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spider-crab, knocking the poor thing half over, and in a minute comes tumbling back again to take post behind our friend the hermit-crab, round whom he wriggles ungracefully twice at least every five minutes.

Here is a piece of solid stone as big as your head, which is drilled through in fifty places with holes of the diameter of a fourpenny piece, and as perfectly circular. These holes are the work of a mischievous mollusc which bores its way through the adamantine rock-to whom chalk and sandstone are but bread and cheese, and who has an appetite suited to any emergency, and can eat his way out of any difficulty, however great. Here are fifty marvels besides, living and dead-and whether living or dead we cannot tell-which we have at present neither leisure nor space to discuss. There is a marine gentleman at home, waiting for us, upon whom we are pledged to make an experiment in practical anatomy, using a fish-slice for a scalpel, at four o'clock-and it is now past three. One more look at the sea-anemone, who, we find, has swallowed his shrimp all but the tail-piece.

We have visited the gardens this morning in the character of a casual observer, and have given but a general glance at a spectacle as yet not fully prepared for the critical examination of the public. We may, perhaps, return to them again when the arrangements are fully completed, and when all the cisterns are stocked with the inhabitants of the river and the sea. Then, as lovers of natural history, we may be enabled to report to our readers somewhat less discursorily respecting this bold and well-arranged attempt to familiarize the population of London with the social usages in vogue among the denizens of the deep.

OLD HUMPHREY ON BIRTHDAYS. Now is my time to write on this subject if I mean ever to write upon it at all, for it is my birthday, and my gray hairs tell me there must needs be some uncertainty as to its return. An hour ago the postman gave his spirited double rap, and my table is tolerably well covered with letters and packages, the winged messengers of friendship and the kind offerings of affection. Every reader of the "Leisure Hour" must have some interest in his own birthday, and in that of his friends; I will try, then, to be suitable in my remarks, and to reach both the merry and the mournful-hearted. A birthday in youth and prime is usually a sunshiny season; but as the sun of life declines, the lengthening shadows of thought become more apparent in human character. An old man can hardly avoid looking before and behind him; and thus, while young people on their birthdays, with their faces lit up with smiles, think only of the present, the aged on such occasions, with graver countenances, reflect on the past and the future. This is as it should be. Age may be cheerful and yet thoughtful, and not to be the latter would supply a much more reasonable cause of regret than not being the former.

A birthday is oftentimes a harvest-day of affectionate remembrances and tokens of good-will. Would that on this day I could give to others half the gratification that others have given me. How

kindly do I feel towards my several correspondents,
whose communications are full of free-hearted
ei
desires for my welfare:

"Wishing me happy hours in endless store,
True friends, good health, all honour; nay, yet more,
That heaven-lit hope, and God-descended peace,
Which still remains when all things earthly cease."

Birthdays include all days in the calendar, for there is not one in the revolving year that is not a high-day and a holiday to some rejoicing heart; or a day of mournful recollection to some sorrowful spirit, as the birthday of one estimated and loved. Parents exult in the birthdays of their children, and children in those of their parents. A fond mother remembers, with tears, that it is the natal day of a son who is abroad, perhaps tossing on the billowy deep, or settled in some distant locality; and an affectionate father calls to mind with a sob, which he vainly tries to suppress, that it is the birthday of a dear daughter in heaven, a day which, though now shrouded with gloom, had used to be kept with festivity and rejoicing. Our birthdays while we are here will be remembered by ourselves, and perhaps when we are gone they will be borne in mind by others.

Who is there that has not, on many occasions, wished that he could soar towards the firmament and look down on the manifold pursuits and occupations of mankind? Could I now see the yearly jubilee of others' birthdays, what a chequered scene would be spread out before me! Hundreds who win their bread by daily toil are too much occupied in the hard, every-day duties and cares of life to think much of their birthdays; while others are altogether absorbed by the return of a season which brings to them so much of pleasure.

Just now I see in my fancy what I have often seen in reality, and few who have witnessed it are likely to forget it-the bright, beamy, bustling birthday of the sovereign, as it used to manifest itself at the general post-office, when mail-coaches, instead of mail-carts, were in fashion. A life, a cheerfulness, a merriment prevailed around, and the "birthday' was visible in every face. The procession of fresh-painted harness and gay riband rosettes, the coachmen and guards in their flaring red coats, and the postmen riding before, made London alive. St. Martin's-le-grand, Cheapside, St. Paul's Churchyard, Ludgate-hill, Fleet-street, the Strand, and Parliament-street, seemed to be keeping holiday. And then it was an animating sight, when the busy crowd assembled at night, to see the mails take their departure, piled up with leathern bags, the guards, armed with their blun derbusses, strapping them firmly together. As one says, "There go the Plymouth and Canterbury coaches up the street, and there go the York, the Birmingham, and the Holyhead down the street, with a dozen others, hurrying and driving along in different directions; coachmen and guards in their red coats, whips cracking, horses prancing, wheels clattering, horns blowing, and mail-coaches and mail-carts rattling over the stones-one of the noisiest, the busiest, and the most cheerful sights in all London."

And now rises in my memory a birthday scene in which a rosy band of cottage children were the happy actors. It was in a dreamy nook, a worn

out quarry, sheltered from the hot sunbeams; a peaceful place garlanded with woodbines and hanging plants, and where all day long was heard the hum of bees and songs of joyous birds. Around it grew straggling brambles laden with blackberries. There grouped together, the happy-hearted children enjoyed their mimic feast, their acorn cups before them. Just as I looked down upon them from the high banks above, a sister wreathed her arms about the neck of her chubby-cheeked little brother. Amid many fair things those children were the fairest. Love reigned among them, and the kiss went round. It was a gladdening sight, for that childish revel had in it a more real plea

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A joy more sweet, and innocent, and pure, Than wealth can buy or festive halls secure." Pleasant it is to see a bright, sparkling, loveable being, just mingling the girl with the woman, preparing her plans and marshalling her friends for her coming birthday. If she be a little interested by the new dress in which she is to appear, call it not by the ugly name of vanity. If for a season her heart is occupied in the varied amusements in which her guests are to engage, think her not of necessity either trifling or worldlyminded. It is an accredited season of rejoicinga privileged holiday. We of the gray hair are not to mould the world after our own antiquated fashion; we are not to knit our brows and truss up the bodies and souls of the young with our own fancied forms of propriety; but rather, remembering our youthful days, to allow elbow-room for the more buoyant emotions of those who are younger than ourselves. Play, throbbing pulse! beat, happy heart! and a blessing light on the hours of your recreation! Young men and maidens, rejoice in the season of your youth; but never may your buoyant birthdays unfit you for the graver duties of life, nor hinder you in your way

to heaven.

Sometimes a birthday finds us recovering from an illness that has pulled down our strength and blanched our cheeks. How delightful in such a case, wearied with the fever-laden atmosphere of a sick chamber, from the opened casement to breathe the morning air, to look forth with strange delight and then to wander abroad. Grateful to our senses are the commonest sights and sounds; how pleasant is the sunbeam, how balmy the breeze, how sweet the music of the birds! Our upturned eyes are moist with grateful tears. It is our birthday; again we are come forth to mingle with a bright and joyous world, and our hearts are filled with thankfulness and our mouths with praise.

As I before intimated, aged people, even though of cheerful disposition, have shadowy thoughts on their birthdays. They find themselves a year or two older than they had imagined, and look grave at the discovery. While noting down these remarks, I cannot choose but talk a little to myself.

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third year; but how many have I had who were beckoned away to another world before they had reached my age! Few and far between are the friends of my earlier days, and those who have been called away greatly outnumber those that remain. Would that every one had always a happy birthday, and that the dwelling-places of those who sit at the desk, labour at the loom, work in the mine, or wield the hammer, the saw, or the file, rung with grateful joy and light-hearted merriment! Would that on such occasions there was every cause for congratulation and rejoicing, and none for regret and lamentation! It is," says one, a poor heart that never rejoices ;" and when is there a fitter season to rejoice, than on the return of that day when we came into this breathing world, to help each other gratefully to enjoy, patiently to endure, and to do His holy will who has crowned us with tender mercies and lovingkindnesses!

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Birthdays are mostly kept by the happy-hearted, for little are they recked of by those who have poverty and pain, sickness and sorrow, in their habitations. To the outcasts of the world, the return of the day of their birth must be rather an affliction than a source of joy. The ruined spendthrift, the prisoner, and the felon, cannot but say in their hearts, "Oh that it were with me as in days that are past!" Yes, the unhappy set but little store by their birthdays, and would rather blot them out than remember them. Poor Job thought lightly enough of his, when his sons and his daughters were destroyed; his camels, asses, sheep, and oxen taken away; and his body so changed by sickness, that his very friends did not know him. What a mockery it would have been, in the depth of his destitution and darkness, to have paid him the compliment of wishing him 'many happy returns!" What a keen and bitter susceptibility must he have had of his desolate condition when he thus spoke of his birthday: "Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said, There is a man child conceived. Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above. As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein. Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning." I know not whether Job's birthday came round while he was in this trouble, but if so it must have been a day of darkness. It becomes us not, however, to despond in the hour of calamity; rather should we remember that it is as light a thing with God to lift up as to pull down; for of this same Job it is said that the Lord blessed his latter end more than his beginning.

I must now bring my remarks to a close. We all like to be estimated by those we respect, and none of us have any objection to be remembered on our birthdays by those who have a niche in our hearts; and whether the symbol of their affection or friendship assumes the shape of a page of prose, a verse of poetry, an etching, a book-marker, a simple flower, or any other form, it is invested with the value that kindness always confers. Reader, what is the date of your birth? Have you ever made inquiry whether any good man I have one friend who has reached her ninety-came into the world or went out of it on that day,

is

very

"And

now, my soul, another year

Of thy short life is past;

Thou canst not long continue here,

And this may be thy last :"

suitable language for my lip and my heart.

that you might have some one to imitate? Or whether any bad man was born or died on that day, that you might shun his evil deeds? Have you given yourself the trouble to ascertain whether any event has ever occurred on that day calculated to awaken your wonder, increase your piety, or call forth your thankfulness? What a reproach to any one it must be to be born on the same date as Beveridge, Baxter, Watts, or Wesley, and yet be ungodly; or on the birthday of a Howard, a Wilberforce, or a Fry, and be hard-hearted and cruel! There are many ways of turning a birthday to account; and if no better method should occur to you, adopt at once the following advice of Old Humphrey, putting it in practice on your very next birthday. Enjoy the present, think on the past, and prepare for the future. Call to mind your mercies, encourage thankfulness of heart, forgive such as have offended you, and try to make some aching heart happy. Hardly can I express a better wish for you than that which a kind correspondent has expressed for me:--

"Many happy returns of the day of thy birth,
Many seasons of sunshine be given;
And may God, in his mercy, prepare thee on carth
For a birthday of glory in heaven."

THE TEMPLE AT PARIS. WE extract, from Mr. Simpson's recent work on "Paris after Waterloo," the following narrative of a visit paid to the remains of "The Temple"-a spot which has acquired a historic celebrity in connection with its unhappy captive, Louis XVI of France.

Crossing the paved court, we entered at the front door of the Hôtel de Temple. Three rooms of great interest, on this floor, have not undergone the slightest alteration-those which were allotted to the royal family when first conveyed hither on the 10th of August. They are large square rooms, and, as usual in France, en suite. The walls are covered with the gilded leather which succeeded tapestry, and preceded paper, and the panelling is richly carved and gilded. The whole is now old and shabby, and there was no furniture in the

rooms.

In these rooms the royal family remained the whole day, till twelve o'clock at night. Expecting to be allowed to remain, they had made up a bed on the floor for the king and the dauphin, and something of the same kind, in another room, for the queen, her daughter, and the Princess Elizabeth. The man pointed out the very spots. The king's was in a small recess, like a sideboard recess. The savage and wanton order to remove the whole family into the wretched tower in the garden, purposely delayed to give it more effect, came at midnight, after the dauphin and his sister had gone to bed. They were never again in the comparatively better accommodation of the hotel. The king was thrice within its walls--once when he underwent the audacious examination before a deputation from the Convention, in the same room where he had once expected to sleep; and the other two occasions, when he passed through it to his trial, and to his death. It was very impressive to be within the walls of the very room where so extraordinary an event took

place as the examination of the grand monarch of France by five or six of his subjects. Every panel and ornament on walls and roof was then the same as now, and I could imagine every part and portion of the chamber perused by the king's eye, without being noticed by him. I assigned a place to the table with the chairs of the inquisitors, the spot nearest the door to the king and the guards, and seemed to hear the noise of the enraged mob on the outside of the porte-cochère. Again I perused every spot of the other two apartments, and went out at the door into the garden, by a broad flight of steps. It was a great disappointment to find that the actual prison was gone, but I was assured that the garden had not suffered the slightest change. I stood on the steps to look at it. It seemed square, about an acre in extent, and not in good order. It was, however, meant to be a dressed piece of ground, having a little pond, some artificial rocks in most absurd taste, some very old crazy garden-chairs, walks very much grass-grown, shrubberies, and trees. A high wall surrounds it, and the windows of the high houses in the neighbourhood overlook it. It by no means looked like the yard of a prison, and I rather think it had never been more than a state prison, till prepared for the royal family. The use of the garden was permitted them, under, however, the closest watch; and their walks and seats were pointed out to me, with all the interest of having undergone no change. I could have tarried a long time on this sadly interesting spot. In the centre of the garden had stood the tower. It was a square building of no great size, consisting of four stories, with a round tower at each of the four corners; the tower surmounted by a high conical slated roof, with a vane on the top. There are engravings of it. This tower must have been the original dwelling of the Grand Prieur de Malthe. To mark where it stood, there are put down in the garden a number of wooden pins, forming the square and the corner towers. The site of a building always appears small. When I stood within the pins, I did not think the centre square could be twenty feet. I should have measured it. Recollecting that the chivalrous Sir Sidney Smith was confined here, and that he owed his escape to a romantic telegraphic correspondence with a lady, who appeared at a window in a house on the outside of the wall of the garden, I found that the porter could point out the house, but not the window. He recollected hearing of the cheva lier Sidney Smith. Captain Wright, Pichegru, and Georges, were all severally confined here, and are believed to have been here severally murdered. We now entered the hotel once more, passed through the lobby, out of the door, and across the court in front-the path of the king to the carriage that waited to conduct him to the guillotine, when he said "Allons marchons." The porter invited me into his house to see the model in wood which has been preserved of the Temple tower. It is said to be accurate. By opening the tower on one side on each story, you have an inside view of the apartments, in which, for further interest, are placed little figures of the royal family: in one is the parting scene. On the first floor you see guards and deputies; and in one room is the wretch with the bonnet who was employed to guard and insult the dauphin. Poor

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Clery's closet, off the king's room, is also opened; and that faithful servant is seen seated, holding his head with his hands, in agonies of grief. The little exhibition would be wretched anywhere else; but on the spot, there was no looking at it without deep interest. The garden was also represented, with the royal prisoners seated on one of the garden seats, with two guards attending them, at a little distance. The street was pointed out by which the carriage drove off for the fatal closing scene. The procession moved along the Boulevards to the Place Louis xv, at least two miles from the Temple. It is well known that, when the horrorstruck king attempted to speak, the drums were inhumanly ordered to beat. Rescue by a relenting people was not doubted by the king; but when the drums began, he wrung his hands, and exclaimed, "I am lost!-I am lost!"

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GIRARD, THE AMERICAN MILLIONAIRE. THE remarkable career of the celebrated Girard, the founder of the American college of that name, is thus noticed by Mr. Freedley, in his work, recently noticed by us, on "Money." "Stephen Girard was born on the 24th day of May, 1750, within the environs of Bordeaux, in France. He sailed to the West Indies as a cabin boy, when only twelve years of age; and, after residing there some time, removed to the United States. He followed the sea as mate, captain, and part owner of a vessel for a while, and accumulated some money. He entered into partnership with Isaac Hazlehurst, of Philadelphia, and purchased two vessels to commence the St. Domingo trade; but they were captured, and that dissolved the firm.

During the war, he was at Mount Holly, in the business of bottling claret and cider. In 1779 he returned to Philadelphia, and entered upon the New Orleans and St. Domingo trade. He then tried a partnership with his brother, which, in the course of three or four years, exploded in a rupture. Shortly after this, his prospects were materially aided by the acquisition of 10,000l., deposited in one of his vessels during the insurrection at St. Domingo, and for which the owners never called. In 1791 he commenced ship-building, and from that time until his death was engaged in various mercantile speculations, and in banking. In 1811 he had 200,000l. in the hands of the

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who were then in imminent danger of failure. Had they failed, it is very probable that Girard College would never have been built. The effect on his peculiar constitution of mind would, most likely, have proved fatal. He died in 1832, estimated to be worth 2,500,000l.

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He never gave an opinion on the causes of his success, that I am aware of. When requested to furnish incidents for his life, he refused, replying: My actions must make my life.' We can probably glean his opinion from the following two or three little actions:'

"A gentleman from Europe purchased a bill of exchange on Girard, to defray the expenses of tour to this country. It was duly honoured on presentation, but in the course of their transactions it so happened, that one cent (a halfpenny) remained to be refunded on the part of the Euro

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pean; and, on the eve of his departure from this country, Girard dunned him for it. The gentleman apologized, and tendered him a six and a quarter cent piece, requesting the difference. Mr. Girard tendered him in change five cents, which the gentleman declined to accept, alleging he was entitled to an additional quarter of a cent. reply, Girard admitted the fact, but informed him that it was not in his power to comply, as the government had neglected to provide the fractional coin in question, and returned the gentleman the six cent piece, reminding him, however, that he must still consider him his debtor for the bal

ance.

"We saw that remarkable man (Girard) after his head was white with the frost of nearly fourscore years, and could not help noticing, even then, the minute attention which he gave to the most trivial thing that could affect his fortune. Take that lot of fowls away; the roosters are too many; chant to a farmer, who had brought them for one they would keep the hens poor,' said the old merof Girard's ships- take them away-I will not buy them.'

"Take care of the cents, and the dollars will take care of themselves,' was evidently his opinion.

"The posthumous charities of Mr. Girard," remarks Mr. Freedley, "were merely the Egyptian spices that embalm a loathsome carcase; for he forgot the charities due to long service, and buried the heart of a man in the money bags of the merchant."

THINGS WORTH REMEMBERING. NOTHING is more easy than to say the words of a prayer; but to pray hungering and thirsting for an answer is the hardest of all works.

Prayer brings God into the heart, and keeps sin out. the time and manner of giving. "Ask, and it shall be given you;" only let God choose

Praying with the heart is praying by the Spirit, whether with or without a form.

No true prayer is lost, though we may have forgotten it. what God would have us to ask, and really desire what we All prayer is hypocrisy and sad deceit, if we no not ask ask.

We can never pray too earnestly for the Holy Spirit. In our other petitions we may ask what it would be injurious for us to receive.

Resting in the bare act of prayer is a most dangerous delusion, and keeps the soul from its proper relief.

O God, give me what thou knowest to be good, and thou alone knowest what is good: give me more than I can ask or think; if the reverse of what I ask is what I should ask, give me that; let me not be undone by my prayers.

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I put my prayers into Christ's hands; and what may not
expect from them, when I have such an advocate
If we know God's will, happy are we if we do it.
Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall much be

required.

Never open the door to what is foolishly called a "little

sin," lest a great one should enter also.

than a field with corn, since the heart's harvest is perIt is better to sow the young heart with good thoughts petual.

UNION OF CHRISTIAN FRIENDS.-They that love beyond the world cannot be separated by it. Death cannot kill what never dies. Nor can spirits ever be divided that love under the influence of the same divine principle. Death to such is but crossing the world, as friends do the seas; they live in one another still. This is the comfort of such friends, that though they may be said to die, yet their friendship and society are, in the best sense, immortal.

Varieties.

MIND WHAT YOU SAY BEFORE CHILDREN. Ir is always well to avoid saying everything that is improper; but it is especially so before children. And here parents, as well as others, are often in fault. Children have as many ears as grown persons, and they are generally more attentive to what is said before them. What they hear, they are very apt to repeat; and as they have no discretion, and not sufficient knowledge of the world to disguise anything, it is generally found that "children and fools speak the truth." See that boy's eyes glisten while you are speaking of a neighbour, in a language you would not wish to have repeated. He does not fully understand what you mean, but he will remember every word; and it will be strange if he does not cause you to blush by the repetition.

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A gentleman was in the habit of calling at a neighbour's house, and the lady had always expressed to him great pleasure from his calls. One day, just after she had remarked to him, as usual, her happiness from his visit, her little boy entered the room. The gentleman took him on his knee, and asked, "Are you not glad to see me, George?" "No, sir," replied the boy. "Why not, my little man ?" he continued. "Because mother don't want you to come," said George. "Indeed! how do you know that, George ?" Here the mother became crimson, and looked daggers at her little son. But he saw nothing, and therefore replied, "Because, she said yesterday, she wished that old bore would not call here again." That was enough. The gentle man's hat was soon in requisition, and he left with the impression that "great is the truth, and it will prevail." Another little child looked sharply in the face of a visitor, and being asked what she meant by it, replied, "I wanted to see if you had a drop in your eye; I heard mother say you had frequently."

A boy once asked one of his father's guests who it was that lived next door to him, and when he heard his name, inquired if he was not a fool. "No, my little friend," replied the guest, "he is not a fool, but a very sensible man. But why did you ask that question ?" Because," replied the boy, "mother said the other day, that you were next door to a fool; and I wanted to know who lived next door to you."-New York Observer.

STRIVE!

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EARNEST striving is the sole condition of success in spiritual matters, as in worldly affairs. It is no easy thing to fulfil our course, to solve life's sublime problem, and reap its ripe cultured fruits. No man is crowned except he strive; the brilliant crowns that stud the brow of conquerors demand their price. Heaven is not a house of refuge for the indolent, nor a resort for those who are too inefficient and shiftless to find a home here. Its rewards are reserved for hands that fairly win them, and its treasures belong to those who violently seize upon them, Though no man merits heaven by labour, (nor can gain it save through faith in the atonement of Christ and the regenerating influences of the Holy Spirit,) no man gains heaven without labour-labour that absorbs the whole being, and continues as long as life lasts. There will be time enough to rest when the struggle is over; here is there no rest. Toil here, and enjoyment there; strife on earth, and peace in heaven; the vigour and stress of battle now, and the glory and fruit of conquest hereafter; th's is the grand order of things imposed by the Great Disposer, which the wise man cheerfully accepts and makes the most of. Happy is he who so strives as to win! Christian reader, we have no time to lose. Much of life has already been idly wasted, and unworthy objects have usurped far too many of our energies. Now it is time to awake out of sleep. The day is far spent, and the night already casts its shadows upon our path-a night in which no more work will be done. What we do, we must do quickly. The achievements we purpose are to be made soon, if made at all. Soon the sun will disappear, the twilight come rapidly on, the clouds thicken, and the light of day go out. our day's work be faithfully done? Will life's business be fully accomplished ?-American Paper.

THE MEMORY OF O'CONNELL. A TOUCHING picture of the evanescent character of human glory is given in the following description of the present aspect of the once great O'Connell's residence.

"The wild ruin of the house where Daniel was born stands in an admirable situation for smuggling, and so does the abbey; and the legend runs that the facility was abundantly used. Smuggling is quite over now, as the coast-guard tell with a sigh. And agitation is over too. So the one house stands a ruin, and the other is rotting away in damp and neglect. It is inhabited; it is even filled with company at times; but not the less forlorn in its appearance, when seen from a nearer point than the mountain roads, choked by its own woods, which grow almost up to the windows, stained with damp, out of joint, unrepaired, unrenewed: it is a truly melancholy spectacle. Melancholy to all eyes, it is most so to the minds of those who can go beyond a quarter of a century, and hear again the shouts which hailed the advent of the Liberator, and see again the reverent enthusiasm which watched him from afar, when he rested at Derrynane from his toils, and went to hunt among the hills, or cruize about his bay. Now, there is his empty yacht in the sound, and his chair in the chapel covered with black cloth. All else that he enjoyed there, in his vast wealth of money, fame, and popular love, seems to be dropping away to destruction. When we were there, the bay, whose full waters must give life and music to the whole scene, was a forlorn stretch of impassable sand-neither land nor water. The tide was out. It was too like the destiny of him whom it neighboured so nearly. His glory swelled high; and grand at one time was its dash and roar: but the tide is out; and it can never return-could never have returned if he had lived; for there is going on, we trust, a gradual up-heaving of the land, giving some promise of that reclamation which he never would allow. It is said further of O'Connell, that his name is scarcely ever mentioned in Ireland now. When the news of his death arrived there was grief for three or four days,' and then he seemed to be forgotten. His portrait (a good painting we are told) was lately sold for two shillings."

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD STUDENT. MANY years since, when the late lieutenant-governor Phillips, of Andover, Mass., was a student of Harvard College, owing to some boyish freak he left the university and went home. His father was a very grave man, of sound mind and few words. He inquired into the business, but deferred expressing any opinion until the next day. At breakfast, he said, speaking to his wife, "My dear, have you any cloth in the house suitable to make Sam a frock and trowsers? She replied, "Yes." Well," said the old gentleman, "follow me, my son." Samuel kept pace with his father as he leisurely walked near the common, and at length ventured to ask, "What are you going to do with me, father?" "I am going to bind you an appren tice to that blacksmith," replied Mr. Phillips. "Take your choice; return to college, or you must work." "I had rather return," said the son. He did return, confessed his fault, was a good scholar, and became an excellent and useful citizen. If all parents were like Mr. Phillips, (whose conduct on this occasion was commendable, although it by no means follows that the harsh enforcement of parental authority is under all circumstances justifiable,) the stu dents at our colleges would prove better students, or the nation would have a more plentiful supply of blacksmiths.

ANECDOTE OF THE EARL OF RODEN.

Ir is said of one of the earls of Roden, that there stood in his stately hall a strong box on which were painted the words, "To be saved first, in case of fire." After the earl's death, it was opened in expectation of findWilling some rich treasure; but nothing was found save the toys of an only and departed child, whose memory by these simple relics he sought fondly to cherish.

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