the rattling sere leaves are rudely scattered by the blast; to watch the rooks, at eventide, as they skim along over farm houses and church spires, hills and valleys, woods and water, on their way to the distant rookery; to stand on the brow of the hill, as the shadows of evening approach, and to listen to the tinkling of the sheep bell, in the valley below. I like to note the different features of the sheep, as they move about in the fields; to breathe the sweet breath of the cows as they graze, or chew the cud in the meadow; to watch the calves as they uncouthly run their races, scampering along with their tails in the air; to gaze on the broad-chested, heavy-heeled wagon horses, neighing and kicking up their heels on the green turf; and to muse and moralize on old blind Dobbin, as he stands half asleep under the shed, his ribs and hip bones sticking out; his lower lip hanging down, and his off hind foot resting on the tip of his shoe. I like to pluck a bud from an overhanging bough, and musingly pull it to pieces, admiring its wondrous construction, and thinking to myself, "No mortal eyes but mine have beheld these hidden beauties." To gaze on the sun-lit clouds of heaven, till my cheeks are wet with tears, and my heart yearns for light, and life, and immortality. I like to see the acorns and oakballs on the knotted oaks; the fruit on the orchard trees; the wiry stems and clustering hops in the hop yard; the straggling poison-berry plant, with its red and yellow berries; and the flowery honesty on the hedges. I love to lean on the gate of the clover field, where the bossy purple blossoms are pleasant to the eye, and grateful to the scent; to watch the bees on the flowers of the peas and beans; and to gaze on the ten thousand green tops that cover the acres of turnips around me. I like to start off, buttoned up to the chin, with my stick in my hand, on a frosty morning, when the trees and hedges are fantastically hung with rime; when the snow crackles under my feet; when the glossy-leaved, red-berried holly bush looks cheerful; when the fieldfare is abroad; when the redbreast is tame and almost companionable; and the snipe rapidly wings his way along the half frozen brook. I like to gaze on the moon as she glides tranquilly through the sky; to watch the changing clouds as the night wind hurries them along the heavens, and to think how much of peace, and joy, and happiness there is beyond them. I love to hear the owlet hoot from the hollow oak; to see him winnowing his way, with his long wings, to the old barn; and to witness the stealthy rat and the weasel prowl about the outhouses, and steal among the roots of the hedge-row bank. I like to stand at the foot of a craggy precipice, and still better to ascend to its very crest, and there seating myself, to look down on the fearful depth below. I love to listen to the turbulent roar of rushing and falling waters, to explore caverns, to descend to great depths in the earth, and to witness the awful sublimities of a midnight storm. I like to loiter on the sea shore by moonlight, and to look over the wide expanse of water at mid-day, to mark the fisher's skiff and distant sail; to gaze on the swelling fringed waves, till they exhaust themselves on the sands; to follow with my eye the sea gulls as they rise and fall; and to watch the progress of the coming tempest. I love to visit the mouldering walls of a ruined abbey or castle, without a guide; to ascend the broken steps of the towers, to gaze on the dry ditch below, from its battlement; to ascend into its gloomy dungeons, and to stand "alone, alone, all alone," in the grey silent hall, and call upon those who cannot answer. I like to visit a country churchyard, to find out the oldest headstone, to clear away the moss that covers the name of the occupier, and to make out the date when he fell asleep. I love to lean on the old sundial; to muse under the old yew tree, and to read the inscriptions on the tombs, from "Afflictions sore long time I bore"-to "The Lord giveth, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." Oh that all our gratifications may be sanctified, that in them all we may lawfully rejoice, as the bounties of our Creator, being made more and more sensible of the grace of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Ghost! SERPENT CHARMERS, THESE people are mentioned in the following places in Scripture: "They are like the deaf adder that stoppeth her ear; which will not hearken to the voice of the charmers, charming never so wisely," Psa. lviii. 4, 5. Again by Solomon: "Surely the serpent will bite without enchantment," Eccles. x. 11. And by Jeremiah: " For, behold, I will send serpents, cockatrices, among you, which will not be charmed, and they shall bite you, saith the Lord," Jer. viii. 17. This trade of serpent charming is very ancient; and at an early date Africa was their chief theatre. They were called psylli, and are frequently mentioned by Pliny, in his Natural History. "Thus," he says, serpents were frightened away by the mere smell of these psylli," book viii. chap. 38. He informs us, that they came over into Italy to show their feats, and even brought scorpions with them, book xi. ch. 29. They are still to be found exercising their mysterious craft all over Asia. But Egypt is probably still their principal abode. Here Bruce saw them, and here their performances were often observed by Mr. Lane. The result of his inquiries may be thus summed up: "I have met with many persons, among the more intelligent of the Egyptians, who condemn these modern psylli as impostors; but none, who has been able to offer a satisfactory explanation of the most common and most interesting of their performances." The most famous snake charmers are durweéshes, or Mohammedan monks. "The charmer professes to discover, without ocular perception, (but perhaps he does so by a peculiar smell,) whether there be any serpents in a house, and if there be, to attract them to him, as the fowler, by the fascinations of his voice, allures the bird into his net." They have been known to do this in broad daylight, and when stripped naked. "He assumes an air of mystery, strikes the walls with a short palm stick, whistles, makes a clucking noise with his tongue, and spits upon the ground; and generally says, 'I adjure you, by God, if ye be above, or if ye be below, that ye come forth: I adjure you, by the great name, if ye be obedient, come forth, if ye be disobedient, die! die! die!' The serpent is generally dislodged by his stick, from a fissure in the wall, or drops from the ceiling of the room.' It is suspected that sometimes a servant carries the reptile. The most expert of them do not carry venomous serpents until they have extracted their worst teeth. Many of them, like Pliny's psylli, carry THE FEAR OF DEATH. He A DREAD of dissolution is the common characteristic of animated nature. In the days of primeval innocence, it was felt by the parents of the human family, and hence they were warned by the solemn declaration in reference to "the tree of the knowledge of good and evil:" "In the day that thou eatest thereof, thou shalt surely die," Gen. ii. 17. Nor is it difficult to find some, in whom the work of restoration from the ruins of the fall is actually proceeding, who are in "bondage" from the fear of death. To them, therefore, the following brief narrative is specially addressed, in the hope that it may tend to alleviate their disquietude, and to cast some brightness over the path to the grave. Among the plants of righteousness which have been raised from the ungenial climate of this lower world, to bloom for ever in the paradise of God, was a devoted Christian lady. She excited no common attention in a sphere of more than ordinary extent. In the case of this individual, there was a natural liveliness of disposition, accompanied by ardent affections. She experienced in the consecration of her youth to God, a high degree of enjoyment, and was soon rendered useful to others. The interesting vivacity of her manners, the amiability of her temper, and the consistency of her conduct, exhibited religion in its own attractive loveliness; and hence it added to the number of its possessors from the ranks of her early friends. Her subsequent course fully realized the expectations thus awakened and sustained; it was that of piety in its simplicity, sincerity, and power; conferring its blessings on herself and on others. Still the fear of death often arose, and to this she frequently referred in the seasons of confidential and Christian intercourse. The issue of dissolution indeed did not excite dread, but it was the anticipation of the shocks which not merely impede but terminate the animal functions; not only producing temporary insensibility, but the absolute separation of the soul from the body, so long united by the most intimate ties in nature-yes, the prospect of these agitated the mind, and caused the spirit to tremble in prospect of the future. Yet how vain were these apprehensions will be apparent from a slight sketch of the closing scene of her earthly pilgrimage. For four years, health had been declining, and during nine-andtwenty weeks of suffering, she was enabled to display the passive graces of the Christian character, to the comfort and edification of those around. Nothing seemed to produce so much distress as a fear lest she should be suffered to dishonour God, by expressions of peevishness and impatience; and her constant desire was not the removal of pain nor the restoration of health, but grace to bear protracted tribulation with out repining or complaint. Once, in a fit of extreme agony, seizing on a moment's interval, she exclaimed, "Oh! this is dreadful, dreadful pain! but what is it to what I deserve? what is it to that which Jesus bore for me?" 66 On the day preceding her dissolution, seeing that her strength was fast sinking, her husband observed, "All is well, your spirit is safe in those hands into which you have committed it." She answered with emphasis, Yes, it must be so; I know in whom I have believed; I have believed in Him through whom eternal life is promised, and I cannot doubt that my soul will be safe and happy without making God a liar." Aware how sensibly she felt the shrinking of nature from that mysterious and momentous point of human existence, at which the soul glides out of time into eternity, and passes from the presence of man into that of his great Creator; and having expressed his persuasion that these emotions would subside as that solemn period proached, it was consolatory for him to receive from her own lips, on the morning of the last day she spent on earth, the assurance that her mind was relieved of this burden. "Alfred," she said, "I have lost my old fears of death; nothing of that kind is now left but a little uneasiness lest the last struggle should be hard." ap When too feeble to converse, she replied to the inquiry, whether she was happy: "All is quiet and peaceful; I have no fear, but I have no particular joy; I am too weak to think." In the afternoon, she breathed with greater difficulty, and seemed anxious to be gone. Observing the expression of sympathy and sorrow in the countenances of those standing at her bed-side, she faintly said, " Agony, agony; but no sting!" About an hour before her departure, shivering with cold, she said, "The chills of death, the chills of death;" but looking up with an expressive smile, she seemed happy at the intimation thus given of approaching mortality. At length the crisis came. Having lain some little time with her eyes closed, she suddenly opened them, and looked unutterable things. It was not the mere smile of peace, nor even the glow of hope; it was ecstasy and triumph. Like Stephen's, her countenance appeared to shine as if it had been the face of an angel. There was an effort to speak, If it does, but no sound passed her lips. Had she | it to very little purpose. an intimate acquaintance with the music ON MUSIC. The next rule I shall give you, is to listen attentively to skilful performers, noticing particularly what emotions are excited in your mind by every passage, and by what means they continue to produce the effect which pleases you. The gratification we derive from listenTo play a piece of music effectively, ing to music, is similar to that which you must comprehend it well. You poetry imparts to us. Both these demust also feel it deeply. It is impos-lightful arts call into being a thousand sible to excite lively emotions in another's breast, while your own remains untouched. There are two rules which may assist you to attain quick perceptions of what is correct and beautiful, and (with the help of the mechanical rules I have given you) to bring those perceptions out in your own performance. The first is, to cultivate a constant habit of listening to natural sounds. Every thing in nature has a melody which goes to the heart, and from which we may gain some new and delightful ideas. I have called your attention to the song of birds. Then there is the bleating of flocks, and the lowing of distant herds, and the busy hum of insects. Above all, the modulations of the human voice afford us a perpetual source of observation. From thence we may gather the expression of every stormy passion which agitates, and every tender affection which soothes the heart. Nor can we listen to the fairy tones of children, their light-hearted carols, the bursts of tiny merriment, their mimic griefs, and simply told stories, without imbibing some new and charming combinations of harmonious expression. If music brings no lovely thoughts and associations to your mind, you are learning beautiful imaginations, tender feelings, and passionate impulses. But in reading poetry, we are delighted with the thoughts of another person; and though a beautiful idea will give us new pleasure every time we recur to it, still this pleasure is little varied, and depends on the conformation of the poet's mind, rather than of our own." The delights of music are of our own creation. We become for the time poets ourselves, and enjoy the high privilege of inventing, combining, and diversifying, at pleasure, the images which harmonious sounds raise in our minds. The selfsame melody may be repeated a hundred times, and inspire each time a train of thought different from the last. Sometimes, it will call forth all the hidden stores of memory; absent friends, voices long silent in the tomb, lovely scenes, pleasant walks, and happy hours, come back to us in all their freshness and reality. Then the future opens its dreary prospects, gilded by hope, and chastened by a mournful tenderness. The exile is restored in glad anticipation to his country; the prodigal sobs out his penitence on his father's bosom; the child of affliction is safely lodged in that mansion where sorrow and cry ing are unknown. Sometimes, the past | against this pernicious error, do not is forgotten, the future unneeded, the mind wrapped up in the present_consciousness of sublimity or beauty. Forms of delicate loveliness, things such as dreams are made of, float before the mental vision, shaped into something of a waking distinctness. Thoughts too noble to last, high and holy resolves, gushings of tenderness, alternately possess our minds with emotions all equally different, and equally delightful. The poetical inspiration of Alfieri seldom came upon him but when he was under the influence of music. Haydn's symphonies were all composed so as to shadow forth some simple and affecting story, by which the author excited and varied his own feelings, and wrought them up to that pitch of solemn pathos, or animated gaiety, which to this day inspires all who hear his music with corresponding emotions. for a moment suppose, that I would shut you out from the privilege which all creation enjoys, of sounding its Maker's praise. Oh! there is a harmony in nature, inconceivably attuned to one glad purpose. Every thing in the universe has a voice, with which it joins in the tribute of thanksgiving. The whispers of the wind playing with the summer foliage, and its fitful moanings through the autumnal branches; the broken murmurs of the stream, the louder gushing of the waterfall, and the wild roar of the cataract, all speak the praises of God to our hearts. Who can sit by the sea-side, when every wave lies hushed in adoration, or falls upon the shore in subdued and awful cadence, without drinking in unutterable thoughts of the majesty of God? The loud hosannas of ocean in the storm, and the praises of God on the whirlwind, awaken us to the same lesson; and every peal of the thunder is a halle Oh! there The expression of sacred music com- is a harmony in nature. But while I so anxiously guard you and so distinctly does he thank God, who made the berries to grow for him upon the hawthorn and the mountain ash, and who has put it into the heart of man to love him, and strew crumbs for him when the berries fail, that my soul, too often insensible to its own mercies, is warmed into gratitude for his. The very insect tribe have entered into a covenant, that God shall at no season of the year be without a witness amongst them to his praise. For when the hum of the bees and the chirping of the grasshopper have ceased to enliven us, and the gnat has laid by his horn, then the little cricket wakens into life and song, and gladdens our hearth with the same story till the winter is past. And so all nature praises God, |