lady's desire was by no means singular, or original. I have often sighed for a Word-ometer myself; and on more important occasions than Eliza alluded to, its value would be immense. When the King of Bantam, during his memorable visit to the British metropolis, took a kind friend at his word, and because he had begged him to consider his house as his own,' actually began to knock down a portion of its walls, to prepare for the alterations which he contemplated-he might have been spared the unpleasant discovery of his misinterpreting simplicity, had he previously possessed such an instrument. And if I had one this morning, I would certainly save myself the fatigue of a second walk to Moray Place. It is rather a long distance there from my quarters on the Calton Hill; and though I would willingly traverse it, in the hope of seeing my amiable friends at No. —, before I depart for my long sojourn in the country; yet, having received an answer in the negative form to my inquiry, whether the Misses G. were at home,' when I presented myself at their door this morning, and having every reason to suppose it was a false though fashionable reply, why should I commit the indiscretion of encountering its freezing duplicity a second time? A Wordometer would settle satisfactorily my undecided mind in this matter; but alas! the needful invention yet lies behind the rapidly advancing tide of intellectual development. Now, if the ingenious should really turn their thoughts to the production of this moral and scientific desideratum, I must suggest that it ought to be brought within the reach of all ranks of society. The commercial and operative classes will find advantages in its use, equally striking and important as the benefits to be conferred on the opulent and aristocratical. If the value of such phrases as- excellent article'-'most superior quality'-'curious and unequalled fabric '-' prices twenty per cent. under prime cost,' &c. have a chance of sinking many degrees in the auditor's estimation by the application of the proposed scrutinising test, surely that worthy man sitting so patiently in Lady B.'s vestibule, and looking so well pleased, to be told at last that her ladyship will call ' in a few days,' and settle his long standing account, ought no less to have the privilege of estimating words at their due value, and of regulating his expectations accordingly!

It might be curious to ascertain (should Word-ometers be brought to perfection), how many thousand syllables of fashionable froth would equal the indicated worth of one sentence, enriched with sterling conversational ore; whether ungentle epithets pronounced in grave assemblies of representative wisdom, or hereditary honour, would raise the index to a mark indicating good sense and right judgment, while they would sink in any other atmosphere to their natural level of coarse,' and 'unbecoming.'

Nor would it be less worth while to investigate how far the privileged air of a council chamber had sensible effects on the previous calibre of Scripture precepts (such, for instance, as Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy'), for we might then determine whether in such situations their weight were so diminished, as to justify their being discarded as insufficient and obsolete.

How surprised might we be in pursuing our experiments with our infallible speech-measurer, should we behold professions of inviolable regard tried, and found wanting, and the rounded periods of sugared flattery sinking rapidly in the comparative scale of this rhetorical balancer?

Then, again, what might not a series of accurate observations with the Word-ometer accomplish, in cases where it is as difficult as it is desirable to translate professions and pledges into the plain English of intentions and principles. No Election Committee would refuse to subscribe for an assistant so invaluable; and we might hope ere long to approximate to a decision, which are most intrinsically valuable, the energetic noes of the movement, the faint adjourns of the waverers, or the sturdy ayes of the conservatives! But, without such aid, who can undertake the

invention as I have discussed be really completed, who can doubt that its patrons would be many, its usefulness great? Wise adjustments, not even alluded to here, might be provided for by its general adoption, and when in universal use, like railroads and gas lights, the multitude would wonder how it was ever possible for their ancestors to proceed comfortably without it. In the mean time, I have been thinking it would be no bad thing, as a temporary expedient, to be a little more accurate and diligent than we usually are in applying the means we already possess of appreciating, according to their true worth, both our own words and the words of others. Although an accurate mechanical calculator of moral and comparative excellence in words and sentences be as yet unattained, an infallible, though antiquated standard does exist, which in a multitude of cases would present a safe and ready guide in our decisions, were we but disposed more frequently to refer to it. Had we each a Word-ometer, and it were to indicate Storm, Tempest, Destruction,' when a pretty mouth had just opened to give egress to some popular tale of scandal, should we look gravely and reprovingly on the graceful speaker? Why not, then, remember that it is already marked in the code of truth, to which I refer, that the words of a talebearer are as wounds!' And why not take thence also the useful hint, that as the north wind driveth away rain, so should the word of reproof, or the disapprov ing eye, repel the backbiting tongue?' Should we glance with dismay at the supposed index, marking unhealthy and variable,' as the true description of that breath from the marshes of insincerity, which the world designates as elegantly turned compliment? and shall we disregard our old one, when, on similar occasions, it expressively points to these words, he that flattereth his neighbour, layeth a net for his soul?' If we would but accord equal influence to the less modern instructor with that which novelty might affix to the new one, the 'rebuke of the wise' would, I am well assured, become far more precious to us than the commendations of the frivolous. Our 'pleasant words' would not be chiefly or exclusively those which pass away with the passing hour, but rather we should esteem, and cherish, and delight in those which are sweet to the soul in the time of affliction, and health to the bones,' when of outward ease they are painfully deprived.

6

We should receive that instruction as silver, and that knowledge as better than choice gold, which brought us peace and holy fortitude under every trial; while from sin enticing words, scoffing jests, and sceptical quibbles, we should turn as from the instruction that causeth to errfrom the speech that destroyeth as the piercings of a sword.

Yes! I do think, were these and such like other oldfashioned rules thoroughly attended to, the world might certainly do for a little while longer, without adding even one more to her already numerous ometers!

THE NEW TIMON.

FOR some time past there has been a great outcry among certain classes of litterateurs for a new POET. The last

generation of poets has almost passed away; and though a few of that bright band still remain upon the stage, they seem to have spoken out their parts, and are only lingering for a while upon the scene, ere bidding it a final adieu. The early part of the century was rich in poetical works of all kinds, and of the highest excellence; and now that we are nearly arrived at the middle of this illustrious nineteenth century, an opinion has been pretty generally expressed that we ought to have a new poet. And after all, when we consider the number of really great poets of which the past or passing generation could boast, the demand for one true poet of the present age seems compara tively moderate. Yet, again, when we consider the vast quantity of excellent poetry which is allowed to repose unread upon the shelves of the libraries, we may perhaps justly suspect that the cry for a new poet is only one of the many phases or results of the morbid craving for novelty which is one of the besetting sins of the present generation. But, be this as it may, it is perfectly certain that

into tales of his youth, and he thus concludes his narrative:

In the far lands, where first I breathed the air-
Smile if thou wilt-this rugged form was fair,
For the swift foot, strong arm, bold heart give grace
To man, when danger girds man's dwelling-place;
Thou seest the daughter of my mother, now,
Shrinks from the outcast branded on iny brow;
My boyhood tamed the lion in his den;

The wild beast feels men's kindness more than men.
Like with its like, they say, will intertwine;
I have not tamed one human heart to mine!'
He paused abruptly. Thrice his listener sought
To shape consoling speech from soothing thought,
But thrice she fail'd, and thrice the colour came
And went, as tenderness was check'd by shame.
At length her dove-like eyes to his she raised,
And all the comfort words forbade, she gazed;
Moved by her child-like pity, but too dark
In hopeless thought than pity more to mark,
'Infant,' he murmur'd, not for others flow

The tears the wise, how hard soe'er, must know;
As yet the Eden of a guileless breast

Opes a frank home to every angel guest.

Soft Eve, look round !-The world in which thou art
Distrusts the angel, nor unlocks the heart-
Thy time will come!'

He spoke, and from her side Was gone the heart his wisdom wronged replied!' In short, the fair and happy Lucy is deeply in love with the dark and moody Morvale, and he, for his part, is beginning to be in love with her without being himself aware of it.

A new character is now introduced. Arden, the Earl of Arden, has long been absent from England, but, lately returned, becomes the talk and admiration of town, on account of his wealth, his titles, and his courtly demeanour. Morvale and he became acquainted, and ride about together, musing and moralising. On one of these occasions, Lord Arden relates his early history to Morvale. He had been a roué-a fashionable young sinner-a gay Lothario, who boasted of his shameful conquests then, and only smiled at them now. At last, however, he fancied that he really had fallen in love with a beautiful girl, who is named Mary, the daughter of a quiet country parson, and gets introduced to her father in the character of a student. He induces Mary to consent to a secret marriage, and will not, to the very last, allow her to acknowledge the fact of the marriage even to her own father, because, forsooth, all his prospects in life depend upon the good will of a certain uncle, a hard-hearted man of the world, who would not scruple to disown his promising nephew, if he knew that he had joined himself to a woman destitute of title, influence, or fortune. Shortly afterwards, the said uncle procures for him a high appointment at a foreign court, for which he sets out, but not before he must undergo an interview with his wife's father, who, suspecting his daughter's condition and its cause, comes to endeavour to make Arden acknowledge the marriage. The wretch refuses to ease the old man's mind, nor does he release poor Mary from her promise of secrecy. In his new place of abode, he receives frequent letters from her, the last of which hints to him that he is about to become a father. Alarmed at not receiving more, he feigns an excuse to return to England, obtains leave of absence, and rushes home to find his wife's father dead of a broken heart-broken under the insupportable anguish of his daughter's supposed shameand the cottage deserted, with no trace of either mother or child. A nurse and a neighbouring parson, however, inform him that Mary's father had traced out the friend who had arranged for Arden his marriage with Mary. This friend, it appears, had loved' Arden in his own dark way,' and thinking to save him from the disgrace of a low marriage, had, unknown to him, procured a mock priest to perform false rites, so that the marriage was no marriage at all. The intelligence broke the poor old parson's heart.

We really cannot proceed with the rest of the poem till we have entered a protest against the way in which the portrait of Clanalbin is drawn:

My smooth Clanalbin !-shrewd, if smooth, was ho.
His soul was prudent, though his life was free;
Scapin to serve, and Machiavel to plot,

Red-haired, thin-lipp'd, sly, supple-and a Scot;

as if the fact of his being a native of our noble country, was at once the climax and the explanation of his villany! Such paltry spitefulness and vulgar prejudice are unworthy of one who considers himself so acute as evidently does the author of The New Timon;' and we think it! shows no small amount of magnanimity on our part to be able to pass over such a bitter national denunciation, and give praise to him from whom it proceeds, even where he deserves it!

But to continue the narrative. Arden discovers that Mary, too, sought out the villanous friend, Clanalbin, and that worthy gentleman seems to have added to his former | villanies, by giving her to understand that Arden had been a conscious and willing party to the fraud. Thereupon Mary denounced the deceiver in words glowing with just !! anger, and declared that he should never more behold her upon earth; and, accordingly, Arden had never afterwards been able to see her.

Such is Arden's tale; and the coldness of heart which its recital disclosed, seems to have somewhat lessened Morvale's liking for him. The better nature of Morvale causes him thus to remark upon the story of his worldlyminded companion ::

True was the preface to thy gloomy tale;
Pity can soothe not-counsel not avail,'
Said Morvale, moodily. 'What bliss forgone!
What years of rich life wasted! What a throne
In the arch heaven abandon'd! And for what?
Darkness and gold !-the slave's most slavish lot!
Thy choice forsook the light-the day divine-
God's loving air-for bondage and the mine!
O! what delight to struggle side by side
With one loved soother!-up the steep to guide
Her faithful steps, unshrinking from the thorn;
And front, with manly breast, the biting winds of scorn!
And when stout will and gallant heart had won
The hill-top opening to the steifast sun,
Look o'er the perils of the vanquish'd way,
And bless the toil through which the victory lay,
And murmur- Which the sweeter fate, to dare
With thee the evil, or with thee to share
The good?"

For some time after this, the two friends met less frequently. Arden had left London, on some fancied clue, in search of his lost Mary, and Morvale had begun to find a better companion at home in the gentle Lucy. The scene in which the mutual love of these two apparently contrasting natures is declared and sealed, is beautifully managed, and not less fine is the description of the light which thenceforth shone through the formerly gloomy dwelling:

'Changed the abode, of late so stern and drear,

How doth the change speak ?- Love hath entered here!
How lightly sounds the footfall on the floor!
How jocund rings sweet laughter, hush'd no more!
Wide, from two hearts made happy, wide and far,
Circles the light in which they breathe and are!
Liberal as noontide streams the ambient ray,
And fills each crevice in the world with day!
And changed is Lucy! where the downcast eye,
And the meek fear, when that dark man was by?
Lo! as young Una thrall'd the forest-king,
She leads the savage in her silken string:
Plays with the strength to her in service shown,
And mounts with infant whim the woman's throne!
Charm'd from his lonely moods and brooding mind,
And bound by one to union with his kind,
No more the wild man thirsted for the waste;
No more, 'mid joy, a joyless one, misplaced;
His very form assumed unwonted grace,
And bliss gave more than beauty to his face.
Let but delighted thought from all things cull
Sweet food and fair, hiving the Beautiful,
And lo! the form shall brighten with the soul!'
But a cloud comes over the sun, and its threatening
shadow falls upon all this happiness. Arden returned one
night from his hopeless search, and

Found some lines, stern, brief, in Morvale's hand-
Brief with dark meaning-stern with rude command--
Bidding his instant presence. Arden weigh'd
Each word; some threat was in each word convey'd:
A chill shot through his heart-foreboding he obey' d.'

The cause of this strange missive is thus explained. In one of their love conferences, Lucy begs Morvale to inform her what is the reason of Calantha's melancholy and sorHe accordingly tells that Calantha's character had been injured in the eyes of the world, by her having been

row.

deserted, when on the eve of marriage, by the man to whom she was about to be united. When Morvale first knew this he had vowed terrible vengeance, but at the solicitation of his sister, who yet loved him who had injured her reputation, had promised not to fulfil them, nor even to seek to know the name of him who had abandoned her. He was still in this state of constrained ignorance. In return for this revelation of his own affairs, Morvale asks Lucy about her parentage and early life. She tells him that mystery clouds ber birth, but places in his hands the tokens given her by her dying mother, and leaves him to examine them. They consist of a miniature and a small scroll of paper. Morvale is thunderstruck by the fact which these memorials disclose-namely, that his friend Arden is the father of Lucy, whose mother was none other than the injured Mary! He stands gazing in astonishment at the portrait of Arden, when a shriek from Calantha, who had unexpectedly come in and glanced at the miniature, startles him from his abstraction. At once the truth flashes upon him-Arden is the man who had trifled with the fair fame of his sister. Here then is a fine complication of troubles. Morvale had unwittingly been on friendly terms with his sworn enemy, and was deeply in love with his daughter.

The shock of disclosure and the pain of explanation was too much for the weak frame of Calantha-she dies; and it is after her death that Morvale sent the threatening note to Arden. Arden obeys the summons, and finds Morvale beside the couch on which reclines the dead body of his sister. After some angry words from both parties, Morvale, maddened by delayed revenge, and his eastern blood boiling with fury, attempts to assassinate Arden (whose natural courage somewhat quailed before the stern visage of the Indian, and the cold reproachful face of the dead), when a fair arm interposes between the uplifted knife and its victim. Lucy stood between her affianced husband, Morvale, and her father, Arden, who gazed in breathless wonder on what he deemed the spirit of his lost Mary.

This is one of the most unnatural and melo-dramatic scenes in the poem, but yet it is powerfully managed. Of course Morvale cannot now marry Lucy; he therefore resigns her to her father, and retires within himself to mourn over his strange fate.

One of Arden's first acts, after the recovery of his daughter, was to remove the remains of her mother from among the crowded city graves to the quiet churchyard of her native village, which seems to have been only a short distance from London, for we are told that Arden often wandered thither in his sad and lonely walks. Sad and lonely he was, for he found that his child Lucy could not love him, or give to him more than calm obedience and submission. Meanwhile Morvale, after the first heavings of his soul had subsided, had also begun to indulge in his old rambles through the neighbouring country. Straying by the wayside, he chanced to overhear an aged pastor explaining to a youth some of the principal doctrines of the Christian religion. His interest excited by the exposition of purer and higher principles of thought and action than he was yet acquainted with, he too became a pupil of the good old man, and the result is his complete conversion to the purifying and benign doctrines of Christianity. And the strength of his newly adopted principles was soon to be severely tried. On a very stormy night he and Arden happen to meet for the first time since the fearful meeting beside Calantha's deathbed. They meet now in still more trying and perilous circumstances. On a frail bridge over a swollen stream stand together the Indian and his foe; Arden is blown over into the water, and Morvale has the choice of allowing him to perish, or of risking his own life in attempting to save that of his foe. After a moment's hesitation, however, the good spirit prevails-Arden is saved, and is nursed by the changed and now forgiving Morvale, till Lucy relieves him of the charge. When she arrives, Morvale, afraid to trust his heart to the trial of her presence, quits the cottage which had afforded temporary shelter to Arden, and shortly afterwards seeks relief and change of scene in foreign lands.

After some months Arden dies, leaving to Lucy all his

unentailed property. A flaw in the will, however, entitles the heir-at-law to claim all, and Lucy, thus rendered penniless, finds shelter among the friends of her mother's father. Morvale, after a considerable interval, learns these occurrences, hurries home, and chances to meet Lucy at the grave in which her parents now sleep together. He declares that there is now no bar to their union, and the rich Morvale supplicates at the feet of the destitute Lucy. He says

No Arden now calls up the wrong'd and lost:
Lo, in this grave appeased the upbraiding ghost!
Orphan, I am thy father now!-Bereft
Of all beside, this heart at least is left.
Forgive, forgive-Oh, can'st thou yet bestow
One thought on him to whom thou'rt all below?
Who could desert but to remember more?
Can'st thou the Heaven, the exile lost, restore?
Can'st thou-

The orphan bow'd her angel head;
Breath blent with breath-her soul her silence said;
Eye unto ere, and heart to heart reveal'd;
And lip on lip the eternal nuptials seal'd!

Softly she stole from his embrace; apart
Strove with the happy fullness of her heart,
Then murmuring said :--

'Two years ago this day,
Dost thou remember?-'twas a morn of May-
An outcast in the city sate and wept!
That day, the birthday of her soul, be kept!
That day, thy stranger hand outstretch'd to save,
Thy home the roof, thy heart the shelter gave,
And from that day sun never rose nor set,
But, with one prayer-nay, hush, and hear me yet
This morn liglit smiled to earth but not to me,
The fair world saddened with one want of THEE!
All, as when first thou camest to comfort, drear;
For earth day fades, for me day comes! Thou'rt here!
Oh, if my prayer be heard!-0 bliss divine

If Heaven this grateful life devotes, at last, to thine!
Sudden rose up, above the funeral yews,

The moon; her beams the funeral shade suffuse!
Thus in that light the tender accents cease,

·

And by the grave was Love, and o'er creation Peace!' Such is an outline of The New Timon,' and we have occupied so much space with the mere story, that we have little room remaining for our critical remarks. From the extracts given in the course of the narrative, our readers will distinguish the general style of the poem. In versification the author seems to be an imitator of Pope, though he has more of the roughness of Crabbe than of the melodious flow of the bard of Twickenham.' Indeed, if we might be allowed to perpetrate a bad pun, we should say that the style of the poem is Crabbish, and its spirit crabbed. A kind of gloomy, satirical, and morbid false-philosophy pervades it, and constitutes its greatest blemish. Its tone is not generally clear and healthy. The story (which, though not in itself very complicated, is unnecessarily involved) is, on the whole, clumsily unfolded, though many individual scenes are managed with great skill and effect. The characters are well and powerfully drawn, and they are also natural and life-like. The picture of Lucy is very fine, and contrasts favourably with many namby-pamby poetical heroines. The character of Morvale is also well delineated, but the author is mistaken in calling him a New Timon. He is not placed in the circumstances, nor has he any very prominent features of the original Timon. His origin is much more recent; he bears a far stronger family resemblance to some of the heroes of Byron and Bulwer than to any character that Shakspeare ever created.

We are not inclined to think that the author of The New Timon' is to be the new great poet for whom some folks sigh. He wants, at least in its full measure, that fine and impalpable quality, that indescribable attribute, which distinguishes the true poet, and which enables him to infuse beauty (often unconsciously) into everything he touches. We do allow that, to a certain degree, The New Timon' displays this happy power, and perhaps time and experience may nourish it into luxuriance. At all events, the anonymous author, whoever he may be, has attracted sufficient attention to make him a marked object of interest in the world of letters. If he be a young author, his future productions will be carefully watched, to see if they fulfil the promise of his first. But we are rather inclined to think that he must be an old hand' (to use a collo

quial expression), who is trying his powers in a new line of literature. We may mention in conclusion, that the work has been attributed to Sir E. Lytton Bulwer, but, as he has publicly denied being its author, of course we must believe his declaration.

ALIMENTS.

Some very extraordinary experiments as to the comparative digestibility of different sorts of food were made some years ago, in one of the hospitals of Paris. One of the patients, a soldier, had received a wound which left an opening to the stomach from the exterior, and it was found that substances could be introduced into it by this artificial opening, without occasioning any serious derangement. Portions of different kinds of food, tied with silk, were successfully introduced, and notes were carefully made of the quantity dissolved of each within the same given period of time. Mutton, venison, partridge, and some other sorts of game, were dissolved more rapidly than beef; beef more rapidly than veal and the white flesh of domestic poultry; and these latter were digested quicker than pork. Ham and bacon remained almost entire at the end of the time during which mutton was almost wholly dissolved. These experiments, though not entirely conclusive, as they were made only upon a single individual, go very far to confirm the received notions as to what are called digestible and indigestible aliments. There are, however, many idiosyncrasies to which no general rule can be applied. Some persons are seriously inconvenienced by the use of fruits, while others derive great benefit from them. One man will eat a large quantity of nuts without inconvenience, whilst another will have an acute attack of indigestion from taking a very small quantity; some will digest pork with facility, and find difficulty in digesting those meats which are generally most rapid in their passage through the system. The celebrated Dr Gall could not take mutton in any form; and indeed the very appearance of it on a table would bring on, with him, a sensation of sickness. On one occasion some medical friends with whom he was dining, and who concluded that the imagination had much to do with this repugnance, had a dish of mutton so disguised in the cooking that it was impossible to discover it. The doctor, having no suspicion, partook of it: but he had not taken two mouthfuls when he fell from his chair, and remained for some time seriously indisposed. An instance is mentioned, by a medical writer, of a gentleman who could not take a single oyster in its raw state without having an attack of indigestion, but could eat them cooked in any way without inconvenience, although they might become almost as hard as leather.-Merle's Domestic Dictionary.

THE ASSES OF THE ALPS.

The manner in which asses descend the precipices of the Alps or the Andes is truly extraordinary. In the passes of these mountains there are often on the one side lofty eminences and on the other frightful abysses; and as these generally follow the direction of the mountain, the road, instead of lying on a level, forms, at every little distance, steep declivities of several hundred yards downwards. These can only be descended by asses; and the animals themselves seem sensible of the danger by the caution which they use. When they come to the edge of one of the descents, they stop of themselves, without being checked by the rider; and if he inadvertently attempts to spur them on, they continue immoveable. They seem all this time ruminating on the peril that lies before them, and preparing themselves for the encounter. They not only attentively view the road, but tremble and snort at the danger. Having prepared for their descent, they place their fore-feet in a posture as if they were stopping themselves; they then also put their hinder-feet together, but a little forward, as if they were about to lie down. In this attitude, having taken a survey of the road, they slide down with the swiftness of a meteor. In the meantime, all that the rider has to do is to keep himself fast in the saddle, without checking the rein, for the least motion is sufficient to disorder the equilibrium of the ass, in which case both must unavoidably perish. But their address in this rapid descent is

truly wonderful; for in their swiftest motion, when they seem to have lost all government of themselves, they follow exactly the different windings of the road, as if they had previously settled in their minds the route they were to follow, and taken every precaution for their safety. In this journey the natives, who are placed along the sides of the mountains, and hold themselves by the roots of the trees, animate the beasts with shouts, and encourage them to perseverance. Some asses, after being long used to these journeys, acquire a kind of reputation for their safety and skill; and their value rises in proportion to their fame.

SUMMER FLOWERS.

The long, long night and the dreary day
Has pass'd, like a dream of youth, away;
The hoar-frost too, and the flaky snow,
Give place to the summer's sunny glow;
Again we see in this land of ours
The sweet little race of gentle flowers.
Gems of love, come away, come away,
While the bright sunbeams and the shadows play;
The pearly dews will drop on your breast,
And charm each blade to its evening rest,
While zephyrs glide through your lovely bowers,
To wake up the race of gentle flowers.
The way of the soft south wind is told
In the bend of the rose and marigold;
And the waving thistle feels the sigh,
As the light breeze sweetly dances by;
While the rainbow rides in the sunny showers
That fall in the lap of gentle flowers.

The maidens gather your blossoms now,
And they plait your fibres round their brow;
Your smell will be in their golden hair,
Like the breath of an angel ling ring there;
But kindly say that a change is ours,
That she must pass like the gentle flowers.
Ye tell of the years now long away,
When ours was the joyous summer day;
Ye light up the look of many an eye
That blooms in the bliss of eternity;
Ye fade, while the speed of passing hours
Withers our cheek like the gentle flowers.

A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE.

A mother teaching her child to pray is an object at once the most sublime and tender that the imagination can conceive. Elevated above earthly things, she seems like one of those guardian angels, the companions of our earthly pilgrimage, through whose ministration we are incited to good and restrained from evil. The image of the mother becomes associated in his infant mind with the invocation she taught him to his Father who is in heaven.' When the seductions of the world assail his youthful mind, that well remembered prayer to his Father who is in heaven,' will strengthen him to resist evil. When in riper years he mingles with mankind and encounters fraud under the mask of honesty: when he sees confiding goodness betrayed, generosity ridiculed as weakness, unbridled hatred, and the coldness of interested friendship, he may indeed be tempted to despise his fellow-men, but he will remember his Father who is in heaven.' Should he, on the contrary, abandon himself to the world, and allow the seeds of self-love to spring up and flourish in his heart, he will, notwithstanding, sometimes hear a warning voice in the depths of his soul, severely tender as those maternal lips which instructed him to pray to his Father who is in heaven.' But when the trials of life are over, and he may be extended on the bed of death, with no other consolation than the peace of an approving conscience, he will recall the scenes of his infancy, the image of his mother, and with tranquil confidence will resign his soul to his 'Father who is in heaven.'

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. CURRY, jun. & Co., Ireland; R. GROOMBRIDGE & SONS, London; W. M'COMв, Belfast; G. & R. KING, Aberdeen; R. WALKER, Dundee; G. PHILIP, Liverpool; FINLAY & CHARLTON, Newcastle; WRIGHTSON & WEBB, Birmingham; A. HEYWOOD and J. AINS WORTH, Manchester; G. CULLINGWORTH, Leeds; and all Booksellers.