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THE CAREFUL AND THE CARELESS. TnE careful naturally complain of the careless, more especially when connected in some joint interest. Yet the careful are often the principal cause of carelessness ia others. Of every pair who enter the matrimonial •tate, it will invariably be found, that, though both have appeared careful enough before, the one party is so in a greater degree than the other. The unavoidable tendency of this disparity is to cause the less careful to trust to the more careful. Suppose, for instance, a pair in humble life, whose duty it is, for the sake of the general interest, that they should be on foot every morning at seven o'clock. The more careful is sure to be so to a moment: he is so by virtue of an impulse of his nature, which it is more painful to resist than to obey. The less careful (we shall suppose the less careful to be of the weaker sex) very soon remarks the punctuality of her mate, is lulled by it into a vague feeling of confidence as to the prosperity of the household, and—lies till five minutes past. The husband continues to get up exactly at seven, till he finds that the common interest is injured by his wife's self-indulgence, small as iris. He remonstrates, and, for a few mornings, by dint of a little eloquence, succeeds in keeping the lady to her hour. But the vague feeling of confidence returns; she persists in allowing herself the additional five minutes: he tires of remonstrating, which is a very troublesome thing, and finds it much easier to make up for her being five minutes too late, by being himself five minutes too early. He now rises at five minutes before seven, while she lies till five minutes past. But it is not long that the difference of duty remains thus small. Day after day adds its minute, or its half minute, or its quarter of a minute, till there is half an hour between their respective levees —three quarters—a whole hour—till, the careful not only attends to his own morning business, but, if at all possible, dispatches that of the careless also—that is to say, puts on the fire, cleans the house, and makes ready the breakfast. Such a result may be prevented, perhaps, by the conscientiousness of the parties, the one perhaps absolutely refusing to indulge the other to so great an extent, or the wife perhaps being ashamed to throw such duties upon her husband. But the tendency of the disparity is in this direction, and may be exemplified in many different degrees, as well as in many different ways. And thus a woman, who, with a less careful husband, might have manifested a constantly increasing industry and vigilance, is drawn on by a more careful one to exhibit a softness and self-indulgence which could not have previously been expected.

The same phenomenon is witnessed in commercial partnerships. A man of considerable activity enters into an engagement with one who rather surpasses him in that quality. Had he engaged with one of the opposite character, he would have shone out with great Justrc, taken the chief place in the concern, and found t»very faculty roused to greater and greater emergy, in exact proportion as his partner seemed to -ender greater exertions necessary. But now he has aappened to unite himself with a person whose mind much exceeds his own in vivacity. This transcendantly active person anticipates him in attendance, anticipates him in much that he designed and was most willing to do, flings himself forward on all occasions to consult with persons who call on business, and, not talcing time to communicate every transaction to his fellow, soon becomes an almost exclusive depository of the secrets and general affairs of the firm. The leas careful, perhaps, struggles against his fate for some time, and, under the influence of strong consci

entiousness, takes most especial care to see all the pens properly mended, the subalterns kept in good order, and even perhaps the ledger regularly posted. But nothing can avail against the constant anticipations of his partner. He feels "cut out." And unless he can contentedly sink into some subordinate duty, which the other is content to see him perform, either his sense of degradation, or the other's open contempt for his contributions to the general interest, is apt to lead to a disunion.

All this arises from the natural tendency of the careful and active to increase their vigilance and activity in proportion as they see, or think they see cause, and the equally natural inclination of those connected with them, being less careful and active, to take advantage, knowingly or unknowingly, of the security thus forced upon them. No plurality of human beings, indeed, can associate in a common adventure, without the most careful and active almost immediately, as by a natural buoyancy, rising to the top, and assuming the command. Observe a little party of pleasure. How invariably do you find some particular member of the corps, in the midst of the general light-heartedness, taking upon himself a gravish face and an impressive manner; occasionally perhaps giving an edge or a corner of himself to the unbounded laughter which is going on, but bestowing by far the most of his attention upon matters of commissariat, and the great business of making sure that nobody has left any thing behind. What a bustling, important, useful, provoking person he is! He evidently looks upon all the rest, in their thoughtless glee, as so many children, who, if he do not take care of them, would be sure to fall into some dreadful scrape. You lament that he has so much to do, and gets so little of the fun; and he asks what would have come of you all if he had not remembered the cork-screw? All the directions are given by him. If the vehicle be a boat, he takes the helm; if a drosky, he drives: if the party be a pedestrian one, he walks ahead, looking out for the proper way, and occasionally turning about to break up the current of light-hearted discourse with some worrying topographical information—for he is determined that, since we are abroad, we shall lose nothing. Now, it is unquestionable that, in a party of pleasure, such a person is indispensable; equally unquestionable that, since such a person is never wanting to an assembly of that kind, he must just be the individual of the party, who is of the most careful turn of mind. In any given case, suppose the actual director-general to have not been there, the next most careful person must for certain have assumed the duties. Nay, strange as it may seem, there is probably not an individual in all this thoughtless company, but, in the proper circumstances, would shine out as a director-general. A person exceeding them in carefulness has only for the present enabled them to take their pleasure.

John Elshcnder was originally a small farmer, but, having failed in that walk of life, had removed to town, and commenced business as a cowfeeder. The extent of his stock was a couple of cows; his house, his byre, and his domestic system, were all of the humblest order; yet, like many other people in the same trade, by having every department of the business done by individuals within his own family, he contrived to make a decent subsistence. John, for his own part, had never been a hard-working man. He thought himself far best at giving directions, making markets, and planning schemes for the good of the family. No doubt he could work and did work—not a little, too—especially after commencing his new line of life. But manual exertion was not his forte. Nothing

but the strong impulse of necessity could induce him to make a hearty use of his hands. He often began the cleaning of the cow-house, but generally demitted the task, ere it was half done, to his wife Maggie, or his son Jock—having suddenly recollected that there was a slap in the hedge of the park which required to be stopped up, or a hole in his shoe which he must needs get minded, or that a lady had sent to ask about cream for a party which she was to have next day, and that it was best to go and get the order from her own lips. At length, in unloading a cart one day, John got a rack in his back, which confined him for some weeks to bed, during which Maggie and Jock had the whole work of-the establishment devolved upon them. He complained much of the pain, and spoke of being " a puir object all his days." But at length, by the aid of a skilful surgeon, he was able to rise and sit by the fireside, where, it was remarked, however unfit "to do a hand's turn," he was still as ready at the giving of directions as ever. Not a single duty was performed in the course of the day by his wife and son, but John told how and when it was to be done. "Maggie, you'll do this, and, Jock, you'll do that. Gudewife, ye'U ca' out Hawky, and, Jock, you'll bring hame Crummie. It's time now to gang to the milking; or, Meg, my woman, ye had better be hinging on the dreg." He thus kept up a epecies of fictitious activity, serving whole pitchers of milk and cleansing worse than Augean stables without rising from his chair: and still he conceived himself to be a most useful and indispensable member of the household, fly and bye, he recovered so much strength as to be able to move out of doors—could occasionally take a step to the next street to deliver a small pitcher of cream, or walk the length of the distillery to see after the supply of draff. But, when asked how he was, he never failed to put his hand to his back, assume a distressed attitude, and say, "Muckle reason to be thankfu', but far frae weeL" When any one inquired more particularly into the nature of his ailments, he would give a groaning account of himself and his pains, how much he suffered from the least exertion, how stiff he was in the morning, and how he feared it would never stop till it fell into his legs. He had been "muckle indebted to Doctor Bain. Naething had ever done him sae muckle gude as thae draps o' his. [Maggie, it's time to take them, I daursay.] He was threatened, too, wi' a sair hoast, that sometimes cam upon him in the night-time, and was like to carry him off bodily. And, 'deed, ae way and another, he couldna be lang spared. But there was ae comfort, that Maggie would be better without him than wi' him, frail as he now was. He was a burden baith to himsell and other folk—a puir useless craitur." Maggie, who was as good-natured as she was active, would then strike in with some cheering raillery, and, if he appeared more than usually downcast, accompany his drops with "a wee thing o' speerits, just to haud the heart aboon—for, let them say what they liked, she thought auld folk were often the better o't." "Ay, tak a wee drappie to yoursell now, Maggie, my woman, before ye set bye the bottle; it's but a cauld morning this for out wark."

In reality, John was not by any means the poor object he represented himself to be, as was proved by the progress of events. Maggie, whose robust frame and unbroken health betokened the longest life, was hurried off by a fever. John had then to rouse himself up to the performance of a large share of what had hitherto been her duties, the remainder being attended to by Jock. In the ensuing year, Jock, hitherto a most willing slave, married a lass in the neighbourhood, who, having saved a little from her

wages, enabled him to set up for himself; and the old man was then left entirely to his own resources For a while, by the aid of a hired female, he contrived to carry on hie affairs in much the same manner as formerly; but, soon satisfying himself that, by this one plan, one or two pennies must be lost to him every week, and that there was nothing after all likea good active wife, John altogether cast aside the recollection of his racked back, made up to Jean Mairhead, a second cousin of his late spouse, and once more entered into the holy bands of matrimony. When he last came under our observation, his wife was nursing her second child in a state of rather poor health, while John had not only to milk the cows, supply them with their fodder, and carry about the milk twice a-day, but could not take a seat by the fireside without being obliged either to keep an infant or tend a pot. The tables had evidently been fairly turned upon him, and all his self-indulgences under the active reign of Maggie were now in the course of being revenged by the hard work to which he was compelled beneath the soft and slatternly yoke of Jean.

The case of John Elshender is but one accidental illustration of a principle which will be fuund to hold good in many stations and circumstances. It must ever, we fear, be the lot of the active and the careful both to do and to suffer much for those who are the reverse; each party contracting from the other an exaggeration of its respective qualities. If the former should, under such circumstances, be disposed to feel aggrieved, let them console themselves with the reflection, that, after all, their qualities are the more enviable, and their enjoyments must be the purest and best.


UNITED STATES. From a very early period of history, the people of Great Britain have been celebrated for their love of maritime adventure. They have for hundreds of years, hut particularly since the decline of the Dutch power, been the principal ship nation in Europe, or rather of the world. We do not think this arises from their country being an island surrounded by the sea, though it may be partly influenced by such a favourable circumstance. It is more probably caused by a peculiar faculty in the minds of the race. British boys take to the water like poodles: if there be a pool, they dabble in it; if they can lay hold of a boat, there you see them in it. One might almost say that they are born sailors; for one of their earliest juvenile amuse ments is the construction and sailing of toy ships, and this on lakes and ponds and rivers far from the seacoast, where actual ships were never seen.

It is somewhat remarkable, that, along the sea coasts of France, or on the navigable rivers of that country, you seldom sec either boys or men amusing themselves with boating. It seems to be a thing they either don't like or do not understand. Their recreations take quite a different turn ; and one of the most striking consequences of this disposition is the total want of boats on the Seine at Paris and other places, for purposes of amusement. The ship and boat-sailing propensities of the British appear to be fully partici pated in by their kindred, the North Americans, who are fast overtaking them in the number, as they have already excelled them in the art of building, of their vessels. The progress of the Americans in mercantile navigation within the last forty years, is indeed one of the most surprising features in the history of that peo pie—certainly surprising, in no mean degree, when we recollect that the advance has not been fostered by ex travagant bounties on any particular kind of shipping —that little or no fuss has been made about it

As it is probable that many of our readers do not know the relative number of British and American ships, or amount of tonnage, we may present to them the following interesting details, which we con dense partly from the work of Pitkin, formerly re ferred to. In the year 1830, the United Kingdom and Colonies possessed 23,723 vessels, navigated by 154,809 seamen, and having the aggregate burden of 2,531,819 tons. This, however, was exclusive of fish ing and canal boats, and also steam-vessels. In 1829 the steam-vessels amounted to 342, and their burden to 31,350 tons. The whole number of vessels belong ing to the United States, on the 31st of December

1830, was 12,256, having (according to a calculation . s, „. .„..„,„ vw ,,.

a year earlier) a burden of 1,260,997 tons, and navi- [ and the advantages taken of the wars in Europe,

gated by 87,744 seamen. Of the 12,256 vessels- be-
longing to the United' States, 943 were ships, KJ71
brigs, and 343 steam-vessels, tho residue being sloops
and schooners. The tonnage of the American mer-
cantile navy had increased in 1832 to 1,439,460, or
fully more than a half of the registered' tonnage of
the United Kingdom and its Colonies, and far exceed-
ing that of any other nation. A table given by Pit-
kin of the amount of American and foreign tonnage
yearly entering' the ports of the States, since 1789,
presents us with a vivid idea of the rapid increase of
commerce in the Union. In 1789, there entered the
ports in the employment of the foreign trade 127,329
American, and 106,654 foreign vessels ; in 1799, there
were 626,495 American, and 107,583 foreign; in 1819,
there were 783,579 American, and 85,5o"4' foreign;
and in 1832 there were 972,282 American, and 412,104
foreign. The coasting trade has kept pace with this
increase. The tonnage of coasting vessels has nearly
doubled since 1807, and is now almost equal to that
n the foreign trade.

A list of the tonnages of ten of the largest ports
in the United States in the year 1832, and in Eng-
land in 1829 (having, says our authority, no offi-
cial account of the tonnage of the particular ports in
the latter, subsequent to that year) may here be given:
the American ports are in italics. Neio York, 298,832
— London, 672,835; Boston, 171,045—Newcastle,
202,379; Philadelphia, 77,103—Liverpool, 161,780;
New Bedford, 70,550-^Sunderland, 107,628; New
Orleans, 61,171— Whitehaven, 72,967; Portland,
47,942—Hull, 72,248; Baltimore, 47,129—Bristol,
49,535; Bath, 33,480—Yarmouth, 44,134; Salem,
30,293—Whitby, 41,576; Nantucket, 28,580—Scar-
borough, 28,070. "It will thus be perceived (says
Pitkin) that the tonnage of the ten largest ports in
the United States exceeds that of the ten largest ports
n England—with the exception of the port of Lon-
don—about sixty-four thousand tons; and it should
be borne in mind, that among the English ports, those
of Newcastle. Sunderland, and Whitehaven, are in-
cluded, whose tonnage is almost entirely employed in
the coal trade. If, indeed, the tonnage in the Eng-
lish coal trade is deducted, the actual tonnage of the
United States, in 1832, exceeded the remaining actual
tonnage of England and Wales in 1829. And we do
not hesitate to say, that the whole commercial ton-
nage of the United States, in proportion to their po-
pulation, is considerably larger than that of the United
Kingdom of Great Britain."

The principal maritime trade of the United States, both import and export, is with Great Britain and its dependencies, whence, in 1826, the imports were forty-two ninety-sixths of the whole importation. From the official report of the treasury department, it appears that the imports into the United States, during the year ending September 30, 1829, amounted to 74,492,527 dollars, of which amount 69,325,552 dollars were imported in American vessels, and 5,166,975 dollars in foreign vessels; that tire exports, during the same year, amounted to 72,358,071 dollars, of which 55,700,103 dollars were of domestic produce, and 16,658,478 dollars of foreign produce; that of domestic articles, 46,974,554 dollars were exported in American vessels, and 8,725,639 dollars in foreign vessels; and of the foreign articles, 15^114,887 dollars were exported in American vessels, and 1,543,591 dollars in foreign vessels; that 872,946 tons of American shipping entered, and 944,799 cleared from, the ports of the United States; and that 130,743 tons of foreign shipping entered, and 133,000 cleared, during the same period, since which the amount of maritime traffic has considerably advanced.

"The increase of the American tonnage since 1789, has no parallel in the commercial annals of the world. In 1700, the commercial tonnage of England was estimated at 273,693, and in 1750, at 609,798, an increase in half a century of about 336,000; and the increase in the next half century was only about 660,000 tons. This tonnage included the repeated voyages, and is much greater than the actual tonnage." It therefore appears that the Americans have pretty nearly accomplished in half a century what has taken the British a thousand years to establish. The different rate of progression of the two countries in respect of shipping is at least a matter which ought to attract the grave consideration of the people of Great Britain. The leading causes of the increase of American tonnage are by no means uninstructive. Independently of the rich and agricultural resources of the country,

have been, says the report of a committee of commerce and navigation, presented to Congress in 1830, "the removal of all the countervailing laws of the States, our commercial- enterprise, and a foreign commerce without-restrictiona." How much does such a confession exemplify the truth at the maxim, that trade never flourishes so luxuriantly, or yields such an abundant harvestrof good fruits; as when it is " let alone!"

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London; and
cordially r<

"Ik Russia," said Mr Howard to the children, after
a ramble in the country, "a great number of species
of mushrooms are used for food. In England little
attention is paid to this curious fungus. Their collec-
tion would not alone be a source of pleasure; But the
study of their different characters would be useful,
instructive, and even profitable. Some of them are
delicious, others dangerous to eat; some pleasing to
the palate, and others absolutely poisonous.

There lived in the neighbourhood of Moscow a family of serfs, which had obtained from their lord the permission to gather mushrooms, and to take them to the Ochotnoi Iliad, which is the great market of the Russian capital."

"Obtained from their lord!" inquired Edith; "what does that mean?" "In Russia," said Mr Howard, "there are many millions of serfs or peasants, who are considered the property of their feudal master. They cannot, indeed, be removed from the soil on which they were born, but they are sold as the trees or the cattle there. They cannot possess property; and even their little gains are not their own, but may at any time be taken possession of by their lords. Those lords are sometimes humane enough to allow them to get money by their industry -r and there are among them some who make it their pride, and boast that they possess slaves whom they can call opulent. But now to our story.

The busiest and the cleverest of the serf family was a young girl called Mashenka. She had learnt*little —for it is very seldom that learning enters the logbuilt cottages of the Russian peasants—but nature had given her an active mind; and she had always taken a sort of pleasure in mushroom-gatherirnr. When very young, she used to request her father to put her into the little cart in which he carried his mushrooms to market, and amused herself often, for which she sometimes got well scolded, in separating the different sorts of mushrooms more carefully than her father had been used to do.

One day, in coming home from the market, her father said that he had sold his mushrooms more easily, and the price he asked was more willingly paid usual. Mashenka said, she verily believed the reason of her father's success consisted in the trouble she had taken, and asked leave to assort the mushrooms in future as she gathered them. The old man smiled and stroked his beard, for all the Russians wear beards, and said, ' Kharasho,' which means, in English, 'it» well,' or 'so be it.' This gladdened Mashenka, and she began to apply herself with great attention to the separation of the mushrooms into different sorts; and as her father really found much profit in her knowledge, he gave her a copeck or two, and she was encouraged to be thoughtful and careful by the success of her thoughts and cares.

Mushenka had never been taught by the lessons of others, but experience led her to make many important distinctions. She found that the mushrooms which grew under the shadow of the birch-tree were different from those she found in the pine-woods; that some species loved the sun, and some the shade; and that various soils produced mushrooms almost as various. She made her little experiments; she transferred the mould from one spot to another; she learnt to distinguish by the taste between the wholesome and the deleterious sorts of mushrooms. The Russians call the funguses which grow on trees, and which thrr do not eat, gribi, and the mushrooms which grow am the ground, gubi. Mashenka made many experiments on the way of dressing the various qualities; and st last her father allowed her to have a little stand in the market near his own, which now became celebrated for the variety and excellence of the guM, which were sold there.

The lord upon whose estate Mashenka's family lived, was one who had some benevolence and mack ostentation in his character. He did not give himself much trouble in visiting his vassals; but whenever he did, his language was that of kindness, and he was called by the peasants 'gracious master,' when they spoke of him; while his neighbour, who was a far richer nobleman than himself, was known universally by the title of' the ungracious.' Milostivy had, however, one of the great and too common vices of the Russian nobility—he was a reckless gambler. He had seen all the vicissitudes between great at rate opulence; he had, in fact, more than every thing but his estate, and more than once 1 enormously, though only for a short time, to his po*He had often been tempted to gamble'

his estate, but a sense of pride, a respect for his forefathers, a wholesome fear of consequences, had always checked him when temptation said, 'Try once more and win.' Temptation was not foralong time strong enough to break down all the barriers of prudence.

Nemilostivy had, howerer, been watching the growing prosperity of his neighbour's peasantry; and Mashenka's family was remarkable among the prosperous. The gradual accumulation of wealth by frugal industry is sometimes quite surprising; and Mashenka's example had spread its influence through the serfs on the Milostivy estate, which had in a few years obtained celebrity for its superior mushrooms. And do not wonder, children, that even so seemingly trifling an article became a source of comparative opulence to those who collected it. Had you seen the hundreds of waggons which convey mushrooms to market; the great and general use of this sort of food; the variety of ways in which it is prepared, preserved, and cooked for table; its universal consumption, from the tables of the mightiest down to those of the meanest, you would not wonder that a little fortune might be made out of mushrooms. But so it was; and symptoms of Mashenka's bettered condition were very visible. She added a gold chain to the ornaments she had been accustomed to wear round her neck, and was seen one evening dancing with two large bracelets of amber ornamenting her arms.

Milostivy had been too much engaged in the pleasures—no, rather the perplexities of the capital, to jrive much attention to what was passing on his estate: the peasants paid their poll-tax with great regularity, and he appeared satisfied with them and with himself, as his steward, who happened to be a kind-hearted xnau, made the regular collection of the annual tribute from the peasant vassals. But the passion for display, and the far more dangerous passion, that of the gaming-house, obtained more and more possession of his thoughts. He was as restless as a feverish child, and the unhappy propensity began to drown all his better feelings. In that state, which is more like the drunkenness or the insanity of the mind than any thing else, Milostivy had been at an evening party, playing one desperate game after another, ft was with Nemilostivy, who availed himself of the frenzy and excitement of the man whom he had called 'friend,' to urge him onwards. He lost larger and larger sums. At last he put his estate upon the game: luck, as it is called—luck deserted him, and the noble was penniless. The necessary forms for the transfer of the estate were drawn up next morning, and signed by Milostivy. He left Moscow immediately afterwards, and made his way to Mashenka's cottage.

The visit of a Russian signior to the hut of one of his peasants is an event of very rare occurrence. So -vast a distance is there between the lord and the vassal, so remarkable is the contrast between their mode of life, that the appearance of a noble in the house of his serf is in many parts of Russia considered what that of a sovereign would be to a shopkeeper. And in truth so wretched and so dirty are the habitations of the peasants, so suffocating from the heat, so offensive from the noisome smells, and generally so crowded with living and offensive things, that it is not to he wondered at if they are generally avoided. Milostivy had never beforeenlered Mashenka's dwelling. He scarcely knew what took him thither. He had a vague recollection of having heard of the prosperity of the family; but his mind was troubled, and his heart was almost broken. He was not clad as usual: he had a wild and weary look. He walked into the cottage, and sat down without saying a word. Nobody was there; he looked round him, and was astonished at the neatness and comfort on every side, I do not mean that it was comparable to an English peasant's happy home; but to Milostivy it was a sight such as he had never seen in the habitation of his serfs. It almost aroused him from his gloomy meditations.

'Heaven protect us!' said Mashenka, as she entered, and saw her lord seated on the top of the stove, which is found in all Russian dwellings. 'What can be amiss!' exclaimed Mashenka, starting back as if she had seen a spirit. But Milostivy was silent; he hung down his head. 'Most gracious sir,' uttered Mashenka, with a soft voice, and bowed herself to the ground, and kissed her lord's feet as she rose. 'Not so, Mashenka! not so—I am no longer your master, and you are no longer my vassal. Know that I am am poor—oh, how much poorer than you!' Mashenka had onlv that imperfect feeling of the rights of property which characterises those who possess nothing that is really their own. And she answered, 'I do siot understand you; but all that we have is yours.'

Alas! it was so yesterday; but to-day this hut, and its inhabitants, and its possessions—your family—you —-all—all belong to another.' It was not for Mashenka to inquire how the calamity had happened. Tears came into her eyes, while she opened a small chest, and took from it a roll of paper money. She Srembled violently—she was unable to speak. Mi lostivy saw her purpose, and a smile—a sold smile— came over his countenance. c Matters are not so bad as that yet; but you are transferred to another master • may he be kind to his vassals!' The nobleman tittered a benediction, and departed. Many a tim< was his name pronounced, and his memory blessed for the serfs had sad reason to regret his loss.

The new lord was altogether of a different temper It was his purpose to drain the peasants of their last

copeck. He immediately raised the poll-tax. He ex-' torted every thing on which his avariae could lay hold. The people, who had no longer any recompense for their toil, fell into their ancient habits of indifference. Even Mashenka neglected her mushroom gatherings; she went less frequently to market; her little store gradually lost its reputation; all exertion was damped and destroyed; for all motive to exertion was taken away by the rapacious lord.

Some years passed on: the peasants that had been the model of the country—the happy and prosperous race—sunk down to their former lethargy. The oppression and cruelty that were practised towards them only brutalised them the more. But Mashenka was soon to witness new vicissitudes.

An order for a conscription among the peasants had been issued; and among those whose lot it was to be summoned to the army, was a young man who had long been plighted to Mashenka. At times Mashenka made an effort to adorn the hut, and always looked cheerful when Ivan was expected, or when he appeared; but the spring of hope was dried within her. It was at the time when the Emperor Alexander was founding his military colonies. The first news of the conscription was a terrible shock to Mashenka, for she imagined Ivan would be comprehended in it. And so he was. Wretched was the day, but still more wretched the night, when she was told the news. But Ivan had heard a report that in the military colonies soldiers were allowed to marry; and without communicating his purpose to any one, he went to the neighbouring village, made his way to the Serjeant of the troops that were stationed there, who happened to be an acquaintance, told him his story, and inquired, with wet eyes and a timid voice, whether it were possible that Mashenka should accompany him. The Serjeant answered him in a friendly tone; on which Ivan broke out into a long description of Mashenka's merits and virtues, and the service she could do, and her present unhappiness, and entreated the Serjeant to plead for her. 'Well, that will I; and I will lend you music for the wedding, if a wedding there be.'

Light was the step of Ivan as he hurried to Mashenka's hut. But she could hardly hope the dream, as she thought it, would ever prove a reality. 'The gosudar will never consent. No, Ivan, you will go alone; and you will leave me to weep and to die!' The moment was, however, a propitious one. The emperor was very desirous of extending the military colonies. It was one of his most favoured projects, and the Serjeant knew it. He spoke to the lieutenant above him—the lieutenant to the superior officers; and authority was obtained for the celebration of the marriage, and for the departure of the bride with her husband to the interior. I shall not tell you, children, all that passed on the journey. Ivan was a kind husband, and Mashenka a happy wife. Severe, and even cruel, though the army regulations of Russia are, Ivan was never a defaulter, and the presence of Mashenka enabled him to bear much which otherwise might have seemed unbearable.

The military colonies were intended to unite the agricultural with the military life. Ivan was not only a diligent but an intelligent peasant; and Mashenka soon found that her former habits and engagements might be beneficial to both. They had now also escaped from vassalage; for the moment a serf becomes a soldier, the right of the lord over his person ceases. Any profits he can make belong to himself, and the seignior cannot take them away. Ivan's good behaviour soon led to his advancement; and he was allowed a small spot of ground to cultivate for himself. The day when he obtained it was one of the very happiest of Mashenka's existence. In it she saw their future fortunes; and she was not deceived.

She was clearing away the snow one morning in winter, when an officer's kibitka stopped suddenly; and she heard 'Mashenka!' in a voice that seemed familiar to her ear. It was Count Milostivy. He was the commander of a regiment in a neighbouring colony, and had heard that the Moscow mushroom-girl was only a few versts away. He had passed through many scenes of vicissitude; but having, through the interference of some old acquaintance, obtained a commission from the emperor, had entreated that he might be stationed at the military colonies—first, because he wished to remove himself far away from all the scenes where self-reproach and sorrow went with him at every step; and, secondly, because he thought it was really a scene of great usefulness, where he might re-establish a credit that was broken, and regain the peace of mind that had long ago abandoned him. He had determined to forget the past, for in it there was no memory of pleasure. It seemed to him a dark and dreary spot, to which it was misery to turn. He avoided every occupation which could remind him of former scenes. 'I will begin,' he said, 'a new existence. I cannot alter the past, nor undo that which has been done; but I can make it as if it had never been. I can—I will rase it all from my recollection.' And to a great extent he had succeeded. But the past cannot be wholly forgotten. The mind is not complete! y its own master. Mashenka's name had brought out of the past some thoughts, which were more bright because they came forth from darkness. The visit to the shalash flashed upon him in striking contrast to all the other events of that memorable and melancholy time. He longed to sec Mashenka, and he drove off to visit her almost as soon as he had heard of her arrival.

Milostivy had acquired influence, though he had not amassed wealth. Adversity had made him thoughtful, and he restrained the momentary impulse which would have offered at once to change the condition of Ivan and Mashenka. He wisely calculated that he could make them far more happy by opening to them mere widely the door of future though distant prosperity, than by any sudden or unexpected change. He desired Mashenka, whose delight broke through the accustomed marks of servile respect with which the Russian serfs salute their masters, to tell him her story since she had quitted his ancient estate. Many a time he passed his hand over his eyes as Mashenka told him of the distressing changes in the condition of the peasantry since he left. But Mashenka did not tell all; for why should she give sorrow to a master who had never given sorrow to her or hers?

'Have you forgotten the mushroom trade?' inquired the count. 'No, indeed, my gracious lord,' answered Mashenka; 'and Ivan and myself have often thought that if I could be permitted' 'I

know what you mean, Mashenka! You shall have permission and patronage too. It was for that I came. When the season arrives, you shall be set up in the world.'

The promise was faithfully kept. The count obtained mushroom spawn from different parts of the empire. He studied the matter as if his own happiness had depended on it. He helped Ivan and Mashenka to various modes of culture. He added the observations of science to those of Mashenka's experience. He assisted them to produce and to sell their productions. The groundwork was again laid of a little fortune, of which Mashenka was not again to be despoiled. Year after year added something to their well-doing; and the count was enabled to recompense their meritorious efforts in a thousand ways. Ivan reached the highest grade among non-commissioned officers. So popular was he, that none complained of his advancement. Mashenka and he have many children; and they are the children not now of serfs, hut of free people; for Ivan's term of military service is over, and he has been enabled to buy a small tract of land close to the colony, through the whole extent of which the mushroom-maid of Moscow is a title of fame."


The following observations on diet are drawn chiefly from a useful popular treatise on diet and regimen, by Dr W. H. Robertson, recently published, and which is worthy of the attention of not only invalids and dyspeptics, but all persons whose health is liable to be affected by sedentary employments.*

Were mankind universally to follow the rules for exercise, simplicity of diet, and perfect sobriety, they would require little advice regarding the special characteristics of food; for the hard-working labourer thrives and is healthy by the consumption of any kind of fare presented to him. Our cities being, however, now filled with persons who do not take much openair exercise, and who are continually coming under the hands of the physician, reason points out the necessity for attending to the nature of dishes, and the digestibility of particular kinds of alimentary substances. Speaking on this point, the doctor first mentions meats, as, mutton, beef, lamb, veal, and pork. "These are, generally speaking, more digestible if broiled on a gridiron, still less so if roasted, still less so if boiled, still less so if baked, still less so if fried. Meat somewhat underdone is more digestible than if thoroughly cooked; for the obvious reason, that, in the latter case, the fibres are more contracted, more hardened, and therefore require more power, greater exertions of the stomach to separate their particles, and convert them into pulp. For the same reason, salted meats are more indigestible than fresh meats. The flesh of the full-grown animal is more digestible than that of the animal which is still growing," so far as meats are concerned; hence veal is an improper article of diet for the invalid. "Animal food is invariably more easily digested if it has undergone some degree of putrifactive change; at least, so much of such change as is sufficient to make the fibres more tender." Every one knows the value of keeping mutton a week before bringing it to the table. "Bacon, which has been vaunted as a remedy for indigestion, in the greater number of cases does harm—in all cases where the juices of the stomach are either deficient in quantity or vitiated in quality."

Of fowls in general, it may be said that they are digestible in proportion to "their youth. Fowl and turkey are best; goose or duck are least digestible. Broths ought only to be taken by persons with strong stomachs. Solids are more beneficial, and more easily digested than liquids, especially unthickened slops; for "they do not afford sufficient resistance to the contractile powers of the stomach to enable those powers to act on and digest them." Habit, however, as in the rase of the Scotch, who for the greater part take broth, or a liquid compound of animal and vegetable substances, daily, must here be allowed to have a considerable influence in regulating the diet.

Of game as an article of diet for the dyspeptic, the doctor speaks most favourably. Best of all is bora

* Small octtTO. London, Chailes Tilt, 183*,

hunted, then partridge, pheasant, venison, grouse, ptarmigan, blackcock, hare not hunted, snipe, and ■woodcock. "No one of these can be pronounced to be difficult of digestion. Game leaves the stomach very soon, and seldom gives it much to do. The distinction which is made between the digestibility of hare that has been killed by hunting, and one which has been in any other way deprived of life, may surprise some; but there is perhaps no solid article of food which leaves the stomach so soon as hunted hare." Proceeding to fish: this description of animal food is thus classed according to its digestibility:—Whitefleshed fish and flat fish, as whiting, haddock, and cod ; flat fish, as flounders and soles; shell fish; freshwater fish, red-fleshed fish, and lastly herrings. "Fish, if simply boiled, and eaten only with salt, and little or no butter, are of very easy digestion; but if they are salted, or fried, or eaten with rich sauces, they are so no longer. Need I say that butter is irritating to the stomach of the invalid? It is the archdemon with which all writers on dietetics have warred; it is the thing which perhaps docs them most harm. If eaten at all, it should be eaten sparingly, and cold. Melted butter, whether on toast or in sauces, should be banished from the table of every valetudinarian." Cheese should also be avoided, unless it be rotten, or in a state of decomposition, when it acts as a stimulus. "Pastry is so generally known, so generally felt to be injurious to the weak or the disordered stomach, that in a work on diet its mention is almost unnecessary, only that the omission might possibly be attributed to carelessness or neglect. Pastry—inasmuch as it contains much fat, butter, or grease, of one sort or another; inasmuch as it contains sugar; inasmuch as it is generally eaten as a supernumerary, and therefore superfluous, article of diet; inasmuch as it, by variety, often tempts to repletion and overloading the stomach —ought to be discarded from the table of the man whose digestion is either debilitated or deranged." Pickles, also, should never be eaten by any man whose powers of digestion are either weak or disordered.

With regard to fruits, those which are dried ought to be avoided. Perfectly ripe fruit, eaten in moderation, and at proper times, seldom does harm. Fruits should never be eaten after meals, for they then interfere with the process of digestion, and even sometimes interrupt it. "The best time for eating fruits is the forenoon, between breakfast and dinner. The stomach is then in a state of repose, which fits it for digestion, by devolving to them its whole attention, an attention undisturbed by other business." The eating of a fresh apple an hour before dinner will excite the powers of the stomach, and promote hunger. Sugar is nutritious, but most difficult of digestion. "Let the invalid shun it. Let the mother cease to encourage the taste for it in its various shapes, which is common to nearly all children. There is no one solid article of diet which does so much harm, which is the remote and often unsuspected cause of so much evil. Much of the odium which tea has incurred, would, with more justice, have been laid on the shoulders of the sugar which is taken with it, and the quantity of warm water, with which it is the means of deluging the stomach. Let the dyspeptic drink his tea almost cold, without sugar; and if it agree with him, let him add to it half its own quantity of skimmed milk. I*et him confine himself to a single teacupful, for the simple reason, that much liquid taken at the time of eating makes the mass of matter, on which the stomach has to act, too thin; a state which prevents the contractile powers of the stomach from acting upon them readily. Coffee is more nutritious than tea, but it is at the same time more difficult of digestion.

There are few things, it may here be remarked, for which we ought, as regards health, to be more grateful to Providence, than for the introduction of tea and coffee. As civilisation advances, the man of wealth and rank uses personal exercise less, whether in walking or on horseback; and he prefers the luxurious carriage as a means of transporting himself from place to place. Keeping pace with the progress of civilisation, is the number of the thinking and studious increased; a class of men which is proverbially, and with few exceptions, sedentary. Tantamount to the increased number and importance of our commercial relations, is a larger number of men drawn from the fields, and the health-fraught toils of agriculture, into the pent-up and close atmosphere of a town, and have their time occupied in sedentary, or almost sedentary, employment. In this way there has arisen a daily increasing number of all classes, who, taking less exercise, could bear less food; could assimilate, consistently with health, a less amount of nutriment; who could not eat with impunity the meat and beer breakfasts, the heavy substantial food, to which their fathers had'been accustomed : and to meet this, tea and coffee have been introduced, and supply the desideratum; a diet which is palatable, only moderately nutritious, and, if not abused, quite harmless."

We are now come to a branch of the subject requiring the utmost attention, namely, regularity and periods of eating. "Eating at regular hours is one of tlio most important of dietetic regulations; one which the man in comparative health would do well to attend to; one the necessity of which cannot be too strongly impressed on the invalid. The interval between the meals ought not to be longer than Jive, nor less, as a general rule, than four hours. For instance, if the first meal is taken at eight o'clock in the morn

ing, the second ought to be taken at one afternoon, the third at six in the evening, and the fourth, if a fourth is taken at all, between nine and ten at night." This we consider the best advice in the book. A vast number of persons, from a desire to follow an absurd fashion, postpone dinner till five o'clock, if not later; a practice which is ruining the health of thousands in our cities. Shopkeepers, especially, who cannot well leave their places of business at one o'clock for dinner, suffer most, and are certainly the class of invalids most to be commiserated. At Manchester, we believe, all dine at one o'clock; a custom which it would be well to introduce into every town and city in the kingdom. To compensate the evil of late dinners, an anomalous meal, called the lunch, has been established; but it does more harm than good. "It is not only impolitic, but almost always directly injurious, to eat between meals. The reason is obvious. Food seldom leaves the stomach in shorter time than three hours, and more usually remains in it between four and five hours," and a meal ought not to he taken till the preceding has been thoroughly digested, livery one ought to eat slowly at his meals, and masticate the food completely before swallowing. After eating, a short rest should be taken, to assist the first stage of digestion; after this, it is well to exercise the limbs and the trunk. The less drink or liquid taken with solid food the better. "The breakfast is the meal at which all men should eat most heartily; it. and not the dinner, ought to be the principal meal. Every sufferer from indigestion ought to confine himself to one, or at most two dishes. A multiplicity of dishes tempts the appetite to overload the stomach ; and it would likewise seem that the stomach digests quicker a single meal, even of somewhat difficult digestion, than a mixture of dishes which are digested more easily."

The doctor concludes his chapter on diet with the following generalisation of his remarks:—" The man in health can scarcely be looked upon as likely to read this work. Should there, however, be such a one among its readers, and if he is one who laughs at doctors and physic, let him listen to a little friendly advice with regard to his diet. Let him measure the amount of food which he takes by the amount of bodily'exercise which he undergoes. Let him eat at regular times, never fasting, unless at night, longer than five hours. Let him make breakfast his principal meal. Let him avoid as much as possible all kinds of drink but water. Let him drink as little as possible, either while eating, or soon after his meals. Let him eat his food slowly, masticate each mouthful thoroughly, mixing it intimately with the saliva. Let him sit at least haif an hour (to rest, but not sleep) after each meal. Let him dine invariably on one, or at most'two dishes. Let him content himself with little or no supper. ]!y attending to these rules, he will, as far as diet goes, fulfil his duty to his health; he will be taking the best means of warding off disease."

SNATCHES FROM THE SEASONS. It is pleasing in this gloomy period of the year, when wild winds are howling round our dwelling, or rain is splashing angrily against our windows, to draw in one's chair by the cheerful health, and indulge in those social enjoyments which a comfortable home— the seat of the domestic affections—alone can give. Placed in the midst of that family circle, the source of all your worldly happiness, the appropriate lines of Cowper rush upon your recollection—

Now stir the fire and close the shutters fast, Let fall the curtain, wheel the sofa round; And while the bubbling and loud hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups Which cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in. In scenes like these, the heart expands not only towards those whom we more immediately love, but all mankind. It is also in such scenes that we delight to muster up recollections of our journeyings, when summer brightened the sky, and all nature was arrayed in gladness and beauty. Remembrances of this description please us by their contrast with cur present circumstances; thus nature ever yields a double delight in her contemplation—a delight in beholding, and a delight in recollection; and it were difficult to say which is* the more grateful.

Next to the company of a social friend by the wintry hearth, we love that of a book—a book, if possible, which will stir up in us reminiscences of the charms of rural scenery. Fortunately, in the age in which we live, there is no lack of hooks of this agreeable sort. While, Bewick, Evelyn, and many others, are ever at hand to gratify us by their admirable descrip. tions; above all, we have Howitt, whose Book of the Seasons forms perhaps the most delightful, certainly the most poetical, of all recent works illustrative of nature in her simple country attire.* Gentle reader, have you seen this kindly production? If you have not, we can assure you that it would be an acquisition ttf your parlour library. In the meanwhile, let us give you an idea of its contents. Let us follow the author, if you please, into the fields, and let us choOFe the month of July for the trip.

"july—Summer 1 glowing summer! This is the

• Book of the Eeiuorn, or a Calendar of Nature, by W lliam HowilL London: Colburn and Utntlcy, 1B31, suiail octavo, 1 vol.

month of heat and sunshine; of clear fervid skies, dusty roads, and shrinking streams; when doors and windows are thrown open. A cool gale is the most welcome of all visitors, and every drop of rain is worth its weight in gold! Such is July commonly; yet it is sometimes, on the contrary, a very showery month, putting the haymaker to the extremity of his patience, and the farmer upon anxious thoughts for his ripening corn. Generally speaking, however, it is the heart of our summer. The landscape presents an air of warmth, dryness, and maturity; the eye roves over brown pastures, corn-fields already white to harvest, dark lines of intersecting hedgerows, and darker trees, lifting their heavy heads above them. The foliage at this period is rich, full, and vigorous; there is a fine haze cast over distant woods and bosk y slopes, and every lofty and majestic tree is filled with a soft shadowy twilight, which adds infinitely to their beauty, a circumstance that has never been sufficiently noticed by either poet or painter. Willuws are now beautiful objects in the landscape; they are like rich masses of arborescent silver, especially if stirred by the breeze, their light and fluent forms contrasting finely with the still and sombre aspect of the other trees.

Now is the general season of haymaking. Ban (is of mowers, in their light dresses and broad straw haxa, are astir long before the fiery eye of the sun glance* above the horizon, that they may toil in the freshness of the morning, and stretch themselves at noon in luxurious ease by trickling waters, and beneath the shade of trees. Till then, with regular strokes, and a sweeping sound, the sweet and flowery grass falls before them, revealing, at almost every step, nests of young birds, mice in their cozy domes, and the mossy cells of the humble bee streaming with liquid honey; anon, troops of haymakers are abroad, tossing the green swaths to the sun. It is one of Nature's festivities, endeared by a thousand pleasant memories and habits of the olden days, and not a soul can resist itThere is a sound of tinkling teams and waggons rolling along lanes and fields the whole country over, ay, even at midnight, till at length the fragrant ricks rise in the farm-yard, and the pale smooth-shaven fields are left in solitary beauty.

They who know little about the country may deem the strong liking of our poets, and of myself, "for rural pleasures, mere romance and poetic illusion; but if poetic beauty alone were concerned, I mutt still admire harvest time in the country. The whole land is then an Arcadia, full of simple, healthful, and rejoicing spirits.

Boys will now be seen in the evening twilight, with match, gunpowder, &c. and green boughs for self-defence, busyinstormiug the paper-built car-ties of wasps, the larva? of which furnish anglers with plenty of excellent bails. Spring flowers have given place to a very different class. Climbing plants mantle and festoon every hedge. The wild hop, the bryony, the clematis or traveller's-joy, the large white convolvulus, whose bold, yet delicate flowers, will display themselves to a very late period of the year; vetches, and white and yellow ladies' bedstraw, invest every hu*h with their varied beauty, and breathe on the passers by their faint summer sweetness. The Campanula rotundifulia, the harebell of poets, and the bluebell of botanists, arrests the eye on every dry hank, rock, and wayside, with its airy stems and beautiful cerulean bells. There, too, we behold wild scabiouses, mallows, the woody-nightshade, wood-betony, and centaury; the red and white striped convolvulus also throws its flowers under your feet; corn-fields glow with whole armies of scarlet poppies, cockle, and the rich azure plumes of the viper's buglos; even thistles, the curse of Adam, diffuse a glow of beauty over waste and barren places. Some species, particularly the murkthistle, are really noble plants, wearing their formidable arms, their silken vest, and their gorgeous crimson tufts of fragrant flowers issuing from a coronal of interwoven down and spines, with a grace which casts far into the shade many a favourite of the garden.

But whoever would taste all the sweetness of July, let him go iu pleasant company, if possible, into heaths and woods'. It is there, in her uncultured haunts, that summer now holds her court. The stern castle, the lowly convent, the deer, and the forester, have vanished thence many ages; yet nature still casts round the forest-lodge, the gnarled oak, and lonely mere, the same charms as ever. The most hot and sandy tracks, which, we might naturally imagine, would now be parched up, are in full glory. The Erica letralix, or bell-heath, the most beautiful of our indigenous species, is now in bloom, and has converted the brown bosom of the waste into one wide sea of crimson; the air is charged with its honied odour; the dry elastic turf glows, not only with its flowers, but with those of the wild thyme, the clear blue milkwort, the yellow asphodel, and that curious plant, the sundew, with its drops of inexhaustible liquor sparkling in the fiercest sun like diamonds. There wave the cotton-rush, the tall foxglove, and the taller golden mullein; there grows the classical grass of Parnassus, the elegant favourite of every poet; there creep the various species of heathberries, cranberries, bilberries, &c furnishing the poor with a source of profit, and the rich of simple luxury. What a pleasure it is to throw ourselves down beneath the verdant screen of the beautiful fern, or in the shade of a venerable oak, in such a sceoe, and listen to the summer sound of bees, grasshoppers, and ten thousand other insects, mingled with the mora) remote and solitary cry of the peewit and curlew!

Field-paths are at ihil season particularly attractive. 1 love our real old English foot-paths. I love those rustic and picturesque stiles opening their pleasant escapes from frequented places and dusty highways into the solitudes of nature. It is delightful to catch a glimpse of one on the old village-green, under the old elder-tree by some aucient cottage, or half hidden by the overhanging boughs of a wood. I love to see the smooth dry track, winding away in easy curve.', along some green slope, to the churchyard, to the forest-grange, or to the embowered cottage. It is to me an object of certain inspiration. It seems to invite one from noise and publicity into the heart of solitude, and of rural delight. It beckons the imagination on through green and whispering corn-fields, through the short but verdant pasture, the flowering mowing-grass, the odorous and sunny hay-field, the festivity of harvest; from lonely farm to farm, from village to village; by clear and mossy wells, by tinkling brooks and deep wood-skirted streams; to crofts where the daffodil is rejoicing in spring, or meadows where the large blue geranium embellishes the summer wayside ; to heaths with their warm elastic sward and crimson bells, the chittering of grasshoppers, the foxglove, and the old gnarled oak; in short, to all the solitary haunts after which the city-pent lover of nature pants 'as the hart pauteth after the water brooks.' What is there so truly English? What is so truly linked with our rural tastes, our sweetest memories, and our sweetest poetry, as stiles and foot-paths? Goldsmith, Thomson, and Milton, have adorned them with some of their richest wreaths. They have consecrated them to poetry and love. It is along the foot-path in secluded fields, upon the stile in the embowered lane, where the wild rose and the honeysuckle are lavishing their beauty and their fragrance, that we delight to picture to ourselves rural lovers, breathing, in the dewy sweetness of summer evening, vows still sweeter. There it is that the poet seated, sends back his soul into the freshness of his youth, amongst attachments since withered by neglect, rendered painful by absence, or broken by death; amongst dreams and aspirations, which, even now that they pronounce their own fallacy, are lovely. It is there that he gazes upon the gorgeous sunsets—the evening star following with its silvery lamp the fading day, or the moon showering her pale lustre through the balmy night air, with a fancy that kindles and soars into the heavens before him; there, that we have all felt the charm of woods and green fields, and solitary boughs waving in the golden sunshine, or darkening in the melancholy beauty of evening shadows. Who has not thought how beautiful was the sight of a vil. lage congregation, pouring out from their old grey church on a summer day, and streaming off through the quiet meadows, in all directions, to their homes? Or who that has visited Alpine scenery, has not beheld, with a poetic feeling, the mountaineers come winding down out of their romantic seclusions on a Sabbath morning, pacing the solitary heath.tracks, bounding with elastic step down the fern-clad dells, or along the course of a riotous stream, as cheerful, as picturesque, and yet as solemn, as the scenes around them?

Again, I say, I love field-paths, and stiles of all species, ay, even the most inaccessible piece of rustic erection ever set up in defiance of age, laziness, and obesity. How many scenes of frolic and merry con. fusion have I seen at a clumsy stile! What exclamations, and blushes, and fine eventual vaulting, on the part of the ladies! and what an opportunity does it afford to beaux of exhibiting a variety of gallant and delicate attentions! I consider a rude stile as any thing but an impediment in the course of a rural courtship."

What a pity it is that the advance of wealth and avarice is fast closing up these good old-fashioned footpaths and stiles, and driving both the rural and town population into the dusty and prosaic highways!

Next comes a description of August, tho season of corn harvest—" August—It is a time for universal gladness of heart. Nature has completed her most important operations. She has ripened her best fruits, and a thousand hands are ready to reap them with joy. It is a gladdening sight to stand upon some eminence, and behold the yellow hues of harvest amid the dark relief of hedges and trees, to see the shocks standing thickly in a land of peace, the partly reaped fields, and the clear cloudless sky shedding over all its lustre. There is a solemn splendour, a mellowness and maturity of beauty, thrown over the landscape. The wheat crops shine on the hills and slopes, as Wordsworth expresses it, 'like golden shields cast down from the sun.' For the lovers of solitary ram. hies, for all who desire to feel the pleasures of a thankful heart, and to participate iu the happiness of the simple and the lowly, now is the time to stroll abroad. They will find beauty and enjoyment spread abundantly before them. They will find the mowers sweeping down the crops of pale barley, every spiked ear of which, so lately looking up bravely at the sun, is now bent downward in a modest and graceful curve, as if abashed at his ardent and incessant gaze. They will find them cutting down the rustling oats, each fol. lowed by an attendant rustic, who gathers the swath into sheaves from the tender green of the young clover, which, commonly sown with oats to constitute the future crop, is now showing itself luxuriantly. But it is in the wheat-field that all the jollity, aiid gladness, and pictureaqueness of harvest, is concen

trated. Wheat is more-particularly the food of man. Barley affords him a wholesome but much abused potation; the oat is welcome to the homely board of the hardy mountaineers, but wheat is especially and every where the 'staff of life.' To reap and gather it in, every creature of the hamlet is assembled. The farmer is iu the field, like a rural king amid his people; the labourer, old or young, is there to collect what he has sown with toil, and watched in its growth with pride; the dame has left her wheel and her shady cottage, and with sleeve-defended arms, scorns to do less than the best of them; the blooming damsel is there, adding her sunny beauty to that of universal nature; the boy cuts down the stalks which overtop his head; children glean amongst the shocks; and even the unwalkable infant sits propt with sheaves, and plays with the stubble, and

With all its twined flowers. Such groups are often seen in the wheat-field as deserve the immortality of the pencil. There is something, too, about wheat-harvest which carries back the mind, and feasts it with the pleasures of antiquity. The tickle is almost the only implement which has descended from the olden times in its pristine simplicity—to the present hour neither altering its form, nor becoming obsolete amid all the fashions and improvements of the world. It is the same now as it was in those scenes of rural beauty which the Scripture history unfolds.

Let no one say that this is not a season of happiness to the peasantry; I know that it is. In the days of boyhood, I have partaken their harvest labours, and listened to the overflowings of their hearts as tbey sat amid the sheaves beneath the fine blue sky, or among the rich herbage of some green headland beneath the shade of a tree, while the cool keg plentifully replenished the horn, and sweet after exertion were the contents of the harvest-field basket. I know that the poor harvesters are amongst the most thankful contemplaters of the bounty of Providence, though so little of it falls to their share. To them harvest comes as an annual festivity. To their healthful frames, the heat of the open fields, which would oppress the languid and relaxed, is but an exhilarating and pleasant glow. The inspiration of the clear sky above, and of scenes of plenty around them, and the very circumstance of their being drawn from their several dwellings at this bright season, open their hearts, and give a life to their memories; and many an anecdote and history from 'the simple annals of the poor' are there related, which need only to pass through the mind of a Wordsworth or a Crabbe, to become immortal in their mirth or woe.

During this month nature seems to experience a second spring. Several trees, particularly the oak and elm, put forth shoots and new leaves, enlivening the sombre woods. The hedges assume a lighter green; and if their leaves have been devoured iu the spring with caterpillars, as is sometimes the case, they are now completely reclotbed in the most delicate foliage. The ground already experiences the effect of the shortening days. The drought occasioned by the in. tense heat and long days of July has abated, cool nights, dews, and occasional showers, restore the mown fields and sunburnt pastures to a degree of verdure, and reanimate the remaining flowers. The small blue campanula, wild scabious, blue chiccory, the large white convolvulus, hawkwecds, and the Erica vulyare, Or common heath, still adorn wastes, fields, and way. sides. The pink-and-white convolvulus has been one of the chief ornaments of summer, flowering in the dryest spots, where all around is brown from extreme drought, with cheerful beauty. A few clusters of honeysuckles may yet be seen, here and there, on the hedges. And the Antirrhinum iinaria, or common toad-flax, is in full flower in the thickets.

Birds are now seen wandering about iu large flocks, having completed all their summer cares, and now enjoy the range of earth and air iu one long holiday, till their companies shall be thinned by gunpowder and winter weather.

Towards the end of the month, symptoms of the year's decline press upon our attention. The morning and evening air has an autumnal freshness—the hedge-fruit has acquired a tinge of ruddincs-—the berries of the mountain-ash have assumed their beautiful orange hue—and swallows twitter as they fly, or sit perched in a row upon a rail, or the dead bough of a tree. The swift has taken its departure. That beautiful phenomenon, the white fog, is again beheld rolling its snowy billows along the vallies, the dark tops of trees emerging from It as Irotn a flood. Now is the season for enjoying the animated solitude of seaside rambles. The time is also come when sportsmen may renew their healthful recreation."

Passing over September and October, we come to the passing season, November, the month when, in the language of Ossian, "Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mists rest on the hills; dark rolls the river through the narrow plain; the leaves whirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead." "We are now (says our author) in a month of darkness, storms, and mists; of the whirling away of the withered leaves, and the introduction to complete winter. Kain, hail, and wind, chase each other over the fields, aud amongst the woods, iu rapid alternations. The flowers are gone; the long grass stands amongst the woodland thickets, withered, bleached, and sere; the fern is red and shrivelled amongst the green gorge and broom; the plants, which waved

their broad white umbels to the summer breeze, like skeleton trophies of death, rattle their dry and hollow kexes to the autumnal winds. The brooks are brim full; the rivers turbid, and covered with masses of foam, hurry on in angry strength, or pour their waters over the c-hampain. Our very gardens are sod, damp, and desolate. Their floral splendours are dead; naked stems and decaying leaves have taken the place of verdure. The walks are unkempt and uninviting; and as these summer friends of ours are no longer afHuent and of flourishing estate, we, of course, desert them.

The return of winter is pleasurable, even in its severity. The first snows that come dancing down; the first frost that rimes the hedges, variegates the windows, or shoots its fine long crystals across the smallest puddle, or the widest sheet of water, bring with them the remembrance of our boyish pleasures, our slidings and skatings—our snow-ballings and snow-rolling—our snow.man making—the wonders of hoar-frosts—of nightly snow-drifts in hollow lanes —of caves and houses, scooped in the wintry heaps with much labour and delight; and of scampering over hedge and ditch on the frozen snow, that 'crunched beneath the tread,' but broke not.

The dark, wet, and wintry days, and the long dismal nights of this season, are, however, favourable to fireside enjoyments and occupations. Driven from the fields and woods, where we have found so much delight, so many objects of interest or employment, we may now sit within, and hear the storm rage around, conscious that the fruits of the earth are seemed, and that, like the bees in their hives, we have not let the summer escape, but have laid up stores of sweetness for the time of darkness and dearth."

The closing months of the year may, indeed, be externally disagreeable; nevertheless, we love them well, and cordially agree with A. A. Watts, in the lines— With his ice, and snow, and rime. Let bleak Winter sternly come 1 There is not a sunnier clime Than the love-lit winter home.

LORD CULLEN. Robekt Cullek, the son of the celebrated physician, and who finally officiated as a judge in the Court of Session, possessed amazing powers of mimicry, which were manifested in his earliest years. One evening, when his father was going to the theatre, he entreated to be taken along with him, hut, for some reason, was condemned to remain at home. Some time after the departure of the doctor, Mrs Cullen heard him come along the passage, as if from his own room, and say, at her door, "Well, after all, you may let Robert go." Robert was accordingly allowed to depart for the theatre, where his appearance gave no small surprise to his father. On the old gentleman coming home, and remonstrating with his lady for allowing the boy to go, it was discovered that the voice which seemed to give the permission had proceeded from the young wag himself.

In maturer years, Cullen could not only mimic any voice or mode of speech, but enter so thoroughly into the nature of any man, that he could supply exactly the ideas which he was likely to use. His imitations were therefore something much above mimicries—they were Shakspearian representations of human character. He has been known, in a social company, where another individual was expected, to stand up, in the character of that person, and return thanks for the proposal of his health; and this was done so happily, that, when the individual did arrive, and got upon his legs to speak for himself, the company was convulsed with an almost exact repetition of what Cullen had previously uttered, the manner also, and every inflection of the voice, being precisely alike. In relating anecdotes, of which he possessed a vast store, he usually prefaced them with a sketch of the character of the person referred to, which greatly increased the effect, as the story then told characteristically. These sketches were remarked to be extremely graphic, and most elegantly expressed.

When a young man, residing with his father, he was very intimate with Dr Robertson, the Principal of the University, and the celebrated author of the Life of Charles V. To show that Robertson was ill to imitate, it may be mentioned, from the report of a gentleman who has often heard him making public orations, that, when the students observed him pause for a word, and would themselves mentally supply it, they invariably found that the word which he did use was different from that which they thought suitable. Cullen, however, could imitate him to the life, either in his more formal speeches, or in his ordinary discourse. He would often, in entering a house which the Principal was in the habit of visiting, assume his voice in the lobby and stair, and when arrived at the drawingroom door, astonish the family by turning out to beonly Bob Cullen. Lord Greville, a pupil of the Principal's, having been one night detained at a protracted debauch, where Cullen was also present, the latter gentleman next morning got admission to the bedroom of the young nobleman, where, personating Dr

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