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of being unparalleled by any production either of art or na

ture. But before the year was ended, I had occasion to 4 wonder at the progress that may be made, in despite of

natural deficiency, by dint alone of practice; for I actually produced three landscapes, which a lady thought worthy to be framed and glazed. I then judged it high time to exchange this occupation for another, lest, by any subsequent productions of inferior merit, I should forfeit the honor i had so fortunately acquired. But gardening was, of all employments, that in which I succeeded best; though, even in this, I did not suddenly attain perfection

I began with lettuces and cauliflowers : from them I pro5 ceeded to cucumbers ; next to melons. I then purchased

an orange tree, to which, in due time, I added two or three myrtles. These served me, day and night, with employment during a whole severe winter. To defend them from the frost, in a situation that exposed them to its severity, cost me much ingenuity and much attendance. I contrived to give them a fire heat; and have waded, night after night, through the snow, with the bellows under my arm, just before going to bed, to give the latest possible puff

to the embers, lest the frost should seize them before 6 morning. Very minute beginnings have sometimes impor

tant consequences. From nursing two or three little evergreens, I became ambitious of a green-house, and accordingly built one; which, verse excepted, afforded me amusement for a longer time than any expedient of all the many to which I have fled for refuge from the misery of having nothing to do. When

When I left Olney for Weston, I could no longer have a green-house of my own; but in a neighbor's garden I find a better, of which the sole management is consigned to me.

A Shepherd's Philosophy. I know the more one sickéns, the worse at ease he is; and that he that wants money, means, and content, is without three good friends:—that the property of rain is to wet, and fire to burn :—that good pastúre makes fat sheèp; and that a great cause of the night is, lack of the sun :that he, that hath learned no wit by nature nor art, may complain of good breeding, or comes of a very dull kindred.

I am a true labòrer: I earn that I éat, get that I wear; owe no man háte, envy no man's happiness; glad of other men's good, content with my hàrm; and the greatest of my pride is, to see my ewes graze, and my lambs suck. Shakspeare.

LESSON XVIII. Winter Evening in an Icelandic Family.-HENDERSON, 1 A WINTER evening in an Icelandic family presents a

scene in the highest degree interesting and pleasing. Between three and four o'clock, the lamp is hung up in the principal apartment, which answers the double purpose of a bed-chamber and sitting-rooin, and all the members of the family take their station, with their work in their hands, on their respective beds, all of which face each other. The master and mistress, together with the children, or other relations, occupy the beds at the inner end of the room;

the rest are filled by the servants. 2 The work is no sooner begun, than one of the family,

selected on purpose, advances to a seat near the lamp, and commences the evening lecture, which generally consists of some old saga, or such other histories as are to be obtained on the island. Being but badly supplied with printed books, the Icelanders are under the necessity of copying such as they can get the loan of; which sufficiently accounts for the fact, that the most of them write a hand equal in beauty to that of the ablest writing-masters in other parts

of Europe. Some specimens of their Gothic writing are 3 scarcely inferior to copperplate. The reader is frequently

interrupted, either by the head, or some of the inore intelligent members of the family, who make remarks on various parts of the story, and propose questions, with a view to exercise the ingenuity of the children and servants. In some houses, the sagas are repeated by such as have got them by heart; and instances are not uncommon of itinerating historians, who gain a livelihood during the winter, by staying at different farms till they have exhausted their

stock of literary knowledge. It is greatly to be deplored, 4 that a people so distinguished by their love of science, and possessing the most favorable opportunities of cultivating it, should be destitute of the means necessary for improving them to advantage.

Instead of the sagas, some of the more pious substitute the historical books of Scripture ; and as they always give the preference to poetry, most of these books have been translated into metre, chiefly with a view to this exercise.

At the conclusion of the evening labors, which are frequently continued till near midnight, the family join in 5 singing a psalm or two; after which, a chapter from some

book of devotion is read, if the family be not in possession of a Bible, but where this sacred book exists, it is preferred to every other.

A prayer is also read by the head of the family, and the exercise concludes with a psalm. Their morning devotions are conducted in a similar manner, at the lamp. When the Icelander awakes, he does not salute any person that may have slept in the room with him, but hastens to the door, and, lifting up his eyes towards heaven,

adores Him who made the heavens and the earth, the Au6 thor and Preserver of his being, and the Source of every

blessing. He then returns into the house, and salutes every one he meets, with “God grant you a good day !".

There may be in the cup
A spidèr steeped, and one may drink,—depárt
And yet partake no venòm; for his knowledge
Is not infected; but if one present
The abhorred ingredient to his eye; make known
How he hath drúnk, he cracks his gorge, his sides
With violent hefts.* Shakspeare.


Centennial Hymn.-PIERPONT.
[Sung in the Old South Meeting-house, Boston, on the Centennial

Birthday of WASHINGTON.]
| To Thee, beneath whose eye
Each circling century

* Heavings.

Obedient rolls,
Our nation, in its prime,
Looked with a faith sublime,
And trusted, in “ the time

That tried men's souls”—
2 When, from this gate of heaven,*
People and priest were driven

By fire and sword,
And where thy saints had prayed,
The harnessed war-horse neighed,
And horsemen's trumpets brayed

In harsh accord.

3 Nor was our fathers' trust,
Thou Mighty One and Just,

Then put to shame :
“Up to the hills” for light
Looked they in peril's night,
And, from yon guardian height,

Deliverance came.
4 There like an angel form,
Sent down to still a storm,

Clouds broke and rolled away;
Foes fled in pale dismay;
Wreathed were his brows with bay,

When war was done.
5 God of our sires and sons,
Let other Washingtons

Our country bless;
And, like the brave and wise
Of by-gone centuries,
Show that true greatness lies

In righteousness.

* The Old South church was taken possession of by the British, while they held Boston, and converted into barracks for the cavalry, the pews being cut up for fuel, or used in constructing sta for the horses.

+ From his position on “Dorchester Heights,” that overlook the town, General Washington succeeded in compelling the British forces to evacuare Bosion.

Alas, how little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while living! How heedless, are we, in youth, of all her anxieties and kindness! But when she is dead and gáne; when the cares and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts ; when we experience how hard it is to find true sympathý, how few- love us for ourselvés, how few will befriend us in our misfortúnes ;-then it is, that we think of the mother we have lost.— Irving.

As the vine which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been listed by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendríls, and bind up its shattered boughs ; so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace, when smitten with sudden calamity; winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.-Id.


1 A BARKING sound the shepherd hears,

A cry as of a dog or fox ;-
He halts, and searches with his eyes

Among the scattered rocks:
And now, at distance, can discern
A stirring in a brake of fern,
From which immediately leaps out
A dog, and yelping, runs about.

2 The dog is not of mountain breed;

Its motions, too, are wild and shy;
With something-as the shepherd thinks-

Unusual in its cry:
Nor is there any one in sight,
All round, in hollow, or on height;
Nor shout, nor whistle, strikes his ear:--
What is the creature doing here?

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