sustained and forgotten, ere those great hidden riches were disturbed, and brought to light.

"In order to give some idea," says Humboldt, "of the luxuriance of the vegetation of the primitive world, and of the immense masses of vegetable matter which were doubtlessly accumulated in currents, and converted in a moist condition into coal, I would instance the Saarbrücker coal measures, where one hundred and twenty beds are superposed on one another, inclusive of a great many which are less than a foot in thickness; whilst in the forests of our temperate zones, the carbon contained in the trees growing over a certain area would hardly suffice, in the space of a hundred years, to cover it with more than a stratum of seven French lines in thickness."

When we know that the depth of the Lancashire coal-fields is about one hundred and twenty feet, this gives us a vivid idea of not only the higher temperature of the earth during the carboniferous depositions, but also of the immense time it must have required to form and harden the measures.

We have mentioned that the temperature increases as we dig below the surface, and to account for this we may state that geologists very generally believe that the centre of the earth is in a state of fusion, and that volcanoes are, to use a familiar illustration, the safety valves of the globe. This, of course is theoretical; yet it is certainly possible, even probable; but as we cannot test beyond a limited depth by actual observation the nature of the earth's strata, we must be contented to remain uncertain. Our theory, at any rate, is more reasonable than that of the Brahmin scriptures, which assert that the world is supported by an elephant, upheld in his turn by a monster tortoise. "On what the tortoise rests," says Humboldt, "the credulous Brahmin is not permitted to inquire."

Here we may draw what appears to us a most reasonable and fair argument for the truth of the Bible; it is this: our scriptures, though they have not anticipated, do not, we believe, in any instance, when rightly interpreted, contradict science; whereas the pretended sacred writings of the Brahmins and others contain falsities which an English child would scorn to credit. The Brahmin scriptures in particular contain false systems, systems of astronomy, &c., which stamp them as untruthful, when held in the light of modern scientific knowledge. No degradation of this kind has been the fate of our Bible we have, indeed, discovered that our interpretation of its meaning has, in a few unimportant instances, been mistaken; but the corrections consequent on such discovery have been fearlessly made, and the volume of mercy is left intact and this while the writings of the best of the uninspired ancients are full of absurdities, when they approach the subject of the

world's origin and the beginning of things. Any one may be satisfied on this latter point by referring to the chapter on the Greek philoso phers in "Tytler's Universal History."

How is every part of this world crowded with proofs of design and of benevolence! There seems not an atom of matter forgotten or neglected: like the glasses in a kaleidoscope, the simple substances of nature are perpetually as suming new forms of attractions and usefulness: all is music to the ear, and beauty to the eye. While there is boundless profusion in nature, there is no waste; the debris of yesterday's races serve to-day a fresh purpose in the economics of the world; and while nothing is wanting, neither is anything in excess. Amid so much apparent disorder, too, all is order: the materials in the cabinet of Nature are arranged with all the regu larity of a nice philosopher; or in cases where this order is temporarily deviated from, the exception serves the prosperity of God's creatures better than the rule could have done, as in the instances we have mentioned in some districts where the strata have been disturbed to place the metals within the reach of man.

There is a sadness in the reflection that the busiest life of study must leave us on a low form in the school of knowledge-sad thought, indeed, were this life our only existence; it is, however, but the lower school; and the Christian student, who sees that in the material world everything answers the end of its creation, cannot doubt that his soul, with its insatiable cravings after knowledge-his soul, from whose depths the cry "Excelsior" is perpetually aris ing to heaven, is destined for a life happy and glorious; of which his present state, in its best aspects, is but a very faint image.

It is no strange earth in which we shall lie down until our resurrection: there is no place in it so dark that the eye of Providence is not perpetually overlooking it; and no atom of our composition can be scattered beyond the reach of His hand.

With all her wonders, all her beauties, her myriads of past and present existences, our planet is but a point in our system, and our system but a speck in infinite space!

How well does the language of Job become our lips" Surely there is a vein for the silver, and a place for gold, where they fine it. Iron is taken out of the earth, and brass is molten out of the stone. He (God) setteth an end to darkness, and searcheth out all perfection; the stones of darkness and the shadow of death. He putteth forth his hand upon the rock; he overturneth the mountains by the roots. Lo! these are parts of his ways; but how little a portion is heard of him? but the thunder of his power who can understand ?” *

Job, ch. 26 and 28.

In a comfortable parlour whose closely-drawn curtains and bright cheerful fire made one forget the wintry storm that was raging without or if thought of, the knowledge but served to enhance the comfort within-a calm and placid matron was sitting near the fire, and as she plied her glittering knitting-needles, ever and anon her sweet serious eyes would rest, with a loving glance, upon two fair young girls, who were seated at a table in the centre of the room, upon which stood a globe-lamp. One was busily employed with her needle, the other seemingly engaged in looking over a book of prints; but throwing it down with a half-smothered yawn, she exclaimed

"What a dull dreary evening! How can you sit sewing there, dear Helen, as if your life depended upon every stitch? Throw it by, and come and take this seat by mamma. I will seat myself here at her feet, and she will tell us some of those recollections of her youth, which charm us so much; will you not, dear mamma?" The lady smiled and said, as she laid her hand caressingly on the speaker's head

"Willingly, my dear; but the choice must rest with you."

"You have often promised, dear mamma, to tell us of your early friend, Clara," said Helen. She was very beautiful, was she not?"

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"Sweet Clara, she was, indeed, very beautiful, with her dark hair parted upon her brow and folded simply around her classic head, and her deep blue eyes so fraught with tenderness, half veiled with their long lashes. She was the realization of a poet's dream. It was in a sunny southern home that I first met Clara S

and

I thought that I had never seen one more beautiful. Nearly of the same age, we soon became friends, and I learned by more familiar intercourse to love her deeply. Indeed she was loved by all who knew her.

Her parents' dearest treasure, she was the charm of the domestic circle; even the old household servants regarded her with a love approaching to idolatry. Gifted with a mind of the highest order, and a deep poetic temperament, her natural enthusiasm was blended with a shrinking modesty, which lent a new charm to her always graceful manner; instead of being

an object of envy to her companions, they all loved her, that she was so unconscious of her evident superiority.

"Often have I sat with Clara and her sister on the gallery of their cottage home, in the calm stillness of some bright moonlight night, and listened to her sweet musical voice, as she would repeat passage after passage from some favourite poet, and thought, as I gazed upon her, that she herself was as fair as any of the beautiful creations of the poet's fancy.

"Our sweet Clara, though portionless, was not without admirers, and from among the many she selected one whose similarity of tastes seemed to point him out as a fit companion for one so gifted.

"I was at her bridal. Always lovely, Clara looked still lovelier in her wedding-robes, with the happiness she felt irradiating her sweet countenance. I shall never forget her father's look of pride as he placed her hand in that of her husband, nor the tearful smile of her mother, as she committed her darling to another's guardianship. We all rejoiced at her marriage, for she had wedded, not only one capable of appreciating the priceless gift of her love, but the heir of a wealthy family, and we all felt that one so frail and delicate should not be exposed to the privations entailed by poverty.

"I did not see Clara again for several years, when we again met in the city which had been her residence since her marriage, and which was now to become my home. The first time I saw her after my arrival was at church. It was the season of an Episcopal visitation, and the church was thronged with strangers, eager to witness the solemn rite of confirmation. The soothing and solemn services of the church, which for some time I had not been able to attend, occupied my whole attention; but the voice of the priest requesting the candidates for confirmation to approach the altar, caused me to look up, and I saw Clara, among many others, coming up the aisle. My eyes filled as I saw that beautiful and gentle being kneeling in reverential awe before the altar, and heard her sweet voice in the responses prescribed by the ritual, wherein she renounced the 'pomps and vanities of the world,' and solemnly ratified the vows made for

her in her baptism; and I mingled my prayers with those of the good bishop, as, placing his hands upon her bowed head, he prayed God to defend this his servant, and bring her to His everlasting kingdom. We met as if we had parted but yesterday, with the free frank cordiality of old.

"I soon left for the north, and on my return after an absence of some months, I called to see Clara.

"I was admitted to her room, and found her with a fair young babe upon her breast, and a new and holier beauty upon her brow, a beauty which had its source in the deep fount of a mother's love.

"It was a beautiful picture to see that fair young mother, as she sat in a large arm-chair, her slight figure wrapped in a snowy robe, the delicate lace of her cap just shading her pure fair brow and cheek, bending so lovingly over the little fragile blossom nestled to her bosom. She might have sat a model for the Madonna. Her health failed visibly from the hour of her child's birth-but she did not seem aware of it; her whole soul seemed to be centred in her baby, and it was, in truth, a lovely baby.

"Do you know, dear,' she said to me one morning, as I entered her chamber and found her fondling her infant, 'that to-day is my birthday? I am twenty years old to-day.'

"I kissed her cheek, offered my kind wishes for her and her child's happiness; but the tears rose to my eyes, for I feared that she might never see another birthday, and I knew that her husband was even then planning a journey for her benefit.

"They were absent but a few months; Clara pined to return to her home and to her child, and she was gratified. Her husband purchased a beautiful residence near the city, and surrounded her with all the luxuries which love could devise or wealth could purchase, in the vain hope of prolonging her existence.

"I had not seen Clara for some weeks, and one bright afternoon in the early summer, I prevailed upon a friend to drive me out to see her.

"What a beautiful drive that was. Our road was bordered on each side by beautiful summerresidences, each embowered by shade-trees, among which one might notice the deep green of the China-tree with its fragrant clusters of lilac flowers, the graceful Alanthus and delicate Mimosa, and the bright glossy green of the live oak, that pride of our southern forests; richly cultivated gardens, in which bloomed flowers of every hue, from the humble violet to the stately oleander and superb cape jasmine, were spread out before us, in many instances only separated from the road by hedges of Cherokee rose, whose pure white flowers contrast so beautifully with the deep green of its polished leaves.

"It was a beautiful spot that new home of Clara's; and when I reached it, I found her husband sitting on the gallery. He assisted me from the carriage, and in answer to my inquiries concerning Clara, replied that she was very feeble; but,' he added, she will be glad to see you.' I followed him to her room.

"She was lying half buried in the cushions of her couch, which had been drawn before an open window, through which the sweet south breeze came laden with the perfume of the China blossoms and the sweet breath of the yellow jasmine. Oh! how fearfully had she changed. Her whole appearance showed but too plainly that consumption had claimed its victim. She told me that she would spend the summer with her mother, and when I return home,' she added, 'you will be often with me, dear-will you not spend the winter here with me?' I could scarcely restrain my emotions, as I took her wasted hand in mine and promised all she required.

LITTLE GRACE'S EXPERIENCES.

BY ELIZABETH O'HARA.

Grace Harcourt had one day been a very good girl, had practised attentively, written a careful copy, and repeated her lessons quite perfectly, when her mamma told her she had a great treat in store for her.

"O, what is it, Mamma? Do tell me," she cried.

"I mean to take you with me to-morrow to Forest Grove, where you have so often wished to go. We will ride there in your Uncle's ponychaise; and when we have seen the grounds we will have our dinner under the trees."

"O, Mamma-dear Mamma! How nicehow delightful-that will be!" she exclaimed, jumping about, and clapping her hands. "Shall we go early-very early indeed?”

"Yes, as soon as Grandpapa is up, and I have seen that he has everything quite comfortable. We must not neglect Grandpapa, you know."

"No, that would never do. But, Mamma, Grandpapa gets up so dreadfully late! Could not we just ask him to make haste to-morrow?" Why, no. We may be sure he will do so if he be well enough; and it would not be kind to hurry him."

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"Why not, Mamma?"

"No, Miss; and your Mamma hopes you will remember to be very quiet, as Master said he had had a bad night."

Poor Grace was sadly grieved at this news, but she crept about the house like a little mouse; and, though she was not very fond of work, amused herself with her doll's things till her Grandpapa came down; as her Mamma advised her not to run in the garden, lest she should tire herself.

At length Grandpapa appeared. Grace ran to shake up the cushions of his chair, as usual; but he was rather poorly that morning, which made him testy; so, instead of thanking her, he roughly bade her move out of the way. Her heart swelled at this, and she thought it very hard to bear; but she said nothing, and stood by, watching how patiently her Mamma waited on him and placed all his little comforts within his reach. Though the chaise was at the door, and Shag, the pony, stood pawing the ground, as if he too would like the excursion, she had the forbearance not to mention it. Many children I know would have called out "The chaise is come, Mamma-do make haste; I am sure we shall be too late;" but Grace was less selfish.

"Miss Price will come and spend the day with you, Father. I really do not like to disappoint my patient, good, little Grace."

"I do not want Miss Price. My leg is worse than ever."

"Shall we stay at home, Grandpapa?" said Grace; "I do not care very much." But as she spoke the tears filled her eyes, even though she tried to keep them back.

Mr. Gresham looked at her for a moment, and then, stooping down to kiss her, answered, "No, my generous, unselfish darling, you shall not lose your jaunt for me. My foot is

much easier now, and I shall be very glad to see my old friend, Miss Price. You will have a lovely day for your drive. There, make haste off, my pet. Good-bye!"

Now, what made this sudden change in Mr. Gresham's feelings? Good temper; that was all. People, when they are ill and in pain, are sometimes cross and unreasonable, as Grandpapa had been; but Mrs. Harcourt's patience, and Grace's generosity, made him feel his folly. Was not that better than if they also had murmured and fretted?

Some of my little readers may wonder why I call Grace generous, since she had not given away anything; but generosity does not always consist in making presents: we must learn to give up also before we are truly generous.

I wish I could describe Grace's great joy as she drove along beside her Mamma. She had the best thing in the world to make her happy-an approving conscience; she knew she had really been good, and quite deserved her present pleasure. The village, as they passed through it, looked prettier and busier than it had ever done; and how gaily the fire burned in the blacksmith's forge, while the sparks danced off the hot iron he was hammering! Then, it was so funny to see the geese waddling along the green to the pond, where was a poor hen, who had unwittingly hatched a breed of goslings, clucking to them in great distress as they ran to the water, where she could not follow them. Grace laughed at the hen's mistake, and then felt almost sorry for her. There was little Johnny Barker, too, creeping along to school in his clean white pinafore; she wished he could go to Forest Grove with them.

And then came the pleasant lanes, with their high hedges, with wild flowers twisting about them, studding the sloping banks, and lending fresh scents to the soft, warm air, already perfumed by the fragrant hay the corn-crake chirping in the fields, and the lark carolling above them, far out of sight-butterflies darting in and out of the flowers, and every now and then a pretty little cottage starting up by the road-side, with rosy, nut-brown children crowding to peep over the half-door at the travellers. Could anything be more delightful? nestled up close to her dear Mamma, and hoped she might always be a good gil.

Grace

At length they reached Forest Grove, and then her joy was unbounded. First of all there was a dear little house at the Park gates; this was the Lodge, and the woman who lived in it having been an old servant of Mrs. Harcourt's, was delighted to see them, and made them promise to come back and eat some of her strawberries and cream. Then, after skimming along the avenue, which was smoother than a garden-walk, and was arched over by limes and horse-chestnut trees, forming a canopy of green leaves above them, they arrived in front of the house, built like a castle! Grace had so long wished to see a real castle, and now, here was one, with a lawn as soft as a velvet carpet before it, and thick groups of every sort of tree, their

M

foliage contrasting wonderfully in shape and colour. A peacock strutted on the terracewalk, displaying his gorgeous tail, now wide outspread, now gracefully drooping; and deer, real deer, were tossing their antlered heads, and bounding along quite near; while the sun lit up the farthest corners, and played over the masses of verdure; and pretty light clouds chased each other across the blue sky. "Oh, Mamma!" she cried," how beautiful, how very beautiful! how I wish Grandpapa was with us.'

They went all through the hot-houses, where she was almost bewildered by the wonderful tropical plants and strange flowers; but it was so very warm there, that I question if she enjoyed that part of the visit as much as her Mamma, still it was very pleasant; but her joy was unspeakable when they went over the grounds. There she saw a pond with gold and silver fish, quite tame, who darted about in the clear water, and popped up their heads for the crumbs she was allowed to give them. There was also an aviary, with ever so many foreign birds, of the brightest colours she could imagine, some so small, they were hardly larger than a big bee, but all alive, hopping about from spray to spray, and chirruping incessantly. Then there was a broad lake, with a pretty boat, and a man waiting to row them across; a noble swan, too, was swimming proudly about, looking so stately, and gracefully curving its long neck. There was no end to the pleasures of the day.

When they landed, Grace was allowed to run about the Park freely, and gather a fine nosegay of the monthly roses, honeysuckles, and wild flowers that were allowed to grow at the foot of the fine old trees, while her Mamma sat under their shade and read. At length, quite tired out, she seated herself by her Mamma, and then they opened their basket of provisions, to see what Jane had packed up for their dinner, and found some nice cold fowl and ham, a tart, a bottle of currant wine, and a cake. Oh! | how Grace enjoyed her dinner in this pleasant| spot.

"Mamma," she asked, " are there any little girls here? This is Lord De Vere's house, I know; but the man said the birds were Lady Isabella's. Who is Lady Isabella, and how old

Oh, but Mamma, to live in this beautiful place, to have all those darling little birds for one's very own, and to be able to go on the lake every day-I am sure I wish I were she."

"Softly, softly, my Grace, or I shall be quite sorry I have brought you to Forest Grove, if the sight of all these beauties is to make you discontented and envious."

"Envious, Mamma? But surely I may just wish to have the same fine things as she has ?"

"Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, nor anything that is his.' Do you remember that, eh, Grace? It is dangerous to wish for these riches, delightful as they are; because you may become dissatisfied with your own position, and forget how much better off you are than many poor children. Would you like to change places with Betsey Adams, for instance? -the little girl who weeds our garden, and works in the fields all day."

"No, that I would not, Mamma. Her cottage is so cold and dirty-and do you know, I really believe she has often nothing but dry bread to eat. O, no, I would not be Betsey Adams for the world!"

"Then think of her another time when you wish to change places, and remember how much more fortunate you are. Besides, Lady Isabella is so accustomed to this lovely place, that she does not admire it as you do."

"Now do you really mean that, Mamma? Is it possible?"

"Quite possible, my love. I do not think you yourself care very much about the easychairs and sofas in our house, or the nice soft carpets under your feet, the thick curtains to keep out the cold, your frocks for summer and winter, your snug little bed, your good breakfasts and dinners."

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"O but, Mamma, everybody has these things!"

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Everybody you visit, my little girl; but when Betsey first came to our house, she told Jane she had never seen such a grand place in her life."

"Well, I never thought of that before. Will you let me try to save up something for her, Mamma? I wonder if she has a plum-pudding on Christmas-day like we have, or a twelfthcake?"

"No, that she has not, Grace.”

"Then I declare I will save up some of my pocket-money and give her one—that I will. And so Lady Isabella does not care for all these fine things, any more than I do for my little garden? How funny! But I suppose she would be sorry to lose them, Mamma?"

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Certainly; as you would be, my child, were you to lose all the comforts you enjoy."

It was now time for them to return to the Lodge, according to their promise. The strawberries and cream were excellent; and as soon as they had despatched them, they drove off homewards. Shag trotted along briskly, and their moonlight-ride was as pleasant as the morning journey. All was so quiet and peaceful, the very flowers seemed asleep; the warm air steamed up, rich with odours; not a sound was heard but the nightingale's song, or the distant watch-dog's bark. The children who had played along the road were now safe in bed; but the bright fire-light shone cheerily out from some of the cottage windows, and showed their mothers busily frying a supper for the hungry labourers.

"O, Mamma," said Grace, "I am sure all the world may be happy if they will; for every