benefit of man; and yet neglect to ascertain the principles, and cultivate to their highest degree of improvement the operations of that mind, which is the very agent to which they are indebted for all the truths which they discover, and all the wonders which they perform. Statesmen lay the monuments of their glory in cutting canals, that what administers to the bodily wants or comforts of their countrymen, may find its way more easily and at a cheaper rate from one part of the nation to the other; and will they leave the fountains of human thought unexplored, and the stream of human intellect, in all its earlier course, to grope its tardy passage through the thousand obstables, which error, sanctioned by custom, opposes to its broader and deeper tide? Then we do not act up to the dignity of our nature. We prefer matter to mind; the body to the soul; time to eternity.

There is one other cause tending to produce the low state of improvement in the early education of children, that yet remains to be mentioned-the desire of accomplishing the object in the most economical way. A cheap teacher, and a large school, will do very well for very young children. As well might you say, that an inferior mason and bad materials are adequate to the laying of that foundation on which you hope to erect a great and permanent edifice. If the principles laid down in the former part of this essay are correct, the very time to have your children under the care of skilful and accomplished teachers, is when they begin to learn the import and use of language. For errors committed then will hardly be quite got rid of through life. Their great task afterwards will be, not so much to learn, as to unlearn; and, perhaps, they will have always to lament the vague ideas which they attached at first to language, the incorrect associations of thought which they formed, the confused modes of thinking which they adopted, and the unmeaning or vulgar phraseology which they acquired. The experience of every one arrived to mature age, must have convinced him of the truth of these remarks. How thoroughly soever his mind may have been disciplined by study, and his judgment rendered profound by experience, or his imagination and taste formed to be classically correct by cultivation; the impressions of his childhood cling to him with a force, and revive with a freshness, almost irresistible. The old meaning of words, which the school dame taught him, and all her illustrations, and stories, and examples to render these words intelligible, start up in his remembrance at times when he least expects or wishes for them, and influence his thoughts, and perhaps his expressions, in spite of himself. It is in mind as in manners, an awkward trick of children is sometimes carried through life; not to be counteracted by associating with the most refined society, or even by acquiring a simple elegance of deportment.

If these remarks have weight as to the intellectual, how much more so with reference to the moral character of man. Whatever may be our opinion in regard to the moral sense, how far it may be instinctive, or how much it depends on cultivation; all will agree, that, without instruction in moral and religious truth, man would be grossly ignorant of his duty. This instruction must be communicated by language. Of course, it becomes infinitely important, that those terms which are used to convey moral and religious ideas should be well understood. If children are left to attach a false or vague meaning to these terms, who can calculate the influence that it will of necessity have upon all their thoughts and feelings on moral and religious subjects. Nay, it goes to form their character through life. The man may, by reflection and study, correct the errors of his head, which have grown out of the misconceptions of childhood; but these misconceptions have already moulded in a great degree his affections, his desires, and purposes, and he finds it a mighty task to subdue the waywardness of his heart. A child asks his teacher the meaning of the word “ proper," who, having himself no correct ideas attached to the term, tells the little inquirer, that "proper means such conduct as he sees in polite and fashionable people. The parent taking for granted, that the boy is making admirable progress at school in the spelling-book, and that he will soon be able to read (that is, to pronounce correctly) in the Bible, and finding, too, that he can even repeat some definitions of very hard words in the Dictionary, is at no trouble to ascertain how far he is learning to think correctly; whether he attaches true or false ideas to the words which he uses, or in fact any ideas at all. The father, to be sure, talks to him often, with affection and earnestness, on the importance of his growing up to be a virtuous and useful man, and hopes his conduct will always be "proper;" that is, according to the boy's conception, derived from his oracle, the schoolmaster, that he will act as fashionable and polite people do. It is quite possible, these are the very people in the village, whose example the father would least wish his son to follow. What care, what skill, what patience, what ingenuity, what precision ought to be used in teaching children such terms, as serve to form, and perhaps to fix forever their impressions with regard to moral and religious truths. Are the character and the talents of those, to whom this important task is assigned, of little consequence? Is the cheapness of the school its highest recommendation? Miserable eccnomy! We employ, indeed, for trifling wages, those whom, perhaps, we had better never employ at all; at the sacrifice, too, of wasting the time, and toil, and patience of our offspring; and, what is still worse, at the risk of their imbibing errors, which no expense of labour can afterwards remove. A delusion, the folly of which is only equalled by its sad effects.

UTILITY OF EXERCISE.

SPONTANEOUS exercise has a powerful effect on the organs and functions of life; and this will not seem surprising, if we reflect, that the parts which are destined to move the animal machine, are more voluminous than all the organs which perform the offices of the organic, or interior life. Thus the muscles of the neck, back, loins, and extremities, form a larger mass than all the organs which carry on the work of digestion, respiration, circulation, secretion, &c. In the natural state of man, the will has entire sway over the locomotive organs. In bringing into successive and regular action the muscles which bend and extend the limbs, in moderating and accelerating their contractions, we are enabled to walk, run, leap, dance, &c. But these voluntary efforts cannot be continued without impressing on the interior organs of nutrition and assimilation, a portion of the muscular energy and action. It may be regarded as a remarkable phenomenon, that the muscles of volition are so intimately associated with the organs which carry on the work of nutrition, respiration, the various secretions, excretions, &c., that the former cannot be brought into methodical action, without exciting and invigorating the latter. Hence exercise will be rational and useful in proportion to the regularity with which it is taken, and its accurate adaptation to the strength and condition of him who takes it.

It is sometimes taken in a violent and irregular manner, after long intermissions, and is then condemned as useless, or even pernicious, merely because somebody has been indiscreet enough to abuse it. It may again be so inert, as to be worthless,-as lounging through the street, in so sluggish and slovenly a manner, that if the noble organs within were called on to decide, they could not tell whether the attempt to exercise were affected or real.

That the organs of voluntary motion have an intimate relation with all the vital organs of the living fabric, there can be no doubt; for, if we divide the trunk of the nerves sent to one of the limbs, the part so deprived of the nervous influence, soon loses the power of moving, and becomes paralytic. On the other hand, when the brain, the source of the nerves, is excited, the nervous power is augmented, and muscular action is more energetic, and more fully developed. A man, now tranquil and serene, suddenly hears some piece of good news,-he can no longer remain silent and still; he rises, advances, retreats, and feels the necessity of expending in speech and motion the abundance of life and animation, with which his nerves and muscles have just been replenished. The muscular system is not less nearly allied to the circulating apparatus. From the moment the communication between the heart and muscles is interrupted by a ligature or otherwise, their contractile power is destroyed. But if the arterial current flows with accelerated

velocity into the tissue of muscles, these move with renovated force and celerity. In this intimate relation between the muscles, nerves, and arteries, we perceive the principal cause of the exciting effects, which walking, running, dancing, fencing, &c. produce.

These exertions produce also another series of effects, which deserve notice. At the instant the foot, which receives the weight of the body, touches the ground, a greater or less shock is given to the whole body, and the motion which the muscular efforts have impressed on the system, vibrates through every part of it. This distribution of motion is not very perceptible in the ordinary, healthy state of the system; but it becomes very obvious when a part inflamed is brought into action. Every movement seems now to be carried almost exclusively to the seat of morbid and excessive sensibility.

Most men are compelled by their social duties to take a good deal of exercise, and how painful the idea would be, to suppose that this necessity to exert our muscles could be opposed to our welfare, or unsuited to the organs we possess. So far from this is the truth, that, by the kind provisions of nature, the structure of the animal machine is not only fitted for motion, but demands it. It seems, if we may say so, that the author of all things has counted on the mechanical and external impulse which the animal organs receive for motion, to aid and sustain their functions. Do we not constantly see, that they who labour habitually are stronger and more vigorous than they who lead idle and effeminate lives?

Individuals born with feeble bodies, have succeeded, by regulated and steady efforts, in improving their pallid complexions, and in acquiring robust constitutions. Julius Cæsar and Henry IV. received but frail bodies from nature, but these were so fortified by exercise, that they became in the end capable of bearing the rudest fatigues. If any one, then, wishes to improve an infirm constitution, or preserve a good one, let him take exercise. To produce its best effects, it should be stated and regular, and suited to the strength and condition of the individual; for if it be excessive or deficient, it will be either useless or pernicious. Any degree of fatigue which a good night's rest will not remove, proves that the preceding efforts have been too great. Exercise taken in the open air, and on elevated regions, is more invigorating than the same degree of motion in confined, marshy, and impure places. It should also be modified by age, sex, and climate. He who does not exercise reasonably, has no right to expect to enjoy health of body, or strength of mind; while he who does exercise properly, and lives temperately, will not only escape many complaints to which others are exposed, but will thus be able to relieve and cure most of the few with which he will ever be afflicted.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

DREAMS.

Aut quæ sopitos deludunt Somnia sensus.

DARKNESS was thick around me, as of old,
In Egypt, it was felt. No glimmering lamp,
Nor solitary star-light found its way

Through the dim shadows that encompassed me;
But all was waste and void,-a desolation
Without a form or voice,- -a deathlike silence,
Where even the waters had forgot to flow,
And winds to whisper,-such a total silence,
My breathing startled me, although I held it
In fear and awe. The heavens had vanished then,
And earth was gone, only the foothold, where
I stood and dared not move,-in like suspense,
As when upon a mountain crag, a mist
Sweeps suddenly around the hunter's path,
And hides the precipice and dread descent,
Where all is death,-he pauses, and awaits
The passing of the vapour, till it rolls
Its heavy wreaths around the glacier heights,
And all at once reveals the dark abyss
Below him, where he hung close on the verge,
And knew not of his danger; such a fear
And wild suspense held me, and then I stood
Waiting for morning, while the laggard hours
Seemed lengthened out to ages. Who has felt
The sickening doubt, the cold uncertainty,
The dying of all hope, when we have seen
Day after day pass on, and yet no sight,
No tidings of the expected happiness,
On which our being rested, we had fixed it
So deeply in our hearts; he only knows
How much I suffered in those long, dull hours,
That heavily dragged on, and brought no dawn,
No token of it;-still the same blank void
Closed me, and narrowed to a sepulchre's
Scant compass, all the universe to me;
And left me nothing but to count my pulses,

And tell my hours by throbs. The air seemed thick
And deathly, and a sense of suffocation

Pressed on me, like a mountain's weight, and bore me