a real and substantial part of our world as the earth on which we walk. Empty space would no more do for our bodies to live in, than it would for our feet to tread upon. The atmosphere, that is, the case of air in which the solid globe is enveloped, is composed of matter as well as that solid globe itself. As the one is matter in a solid, so the other is matter in a fluid state. It is merely a thinner fluid than water, which also rests upon and encompasses a great part of the earth; but as fishes exist and can only exist in their ocean of water, so do we exist and can exist only in our ocean of air.

THE VISIBLE FIRMAMENT.

Ir the sun, at the same distance it now is, were larger, it would light the whole world, but it would consume it with heat. If it were smaller, the earth would be all ice, and could not be inhabited by men. What compass has been stretched from heaven to earth, and taken such measurements? The changes of the sun make the variety of the seasons, which we find so delightful.

The spring checks the cold winds, wakens the flowers, and gives the promise of fruits. The summer brings the riches of the harvest. The autumn displays the fruits that spring has promised. Winter, which is the night of the year, treasures up all its riches, only in order that the following spring may bring them forth with new beauty. Thus nature, so variously adorned, presents alternately her beautiful changes, that man may never cease to admire.

Let us look up again at the immense concave above us, where sparkle the countless stars. If it bę solid, who is the architect? Who is it that has fastened in it, at regular distances, such grand and luminous bodies? Who makes this vaulted sky to turn round us so regularly?

If, on the contrary, the heavens are only immense spaces, filled with fluid bodies, like the air that surrounds us, how is it that so many solid bodies float in it, without interfering one with another? After so many ages that men have been making astronomical observations, they have discovered no derangement in the heavens. Can a fluid body give such a constant and regular order to the substances that float on its bosom? But what is this almost countless multitude of stars for? God has sown them in the heavens, as a magnificent prince would adorn his garments with precious stones.

COWPER, ON THE RECEIPT OF HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O THAT those lips had language! Life has pass'd
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes,
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
To quench it,) here shines on me still the same.

1

My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu?
But was it such?-It was.-Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd,
And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd,
By expectation ev'ry day beguil'd
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot,
But though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nurs❜ry floor;
And where the gard'ner, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
'Tis now become a hist'ry little known,
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short-liv'd possession! but the record fair,

That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effac'd
A thousand other themes less deeply trac❜d.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionary plum,

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd:
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpos'd too often makes ;
And this still legible in mem'ry's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may :
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorn'd in Heav'n, though little notic'd here.

Could Time, his flight revers'd, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissu'd flow'rs, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I prick'd them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while,
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,)
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desir'd, perhaps I might→→
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be lov'd, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again,

THE TEMPTING MOMENT.

"Do to others as ye would they should do to you.”—Bible.

"HA! ha!" shouted John Harris, and ran laughing down the street. "What do you guess I have seen, boys? Old aunt Miffin is fast asleep over her pail of blueberries. Come softly, softly, boys, and we will have fine fun."

The boys all run on tiptoe to the corner where aunt Miffin, as she was called, usually sat when she came to the village to sell fruit. She was old and very poor, but she was a good woman, and always kind to children; and John Harris was her especial favourite. She loved him for the sake of his grandmother, who had been the friend of her youth, and many a ripe red apple, and many a roll of gingerbread, had aunt Miffin brought to John when he was a tiny boy. As he grew larger, she gave him such playthings as boys like a ball, which she had made herself, and a kite which she hired Ben Purdy to make, and paid him by hemming his handkerchief. And then she once gave John a bright ten cent piece to spend at Independence; and the new-year's day after he was ten years old, she presented him with a choice little book of "Hymns for Good Children."

Why did John Harris seek to injure aunt Miffin? It was simply because he liked fun and frolic. He was not a malicious or cruel boy. He did not really intend to injure any one; but he was mischievous and thoughtless; and by indulging his propensities for fun he often caused great distress to those persons whom he really loved. Then, when he found how much trouble he had given his friends, he would