The natives of New Holland themselves get fat upon serpents well-killed—that is, with the heads adroitly cut off, so as not to suffer the poison to go through the body; or upon earth or tree worms nicely roasted. The Turks roast their kebabs—something near to mutton-chops—by holding them to the fire on skewers. But the inhabitants of Great Britain, accustomed to comforts unknown to any other part of the world, are, when deprived of these comforts, the most helpless in the world.

The natives of Ireland might be supposed to be excellent subjects for emigration, for at home they have often only straw and rags for beds, stones for seats, and one larger in the middle for a table; while the basket or 'kish' that washes the potatoes, receives them again when boiled: so that the pot and basket are the only articles of furniture. Simplicity beyond this is hardly conceivable: there is but one step beyond it—wanting the pot, and throwing the potatoes, however cooked, broadcast upon the stone-table; and this is possible by roasting the potatoes in the embers. The Guachos of South America teach how even the most savoury meal of beef may be obtained without pot or oven—namely, by roasting it in the skin! It is called carne-con-cuero—flesh in the skin—and is pronounced delicious. Diogenes threw away his dish, his only article of furniture, upon seeing a boy drink from his hand; and after this example, an Irishman might throw away his pot; though we would not recommend him to do so.

Unless people know how to prepare food, they may starve in the midst of comparative plenty. It is alleged—though we do not vouch for the fact—that when wheat and maize were carried into Ireland and given gratis, the famine was not stayed. Though they had the wheat and maize, they could not grind them; if ground, they could not cook them—they had neither vessels nor fuel; if vessels and fuel were given, they were still unable to assist themselves—they had not skill to cook them; and if cooked, they could not eat them—they had never been accustomed to do so! Such are the effects of carrying contentment too far: the individual becomes wholly resourceless.

We try to induce them to fish with the same results. If we give them boats, they have no nets; give them nets, they know not how to use them; teach them to use them, and they can neither cook nor eat the fish; and as to selling them for other comforts, there is no market! Without a knowledge of agriculture, or fishing, or even talents to feed themselves, such men are useless in any quarter, unless as subjects to be taught; and now at last, but greatly too late, they are being taught, and the much-abused railway will carry their produce to the market.

The Scottish Celt is more shifty. In the old days when he had flesh and little else to eat, he could broil it on the coals; and a Scotch collop is perhaps equal to a Turkish kebob. We wonder if in Australia the long-forgotten Scotch collop has been revived? It requires no cooking-vessels. It may be held to the fire on a twig, or laid on the coals and turned by a similar twig—bent into a collop-tongs—or even by the fingers.

In the Rebellion of 1745, the Scoto-Celt could knead into a cake the meal, which he carried as his sole provision, and knew that it ought to be fired upon a griddle; but if he had no other convenience, he could knead it in his bonnet, and eat it raw, and go forth to meet and conquer the best-appointed soldiers in Europe. It was only when at last he had neither rest nor food that he was dispersed—not conquered. A lowland Scot is better. With a dish and hot water, and of course the meal and salt, he can make brose, and live and thrive upon it.

How John Bull, who in his own country is carnivorous, and will have his roast-pig on Sunday, if he should slave all the week—how he gets on in a new country, is more doubtful. Very likely, having more wants, he makes more provision for them; but as below a certain rank he is not a writing animal, less is known of his successes or difficulties. For our own part, we think we would have made an excellent Crusoe, and your Crusoe is the only man for a new country.

Some years ago, we travelled over the backbone of Scotland, and returned somewhat on its western fin, both on foot; and all our equipments were a travelling dress, a stout umbrella, and a parcel in wax-cloth strapped on our left shoulder, not larger than is generally seen in the hands of a commercial traveller—that is, twelve inches by six or eight; and yet we never wanted for anything. It is true we had generally the convenience of inns by the way; but if by our Traveller's Guide (which we also carried) we saw the stage was to be long, an oaten cake, with a plug of wheaten bread for the last mouthful, to keep down heartburn, and a slice of cold beef or ham, or a hard-boiled egg, were ample provisions. Drink? There was no lack of drink. Springs of the most beautiful water were frequent by the roadside, and constantly bubbling up, without noise or motion, through the purest sand, though heaven only was looking upon them; and a single leaf from our memorandum-book, formed into the shape of a grocer's twist as wanted, served us as a drinking-cup throughout the journey. Had we even been overtaken by night, it was summer, and a bed under whins, or upon heather, with our umbrella set against the wind, and secured to us, would have been delightful. Once, indeed, we feared this would have been our fate; for on the very top of Corryarrick, and consequently nine miles or more from house or home in any direction, we sprained our ankle, or rather an old sprain returned. To all appearance, we were done for, and might have sat stiff for days or weeks by the solitary spring that happened to be near at the instant. But a piece of flannel from the throat, and a tape from the wondrous parcel, enabled us again to wag; and we finished our allotted journey to Dalwhinnie in time for dinner, tea, and supper in one—and then to our journal with glorious serenity!

Our arrangements for the continent were equally simple. When we were asked to shew our luggage, on entering France, we produced a portmanteau nine inches by six. 'Voila ma magasin!' It was opened, and there were certainly some superfluities, though natural enough in an incipient traveller. 'Une plume pour ecrire l'Histoire de la France!'—'Un cahier pour la meme!' And the intending historian of France, even with his imported pen and paper-book, and also three shirts and some pairs of socks, was allowed to go to his dinner, with his magasin in his hand, and start by the first conveyance; while his less fortunate fellow-travellers had to dine in absence of their luggage, and perhaps give the town that had the honour of being their landing-place, the profit of their company for the night.

But what is the use of all these insinuations of aptitude for colonisation, when there is not such another man in the world? We beg pardon; but we have actually discovered such another, and to introduce him suitably has been the sole aim of our existence in writing this interesting preface. In a most authentic newspaper, we find the following admirable history, copied from the New York Express:—

'A man who had been an unsuccessful delver in the mines of Georgia, on hearing the thrilling news of the gold placers of California, had his spirit quickened within him; and although he had arrived at an age—being about sixty—when the fires of youth usually cease to burn with vigour, he fixed his eyes upon the far-distant and but little-known country, and resolved that he would wend his way thither alone, and even in the absence of that friend, generally thought indispensable, money, of which he was wholly destitute.

'Under such circumstances, it would not avail to think of a passage round "The Horn," or by the more uncertain, and at the same time imperfected route, across the Isthmus. But as California was on this continent, he knew that there was a way thither, though it might lead through trackless deserts and barren wastes. These were not enough to daunt his determined spirit. He bent his way to the "Father of Waters," and worked his way as he could, till he found himself at "Independence," in health, and with no less strength, and with 150 dollars in his purse. He had no family to provide for, or even companion to care for, on the route which he was about to enter. Yet some things were necessary for himself; and to relieve his body from the pressure of a load, he provided himself with a wheel-barrow, on which to place his traps.

'It must not be supposed that our hero was ignorant of the large number of emigrants that was moving over the plains, and it is quite probable that his sagacity was precocious enough to look ahead at the result of attempting to carry forward such ponderous loads, and such a variety of at least dispensable things as the earlier parties started with. A detailed list of the 'amount and variety of goods and wares, useful and superfluous, including many of the appendages of refined and fashionable life, would astonish the reader. Our hero was not in a hurry. He reasoned thus: "The world was not made in a day; the race is not always for the swift." He trundled along his barrow, enjoying the comforts of his pipe, the object of wonder to many, and the subject of much sportive remark to those who were hurried along by their fresh and spirited teams on their first days.

'Many weeks had not passed, however, before our traveller had tangible evidence that trouble had fallen to the lot of some who had preceded him. A stray ox was feeding on his track: the mate of which, he afterwards learned, was killed, and this one turned adrift as useless. He coaxed this waif to be the companion of his journey, taking care to stop where he could provide himself with the needful sustenance. He had not travelled far before he found a mate for his ox, and ere long a wagon, which had given way in some of its parts, and been abandoned by its rightful owner, and left in the road. Our travelling genius was aroused to turn these mishaps to his own advantage; so he went straightway to work to patch and bolster up the wagon, bound his faithful oxen to it, and changed his employment from trundling a wheel-barrow to driving a team. Onward moved the new establishment, the owner gathering as he went, from the superabundance of those who had gone before him, various articles of utility—such as flour, provisions of all kinds, books, implements, even rich carpets, &c. which had been cast off as burdensome by other travellers. He would occasionally find poor worn-out animals that had been left behind, and as it was not important for him to speed his course, he gathered them together, stopping where there was abundance of grass, long enough for his cattle to gain a little strength and spirit. Time rolled on, and his wagon rolled with it, till he reached the end of his journey, when it was discovered that he had an uncommon fine team and a good wagon, &c. which produced him on the sale 2500 dollars.

'Being now relieved of the care of his team, and in the midst of the gold-diggings, he soon closed his prospecting by a location; and while all around him were concentrating their strength to consummate the work of years in a few months, he deliberately commenced building, finishing, and, as fast as he could, furnishing, a comfortable cabin. His wood he gathered and regularly piled in a straight line and perpendicular by the door, convenient as though the old lady had been within to provide his meals. He acted upon the adage, "Never to start till you are ready." Now our hero was ready to commence working his "claim;" and this he did, as he did everything else, steadily and systematically.

'He may yet be seen at his work, with the prospect—if he lives to be an old man—of being rich; for in the last two years he has accumulated 10,000 dollars.'

Need we add a word? This is decidedly the kind of man for emigrating—or, indeed, for remaining at home. We, being of his own character, can conceive his delicious nights of camping out, his head under his wheel-barrow, until he arrived at the dignity of a wagon; his principal luggage being perhaps a coverlet, to preserve him from the cold in sleep, and a gun that unscrewed, and its appendages, to provide him a fresh bird or beef. It is very probable that he sought neither of these, but was contented with something concentrated and preserved, and thus feasted; and with a drink from some delicious spring, or from a bottle—that could not be broken—supplied at the last spring he had passed, lay down conscious of his progress, well satisfied with the past, and hopeful of the future.

On his arrival at his destination, his conduct is equally exemplary. Every one should provide for the preservation of life and health as first measures; and if not done at a rate which future exertions are likely to render profitable, why make the expenditure? Now, many are in all these new adventures expending on inevitable necessities—having made no previous provision for them—such sums as render all their exertions hopeless; while at the same time they are sacrificing health and strength.

The government of Australia has certainly been very successful in preserving order at the gold placers there, and has given its sanction upon moderate terms; for here, we believe, gold and silver mines are inter regalia, and could have been entirely seized by the crown. We sincerely trust it will appropriate the great and unexpected revenue thence arising in improving the roads through this magnificent country, and providing shelter for the traveller; for at this moment, many of the roads being over the steepest mountains, and the gradients unmitigated by cuttings, or any other act of engineering whatever, they are all but impassable, and are travelled with the greatest torture to the unfortunate animals concerned. It was the reproach of Spain, that though in possession of South America for centuries, she had formed few roads; and that the few formed were bad, and the accommodation in their neighbourhood of the worst description—often open sheds, without food or furniture, or indeed inhabitants; or if inhabited, with only stones for seats, and raised mounds of earth for beds. Even now, in little more than half a century, things are better in Australia than this, at least wherever government has extended. But there is a vast deal more to be done; and it is a pity that in the first place suitable schools are not formed for the persons intending to emigrate, and opportunity given them to do so, without the degradation of crime, and the expense and disgrace of conviction.



EMPLOYEES AND EMPLOYED.

The Westminster Review for January, in an able and temperate article, entitled Employers and Employed, delineates the progress of the working power from the original condition of serfdom, through that of vassalage, which prevailed in the middle ages, to the system of simple contract in which we now find it in France and America. This the writer regards as part of a universal progress towards a more and more equalised condition of the various orders of men—'an equality, not perhaps of wealth, or of mind, or of inherent power, but of social condition, and of individual rights and freedom.' In England, however, we are only in a state of transition from that relation of protection on the one hand, and respect or loyalty on the other, which constituted the system of vassalage, to the true democratic relation which assumes a perfect equality and independence in the contracting parties. 'The master cannot divest himself of the idea, that in virtue of his rank he is entitled to deference and submission; and the workman conceives that, in virtue of his comparative poverty, he is entitled to assistance in difficulty, and to protection from the consequences of his own folly and improvidence. Each party expects from the other something more than is expressed or implied in the covenant between them. The workman, asserting his equality and independence, claims from his employer services which only inferiority can legitimately demand; the master, tacitly and in his heart denying this equality and independence, repudiates claims which only the validity of this plea of equality and independence can effectually nonsuit or liquidate.'

Arguing that 'the reciprocal duties of employers and employed, as such, are comprised within the limits of their covenant,' the writer goes on to say, that nevertheless there remains a relation of 'fellow-citizenship and of Christian neighbourhood,' by virtue of which the employer owes service to his work-people, seeing that 'every man owes service to every man whom he is in a position to serve.' Let not the Pharisaic fundholder and lazy mortgagee suppose that the great employers of labour are thus under a peculiar obligation from which they are exempt. The obligation is assumed to be equal upon all who have power and means; and it only lies with special weight at the door of the employer of multitudes, in as far as he is in a situation to exercise influence over their character and conduct, and usually has greater means of rendering aid suited to their particular necessities.

Before proceeding to expound the various duties thus imposed upon the employer, the writer lays down a primary duty as essential to the due performance of the rest—namely, he must see to making his business succeed; and for this end he must possess a sufficient capital at starting; and he must not, for any reasons of vanity or benevolence, or through laxness, pay higher wages than the state of the labour-market and the prospects of trade require. Of the secondary duties which next come in course—and which, be it remembered, arise not from the mastership, but from the neighbourship—the first is that of 'making his factory, and the processes carried on there, as healthy as care and sanitary science can render them.' 'This is the more incumbent upon him, as it is little likely to be thought of or demanded by his workmen. It is a topic on which his cultivated intelligence is almost sure to place him far ahead of them; and out of the superiority, as we have seen, springs the obligation.' Our reviewer adds the remark, that, 'in the minor workshops, and especially in the work-rooms of tailors and seamstresses, the employers are still, for the most part, unawakened to the importance and imperativeness of this class of obligations. The health of thousands is sacrificed from pure ignorance and want of thought.'

One mode of serving those who work for him, which the circumstances render appropriate, is to provide them with decent and comfortable dwellings. Much has been done in this way. 'In almost all country establishments, and in most of those in the smaller towns, the employers have been careful to surround their mills with substantial and well-built cottages, often with gardens attached to them, containing four rooms—kitchen, scullery, and two bedrooms: cottages which are let for rents which at once remunerate the owner and are easy for the occupier.' Even in large towns, where there are great local difficulties, something has been done by the building of Model Lodging-houses, and by the efforts of Societies for improving the Dwellings of the Poor. The writer specifies one of the greatest difficulties as existing in the working-people themselves: when provided with a variety of rooms for the separation of the various members of their families, they are very apt to defeat the whole plan by taking in lodgers, and contenting themselves with the filthy and depraving huddlement out of which their benevolent superiors endeavoured to rescue them. But it may be hoped that, by promoting only a few of the more intelligent and better-disposed to such improved dwellings, and thus setting up good examples, the multitude might in time be trained to an appreciation of the decency and comfort of ampler accommodation. Another wide field of usefulness is open to the employers in the establishment of schools, reading-rooms, baths, wash-houses, and the like.

It strikes us that the writer of this article is not true to his own principle in his view of the duties of the employer. We readily grant the duty of making his business prosperous and his workshops healthy. To fail in the latter particular especially, were not merely to fail in a duty, but to incur a heavy positive blame. But we cannot see how it is incumbent on the employer to provide houses for the persons who enter into the labour-contract with him, any more than to see that they get their four-pound loaf of a certain quality or price. It may be a graceful thing, a piece of noble benevolence, to enter into these building schemes, but it is also to go back into that system of vassalage out of which it is assumed that the relation of employer and employed is passing. Either the new buildings will pay as speculations, or they will not. If they are sure to pay, ordinary speculators will be as ready to furnish them as bakers are to sell bread. If the contrary be the case, why burden with the actual or probable loss the party in a simple contract which involves no such obligation? Clearly, there must be no great reason to expect a fair return for capital laid out in this way, or we should see building schemes for the working-classes taken up extensively by ordinary speculators. For employers, then, to enter into such plans, must in some degree be the result of benevolent feelings towards their men; and, so far, we must hold there is an acknowledgment on both sides that the system of vassalage is not yet extinct amongst us, and that the time for its extinction is not yet come.

If we look, however, at the entire condition of the working-people of England, we shall see that it acknowledges the same truth in some of its broadest features. When a time of depression comes, and factories do not require half of their usual number of hands, or even so many, it is never expected, on any hand, that the superfluous labourers are to maintain themselves till better times return. The employer is expected to keep them in his service, at least on short time, and at a reduced remuneration, although at a ruinous loss to himself. The workmen, though well aware of the contingency, make little or no provision against it, but calmly trust to the funds of their employers, or the contributions of the class to which these belong. Now, while such a practice exists, the relation of employer and employed is not that of independent contractors, but so far that of the feudal baron and his villeins, or of a chieftain and his 'following.' It is, in effect, a voluntarily maintained slavery on the part of the operatives—a habit as incompatible with political liberty as with moral dignity and progress, and therefore a sore evil in our state. Obviously, to perfect the system of independent contract, the workmen would need to redeem themselves from that condition of utter unprovidedness in which the great bulk of them are for the present content to live. Instead of what we see so prevalent now—a sort of hopelessness as to the benefits of saving—a dread to let it be known or imagined of them that they possess any store, lest it lead to a reduction of their wages (a foolish fallacy), or deprive them of a claim on their employer's consideration in the event of a period of depression (a mean and unworthy fear), we must see a dignified sense of independence, resting on the possession of some kind of property, before we can expect that even this stage in the Progress of Labour shall be truly reached.

But is it not just one of the essential disadvantages attending the contract system, or may we rather call it the system of weekly hire, that while it prompts the employer to frugality, by the obvious benefits to him of constant accumulation, it leaves the employed, as a mass, without a sufficient motive to the same virtue, and thus insures their being retained in that unprovidedness which forbids independence and true social dignity? On this point, were we a workman, we should be sorry to rest in an affirmative, or to allow it to slacken our exertions or sap our self-denial; because if there is a higher development of the labouring state in store for society, it can only be attained by the more speedy perfection of the contract state in the entire independence of the workman. The writer from whom we have quoted thinks, and with his sentiments we entirely concur, that 'society, in its progress towards an ideal state, may have to undergo modifications, compared with which all previous ones will seem trifling and superficial. Of one thing only can we feel secure—namely, that the loyal and punctual discharge of all the obligations arising out of existing social relations will best hallow, beautify, and elevate those relations, if they are destined to be permanent; and will best prepare a peaceful and beneficent advent for their successors, if, like so much that in its day seemed eternal, they too are doomed to pass away.'



ANECDOTE OF THE FIELD OF SHERRIFMUIR.

My grandfather, William Wilson, was born in the farmhouse of Drumbrae, on the estate of Airthrey, at no great distance from the field of Sherrifmuir. At the rebellion of 1715, he was a lad of fifteen years of age, and learning that the rebels under the Earl of Mar had met with the royal forces under the Duke of Argyle in the neighbourhood, on the morning of Sunday the 12th November, while it was still dusk, he went to the top of a neighbouring hill named Glentye, from which the whole of the moor was discernible, and on which a number of country people were stationed, attracted to the spot, like himself, by curiosity. Being at no great distance from both armies, he could see them distinctly. The Highlanders, who observed no regular order, he compared to a large, dark, formless cloud, forming a striking contrast to the regular lines and disciplined appearance of the royal army. After observing them for some space of time, an orderly dragoon, sent by the Duke of Argyle, rode up to the spot where the spectators stood, warning them to remove from a position in which they were in as great danger as the combatants themselves. My grandfather accordingly returned home, listening with awe to the sharp report of musketry, intermixed with the booming of cannon, which now informed him that the battle had commenced. He had not been long in the house when a dismounted dragoon made his appearance, requesting to have his left wrist bandaged, so as to stop the blood. The hand had been cut off, and his horse killed under him, and he was on his way to Stirling to seek surgical aid. While his wishes were being complied with, he occupied himself in taking some refreshment, till one of the farm-servants came in and warned him that four armed Highlanders were coming down the hill in the direction of the house. The soldier, who had no doubt been taught at the Marlborough school, and served perhaps at Ramillies and Blenheim, immediately went out to the front of the house, which concealed him from his enemies. Presently, he heard by the footsteps that one was near, when he instantly presented himself at the gable, and shot the foremost Highlander with his carbine; then, seeing that the others came on in Indian file, with short distances between, he advanced to meet them, dropped the second with a bullet from his pistol, and cut down the third with his sword. The fourth, seeing the fate of his comrades, took to flight. After this wholesale execution, the dragoon, with perfect coolness, returned to the house, finished his repast, tranquilly said his thanks and adieus, and went off in the direction of Stirling. The next morning the country people were summoned to bury the dead. The ground was thickly covered with cranreuch, and life still remained in numbers of both armies, who begged earnestly for water. But what struck my grandfather particularly was, that the heads and bodies of a great many of the slain royalists were horribly mutilated by the claymores of the Highlanders; while on those of the Highlanders themselves nothing was observed but the wound which had caused their death.—Communicated by Mr Alexander Wilson, shoemaker, Stirling.



THINNESS OF A SOAP-BUBBLE.

A soap-bubble as it floats in the light of the sun reflects to the eye an endless variety of the most gorgeous tints of colour. Newton shewed, that to each of these tints corresponds a certain thickness of the substance forming the bubble; in fact, he shewed, in general, that all transparent substances, when reduced to a certain degree of tenuity, would reflect these colours. Near the highest point of the bubble, just before it bursts, is always observed a spot which reflects no colour and appears black. Newton shewed that the thickness of the bubble at this black point was the 2,500,000th part of an inch! Now, as the bubble at this point possesses the properties of water as essentially as does the Atlantic Ocean, it follows that the ultimate molecules forming water must have less dimensions than this thickness.—Lardner's Handbook.



ENGLISH PLOUGHING.

The following, written from England, is going the round of the papers, and is as true as the gospel, in my opinion. I have seen better ploughing here with a pair of oxen than in the old country with five horses; but Johnny won't learn. 'Lord! only look at five great, elephant-looking beasts in one plough, with one great lummokin fellow to hold the handle, and another to carry the whip, and a boy to lead, whose boots have more iron on them than the horses' hoofs have, all crawling as if going to a funeral! What sort of a way is that to do work? It makes me mad to look at 'em. If there is any airthly clumsy fashion of doin' a thing, that's the way they are always sure to git here. They're a benighted, obstinate, bull-headed people the English, that's the fact, and always was.' Well done, Jonathan—quite true!—From a private Letter from Boston.



JOHN BUNYAN AND MINCE-PIES.

In No. 417 of this Journal it is chronicled that John Bunyan scrupled to eat mince-pies, because of the superstitious character popularly attached to them; but it would appear from an anecdote sent to us by a correspondent, that if this was true at all of the author of the Pilgrim's Progress, he must have received new light upon the subject at a later period of life. When he was imprisoned for preaching—so says the anecdote—in Bedford jail, a superstitious lady, thinking to entrap him, sent a servant to request his acceptance of a Christmas pie; whereupon Banyan replied: 'Tell your mistress that I accept her present thankfully, for I have learned to distinguish between a mince-pie and superstition.'



FOREST-TEACHINGS.

There was travelling in the wild-wood Once, a child of song; And he marked the forest-monarchs As he went along. Here, the oak, broad-eaved and spreading; Here, the poplar tall; Here, the holly, forky-leaved; Here, the yew, for the bereaved; Here, the chestnut, with its flowers, and its spine-bestudded ball.

Here, the cedar, palmy-branched; Here, the hazel low; Here, the aspen, quivering ever; Here, the powdered sloe. Wondrous was their form and fashion, Passing beautiful to see How the branches interlaced, How the leaves each other chased, Fluttering lightly hither, thither on the wind-aroused tree.

Then he spake to those wood-dwellers: 'Ye are like to men, And I learn a lesson from ye With my spirit's ken. Like to us in low beginning, Children of the patient earth; Born, like us, to rise on high, Ever nearer to the sky, And, like us, by slow advances from the minute of your birth.

'And, like mortals, ye have uses— Uses each his own: Each his gift, and each his beauty, Not to other known. Thou, O oak, the strong ship-builder, For thy country's good, Givest up thy noble life, Like a patriot in the strife, Givest up thy heart of timber, as he poureth out his blood.

'Thou, O poplar, tall and taper, Reachest up on high; Like a preacher pointing upward— Upward to the sky. Thou, O holly, with thy berries, Gleaming redly bright, Comest, like a pleasant friend, When the dying year hath end, Comest to the Christmas party, round the ruddy fire-light.

'Thou, O yew, with sombre branches, And dark-veiled head— Like a monk within the church-yard, When the prayers are said, Standing by the newly-buried In the depth of thought— Tellest, with a solemn grace, Of the earthly dwelling-place, Of the soul to live for ever—of the body come to nought,

'Thou, O cedar, storm-enduring, Bent with years, and old, Standest with thy broad-eaved branches, Shadowing o'er the mould; Shadowing o'er the tender saplings, Like a patriarch mild, When he lifts his hoary head, And his hands a blessing shed, On the little ones around him—on the children of his child.

'And the light, smooth-barked hazel, And the dusky sloe, Are the poor men of the forest— Are the weak and low. Yet unto the poor is given Power the earth to bless; And the sloe's small fruit of down, And the hazel's clusters brown, Are the tribute they can offer—are their mite of usefulness.

'When the awful words were spoken, "It is finished!"— When the all-loving heart was broken, Bowed the patient head; When the earth grew dark as midnight In her solemn awe— Then the forest-branches all Bent, with reverential fall— Bent, as bent the Jewish foreheads at the giving of the law.

'But one tree was in the forest That refused to bow; Then a sudden blast came o'er it, And a whisper low Made the leaves and branches quiver— Shook the guilty tree; And the voice was: "Tremble ever To eternity: Be a lesson from thee read— He that boweth not his head, And obeyeth not his Maker, let him fear eternally!"

'So thou standest ever shaking, Ever quivering with fear, For the voice is still upon thee, And the whisper near. Like the guilty, conscience-haunted; And the name for thee Is, "The tree of many thoughts"— Is, "The tree of many doubts;" And thy leaves are thoughts and doubtings—for thou art the sinner's tree.

'Thou, O chestnut, richly branched, Standest in thy might, Rising like a leafy tower In the summer light. And thy branches are fruit-laden, Waving bold and free; And the beams upon thee shed Are like blessings on thy head: Thou art strong, and fair, and fruitful—for thou art the good man's tree.

'So, farewell, great forest-teachers: There is a spirit dwells In the veinings of each leaflet, In each flower's cells: Ye have each a voice and lesson, And ye seem to say: "Open, man, thine eyes to see In each flower, stone, and tree, Something pure and something holy, as thou passest on thy way."' F.C.W.

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