REFLECTIONS.

WHY should one man harm another?
Is not man to man a brother?
Strength was given to the strong
Not for purposes of wrong,
But, to help the weak along.
Why should Envy move the breast
When a neighbour seemeth bless'd?
Gifts that from high Heaven are shed,
Though they fall not on our head,
Bedeck the ground on which we tread.
Why should Pride our thoughts engage?
"All the world is but a stage"-
Brief the most applauding call;
And upon the great and small
Drops the curtain, like a pall.

Why should Hate our breasts excite?
Doing wrong ne'er serves the right:
Hearts that on brooding malice feed

Ope their own pores and bid them bleed-
Die by their own mistaken deed.

Why should Scandal move the tongue?
Falsehood's old, but Truth is young!
Mischief-witch of darker time-
Trails along in filth and slime,
But angel Love is all sublime.

Why should Bigotry defy

The op'ning of the mental eye?

--

He serves the wrong who fears the right; God hath said-"Let there be light!". The sun doth ever chase the night.

THE STORM.

How calm is the night!

THE EDITOR.

Not a murmuring breeze,

In its whispering flight,

Refreshes the trees:

The faded leaves droop on the boughs in despair,

Unable to sigh in the hot thirsty air.

Now darkens the sky

Where the ruby sun set,

His gorgeous canopy

Is hung with jet:

The winds pipe their coming, the aspen leaves stir, And a dull hollow moaning is made by the fir.

Heavy drops fall around,

With a plash through the leaves;
And a low, distant sound

Wakes the birds in the eaves:

Wide, wide o'er the sky the dim shadows are whirling,

Like squadrons of darkness black banners unfurling.

Than wild fancies quicker,
That fitfully come,

The fork'd lightnings flicker
From out the deep gloom:

The storm blows his trumpet-space thrills with the blast,

Heaven answers in echoes, and Earth stands aghast.

With a roar and a crash

O'er the wood and the plain
The storm squadrons dash;
And the far-spreading main,

Uprising like Alps, in waves crested high,
In fury defiance loud hurls to the sky.
J. BAXTER LANGLEY.

THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. How oft for love ye blush or bleed, Sweet charmers of the flowery mead! With wordless tongues ye fondly speak The loves of timid ones and meek: Ye tell the maid the youth would sip The nectar from her honied lip; And sweetly falls her modest eyes When in thy voice she hears his sighs. Sweet Flowers! whose alluring chain Enchants the maiden or the swain; Your breath perfumed, your eyes of blue, Bear many a tale, both fond and true. How oft a throb of pure love glows, Warm'd by the whispers of the Rose! Where Pinks and Pansies lead the train, The heart will seldom woo in vain! Sweet Flowers! weep not the decree That layeth cruel hands on ye, And rudely from the parent spray Beareth the op'ning bud away. Though love and beauty be your own, Far deeper springs of both are known; So be your mission still divine, To die upon Affection's shrine.

THE SUICIDE.

Down by a river

A weeping maid stole; Black as that river

The flow of her soul; Deep as that river

THE EDITOR.

The woes that oppress'd her; Wild as that river

The thoughts that possess'd her; Fast as the river

Flow'd her heart's blood,

As by the river

A moment she stood.

White as the river

When rising in foam,

Her death-stricken cheek,

As she turn'd from her home;
The soft locks that press'd

The snow of her breast,
Were rich as the river
When over its swell
The light of the moon
In golden rays fell.

She is gone and the river moves slowly along; She is gone-and the river is moaning its song; She is gone-and the breast of the dark water heaves;

She is gone-and the winds tell the tale to the leaves;

She is gone-and the owl sings a dolorous wail; She is gone-and the moon turneth sickly and pale.

The spring of her tears its last tribute has paid, And she sleeps 'neath the willow-tree's saddening shade.

Whence cometh the river, and whither its flow,
The false one that injur'd her never shall know.
Nor ever again shall his hard heart rejoice-
Unceasing, that river's mysterious voice
Shall rush like a spirit along by his bed,
And murmur the plaint of the innocent dead.
B. KEMP PHILP.

K25 times, K 4.

18th Row.-K 6, Tf and K 2 + 4 times, K 10, Tf and K 2 + 4 times, K 10, Tf and K24 times, K 5.

20th Row.-K 1, Tf, K 2 +, Tf, K 4, * Tf and K 23 times, K 3, repeat from * 4 times, Tf, K 2 +, K 1.

22nd Row.- -K 2, Tf and K 2+ twice, * K3, Tf and K 2+ twice, K 2, K 2 +, Tf, K 1, Tf and K 2 + 3 times, repeat from *, K 3, Tf and K 2+ twice, K 3, K 2+, Tf, K 2.

24th Row.-K 2+, Tf, K 1, Tf, K 2+ twice, K 3, Tf, K 2 +, K 2, K 2 +, Tf, K 1, *Tfand K2+4 times, K 3, Tf, K 2+, K2, K2 +, Tf, K 1, repeat from *, Tf, K 2 +. 26th Row.-K 1, Tf and K 2 + 3 times, K8, Tf and K 2 + 5 times, K 8, repeat from *, Tf and K 2 + twice.

28th Row.-Same as 26th. 30th Row.-K 1, Tf and K 2+ twice, Tf, K 5, Tf, K 2 +, K 4, Tf and K 2 + 4 times, K 4, Tf, K 2+, K 4, repeat from *, Tf, K 2+, K 1.

32nd Row.-K 1, Tf and K 2 + 3 times, K2, K 2, Tf, K 1, Tf, K 2+, K4, TK 2+3 times, K 3, K 2+, Tf, K 1, Tf, K 2+, K 4, repeat from *, Tf, K 2 +. 34th Row-K 8, K 2+, Tf, K 1, Tf and K 2 twice, * K 11, K 2+, Tf, K 1, Tf, K2+twice, repeat from *, K 5.

36th Row.-K 7, * K 2+, Tf, K 1, Tf and K 2+3 times, K 9, repeat from *, K 2+, Tf, K, 1 Tf, K 2 + 3 times, K 4.

38th Row.-K 6, * K 2+, Tf, K 1, Tf and K 24 times, K 7, repeat from *, K 2+, Tf, K 1, Tf and K 2 + 4 times, K 3. 39th Row.-Pearled. Repeat the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, and four times; cast off rather loose.

5th rows

Pick up

Corrections to

29th Row.-4th line, insert " 'K 2" before the last "Tf" in the line. 41st Row.-4th line, omit the last "Tf" in the line.

185th Row.-K 2+, K 5, Tf and K 2+ 3 times, Tf, K 3+, Tf and K 2 + 3 times, Tf, K 3 +, Tf, K 2 + 3 times, Tf, K 3 +, Tf and K 2 + 3 times, Tf, K 5, K 2 +.

KNITTED SPENCER IN BRIOCHE STITCH.

EIGHT skeins of Claret Fleecy, three shades of Grey Fleecy-all four-thread. No. 9 Pins.

Brioche Stitch:-Wool forward, slip a stitch, knit two together; the same backwards and forwards.

Cast on 129 stitches (or 43 ribs) and 4 over; 2 of these on each side to be knitted plain. Knit two plain rows.

Now commence Brioche Stitch, and knit 14 rows. (The row is simply from one end to the other.)

Knit 18 ribs, encrease (by picking up 2 of the back stitches on the left-hand pin, wool forward, slip 1, knit 1), knit 7 ribs, encrease, knit 18 ribs.

ginning of each row, for 20 rows, leaving 9 ribs in the middle for the neck.

TRIFLES BY TREASURES.

THE peculiarly Bachelorological satire upon the Ladies, inserted among the Trifles, page 231, has called forth a host of smart repartees. We feel it just to allow the Ladies ample space for their defence; therefore this column is devoted to the rejoinders of numerous indignant heroines, who, doubtless, would like to "get hold of" the offending Bachelor :

A SPINSTER'S REPLY.

The lightness of a feather,

And man's faith-may go together!-
Far lighter than the wind

We man's affections find.

There's nothing lighter than the last-
Scatter'd by the slightest blast!

This is severe-but "A Spinster" doubtless writes feelingly,

GENTS! REDEEM YOUR CHARACTER.
What is easy broke on earth?

The egg which gives the chicken birth.
What than the egg is broken more?
The wave against the rocky shore.
And what more than the wave, I pray?
The cobwebs that are swept away.
But what are ten times oftener broken?
The vows which faithless men have spoken!
S. D. R.

Another "Spinster," being "anxious to defend her sex against the Bachelor," writes as follows:

What is more useless than a fop?
A fly within a grocer's shop.
And what is worse than such a fly?
A mote that settles in the eye.
And what is that that's even worse?
A Bachelor, whose heart's his purse-
A man who never means to marry,
But live and die with Dick and Harry.

Another lady forwards what she terms,

"A ROWLAND FOR BACHELOR'S' OLIVER.'

What is colder still than frost?

A solitary biped host.

What is noisy as a jay?

A talking Bachelor, some say.
What is wayward as the wind?
A Bachelor's all-fretful mind.

And what more fretful still than he?
Ah! that can never answer'd be!

Smart as this is, the fair writer hopes that "some of our lady acquaintances will humble A Bachelor' more severely." Another sharp retort runs as follows:

What's duller than a sword of lead?
The brains that fill a donkey's head.
What's duller than a donkey's brain?
A poker rusted in the rain.

What's duller than a rusty poker?
The wailings of that dismal croaker-
That dullest, most consummate bore,
A dry old sordid Bachelor!

Who, scouted from each lady's bow'r,

Growls enviously-"The grapes are sour!"

B.

More to our taste is the reply by E. A. H., and this we commend to "A Bachelor's" attention:Is woman's mind so very light? Ungrateful man !-such words to write : When sorrow comes, and come it must, In woman's kindness then you'll trust. Has not a woman's gentle care Soothed man when driven to despair? Has not her smile such comfort given, It seem'd a ray of joy from heaven? Oh! say not, then, her mind is light, That shines in sad affliction's night, That leads your thoughts to hopes of heaven, And prays your sins may be forgiven !

The controversy must end here. E. A. H. has certainly the best of it. May Bachelors and Spinsters become reconciled!

TREASURES.

HAPPINESS was born a twin.

THINK with truth, and work with firmness. A THING of beauty is a joy for ever.-Keats. NONE is a fool always, every one sometimes. GRATITUDE is the music of the heart, when its chords are swept by the breeze of kindness.

THOUGH we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us, or we find it not.

WAR is an inheritance of the savage state, disguised by ingenious institutions and false eloquence. It is the abyss in which all channels of abundance are swallowed up.

EVERY act of the man inscribes itself in the memories of his fellows, and in his own manners and face. In nature this self-registration is incessant, and the narrative is the print of the soul.

THE gardener saves every slip, and seed, and peach-stone; his vocation is to be a planter of plants. Not less does the writer attend his affair; whatever he beholds, or experiences, comes to him as a model, and sits for its picture.

THE faculty of genius is the power of lighting its own fire. As an instance of this, reader, Poverty saw a poor barber in his shop at Preston, in Lancashire; but, in a comparatively short time, Perseverance looked upon him as Richard Arkwright!

Sir

THE beautiful, the harmonious, the sublime, associated with external things, are but the inward sentiments of man's own soul, awakened by those things, and breathed out upon them, till they become, to his imagination and his feelings, invested as with an intelligent and sympathising spirit, which holds communion with him in his various moods of mirth, melancholy, poetic musing, and solemn meditation.

FROM the earliest ages, poetry has diverted the human family with its melody from the mindfulness of grovelling circumstances, and the dull monotony of every day life, to converse with the Great First Cause, through the medium of a reverential survey of his works. In the primitive ages, to listen to the descriptive songs of the bards, was to learn the history and philosophy of their country; and, from the most remote period of civilization, the poet has ever been the chronicler of virtuous deeds, and the biographer of exalted characters.