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THE LOST DINNER,

Or a Corpulent Gentleman's Adventure. "Oh that this too solid flesh would melt, thaw and resolve itself into a dew."-Hamlet. "Let me have men about me that are fat."—Julius Cæsar.

buted to democracy,) the kindly feelings of the wear ill-made coats, and despise Warren's Author were fretted and soured, and his mind blacking, are the most well bred and truly pomade up as to the evil effects of republican-lite nation in the world; and secondly, that ism. According to his own confession, the our Traveller must, in point of manners, have worthy Captain, having been all his life at sea, presented a very disagreeable specimen of an "knocking about in various parts of the globe," Englishman. found himself completely out of his element. "I will say this," are his words, "that, in all my travels, both among heathens and among Christians, I have never encountered any people by whom I found it nearly so difficult to make myself understood." Again, he tells us, that ho considers America and England as differing more from one another, than any two European nations he ever visited." Yet, strange to say, the Americans speak tolerable English, though not uniformly according to Captain Hall's standard of orthopy, and their literature, religion, and general notions are English. But so it was-we offer no explanation of the fact-our Author found himself less at home, than among the old Spaniards of Mexico, the Republicans of Chile, or the amiable savages of Loo-Choo.

It is probable, however, that Captain Hall made himself much better understood than he imagines, although he failed to understand the Americans. The whimsical mixture of polite. ness and tetchiness, shrewdness and prejudice, vanity and simplicity, which his character and conversation would present, must sometimes have amused, and sometimes have annoyed the people he came to investigate and enlighten. He felt it his duty on no occasion to conceal his sentiments, however unacceptable; and his" I hope I do not offend," occurs very much in the spirit and with the effect of Paul Pry's "I hope I don't intrude." Were a philanthropic traveller to undertake a lecturing tour through Europe in the same disputatious spirit, albeit with equal condescension and frankness, we question whether he would not come home still more out of humour than even Captain Hall is with America. We admire, however, the fairness of the following avowal.

"It will be in the recollection of many of my friends in America, that when I expressed my doubts and fears as to the expediency of speaking out in this way, they always strenu ously urged me to continue the same frankness throughout the journey; assuring me, that their countrymen, however national, and however fond of their institutions, would much prefer hearing them openly attacked to their faces, than insidiously commended till a more convenient season should arrive for reprobating what they held dear. Accordingly, I took them at their word, and persevered throughout the journey, and never once qualified or disguised my sentiments. And here I must do the Americans the justice to say, that they invariably took my remarks in good part, though my opinions, I could see, were often not very flattering."-Vol. I. p. 15.

"I had many sharp, amicable discussions with my friends at Boston, on the thousand and one topics which arose between us; but I must do them the justice to say, that I have rarely met a more good natured, or perhaps I should say, a more good tempered people; for, during the whole course of my journeythough I never disguised my sentiments, even when opposed to the avowed favourite opinions of the company-I never yet saw an American out of temper. I fear I cannot say half so much for myself; for I was often a good deal harassed by these national discussions, when the company and I took our station on the opposite Poles of the question. But it is pleaeant to have it in my power to say, that I cannot recall a single instance in which any thing captious or personally uncivil was ever said to me, though I repeated, openly and in all companies, every thing I have written in these volumes, and a great deal more than, upon cool reflection, I choose to say again." Vol. II. p. 184.

The natural inferences to be drawn from this confession, are, first, that the Americans, notwithstanding that they eat with their knives,

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Or all the plagues with which Old Nick has attempted to disturb the quiet of this blessed world, I think there is none equal to the disposition which half the community have for tormenting fat people. I can speak feelingly on this point, for I am a fat man myself. Your lean fellows live in quiet; nobody think of poking fun at them, or jostling them in the street, or squeezing them in a crowd, or a stage coach, or a box at the theatre. They slip through the common rubs and crosses of life as easily as a snake through the bushes. A starveling has an immunity against all tribulation:-but a fat man-there is no mercy for him he is a butt for all the jokes that are current; there is no sharp shooting but hits him. He is too prominent a mark to escape. The lean ones envy his goodly size and revenge themselves the only way they can, by ridiculing what they would fain participate in, but find it beyond their reach, as the fox turned up his right-honourable snout at certain grapes.

Who would not be fat if he could? I don't see any harm in being fat. It is sheer malice and envy that would set the world against fat people who, generally speaking, are the most useful and good natured of the community: fruges consumere nati, they keep the markets up, and make trade flourish. If to be fat is to be hated, says Falstaff, then are Pharaoh's lean kine to be loved. I think so too. I hate lean folks, they make me think of a famine; and short commons are an abomination unto men of my condition. But let me come to the point, and the point of the matter is that I make it a point never to refuse an invitation to dinner. Now I received an invitation to one last week, the most magnificent dinner that has been eaten in the city these fifty years. The very mention of the dishes made my mouth water. Alderman Gobble who gave the dinner knows how to create an appetite in his guests by a specification of his tit-bits. I need not stop now to recapitulate the niceties which the worthy alderman had promised and with which I regaled my imagination for a week in anticipation of the feast. Suffice it to say it was a meal fit for a gourmand, and I had raised an appetite fit to do justice to it. Oh ye demons of disappointment! How could ye serve me such a trick as to balk me of that dinner!

For as my ill luck would have it, I happen to live just now about ten miles from Boston. There is no difficulty one would think, in jumping into the stage and posting to town, and that is true enough in the case of ordinary folks, but see what plagues beset a fat man! I had bespoke my passage, and was the first to get into the stage, when a disagreement arose about the space which I occupied in the vehicle. The driver asserted that I had taken but one seat, and all the others in the coach were engaged before me. Now as he undertook to prove by regular admeasurement that my immense rotundity of corporation, as he was pleased to call it, occupied at least space enough for four, he maintained that all the others should seat themselves first and then I

might get in if I could.

Not in the day time, my lad," said I, as I seated myself snugly on the back seat. "First come, first served. I have got my place, now the others may take theirs, I paid for my seat. Isn't it a bargain."

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Really Mr. Sugarhogshead," said he, "hadn't you better ride on the top yourself?" "For heaven's sake no," said another; "don't put that great fat chuff on the top: he'll make us top heavy and overset us."

"I have no notion of riding on the top," said, I," so you may make yourselves easy on that score."

"But you must get out," said they, "and wait for the next stage."

"And what will become of my dinner," said I.

"Here is Mrs. Pickleton and her seven chil dren who will all be disappointed of places in the city if they do not arrive at two o'clock." "And I shall be disappointed of my dinner if I do not reach Alderman Gobble's at the same time."

"Tis enough to try the patience of Job," said Mrs. Pickleton.

"Don't talk to me about Job," said I; "he never had such an invitation to a dinner in his life."

"But you cannot go with us," said they. "But I must go with you," said I. So say. ing, I threw back my head, and composed myself on my seat and let them see that I was not to be moved. After some altercation with the other passengers, the driver shut the coach door and left me within alone. Presently I heard a smack of the whip, and the horses started. I thought we set off with a very easy pace, and was highly delighted to find myself sole possessor of the inside of the coach where I had expected to be annoyed by the company of Mrs. Pickleton and her seven children.

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We travelled at so easy comfortable a rate that I fell into a doze, an infirmity to which I am somewhat accustomed, though not in stage coaches. I dreamt, of being at Alderman Gobble's dinner, where I kept eating and eating till I thought I never should have enough. What was the most singular of all was that the more I ate, the hungrier I grew. Methought the dinner lasted unconscionably long, till at last I awoke from pure hunger. I was fairly starved out of my dream. "Surely," thought 1, as I awoke, "we must have got to Boston by this time." I pulled out my watch. It was half past two!" Heavens!" exclaimed I, "where are we?"-I jumped up and looked out of the carriage and-and there was I at the very place of starting, we had not moved a rod all the while. The driver had taken the horses away and driven off with another stage whilst I was dreaming of Alderman Gobble's dinner.

GENEVA.

(Concluded from page 60.)

The circumstance which led the great apostle of the Reformation, Calvin, to adopt Geneva as his residence is singular. Passing through that town on his route from France to Germany, he encountered his friend Farel, then resident at Geneva, who intreated him to remain there and to assist him in his ministry. Calvin, however, was desirous of proceeding, till Farel, spiritu quodam heroico offlatus (says Beza) threatened him, in the most solemn manner, with the curse of God if he did not stay to assist him in that part of the Lord's vineyard. Calvin accordingly complied, and was appointed professor of Divinity. It was at Geneva that the singular interview took place between Calvin and Eckius related to Lord Orrery by Deodati.

"Eckius being sent by the pope legate into France, upon his return resolved to take Geneva in his way, on purpose to see Calvin, and if occasion were, to attempt reducing him to the Romish church. Therefore, when Eckius was come within a league of Geneva, he left his retinue there, and went, accompanied but

with one man, to the city in the forenoon. Setting up his horses at an inn, he inquired where Calvin lived, which house being shown him, he knocked at the door, and Calvin himself came to open it to him. Eckius inquired for Mr. Calvin; he was told he was the person. Eckius acquainted him that he was a stranger, and having heard much of his fame he was come to wait upon him. Calvin invited him to come in, and he entered the house with him; where, discoursing of many things concerning religion, Eckius perceived Calvin to be an ingenious, learned man, and desired to know if he had not a garden to walk in; to which Calvin replying he had, they both went into it, and then Eckius began to inquire of him why he left the Romish church, and offered him some arguments to persuade him to return; but Calvin could by no means be persuaded to think of it. At last, Eckius told him that he would put his life into his hands, and then said he was Eckius the pope's legate. At this discovery Calvin was not a little surprised, and begged his pardon that he had not treated him with the respect due to his quality. Eckius returned the compliment; and told him if he would come back to the church he would certainly procure for him a cardinal's cap; but Calvin was not to be moved by such an offer. Eckius then asked him what revenue he had; he told the cardinal he had that house and garden and fifty livres per annum, besides an allnual present of some wine and corn, on which he lived very contentedly. Eckius told him that a man of his parts deserved a better revenue; and then renewed his invitation to come over to the Romish church, promising him a better stipend if he would. But Calvin, giving him thanks, assured him that he was well satisfied with his condition. About this time dinner was ready, when he entertained his guest as well as he could, excused the defects of it, and paid him every respect. Eckius after dinner desired to know if he might not be admitted to see the church, which anciently was the cathedral of that city. Calvin very readily answered that he might; accordingly he sent to the officers to be ready with the keys, and desired some of the syndics to be there present, not acquainting them who the stranger was. As soon, therefore, as it was convenient, they both went towards the church; and as Eckius was coming out of Calvin's house he drew out a purse with about one hundred pistoles, and presented it to Calvin; Calvin desired to be excused; Eckius told him he gave it to buy books, as well as to express his respects for him. Calvin with much regret took the purse, and they proceeded to the church; where the syndics and officers waited upon them, at the sight of whom Eckius thought he had been betrayed, and whispered his thoughts in the ear of Calvin, who assured him of his safety. Thereupon they went into the church; and Eckius having seen all, told Calvin he did not expect to find things in so decent an order, having been told to the contrary. After having taken a full view of every thing, Eckius was returning out of the church, but Calvin stopped him a little, and calling the syndics and officers together, took out the purse of gold which Eckius had given him, telling them that he had received that gold from this worthy stranger, and that now he gave it to the poor; and so put it all in the poor-box that was kept there. The syndics thanked the stranger; and Eckius admired the charity and modesty of Calvin. When they were come out of the church, Calvin invited Eckius again to his house; but he replied that he must depart; so thanking him for all his civilities, offered to take his leave; but Calvin waited on him to his inn, and walked with him a mile out of the territories of Geneva, where with great com. pliments they took a farewell of each other."

The last moments of Calvin were remarked as the finest of his life. Like a parent who is about to leave a beloved family, he bade farewell to those whom he had watched over so long with a truly parental care. To the elders

of the republic and the citizens he gave his parting advice, that they should steadily pursue the course in which he had directed them. His remains were conveyed, without any pomp, to the burial-place called Plain Palais. His tomb was simple, and without inscription; but the feelings of gratitude were deeply engraven on the hearts of the Genevese, and he was honoured with the sincere mourning of his adopted countrymen, to whom he had been so long a father and a friend.

Among the numerous places in the neighbourhood of Geneva that are deserving of attention, perhaps none awakens a more vivid curiosity, or excites a more powerful interest, than Ferney, the retreat of Voltaire. Literati and tourists of every country have considered it a pleasing duty to undertake a pilgrimage to that celebrated shrine of genius. The house has had many masters, but such is the almost superstitious veneration in which every thing that once belonged to the great poet has been regarded, that the mansion itself, with every article of decoration, remains the same as when he died.

There is a large picture in the hall, wretchedly executed by some itinerant artist whom Voltaire met with by accident, and who painted the picture according to the design of the poet. One hardly knows which to condemn most, the miserable attempt of the painter, or the vanity and egotism of the designer. Voltaire is represented in the foreground presenting the Henriade to Apollo; the Temple of Memory is seen, around which Fame is flying and pointing to the Henriade; the Muses and Graces surround Voltaire, and the personages represented in the poem stand apparently astonished at his surprising talents; the authors who wrote against him are descending to the infernal regions, and Envy is expiring at his feet!

The saloon is ornamented with a beautiful design in china, intended for the tomb of a lady who was thought to have died in child-birth, but who, horrible to relate, was buried alive! In the bed-room are portraits of Voltaire's most intimate friends, amongst which are those of the celebrated actor Le Kain, and the great king of Prussia; there is also one of Voltaire himself. On one side of the room is the Marquise de Chatelet, his mistress; and on another the Empress of Russia and Clement XIV., better known as Ganganelli, of whom the following memorable reply is recorded:-The Baron de Gluchen, when travelling into Italy, took the opportunity when at Geneva of paying Voltaire a visit at Ferney. He inquired of the poet what he should say from him to the pope? "I have been favoured by his holiness," replied Voltaire, "with many presents and numerous indulgences, and he has even condescended to send me his blessing; but I would give all these, if Ganganelli would send me one of the ears of the Head Inquisitor." On the baron's return he called at the retreat of Voltaire, and informed him that he had delivered the message which he gave him to his holiness. "Tell him," replied the pope, "that while Ganganelli rules the church, the Head Inquisitor shall have neither ears nor eyes." There are many other portraits, but indifferently painted; his own, indeed, appears to have been more carefully executed. A vase of black marble placed in this room, which once contained the heart of the philosopher. On it is the following affected inscription:

SON ESPRIT EST PARTOUT, ET SON CŒUR EST ICI.

Over the vase is written-MES MANES SONT

CONSOLES PUISQUE MON CŒUR EST AU MILIEU

DE VOUS. The portrait of Frederick the Great is so wretchedly painted that it is hardly fit to grace a sign-post. Le Kain is in crayons, but executed with no better skill; and if it bears any resemblance to the great actor, he has certainly no reason to accuse the artist of flattery, for there never could be a man less indebted to nature. The bed of Voltaire and its hangings are somewhat impaired by time, and have diminished considerably by the hands of visiters

still less ceremonious, who always consider themselves justified in committing this kind of pious larceny.

The town of Ferney was entirely of the poet's creation, and many instances are recorded of the kind interest he took in the welfare of its inhabitants. The church close to his own residence is of his own building, which gave occasion to the remark of a witty traveller "The nearer the church the farther from God."

Dr. Moore, who visited Voltaire about the year 1779, has left an amusing account of his appearance, and of his mode of life at Ferney.

"The first idea which has presented itself to all who have attempted a description of his person is that of a skeleton. In as far as this implies excessive leanness it is just; but it must be remembered, that this skeleton, this mere composition of skin and bone, has a look of more spirit and vivacity than is generally produced by flesh and blood, however blooming and youthful. The most piercing eyes I ever beheld are those of Voltaire, now in his eightieth year. His whole countenance is expressive of genius, observation, and extreme sensibility. In the morning he has a look of anxiety and discontent, but this gradually wears off, and after dinner he seems cheerful; yet an air of irony never entirely forsakes his face, but may always be observed lurking in his features whether he frowns or smiles. When the weather is favourable he takes an airing in his coach with his niece, or with some of his guests, of whom there is always a sufficient number at Ferney. Sometimes he saunters in his garden; or if the weather does not permit him to go abroad, he employs his leisure hours in playing at chess with Père Adam; or in receiving the visits of strangers (a continual succession of whom attend at Ferney to catch an opportunity of seeing him) or in dictating and reading letters, for he still retains correspondents in all the countries in Europe, who inform him of every remarkable occurrence, and send him every new literary production as soon as it appears. By far the greater part of his time is spent in his study; and whether he reads himself or listens to another, he always has a pen in his hand to take notes or to make remarks. Composition is his principal amusement. No author who writes for daily bread, no young poet ardent for distinction, is more assiduous with his pen, or more anxious for fresh fame than the wealthy and applauded Seigneur of Ferney. He lives in a very hospitable manner, and takes care always to keep a good cook. He has generally two or three visiters from Paris, who stay with him a month or six weeks at a time. When they go their places are soon supplied, so that there is a constant rotation of society at Ferney. These, with Voltaire's own family and his visiters from Geneva, compose a company of twelve or fourteen persons, who dine daily at his table whether he appears or not. For when engaged in preparing some new publication for the press, indisposed or in bad spirits, he does not dine with his company, but satisfies himself with seeing them for a few minutes, either before or after dinner. All who bring recommendations from his friends may depend on being received, if he be not really indisposed. He often presents himself to the strangers who assemble almost every afternoon in his anti-chamber, though they bring no particular recommendation. But sometimes they are obliged to retire without having their curiosity gratified.

"The forenoon is not a proper time to visit Voltaire. He cannot bear to have his hours of study interrupted. This alone is sufficient to put him out of humour; besides, he is then apt to be querulous, whether he suffers by the infirmities of age, or from some accidental cause of chagrin. Whatever is the reason, he is less an optimist at that part of the day than at any other. It was in the morning, probably, that he remarked, 'que c'étoit domage que le quin

quina se trouvoit en Amerique, et la fievre en nos climats.' Those who are invited to supper have an opportunity of seeing him in the most advantageous point of view. He then exerts himself to entertain the company, and seems as fond of saying what are called good things as ever; and when any lively remark or bon mot comes from another, he is equally delighted, and pays the fullest tribute of applause. The spirit of mirth gains upon him by indulgence. When surrounded by his friends, and animated by the presence of women, he seems to enjoy life with all the sensibilities of youth. His genius then surmounts the restraints of age and infirmity, and flows along in a fine strain of pleasing and spirited observation, and delicate irony. He has an excellent talent for adapting his conversation to his company. The first time the Duke of Hamilton waited on him, he turned the discourse on the ancient alliance between the French and the Scotch nations, reciting the circumstance of one of his Grace's predecessors having accompanied Mary Queen of Scots, whose heir he at that time was, to the court of France: he spoke of the heroic characters of his ancestors, the ancient Earls of Douglas, of the great literary reputation of some of his countrymen then living, and mentioned the names of Hume and Robertson in terms of high admiration."

Voltaire was irascible and jealous to a great degree; an instance of which is related in an accidental interview with Piron. Piron was a rival wit, who took a strange delight in tormenting him, and whom he consequently most sincerely hated. Voltaire never missed an opportunity of lashing his rival in the keen encounter of wit; and Piron, equally liberal, left him but few advantages to boast.

One morning Voltaire called at the mansion of the celebrated Madame de Pompadour, and was awaiting her coming in the salon. He had comfortably established himself on a fauteuil, anxiously expecting the arrival of the lady; for though Voltaire was a philosopher, he was nevertheless a keen-scented courtier, and seldom neglected an opportunity of ingratiating himself with the powers that were. The door opened, and Voltaire, arrayed in his best smiles, sprang forward, to pay his homage to the arbitress of patronage, when who should meet him, smirking as it were in mockery of the poet, but the hated Piron! There was no retreating; Voltaire, therefore, resolving to play the hero, drew himself up with an air of hauteur, and bowing slightly to Piron, retired to the fauteuil from which he had risen. Piron acknowledged the salutation with an equally indifferent movement, and placed himself on a fauteuil exactly opposite Voltaire. After some few moments passed in silence, the author of the Henriade took from his pocket a black silk cap, which he usually wore when at home, or in the presence of any one with whom he thought he could take such a liberty, and putting it on his head, observed in a dry tone and with great indifference of manner,- -"Je vous demande pardon, monsieur; mais mon médecin m'ordonne de-"

"Point de cérémonie, monsieur," interrupted Piron, "d'autant plus que mon médecin m'ordonne la même chose." So saying, he very coolly put on his hat.

Voltaire stared at this unequivocal demonstration of contempt; but as he had provoked it, he was obliged to put up with the affront. He was therefore compelled to limit his indignation to the expression of his countenance, which was any thing but amiable or conciliating, and occupied himself exclusively with his own reflections. Piron took no notice of him; and the situation of the two poets became every moment more embarrassing. Madame Pompadour did not arrive; and Voltaire was evidently out of humour. He again applied to his pocket, and drawing from it a biscuit he began to eat it, offering as an apology that his health was delicate. "Pardon, inonsieur, mais mon médecin m'a commandé de manger."

“Point de cérémonie, monsieur," repeated

the imperturbable Piron, with an obsequious bow; and drawing from his pocket a small bottle or flask, with which he was usually provided, he uncorked it, and swallowed the contents at a draught, at the same time testifying his approval by smacking his lips with a violence perfectly petrifying.

This was too much. The irascibility of the philosopher prevailed, and starting up, with indignation in his countenance, and darting a fierce look at the unceremonious Piron he exclaimed, "Est-ce que monsieur se moque de moi ?"

"Excusez, monsieur," mildly retorted Piron, enjoying the rage and confusion of his rival, "mais ma santé est si faible que mon médecin m'a commandé de boire."

Fortunately, at this moment Madame de Pompadour entered, in time to prevent the progress of hostilities; and if it was beyond her power to promote a good understanding between the poets, she at least contrived to engage their attention on subjects more worthy of their talents.

Before we leave Geneva, it will not be improper to mention the claim which the public library has to notice. It contains many rare and curious books and manuscripts, and a very singular piece of antiquity, an ancient Roman shield of massive silver. It was found in the bed of the Arve in 1721.

The traveller who beholds a storm on the lake of Geneva will not forget Lord Byron's beautiful description.

"The sky is changed!—and such a change! -Oh night,

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous
strong,

Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone

cloud,

But every mountain now hath found a tongue,

And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! And this is in the night:-Most glorious night!

Thou wert not made for slumber! let me be
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight-
A portion of the tempest and of thee!
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the
earth!

And now again 'tis black-and now, the glee Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,

As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's

birth.

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ON THE HEAVENS.

BY J. T. BARKER.

"THE heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handy work!" This devout exclamation of the Royal Poet, though it does not in reality possess a higher value now than when it flowed from his rapturous lips, comes with increased force to the contemplative mind, as it surveys the starry regions in connexion with the discoveries of modern astronomy. The shining frame of the heavens, the regular revolutions of the sphere, and the precise movements of the sun, moon, and planets, were calculated to excite the admiration of the most insensible in the early ages of the world, and to exalt the piety of those who, like David, considered the heavens the work of the finger of God, and the moon and the stars as ordained by him; yet little was known then of the distances, magnitudes, and complicated motions of the planetary train; nothing whatever of the splendid retinue of Jupiter, or the stupendous apparatus of Saturn-these beautiful bodies had unostentatiously pursued their circling way, not forcing their splendid equipages on the gaze of man, but declaring, in silent and impressive language, "The works of the Lord are great, sought out of all them that have pleasure therein."

Comets advanced to, and retreated from the sun, and were by the sages of antiquity considered as transient meteors; their elevated situation in the system, the courses they described, and their unerring laws of motion, were unconceived of till within the last few centuries-still these "aerial racers" held on their sublime paths, and invited the regard of man to the works of the Lord, and the operations of his hand.

The Fixed Stars had shed their lustre, and incessantly sent forth streams of radiance from their glittering orbs; the sweet influences of the Pleiades had been diffused, notwithstandrites of the new world; the belt of Orion had ing the crimes of the old, and the idolatrous beamed forth in beauty, and Arcturus, with his sons, had pursued his course around the glowing pole, long before, and unceasingly since, the attention of Abraham had been directed to the spangled firmament by the great Creator of its shining glories: "Look now towards heaven, and tell the stars if thou be able to number them: so shall thy seed be." The value of this mighty promise, in its literal and spiritual sense did then, as it were, repose itself in microscopic conciment; but the light of modern astronomy has shown how infinite

is the realm of creative power, and generates the most delightful confidence in the mind relative to the preserved seed of Israel, but more especially of "those who are not of his seed through the law, but through the righteousness of faith."

Passing by the moon walking in brightness, and the nearer planets that roll above and beneath our world, circling the resplendent sun, with calm and simple grandeur, we review some of the recent discoveries of science: the four minute bodies which move between Mars and Jupiter in close proximity to each other, so minute as not to exceed in magnitude some of the islets of the British seas, present anomalies in the solar system,-moving in paths very considerably inclined to those of the larger planets; these paths crossing each other, but in such a manner, that the revolving bodies cannot come in contact; the form of these paths so eccentric, that one of them at its greatest distance from the sun, is then double of its least; the immense atmosphere of two, so great as almost to assimilate to those of the cometary train,-yet such are but a few of the wonderful phenomena connected with these four interesting bodies.

Beyond the orbit of that which was for thousands of years considered the most remote planet (Saturn) revolves one surrounded by a splendid train of moons, moving nearly at right

angles to the course of the primary (Uranus), and from east to west, while those of the other planets move in paths not much inclined to their primaries, and from west to east.

We notice other remarkable phenomena relative to the solar system, which have been discovered within a very few years. The comet of Halley, whose period is about seventy-five years, and which is expected to return in the year 1834,-this comet, whose greatest distance from the sun is double that of Uranus, was considered the " Mercury of Comets," but within the past ten years it has been discovered that there are three at least which never leave the planetary system; one whose period is three years and a quarter, included within the orbit of Jupiter; another, the period of which is six years and three quarters, and extends not so far as Saturn; and a third, whose period is twenty years, and ranges not beyond Uranus. As it respects the boundary of the solar system, the vast distances to which some comets are now known to roam fully prove how very far the attraction of the sun extends; though they stretch their courses to such depths in the abyss of space, yet by virtue of the sun's power they return and bathe themselves in the effulgence of his beams. Wonderful as it may seem, the vast area comprised within the orbit of the most distant comet, sinks into a point, when compared with the awful void between the boundary where our sun's attraction terminates, and the distance of the nearest fixed star!

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The most ardent attention of astronomers is now directed in scanning the wondrous space which separates our sun from those of other systems. In pursuing the investigation, they find there is ground for concluding that those fixed stars are not the nearest which appear the largest, and shine with the greatest brilliancy; that probably, among those that emit but feeble rays, may be found stars, whose distance from our sun will admit of being ascertained. This inquiry is connected with the discovery of the revolutions of two or more stars round a common centre of gravity, the orbits of some of which are exceedingly complicated, and performed in periods of time varying from sixty years to many centuries. This real motion traced in double, triple, and other combinations of stars, connected with another motion, which is only apparent, and which affects the whole of the starry frame, suggest the idea that our sun forms one of such a system, and that it is moving onward through space; but though science succeeds in pointing out the direction in which it moves, it fails in declaring the nature, and the rate of its motion.

Among this wilderness of stars are some that periodically change their brilliancy; others, appearing where none before had been observed, and others missed from places which they had been accustomed to occupy: these bright bodies not only shining with different degrees of brightness, but exhibiting the most lovely and variegated hues,-from the soft blue to the colour of the amethyst,-from the delicate green to the emerald,-from a pale yellow to a bright orange,-from a rosy tint to the intense brilliancy of the ruby.

"Some barely visible, some proudly shine, Like living jewels."

But we have hitherto only entered the vestibule of the vast temple of the universe; we penetrate still further into its awful mysteries in search of new wonders. From the earliest ages, one or two bright spots had been noticed in the heavens, called nebula; since the invention of the telescope, the heavens are found to be replete with them, various in their shapes, magnitudes, and brilliancy; some of these appearing as solid balls, compressed into a blaze of light,-one like a partially opened fan, along the centre of which are three bright telescopic stars of different magnitudes; others like the feeble flame of a taper-a circular nebulosity composed of striated streams of light, -a lock of silvery hair,-a ring or wreath of

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soft splendour,-a large proportion like faint streaks of light, such an appearance as it may be supposed the milky way would assume if beheld from some remote region of spaceand nearly the whole of these mysterious apparitions, resolvable into clusters of stars. From hence it is inferred, that al! the stars of the universe are collected into nebulæ, and that those bright stars that figure conspicuously on our midnight sky are only members of that nebula, to which our sun belongs!

Here then we pause, and from the station to which we have been introduced by the discoveries of modern astronomy, look above, beneath, around us. How awful the survey! Our sun, the centre of a system of worldslunar, planetary, and cometary; this sun, but a member among millions of others, each of which may have a similar system; all these, if viewed from some distant point of space, appearing as some rich cluster of stars amidst myriads of others; further still, our stellar system resembling an indistinct nebula, and from a place of observation still more remote, melting away into a soft tint of light, or no longer visible in the deep azure of the midnight sky; these hosts of stellar systems probably in motion through the vast fields of ether, for which there is room in the unbounded realms of space, and ample time in the rolling ages of eternity!

But art, reason, and even imagination, fail to ascend higher in this wonderful progression, for who will essay to point out the topstone of the stupendous structure of the universe?" Lift up your eyes on high, and behold who hath created these things, that bringeth out their host by number: he calleth them all by names by the greatness of his might, for that he is strong in power not one faileth." And lest a consideration of these displays of creative power should overwhelm the faculties of the weak believer, with the fear that amidst these exhibitions of Omnipotence, and these realms of boundless grandeur, he shall be overlooked, the soft voice of heavenly love calms the perturbation. "Why sayest thou, O Jacob, and speakest, O Israel, my way is hid from the Lord, and my judg ment passed over from my God? Hast thou not known, hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth fainteth not, neither is weary? There is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint, and to those that have no might he increaseth strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall. But they that wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles, they shall run, and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint."

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But she hath been a happy wife;—the lover of her youth

May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial

of his truth;

A sense of slight-a loneliness-hath never banish'd sleep;

Her life hath been a cloudless one,-then, wherefore doth she weep?

She look'd upon her raven locks;-what thoughts did they recall!

Oh! not of nights when they were deck'd for banquet or for ball,

They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt to check, With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck.

She seem'd to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her hair,

And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there;

She seem'd to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch

That sometimes feign'd to steal away the curls she priz'd so much.

And now she sees her first grey hair! oh, deem it not a crime

For her to weep-when she beholds the first foot mark of Time!

She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will increase,

And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall cease.

'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the

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WINTRY SUNSHINE.

BY MISS AGNES STRICKLAND.

THE beams that gild the cloudless skies
And light the laughing hours of May,
With all their glories less I prize,

Than that oblique and struggling ray
Whose milder influence kindly tries

To cheer and warm a wintry day, And through dark clouds and drifting snows A transitory brightness throws. For oh! that friendly radiance seems

Like Hope's sweet smile midst wo appearing, As we through Fortune's adverse streams A wayward course are steering; Or glimpses caught of joy in dreams,

Grief's troubled slumbers cheering, When o'er life's ills and faded flowers Returns the light of youthful hours. Not all the splendours, passing fair,

That hover o'er the paths of gladness, Can with that lonely beam compare

That breaks the chilling gloom of sadness, When Fate's stern strife and torturing care Have wrung the tortured heart to madness, And Friendship's pure and lovely ray Sheds sunshine on our wintry way.

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CHILDHOOD.

(Concluded from p. 58.)

I love a Children's ball-that is, a ball for very young children; for when they approach their teens, they begin gradually to throw off their angelic disguise, preparatory to becoming men and women; the germs of vanity, dissimulation, and pride, are visible; the young eye roves for admiration, the head is held high on contact with vulgarity; the lips speak a different language from the less deceitful brow. If the object of entertainments was really to entertain, we ought only to invite children; because, if not quite sure of succeeding in our aim, we at least can discover whether or not we have attained it. In the uniform polite satisfaction and measured mirth of a grown up party, the cold smiles, the joyless laughter, the languid dance, one tale only is told, satiety, contempt, anger, and mortification may lurk beneath, no clue is af forded to the poor host, by which he may discover the quantity of pleasure his efforts and his money have produced; a heart or two may be breaking beside him, but he knows nothing of the matter; a duel or two arranging at his elbow, but he sees only bows and politeness; and he may send away half his guests affronted by his neglect, and the other half ridiculing his hospitality, while he has fatigued and inpoverished himself to please them. In these assemblies,

"There's sic parade, sic pomp an' art, The joy can scarcely reach the heart;" while, in a party for children, ninety-nine out of a hundred consider themselves at the summit of human felicity, and take no care to conceal their sentiments; and if the unhappy hundredth happens to fall down, or to be affronted, a few tears and a little outcry show you where your assistance is required, and allow you to set matters right again by coaxing and sugar plums. Those occasional eccentric movements in the quadrille, proceeding from the exuberance of spirits and of joy; those shouts of merriment which sometimes defy the lessons of politeness and the frowns of a smiling mamma; those peals of young laughter so thrilling and so infectious; those animated voices and bright faces assure the donors of the feast that they have conferred a few hours of exquisite happiness on the dear little beings

around them, afforded them food for chattering and nirth for many days, and perhaps planted in their grateful memories one of those sunny spots to which the man looks back with pleasure and wonder, when sated, wearied, and disappointed, he sees with surprise how easily and how keenly he was once delighted.

Little girls are my favourites; boys, though sufficiently interesting and amusing, are apt to be infected, as soon as they assume the manly garb, with a little of that masculine violence and obstinacy which, when they grow up, they will call spirit and firmness, and lose earlier in life that docility, tenderness, and ignorance of evil, which are their sister's peculiar charms. In all the range of visible creation there is no object to me so attractive and delightful as a lovely, intelligent, gentle, little girl of eight or nine years old. This is the point at which may be witnessed the greatest improvement of intellect compatible with that lily-like purity of mind, to which taint is incomprehensible, danger unsuspected, which wants not only the vocabulary, but the very idea of sin. It is true, that

"Evil into the mind of God or man May come and go, so unapproved, and leave No spot or blame behind

But to those who have lived long, and observed what constant sweeping and cleaning their house within requires, what clouds of dust fly in at every neglected cranny, and how often they have omitted to brush it off till it

has injured the gloss of their furniture-to these there is something wonderful, dazzling, and precious, in the spotless innocence of childhood, from which the slightest particle of impurity has not been wiped away. Wo to those who by a single word help to shorten this beautiful period!

"That man was never born whose secret soul, With all its motley treasure of dark thoughts, Foul fantasies, vain musings, and wild dreams, Was ever open'd to another's scan." Even the best and purest of women would shrink from displaying her heart to our gaze, while lovely childhood allows us to read its every thought and fancy. Its sincerity, indeed, is occasionally very inconvenient, and let that person be quite sure that he has nothing remarkably odd, ugly, or disagreeable about his appearance, who ventures to ask a child what it thinks of him. Amidst the frowns and blushes of the family, amidst a thousand efforts to prevent or to drown the answer, truth in all the horrors of nakedness, will generally appear in the surprised assembly, and he who has hitherto thought in spite of his mirror, that his eyes had merely a slight and not unpleasing cast, will now learn for the first time that "every body says he has a terrible squint."

I cannot approve of the modern practice of dressing little girls in exact accordance with the prevailing fashion, with scrupulous imitation of their elders. When I look at a child, I do not wish to feel doubtful whether it is not an unfortunate dwarf who is standing before me attired in a costume suited to its age. Extreme simplicity of attire, and a dress sacred to themselves only, are most fitted to these "fresh female buds;" and it vexes me to see them disguised in the fashions of La Belle Assemblée, or practising the graces and courtesies of maturer life. Will there not be years enough from thirteen to seventy for ornamenting or disfiguring the person at the fiat of French milliners, for checking laughter and forcing smiles, for reducing all varieties of inform tint? Is there not already a sufficient tellect, all gradations of feeling to one unisameness in the aspect and tone of polished life? Oh, leave children as they are, to relieve by their "wild freshness" our elegant insipidity; leave their "hair loosely flowing, robes as free," to refresh the eyes that love simplicity; and leave their eagerness, their schooled expressions of joy or regret, to amuse warmth, their unreflecting sincerity, their unand delight us, when we are a little tired by the coldness of the grown-up world. the politeness, the caution, the wisdom, and

Children may teach us one blessed, one enviable art, the art of being easily happy. Kind nature has given to them that useful power of accommodation to circumstances which compensates for so many external disadvantages, and it is only by injudicious management that it is lost. Give him but a moderate portion of food and kindness, and the peasant's child is happier than the duke's: free from artificial wants, unsated by indulgence, all nature ministers to his pleasures; he can carve out felicity from a bit of hazel twig, or fish for it successfully in a puddle. I love to hear the boisterous joy of a troop of ragged urchins whose cheap playthings are nothing more than mud, snow, sticks or oyster shells, or to watch the quiet enjoyment of a half-clothed, half-washed fellow of four or five years old, who sits with a large rusty knife and a lump of bread and bacon at his father's door, and might move the envy of an alderman.

He must have been singularly unfortunate in childhood, or singularly the reverse in afterlife, who does not look back upon its scenes, its sports, and pleasures with fond regret; who does not " wish for e'en its sorrows back again." The wisest and happiest of us may occasionally detect this feeling in our bosoms. There is something unreasonably dear to the man in the recollection of the follies, the whims,

the petty cares, and exaggerated delights of his childhood. Perhaps he is engaged in schemes of soaring ambition, but he fancies sometimes that there was once a greater charm in flying a kite-perhaps, after many a hard lesson, he has acquired a power of discernment and spirit of caution which defies deception, but he now and then wishes for the boyish confidence which venerated every old beggar, and wept at every tale of wo, he is now deep read in philosophy and science, yet he looks back with regret on the wild and pleasing fancies of his young mind, and owns that "l'erreur a son mérite;" he now reads history till he doubts every thing, and sighs for the time when he felt comfortably convinced that Romulus was suckled by a wolf, and Richard the Third a monster of iniquity

his mind is now full of perplexities and cares for the future.-Oh! for the days when the present was a scene sufficiently wide to satisfy him!

He who feels thus cannot contemplate unmoved the joys and sports of childhood, and gazes, perhaps, on the care-free brow and rapture-beaming countenance, with the melancholy and awe which the lovely victims of consumption inspire, when unconscious of danger, they talk cheerfully of the future. He feels that he is in possession of a mysterious secret, of which happy children have no suspicion: he knows what the life is on which they are about to enter; and he is sure that whether it smiles or frowns upon them, its brightest glances will be cold and dull compared with those under which they are now basking.

W. E.

THE ARK ON MOUNT ARARAT. BY THE AUTHORESS OF "THE MUMMY."

THE Armenians have a legend that the Ark still remains on Mount Ararat, though completely hidden by the immense cap of ice, or rather frozen snow, which covers the peak of attempted to penetrate this natural barrier in the mountain. Many persons, they say, have order to remove the ark; but the moment they get near enough to see the sacred vessel, they are struck dead with lightning.

"ON! on! to scale the mountain's brow,
Where, buried deep from mortal ken,
The ark still rests in frozen snow,
Impervious to the sight of men."
"And shall we dare to rend the veil
Omnipotence around has shed?"
The younger pilgrim, turning pale,

Thus to his elder comrade said.
Knowledge to man alone is given,

With both, he scales the heights of heaven,
Courage he shares with meaner brutes;

And wins celestial attributes!

"But hark! the thunder round is pealing,
Bright meteors flash along the sky:
My heart is sick, my brain is reeling;
Stay! stay! I faint-and fainting die!"
"I stop not now for God or demon,
My prize is near, and I will gain it ;
Thus in a storm, the hardy seaman

Sees the mast rock, yet will attain it."
He climbed the mountain's very peak,

The lightning round his figure spread ;
On every side the flashes break,

And thunder rattles o'er his head.
"Tis mine! 'tis mine! The ark I see-
The goal is past-the prize is won."
Short was his proud and ill-timed glee:
The bolt was launch'd-his life was gone.
Shrunk to a dry and blacken'd corse,
Where is his boasted triumph now?
His life has run its destined course-
The ark still rests in frozen snow!

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