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and not the grand cause of the ills and inconveniences here set forth. We would have supposed that to take away the dice and cards, and to leave the alcohol and evil company seated round the board, would have subtracted very little from the essential evils of an immoral coterie; but not so thought our sage ancestors. They ran tilt at the dice and cards, and left John Barleycorn seated on his pewter throne. We have an interesting historical fact recorded in this sentence, however. There were coffeehouses in A.D. 1702, in Edinburgh.

Two acts, passed in 1730 and 1731, by a general convention of our right worshipful civic rulers, give us some insight into the spirit which dictated the ostracism of the cards and dice, but left the sin of drunkenness untouched. There was no profit to the community, that is, commune aerarum, or the city treasury, in the playing of cards, but there was revenue to be derived from the sale of liquor, and so the council had too high a sense of profit to interfere with the ebibation thereof, although it should have floated all the lieges into Lethe.

or to be found on the streets standing or walking idly, or to go in company, or vage to the Castle-hill, publick yards, or fields on that day, or any time thereof; and ali persons were discharged from bringing in water from the wells in any greater quantities than a pint at a time on that day, or were to be fined to the amount of ten pound Scots for each offence.

For the execution of the law there was embodied, drilled, and supported, a military corps, called the City Guard, or more commonly the Toon Rats.' This fragmentary force was composed of the remnants of old Highland soldiers, who, after fighting and swearing in Flanders, came home to don the city regimentals, to arm themselves with 's lang cliek,' i.e. Lochaber axe, and a 'ricket,' or rattle, and to rehearse all their swearing and fighting in their civic capacities. Terrible men were these city guards-terrible in their sublime austerity, when on king's birth-days they mounted guard, with their long coats, gaiters, threecornered hats, and Lochaber axes, or shouldered their rusty muskets, with which they fired loyal platoons in the ParThe smuggling of French brandy had conduced to lessen liament Square-terrible men were they to lively urchins, the consumpt of Scotch whisky, and forthwith the burgh who were fain to imitate their dialect, and mockingly refer rulers take alarm, and they meet, and deliberate, and pro- to that part of the nation to which they belonged-terrible pound the following oracles: The general convention of also to Bailies Wightman, Preston, Grierson, and Hsthe royal burrows of Scotland, having taken under their thorn, who, on the 27th of November, 1720, sat in conclave consideration the many pernicious effects of the clandes- anent the complaints lodged against the city guard, with tine importation, and open and excessive consumption, of reference to their immoral practices of horrid cursing and brandy in Scotland, &c.' Any rational person, from this swearing, hurtful to their own souls, and offensive to every preamble, would be ready to suppose that it was the im- well-disposed person that hears them,' and ordained tha moral effects which are referred to above; but upon read- for each oath the officers should stop one penny sterling ing on we find that the most direful effect was the dis-out of their pay, and put the same into the poor's box in couragement of Scotch brewing. The 'ruin of the country' was predicted, from the practices of smuggling and brandydrinking; yet it was not the ruin of the health and morality of the people, but the ruin of the revenues derived from whisky excise that the lawmakers meant. It was declared to be a practice manifestly prejudicial to the 'manufacture of our own malt spirits, whereby the price of grain is greatly fallen, and tillage and agriculture much discouraged; and also the sale of our sugar-brandy, and other spirits, imported from the plantations in return for our linen and other profitable manufactures, that employ our poor, is likewise thereby discouraged.'

What a melancholy commentary is this on Scotch morality! what a vivid illustration is the above of Scotch drunkenness! The tillage and agriculture of the country were languishing, because our drunken fathers swilled smuggled brandy; our revenue was reduced because of our progenitorial sots giving up the use of home-distilled drinks; and our colonial trade-a trade in strong drinkwas deranged also, because our ancestors preferred Cognac brandy to Jamaica rum. To correct and prevent these evils, the people were encouraged to return to the drinking of whisky, and other drinks paying excise or tariff duty, and pains and penalties were denounced upon all who were discovered engaged in the contraband trade. The act concerning this alcoholic fracas was printed, and ordered to be publicly intimated in all the churches of the city of Edinburgh and its suburbs, on the next Lord's day (after the 24th of March, 1781), before the dismissing of the congregations.

Of as material a nature as the foregoing were the laws relating to profaneness and visible immorality. The common sins and vices of the community were not regarded with Christian pity and commiseration, and made the basis of an educational reform, but were regarded with a feeling of arbitrary vindictiveness, and transmuted into a source of police revenue. Harsh and most unchristian was the spirit of our fierce, old, sour-faced ancestors; they did not seek to teach the way and the life in the Master's way, but sought to excite a liveliness for religion by the imposing of money-fines, according to the abilities of the offenders. As, for example, in the year 1703, the following are among other clauses of a law which was promulgated, strictly prohibiting and discharging all persons whatever, within this city and suburbs, to brew, or to work any other handiework or labour, on the Lord's day,

the said guard.

The council's legislative functions range from the enacting of laws relative to ellwands to those regulating the running of hackney-coaches. How little progress com munities do make in a century! It is really instructive to compare the acts and spirit of the civic council one hundred years ago with that of to-day. How little the general intelligence of our councillors has advanced, and how identical are the nature and character of their acts with those of old!

ONLY A SERVANT. 'MERCI, mesdames!' said a small, feeble voice, in the ears of the ladies Froidart and Melcoeur, as they walked arm-in-arm through the long street of Brioude one evening, during the Revolution, followed by a great lumbering boy en blouse, whose wooden sabots made a dismal clatter on the hard loose stones, and who swung the lanthorn which he bore as if he had been will-o'- wisp making sport with travellers' eyes. Merci, mesdames!" said the little voice, in the most suppliant accents, I am cold and hungry.'

Madame Froidart continued to walk with a stately, composed air down the street; but the piteous voice immediately arrested the steps of Madame Melcoeur, and touched her woman's heart.

'Where do you dwell, my petite?' she said, in soft, kindly accents, as she bent down and caressed the infant. 'Why are you not at home?'

'My father went away yesterday to join the patriots at Grenoble, and he left me alone,' replied the little girl, as she turned her face towards Madame Melcoeur, and sighed as if she had been a widow instead of an infant.

Madame Melcoeur smiled sadly, for the words and look of the child recalled her own saddest memories; then quietly taking the outcast by the hand, she led her to ber wn home.

And what do you intend to do with the child, Lucelle?' said Madame Froidart, who had waited at the little wicket, with Jochim the lanthorn-bearer, in order to give her friend good night.

I shall share my bread and the protection of my roof with her,' was the reply of the kind-hearted dame.

The father of Marie, who had gone to join the patriots at Grenoble, marched to La Vendee to slay the royalists of that province. He followed General Bonaparte to glory

in Italy, and fell asleep among the snows of Russia, shouting Vive l'Empereur, so that he never came back to Brioude. Marie was homeless and parentless, when her father's heart ceased to pulsate, and his step became palsied in the career of ambition. He had wedded himself to the fate of a fanatic of war and glory; and he died, leaving a child of tender years to deplore his fanaticism. But, thanks to that Providence which has preserved in woman's heart through all ages the strength and purity of primeval love, the little orphan had found a home and a mother in Madame Melcoeur. Madame Melcoeur was the widow of a notary of Brioude, who had been slain in an emeute by some heroes who had come to the village of Brioude to propagate fraternity.

Left with a son of tender years and a slender patrimony, the good widow had devoted herself to the education of Ler boy, and the economical care of her fortune. By one of those beautiful ordinations of an omniscient and benevolent providence, which brings sweets from the saddest events, the sorrows which had oppressed the hearts of Lucelle Melcoeur and her son Ernest, softened by degrees into religious seriousness, until, as if in accordance with a unity of sentiment, the thoughts of the mother and boy were both directed to the ministry; and Ernest, in his sixteenth year, was sent to Geneva, to prepare himself for the duties of a Protestant pastor. Madame Melcoeur had just parted a few days ago from her boy, when the little outcast Marie made her appeal to her heart, and the instinct of maternity at once prompted her to accept the appeal. Little Marie Brioude soon grew up to be one of the fairest maidens in Auvergne; and, what was of far more account, she was acknowledged to be one of the most modest, intelligent, and discreet. Marie was not one of those damsels whose beauty strikes the eye at the first glance, and then palls upon the sense. When you looked in her face you felt your heart stirred with a deep emotion of beauty, such as you might feel when sitting in a church, and reading of Ruth, and Rebecca, and Rachel. You could look into her eyes, and feel that far down below the blue, serene, pellucid orbs which illumined her face, there were virtues shining like the reflections of flowers in a lake. Her hair was worn simply parted on her high, polished brow, like the tresses of Raphael's Madonna. Her dress, of the simplest form and substance, always possessed a character of native elegance, which it borrowed from the form of her who wore it. Her countenance was radiant with soul, and thought, and peace; and diligent were the hands of Marie Brioude.

The house of Madame Melcoeur was a little old-fashioned dwelling, with a little old-fashioned garden, and high walls, and a quaint old wicket. On each side of the wicket grew a linden tree, which threw their branches over the walls, and formed a bower for Madame Melcoeur on the summer evenings, and curtained her flowers from the scorching beams of the sun. The old-fashioned house, and the old-fashioned garden of the good dame, albeit they looked somewhat monastic from the highway, seemed always haunted by an angel, and full of beauty. Like some diligent little fairy, Marie made the rooms of her good patroness to shine as clean and brightly as her own bright eyes. She sung so sweetly, too, that the old men would pause to listen to her soft voice from the road, and they would bless her light heart as they walked on. The very flowers seemed to know and love her, for they were always more beautiful after she had trimmed and watered them; and Madame Melcoeur loved her, and counted her as a daughter. Eight years sped away, and Ernest Melcoeur had never revisited Brioude. The times were troublous, and the conscription was incessant, and so Professor Zuingle of Geneva deemed it as well to send flattering accounts of Ernest's progress to his mother, as to send the lad home during the vacations; and as Ernest's letters were full of pious assurances of resignation to the course prescribed for him, she did not urge him to visit her. I shall see him when he has finished his studies and has entered, a strong man, upon the work of the Lord. I shall behold him when the Master wills it,' she would say; and then these reflections

would remind her of her own duties, and would prompt her to some new benevolent scheme, which always taxed her slender means, but not her heart.

Of all the projects that inspired Madame Melcoeur, that of educating the little outcast children of Brioude seemed the most useful and imperative. When she looked at Marie, and felt what a priceless blessing that little infant of the streets had become to her, through care and culture, her bosom would swell with emotions of gratitude to God, and she would vow in her heart to consecrate her life to the education of the little Ishmaelites of her native town. Unfortunately, the widow was too poor to enter immediately into her design. She must needs save the funds necessary for the establishment she purposed; and before the requisite sum was accumulated, a sudden illness carried the benevolent projectress to an untimely grave.

Marie Brioude did not shed many tears when her benefactress died. The world could not tell that she suffered, from the revelations of her face. It was as still and serene as a summer's heaven. Her sorrows were hidden in the mourning chambers of her bosom. She received into her soul the blessing of her who had been a mother to her; she closed her eyes in death with the tenderness of a daughter; she followed her to her silent tomb with the resignation of faith; she planted flowers upon her grave, as emblems of her life; and then she went forth into the world, that she might devote her life to the purpose of Madame Melcoeur's latter days. Marie Brioude left her native village, whose name she bore, and with recommendations from the maire and Protestant clergyman, simply bearing witness to her good character, she proceeded to Grenoble in Dauphiny, where, by one of those fortuitous circumstances which some people call chance, and others fate or fortune, she was received as a domestic into the house of Madame Froidart. Madame Froidart had left Brioude with her daughter on the very year that her friend had received Marie into her home; and as there was little community of tastes, and few sympathies existing between them, there had been no correspondence. Madame Froidart, whose husband was in the commissariat department, was now wealthy, and this was, perhaps, another inducement for her to forget the poor and unfashionable Lucelle Melcoeur. Her daughter Dora, too, had engrossed her soul as much as Ernest Melcoeur had done that of his mother, and she had striven to render her child as accomplished and fashionable as the other had endeavoured to make her son good.

Marie Brioude, who had hitherto been loved and treated as the child and friend of a high-souled woman, now found herself the slave of a capricious beauty. The smile that so enlivens service never shone upon the lips of Dora Froidart. The gentle word so easily said, and the well bred 'if you please' and 'thank you,' never stole in dulcet accents from the tongue of Dora Froidart. The imperative gesture and the cold command were all that she vouchsafed to her, whom she always declared to be 'only a servant.' Marie Brioude would not have been noble, unless she had been what Dora despised-a servant. It was the noblest probation of her life, and its end was glorified by the purpose of her toil. She could have submitted to a servitude far more galling than even that of Dora, in order to accomplish the object, which, like the pillar of light, led her through the dark Egyptian night of her incessant, cheerless labours.

'Come, Marie,' Dora would say, 'and remove those geraniums; I am sick of their odour. I wonder why mamma can so delight to torment me with them!' and then she would command them to be arranged before her on the stand, that she might lie on the sofa and gaze at them, like some young eastern beauty in her harem. She would have her hair braided a la Madonna, when in a pensive mood, and then she would transform the modest tresses into the most voluptuous Turkish curls, when her heart was touched with what she thought was love. Dora Froidart was capricious, and Marie Brioude was the slave of her caprices.

At length a visiter came to Madame Froidart's house, not

a casual fashionable visiter, but a friend of the family, who had been long abroad, and to whom it behoved Dora to pay the most marked attentions. He was not like the general visiters of Madame Froidart, for he neither played nor indulged in loud laughter; he was gentle and modest as a woman, and his voice was as earnest as a mother's prayer. Dora Froidart was sitting by the accomplished stranger delightedly displaying the contents of her portfolio, when Madame Riquet, the prefect's vulgar wife, was announced. 'Tell her I am not at home,' said Dora, half impatiently; 'she is such a bore,' she added, as she looked at her companion with a sweet smile.

Marie lingered for a moment at the door, and then, with downcast eyes, and a voice tremulous with emotion, she replied. 'I cannot say so, mademoiselle; I shall say that you are engaged, but I cannot say that you are not at home.'

'Do you disobey me ?' said Dora, rising and looking imperiously at the maiden, who now stood looking calmly in her face. Do you know that 'you are only a servant ?" 'I know it, mademoiselle,' said Marie, modestly but firmly, and God grant that I may ever feel it. He whom I serve tells me not to lie.'

Dora looked confounded, and she felt incensed. If you are to regulate the procedure of this dwelling instead of me, it is time you were in this drawing-room and I in the kitchen,' she exclaimed in a tone of lofty irony, which, however, fell harmless on the ear of Marie, and made the stranger's bosom heave with something like an 'amen.' He looked from the domestic to her mistress during this short altercation, and a strange undefinable sensation swelled his bosom as his eye seemed to rest familiarly upon Marie's lovely face. It was strange, passing strange, that thoughts of his mother, and of home, with its flowers, and streams, and green clustering vines, and white butterflies, and birds, rose on his tear-filled vision like a fond reality, when he gazed upon the humble servant, and long after she was gone. His heart treasured for ever the sensations of that moment.

honoured humanity, while she dwelt on earth. She died,' said Marie, her tones changing from the accents of filial pride and gratitude to those of softest sadness, leaving her home to be devoted to the purpose to which death denied her the power of consecrating her life. 'I have now acquired the means necessary for establishing the little school which my dear mother intended; and I shall devote the life which she preserved and sustained to this object of her love. Madame Melcoeur, sir, left the deed of settlement with M. Rideaux, and, perhaps, you are now! the trustee in this business ?'

Marie received no answer to the question thus addressed, and when she looked upon her listener, his face was agitated with profound emotion.

'My sister, whom I have so longed to see,' said Ernest at last, stepping forward and gently taking the band of Marie. 'Thou who bearest so much of my mother in thy voice, and eyes, and heart, eh, welcome to my humble home!'

The shutters of Madame Melcoeur's house were soon thrown open to the sunbeams, and they came dancing in at the windows, and played with the curls of little children whon Marie Brioude taught to read; and they kissed the rosy cheeks and lips of the children whom Marie Brioude taught to pray. The flowers that had so long grappled with each other in uncultured animosity, now shot up into beauty and order when she approached them; and Ernest Melcoeur, who had often shed tears of grief when he looked upon the home of his youth, and thought of her who was wont to bless him there, now smiled when he approached its precincts, for his mother's spirit, dwelling in Marie, had revived all of beauty or goodness that was ever associated with his home. He came again and again to his own old dwelling, now illumined by woman's devotion and woman's love. He often spake to Marie of their first meeting, for he soon recognised in her, she who was only a servant' in the house of Dora Froidart; and he dwelt so often on the memory of the feelings which those moments inspired, that even Marie loved to hear him recount what had once been pain

their heads, and smile, and declare, that something would come of Ernest's visits to Marie Brioude.

Four years had passed from the death of Madame Melcoeur, when a woman dressed in the humble but pic-ful to her. By and by the wise people began to shake turesque costume of the peasants of Auvergne, walked down the street of Brioude, towards the dwelling of the clergyman of the village. She stood for a few seconds and gazed upon the closed windows and neglected garden of Madame Melcoeur; and then she wiped away a tear from her eyes, as she pursued her course. The cottage of the minister had undergone a change since she had last seen it. The vines were trimined, and trained, by some careful and tasteful hand; and the thatch upon the roof was carefully, and even elegantly, ornamented with willow twigs and flowers. The borders of the little garden were free from weeds, and the blossoms shone like prismatic stars from the clumps and clusters of fresh green leaves.

'Is M. Rideaux at home, madame?' said the stranger, when an aged dame with yellow turban and large spectacles set in tortoiseshell cases, opened the door.

'M. Rideaux, my dear!' replied the voluble old dame, turning up her eyes and sighing, 'ah, I hope he is at home; but his successor, my master, is in this house. Be pleased to step in. Marie Brioude, for it was she, followed the aged housekeeper into the parlour, library, and studio of the young clergyman of the village, who received her with a smile of sweetest, saddest welcome.

'Be seated, my friend,' he said, pointing to a chair, and at the same time resuming his seat at his table. You seem to have travelled far P'

'I have travelled willingly, and so do not feel that my journey has been toilsome,' said Marie, as she opened the folds of the cloak, that almost enveloped her face. I come to execute the will of my more than mother.'

The voice and manner of the humble stranger struck the young clergyman so forcibly, that, impelled by some secret influence of respect, he rose and bowed.

'I am a native of Brioude, and was once a little outcast in it,' continued the noble girl with emotion; and I owe all I am, or shall ever be, to one who adorned it, and

On the midsummer day after Marie's return, there was a joyous fete upon the village green of Brioude. The little children of Marie's little school, with clean rosy faces and bouquets of flowers in their hands, were drawn up in a semi-circle, while all the villagers, old and young, dressed in their holiday attire, stood smiling around them. There was surely something of great import ance to be done in Brioude that day, for the good old maire rubbed his hands and smiled, and looked grave and wise, as he walked arm-in-arm with Ernest Melcoeur, and then turned and looked at Marie, who presented cake and grapes to the objects of her love and care. At last the maire approached the young schoolmistress, and his heart seemed to grow too large for his bosom, as he removed his hat from his head, and unrolled a cartel which he carried in his hand. Citizens,' he said with emotion, I congratulate our dear Marie Brioude upon receiving the highest Monty on prize' of this season, for her self-denial, and for her noble devotion to the will of her benefactress.' As he spoke, he placed the medal on her breast, and an order for seven hundred francs in her hand, while the children threw their bouquets at her feet, and the villagers rent the air with their acclamations. In a few years other children than the children of the poor were sent to share the love of Marie Melcoeur; and the wife of the clergyman as faithfully discharged the duties of her love, as had done the orphan girl. Like the sun which warms and illumines this poor world of curs, like the summer winds that waft glad stories of God and beauteous nature from the far lands over the deep, like the stars which spangle the black arch of night, and lead the soul through the dark concave up to heaven, Marie continued to the end of her life to serve her Maker, and to bless mankind, by continuing to be 'only a servant.'

MOUNT HECLA.

THERE are only four active volcanoes now in Europe; Etna, Vesuvius, Stromboli, and Hecla. The three former are situated within a close geographical proximity to each other, and in the most genial climate of southern Europe; the latter stands isolated and alone in the north-western part of the eastern hemisphere, amongst the eternal snows of Iceland. There are numerous indications of burning mountains in Europe; for almost every hilly country possesses some extinct crater to attest the igneous character of its formations, but these four are the only ones that now vomit forth fire and smoke. The volcanoes of Italy, as the former three may be termed, formed splendid objects in the fanciful mythology of the ancient Greeks and Romans; the latter also lent a species of wild supernatural reality to the superstitions of the Scalds. The unexplained phenomena of nature, when viewed with wonder and awe by men whose faculties of observation were of the most limited order, appeared to their active imaginations in the form of supernatural vitalities, and furnished the elements of that wild religion and poetry which yet tinge the minds of rude dwellers in the solitudes of Iceland and the Orcades. Mount Hecla, although not the grandest of the European volcanoes, is still, perhaps, the most famous and interesting; for it has not only obtained a wild historical interest from its numerous and very frequent eruptions, but, being situated in one of the most isolated and cold positions, it is surrounded by phenomena of the most varied and wonderful description, which offer a vivid contrast to its own fiery nature. The mariner, on the voyage to Northern America, as he walked the deck of his ship at night, and beheld fire vomiting up into the meteor-lighted sky, trembled with awe at the mystery of its flame; and his tales of the dangers of whale-fishing at Davis' Straits were mingled with strange moralisings and speculations upon the spiritlighted fire that always was seen before storm and shipwreck in the latitude of Iceland. These superstitions, however, vanished before knowledge; the poetic elements of many a Runic song and Roman myth have been dissipated by cold material laws. The smithy of Vulcan and the cauldron of Odin become just Mounts Vesuvius and Hecla when viewed through the medium of truth. Mount Hecla is about five thousand feet above the level of the sea, rising as a lofty cone in the general form of all volcanoes. It is situated at the southern part of Iceland, only a few miles distant from the seacoast, and is therefore perfectly visible to passing voyagers. It stands in the midst of a circle about two leagues in diameter, of the wildest and most desolate character; the ground being broken up into rocky fissures, and covered so thickly with scoriæ, black cinders, masses of lava, pumice stone, and other volcanic debris, as to render it totally sterile. The region around Mount Hecla is described as of the most awful character. A silence deep as death reigns over the rugged desolate scene; black yawning orifices appear on every hand, and the imagination of even the most enlightened is haunted by images of horror and dread. In such a place, the undirected mind would be constrained to assume a gloomy aspect, and the active imagination to construct a mythology of the very character of that which grew upon the fancies of the Northmen. One aspect of Mount Hecla has attracted much attention and observation from its singularity, and that is the remarkable manner in which the lava has been deposited round the mountain's base, so as to form lofty ramparts of from sixty to seventy feet high. They are described as immense rugged vitrified walls, completely circumvallating the entire mountain, and presenting that glossy appearance which we see in the glazed refuse of glass-works. Above the line where this hard wall terminates, there does not occur any more lava, the upper part of the mountain being composed of sand and slags. The approach to the mountain, as may be supposed, is of a most difficult and toilsome character, and very few have therefore undertaken its ascent. Joseph Banks and several friends, however, made a tour to The celebrated Sir its summit in 1772, and he has left a sufficiently strong

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picture of its desolate appearance. lers at last reach the vitrified walls, the climbing and crossleague of broken ground covered with cinders, the travelTramping over a ing of which is a most laborious and dangerous experiment, as the masses of lava, broken up into deep orifices, often meet them in their path. Beyond this rampart the ascent becomes easy; but still the character of the mountain is of that rude description likely to be superinduced by the descent of streams of lava, which would tear up the face of the mount into tracks for its boiling current, and for the beds of winter torrents. great crater, is always covered with snow. The mountain-top, beside the and companions as being covered with ice like a dress of when Sir Joseph Banks visited it, and he describes himself It was June buckram, and subjected to the most piercing cold, even at that season. use was all frozen; and yet here and there, upon the mountain-top, vents of steam hissed around them, melting The water that they had taken with them for the snow that lay around; one of the spots where a vent occurred was so hot that they even could not stand upon it. It was midnight when they reached the summit of the mount, and yet the light was as bright as day, and the prospect as grand and extensive as if the sun had illumined the scene, which was at once wild and sublime. On the west side of the mountain there is an immense chasm or ravine extending from top to bottom. This the Icelandic chroniclers state to have been formed in the year 1300, when the mountain was rent from top to bottom. Modern geologists describe it as the bed of an immense masses of threatening rocks as they had been hurled from stream of lava. the mountain's crater, and piles of burned and vitrified Over the edge of this great ravine lay huge substances lay at the bottom of the ravine. In 1810, Dr Holland ascended Hecla, and describes the heat as so great as to render the loose slags lying below his feet too hot to be handled. On placing a thermometer below the upper layer of loose stones and scoriæ, the temperature was ascertained to be 144 degrees of Fahrenheit.

the year 1776, bursting suddenly out and creating great The last great eruption of Mount Hecla took place in terror and destruction. An earthquake, like a startled harbinger, shook the island to its very centre, and then immediately the mountain belched forth fire and smoke, and scorise and stones, roaring and vomiting on continuously from the 15th of April to the 7th of September, creating a terrible confusion amongst men and beasts. Horses, Lewildered and maddened by the noise and the showers from exhaustion; and the cattle belonging to the farof volcanic matter, ran about till they fell down dead choked by ashes, or they were starved to death in consemers who dwelt in the vicinity of the mountain, were either quence of the destruction of their pasture. A few survived this catastrophe for about a year, and then they died; their stomachs, when opened, being discovered to be full of ashes. Hecla, however, has not been the most destructive of the Icelandic volcanoes. spread desolation and death to a far greater extent than has this one. Several, now extinct, have noes was hurled high up into the air, caught by the temIn 1755, the ashes from one of those volcapest, and thrown in showers upon the Faroe Islands more than three hundred miles distant. The eruption of Skaptaa Jokul, in 1783, was the most terrific and destructive upon record. It covered up great tracts of fertile land with a covering of desolating ashes. The herbage was burned off the fields, the cattle died, and the fish forsook the coasts of Iceland. Men, plants, and animals were destroyed by the streams of sulphureous smoke that issued from great fissures, whence burst flame and smoke that darkened the sun, until it seemed turned to blood; and ashes and scoriæ covered the devoted land. The scene was of the most awful description, and the consequences of the eruption fearful to contemplate. Nine thousand persons perished by fire, and smoke, and hunger, in consequence of it, and their cattle were swept away with them to death. During portentously over the island, as if it had been a Sodom the continuance of the eruption, a red glare of flame hung or Gomorrah. This terrible convulsion of nature was not

confined to Iceland entirely. Holland and many parts of Germany were visited by brimstone vapours and showers of light ashes; while in Britain, the sun presented the same bloody phenomenon. Volcanoes have been, perhaps, the most active transition agencies in nature. They have broken up into many forms the smooth surface of the earth, and have ramparted with wild and rugged walls many nations. On no part of the globe have they exercised a more rapidly changeful influence, however, than upon Iceland. The form of this insular mass of fire-formed land has been repeatedly changed within the memory of man, and Mount Hecla is still likely to conduce to further changes in its rugged appearance.

Poctical Quotations.

AVARICE-BRIBERY-MISER.

Shall we now

Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honours,
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I'd rather be a dog, and bay the moon,

Than such a Roman.-Shakspeare.

The miser lives alone, abhorr'd by all,
Like a disease, yet cannot so be 'scaped,

But, canker-like, eats through the poor men's hearts
That live about him; never has commerce
With any, but to ruin them.-May.

Of Age's avarice I cannot see

What colour, ground, or reason there can be;
Is it not folly, when the way we ride
Is short, for a long voyage to provide?
To avarice some title Youth may own-
To reap in autumn what a spring had sown,
And, with the providence of bees or ants,
Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants.
But Age scarce sows, ere death stands by to reap,
And to a stranger's hand transfers the heap.-Denham.

Who thinketh to buy villany with gold,

Shall ever find such faith so bought-so sold.- Marston.

But the base miser starves amidst his store,
Broods o'er his gold, and, griping still at more,

Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.-Dryden.

"Tis strange the miser should his care employ To gain those riches he can ne'er enjoy.-Pope.

Oh, cursed lust of gold! when for thy sake

The fool throws up his interest in both worlds;

First starved in this, then damn'd in that to come.- Blair.

Who, lord of millions, trembles for his store,
And fears to give a farthing to the poor;
Proclaims that penury will be his fate,

And, scowling, locks on charity with hate.-Dr Wolcot.

The love of gold, that meanest rage,
And latest folly of man's sinking age,
Which, rarely vent'ring in the van of life,
While nobler passions wage their heated strife,
Comes skulking last, with selfishness and tear,
And dies collecting lumber in the rear.-Moore.
Sound him with gold;

'Twill sink into his venal soul like lead
Into the deep, and bring up slime and mud,
And ooze, too, from the bottom, as the lead doth
With its greased understratum.-Byron.
The kindly throbs that other men control
Ne'er melt the iron of the miser's soul;
Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends,
An incarnation of fat dividends.

And he, across whose brain scarce dares to creep
Aught but thrift's parent pair-to get, to keep-Sprague.
Mammon's close-link'd bonds have bound him,
Self-imposed, and seldom burst;

Though heaven's waters gush'd around him,

ACTION.

Whilst timorous knowledge stands considering,
Audacious ignorance hath done the deed;

For who knows most, the most he knows to donht;
The least discourse is commonly most stout.-Daniel
Good actions crown themselves with lasting bays:
Who well deserves needs not another's praise.-Heath.
If thou dost ill, the joy fades, not the pains;

If well, the pain doth fade, the joy remains.-G. Herbert The body sins not; 'tis the will

That makes the action good or ill.-Herrick.

Our unsteady actions cannot be

Managed by rules of strict philosophy.-Sir R. Howard.

ADVERSITY-MISFORTUNE

So do the winds and thunder cleanse the air;

So working lees settle and purge the wine;

So lopp'd and pruned trees do flourish fair;

So doth the fire the drossy gold refine.-Spenser Adversity, sage useful guest,

Severe instructor, but the best,

It is from thee alone we know

Justly to value things below.-Somervile,

'Tis strange how many unimagined charges Can swarm upon a man, when once the lid Of the Pandora box of contumely

Is open'd o'er his head.—Shakspeare.

I am not now in fortune's power:

He that is down can sink no lower.-Butler.
Heaven but tries our virtue by affliction;

As oft the cloud that wraps the present hour
Serves but to lighten all our future days – Brown,

Affliction is the wholesome soil of virtue.

Where patience, honour, sweet humanity,

Calm fortitude, take root and strongly flourish.-Mallet.

Affliction is the good man's shining scene;
Prosperity conceals his brightest ray:

As night to stars, wo lustre gives to man-Foung.

Misfortune does not always wait on vice;

Nor is success the constant guest of virtue.--Havard,

I pray thee, deal with men in misery,

Like one who may himself be miserable. --Heywood.

In this wild world, the fondest and the best

Are the most tried, most troubled and distress'd.--Crabbe,
Aromatic plants bestow

No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But, crush'd or trodden to the ground,

Diffuse their balmy sweets around.-Goldsmith.

The good are better made by ill,

As odours crush'd are better still.-—Rogers.

The rugged metal of the mine

Must burn before its surface shine;

But, plunged within the furnace flame,

It bends and melts, though still the same.--Byron.

Alone she sat. Alone! that worn-out word,

So idly spoken and so coldly heard;
Yet all that poets sing, and grief hath known,
Of hope laid waste, knells in that word-alone!
The New Timon

RAMBLINGS IN THE UPPER WARD OF
NITHSDALE.

WE like to indulge in an occasional ramble at certain sea-
sons of the year in different parts of the country-the
change of air, and of scene, and of countenance does us
good; it refreshes the mind, invigorates the body, and
braces the entire system for a more energetic application
to the duties of life. The world is a wide field, and is worth
the seeing, for though the malison of the first man's trans-

He would pine with earth's poor thirst.-Mrs S. J. Hole.gression has fallen upon it, it is a beautiful world still.

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