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author had, a few years before its production, received upwards of a thousand pounds by the sale of his poems. In addition to the sums received for the above, he was in receipt of a salary from the government for an office | which he held. Pope was such a very bad economist, and took so little care of his money, that his kind patrons, the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, with whom he lived for some years, thought it necessary to deprive him of the use of it, except in such sums as they thought proper. By this means he is said to have left at his death no less a sum than three thousand pounds.

Addison, the essayist, was equally well provided for, having a pension of three hundred pounds for a good many years, and likewise holding the office of secretary of state, which yielded him a handsome emolument. From this onerous post he retired with an annuity of fifteen hundred pounds. Congreve held a sinecure worth twelve hundred per annum, under Lord Halifax. Steele also received the patronage of government. Sir John Hill, a satirical writer of the last century, made fourteen hundred a-year by the produce of his pen alone.

Goldsmith, one of our most favourite writers, died nearly three thousand pounds in debt. He was remarkably improvident, and spent in one year the large sum of sixteen hundred pounds, which he had received from the booksellers. When quite unknown as a literary man, he received for his Vicar of Wakefield' the sum of sixty pounds. When he had obtained celebrity, he was remunerated upon a more handsome scale. For his various school histories of England, he was paid nearly eight hundred pounds; and for a very small collection of English poetry, hastily compiled, with critical notes, his publisher allowed him two hundred guineas. The sums stated as the payments for his 'History of Animated Nature' amount in all to eight hundred and fifty pounds.

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Voyages and Travels' six thousand pounds. Johnson was
very well requited for his literary toils; for writing the
biographical prefaces to the trade edition of the British
Poets he had two hundred pounds; his dictionary procured |
for him nearly one thousand six hundred pounds; and for
each of his papers in the Rambler he got a couple of
guineas. He luxuriated for many years upon the emolu-
ments derived from a sinecure situation which he was in
possession of. For his amusing biography of the learned
doctor, Boswell received one thousand pounds. Allan
Ramsay, the poet, at one time an apprentice to a hair-
dresser, by the publication of his early poems alone, got
nearly five hundred pounds; and for the pastoral comedy
of the Gentle Shepherd' he received about double that


Perhaps of all the money received from literary labour, none was more thoughtlessly squandered than the sums received by Sheridan. Although in receipt of a vast income, he was continually in want, always living from hand to mouth.

Among the female authors who have received large sums for their productions, we may instauce Edgeworth, Porter, Hannah More, Trimmer, Sherwood, Clara Reeve, Hofland, and Ann Ratcliffe. The latter, we are told, got five hundred pounds for her romance of The Mysteries of Udolpho, and for The Italian' eight hundred guineas; in her day these were immense sums for works of light | literature.

Burns, poor erratic Burns! netted upwards of five hundred pounds by the first edition of his poems, which was published in 1782; and Currie's life of the poet brought to his family more than one thousand pounds. For his books of travels Sir John Carr was paid nearly two thousand pounds. Thomson, the author of the 'Seasons,' received for that work six hundred guineas, and | was in possession of a sinecure situation in the Court of i Chancery. The first volume of Blair's Sermons was sold by him for a hundred pounds, which was afterwards doubled by the publisher; and the price paid for the remainder of the work was stated by Mr Creech, who published it, to have been the highest sum ever paid for similar productions.

Again, in Fielding, the English Cervantes, we have a farther proof of the liberal patronage of genius. Six hundred guineas and odds were paid for his novel of Tom Jones,' though it was hawked about among the 'trade' for a long time, till at length it was purchased by Miller, at the price we have mentioned. For his novel entitled Amelia' he was allowed one thousand pounds; and for his other works he was as handsomely remunerated. We had almost forgotten to mention Smollet. AnderNotwithstanding these large sumns received by him for son tells us, in his life of him, that for the first four parts literary labour, and fifteen hundred pounds which he re- of his England' his remuneration was fifteen hundred ceived as the marriage-portion of his wife, he was fre- pounds, and for the subsequent part five hundred; his quently in absolute want, always in debt, and often borrow-night be considered inferior labour to that of any other ing from his indulgent publisher; indeed, at his death he of the historians mentioned in this article; he was only was indebted to him in the sum of twenty-five hundred occupied fourteen months in the composition of his 'Hispounds, which this very worthy man kindly cancelled. tory of England.' He contrived notwithstanding to keep a carriage, and maintain a large establishment.

The authoress of Evelina' (Miss Burney), although she only received a five-pound note for that work, rose so rapidly in public favour that she could afterwards procure the large sum of three thousand pounds for a single novel.

For the two first editions of Gulliver's Travels' Swift received six hundred guineas. Smellie received from the publisher of his work on natural history a bank-bill for a thousand pounds. Gibbon, the historian of Rome, received for the copyright of his Decline and Fall' six thousand pounds; but it was the work of a lifetime, and we have little doubt that the library of books used for reference in that work would cost a very large proportion of the amount. Dr Robertson, after he became known, obtained what might be called large sums for his works; although his History of Scotland' was sold for only six hundred pounds, his next work, Charles V.,' which cost him the labour of nine years, procured for him six times that sum. David Hume, for the first portion of his History of England' had only two hundred guineas, but then for the next portion of the same work he received the handsome sum of five thousand pounds. His annual outlay exceeded a thousand pounds; notwithstanding he left not less than fifteen thousand. Dr Hawkesworth was still better paid, having received for a Collection of

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Mallet, the poet, was also richly remunerated; he lived and died in very opulent circumstances; and so did Glover, Wharton, and Hayley. Beattie, the author of the Minstrel,' had a professorship in one of the colleges of Aberdeen, a pension of two hundred a-year, and received large sums for his various works. Cowper, also, was a pensioner, and during the later years of his life had an annuity of three hundred pounds, and the sums he received for the sale of his copyrights were very liberal.

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It has, however, been reserved for the present age to witness the climax of literary remuneration. The amount of money Sir Walter Scott received for his works was large beyond all precedent. For the Lay of the Last Minstrel' he had six hundred pounds; for his poem of Marmion' one thousand guineas; and for some of his late poetical works so much as three thousand guineas were promised. From his life of Napoleon he realized twelve thousand pounds, being at the rate of one hundred and ninety-eight pounds per week for the time he was occupied in its composition. So far as we have been able to make out from his life, he must have at one time been gaining upwards of fifteen thousand pounds a-year from his writings alone, besides speculating largely in publishing and printing concerns. The extent of this great man's transactions with his publishers may be inferred from the nature of the presents they from time to time made

him. Horses, pipes of wine, and suits of old armour, were thought nothing of. Constable, the great Scottish bibliopole, gave him a cast-iron verandah or terrace for his pleasure-ground which cost a thousand pounds. Then look at the sum Byron received from that prince of publishers, John Murray-twenty-three thousand five hundred and forty pounds! He always used to make it a boast that bite for fame, not money, and would, in consequence, for some time receive no remuneration. Murray, however, prevailed upon him to receive the above


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Campbell, like Fielding, was indebted to the exquisite taste of a woman for his introduction to the world. It was Miss Mundell, the sister of his publisher, who first read his Pleasures of Hope,' and who induced her brother to publish it. For that poem he was paid thirteen hundred pounds; for his Gertrude' he received fifteen hundred; and for his small poem, the Pilgrim of Glencoe,' three hundred pounds. Crabbe and Campbell, although dissimilar in many respects, were alike in their pecuniary circumstances, which were always sufficiently ample to enable them to enjoy the otium cum dignitat. We are told that the former was very handsomely paid for his various poems. Besides various other sums, Mr Murray, his publisher, paid him in 1819 three thousand pounds for his collected poems. Moore, too, the most tuneful minstrel of modern times, has raised himself to fortune solely by his pen. For his Irish Melodies' he is in receipt of a yearly salary of five hundred pounds. For his epic poem of Lalla Rookh,' he received from Messrs Longman & Co. the magnificent sum of three thousand pounds. Elia (Charles Lamb), although never a rich man, always had more than the conveniences of life. The facetious Walcot (Peter Pindar), at the time of his decease, was found to have amassed considerable property. But of poets enough has been said; we may merely, in taking leave of them, mention the name of Samuel Rogers.

Among the female novelists and story writers, we believe the most popular, and of course the best paid, are Mrs Howitt, Mrs Gore, Lady Morgan, Mrs Trollope, Mrs Crowe, and Mrs Johnstone. The last named lady is in receipt of a very handsome income by her contributions to the periodical literature of the day. Mrs Howitt was very handsomely remunerated for her translations of the Swedish novels; and for her stories in the periodicals she is remarkably well paid: for one alone, forming a few sheets in one of the periodicals of the day, she was paid upwards of seventy pounds; for the series of little works published by Mr Tegg, she is said to receive sixty guineas each. Mrs Gore is a very voluminous writer; and contributes largely to most of the periodicals of the day. She occasionally writes plays also; and for one, the Quid pro Quo,' she was paid five hundred pounds. Lady Morgan, for one work, France in 1839,' received two thousand guineas. So much for the female, novelists; a word in conclusion about those of the other sex. If our information be correct, James (G. P. R.) has long been making upwards of a thousand per annum by his novel manufactory. Bulwer makes a much larger sum; his Rienzi,' which we are told was written in two months, procured him sixteen hundred pounds. Peter Simple' produced the sum of two thousand pounds to Captain Maryatt. Last of all, we may mention Charles Dickens, who, it is said, has accumulated a fortune of full fifty thousand pounds by his admirable fictions.

Considerable incomes, too, are derived from writing for the reviews and magazines, and for the newspaper press. By some of the leading reviews one hundred and one hundred and fifty guineas are frequently paid for a single article, while the sums paid by the best magazines vary from eight to fourteen guineas.

Surely the above random facts are sufficient to convince us that much of the outery made about the poverty of men of genius is not too well founded. For our own parts, we should be glad to hear less whining about the poor rewards of literary labour; it is, we think, as little wanted as it is unwarrantable.


The close of the life of Sir Walter Rawleigh was as extra-
ordinary as many parts of his varied history. The promp-
titude and sprightliness of his genius, his carelessness of
life, and the equanimity of that great spirit in quitting
the world, can only be paralleled by a few other heroes
and sages. Rawleigh was both; but it is not simply his
dignified yet active conduct on the scaffold, nor his ad-
mirable speech on that occasion-circumstances by which
many great men are judged, when their energies are ex-
cited for a moment to act so great a part before the eyes
of the world assembled at their feet-it is not these only
which claim our notice.

We pause with admiration on the real grandeur of Rawleigh's character; not from a single circumstance, however great, but from a tissue of continued little incidents, which occurred from the moment of his condemnation till he laid his head on the block. Rawleigh was a man of such mark, that he deeply engaged the attention of his cotemporaries; and to this we owe the preservation of several interesting particulars of what he did and what he said, which have been entered into his life; but all has not been told in the published narratives. Cotemporary writers, in their letters, have set down every fresh incident, and eagerly caught up his sense, his wit, and, what is more delightful, those marks of natural cheerfulness, and of his invariable presence of mind; nor could these have arisen from any affectation or parade, for we shall see that they served him even in his last tender farewell to his lady, and on unpremeditated occasions.

I have drawn together into a short compass every fact concerning the feelings and conduct of Rawleigh at these solemn moments of his life, which my researches have furnished, not omitting those which are known to have preserved only the new, would be to mutilate the statue, and to injure the whole by an imperfect view.

Rawleigh one morning was taken out of his bed in a fit of fever, and unexpectedly hurried, not to his trial, but to a sentence of death. The story is well known. Yet pleading with a voice grown weak by sickness, and an ague he had at that instant on him,' he used every means to avert his fate: he did, therefore, value the life he could so easily part with. His judges there, at least, respected their state criminal; and they addressed him in a far different tone than he had fifteen years before listened to from Coke. Yelverton, the attorney-general, said, 'Sir Walter Rawleigh hath been as a star at which the world have gazed; but stars may fail, nay, they must fall, when they trouble the sphere where they abide.' And the Lord Chief-Justice noticed Rawleigh's great work:-I know that you have been valiant and wise, and I doubt not but you retain both these virtues, for now you shall have occasion to use them. Your book is an admirable work. I would give you counsel, but I know you can apply unto yourself far better than I am able to give you. But the judge ended with saying, 'Execution is granted.' It was stifling Rawleigh with roses; and it was listening to fame from the voice of death.

He declared that now, being old, sickly, and in disgrace, and certain, were he allowed to live, to go to it again, life was wearisome to him; and all he entreated was to have leave to speak freely at his farewell, to satisfy the world that he was ever loyal to the king, and a true lover of the commonwealth; for this he would seal with his blood.

Rawleigh, on his return to his prison, while some were deploring his fate, observed, that the world itself is but a larger prison, out of which some are daily selected for execution.'

That last night of his existence was occupied by writing what the letter-writer calls a remembrancer to be left with his lady,' to acquaint the world with his sentiments, should he be denied their delivery from the scaffold, as he had been at the bar of the King's Bench, His lady

visited him that night, and amidst her tears acquainted
him, that she had obtained the favour of disposing of his
body; to which he answered, smiling, 'It is well, Bess,
that thou mayst dispose of that dead, thou hadst not
always the disposing of when alive.' At midnight he
intreated her to leave him. It must have been then that,
with unshaken fortitude, Rawleigh sat down to compose
those verses on his death, which, being short, the most
appropriate may be repeated:-

Even such is Time, that takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!'

He has added two other lines, expressive of his trust in his resurrection. Their authenticity is confirmed by the writer of the present letter, as well as another writer, enclosing half a dozen verses, which Sir Walter made the night before his death, to take his farewell of poetry, wherein he had been a scribbler even from his youth. The enclosure is not now with the letter. Chamberlain, the writer, was an intelligent man of the world, but not imbued with any deep tincture of literature. On the same night Rawleigh wrote this distich on the candle burning dimly :

'Cowards fear to die; but comage stout,

Rather than live in snuff, will be put out.'

Hugh, to secure himself a seat on the scaffold, had provided himself with a letter to the sheriff, which was not read at the time, and Sir Walter found his friend thrust by, lamenting that he could not get there. Farewell!' exclaimed Rawleigh, 'I know not what shift you will make, but I am sure to have a place. In going from the prison to the scaffold, among others who were pressing hard to see him, one old man, whose head was bald, came very forward, insomuch that Rawleigh noticed him, and asked, whether he would have ought of him?' The old man answered, 'Nothing but to see him, and to pray to God for him.' Rawleigh replied, I thank thee, good friend, and I am sorry I have no better thing to return thee for thy good-will.' Observing his bald head, he continued, But take this nightcap (which was a very rich wrought one that he wore), for thou hast more need of it now than I.'

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His dress, as was usual with him, was elegant, if not rich. Oldys describes it, but mentions that he had a wrought nightcap under his hat,' which we have otherwise disposed of; his ruff band, a black wrought velvet nightgown, over a hair-coloured satin doublet, and a black wrought waistcoat; black cut taffety breeches, and ashcoloured silk stockings.

He ascended the scaffold with the same cheerfulness he had passed to it; and observing the lords seated at a distance, some at windows, he requested they would At this solemn moment, before he lay down to rest, and approach him, as he wished what he had to say they should all witness. This request was complied with by at the instant of parting from his lady, with all his do- several. His speech is well known, but some copies conmestic affections still warm, to express his feelings in tain matters not in others. When finished, he requested verse was with him a natural effusion, and one to which Lord Arundel that the king would not suffer any libel to he had been long used. It is peculiar in the fate of defame him after death: And now I have a long jourRawleigh, that having before suffered a long imprison-ney to go, and must take my leave. He embraced all ment, with an expectation of a public death, his mind had the lords and other friends with such courtly complibeen accustomed to its contemplation, and had often dwelt ments, as if he had met them at some feast,' says a letteron the event which was now passing. The soul, in its writer. Having taken off his gown, he called to the sudden departure, and its future state, is often the sub-headsman to show him the axe, which not being instantly ject of his few poems; that most original one of the Farewell,'

Go soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless errand,' &c.

is attributed to Rawleigh, though on uncertain evidence.
But another, entitled the Pilgrimage,' has this beautiful

Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of truth to walk upon,

My scrip of joy-immortal diet;

My bottle of salvation;

My gown of glory, Hope's true gauge,
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage:
Whilst my soul, like a quiet Palmer

Travelleth towards the land of Heaven.'

done, he repeated, 'I prithee let me see it. Dost thou think that I am afraid of it ?' He passed the edge slightly over his finger, and smiling, observed to the sheriff,

This is a sharp medicine, but a sound cure for all diseases,' and kissing it, laid it down. Another writer has, This is that that will cure all sorrows.' After this he went to three several corners of the scaffold, and kneeling down, desired all the people to pray for him, and recited a long prayer to himself. When he began to fit himself for the block, he first laid himself down to try how the block fitted him; after rising up, the executioner kneeled down to ask his forgiveness, which Rawleigh with an embrace did, but entreated him not to strike till he gave a token by lifting up his hand, and then, fear not, Rawleigh's cheerfulness was so remarkable, and his but strike home! When he laid his head down to receive fearlessness of death so marked, that the Dean of West- the stroke, the executioner desired him to lay his face minster, who attended him, at first wondering at the towards the east. 'It was no great matter which way hero, reprehended the lightness of his manner; but Raw- a man's head stood, so the heart lay right,' said Rawleigh; leigh gave God thanks that he had never feared death, but these were not his last words. He was once more to for it was but an opinion and an imagination; and as for speak in this world with the same intrepidity he had lived the manner of death, he had rather die so than in a burn-in it--for having lain some nutes on the block in prayer, ing fever; and that some might have made shows out- he gave the signal; but the executioner, either unmindwardly, but he felt the joy within. The dean says, that ful or in fear, failed to strike, and Rawleigh, after once he made no more of his death than if he had been to take or twice putting forth his hands, was compelled to ask a journey; 'not,' said he, but that I am a great sinner, him, 'Why dost thou not strike? Strike man!' In two for I have been a soldier, a seaman, and a courtier.' The blows he was beheaded; but from the first, his body never writer of the manuscript letter tells us that the dean shrunk from the spot by any discomposure of posture, declared, he died not only religiously, but he found him which, like his mind, was immovable. to be a man as ready and as able to give as to take instruction.

On the morning of his death he smoked, as usual, his favourite tobacco; and when they brought him a cup of excellent sack, being asked how he liked it, Rawleigh answered, As the fellow that, drinking out of St Giles's bowl, as he went to Tyburn, said, that was good drink, if a man might tarry by it.'' The day before, in passing from Westminster-Hall to the gate-house, his eye had caught Sir Hugh Beeston in the throng, and calling on him, requested he would see him die to-morrow. Sir

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In all the time he was upon the scaffold, and before,' says one of the manuscript letter-writers, there appeared not the least alteration in him, either in his voice or countenance; but he seemed as free from all manner of apprehension as if he had been come thither rather to be a spectator than a sufferer; nay, the beholders seemed much more sensible than did he, so that he hath purchased here, in the opinion of men, such honour and reputation, as it is thought his great enemies are they that are most sorrowful for his death, which they see is like to turn so much to his advantage.'

The people were deeply affected at the sight, and so much that one said, 'that we had not such another head to cut off;' and another wished the head and brains to be upon Secretary Nanton's shoulders.' The observer suffered for this; he was a wealthy citizen, and great newsmonger, and one who haunted Paul's Walk. Complaint was made, and the citizen summoned to the privy council. He pleaded that he intended no disrespect to Mr Secretary; but only spake in reference to the old proverb, that two heads were better than one.' His excuse was allowed at the moment; but when afterwards called upon for contribution to St Paul's Cathedral, and having subscribed a hundred pounds, the Secretary observed to him, 'that two are better than one, Mr Wiemark!' either from fear or charity, the witty citizen doubled his subscription.

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Thus died this glorious and gallant cavalier, of whom Osborne says, 'His death was managed by him with so high and religious a resolution, as if a Roman had acted a Christian, or rather a Christian a Roman.'

After having read the preceding article, we are astonished at the greatness, and the variable nature of this extraordinary man, and this happy genius. With Gibbon, who once meditated to write his life, we may pause and pronounce his character is ambiguous;' but we shall not hesitate to decide, that Rawleigh knew better how to die than to live. 'His glorious hours,' says a cotemporary, 'were his arraignment and execution: but never will be forgotten the intermediate years of his lettered imprisonment!'-D' Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.

THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. THERE is a spiritual element interfused through the whole material world, and which lies at the source of all action. It is this which lifts the world out of chaos, and clothes it with light and order. The most ordinary act springs out of the soul, and derives its character from the soul. It seems trifling only because its spiritual origin is forgotten. While on the surface of life all may be calm, it is startling to think what mysteries of passion and affection may be beneath.

We need not go far, if we will but open our eyes, to see how the most ordinary acts of man are penetrated by a spiritual element; and where this is, nothing can be tame or commonplace. Nothing, at first sight, is more worldly and unspiritual than a commercial newspaper. It deals solely with the affairs of the day, and with material interests. Yet, when we come to consider them, its driest details are instinct with human hopes, and fears, and affections; and these illuminate what was dark, and make the dead letter breathe with life. For example, in the paper of to-day, a middle-aged man seeks employment in a certain kind of business. The advertisement has, in substance, been the same for weeks. For a time, he sought some place which pre-supposed the possession of business habits and attainments. Then there was a change in the close of the advertisement, indicating that he would do anything by which he could render himself generally useful to any employer. And this morning there is another change. He is willing to commence with low wages, as employment is what he especially wants. All this is uninteresting enough. Yet what depths of life may lie underneath this icy surface of business detail. It is easy for the fancy to seek out and make the acquaintance of this man.

Could we but look through these long lines of advertisements into the hearts of those who have published them, what a revelation would there be of human life! Here are partnerships formed and closed; young men entering into business, old men going out of it; new inventions and speculations; failures; sales of household furniture and dwellings. These have been attended by the most sanguine hopes, by utter hopelessness, by every form of fear, anxiety, and sorrow. This young man, just entering business, looks forward with anticipations bright

as the morning to his marriage-day. This sale of furniture speaks of death, diminished fortunes, a scattered family. There is not a sale of stocks which does not straiten or increase the narrow means of widows and orphans. This long column of ship news-a thousand hearts are this moment beating with joy and thankfulness, or are oppressed by anxiety, or crushed down by sorrow, because of these records which to others seem so meaningless! One reads here of his prosperity; another of ruined fortunes; and the wrecked ship, whose crew was swept by the surge into the breakers, and dashed on the rockshow many in their solitary homes are mourning for those who sailed with bright hopes in that ship, but who shall never return! And more than this-could these lines which record the transactions of daily business tell of the hearts which indited them, what temptations and struggles would they reveal! They would tell of inexperience deceived or protected, of integrity fallen or made stedfast as the rock, of moral trials, in which noble natures have been broken down or built up. Had we the key and the interpretation of what we here read, this daily chronicle of traffic would be a sadder tragedy than any which Shakspeare wrote. It is the same with all human labour. The spirit giveth life.' Were it not so earth would be a dungeon. If toil were only toil, or if it had no object but the supply of one's own bodily wants-to gratify hunger and thirst, or to minster to luxurious appetites-if this were all, the labour of man would be as the labour of brutes. But all the products of man's labour are but symbols of a spiritual life beneath. To the outer eye, what toilsome drudgery is oftentimes the life of a mother of a family! She labours by day, she watches by night; her years are worn out in disconnected, trifling occupations. And yet, could we look beneath, when the mind is right, we should find all these details bound together, elevated, hallowed by the spiritual element blended with them. While with housewifely care she goes from room to room, under the labour of her hands grow up, as under the sunshine and dew, the affections and virtues of a happy home.

Thus ever under the visible is the invisible. Through dead material forms circulate the currents of spiritual life. Deserts, rocks, and seas, and shores, are humanized by the presence of man, and become alive with memories and affections. There is a life which appears, and under it, in every heart, is a life which does not appear-which is, to the former, as the depths of the sea to the waves, and the bubbles, and the spray, on its surface. There is not an obscure house among the mountains where the whole romance of life, from its dawn to its setting, through its brightness and through its gloom, is not lived through. The commonest events of the day are products of the same passions and affections which, in other spheres, decide the fate of kingdoms. Outwardly, the ongoings of ordinary life are like the movements of machinerylifeless, mechanical, commonplace repetitions of the same trifling events. But they are neither lifeless, nor old, nor trifling. The passions and affections make them ever new and original, and the most unimportant acts of the day reach forward in their results into the shadows of eternity.

Open but the eye, and we live in the midst of wonders. The enthusiastic and ardent pine for scenes of excitement. They fly to seek them in foreign lands; they bury themselves in the pages of poetry and romance; the everyday world around them seems to them stale, flat, and unprofitable. But it is only in seeming. At our very doors transpire realities, by whose side, were the veil taken away which hides them, the fictions of romance would grow pale. Around us, all the time, in light and in darkness, is going on the mighty mystery of life, and passing before us in shadow is the dread mystery of death. Want and prosperity, anxieties which wear out the heart of youth, passions which sink it to the dust, hopes that lift it to the heaven-hid by the veil of custom and the senses-these are alive all around us.-The Token.



Wit is indeed a thing so versatile and multiform, appearing in so many shapes, so many postures, so many garbs, so variously apprehended by several eyes and judgments, that it seemeth no less hard to settle a clear and certain notion thereof, than to make a portrait of Proteus, or to define the figure of the fleeting air. Sometimes it lieth in apt allusion to a known story, or in seasonable application of a trivial saying, or in forging an apposite tale; sometimes it playeth in words and phrases, taking advantage from the ambiguity of their sense, or the affinity of their sound; sometimes it is wrapped in a dress of humorous expression; sometimes it lurketh under an odd similitude; sometimes it is lodged in a sly question, in a smart answer, in a quirkish reason, in a shrewd intimation, in cunningly diverting, or cleverly retorting an objection; sometimes it is couched in a bold scheme of speech, in a tart irony, in a lusty hyperbole, in a startling metaphor, in a plausible reconciling of contradictions, or in acute nonsense; sometimes a scenical representation of persons or things, a counterfeit speech, a mimical look or gesture passeth for it; sometimes an affected simplicity, sometimes a presumptuous bluntness, giveth it being; sometimes it riseth from a lucky hitting upon what is strange; sometimes from a crafty wresting obvious matter to the purpose; often it consisteth in one knows not what, and springeth up one can hardly tell how. Its ways are unaccountable and inexplicable, being answerable to the numberless rovings of fancy and windings of language. It is, in short, a manner of speaking out of the simple and plain way (such as reason teacheth and proveth things by), which, by a pretty surprising uncouthness in conceit or expression, doth affect and amuse the fancy, stirring in it some wonder, and breeding some delight thereto. It raiseth admiration, as signifying a nimble sagacity of ap prehension, a special felicity of invention, a vivacity of spirit, and reach of wit more than vulgar: it seeming to argue a rare quickness of parts, that one can fetch in remote conceits applicable; a notable skill, that he can dex-blessings, and dissipates the cloud of our calamities. terously accommodate them to the purpose before him; together with a lively briskness of humour, not apt to damp those sportful flashes of imagination.-Dr Isaac

You will scarcely find a man in all the ranges of our creation whose bosom bounds not at the mention of Hope. What is hope but the solace and stay of those whom it most cheats and deludes-whisperings of health to the sick man, and of better days to the dejected-the fairy name on which young imaginations pour forth all the poetry of their souls, and whose syllables float like aerial music into the ear of frozen and paralyzed old age? In the long catalogue of human griefs, there is scarce one of so crushing a pressure, that hope loses its elasticity, becoming unable to soar and bring down fresh and fair leaves from some far off domain, which itself creates. And yet, whilst hope is the great inciter to exertion, and the great soother of wretchedness, who knows not that it ordinarily deceives mankind, and that, though it crowd the future with glorious resting-places, and thus tempt us to bear up awhile against accumulated disasters, its palaces and gardens vanish as we approach, and we are kept from despair only because the pinnacles and forests of another bright scene fringe the horizon, and the deceiver finds us willing to be yet again deceived. Hope is a beautiful meteor; but nevertheless this meteor, like the rainbow, is not only lovely because of its seven rich and radiant stripes; it is the memorial of a covenant between man and his Maker, telling us that we are born for immortality, destinedwe sepulchre our greatness-to the highest honour and noblest happiness. Hope proves man deathless. It is the struggle of the soul breaking loose from what is perishable, and attesting her eternity.-Rev. H. Mel- || vill.



The present world may, with respect to the interests of our souls, be justly compared to an enemy's country, where we have not only to engage in open battle, but also to guard against secret ambuscades. Multiplied prejudices consecrated by antiquity; corrupt opinions strengthened in their march through a long succession of ages; groundless associations of ideas, consolidated and confirmed by all the power of habit and custom; delusive pleasures flattering the senses, and cherished with the warmth of appetite; bad example disguised under some splendid appearance; the contagion of wicked company; fraud and deception clothed in the specious colours of friendship and truth; generous and good principles turned from their objects and rushing to excess: these open or secret enemies surround us on every side, and either entice or drag us into the paths of folly, of vice, and of misery.-Dr W. L. Brown.


The nettle is generally visited by exterminating warfare among agriculturists; nevertheless it has its uses, and the Dutch have contrived to make it serviceable and even advantageous. The young leaves are good eating, the stem is woven into coarse stuffs, and the jockeys mix the seed with the food of horses in order to give them a sleek coat; and the roots, when washed and mixed with alum or common salt, give a yellow die. It is a wholesome food for horned cattle when young; it will grow in the most arid soil, demands no cultivation, for it stands all weathers, and sows itself. It may be cut two or three times in the summer, and is one of the earliest of plants; when cut for hay, it must not be too old, for then the cattle refuse to eat the dried stalks.


anchor unto them that are sinking in the waves, a staff Prayer is a haven to the shipwrecked mariner, an to the limbs that totter, a mine of jewels to the poor, a security to the rich, a healer of disease, and a guardian of health. Prayer at once secures the continuance of our

Prayer is an all-efficient panoply, a treasure undiminished, a mine which never is exhausted, a sky unobscured by clouds, a haven unruffled by the storm; it is the root, the fountain, and the mother of a thousand blessings. I speak not of the prayer which is cold, and feeble, and devoid of energy; I speak of that which is the child of a contrite spirit, the offspring of a soul converted, born in a blaze of unutterable inspiration, and winged, like lightning, for the skies. The potency of prayer hath subdued the strength of fire; it hath bridled the rage of lions, hushed anarchy to rest, extinguished wars, appeased the elements, expelled demons, burst the chains of death, expanded the gates of heaven, assuaged diseases, repelled frauds, rescued cities from destruction; it hath stayed the sun in its course, and arrested the progress of the thunderbolt; in a word, it hath destroyed whatever is an enemy to man. I again repeat, that I speak not of the prayer engendered by the lips, but of that which ascends from the recesses of the heart. Assuredly, there is nothing more potent than prayer; yea, there is nothing comparable to it. A monarch vested in gorgeous habiliments is far less illustrious than a kneeling suppliant, ennobled and adorned by communion with his God. How august a privilege it is, when angels are present, and archangels throng around-when cherubim and seraphim encircle with their blaze the throne-that a mortal may approach with unrestrained confidence, and converse with heaven's dread Sovereign!-Chrysostom.

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