forms, and flings upon the heaving bosom of the earth all the beauties of God's great creation, and all hallowed influences for the human heart. all preserved, the song of the nightingale is indeed a fragment which has yet survived through the many rolling years, and floods of onward time. And now, as the months wear on, and May comes with its miles and miles of snowy hawthorn blossoms, the gentle Spring, so loved and greeted, must resign her inheritance to her devoted sister-Summer. And so the Seasons keep their whirling round, and form the cycle of the changing year. And so, the many forms and hues which nature brings us from afar, and the sacred influworld-if we will but love each other-a home of beauty and of joy. The Seasons glide into each other noiselessly and without jar, as light and darkness at dawning or at nightfall. From the bleak and barren Winter comes the fresh and budding Spring, bursting as it were from the cold and obdurate granite of a frozen world to dissolve the death-spell, and to replenish all things with new beauty and with life. And when Summer comes, she will find the earth all dight with flowers, the trees proud and exulting for the green drapery which they wear upon their lusty arms, and every hill and dale echoing a happy, happy welcome. And Summer treads lightly over the turf, and gives each tender flower a loving kiss, and in the lustre of her ruddy cheek, they take new hope and put forth fruits in plenty. And then Autumn glides almost inaudibly through the rustling leaves, carrying the faded Summer in her arms, and sprinkling each leaf with the scarlet blood of her dying sister. And she, too, must depart into the spirit-land of beauty when her time shall come. What would all this living and growing beauty be, if there were no birds? What charms would there be in forest dell, in green lane, or on the mountain's side, if there were no voices for the echoes to play with? That heavenly music so subdues us with its influence, that our pulses throb with exultation, and our hearts beat high with thankfulness. Who could cherish sordid thoughts or misanthropic feelings while listening to their impas-ences which dwell around us on the earth, make this fair sioned outbursts of song, wantoning in very joyousness and buoyancy of heart? Verily, birds were sent to give us a foretaste of the music which haunts those higher spheres, where all is beatification and endless joy! Before a leaf is on the trees, we hear the rich whistle of the blackbird, and the loud note of the missel-thrush; the song-thrush, too, will now and then strike up a few notes from the leafless brake, and then pause to listen to the echoes which his own song has awakened. High up among the branches, the villages of the rooks are all life and anxiety. The dreamy cawing which fills the air around is a sound particularly spring-like. Incessant quarrels take place among the rooks, and many a nest is broken up and recommenced amid the general clamour, before they subside into one harmonious family; and then the work commences in true earnest; and as the buds burst and the leaves expand around them, their whole souls become absorbed in the great work of preparing for the solicitudes of parental love. On the first glimmering of sunshine in the grey sky, the lark springs up from his flowery bed, and mounting upward to the heaven's azure floor, pours forth one continued flood of song, note after note, higher and higher, making all the welkin ring, and seeming like a voice from the sublime spirit-land of God. "The busy lark, the messenger of day, The silver droppes hanging on the leaves "CHAUCER. And as the year wears on, little birds come dropping in by twos and threes; the wryneck, with its beautiful plumage, marked with every variety of dazzling colour; the tiny willow-wren, with its shrill chirp, hopping and skipping, and flitting among the osier-beds; the blue titmouse, with its soft plumage; and the gay yellowhammer, and the wood-lark; all make such a "sweet piping" that the woods echo with their songs; and in the deep green solitude we hear the mournful cooing of the wood-pigeon, as he shares with his mate her watchfulness; and in every lane and field we hear the spring-note of the cuckoo, which, either from its peculiar sound, or from the memories which crowd upon us when we hear it, seems to ring through our very hearts, and make the blood mantle to our cheeks with inexpressible excitement. And when the wood-ant begins to build her nest, and butterflies and gaudy moths go sporting in the sunbeams, and when the hedges are filled with fragrant and snowy blooms, and the whole floor of earth is jewelled with unnumbered flowers; the blessed nightingale comes, like a spirit which has winged its lonely flight from Heaven, to tell how angels sigh and sorrow for us. And when all is hushed in solemn stillness, and when night has wrapped the earth in her soft mantle, and the flowers sit weeping in dewy silence; the woods gush with magic melodies, sometimes low and plaintive, like the sobbing of some sorrowful spirit, who seeks for sympathy for his woes among the weeping flowers, and then bursting forth in rich swelling tones, like those fair sounds which echo amid eastern bowers; or as the hosannahs of worshipping angels floating over peaceful waters in the pleasant lands of Paradise. Oh! truly, if aught of that holy music which enraptured our first parents in Eden has been at But soon Spring comes again, and, although the snow beats in her face, and the winds howl around her, she still strives on, carrying in her hand a few fragile blossoms, and lights upon the earth in time to catch old Winter's latest breath. Verily there is neither fiction nor fable; and here, in the very death of the world lies the germ of regeneration and life-the Phoenix soaring from the ashes of itself! Lessons for Little Ones. Φ. Ω. Σ. THE FORBIDDEN FRUIT. IT was a pleasant evening in the middle of summer, and little Alfred Ferguson had just arrived at the old farm-house to spend the holidays with his uncle and aunt Fell. The tea-table was spread with all manner of good things, and the thick cream came rolling out of the jug with so much difficulty, that it was obliged to be helped out with a spoon before it could drop into the aromatic tea in the old-fashioned tea cups. Alfred was in his element, for we are sorry to say that he was rather too fond of eating, and he drank three large cups of tea, and consumed so much muffin, and marmalade, and apple preserve, that he felt quite uncomfortable. This subsided into drowsiness, and soon after tea he fell fast asleep, and had to be carried to bed. The next morning, Alfred was awakened by the sun shining through the white window curtains of his little room, and, drawing up the blind and opening the window, he looked out into the orchard beneath. There he beheld a sight which made his mouth water, for the enclosure was stocked with fruit of all descriptions. Upon some trees the fruit was just forming; others had their branches weighed down almost to the ground with their burden; and under Alfred's window was a fine cherry tree, loaded with ripe black-heart cherries. Alfred leaned out, and extended his arm to seize a bough, but though it looked near, it was just out of reach of his fingers. He closed the window with a sigh, and he proceeded to dress himself. "Alfred! cousin Alfred!" shouted a merry voice, "are you up?" "Yes," answered Alfred, presenting himself at the door, "and dressed too. Why, Tom, how did you arrive so early this morning? I thought you were not coming till to-morrow." "No more I was, but Harry Thompson was coming away to-day, and his father offered to give me a lift in the gig, if I would get leave to return with them." After breakfast, the two boys went to amuse themselves about the farm, to look at the calves and gather in the eggs. The cows had been milked, and the pigs fed early in the morning, so they missed these pleasant scenes, but they found an agreeable excitement in looking for the turkeyhen, who had laid her eggs in some secret corner, and had now absconded to sit upon them, only making her appearance occasionally for food. Down in the low field they found her, where she had made her nest in a hole in the wall. Then they rambled along the pathways, and over the stiles, until they came into a little lane at the back of the stables, which led them past the orchard. "Oh! Tom," exclaimed Alfred, "mayn't we go into orchard?" "To be sure, but we can't get in this way, we shall have to go round the front of the house. There was a fine breeze in the night, I dare say there will be plenty of fruit on the ground." So round the house went the two boys, and into the orchard. They found a good many windfalls, and Alfred filled his pockets. At length they came to the blackheart cherry tree. "This is the tree of trees," said Tom. "There are no such cherries as these for miles round, and my father is going to send them to the Horticultural Show at Armitage." "The wind has not blown any cherries down," said Alfred. "No, the tree is in a sheltered situation. My father is so particular about these cherries, that he has forbidden me to climb the tree; but I think he can't object to our going up this ladder that is placed so conveniently, and taking just a few. There are plenty of them." Alfred and Tom were in the midst of their feast, when Mr. Fell suddenly appeared under the tree. "My boy," he said to Tom, "I thought I told you that I did not wish you to gather these cherries." "No, father, you only said that I was not to climb the tree, because I might injure the branches." "But my prohibition was intended to extend to your taking the fruit in any way. Come down immediately, both of you, and be off in the house to your dinner, which must be nearly ready." After dinner, Harry Thompson, who lived about four miles distant, made his appearance, and then a whole host of Tom's cousins, both boys and girls. It was a beautiful afternoon, and they all went to play in the garden, which was a very large one, situated on the slope of the hill. Here were many arbours, and seats in quiet corners, and tall box hedges that made the place almost a labyrinth for those who did not know it; for people could not be sure when they got behind these hedges, in which direction they were going. After trying several games, some of the children suggested that it was the very place for hide-and-seek. "Well then," said Tom, "we will hide in couples, all but one, and the first couple that he finds, the eldest shall take his place." They cast lots for the seeker, and Alfred Ferguson was left out. The rest then paired off, and dispersed all over the garden. Some were for going into the orchard, but there were no snug corners there, Tom said, so they contented themselves where they were. At length the cry resounded "Hid! Hid!" And Alfred sought up and down between the box hedges, and in and behind the arbours, but in vain. Once, indeed, he thought he saw some one flit before him at the end of a walk, but the object immediately disappeared. At last he fancied some of them must be hidden in the orchard, and thither he directed his steps. No one was to be found there either, and he was returning towards the garden, whence he came within sight of the "tabooed tree." He thought he would go nearer, and have just one look at those beautiful shining cherries. Alas! he knew not how subtle a thing temptation is, how it enters at the eyes, and dwells in the ideas, until it urges on to outward action. Alfred gazed on the cherries until he thought that he should just like to have half-a-dozen, which would, he said to himself, never be missed. So he climbed up a little way, for the ladder was removed, and had gathered three cherries from one of the undermost boughs, when he heard a shout, and his name repeatedly called. He descended in a great hurry, tearing a hole in his jacket by the way, and ran through the gate into the garden. There he found Harry Thompson, who, with his companion, was quite tired of waiting to be found, and whose voice it was that had been calling. Why, my good fellow," exclaimed Harry, "what were you doing so long in the orchard? Could you not see with half an eye that nobody was there?" "I thought some of you might be up in the trees," stammered Alfred. "I dare say, when we have girls to hide with, as if they could climb! Come, Master Aifred, don't talk to me, you know very well that you have been at the fruit, instead of looking for us." Alfred became indignant. "I might be a baby," he Alfred was very much afraid lest Tom should suspect anything, so he made some slight answer, and then proposed a game at leap-frog. Soon after the children were all called in to tea, and then arrived the covered waggon for Tom's cousins, who were packed into it to the number or eight or ten, and went off at sunset, a merry party, to their distant homes. Harry Thompson remained all night, to Alfred's great annoyance, for he fancied that he watched him, and was thinking about the fruit. He left early the next morning, and Tom went with him a part of the way, having in vain invited his cousin to be of the party. As soon as they were gone, Alfred, who had pretended to be very sleepy, jumped up and dressed himself, and finding none of the servants about, went out by the front door, which he found open, into the garden. To tell the truth, our hero had been hankering after the forbidden fruit all night. He had dreamed a delightful dream about being on the top of the ladder, and eating his fill of the cherries without any one coming to hinder him. When he awoke, his first thought was of them, and he lay trying to invent a plan of satisfying his longing without being found out. Tom's early walk with Harry presented the very opportunity he desired; so he turned heavily over and rubbed his eyes, and feigned to be too sleepy to understand, when Tom came to his bedside to ask him to go with them. Having climbed over the gate of the orchard, for it was always locked at night, Alfred proceeded to the cherry-tree. The ladder was still there, for John the gardener, had been gathering some of the cherries overnight, in order that Harry might take them with him as a present to his mother. Alfred eagerly ascended into the midst of the boughs, and then, placing himself in a comfortable position, ate as many as he dared. Just as was about to descend, he leaned too hard upon a slender bough and it broke. Alfred was much annoyed, for he Then knew that if any one saw it, they would immediately answer "Falsehood." But remember that greediness is suspect that some person had been in the tree, and he so low a vice that those under its influence are ashamed propped it up as well as he could against the other to own their weakness, while it is so absorbing a probrauches. Then he climbed the gate, and, stealing gently pensity, that they will go any length to gratify it. in at the house-door, ran quickly up-stairs, hoping that you will see that an excessive love of eating is a failing neither his exit nor his entrance had been discovered. above all others most likely to lead to constant petty The breakfast-bell rang soon afterwards, and giving a deception and occasional actual falsehood. hasty glance into the mirror to see that his hair and collar were straight, Alfred went down trying to look cool and calm, as he entered the breakfast-room. Mr. and Mrs. Fell had just received some very important letters, which they were reading together, occasionally making remarks upon them to each other in a low tone, and they scarcely noticed Alfred as he walked in and took his seat. His aunt handed him his cup of coffee, and told him to help himself to whatever he pleased, and then turned again to her letters. Towards the middle of breakfast, Tom came in, looking hearty and ruddy after his morning's walk. Yet he seemed vexed about something, and he went straight up to his father, without noticing Alfred. "Father," he said, "John has just been telling me that he is sure that some one has been at the black-heart cherries, for a branch is broken, and is hanging straight down. He is quite positive about it. He was gathering cherries last night for Harry to take with him, and no branch was broken then. I have come to tell you, because I don't want you to think that I have done it." Alfred turned pale, and his knees knocked together. He was eating an egg, and his hands trembled so that he smeared his chin with the yolk, and let a quantity drop upon his light checked waistcoat. Still he pretended to be so absorbed in his breakfast as to pay no attention whatever to what was going on. "Alfred!" said his uncle. The boy gave a start, and nearly upset his coffee, but looked up nevertheless, making a violent effort to meet his uncle's eye. "Alfred," continued Mr. Fell, "do you know anything about this broken branch of the cherry tree?" "No-o-o," stammered Alfred. "Think again, nephew. Are you quite sure?" "Indeed uncle," persisted the boy, waxing bolder in his denial," indeed uncle, I know nothing about it." "You had better tell me the truth at once," said the uncle, "for if you do not, I shall punish you severely. Your face witnesses against you, Alfred." The culprit opened his mouth to speak again, but the words would not come. Tom looked intently at his cousin. "I wonder I never observed it before," exclaimed he, "Alfred, I am sure it is you who have taken the cherries, for your teeth are all stained with them." Concealment was no longer practicable. After a tedious cross-examination, Alfred admitted his guilt, with many tears, and earnest entreaties to be forgiven. Mr. Fell was for bestowing a severe chastisement upon him, which, he said, would make him remember his fault all his life. But Mrs. Fell pleaded for milder measures, telling her husband that she did not think that corporal punishment ever did any good; but often, on the contrary, hardened a boy's conscience, and injured his sense of justice. So it was at length determined that Alfred should be sent home to his father, and that Mr. Fell should at the same time write to his brother-in-law, telling him of his son's ill-behaviour, and leaving it to him to decide upon the punishment. Our space permits us not to enter into further details. Suffice it to say, that the methods adopted by Mr. Ferguson were reformatory rather than severe, and that their good effects were long apparent in Alfred's growing self-denial of the appetite for dainties which so degraded him, and in his general improvement in truthfulness and integrity. My little boys and girls, which do you think the greater sin, greediness or falsehood? Decidedly you will SELF COUNSEL. Away with all this dull despairing, With her sweet and earnest voice, Which we deem our hurt or loss. None the precious ore had told, Upward is the true eye's gaze, ELIZABETH P. ROBERTS. LITERATURE AND CIVILIZATION. We take the following eloquent passages from a newspaper report of a Lecture delivered by J. Westland Marston, author of "The Patrician's Daughter," &c., at the Manchester Athenæum, a few years ago, on "The nature and influences of imaginative Literature" : "A few words with respect to the prospects of ideal literature in our times. Some had said that the progress of science and civilization were unfavourable to that of poetry. The progress of good in one direction could not be permanently hostile to the progress of good in another. If civilization on the one hand destroys much of external romance, on the other hand it quickens and refines internal perceptions; it reveals to us not only what is new in the present, but it enables us to contemplate the past under new aspects. If science dissipates an ancient poetical superstition, it invariably replaces it with a new poetical truth. If it tells us that the stars do not control the destinies of man, it also tells us that they move in their spheres by a divine order, and instructs us in the barmonies of the universe. If the railroad levels our hills, cuts down our forests, and fills up our valleys, it also exhibits to us fresh aspects of human knowledge; making even time and space its tributaries. If, as has been said of the power of steam, that it sends blacksmiths' shops over the ocean, it also brings those whom seas divide into closer intimacy and communication, and thus makes the inhabitants of two worlds close neighbours. "So long as we relate science to the being of man, it is a help to the imagination. It is only when science is abused, when its facts are perverted, when material discoveries are severed from material truths, that science can be pernicious; when, in fact, men are induced to look for the practical simply in the material, and from only seeking it in that channel which is so material, they eventually come to deny its existence in the spiritual. When science is thus abused, it is most baneful; it mechanizes the whole structure of creation; transforms the lights of heaven into mere points of distance, and the plains of the earth into specimens of strata; and, in taking away the poetry from God's universe, it takes away its life. It writes museum' upon the ever-living walls of nature; and its trophies, however proudly blazoned, are but as the rare and costly decorations which covered the old Egyptian mummies-the ornaments of the dead. as to genealogies of patents. The mother smiles; she has some vague recollection that she was guilty of the same follies at fifteen. She drops a few words of careless raillery; she has full faith in the powers of human society to cure the infatuation. Too often she is right. Her child is introduced to a sphere where every higher aspiration is encountered with mockery, and where her better nature, unless deep-rooted, withers in the selfish and foetid atmosphere it inhales. Her higher impulses are first depressed; then dormant; at last dead. The temple of love is overthrown, and a market is built upon its ruins. Her conscience, at first agonized, loses its sensibility by degrees, till moral mortification deprives it of its susceptibility to pain. The child of enthusiasm and purity, gifted with natural yearnings and tendernesses, becomes transformed into the heartless creature of convention; lays snares for the inheritance of elder sons; achieves a title instead of a man; passes throughout the inanity of middle life to the dotage of age; with scandal for her employment, cards for her stimulant, ennui for her disease, and Bath waters for her remedy. She dies a natural death, and is buried with decorum; but ah! her heart has died before her! Death more awful, more tragical, than any that befals the body! Where should we lay this scene? When should we date such a tragedy as this? In the year 1845, in any street or place of the West-end of London, shall we be told that the poet of civilization of the present day has no vocation, no truth to announce, no duty to fulfil, no moral to develope, no struggle to depict, no pathos to awaken ? Again, it has been urged that the monotony and artificiality of modern society is hostile both to the occurrence of those striking events which form the suitable themes of poetical and passionate narrative, and also hostile to the vigour and freedom of the poetical mind itself. The point is strictly, whether the natural loses any of its vividness and power by cultivation? It assumes more delicate forms; but there never was a greater error than to confound delicacy with weakness. The blade of finest temper was always that of most flexibility; and so with the mind. It takes as much life from the productions of the most delicate form as from those of a rough one. "The elements of human nature are as vital as ever, but their manifestations are more subtile. They do not The ideal-faculty is eminently real. First, in its strike so broadly, but they penetrate more deeply. If effect. It gives a language to the popular heart: it the body be less exposed to the perils of the sword, the dives into the struggling instincts of justice, love, and mind is more accessible to the wounds of the tongue. If beauty, which lie in the depths of our nature, and endows we have no chains of tyranny to rend, we have the bonds them with speech, order, and definition. The cry of the of ignorance to break. If we have no new material poet is the voice of the world! The grand affirmations world to discover, we have much to make known of the of justice, the fair pictures of virtue, which take their world within. The tyrannical principle has still its domi- being from the poet's mind, are gradually recognised as nation to uphold, and if it has laid aside its thumb-screw feelings and principles by all mankind. The battle-fields and its rack, it has still its sneer and its calumny. The of freedom are not only consecrated to the heroism that seeds of good and evil, of pain and pleasure, are as rife fought, but to the genius that inspired. The equitable in the present day as ever. The world is as full of pas-laws, which are the monuments of legislation, are also sions and emotions, and, therefore, as poetical, on this 27th day of March, 1845, as it was the first morning after the subsidence of the deluge. Are there no materials of passion or high interest, no great throes in the struggles of human life, in the scenes of to-day? Yes; there are now, as there ever were, the bright and the troubled aspects of humanity, as fresh as at the dawn of creation. Suppose one of those cases common in every-day life, where the instincts of the heart and the usages of society are at variance. Take the case of a woman educated according to a corrupt standard of fashion; take her just fresh in the life of girlhood; endowed by nature with ardent and generous feelings, with the quick intuitions of beauty and truth, developing themselves in the silence of innocent childhood, and in the dreams of expanding youth. About the age of fifteen the girl becomes, probably or the first time, an object of solicitude to her mother; the time approaches when she wills that her daughter should make her debut in the world. The mother's feelings-I beg pardon, her ambition-looks with delight upon the artless manners and expressive eye of the hitherto neglected child. What freshness! what novelty of style! It contrasts so well with the artificial and languid bearing of town beauties; and the lady begins to hope that she may even get her daughter off her hands the first season. But on a closer examination the mother discovers, to her surprise and annoyance, that the child is possessed of that inconvenient and insubordinate member of the human constitution, entitled a heart. The child actually aspires to be loved; has formed her own idea of the man whom she could love; has conceived a notion that nobility belongs to character as well monuments to the great spirits, whose harps have echoed those lofty truths upon which all right legislation rests. There is not a leaf of history over which enthusiasm kindles,-not a page of the statute-book, over which mercy smiles, which has not been dictated by the ideal. Lastly, it is real in its nature and its associations. The pathos which moves our tears for the calamity of the fabled hero, is the weight of our sympathy with human suffering, embodied in a character. So of all imaginative attributes; it is the reality with which an author can tell his story that makes his pictures of feeling real. The susceptibilities of a great mind, though wide enough to embrace a world, are delicate enough to take the impression of a leaf. And this reality throughout is the common attribute of the existences around us. Sow suggestions in a generous soul, and it brings them forth principles. Society with its changing pageants; retirement with its subtle and speculative musings; the endearments of home; the adventurings of travel; the combinations of cloud and sunshine; the variety of tints in nature's ever-shifting panorama; the scorn of pride, the growth of friendship, the prosecution of popularity, love and enmity,-whatever brightens or darkens its life, its mystic origin, its complicated course, the solemn shadow of death, which conceals its track through the infinite,-these are amongst the realities which educate, through hope and fear, through ecstasy and pain, the spirit of genius; which hereafter frees them from their taint of inconsistency, softens their harshness, brightens their gloom, purifies their joy, and traces throughout the vast and intricate series, one unbroken law of good, which it is its office and delight to manifest." THE STREETS. Through which we all must pass who seek to taste our Eden state. In those strange sympathies of Love that make us good and glad The bust of "Milton" close beside where sinless "Eve" was lying, But "Nannie wilt thou gang wi' me," I think I liked that best; I loved, as childhood ever loves, the blossoms of the earth, As those poor simple "bowpots" were-those flowers in the "Streets." That silently invokes our soul to lift itself on high? Who shall revile the "common" tunes that haunt us as we go? THE PRESENT. ELIZA COOK. In order to enjoy the present, it is necessary to be intent on the present. To be doing one thing and thinking of another is a very unsatisfactory mode of spending life. Some people are always wishing themselves somewhere but where they are, or thinking of something else than which they are doing, or of somebody else than to whom they are speaking. This is the way to enjoy nothing well, and to please nobody. It is better to be interested with inferior persons and inferior things, than to be indifferent with the best. A principal cause of this indifference is the adoption of other people's tastes, instead of the cultivation of our own, the pursuit after that for which we are not fitted, and to which consequently, we are not in reality inclined. This folly pervades more or less all classes, and arises from the error of building our enjoyment on the false foundation of the world's opinion, instead of being, with due regard to others, each our own world. DIAMOND DUST. THE most harmless men are not on that account without enemies, particularly if they add to prudence plain and honest speaking, for nothing excites some persons to violence more than the spectacle of that selfcollectedness and self-respect which they do not feel in themselves. CUNNING Conquers force, force can subdue numbers, intellect can master courage, but love subdues all. FAVOURITES.-Persons undervalued by the many because they are overvalued by one. SOLITUDE with nature is often the most congenial feeling to the human mind, but in the once-crowded dwelling of household mirth and happiness-amid the vacant apartments, the echoing stairs, the extinguished hearths-what heart but must sink beneath the pressure of a solitude so unnatural, so haunted by the phantoms of departed joys. HE that enlarges his curiosity after the works of nature demonstrably multiplies the inlets to happiness. CHEERFULNESS.-The best hymn to the Divinity. He to whom God is pleasant, is pleasant to God. AGE without cheerfulness is a Lapland without a sun. WE should treat futurity as an aged friend, from whom we expect a rich legacy. BE grateful for small benefits; it shows that you esteem men's minds-not their trash. JUST praise is only a debt, but flattery is a present PLAIN dealing is a jewel, but they that wear it are out of fashion. To be furious in religion is to be irreligiously religious; it were better to be of no church than to be bitter of any. THE vine bears three kinds of grapes: the first of pleasure, the second of drunkenness, and the third of repentance. TRUTH will be uppermost one time or other, like cork, though kept down in the water. THERE is never wanting some good-natured person to send a man an account of what he has no mind to hear. OCCUPATION, action of any kind, is as opposed to sentimentality, as fire to water; and a few years of labour or study, ever a few months or weeks, will bring a young head into the right track. To fancy ourselves giants is a sure sign that we are dwarfs. None but very little men ever imagine themselves to be the perfection of height and symmetry. A FALSE friend is like a shadow on a dial-plate which appears in fine weather, but vanishes at the approach of a cloud THE natural alone is permanent. Fantastic idols may be worshipped for a while, but at length they are overturned by the continual and silent proffers of truth, as the grim statues of Copar have been pushed from their pedestals by the growth of forest-trees, whose seeds were sown by the wind in the ruined walls. IDLENESS is the dead sea that swallows all virtues, and the self-made sepulchre of a living man. THOSE who befriend genius, when it is struggling for distinction, befriend the world, and their names should be held in remembrance. To be happy at home is the ultimate result of all ambition, and the end to which every enterprise and labour tends, and of which every desire prompts the prosecution. Printed and Published for the Proprietor, by JOHN OWEN CLARKE, (of No. 9, Hemingford Terrace, East, in the Parish of St. Mary, Islington, in the County of Middlesex) at his Printing Office, No. 3, Raquet Court, Fleet Street, in the Parish of St. Bride, in the City of London, Saturday, March 9, 1850. |