the world to contend with it in the spirit of bitter foes; hence, too, the starvation that glares upon us from the holes and corners of the world-holes in which men, women, and children labour for a crust, through the long hours of day and night-that some prosperous, sleek, and "universally respected" tradesman may minister to an inhuman love of cheapness, and fatten upon the flesh and blood of his obscure and helpless fellow-creatures.

Enough! Money-worship, let us not deny it, is a national sin, and he deserves well of society who makes it the subject of his written thoughts, whether he speak in prose or verse.-Times.

PATRIOTISM.

THE present age is pregnant with stirring events and striking changes. The customs, the manners, and the maxims of our forefathers are rapidly disappearing before the innovating spirit of the times. Every mind alive to the necessities of humanity will rejoice at the development of this innovating influence, when manifested in earnest aspirations after positive improvement, and hail it as an element, destined to promote and perpetuate highly beneficial changes in our social and political fabric. That old customs and manners which bear not the the impress of utility should be abrogated; that sentiments, which claim respect in virtue of their age alone, and produce no evidence of their affinity to truth should be rejected; and that our social and political institutions should be remodelled so as to keep pace with the advancement of our people in knowledge, obtains a unison of belief, and is held as an axiomatic truth.

fow. You reach the house just at luncheon time. The guests are all assembled. There is a duke, a marquis, an earl, a viscount, and a baron; you are yourself a younger son, and are not surprised to find the baron toadying the duke, as though he were a tailor waiting upon a city knight. Let that pass. There are two other guests-(if we may call that poor, silent, pale-faced, uncomfortablelooking, self-immolated young man in the corner, a guest, who looks very like a criminal taking his meals before execution) a youth, and a man of forty. Everybody votes the former absent, and nobody can have too much of the latter. The youth is a clergyman's son, tutor to Lord Birmingham's son-and-heir; he took honours at Cambridge, and means to fight hard in the world by-andby. He has gentle blood in his veins, but not a sixpence in his pocket; part of his salary goes home to his family, and as much of his good breeding and learning as the patient will take is transferred to the son-and-heir. The scholar is good enough to stand in loco parentis to his pupil; but his honours, his erudition, and his cultivation buy for him at the table the simple rank of an upper servant. You know the style of the place, and are not surprised to see the youth, after a moderate and silent repast, retreat, ghost-like and unnoticed, from the fine apartment. Well, the aristocracy have a duty to perform; they must sustain their order and respect themselves. You hear a horse-laugh. It is from the gentleman of forty, You never met him before, but you saw somebody very like him as you once passed through Smithfield market. It is the renowned Snobson; ten years ago he served behind a counter (many a better man has done it). Speculation and something else have made him a man of millions, but nothing more. Vulgarity is enthroned in his heart, and is exuberant on his tongue. My lord's butler is a king to him-an emperor-a pope. The humblest occupant of plush is a hero at his side. You feel it when he talks, moves, eats, or drinks; your flesh creeps in his company; you suspect that the groom of the cham-elevating influences are experienced in every bosom where bers would think the individual out of his place in the steward's room. You are satisfied that if you could scrape off all the gold that encases that carcase, you would find nothing but the muddiest of mud-huts. You have the keenest possible perception of all this; yet Lady Birmingham, who treats her son's tutor as though he were a learned pig, and nothing higher in the animal chain, is absorbed in visible admiration. It is the same with all the ladies; and as for the gentlemen--including the Duke-they are as proud of their acquaintance as they are innocent of his vulgarity, and complaisant to his grossness. You know well enough what it all means. The thing is made of money. But then you remember again, that the aristocracy have a duty to perform; must sustain their order and respect themselves; and, for the life of you, you cannot conceive how the personal respect is consistent with the degrading adulation.

Illustrations abound. They occur to us all. We pay our highest respect to money, and, desiring to be respected, we strain after the possession of that, for which we know we shall be admired, courted, and esteemed, though we lack every virtue in the calendar. We see folks-no doubt charming people in their way-endowed with every quality of Adam before he transgressedneglected because they are poor, and we hate poverty for the cruel penalty it inflicts. Hence the universal treading upon one another's heels, the pulling at the skirts of those above us, the shocks received from the struggling gentry immediately behind us; hence the banishment of all simplicity from our lives, the shame that attaches to the condition of life to which it has pleased God to call us, and the difficulties that surround the station into which we ridiculously call ourselves. Hence domestic miseries, heart-rending bankruptcies, gentlewomen left by insolvent fathers to boast, in humble servitude, of better days; ingenuous youths thrown upon

The principle illustrated in this paper claims kindred with the earliest nations, and dates its birth from the remotest antiquity. Still its vitality is unimpaired; it manifests no tokens of decay. Its noble impulses and the "harp of a thousand strings" still beats, demonstrating the immutability of its elements-pregnant with blessings to the brotherhood of man. Patriotism is a principle fraught with high impulses and noble thoughts: it is an ardent, a constant, and a disinterested love of country. Every individual instinctively cherishes a deep-rooted and wide-spread love for his father-land. Its manners, its customs, its traditions, its history, its people, even its natural scenery, and its material characteristics, excite in his mind the liveliest emotions. It matters not whether he was born and nurtured amongst the icegirt shores of the frigid zone, or exposed to the scorching rays of a tropical sun; it matters not whether he be groping in the darkness of barbarism, or walking amidst the light of civilization, so long as there is within him a heart open to the calls of nature, so long will he cherish a glorious attachment towards his father-land.

Patriotism is essentially generous: its fundamental principle-disinterested love of country, in its every interest, is necessarily at variance with that narrowness of spirit which cares but for self. That the boundless spirit of freedom may dwell amongst the scenery of father-land; rich, it may be, with recollections of intensely interesting bygone eras; that the blessings of civil and religious liberty may be enjoyed by his countrymen; that the homes of father-land may be held sacred; and that the hopes, the sentiments, and the aspirations of countrymen may be respected, are consummations to which patriotism aspires. When patriotic emotion glows in the breast of a man, whose faculties and affections have not been desecrated at the shrine of selfishness in any of its varied forms, whose soul is keenly alive to the throbs of natural feeling, and whose heart responds to generous sentiments, it impels to noble achievements and deeds of daring; every noble principle of his nature is expanded and strengthened; his sympathies flow in a wider

channel, and fresh ardour is infused into every part of his being. As he gazes on the external surface of creation, as manifested in the scenery of father-land, he feels that its beauty and grandeur are greatly enhanced by the associations connecting it with other eras. The traditionary legends, which have been transmitted to him from the highly imaginative past, infest every cliff and cavern, every mountain and muir, every glen and gurgling stream, with a halo of sublimity which augments the aggregate of his pleasurable emotions. Does he dwell in a land like our own beloved isle, rich in traditionary lore? Does he claim kindred with those noble-minded men whose patriotic ardour nerved them with courage to withstand the tyrant's shock, and burst asunder the despot's chain? Does he visit scenes hallowed to the memory of his martyred sires ?-Or does he tread on ground consecrated to the cause of truth, of liberty, and of right? If so, he will assuredly find, that in the material objects which constitute father-land, and in the ideas associated with the records of the past, there is much to warm the ima gination, to kindle the sympathies, and to expand the heart.

The patriotic emotion creates a community of mind between all the inhabitants of a country. The man, whose actions are an embodiment of this general principle, sinks the interests of self, and responds to the calls of country and kind-whatever affects the social standing, or threatens the sacredness of the homes of his countrymen-whatever tends to advance the best interests of those who belong to the same clime claims his warmest sympathies, and calls forth the most strenuous efforts.

ment and liberty, he forgets not that they are but links in
the mighty chain of creation-but elements in the great
human family; and that his works of charity and labours
of love should embrace the world as the field for their
operation, and the family of man as the objects for their
exercise.
G. K.

GIVE! GIVE!

The Sun gives ever; so the Earth
What it can give, so much 'tis worth.
The Ocean gives in many ways-
Gives paths, gives fishes, rivers, bays:
So too the Air, it gives us breath,
When it stops giving, comes in Death.
Give, Give, be always giving;

Who gives not is not living.
The more you give

The more you live.

God's love hath in us wealth upheaped,

Only by giving is it reaped,

The body withers, and the mind

If pent in by a selfish rind.

Give strength, give thought, give deeds, give pelí,
Give love, give tears, and give thyself.
Give, give, be always giving;

Who gives not is not living.
The more we give
The more we live.

GEORGE H. CALVERT.

SHADOWS.

Patriotism impels man to risk his life that his countrymen may retain the blessings of freedom; it inspires the generous emotions of the philanthropist, and urges "Did you ever spend a summer hour in making notes to self-denying efforts in behalf of suffering humanity of shadows with a view to their history? Then you it glows in the breast of him, whose enlightened energies would be astonished to find how the spreading, lengthenare employed in reforming whatever of evil clings to the ing, and vanishing of a shadow represent the growth, political or social systems of his father-land. And this fulness, and decline of genius or life. In a green, overspirit-stirring emotion was doubtless an element, how-bowered lane, where birds shake dew and blossoms from ever unimportant, in the motive power that induced the the hedgerows, and spots of sun chequer the wayside stern, truth-loving christian reformers of bygone times to brave the fury of the powers of error, and to strive even to the death for the faith, once delivered to the

saints.

it

Let it

grass, look for your own shadow. At what hour is it behind? Whenever the sun shines in your face, your shadow is at your back. And has it ever been otherwise with poet, painter, or man of noble thought and Patriotism is not incompatible with the exercise of a magnificent enterprise? with Milton or Columbus? Long world-wide philanthropy. It assumes no antagonistic and wearisome was their road to glory; steep and enposture in reference to any portion of the great human tangled the path towards the rising orb of their reputafamily, it manifests no malice against a brother-man, tion. They beheld not the shadow they cast, it refuses not to recognise nis claim to the sympathies of stretched after them-cheering others, not themselves. his fellow-men; it constrains not the current of his Retrace your steps down the glimmering lane. warmer emotions; but rather by the process of puri-be evening. What a change! Warm streaks of light fying his feelings, expanding his sympathies, and enlarging gild the edges of birdhomes, and sleep in the dim hollows his heart, it tends to create in his mind a deep-rooted of mossy oaks. Where is your shadow now? Twenty desire for the social, intellectual and moral regeneration of the human race. The man whose heart is entwined by the ties of home and father-land, whose highest impulses and noblest efforts are consecrated on the altar of his domestic hearth, and dedicated to the diffusion of enlightened happiness and hallowed peace amongst the homes of father-land, is more susceptible of pure emotion, of warm sympathy, and strenuous effort, than he whose affections centre in self, and who recognises not in the reminiscences of the past history or present prospects of his country aught to call forth his deepest emotions, and claim the exercise of his noblest energies.

While the patriot willingly responds to the claims of father-land on his affections, and participates in those emotions which the sight, or the remembrance of scenes or events hallowed to patriotism, are fitted to inspire; while he proves the truthfulness of his principles by strenuous endeavours to manifest their practical utility in the affairs of life; and while, with disinterested zeal, he labours in the sacred cause of his countrymen's enlighten

feet before you, as if it were rushing up the garden, to
sit down in the parlour, before you can turn the corner.
It is a race between you and your shadow; but you will
never overtake it while you travel from the sun. Can
tellectual life sets, and the pilgrim of poetry, eloquence,
When the day of in-
you make no simile out of this?
where is his shadow? Thrown forward into the untrodden
or art, walks away from the glory of the morning,
paths of the future. It lengthens at every step, and, at
last, springs into the rich orchards of a remoter and sun-
nier climate. You have the history of the mind's shadow
centuries."-Rev. R. A. Willmott.
in the Shakspere of the seventeenth and nineteenth

THE critic, by severing passages from their context, and placing them in a ridiculous or distorting light, can make the most praiseworthy work appear to condemn itself. A book thu: unfairly treated may be compared to the laurel, of which there is honour in the leaves, but poison in the extract.

NOTES ON THE MONTHS.

MARCH.

"It is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before,

The Red-breast sings from the tall Larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield
To the bare trees, and mountains bare,
And grass in the green field."

So sings Wordsworth; and there is no poet whose inter-
pretation of nature, in all her moods, we should prefer to
him. What a delicious sense is that felt on a first spring
morning! We rejoice in a new birth of nature; and our
mind drinks in joy at every pore. We feel young again,
and revel in a very luxury of feeling, inspired by the
warm sun, the balmy air, the early flowers, and the
voices of the cheerful birds which now chirrup and sing
the glad approach of summer.

along, the soil clinging to his hob-nailed boots. The dry wind of March, however-a peck of whose dust is said to be worth a king's ransom-is fast sucking up the wet; and the sun, which now and then darts down from a clear sky, dries the up-turned furrows. Then the sky is overcast, and showers of sleet come peppering down, accompanied by keen winds; making the ploughboy halt to blow his fingers, or flap his arms across his breast until his hands glow.

Now neighbour greets neighbour over the garden fence, with the hail of "A fine spring morning!" For the villagers are early astir in their little gardens, digging and trimming, preparing to sow and plant, fencing and nailing, casting admiring eyes, at intervals, towards the tufts of snowdrops, and the rows of bright yellow crocuses which are now in full bloom. Village horticulturists con their “Gardener's Guide" by the fire, in the evenings; and the little children meditate another visit to the bird's nest, which they have discovered in the Still the season is rude, and it is only at rare intervals rift of an old tree down by the burn side. The screeching that we fall upon one of the delicious spring mornings of of the owl without alarms them not a little, and they this season. The winds are rough and boisterous, sweep-whisper to each other of the "ill-omened bird's" doings ing across the earth strong and thirsty, drinking up the superabundant moisture which winter has left. Violent storms scour the ocean, and often strew our shores with wrecks. The period of the spring equinox, commencing on the 20th, is especially disastrous to the mariner. Great storms rush across the continent of North America, accompanied by rain, hail and snow; sometimes the trees are laden down with glittering masses, and the branches are borne crashing to the earth. Then comes the howling, tearing wind, and dashes down the great giants of the forest by his power. The loftiest pines are snapt like bulrushes, and towering oaks are uprooted like stubble. In England, though we have seen storms, often accompanied by hail and snow, the violence is not so great. The whirl-blast sweeps from behind the hill, rushes THROUGH the fingers, as Pestalozzi with his usual sagathrough the wood, occasionally prostrating some great city remarks, half the education of a woman ought to monarch; then all is still; and the bright sun shines be made. Her delicate and excitable brain refuses to out, while the beauteous bow bends in the west. You lend itself to any very long-continued or strenuous hear the voice of the cuckoo, and you see the spring mental exertion; by brief flashes she receives her flowers, which ever follow where she treads. ideas; by her quick perception and lively instinct she arrives at truths, to the laborious pursuit of which she is rarely equal. She cannot, like her more robust and less spiritual companion, devote the whole of her working hours with impunity to mental toil; the too delicate machinery breaks or hardens under the continuous and become a regular pedant in petticoats, her nerves effort; and if she do not contrive to change her nature and spirits are generally seriously impaired by efforts as

by night-sucking the eggs of innocent little songsters. But the first dawn of morning's light sees them at the nest, and they crow with joy at finding their treasure still there.

Towards the end of the month, you find the snowdrops i are fast fading away, and only a few withered flowers are drooping on the decayed stalks. golden flowers are now preparing to blow; and we feel But troops of other that we are now treading close upon the flowery borders of the Spring.

There are violets in plenty, hiding beneath their green leaves under the hedge bottoms, but betraying themselves by the sweet odour which they shed; and daffodils,、

"That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty."

There is the Winter's green, one of the most elegant little plants of the northern woods; and the golden celadine cowers hidingly beside the pale primrose, so modest in its beauty. The anemone too is out, already carpeting the woods, and the green leaves are gay with

the wild blue-bell.

Field crocuses and daisies brighten the meadows; and the glad children are weaving them into garlands to hang around their necks and brows. The buds are bursting into their tender green; and already the beautiful elder is covered with foliage. The young grass comes up, and the lambs skip and dance over the tender herb.

Our summer songsters have not yet returned from their winter immigration to warmer climes; but the throstle and lark pour out their full wealth of song; the wood pigeon fills the thicket with his cooing; and the cuckoo is blithely rejoicing over the spring's advent. The humming of the bees is heard, and the industrious little labourers have already commenced the hard work of the season. Their busy presence out of doors generally indicates a fine day, and they go humming over the flowers, peeping now into a blue-bell, next into a crocus, as if to whisper to them that Summer is coming with all its beauty.

In the intervals of foul weather, the husbandman is out of doors, at work with his plough, and flocks of rooks follow him in the furrow. He whistles and sings, shouting at intervals to his team, though he plods heavily

THE EDUCATION OF THE FINGERS.

little in accordance with her temperament.

Let her,

therefore, provide herself with abundance of employment for her subtile and pliant fingers, and she will find, that while drawing, or painting, or embroidering, or knitting, or sewing, her spirits will compose, her nerves will settle, will strengthen. Let the woman read, and let her read her thoughts will arrange themselves, and her intellect attentively and well; but let her shun the danger of the present day, idle reading; let her shun trash, be it learned trash, or romantic trash, or political trash; let her beware of fancying she is improving or extending the powers of her mind while thus employed. She is doing nothing but relaxing and weakening the power of her body. Let her provide herself with active useful employment to fill up a large portion of every day, and feed and enlarge her mind by reading books worth reading during the other; and let her read with selection, and

select with care.

At all events, if she choose to employ her time in reading without selection, let her not think she is employing herself well.-Mrs. Marsh, in “ Angela." His

HIGH and beautiful is the lot of a great poet. lyre is the world, and the strings on which he plays are the souls of men. When he wills it, these tones are called forth, and melt together in undivided harmony,

"DEARY me, how late Patty is to-night!" said Job Grayson to his wife, as he closed the shutter of his cottage-thou had been brought up in a factory, my wages had dwelling, and proceeded to stir the little fire into a cheer- been so well spent, and this home so snug? No, no, ful blaze. lass, my bairn and thine wor never born for t'factory." Mary, like every mother, felt her heart warmı at her child's praise, and she persisted not in her suggestion, only, she could not help adding :