produced a great sensation by one of his bold movements, and gained great applause for his ingenuity.

According to the customs of that age and country, the nobles, after the usual ceremonies of the evening were over, sat down to a free and promiscuous conversation. Christianity was then the great topic. The church was always ridiculed, and the Bible was treated with unsparing severity.

Growing warmer and warmer in their sarcastic remarks, one great lord commanded, for a moment, universal attention, by asserting in a round voice, that the Bible was not only a piece of arrant deception, but totally devoid of literary merit. Although the entire party of Frenchmen nodded a hearty assent to the sentence, Franklin gave no signs of approval. Being at that time a court favourite, his companions could not bear a tacit reproof from a man of his weight of influence. They all appealed to him for his opinion. Franklin, in one of his peculiar ways, replied, that he was hardly prepared to give them a suitable answer, as his mind had been running on the merits of a new book of rare excellency, which he had just happened to fall in with at one of the book-stores; and as they had pleased to make allusion to the literary character of the Bible, perhaps it might interest them to compare with that old volume the merits of his new prize. If so, he would read them a short section. All were eager to hear the doctor read them a portion of his rare book. In a very grave and sincere manner he took an old book from his coat-pocket, and with a propriety of utterance read to them a poem.

The poem had its effect. The admiring listeners pronounced it the best they had ever heard or read. "That is pretty," said one. "That is sublimity," said another. "It has not its superior in the world," was the unanimous opinion. They all wished to know the name of the work, and whether that was a specimen of its

THE SEASONS.

THERE is no season which, rightly improved, is not capable of affording delight; each having its appropriate phenomena, and its natural influence over the spirits.

In spring, the heart responds to the new-born beauty, the lightsome gladness, the exhilarating and ever-varying aspect of that joyous season. As yet the trembling year is unconfirmed, and winter's chilliness often returns after the sun has set, reminding us of the changefulness and uncertainty of even the brightest scenes below the skies. The clouds of sorrow and the storms of adversity may obscure our prospects, or destroy our bliss; and it is only the Christian, who, amid the desolation of his hopes, is yet able "to rejoice in the Lord, and to joy in the God of his salvation."

Ere long, however, in obedience to those unerring laws by which the seasons succeed one another in their appointed order, the soft and tepid breezes loosen the clods of the valleys, and the husbandman joyously prepares the soil for the reception of the precious grain, which he scatters far and wide in liberal profusion, singing as he goes, with his eye fixed in hopeful anticipation, as though already waved before him the golden ears, bending with the weight of an abundant harvest.

Nor is this the only beauty of the season of spring; vegetation feels its penetrating and revivifying influences; the sun, as if awaking from a profound sleep, shines forth with increased strength, and piercing with his beams recesses dark and deep, where, leafless and forlorn, have stood, for months, trees, plants, and shrubs, he exerts his genial power below the earth, which quickly brings to its surface those exhalations which tend again to cover its surface with a robe of living green; and we behold the face of nature, arrayed in all its fresh features of grace and loveliness, with feelings of increased admiration for temporary gloominess and sterility.

Thus summer is introduced, rich in the perfected beauties and productions of spring. Oh, how the grateful heart luxuriates amidst the thousand treasures which have been poured into her lap! especially when we realise the fact of their coming from Him who, with the munificence of a God, giveth us all things richly to enjoy; of which, if we are Christians, our relish

will be tenfold, since, in those gifts, we shall not only recognise the gracious Giver, but use them with the full sense of their having been provided for our benefit and delight:

"His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say, 'My Father made them all!"

In this season of universal perfection and abundance, the eye, the ear, and the heart are full of delight; everything appears not only possessed of life, but as having it "more abundantly.' The flowers with their million dyes; the hedge-rows crowded with delicate wildflowers; the trees, with their umbrageous foliage; the insect and reptile tribes rushing into life, as it were, with impatient haste to flutter on the wing, or to creep upon the warm and dusty earth; -these everywhere abound; where'er we tread we cannot turn from them; they go before us; they follow us o'er land, o'er stream, o'er mountains, hills, or valleys; all nature teems with life, and light, and happiness; and the labour, which now occupies so many in the fields, serves but to lend enchantment to the

scenery by which we are every where

surrounded!

Among these engagements of the summer season, there is one that strikes the mind of a stranger, or the merely superficial observer, with something of cruelty we refer to sheep-shearing, a description of which has been so graphically given by the author of "The Seasons:'

"Fear not, ye gentle tribes, 't is not the knife
Of horrid slaughter that is o'er you waved;
No, 't is the tender swain's well-guided shears,
Who, having now to pay his annual care,
Borrow'd your fleece, to you a cumbrous load,
Will send you bounding to your hills again."

Such a picture, to the reflective mind, may serve well to remind us of the kindness and mercy which there often is in that discipline exercised by the Almighty upon his children, who, ignorant of his intentions towards them, mourn over their sufferings, and desire, sometimes impatiently, their removal; and not, until released, do they discover it was for their ultimate comfort and welfare these pains were inflicted. Happy they who at such times can say, "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him :"

"Beneath His smile my heart has lived,
And part of heaven possess'd;
I'll praise His name for grace received,
And trust him for the rest."

Many more are the interesting occupations which grace this busy period; some of which we should like to bring before the reader did space permit; but we must content ourselves by closing our remarks on summer by those beautiful lines which follow the poet's admiration of the orb of day-the sun of nature's system-the delegated source "of light, and life, and grace, and joy below :"

"How shall I then attempt to sing of Him
Who, Light himself, in uncreated light
Invested deep, dwells awfully retired
From mortal eye, or angel's purer ken?
Whose single smile has, from the first of time,
Fill'd overflowing all those lamps of heaven,
That beam for ever through the boundless sky:
But, should he hide his face, the astonish'd sun
And all the extinguish'd stars would loos'ning
reel

Wide from their spheres, and chaos come again."

If thus his works declare his wisdom, power, and love; if all nature be vocal in his praise, how much more should man, whose enjoyment they were designed to promote, proclaim the love and goodness of the great Creator! How beautiful is the order in which the seasons occur !— one gradually introducing another; the adaptation, too, visible in the construction of every living thing, and the provision made for their necessities, all proclaim the wisdom and the mercy of a God! to his most perfect creature man, is alike From the minutest substance that has life, discernible the hand of the omnipotent One. Who is not particularly struck by the gradual approach of autumn? The bright Howers of the months of summer are followed by those of more sombre hues; the luxuriant green of the forest-trees, which have afforded a graceful shade to the eye, and a cool retreat from the piercing rays of a vertical sun, now assume a robe of variegated colours; and the flowers, so late of gay and dazzling brightness, give place to those of richer, but less brilliant hues, which, however, better harmonise with the general aspect of the season, and, from their novelty, yield as much delight and satisfaction as those of the by-gone season.

Besides such changes, what, to him who contemplates, who sees God in all around, and within him, must be his feelings, as he views, waving before him, the golden harvest, which speaks of plenty for man and beast! Does not the

But what, it may be asked by some, has all this to do with the season of the year? We think that we have sufficiently showed that it has much. There are reflections arising out of that comparatively dark and loveless season-winter, when coldness and sterility pervade the surface of the earth, which so lately was covered with beauty and abundance, and whose treasures refreshed and enriched us on every hand, that are calculated to wean us from earth, and to inspire us with aspirations after a fairer and happier clime. Not that we would depreciate winterfar from it; had we time we might dwell long upon the value of this interesting season. It has its joys and its privileges; among the latter, not the least, we think, is the leisure it affords for serious thought, and preparation for a future and better state of existence. Our remarks being necessarily restricted within a given space, we have preferred confining them to those practical lessons which especially concern the immortal soul, rather than to a description of the labours or the sports that relate to the wants or the pleasures

of time.

SUNSET IN THE DESERT.

In the evening, after the labour of the day (says Mr. Layard), I often sat at the door of my tent, and giving myself up to the full enjoyment of that calm and repose which are imparted to the senses by such scenes as these, gazed listlessly on the varied groups before me. As the

even their rocky sides had struggled to emulate the verdant clothing of the plain; its receding rays were gradually withdrawn, like a transparent veil of light from the landscape. Over the pure cloudless sky was the glow of the last light. The great mound threw its dark shadow far across the plain. In the distance, and beyond the Zab, Keshaf, another venerable ruin, rose indistinctly into the evening mist. Still more distant, and still more indistinct, was a solitary hill, overlooking the ancient city of Arbela. The Kurdish mountains, whose snowy summits cherished the dying sunbeams, yet struggled with the twilight. The bleating of sheep and lowing of cattle, at first faint, became louder as the flocks returned from their pastures, and wan dered amongst the tents. Girls hurried over the greensward to seek their father's cattle, or crouched down to milk those which had returned alone to their wellremembered folds. Some were coming from the river, bearing the replenished pitcher on their heads or shoulders; others, no less graceful in their form, and erect in their carriage, were carrying the heavy load of long grass which they had cut in the meadows. Sometimes a party of horsemen might have been seen in the distance, slowly crossing the plain, the tufts of ostrich feathers which topped their long spears showing darkly against the evening sky. They would ride up to my tent, and give me the usual salutation, "Peace be with you, O Bey!" or, "Allah Allwak, God help you!" Then driving the end of their lances into the ground, they would spring from their mares, and fasten their halters to the still quivering weapons. Seating themselves on the grass, they related deeds of war and plunder, or speculated on the site of the tents of Sefuk, until the moon arose, when they vaulted into their saddles, and took the way of the desert.

The plain now glittered with innumerable fires. As the night advanced, they vanished one by one, until the landscape was wrapped in darkness and in silence,-only disturbed by the barking of the Arab dog.

THE GRIQUAS.

and a plough. Notwithstanding this natural indolence, they have (thanks to their religious instruction) made considerable progress in civilisation and improvement. Thirty years ago, Mr. Anderson, to whom they are indebted for their advancement, found them poor, barbarian, and pagan, wandering about on the banks of the Gariep with a few flocks, knowing nothing of Europeans but their name and their vices. The kind missionary offered himself to become their instructor, followed them with his family through all the vicissitudes of their nomadic life, and, under the Divine blessing, became the instrument of their conversion and civilisation. After five years of fatigue and toil, he succeeded in getting them to settle. The greater part renounced their superstitions and their wandering mode of life. ... They have given up their miserable huts for houses more healthy and more commodious, and their sheepskin cloaks for European clothing. They are regular in their attendance at religious worship, and they begin to enjoy the blessings of a partial civilisation effected by Christianity. Taste and skill in vocal music is one, and not the least interesting, trait in their character. Their voice is not deep-toned, but is pretty flexible, and is raised without difficulty to the highest notes. That of the women is particularly sweet and harmonious. In the evening, after the cattle have been brought back from the fields, they collect in groups before their houses, and by the light of the stars, sing some of the sweetest of England's sacred airs. Those of New Sabbath, Gloucester, Milburn, Auburn, Miles-lane, Calcutta, Smyrna, and "God save the Queen,' are familiar to them. Happily ignorant of all profane song, they know nothing of music but its moral and religious influence. They sing only the praises of God-such as have been left to them in simple and beautiful Dutch verse, by the pious Dr. Vander Kemp, or composed by their missionaries. -From "An Explanatory Tour to the North-East of the Cape of Good Hope." By the Rev. T. Arbousset and F. Daumas, of the French Missionary Society.

ADVANCE OF THE AGE.

Or the blessings which civilisation and philosophy bring with them, a large

proportion is common to all ranks, and would, if withdrawn, be missed as painfully by the labourer as by the peer. The market-place which the rustic can now reach with his cart in an hour was, a hundred and sixty years ago, a day's journey from him. The street which now affords to the artisan, during the whole night, a secure, a convenient, and a brilliantly-lighted walk, was, a hundred and sixty years ago, so dark after sunset that he would not have been able to see his hand, so ill-paved that he would have run constant risk of breaking his neck, and so ill-watched that he would have been in imminent danger of being knocked down, and plundered of his small earnings. Every bricklayer who falls from a scaffold, every sweeper of a crossing who is run over by a carriage, may now have his wounds dressed and his limbs set with a skill such as, a hundred and sixty years ago, all the wealth of a great lord like Ormond, or of a merchant prince like Clayton, could not have purchased. Some frightful diseases have been extirpated by science, and some have been banished by police.-Macaulay.

CHARITY.

"My own experience, and every succeeding year of my protracted life, have more and still more convinced me that that by this chiefly we are known to be 'the end of the commandment is charity;' the disciples of Christ, and that the deficiency of brotherly kindness and true Christian love, more perhaps than all other things that are wanting,' hinders the spread of the gospel, and the good fruits of Christianity. Little need we wonder that the apostle, who continually, and the more as he advanced in age, exhorted Christians to love one another,' the disciple whom Jesus loved.”” Bishop Gresweld.

INCALCULABLE INJURY.

was

THE person who corrupts the faith, or taints the morals of another, may commit such an injury as the whole world could not compensate; and if he draw his brother into sin, it is hardly to be conceived, much less to be expressed, how wide this sin may extend, and what numbers it may be the cause of corrupting and ruining hereafter.-Tucker.