers. The bell rang, in the ploughman-poet stalked, and walking up to the table, and glaring at the brilliant circle with his great flashing eyes, he poured out a torrent of ridicule and bitter invective, and, turning on his heel, left them to digest his disgust and their dinner as they best could. Poor Burns! The writer of these pages saw, little more than a year ago, his proud mausoleum in Dumfries, erected by those who denied him bread,' and gave him a stone instead; saw also, on the evening of the same day, with deeper emotion, the poor humble house where he died-saw it in the company of two of the most gifted men of the day. Yes; we saw the dark eye of Thomas Carlyle, which had seen and shown, in the most graphic and powerful of histories, the gulf of the French Revolution, melt and kindle, as it looked in at that window whence, forty years before, had looked out, now in misery and now in mirth, the darker and more brilliant eye of Robert Burns. And while we knew that the genius of the one was not much inferior to that of the other, we rejoiced to reflect that the selfcontrol and virtue were greater far. And as we turned away we could not help rolling over in our mind the epitaph which poor Burns had written for himself. Would that it had been his warning! and would that it were still a beacon to those who may feel tempted to ape his errors, though they cannot emulate his genius! 'The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn, and strong to know; But thoughtless follies laid him low, If the opponents of religion are disposed to class Byron among their allies, we have no wish to dispute the claim, and wish them joy of the accession. And as to Shelley, we have long been obliged to account for his opinions and some parts of his life on the supposition that, on this one particular subject, he was insane. And, alas! how many have set themselves to imbibe and to circulate his insanity, who can neither appreciate the true merits of his poetry, nor emulate the private good qualities which made some who detested his principles, deplore his errors, and shed tears over his untimely fate. His end was truly melancholy. He had repaired in a small skiff to meet his friend Leigh Hunt, who had come to Italy, on his return to his home and family. His boat was overtaken by a fearful hurricane, and all its crew perished. To a gentleman who, at the time, was, with a prospective glass, overlooking the sea, the scene assumed a very peculiar appearance. A great many vessels were visible; and amid them one small skiff, which attracted his particular attention. Suddenly a storm of that tremendous sort which is peculiar to Italian climates, attended by thunder and columns of lightning, swept over and eclipsed the prospect. When it had passed he looked again. The larger vessels were all safe, riding upon the swell; the skiff only had gone down for ever; and in that skiff was the hapless poet, perishing thus ere he had completed his thirtieth year. Perhaps, had he lived a few years longer, his strange and dark delusion might have passed away; and, like the poor maniac of old, he might have been seen 'clothed and in his right mind.' But vain such conjectures. Here, in this Bay of Spezia, he was met by the angel of death. Wert thou, O religious sea,' only avenging on his head the cause of thy denied and insulted Deity? Were ye, ye 'elements in your courses,' commissioned to destroy him? Ah! there is no reply. The surge is silent; the elements have no voice. În the eternal counsels the secret is hid of this man's early and melancholy death; and there, too, rests the more solemn secret of the character of his destiny. Let us close the book, and clasp the clasp. Finally, we have reason to expect, between religion and poetry, an everlasting union. Many have fears that our age is getting too mechanical for poetry; that what with steam-presses, and steam-boats, and steam-carriages, it's all over with the poor poet, who must become as silent as a singing bird when a kite is in the sky, if not take himself off to some other world at once, where railways have not as yet made their appearance. We do not share in this fear; for we believe that as long as man's blood is warm, as long as woman's face is fair, as long as the sky is blue, the earth green, and the rainbow beautiful, poetry, like seed-time and harvest, summer and winter, shall not cease. And as poetry, in former times, has often fanned the flame of devotion, so we anticipate that religion will return its aid with interest. The earth has often helped the woman, the woman shall yet help the earth. The spread of the religious spirit shall at once purify and prolong the reign of poetry, till that happy era come, when poetry shall see her fairest dreams realized, and prophecy her oldest predictions verified, in the sight of a holy and happy world-when still, in the language of Hall, learning shall amass her stores, and genius emit her splendours; but the former shall be displayed without ostentation, and the latter shall shine with the softened effulgence of humility and love.' Nay, we believe, that after this earth has passed away-after these stars, which have been called the 'poetry of heaven,' have disappeared, like the forgotten melodies of an elder day-that as the first word, which, falling from the Divine lips, broke the eternal silence, was a word of poetry, so not till the last sound subside into the eternal silence again, shall the voice of poetry be lost; and so long as it speaks, it will speak in piety and in praise. THE ARTIST SURPRISED. A REAL INCIDENT. It may not be known to all the admirers of the genius of Albrecht Durez, that the famous engraver was endowed with a better half, so xantipical in temper, that she was the torment not only of his own life, but also of his pupils and domestics. Some of the former were cunning enough to purchase peace for themselves by conciliating the common tyrant-but woe to those unwilling or unable to offer aught in propitiation. Even the wiser ones were spared only by having their offences visited upon a scapegoat. This unfortunate individual was Samuel Duhobret, a disciple whom Durez had admitted into his school out of charity. He was employed in painting signs, and the coarse tapestry then used in Germany. He was about forty years of age, little, ugly, and humpbacked; was the butt of every ill joke among his fellow-disciples, and was picked out as a special object of dislike by Madame Durez. But he bore all with patience, and ate, without complaint, the scanty crusts given him every day for dinner, while his companions often fared sumptuously. Poor Samuel had not a spice of envy or malice in his heart. He would at any time have toiled half the night to assist or serve those who were wont, oftenest, to laugh at him, or abuse him loudest for his stupidity. Truehe had not the qualities of social humour or wit; but he was an example of indefatigable industry. He came to his studies every morning at daybreak; and remained at work until sunset. Then he retired into his lonely chamber, and wrought for his own amusement. Duhobret laboured three years in this way, giving himself no time for exercise or recreation. He said nothing to a single human being of the paintings he produced in the solitude of his cell, by the light of his lamp. But his bodily energies wasted and declined under incessant toil. There were none sufficiently interested in the poor artist to mark the feverish hue of his wrinkled cheek, or the increasing attenuation of his misshapen frame. None observed that the uninviting pittance set aside for his mid-day repast, remained for several days untouched. Samuel made his appearance regularly as ever, and bore, with the same meekness, the gibes of his fellow-pupils, or the taunts of Madame Durez; and worked with the same untiring assiduity, though his hands would sometimes tremble, and his eyes become suffused -a weakness probably owing to the excessive use he had made of them. One morning Duhobret was missing at the scene of his daily labours. His absence created much remark, and many were the jokes passed upon the occasion. One surmised this, another that, as the cause of the phenomenon; and it was finally agreed that the poor fellow must have worked himself into an absolute skeleton, and taken his final stand in the glass frame of some apothecary; or been blown away by a puff of wind, while his door happened to stand open. No one thought of going to his lodgings to look after him or his remains. Meanwhile the object of their mirth was tossing on a bed of sickness. Disease, which had been slowly sapping the foundations of his strength, burned in every vein; his eyes rolled and flashed in delirium; his lips, usually so silent, muttered wild and incoherent words. In days of health, poor Duhobret had his dreams, as all artists, rich or poor, will sometimes have. He had thought that the fruit of many years' labour, disposed of to advantage, might procure him enough to live, in an economical way, for the rest of his life. He never anticipated fame or fortune; the height of his ambition, or hope, was to possess a tenement large enough to shelter him from the inclemencies of the weather, with means to purchase one comfortable meal per day. Now, alas! however, even that hope had deserted him. He thought himself dying, and thought it hard to die without one to look kindly upon him; without the words of comfort that might soothe his passage to another world. He fancied his bed surrounded by devilish faces, grinning at his sufferings, and taunting him with his inability to summon a priest to exorcise them. A length the apparitions faded away, and the patient sunk into an exhausted slumber. He awoke unrefreshed; it was the fifth day he had lain there neglected. His mouth was parched; he turned over, and feebly stretched out his hand towards the earthen pitcher, from which, since the first day of his illness, he had quenched his thirst. Alas! it was empty! Samuel lay a few moments thinking what he should do. He knew he must die of want if he remained there alone; but to whom could he apply for aid in procuring sustenance? seemed at last to strike him. He arose slowly, and with difficulty, from the bed, went to the other side of the room, and took up the picture he had painted last. He resolved to carry it to the shop of a salesman, and hoped to obtain for it sufficient to furnish him with the necessaries of life for a week longer. Despair lent him strength to walk, and to carry his burden. On his way he passed a house about which there was a crowd. He drew nighasked what was going on; and received for an answer, that there was to be a sale of many specimens of art collected by an amateur in the course of thirty years. It has often happened that collections made with infinite pains by the proprietor, were sold without mercy or discrimination after his death. An idea Something whispered the weary Duhobret, that here would be the market for his picture. It was a long way yet to the house of the picture-dealer, and he made up his mind at once. He worked his way through the crowd, dragged himself up the steps, and, after many inquiries, found the auctioneer. That personage was a busy, important little man, with a handful of papers; he was inclined to notice somewhat roughly the interruption of the lean, sallow hunchback, imploring as were his gestures and language. What do you call your picture ? at length said he, carefully looking at it. 'It is a view of the Abbey of Newbourg-with its village-and the surrounding landscape,' replied the eager and trembling artist. The auctioneer again scanned it contemptuously, and asked what it was worth. 'Oh, that is what you please-whatever it will bring,' answered Duhobret. 'Hem! it is too odd to please, I should think-I can promise you no more than three thalers.' Poor Samuel sighed deeply. He had spent on that piece the nights of many months. But he was starving now; and the pitiful sum offered would give him bread for a few days. He nodded his head to the auctioneer, and retiring, took his seat in a corner. The sale began. After some paintings and engravings had been disposed of, Samuel's was exhibited. 'Who bids at three thalers? Who bids ?' was the cry. Duhobret listened eagerly, but none answered. Will it find a purchaser said he, despondingly, to himself. Still there was a dead silence. He dared not look up, for it seemed to him that all the people were laughing at the folly of the artist who could be insane enough to offer so worthless a piece at a public sale. What will become of me?' was his mental inquiry. That work is certainly my best;' and he ventured to steal another glance. Does it not seem that the wind actually stirs those boughs, and moves those leaves! How transparent is the water! what life breathes in the animals that quench their thirst at that spring! How that steeple shines! How beautiful are those clustering trees! This was the last expiring throb of an artist's vanity. The ominous silence continued, and Samuel, sick at heart, buried his face in his hands. 'Twenty-one thalers! murmured a faint voice, just as the auctioneer was about to knock down the picture. The stupified painter gave a start of joy. He raised his head and looked to see from whose lips those blessed words had come. It was the picture-dealer to whom he had first thought of applying. 'Fifty thalers,' cried a sonorous voice. tall man in black was the speaker. There was a silence of hushed expectation. This time a UNPARALLELED CHASE. Mr L- had with him a young Kentuckian, named D-, a fine, daring fellow, with a frame of iron, the speed of the ostrich, and the endurance of the camel. He was fortunate, moreover, in the retention of a halfbreed, called Mal Boeuf (Bad Beef), who, notwithstanding his name, was considered of hardly less merit than D; and between the two men, consequently, a keen rivalry existed. D had travelled on foot from the Blackbird Hills to Fort Lisa, a distance of ninety miles, in thirteen hours! Mal Boeuf also boasted some astonishing feats of bottom;' and both were stationed at the fort, during the time we speak of, for the purpose of providing venison. One evening in July, the weather extremely warm, the glass high, and the post unfurnished with meat, the two men were playing at cards, when their employer came up, reproached them with their negligence, and ordered them to start, the first thing in the 'One hundred thalers,' at length thundered the pic- morning, on a hunt. Obedience was promised of course; ture-dealer. 'Three hundred.' 'Five hundred.' 'One thousand.' Another profound silence; and the crowd pressed around the two opponents, who stood opposite each other with eager and angry looks. Two thousand thalers!' cried the picture-dealer, and glanced around him triumphantly, when he saw his adversary hesitate. Ten thousand!' vociferated the tall man, his face crimson with rage, and his hands clenched convulsively. The dealer grew paler; his frame shook with agitation; he made two or three efforts, and at last cried outTwenty thousand!' His tall opponent was not to be vanquished. He bid forty thousand. The dealer stopped; the other laughed a low laugh of insolent triumph, and a murmur of admiration was heard in the crowd. It was too much for the dealer; he felt his peace at stake. Fifty thousand!' exclaimed he, in desperation. It was the tall man's turn to hesitate. Again the whole crowd were breathless. At length, tossing his arms in defiance, he shouted One hundred thousand!' but the game continued, each moment growing more desperate, the spirit of rivalry pervading their hearts in everything, till, finally, the morning broke as the halfbreed declared himself to be broken. They fell asleep on the spot, and the sun was well up when Mr Linformed of the case, again approached, in no pleasant humour it may be supposed, and aroused the delinquents, who, a little ashamed, took their guns and started for Pampillon Creek, on the edge of the prairie, about five miles off. There they discovered a gang of elk, when the Keutuckian suggested a plan of approach that would enable them to get a good shot. The half-breed, rankling at his friend's triumph the night previous, observed sulkily, I don't kill elk with my gun, but with my knife. The pluck of the other was roused in an instant, rightly interpreting the vaunt as a challenge to a trial of speed and bottom; and, on his saying proudly, that what his companion could do he could do also, both hung their guns on a tree, and, approaching the band as near as possible, they suddenly raised the Indian yell, which has a most paralyzing effect upon the animals. Off they went across a low prairie a few miles in width, leaving their pursuers far behind. But steadily the latter continued their pace nevertheless. They reached the bluff, ascended, crossed, descended, one resolve uppermost in their minds, never to say fail.' The chase and race How was it, meanwhile, with Duhobret, while this ex-continued, until, approaching Elk Horn river, a disciting scene was going on? He was hardly master of his tance of twenty miles, by mutual agreement they took senses. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and murmured a circuit with an increase of speed, got a-head of the elk, to himself, After such a dream, my misery will seem and actually prevented them from crossing. Leagues more cruel!' and leagues, upon a new track, the chase continued, the animals by this time so exhausted by heat, thirst, and, above all, fright-for the hunters had incessantly sent forth their yells, in this case as much a scream of mutual defiance as an artifice of the chase-that they scarcely exceeded their pursuers in speed. The latter, foaming and maddened with excitement, redoubled their efforts, until the elk, reaching a prairie pond, or sink,' the hunters at their heels, plunged despairingly in, lay down, and abandoned themselves, heedless of all else, to the May it please your honour,' said the supposed beggar, gratification of their thirst. The frantic rivals, knife I am the painter of that picture!' and he again rabbed in hand, dashed in after their prey, began the work of his eyes. slaughter, paused not until they had butchered sixteen, The tall man was Count Dunkelsback, one of the rich-dragged them from the water, and cut up and prepared est noblemen in Germany. He stopped, took out his pocket-book, tore out a leaf, and wrote on it a few lines. Take it, friend,' said he; it is a check for your money. The crest-fallen picture-dealer withdrew; the tall man victoriously bore away the prize. When the contest ceased, he rose up bewildered, and went about asking first one, then another, the price of the picture just sold. It seemed that his apprehension could not at once be enlarged to so vast a conception. The possessor was proceeding homeward when a decrepit, lame, and humpbacked invalid, tottering along by the aid of a stick, presented himself before him. He threw him a piece of money, and waved his hand as dispensing with his thanks. 'Adieu.' a Duhobret finally persuaded himself that it was not dream. He became the master of a castle, sold it, and resolved to live luxuriously for the rest of his life, and to cultivate painting as a pastime. But alas for the vanity of human expectation! He had borne privation and toil; prosperity was too much for him, as was proved soon after, when an indigestion carried him off. His picture remained long in the cabinet of Count Dunkelsback; and afterwards passed into the possession of the King of Bavaria. 6 the meat for transportation to the fort, whither they had to return for horses. Had the race ended? No! For victory or death was the inward determination, and as yet neither had given way. Off dashed again the indomitable half-breed, and at his side the unyielding Kentuckian. Rise and hollow, stream and timber, no yelling now, in desperate silence, were left behind. The sun was sinking: blind, staggering, on they went. They reached the fort, haggard, wild, and voiceless. A crowd gathered round the exhausted men, who had arrived together, and now lay fainting, still side by side, a long time before they were enabled, by signs and whispers, to tell that they had run down sixteen elk, and yet couldn't say which was the best man.-Simmonds Colonial Magazine. SORROW FOR THE DEAD. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal-every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open-this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most lovedwhen he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal-would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? No; the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection-when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness-who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry? No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song; there is a remembrance of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies mouldering before him? MENTAL DISSIPATION. Many dwarf the intellect, and dissipate the power of thought, by flitting from subject to subject. This week they are down in the bowels of the earth with the geologist; the next they are soaring through the stellar spaces with the astronomer. Now history is all the rage with them; and the next time you meet with them they are arm in arm with Milton or Shakspeare. Now they are encircled with glasses, and jars, and blowpipes; again the analysis of matter has been given up for the analysis of mind, and the chemical gases supplanted by the mists of metaphysics. To-day they are skipping through the Elysian fields of poetry and romance; to-morrow they are attempting to square the circle or discover the perpetual motion. They begin Greek to-day, and exchange it for German to-morrow. This month is spent in magazine and review reading; the next they are mastering grammar and composition. To-night they are off to a popular lecture; the next they are spouting at a debating club. Thus the mind is never permitted to settle itself to continuous and concentrated action; its capacities are frittered away; it loses the tone of health and soundness; it becomes sickly and capricious like the bodily appetites of the man who is continually passing from dish to dish, asking a slice of this and a spoonful of that, now something hot and then something cold, now something sweet and then something bitter, crowding and enfeebling his stomach with the strangest and most incongruous mixtures. Rev. John Edwards. A FINE TRUTH FINELY SPOKEN. It is difficult to conceive anything more beautiful than the reply given by one in affliction, when he was asked how he bore it so well. 'It lightens the stroke,' said he, 'to draw near to Him who handles the rod.' THE WAY TO BE HAPPY IN OLD AGE. He that would spend the latter part of his life with honour and decency, must, when he is young, consider that he shall one day be old; and, when he is old, that he was once young. MISANTHROPIC HOURS. BY N. P. WILLIS. [An American Poet of some celebrity, born in 1807 at Portland in Maine, and now or lately living in retirement in the western part of New York State. Soon after completing his studies he travelled through Europe, and published his ebservations under the title of Pencillings by the Way."] I sometimes feel as I could blot That sky, sea, air, should live and glow I've seen the sun go down, and light, Were all that they could feel or share, I've said I was a worshipper I was in one of those high halls And fresh lips breathed, and dark eyes woke, : Oh then I looked for tears. We stood I saw the piercing spear, the blood, I saw his quivering lips in prayer- Then coldly curled her lip, and praised Printed and published by JAMES HOGG, 122 Nicolson Street, Edinburgh; to whom all communications are to be addressed. Sold also by J. JOHNSTONE, Edinburgh; J. M'LEOD, Glasgow ; W. M'COMB, Belfast; R. GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, London; and all Booksellers. |