Wayward, wilful, though thou seemest,
Dark and doubtful though thou deemest
The Eternal's glory, power, and name,—
Nature, true to her designing,

Goeth on without repining,

Ever changing, yet the same.

All thy thoughts are full of error,
Disappointment, strife, and terror,
Make thy journey sad and rough;
Nature never can deceive thee,
But of half thy cares relieve thee,
If thou have but faith enough.

Faith to feel that all her wonders,

Stars, flowers, seasons, calms, and thunders,
Seas that rave, and streams that roll,
Are God's every day revealings,

Mute and many-toned appealings

To thy apathetic soul.

Come and woo her-she will bless thee-
Let her fresh free winds caress thee,
Let her smiles thy love repay;
Come while she is proudly wearing
Bridal garments, and preparing
For the festival of May.

"Christmas at Home."

BY AN ODD-FELLOW.

It is an old saying, and no less true, "Christmas only comes once a year." It is a season of the year when home is revisited, when friends and relations meet together, and the absent child receives the fond caress of a parent. "As a long parted mother with her child

Plays fondly with her tears, and smiles in meeting,

So weeping, smiling, greet I thee my home."

We cluster round the fire, for it is anything but warm; the Christmas log burns brightly, and a smile plays upon the countenance of all. We cast an anxious eye on all sides; the old house was still the same, and everything it contained seemed to stand in the very position that they occupied some years ago; there was no change, saving that they appeared to look older, somehow more venerable. I gazed upon the old clock, and fancied that the ancient monitor had undergone a great change since my boyish days; it seemed to have lost that sharp, clear clicking with which it greeted mine ears when a child; I looked upon the brass figures which ornamented the old clock face; I looked on those ancient fingers, now black with age, and which were bright when they pointed out my hours of pleasure.

Over the mantel-piece hung the emblem of the "Manchester Unity of the Independent Order of Odd-Fellows." The gilt frame was tarnished, and upon all things age had left its impress.

From the ceiling hung the holly bush, in the centre of which was suspended the "mistletoe bough;" on one side is the motto, "A merry Christmas, and a

happy new year." "Welcome." What a feeling of pleasure steals over our senses. The commonest objects become endeared to us by absence; things which we before scarcely deigned to notice are then found to possess strange charms, bringing to the memory many a forgotten incident, and many an old emotion, to which they had been dormant for years.

"Home, sweet home!" how familiarly it greets our ears; it has its joys and its sorrows, but at the time I am now writing, it is Christmas, when all appears sunshine.

"Fun and frolic is the order of the day."

And the cares of this life are lost to memory. The dark clouds in the distance, which are steadily approaching, are unseen and unheeded. The scenes of home command our attention, and our sole object is to make it "A Merry Christmas."

It is "Christmas eve." The railway station at N, is the scene of hurry and bustle. The parcel office is alive with presents, which in a short time will be scattered over the country. The gruff voices of the porters; the pompous tone of the station master; the whirl of carriages, carts, and wheelbarrows; the ringing of the railway bell; the whistle of the engines as they pass to and fro; together with the excited conversation of an eager and anxious public, causes us to put our fingers to our ears. The raging element just depicted has somewhat subdued, and we feel more at ease. It only requires a glance at the great mass of people assembled together upon the platform to guess their errand. There are fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers. A shrill whistle is heard in the distance; it rings in our ears long and loud, and then comes the heavy tread of the engine, slowly and majestically. Then comes a general rush, it is the C- train. Every individual as he alights from the train, whether he be man, woman, or child, is closely scrutinized. Now and then a well-known voice greets the ears of some of the bystanders; a beam of pleasure lights up the countenance of both, and then follows the usual congratulations; a host of questions are asked in almost a breath. There are at least a dozen willing hands ready to carry the luggage, and off they go, home to the scenes of childhood.

The station is at length cleared of its living freight, and we stroll through our usually quiet streets. It is getting late, gaiety reigns supreme on every side. Music is now heard in the distance. Oh, how beautifully it sounds wafted upon the silent breeze that fans our cheeks, and tints them with a rosy hue. For a time we are lost in wonder; they are the "waits."

"Music's sweet strains steal through our lonely heart,
Smiting its fountains with their plaintive tones,

Until our every thought is drowned in tears."

It was only when the last strain had re-echoed in the distance that we became conscious of the place whereon we stood. Like all others we have had some party to attend. It is the hour of midnight; we are on our return from a meeting held in connection with our lodge. We find many little things to talk about, and on our way, for we are "homeward bound," we pause. A little band of talented singers are at work; their voices are bent upwards; they are singing "Christmas Asleep; " fain would we linger, but our watchword is "Onward." We naturally think of home, and those with whom we are daily associated. Even at this late hour, when we cross the threshold of our home, we are greeted with a smile of welcome. All is good humour; the family circle is almost complete, and a bright fire adds to the comfort of the little party seated in the back parlour. We are all smiles, for it is one of the happiest days of our existence; our voices mingle together, and we think at times that we are in fairyland.

At length morning dawns, and we think more seriously of Christmas. Many remembered scenes and familiar faces pass through the mind, while it

is in such a state of contemplation. Riches are not always attended with happiness, nor has poverty misery alone for a companion."

An intellectual mind is the surest wealth; contemplative man can create his own happiness.

Home is revisited, and we think of the past.

There is the old churchyard, which has so often echoed with our merry laugh; it has undergone a great change. The broken down fences are lost to view; the old gravestones, over which we used to leap are gone; we wander about in search of the resting place of a parent, a brother, a sister, or some kind old friend. The object of our affection is hidden for ever from our weeping eyes, and there remains naught to mark his resting place, save the green sward,

"Those grassy mounds cause many a sigh to be heaved,"

The churchyard, which was once the picture of desolation, is now palisaded all round; here and there are planted shrubs, giving the whole a pretty effect. There is the old belfry-how many times have we when schoolboys baffled the vigilance of the old sexton, and tripped up the long pile of stone steps with our tiny feet; what mirth and glee we have witnessed there; what tricks we used to play the ringers. Things look as before, but few changes have taken place; and now we wander to the Church.

What a holy solemnity steals over the soul while we are in that sacred edifice. How many generations have been in succession seated in this church, listening to the words of holy writ. How many ministers have succeeded each other in that pulpit. So generation after generation passes away; and we, too, shall go, when our time arrives, and the place that knows us now, shall know us no more for ever. Others will take our places and sit in the same seats, and listen to the same words, but from another pastor's lips; even the lord of the manor, who is seated in his crimsoned-velvet-cushioned pew, he, with all his hereditary titles, must follow his forefathers. Not all the splendour that surrounds him; not all the wealth that he possesses, will bribe stern Death, who makes no distinction between the peer and the peasant--both must yield to his impartial sway. Those time-worn tablets record their glorious deeds, and form conspicuous ornaments to the church. They fling, as it were, a mantle of antiquity over the walls, robing them with magnificence. There, at the foot of the altar, how many have been united by that holy bond which death alone can sunder. The noble lady and the poor cottage girl—the aristocrat and the peasant-have there alike vowed to love and cherish those who knelt by their side. And so time rolls on. The seat that we once occupied on the Sabbath, when a Sunday-school scholar, is nowhere to be seen. The huge galleries, the noble staircases, the whitewashed walls have all disappeared. The principal seats in the church, which were formerly occupied by those who wished to sit aloof from the rest of the congregation in some conspicuous place, are lost to our gaze; a better state of things exists there; there is no respect of persons, and all is beautiful.

On the selfsame spot stands the old school, we call it old, while others would pronounce it as the contrary. Many changes have taken place in it since the day when we last occupied a seat in it. There are fresh rules and fresh faces. Our old school-fellows are now engaged in the business of this busy world. Our school-days remind us of scenes gone by; of companions who are dead, and others who are far away; of happy hours that can never return. They came full of foolish regrets, and

"Silly truths,

That dally with the innocence of love,
Like the olden age."

For the present our task is ended.

A. J. M.

Poem for Recitation.

CHARITY.

BY ELIZA COOK.

[ORIGINAL.]

THEY who, bearing heavy burdens over Life's most hilly road,
Strive to cheer a weaker brother, bowed beneath another load;

Who, with young ones round about them, where full Plenty never smiled,
Yet can stretch their heart and table to let in an orphan child;
They who, half-fed, feed the breadless, in the travail of distress;
They who, taking from a little, give to those who have still less;
They, who needy, yet can pity when they look on greater need;
These are Charity's disciples-these are Mercy's sons indeed.

They who will not join the onslaught made upon a noble name,

When sharp words, like coward's arrows, may be launched with covert aim;
They who will not crush a jewel that perchance may bear a speck;
They who will not help to fasten stones about a drowning neck;
They who, having breathed in anger, scarcely let the breath exhale,
Ere returning kindness stirreth like a rosebud in a gale;
They whose piety condemns not Brahmin fasts nor Jewish feasts;
These are spirits, blest and blessing—these are Charity's High Priests!
They who firmly raise their voices, they who warmly give their thought!
In the cause of fellow-beings, lowly, friendless, and untaught;
They who boldly pour out Knowledge as the only ray to light
Creatures from their maze of darkness into open paths of Right;
They who seek to build up presses, and destroy the gibbet-rope;
These are God's own, earnest servants, spreading Charity and Hope!
They whose lips, with gentle instinct, ever watchfully restrain
Random jest or keen allusion that may give another pain;

They who yield their own fond wishes, even for a stranger's sake,
Well content, by self resigning, others' happiness to make;

They whose conscience bids them scruple o'er some deed they fain would do,
Asking if the work of Pleasure be a work of Duty too;

They who in broad, honest dealing do as they would be done by ;

These are Charity's soft ring-doves, soaring nearest to the sky!

They who bravely scorn to torture ought that has not power to turn ; They who look upon the mute things-seeing much to love and learn ; hey who think that holy Mercy is for ALL that live and feel; These shall grace the angel's record, stamped with the Almighty seal! Charity! first-born of Heaven! let thy truest worth be toldWorth that is not shown in atoms flung from mountain-piles of gold. Pomp and Riches will not miss it, though they give a tithe away; They will have enough to-morrow, though they feed a host to-day. 'Tis the poor man's mite-unnoted; 'tis small heart-coins, ne'er summed up ; 'Tis the constant balm that kindness sheds into the social cup; "Tis the lip that will not utter bitter words to blight and sear; 'Tis the eye that loses lustre when it sees another's tear; 'Tis the hand of Need that giveth when it findeth greater need; These are Charity's great workings-blest and bountiful indeed!

G

Genius and its Eccentricities.

BY CHARLES HARDWICK, P.G.M.

A WEALTHY connoisseur of my acquaintance, one Herbert Fitztwaddle, who prided himself much on the countenance he bestowed upon art and artists, was, occasionally, in the habit of boring his friends with grandiloquent dissertations upon the characteristics of the "brilliant genius" possessed by (to my mind) two or three ordinary students, for whose future reputation he had condescendingly undertaken the office of sponsor. I remember once rather abruptly terminating a profoundly mysterions rhetorical flourish, by quietly asking the simple question-" What is genius?"

"Genius! genius! ge-ni-us! is-ha-genius is-genius, of course; a divine gift! I am surprised that a man of your pretensions should ask so commonplace a question!" Indeed," said I coolly; "genius is a divine gift, is it? I fear, however, I am but very little nearer the solution of the query yet; for I have all along been vulgar enough to imagine numberless other things, both on the earth and in the heavens, to be divine gifts,' such as the glorious sunlight, a fertilising shower, or the nose on one's face, for instance!'

Fitz was chagrined. He felt himself in a maze, and destitute of the clue necessary to his extrication. He therefore, very wisely, retired upon his dignity, and with a haughty frown, worthy of the most superficial of pedagogues, instead of further enlightening my ignorance, looked me into silence.

I am well aware of the difficulty and danger of attempting to give a definition of anything, no matter what, whether it pertains to physics or metaphysics, and especially when trespassing upon the domain of the immaterial: neither is such exactly my intention. Yet I cannot avoid faneying it just possible that this particular celestial bonus may be reduced somewhat nearer the level of mortal comprehension than my erudite friend Fitztwaddle conceived to be either possible or even desirable. I will, therefore, though with diffidence, have my humble say upon the subject, for the edification or otherwise, as the case may be, of the inquiring student, and the numerous Fitztwaddles who stumble upon the threshold of the inquiry, and take refuge in total obscurity.

The exhibition of strikingly original genius must, of necessity, be the exception and not the rule, in any school of art, or in any class of people, however deeply learned the mass may be in the antecedents of success, or however highly polished their natural capabilities by judicious culture. It is not necessarily so with regard to talent, at least not to the same extent. Although the terms genius and talent are often popularly confounded, yet there exists a wide and important distinction between them, as I shall endeavour to show in a succeeding paper.

It may perhaps appear to some a daring assertion, yet I honestly declare my conviction, that all persons in the possession of the ordinary human faculties, possess to some extent, however, limited, both talent and genius! I conceive the individual aberrations to involve a question of degree and not of kind, except, of course, in cases of monstrosity or mal-organization. God has given ten talents to some and but one to others; but he has left no responsible human being absolutely without. It will be readily granted that all who are not totally blind can see, although the greatest diversity is exhibited by individuals in both strength and quality of vision. It would be evidently very absurd to insist that the few alone were in possession of the faculty of seeing whose optical sense combined great power with marvellous delicacy; and yet we often speak of genius and talent as of things entirely and exclusively possessed by certain individuals, like territorial titles or the elective franchise. Nay, I will go so far as to assert that some amount of genius or talent is