amount of intelligence. Intelligence, expended upon what? Chiefly upon the gratification of the animal, the sensuous portion of our nature. No reasonable person will deny the importance of this portion; it is a sine qua non to our existence here; inasmuch as man, as far as we know, might exist on earth without a soul, but he could not, assuredly, exist on earth without a body. We will give that argument its full weight; and will not run into the extreme of desiring that a man should in no way regard or gratify his animal nature; because you and I, my Reader, (whose wisdoms are unmuzzled,) see clearly that his higher spiritual nature would suffer in consequence,-as droops the fair flower to whose root you deny proper nutriment.-But we are all apt to overshoot the mark; and, as the said fair flower fades away, and its earthbound root grows rank and inordinate, if you give it a superabundance of nutriment; so is it with that flower, the human soul, when the body is too luxuriously cared for. One may easily have too much of a good thing-especially of the good things of this world. Society, too, may go on inventing, ever, some new improvement in our external material life -new conveniences, comforts, luxuries; but, the more ingenuity there is expended on them, the more is the reflective man convinced that the mind which can invent, finds not its satisfaction in such things. The appliance of thought to deaden and extinguish the thinking faculty, is like the act of a man who, being up in a balloon, cuts holes in the silk to prove the sharpness of his penknife. History, that teaches by example, has furnished us with some very strong instances of this kind; vide the lives of those Roman Emperors who studied hard to enjoy life—the mere animal life, and who succeeded so well, that they killed themselves by cunningly devised brutishness. They all overshot their mark. Nero was by no means a thick-headed or unintellectual person by nature, but he had too much money and power, too many luxuries and bodily comforts, not to become idle, and wanton, and good for nothing, in a very short space of time. There are no vices that may not spring from idleness and wanton luxury. This fact, Nero, among others, has proved to the satisfaction of all those whose wisdoms go unmuzzled through the domain of Clio. Ah! that golden palace of his had much to answer for, for it certainly spoiled a very promising young man! But are there no golden palaces in the present day? None but those inhabited by emperors and kings? Why, Nero, monarch of the world, as he was, had personal comforts and luxuries far inferior to those which a British tradesman can command at a first-rate hotel. So much for man's progress in material things. The desire to gratify the senses we have in common with the lower animals; but it is easy to be seen that we are "better than the brutes," for, have we not exercised a high degree of intelligence in securing our bien être physique ?We eat, drink, sleep, and amuse ourselves more knowingly than they, by our superior intelligence; and, by intelligence, one set of men make another do drudgery for them; an art which the beavers, even, have not attained. Oh yes! we are better than the brutes! But as to being "a little lower than the angels," humph!-What do you think about that, good Reader My thought may not be worth much, I trust, dear Reader, you will agree with me in or be very original; but I will tell it, neverthe-believing, that, although the spirit of materialless. When I see a man a slave to his lowest ism pervades the thinking and acting of the appetites; savage if dinner be half an hour too present day, Britain is not wholly material and late; cross because the soup is burnt, or the given up to worshipping idols, mammon and turbot overboiled; implacable if his bed prove machinery and sensuality, gods of wood and to be a mattrass; restless if he remain in one stone and clay, "the work of men's hands." place longer than he thinks desirable; and in- There is a small amount of a higher and equally dignant if he move at a rate less than thirty useful, though less practical, religion and philomiles an hour, I cannot, by the utmost skill sophy among us, and it is gradually increasing. of my imagination, suppose such a being to be There are some people who care little for the only "a little lower than the angels." I have need and greed, the pomps and vanities of the an old-fashioned, very lofty notion of the world :-pious men who point to heaven and angelic nature. Such a man is, to my appre- lead the way;" men of science, with keen, sagacious hension, below the lowest of the seraphic host intellect, who enlighten and instruct; poets who by "a very long chalk," and much too near to sing in a low voice to "the fit audience" in spite the state of those created things who walk the of the surrounding uproar. All these, though earth without the power (as far as we know) to they run counter to the spirit of the age, are negive a thought to heaven and immortality. cessarily influenced in some degree by it; for no man can escape the influence of surrounding circumstances. They partake the prevalent energy, strength and comprehensive enterprise ; and they will, I believe, prepare the way for their successors to perform for the coming generation such wonders in the region of mind as the I say "too near," because this, surely, is not proper state of man. A De Montaigne may display the intellect of a high immortal spirit in an endeavour to prove that pussy and he are upon an equality; but the more he argues, the better are we convinced that he is in the wrong. shall equal those now being wrought in that of matter. Nor must we forget that this material progress is, to a certain extent, necessary to bring about the desired spread and increase of mental and spiritual excellence. Our wisdom being unmuzzled, as before stated, O sage Reader! you and I must look things steadily in the face, and admit that, although this continually improving state is very inspiriting to look forward to, it is but a probability. "We know not what a day may bring forth." Let us not repeat that as a mere form of speech, meaning nothing: it is a literal truth. What do we know of the mysterious workings of the elements within this globe, upon the outer crust of which we walk, and disport ourselves so securely? Geology, as far as it goes, is a fair science enough, and can argue prettily from a half-visible past to a probable future; but all her fine theories may be distracted, and put to the rout to-morrow, by some unexpected and entirely new natural phenomenon. "We know not what a day may bring forth." A sudden convulsion of this planet may sweep our country and its inhabitants, banks, railways, manufacturers, peers, paupers, everything, in one minute, to the bottom of the ocean. It is a terrible thing to talk about, and may be scouted as a preposterous idea by some people; but, ask any natural philosopher capable of answering the question, and he will tell you that such a thing is by no means impossible. Again, an unsuccessful war may throw us into ruin and slavery. It is all very fine to talk of Britons "never, never being slaves," and the like, but ask any enlightened statesman, or general, his real opinion. on such a subject, and he would tell you that war is ever on the heels of peace, and that the chances of war are incalculable. Nations as proud and as brave as the Britons have been enslaved, ruined, annihilated. "Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?" If such, then, is the uncertainty of sublunary things, it behoves societies, as well as individuals, "that think they stand," to "take heed lest they fall." A We have become very grave, dear Reader. large subject, however lightly we may touch upon it at first, will almost always make us grave before we have done with it. But this is not a fitting place in which to write that, which may, in the words of Burns, "turn out a sermon ;" and I will say no more now, except to express a hope that what has been said above may suggest to your mind some satisfactory reply to the first acquaintance who may waggishly ask you, "What do you think of things in general?” J. M. W. SURE am I that the discovery of a truth formerly unknown doth rather convince man of ignorance than nature of ignorance.-Raleigh. THE CHURCHYARD. T. M. F. Ar the hour of midnight dread With fear the dark trees shook Each flower bent down her headTrembled the silver brook At the presence of the dead! But, oh! 'twas strange, nor fear nor change, And the old church tower repelled their power, The wailing, wailing wind Sighed through the churchyard lone; Hope and life it hath left behind, So desolate its tone. To and fro did the dead men go, With eager haste they came They gathered round me there- They mocked my wild despair. And the silence of the place they broke;- SONG OF THE DEAD MEN. "Famished, cold, and poor were we, Beggars at thy closed door; Thou art rich, and we were poor! Fearfully, oh! fearfully, Mournfully, oh! mournfully! And my heart grew dark and chill. But the dead men still did stay With their faces cold and grey; And they gathered round about With their long lean arms stretched out, Pointing at me mockingly; And their soulless glassy eyes, With a kind of cold surprise, Staring-staring at me still! Then a mother held her child In that grave-yard's tainted air; And she spoke in accents wild, Feeling still her life's despair. "Slumber did thy form enfold, Sweetest dreams did soothe thy rest; I was dying in the cold, With my baby at my breast. On the morning of that day When with the strength of death I cried. Nor cumber thus thy entrance-stone : Thou didst sleep in calmest peace: Her voice, so terrible and shrill, Died on the midnight breeze,The beatings of my heart stood still,Oh! fearful things were these! Another phantom, dark and grim, Rose on my sight by the moonbeam dim. "On the gallows-tree I hung, To and fro my body swung, He was silent like the others- Was more dreadful than each word! O silence pure! O solitude! Can I no longer prove Then the phantoms gathered round me My nameless, shameful tomb: Yet life beat strong within me, I had no power to die; A breathing man-a living soul- A sound like a church bell ringing A sound like the free birds singing A light like the light of a young child's heart, O light! O sound! how dear thou art,- The grisly phantoms faded, My darkened soul was free, The bright moon shone and the clouds were gone As I stood 'neath the churchyard tree. It was a child's beseeching prayer,— O silver, silver tone! For me those loving accents were; Oh! innocence, availing much! Oh! childhood's grateful love! One tender word, one kindly touch, One cup of water held to such, Of wondrous power may prove. Pray for me still, thou little child! With thy lips unstained by sin; Pray for me, spirit undefiled, For at thy pure and holy prayer An angel's presence fills the air, And hope springs up within. AN ARABIAN TALE. (TRANSLATED FROM A FRENCH MS.) THE Arab tribe of Neggdié formerly possessed a thoroughbred black mare named Houban-heggin. She was extremely beautiful, and much coveted by the chief of another tribe called Daher. Having vainly offered to exchange for her his camels and all his riches, he conceived the idea of disguising himself as a beggar, and accordingly hastened to stain his skin with the juice of some herb, to cover himself with rags, and to tie up his throat and legs, in order to counterfeit a lame and distorted mendicant, and thus to await Nabee, the animal's master, on the road by which he was expected to return. On his drawing near, the feigned beggar addressed him in a feeble voice. "Have pity on a poor stranger, who has not tasted food for three days. I am dying; help me, and God will reward you." The Bedouin offered to take him on his horse to his own home; but the counterfeit replied, "I have not the strength to rise." Full of compassion, Nabee dismounted, and with No great difficulty placed the beggar on his mare. sooner did Daher feel secure on the saddle than he struck his spur into the animal's side, and galloped off, crying out at the same time, "It is I, Daher, who have gained and carried her off!" Nabee shouted to Daher to listen to him, who, certain of not being pursued, stopped, though at some little distance, as Nabee was armed. "You have stolen my mare," said the latter: "I wish you prosperity with her, but I entreat you never to reveal how you became possessed of her." "And wherefore?" asked Daher. "Because a really suffering person might be refused assistance, and an act of charity neglected, from the fear of being deceived as I have been." Struck by these words, Daher considered for a moment, and then, dismounting, he returned the mare to her master, at the same time embracing him with great cordiality. Nabee invited him to his house, where he remained three days, and departed after an interchange of vows of eternal friendship. NICHOLAS BERGHEM. C. B. B. THIS celebrated artist-one of the most celebrated of the Dutch School-was the son of Peter van Haerlem, born at Haerlem. From his father he received his first instruction in art. He acquired the name by which his works are known from an incident in his early life. Whilst studying under Van Goyen, his father followed him, for the purpose of chastising him for some indiscretion, into the rooms of that artist, who, perceiving the father's purpose, called to his pupils to "berg hem," or "hide him." This was afterwards applied to him as a by-name. Ultimately he adopted it; and by this name he became distinguished. Berghem was a man of varied powers, equally successful in landscape, figures, and cattle. He lived contemporary with Both and Wouvermans, to neither of whom he was inferior. His works, indicating talent of a very high order, were in his own day, as at the present time, esteemed of great value, and brought extraordinary prices. His etchings, many of which he did from his studies of animals, &c. from nature, are carefully preserved by the fortunate possessors of them, being valued for their delicacy and vigour. The brilliancy of light and shade observable in the specimen we have here given, was one of the chief characteristics of his works. He died in his native city, in the year 1683, at the age of fifty-nine. EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF AN T. N. H. July 19th.-THE rector came this morning into the breakfast room, and told us that Helen Jewell was dying, and had sent for him to administer the last and only consolation for the sick. He had been with her during the greater part of yesterday, and had fixed an hour this morning for this very purpose. But the poor creature felt herself dying, and had requested if it would not be too much trouble to his reverence, that he would come as soon as he could. He begged both Montague and myself to go with him, that the Church's rule might be sure to be obeyed without any delay or unnecessary bustle. We went up into the room where the sufferer was, as soon as we reached the cottage, for all had been prepared for our coming. On a bed in the corner the dying woman lay panting for breath. She appeared to suffer hardly at all from coughing; indeed, her whole system seemed quite subdued, as though disease had done its worst, and, having broken down all impediments, was waiting inactively awhile, ere it (1) Continued from p 272. should complete the work for the last enemy. Everything about her was beautifully clean and neat, as the rector had described it after his first visit, and there was besides an air of comfort in the room, which told of another's care and thoughtful charity. Her pale expressive face was turned towards her little child, who lay in a calm guileless sleep, such as children only sleep, outside the bed, with his head covered with its curly hair reclining on one of his mother's arms, and his little knees gathered up towards her, while his body was circled by the other arm of this his only surviving parent, who was also so soon to be taken from him. It was a strange, a painful contrast! the healthy rounded arm of the little fellow, (for good supplies of food had made a wondrous change in him,) lying in this attitude of quiet confidence on the lean, wasted arm of the exhausted sufferer. As we entered she turned her head, and lifted her dark bright eyes, now filled with tears, while a smile of heavenly gratitude spread over her face, as she at last fixed an earnest gaze upon the rector. "Oh, sir," she said, “ may God in heaven bless How good you have been to me! but He will never you and reward you; for I can't—I wish I could. forget it, your reverence; no, and-" "Never mind all this now, Helen," said the rector in a consoling tone of voice, soft and subdued, in perfect unison with the awful approach. "Is there anything you wish to say to me-anything of earthly matters, which disturbs the thoughts of your heart, and carries them away from what should, solely employ them now? Tell me if there is." "Oh, your reverence!" but she could say no more. She pointed to the sleeping innocent, and buried her face in its little bosom; and her long black hair, which had escaped from her nightcap, fell loosely over its face and neck while she wept-faintly, for death was near at hand, yet the more piteously for that very reason. At last she said, turning round again— "Oh! sir, I know it's wrong-very wrong. But, But I know you will never lose sight of him, and poor Willy! I can't feel quite easy like about him. there is besides a Father of the——" But here she lost her voice and her self-command, and at that moment the child moved restlessly, and opening its bright eyes on its mother, began to smile on her, yet almost immediately shrank back and drew closer to her, frightened by seeing us. who was in attendance took him out of the room for A neighbour the time, at the mother's request. Mr. Montague promised again to see to his welfare, and the poor creature was satisfied. After the completion of the solemn service which had brought the rector here so early, the sufferer evidently waxed weaker and weaker, and she could now only speak in a whisper. There was a dead silence in the room, and the light was dim, for they had drawn a curtain across the window, by the rector's request, to shade the light from her eyes. Around her bed we watched kneeling, while the rector prayed for her. Suddenly she said in the same whispered voice, only fainter, |