the middle ages. Here, in this lovely place, in the midst of the June sunlight, with the bright river gleaming through the trees, we may well bid good

bye to Hatfield, while old Pepys' words still echo in our ears, for this, whatever else be not, assuredly is "mighty fine." Selected.

"Now garnering gray October's sober grains, Now Christmas hollies pile our loaded wains."

All poets, or poetical prose (not prosy,) writers who are of the descriptive class, who delight to dwell upon scenery, seasons, birds, flowers, waterfalls, rivulets and sunshine, who assimilate their sentiments and subjects to nature's varied and changeful moods, revel in the poetical inspiration of falling leaves, faded flowers, gorgeous colored forests all aflame with beauty, brown hills and royal-purple sunsets.

"But see the fading many-colored woods, Shade deep'ning over shade, the country round Embrown."

Autumn in the poets nomenclature is defined as the "Daughter of the Year." She carries off the palm with dignity in royal style. The year has reached its maturity and is receiving the crown of its glory, the luscious fruits of vine and tree, the fields of ripened grain, gathered with the sickle and gleaned by the reapers, the bundles strewed or stacked, stretching afar in the distance, gladden the eye and convey to the soul the idea of abundance. The golden yellow corn in ear, and all the varieties of the vegetable kingdom, impress one with a sense of fulness, of completeness, and seem the similitude of earth's wreath of victory and rejoicing.

Autumn even in her triumph is the precursor of doom, of the cold burial of hopes, of all that was fresh and green and beautiful in the grave of stern, hard relentless winter, the monarch of the year, who rules with icy coldness and crushes the life from out the heart of the matron, whose full summer has ripened into maturity. Winter bedecks the brow, so lately crowned with the victor's wreath of beauty and

bloom, with the cold frosted, glittering icicle.

"The Autumn's wind swept o'er the hill, And Winter's breath comes cold and chill." Although we must confess to a lingering love for Spring and Summer, yet Autumn with its pensive evening twilights, its "melancholy sadness," its rustle and flutter of dry leaves, has something peculiarly akin to poetical sentiment, and also really seems congenial, and in sympathy with the "sober realities of life." This season may well be termed moody in more respects than one, for it changes almost daily. Autumn is almost as fickle in November as Spring is in April, and the mood of persons hangs on the same equivocal vicissitudes.

Autumn does seem peculiarly appropriate for meditation and reflection, the "sear and yellow leaf," the fading of "the day's sweet light," and the gray shadows of the cool and amber paling moonlight night, infuse their quiet beauty into the human soul. Nature has groaned, as it were, with the heavy weight of "corn and oil," and the sheaves of grain are full to bursting, and the wine gushes with fulness from the press, and the land o'erflows with the bounty of the harvest of all earth's products. The sky is flarning with its crimson shades and coloring, and the reflection drapes the hills and woods with violet and purple shadows. The landscape mellows as the year wanes and winter comes apace. There is a language in the trees at this peculiar season that passes all description; it speaks forcibly to those who possess intuition, or susceptibility to feel the influence that pervades the atmosphere of their locality, and seems to diffuse itself into the very soul of the lover of nature, and

pour itself forth spontaneously in strains and bursts of enthusiasm that run parallel to the surroundings. It is well to devote a little season to meditation and reflection, but not allow one's self to merge into gloom, and dwell too much among shadows, for substance is always preferable to shadows, and to plant one's feet on the solid earth is surer footing than flying off into the clouds, however alluring their ethereal proportions may appear in the distance. One is more certain of one's self on terra firma than in the region of uncertainty. There is a pathos in the sighing requiem of the departing glory of Autumn that falls soothingly upon the senses, and impresses one with a solemnity, mingled with reverance, that reaches out after and grasps all of the Infinite with which nature, in her teeming luxuriance, at this season abounds.

The death of vegetation by frost and wind late in the autumn is styled the funeral of the year, it has been born in its characteristic sense, has been fondled and dandled in the arms of spring, has developed into beauty under the auspices of summer, and has ripened into fulness of strength and grown sober and gray with the chilly winds of autumn and the trees sigh its requiem, and winter comes to grasp with its firm hold, and gather in its bosom all that remains of beauty and fragrance of the passing year; and

with the Christmas holidays, make what recompense it may for marring the beauty and despoiling the glory of nature's perfection and burying it out of sight. How many lessons of life may be learned from the sentiments which the changes of time involve! How many precious memories are buried with the fading of the leaves, how many hopes are blown away regretfully, that we recall in sympathy with the fluttering leaves, and the flitting birds, who no longer sing as before, but pass to other and more congenial climes!

But if one has sown good seed in the heart, and treasured up in the garner of the mind, pure thoughts and holy inspirations, then, by the winter fireside, with kindly nurture, these exquisite gems of true and genuine worth may be growing and strengthening and diffusing light and imparting to other hearts and other minds a genial warmth, a glowing comfort, that may culminate in a purity and freshness that will beautify and adorn the life indoors, and cheer and gladden the atmosphere of home, or the surroundings of the poor and lowly, and give expression and tone to the heaven-born charity, which, properly nourished, fills the human soul with joy, come spring or summer, autumn or winAmethyst.

ter.

Best of glory is reflected by honesty.

inward wealth, he is like the diamond in the rough-only needs a little polishing to make his brilliancy excel that of all other jewels. His word is as good as his bond, and were there no law compelling people to act honorably, you could trust him and he would feel more securely bound by his conscience, than by any written document that might bear his signature. To take unfair advantage is foreign to his nature.

One possessing true honor is not constantly guarding his speech,

so as to

knows to be false. In one of this nature, even should he attempt such a thing, his countenance would betray him, and his scheme would fall through. He will do unto others as he would be done by, for he possesses the quality of unselfishness where honor demands. While honor and unselfishness could not consistently be called synonymous terms, they are certainly each an attribute of the other. Honor is not found in him who would betray his friend because he has him in his power; nor is it found in one who is always prying into the affairs of others, when such affairs concern him not. Neither do you find a man of honor anxious to impart information that he may have obtained accidentally or otherwise, when he knows such information should be held sacred.

Real honor can be obtained by any one who wishes to endow himself with it, and will carry his desires into execution. It cannot be bestowed by one upon another, but is won by each acting in accordance with an unvitiated conscience and constantly following its dictation without a desire to obtain the esteem of mankind.

Honor is like reputation and character, in that it displays itself in small actions, thus necessitating its slow growth, but certain maturity. There is a quality which by wicked humanity is termed honor, that may be obtained by worldly wealth or heredity. It is, however, often an abuse of the term, and should be prefixed by the word "false." Taking a broad view of the meaning of honor, it embraces truth; therefore the term "false honor" is equivalent to the term

"false truth," which is absurd in the ex treme. However, this quality which, for convenience sake, we may term false honor, is founded upon interest, not principle. It proclaims its lofty aims in the fear that they may of cal erwise be discovered, while true honor prefers that they be demonstrated in actions.

One who is moved by false honor finds no time to demonstrate that which he would have his fellow creatures believe, for he is engaged in trying to remove doubt which he fancies exists in the minds of men regarding his honor. He knows that were his true character known, those doubts which he fancies exist, would for a certainty be supplanted by a knowledge that he could not face; and he lives in constant fear that his falsity may be found out.

True honor is founded upon virtue and unless allied thereto, bocomes changeable; governed more or less by the manners and customs prevailing around it. It might be said that such honor is born, serves its natural period of existence and dies the same as mortality; but when allied to virtue, it becomes a thing eternal without beginning, without end; not bounded by time, nor terminated by death. Honor wins approbation from even the most changeable and unbelieving of men, and is by them regarded as a quality of time, not of eternity; but allied to the eternal principle of virtue, an attribute of Him who never changes, honor is a property of truth and is eternal. Melvin D. Wells.

The height of fashion and the height of folly reach to about the same altitude.

IT has been the hope of my life to visit the countries of the far north, where mid-summer nights are lit up by the king of day, in all his splendor and glory. The vivid descriptions of Dr. Kane, in his Arctic Explorations made, perhaps, the first impression upon my mind, and kindled the glowing desire

which has burned steadily in my breast, to see the sun at midnight, and sniff the breezes of the Arctic circle. But it has not yet fallen to my lot to make the northern voyage, and I am compelled to content myself by reading accounts of others' voyages, whose zeal in search of the ice-bound pole, has taken them be

yond the habitable portions of the globe, to struggle, suffer and die in their vain endeavor. A wonderful relief from the sickening tales of Arctic hardships, is met in the fascinating volumes of Paul du Chaillu, entitled: "The Land of the Midnight Sun." In these elegant works the author tells of five or six years travel in Norway, Sweden and Lapland. He gives characteristic sketches of scenes and people, that are wonderfully entertaining and instructive. Among other things he tells us of the midnight sun. He says: "How beautiful was the hour of midnight! How red and gorgeous was the sun! How drowsy was the landscape; nature seemed asleep in the midst of sunshine; dew-drops glittered like precious stones, as they hung from the blades of grass, the petals of wild flowers and the leaves of the birch trees."

It sounds strange to hear of wild flowers and tender vegetation within the region of perpetual snow and ice. Yet most beautiful flowers and some trees were found on the very end of the North Cape, the extreme northern point of Norway, and less than twenty degrees from the pole itself. But it is the sun at midnight we wish to hear described, and we will follow Du Chaillu in his clear and delightful explanations:

We crossed the Arctic circle at sixtydegrees, thirty-two minutes north latitude or fourteen hundred and eight miles south from the pole, where the sun shines for an entire day, on the twentysecond of June, and the observer will see it above the horizon at midnight, and due north. After that date, by journeying north on an average of about ten miles a day, he would continue to see the midnight sun till he reached the pole. On the twenty-second of September, the sun descends to the horizon, where it will rest, so to speak, all day long; on the following day it disappears till the twenty-second of March.

The sun at midnight is always north of the observer, on account of the position of the earth. It seems to travel around a circle, requiring twenty-four hours for its completion, it being noon when it reaches the greatest elevation and mid

night at the lowest. Its ascent and descent are so imperceptible, and the variations so slight, that it sinks south very slowly, and its disappearance below the horizon is almost immediately followed by its reappearance again.

The phenomenon of the midnight sun may be explained as follows: The earth revolves about the sun, once every year, and rotates on its axis once every twenty-four hours. The earth's orbit, or path described by it in its annual revolution about the sun, is, so to speak, a circle somewhat elongated, called an ellipse. The axis about which the daily rotation takes place, is a straight line passed through the earth, and the extremities of which are called poles-one the north, and the other the south pole. The axis is not perpendicular to the plain of the orbit, but is inclined to it at an angle of 23° 28′ which angle is called the obliquity of the ecliptic. The earth therefore, in moving about the sun, is not upright but inclined, so that in different parts of its course it presents always a half but a different half, of its surface to the sun.

Twice in the year, March 21st, and September 21st, the exact half of the earth along its axis is illuminated. On these dates, therefore, any point on the earth's surface is, during a rotation of the earth on its axis, half the time in light and half in darkness—that is, day and night are twelve hours each all over the globe. For this reason these dates are called Equinoxes-March 21st being the vernal and September 21st the autumnal equinox. As the earth moves on in its orbit after March 21st, the north pole inclines more and more towards the sun, till June 21st, after which it turns slowly away from it. On September 21st, day and night åre, again equal all over the earth; and immediately after this, the north pole is turned entirely from the sun, and does not receive its light again till the following March. It will thus be seen that from the vernal to the autumnal equinox, the north pole is in sunlight, and has a day of six months duration. As the north pole becomes more and more inclined towards the sun,

more and more of the regions around that pole become illuminated, and therefore any point in that region is for any given twenty-four hours, longer in light than in darkness, and its day is longer than the night. The nearer any point is to the pole, the longer during this time is its day.

The number of days, therefore, of constant sunshine depends on the latitude of the observer; and the farther north he finds himself the greater will be the number. Thus, at the pole, the sun is seen for six months; at the Arctic circle for one day, and at the base of the North Cape from the fifteenth of May to the first of August. At the pole, the observer seems to be in a center of a grand spiral movement of the sun, which farther south takes place north of him.

We have here spoken as if the observer were on a level with the horizon; but should he climb a mountain, the sun, of course will appear higher; and should he, instead of traveling fifteen miles north, climb about two hundred and twenty feet above the sea-level each day, he would see it the same as if he had gone north; consequently, if he stood at the Arctic circle at that elevation, and had an unobstructed view, he would see the midnight sun for a correspondingly longer time. Hence the tourists from Haparanda prefer going to the Avasaxa, a hill six hundred and eighty feet above the sea, from which, though eight or ten

miles south of the Arctic circle, they can see the midnight sun for three days.

The brilliancy of the splendid orb varies in intensity like that of sunset and sunrise, according to the state of the moisture of the atmosphere. One day it will be of a deep red color, tingeing everything with a roseate hue and producing a drowsy effect. There are times when the changes in the color between the sunset and sunrise might be compared to the variations of a charcoal fire; now burning with a fierce red glow, then fading away and rekindling with a greater brightness.

There are days when the sun has a pale, whitish appearance, and when even it can be looked at for six or seven hours before midnight. As this hour approaches the sun becomes less glaring, gradually changing into more brilliant shades as it dips toward the lowest point of its course. Its motion is very slow, and for quite awhile it apparently follows a line of the horizon, during which there seems to be a pause, as when the sun reaches noon. This is midnight. For a few minutes the glow of sunset mingles with that of sunrise, and one cannot tell which prevails, but soon the light becomes slowly and gradually more brilliant, announcing the birth of another day- and often before an hour has elapsed, the sun becomes so dazzling that one cannot look at it with the naked eye. De Vallibus.

IN a certain region, renowned from time immemorial for its wonders and curiosities, there is to be seen a most strange and exceedingly terrible monster. The creature is of huge size, and what renders it more fearfully hideous, it seems to possess a sort of grave-worm life, as it is capable of moving and devouring. It has no permanent form; its shape is ever changing, like a cloud in the sky when the winds are blowing upon it. Its material constituents are various, but it has the general appearance of iron

and miry clay, mixed in curious combination.

The body of this creature is stuck all over with frightful heads and arms and trunk-like suckers. Some of the heads are human shaped; others are like different kinds of wild beasts and birds of prey, and each head has an enormous mouth with sharp and terrible teeth. The arms and suckers are of various lengths and size. Some are long and slender, others are short and thick, but all are furnished with either claws or