boldt says, that never in all his wanderings through the savage tribes of North and South America had he met a single instance of deformity.

It has been known that a portion of the heat that falls on any body becomes latent; and, latterly, it has been considered that light also becomes latent, or that many, if not all bodies, have the property of retaining within their structure some portion of the light which impinges upon them, and again emitting it. Several flowers exhibit this phenomenon. The nasturtium, if gathered in the full sunshine, and then taken into a dark room, will, after the eye has become rested, be clearly seen by the light it emits. Goethe observed, after a day of unusual brightness, that a flickering flame played round the blossoms of the sun-flower during the shades of twilight. The human hand, if kept in | the sunlight for a moderate length of time, will emit light in the dark. The earth itself possesses, as proved by Humboldt, a faint luminosity independently of that which it receives from the sun, and which enables us to direct our steps in the open air in those dark nights of winter, when neither moon nor stars appear. It is thought that this arises from its emitting the light it has absorbed during the day. This may also account for the self-luminous jewels which have so long puzzled philosophers, and is a subject full of interest.

We shall merely advert to the phenomena of polarised light-a subject to which we may recur, but far too abstruse and difficult to be explained in this short paper. The light which is reflected to us from the blue canopy above us is in that condition. Their peculiar effects are not as yet well known; yet, doubtless, streaming in soft floods on the earth all day long, they are fulfilling some wise and definite purpose of the Great Creator for the well-being of his creatures.

CANADA.

BY A CLERGYMAN NOW RESIDENT IN THAT COLONY.

EIGHTH PAPER.

Is my last paper, 1 pointed out the general appearance and character of our forests. I shall now say something as to the kinds of timber of which these are composed, and the various other members of the vegetable kingdom commonly found in them. But I am no naturalist, in the usual sense of that term, although an admirer of nature; nobody, therefore, need expect me to do anything more than make a few remarks about things as they are, and that in the simplest way I can. Some may fancy that people here should be naturalists; but, while none of my intelligent fellow-colonists will detract from the importance of these pursuits, still they will reply in good Saxon, that they have something else to do. And so they have. They are all engrossed with the necessary business of every-day life, and here, as in the States, that leisurely and moneyed class has yet to be created which will be able to give its time and thoughts to science and letters. When the hot haste of early settlement is past, we will not be wanting in our forts both to learn and to teach.

As at home, we have the oak, and that in several varieties. In some localities, this tree is very plentiful; and this abundance is both advantageous and disadvantageous for the farmer. (Remember that I am now speaking of the Upper country.) He has chiefly one purpose to which he applies, or can apply, this tree, namely, to the making of rails for fencing. Whatever quantity, then, there may be over when his fencing is done, and perhaps, I should add, his house-building, is rather in his way than otherwise, since it makes bad firewood-the next most important test by which he tries the value of his timber. The idea of burning beautiful oaks for firewood may excite a shudder in the minds of some readers; but such is the purpose to which almost all the wood in Canada West is applied, when it is not burnt off in log beaps, or split up into materials for enclosing land. There is, indeed, a little black walnut, a little oak, and some pine, saved up, or squared, in that district, for home use or exportation; but this is a mere bagatelle compared with the quantity that daily

vanishes into thin air. The settlers are too far away from a market to render it possible for them to do otherwise. In the eastern portion of Upper Canada, which lies around the river Ottawa, an immense business in timber, or lumber,' as it is called there, is carried on; but, in the above remarks, I have referred, not to the district below Kingston, but to what is truly Western Canada-the immense tract of beautifully-wooded land above Kingston and Toronto. And there, with the exception of as much wood as is needed for manufacture, almost every stick is used as above described.

When there is a great deal of oak on the land, the farmer finds his work very heavy, since the trees are not only large, but are very hard to chop. Thus the toil of clearing is greatly increased. I have often heard it remarked here, that the oak of Canada is inferior to that grown in England. It may be so, but I do not very clearly see the reason of the difference. If such really exists, this may be found perhaps in the fact that, from the density of our forests, and the humidity of the virgin soil, this wood may be more open than it is at home. But, admitting that it is inferior, it can only be slightly so, for I can scarcely imagine more beautiful timber than ours.

We have also the beech, with her 'glittering leaves,' and deep-green beauty. Some of these grow to a great size, and are of no other use than cutting up for firewood. But it is not even used for this purpose, if better can be had, since it is very slow to kindle when green, and green wood is almost the only kind ever burnt in country places. In one way, however, which I have omitted to mention, it serves a good end, and that is in the fattening of pigs. These most sagacious and dirty brutes roam at large here, and wander away into the woods, when the fall comes, for six weeks together. At that season, this tree sheds its nuts, sometimes in immense quantities; and these the pigs most voraciously devour. Nor do they ever think of coming back to their pens until the season falls, by which time the nuts are covered up, and the porkers are as fat as they can waddle. They are thus fed up without cost or trouble to the owner. Still, beech-fed pork is never of the best quality, the fat being very oily; so that, while it is tolerated on the score of economy in domestic use, it is of very little value in the market, not bringing more than threehalfpence a pound.

There are several varieties of birch here. One of these, the white, grows to a considerable size. In the neighbourhood of Quebec, this is sold for purposes of shipbuilding. In Upper Canada, it is used for the fire, and most admirable fires it makes. The bark is also taken by the Indians for the manufacture of canoes and ornaments. The latter are very pretty, and consist of work-baskets, fans, pin-cushions, miniature canoes, and such like. They are adorned with porcupine's quills, coloured very beautifully, and wrought with exquisite skill and taste into bunches of flowers and leaves, and groups of birds. The aborigines possess colours, of vegetable origins, gathered in the woods, of which we know nothing; and these not only surpass ours in brilliancy at the first, but also in durability in the long run. This bark is very thick, but peels into layers so thin as to be suitable for very fine work indeed.

The

The thickest of the bark is used for the canoes. common canoe is no more than a log, hollowed out with the axe, and then fashioned into a very respectable-looking vessel, and withal a safe one, if you will only sit still, and pretty low down. The bark canoe is a very different affair, and about as elegant a piece of workmanship as can well be conceived. I saw a whole fleet of them once, full of very superior-looking Indians, which was paddled all the way from the Manitoulin Islands, at the head of Lake Huron, down to Port Samia. The sheets of bark are sewed with deer sinews to a series of wooden ribs, about the thickness of a good-sized hoop. The edges of each sheet are sewed on to the next sheet, overlapping a little, so as to give strength, and make them water-tight. The seams are then covered with some resinous matter gathered in the woods. The whole structure is finished off and shaped by two long stripes of wood, led from the one end to the other, round

of men.

I now come to the maple, the far-famed maple. It grows very abundantly all over the country, and there is no more beautiful tree in it. Its leaves are broad, and vandyked at the edges. It is to the Canadian what the rose is to the Englishman, or the thistle to the Scotchman-a national emblem, and, as such, is worn by the French population on the festival of St John the Baptist.

This tree, beautiful as it is in some of its varieties, is freely used in new countries for firewood; but, as it is valuable for the sugar it produces, a patch is generally left on every farm, and styled the sugar bush.' Although the operation of sugar-making has been often described, still it is so interesting, that I will at this time detail it again. The season for this most important work begins in the month of March. The sap then ascends the trees, and the work continues until well on in April. After that time, however, it ceases, because the sap then becomes bitter, and unfit for use. During the former month, the nights are frosty and the days sunny; and the existence of these night frosts, followed by the strong sunshine, affects materially the flow of sap. If there be dull, mild weather, there is almost no flow; but, if there be such alternations as those above described, the fluid frequently trickles during the day-time in a steady stream.

As already stated, the sugar bush' is a patch of trees left standing in the place where such are most abundant; and the closer they are together the better for the party at work. Into each of these an incision, about an inch deep, is made with a large-sized auger underneath, and on the edge of which, running across the tree at an angle of about fortyfive degrees, a gash is made in the back, some four or five inches long. This gash, at its lower extremity, is furnished with a picce of grooved wood, which is there stuck in, and serves as a channel to lead the sap, which flows down the gash from the tree into the vessel prepared for its reception. The aperture thus formed and provided is about four feet from the ground. The vessel into which the sap flows is about as primitive as can well be conceived, being merely a little trough about two feet long, five or six inches deep, and seven or eight wide. This is made with an axe, out of some light wood, such as the boss, having no flavour about it strong enough to affect the liquid which it is designed to contain. One such trough is put at the foot of every tree which is sapped. As near as may be to the centre of the bush,' stands a larger trough, made in the same way as the others, some twelve or fifteen feet long, and correspondingly wide and deep. Into this the smaller ones are emptied as fast as they fill, and that depends entirely on the run. Close to this large trough, a couple of stout poles, with forked ends, which are kept uppermost, are planted firmly in the ground. Across these, and resting in the forks, is laid another pole, from the centre of which one or two large cauldrons are suspended, made for this purpose, and styled sugar kettles.' Into these the sap is emptied from the large trough, and a brisk fire is kindled beneath them. Before long, these begin to boil, and just as the liquid evaporates, more is added, until the whole begins to thicken, at which point in the process the fire is reduced, and a careful stirring commenced. From this time, the whole continues diminishing and consolidating, until at last, having reached the proper consistence, it is emptied into dishes, in which, as in moulds, it hardens, and from which it is ultimately transferred to the house, ready for use.

I may mention, that it takes many pailfuls of sap to make one boiling' of sugar. The sap is, indeed, so weak as to be almost tasteless. Were one who knew nothing about the business to have a drink of it handed to him, he

would scarcely know it from water, so slightly is it flavoured with the saccharine particles. It is, moreover, quite colourless. The cows, however, are very fond of it, and have to be driven away while it is exposed, since they would drink it in such quantities, as to cause serious injury to themselves and loss to the farmer. This manufacture, I need scarcely say, is a very laborious one. All hands must be prosecuted sometimes night and day. But there is a great deal of excitement about it. People like to go out a-nights and work, while the wind moans through the woods, by the blazing fire; the children, too, enjoy the fun, and are paid in huge doses of the article; so that all go on cheerfully with their toil, viewing it as much in the light of amusement as labour. By the by, it is astonishing to see what enormous quantities the young ones consume, and that, too, without ever being any the worse for it.

The flavour of maple-sugar, when used in tea, is unpleasant to the new-comer; but he soon gets, not used to it only, but to be fond of it. I did not like it at first, but soon came to relish it so much that tea seemed tasteless to me without it. Nevertheless, it can be made without any pc. culiar flavour, or, at least, very little. When this is intended, very great care must be taken in every stage of its preparation. Sometimes it is made soft and sparkling, like the candied sugar used for coffee; but this is seldom done, the price procureable being so small as to be wholly unremunerative where so much time is spent in its preparation. Indeed, it scarcely pays under any circumstances, and would be a dead loss, were it not that, at the season when it is produced, scarcely anything else can be done.

Bosswood, or, as I think it is called in Britain, the planetree, is very common here. It is soft, and will not burn unless very dry. Still it has many uses in new settlements. Thus I have seen it split into planks with wedges, and, when smoothed with an adze, used as flooring for loghouses. Then its logs are sometimes split into halves, when the tree chances to be hollow, and, thus split, are used for tiles to 'shanties,' the one half being turned convexly, and the other concavely, the edges of either overlapping. When dry, it is extremely light, and, when strippcd of the bark, lets the rain run off about as well as need be. Some Yaukce adventurers put it to yet another and still more profitable use. They made a quantity of it into nutmegs, which sold in due time, and turned out a good speckelashun. These aspirants after fame converted some of it into hams likewise, which, when covered with canvass and lime (as is the practice in the States with the finest hams), brought in large returns. The story of the bosswood hams is as familiar to the Yankee as is that of Moses and the green spectacles to an Englishman; but, while the former is often disposed to call his hero a 'smart man,' the latter styles his a scoundrel. I leave the reader to draw the legitimate inference from this difference of opinion.

We have the hickory also, famous to all the boys as the right stuff for fishing-rods. In many places this is abundant. A Roxburghshire man, who came hither some years ago, bought a hundred acres of land, and found a large quantity of this wood growing on his property. He was greatly pleased with his lot,' but nothing rejoiced his honest soul more than this hickory. He contemplated them with joy, while rosy visions fitted about their jagged sides. Sandy came from the Tweed, where hickory was in high demand. 'Never lettin' on' to any of his neighbours, lest they should thwart him, the sanguine Sandy wrote home to an old friend, and detailed to him all the advantages of his purchase. It was,' said he, 'a vera val'able lot. Forbye bein' watered wi' a variety o' burns, there were seve ral lochs in various parts of it, on which there would be excellent curlin', if once the woods were away. But, besides a', there was a great quantity of beautifu', uncommon fine timmer, far surpassin' his expectations. Indeed, he expeckit to mak' a fortune out o't, for there was as much hickory alone as would enable him to supply all the fishin'rod makers on the Tweed for some years, at a vera raisonable rate. Only he wadna like him to say onything

about it, for fear his gude luck micht get wind. He wondered naebody had sent hame a puckle o' the article before, but he would soon do so himsel'.' Such was the drift of Sandy's communication; but his anticipations were never realised, for he discovered three days after, that he could not possibly bring his hickory out for the badness of the roads, and that, if he did, he could not send it to the ocean. He again wrote to say that, he would let it alane in the meantime.'

In some parts of the country black walnut is common. When dressed, this wood surpasses mahogany in beauty, and is quite as durable. In the states, a good deal of furniture is made from it, and it is also much used for such purposes in Upper Canada. In Britain, it is yet, I understand, but little known, and I am very certain it only needs to be more known, in order to its being better appreciated. How it should have been so much overlooked, I cannot comprehend. The demand is necessarily limited, since all which Canada can consume is nothing compared with what it produces, and the result is, that this most magnificent tree is perpetually destroyed, just like the most worthless tenant of the forest. Britain takes mahogany largely from foreigners; would it not be well for her to encourage her fellow-subjects here, when they are able to supply her so plentifully with as good an article? Iler doing so would benefit us.

I need scarcely say that we have a vast quantity of pine timber in some districts, chiefly towards Canada East. Back from the St Lawrence, upon the Ottawa, undefinable forests of this most useful wood remain to be cut. The shipping of this is the chief business at the port of Quebec. In odd spots of the western country there are small patches of these trees; but, as compared with the Ottawa, these exist in mere patches. The western and richest portions of Upper Canada furnish none of this wood for exportation. The country about the Ottawa is the source of supply. In that quarter vast numbers of men are busy, hid from civilisation by those woods which they daily destroy. They are employed by lumber merchants at Bytown or Quebec. When they have cut and squared as much timber as is required to make a raft, they bring it all out to the water, and fasten it together with poles pinned on to the logs. Two layers of the immense beams annually landed at Leith are thus laid one above another, and spread out to a great breadth, and a still greater length. Then a Ettle shanty is erected on the huge and singular structure, and, immense oars being provided for steering, the mass is shoved off, and drifts away down on these mighty waters, until it is landed in some of the coves at Quebec. There it is taken to pieces; each log is butted,' that is, properly finished at the ends; and is then shipped, and sent away to Europe. It is a very curious sight when one of these vast segregations of timber float past your steamer in the night. They are compelled to carry bright lights, which shine over the grey level surface of the raft, and on the deep dark St Lawrence, and throw into strong relief the figures of the groups of men who are carefully bringing it to its destination. The life of the raftsman is a singular and a wild one. Endued with all the boldness, and freedom, and roughness of the backwoodsman, he is thus every now and then floatel down into the midst of civilisation, and thrown loose on all the vice of a shipping town. They are a hardy, athletic, bronzed set, fit for the woods alone, and caring little, to all appearance, for either God or man.

Until last summer, only British vessels came into this market; but the navigation laws were then repealed, and ships from other countries rode in our stream, and carried away our produce. What the result of free-trade movements may ultimately be, no one can tell. Some of our rerchants expect trouble and sorrow. Our Board of Trade says that it has done no harm. The former are fearful lest the removal of the duties from the Baltic timber will injure the sale of ours; and, to add to their perplexity, Brother Jonathan threatens to put on a heavy duty on our product, so as virtually to shut us out of his ports. And if we should lose both the home and the American markets, what will those men do who, on the faith of exist

ing laws, embarked all their capital in what will then be a ruined trade?

I am no protectionist, but these are the sentiments of respectable men, and should be thought over. All that the Quebec merchant can expect England to do is, to insist that the Americans shall grant us reciprocity. If America is resolved on a selfish and suicidal course, Britain can only look out for herself, and see if she cannot bring her sister to her senses. With free trade with America, Canada will do well enough; but what can we hope for, if we are excluded from every market by competition which cannot be met in one case, and a mistaken commercial policy in the other? Is it too much that we should look for the help of our countrymen at home? I think not. But if England will not aid us, what then? Why, we must help ourselves; and the only way we can do that will be by becoming a portion of the United States, thus strengthening a people already too strong, and depriving our own dear land of one of her noblest possessions.

Of late, it has become fashionable with a certain class of politicians to run down the colonies, and to say that they are valueless as colonies to the British people. All, too, that haughty incompetence could do, has been done by the colonial office, to disgust these with the mother country. Still the colonies remain attached to the crown; and Britain has not learned to think them of no use to her, nor, I am persuaded, will she ever learn this extraordinary doctrine. Is it, indeed, true that the provinces are of no use to Britain? What are they but outlying counties, and, as such, portions of the empire to which the interests and honour of the whole are very dear, and by which these interests and that honour have been always manfully upheld? How, then, can it be said that they are valueless? Does it, indeed, in no way add to the power and consequent prosperity of England, that in every quarter of the globe she has thousands of men sworn to stand by her in every hour of need, and to oppose and discountenance by every means all her foes? If they do not extend her commerce, surely these ports in every land add to its security. Let them be cast off; let a war arise with European despotism or transatlantic democracy; let their ships of war be sent forth to harass our trade; then, when we have no places of refuge to flee to but our own distant home, and when the nearest harbours are, to make the most of it, neutral, or, it may be in many cases, unfriendly, will it still be said that the colonies were of no value? Is the prestige, I ask, of universal empire valueless? I may be wrong, but I cannot help thinking that the day which sces us stripped of our colonies, will no longer shine on the words Great Britain, but on a nation of cotton-spinners, tolerated merely because they are of use, and prospering only by the forbearance of their neighbours.

But, it is said, the colonies cost money. Admit, then, what cannot be denied, that they do. I reply, so does Ireland, and is Ireland therefore to be cast off? Nobody will argue this, and I contend that the colonies are, or ought to be, as much a portion of the empire as the sister island. I am persuaded that, if proper micans were taken, cach might be knit to the other, and all bound firmly to the common centre, so as to present to the world the fact of an empire widely spread, indeed, but firm as the soil over which it is extended. By judicious management, also, the cost would be greatly lessened, and the colonists become daily more able and willing to support themselves.

After this digression, I will go back to the trees again, although but for a moment, for I have said enough about them already. I will only mention one or two more by name, as they occur to me. Besides those above mentioned, we have the elm in great plenty, the white ash, the black ash, the tamarak, and the cedar. The list now ended includes nearly all the large trees which grow in Canada. I shall now pass on, and say a word or two about our forest fruits.

As most abundant amidst the plenty which characterises our woods, may be mentioned the common red raspberry, which grows here wild in great profusion. You find it usually in places where the trees are thin or gone, in the

In

corners of the fences, and about spots where logs have been left unconsumed when the land was cleared. I am not quite sure, at this distance of time, whether or not our wild berries are quite equal to those cultivated in the gardens of Britain, but I think they are, and of one thing am certain, that they look quite as well, and are generally as large. In the cities, the poor go out to the woods and gather them, selling their harvest to the townsfolk. the country, the children are sent out for the same purposes, and what they bring home (they generally eat more than they collect) their mothers prepare, and preserve for future use, making them into jam. Sometimes, however, they are picked and spread out in the sun to dry, and, when thus cured, are put past to be used in emergencies or occasions, being then simmered up with maple sugar, and laid as a delicacy on the tea-table.

The blackberry' grows very luxuriantly in similar localities. But I must caution my Scotch readers against confounding 'blackberries' with 'black-currants'-a mistake they generally make. By the blackberry, I mean what is called in Scotland the 'blaeberry.' These look very rich and pretty, but, like many other things in the world which look very nice, they are not quite so good as they seem, being about as flavourless as weak and sweetish tea, the insipidity of which can be tested by little boys and girls whose nerves need protection, and very small maidsof-all-work in the households of prudent spinsters.

Wild plums grow very abundantly in the woods with the rest of the trees. This tree, like its more cultivated brethren in the gardens, is not very large, and I scarce need to add, that its fruit is far inferior to theirs. Still, when ripe, it is very good, and makes a very delightful preserve. In some places these plum-trees are very abundant. I have seen them growing in regular thickets, and as well covered with fruit, about the size of a lark's egg, as a thorn-tree is with haws-that most delectable of all edibles, which boys devour on Saturday afternoons.

The gooseberry likewise grows wild here, but it is a mere abortion, compared with that which is devoured by lads and lasses in the gardens about Duddingston. Our wild gooseberry is small and round as a pea, sour and hard, and covered with most forbidding spikes, which, I suppose, pass under the not inapt name of hair. If, however, these excrescences resemble hair, it must be that which composes a Highland porter's whiskers, and certainly differs much from the downy coating of the peach. But, hair and all, these little sour fellows are annually, in due season, enclosed in paste, covered with sugar, nicely baked, and eaten with a relish which shows that they are not quite so bad as they might at first sight appear.

In Upper Canada the vine grows wild; but this wild vine is of no use that I know of, the grapes being exceed ingly small, and as sour as a bachelor schoolmaster of fifty-eight. But, if it be useless for eating, it is a lovely thing to look upon, as, with its profusion of beautiful leaves and tendrils, and its thick and elegantly-shaped clusters of black grapes, it twines and twists round some sapling, which it literally overtops, and must ultimately destroy. I suppose cultivation would improve it, but it is not worth the while to take the trouble, unless by way of experiment, since there are plenty of the finest varieties of the vine purchaseable, which are already brought to the highest state of perfection. In Canada West, these grow well in the open air.

It is not now my business to say anything about garden fruits, yet I may merely add, that those which are cultivated among us are just the same as the kinds grown at home. To mention this may seem silly, but is not altogether superfluous, when I reflect on the amazing ignorance which many people have both of ourselves and our adopted country. The extent of this ignorance was ludicrously brought before me in the following anecdote. A lady whom I know very well, being in delicate health, went lately to England for change of air and scene. She happened one day to foregather with a doctor in divinity, to whom she was duly introduced as a lady from Canada. The worthy man chatted with her for some time, and then said,

Madam, pardon me, but I am quite surprised to find that you, who were born in Canada, should be so white. Pray, how do you preserve your complexion?' Yet this gentleman was a professor in some college, name to me unknown! Perhaps, like Dr Pangloss, he also wrote A double S after his name. Certainly he should, could I find him out, be at once elected a member of the Mudfog Association. And now, gentle reader, fair reader, what shall I say about our wild-flowers? Alas, I am no florist, and can say nothing about them at all, except that they are numerous, varied, and lovely. I have often admired them as I rode dreamily through the woods, but that is about the extent of my intimacy with them. Dost thou say, shame on thee? Well, well, pray don't be too hard, for I never had any time for botanising. And I do assure my ringletted friends, that they would perhaps grow as incurious as I did, were they situated as I was when I lived in the woods, for it is one thing to admire mignionette in a box on a windowsill, or a geranium or myrtle stuck in a green-painted flower-pot, and another thing to admire wild flowers growing in a forest, out of which your earnest desire is to get as quickly as possible. Such muddy, dreary, weary rides spoil all fancies, and put poetry and small scientific dabbling out of one's head entirely. Life there is a reality and a battle, not the dream of a miss in her drawing-room or a boy at his books. One is too busy, in a hard, stern struggle, to care very much for those pursuits which fill the hours of the easy or the idle.

But, after all, must a man be a botanist in order to enable him to feel the beauty of flowers? Can they only be admired when called by their scientific names? I think not. I often hear people gabbling about orders and species, and cannot help thinking that it is frequently just a fashionable cant, which they take a little pains to learn. If they said less, they would probably feel more. We have shoals of scientific minnows now-a-days, who grow profound in shilling handbooks of botany, and who chatter about their scribblings, as if they really knew what they were saying. To me, such scientific terms are a mystery. Still, I fancy that the beautiful finds its way as surely to my heart, when I can only name it in plain English, as it would, were I to think of it in distorted Greek or bad Latin. Surely I have always admired the cowslip, although I did not know till this moment that its scientific name is primulacea, and that it is described as being a monopetalous, exogenous plant, with its stamens opposite to the lobes of the corolla, and a superior capsule with a free central placenta !'

While, then, our wild flowers are numerous, varied, and beautiful, and I know nothing about their scientific names, I may add, that they are generally nearly scentless, if not altogether so. This deficiency lessens their beauty much, since however great the pleasure may be which is derived from exquisitely-blended colours, it still seems to me that the pleasure yielded by delicious orders is far greater. The one pleases, the other intoxicates. Hence, while you run eagerly to pluck one of our gaily-tinted wood gems, you are disappointed when you find that it will not breathe upon you, and enter more deeply into the intricacies of your heart. A Canadian flower is like a lovely, but coldhearted woman. You see her and admire; but a nearer approach tells you that the prism on which you gaze, glorious and many-hued as it is, has, after all, only the refulgence of an icicle.

And now to speak of the influence of perfumes. Who does not feel a gush of joy and kindliness pass over his soul, when he remembers how on a summer's evening he communed with the sweetbriar, on whose pretty, thickly-set leaves the passing shower had left a galaxy of gems? The sun had come forth again to bid good-night to the parting day; and, while with lavish joy he flung his broad light on the distant hills, he touched each rain-drop as gently as could a golden-fingered cherub, which again, with tremulous joy, bid the ardent spark nestle in its bosom. Then did the briar offer up its evening gift, and you stood still to breathe the fragrance which it poured forth on the willing air. Never did the priest whose lot it was offer up on

the golden altar, in the holy place, a sweeter incense than this; nor did a quieter hour of prayer ever steal over the Temple than that which rests on all nature at such a time. Sweet moment for the evening sacrifice! Cold is the heart which does not then pour forth its prayers and praises, that, so blending with the aspirations of creation, they may wend their way heavenward, pierce the great arch, and commingle harmoniously before the throne of God! In such a scene, what lives longest on your memory-the glories of the landscape or the smell of the bush? It is the sweetbriar which clings closest to me.

I had a dear relation once, and she was fond of the sweetbriar. She was kind to me always-very kind. How are her Saturday's gifts imprinted on my memory still! How well, too, do I remember when she used to visit me at the High School! She walked a long way to speak to me, and I was so proud to let the boys know that she was my grandmother! Well, then, she was always delicate, very delicate, and she loved in her sickness to smell this shrub. I knew that, for she told me. How often I sought to gratify her I cannot say now, but I remember well pulling a piece from a bush in George's Square, and carrying it home to her. This may be the ground of my partiality for its perfume. Whether it be or not, one thing is certain, that I never see its modest head without thinking of her, and the love she bore it and me.

This is a rambling paper, reader. Gossip, just gossip. But gossip is delightful sometimes; nay, it is always delightful when the subject is good. One hates the gossip which generates scandal, but one may pardon that chit-chat which recalls kindly days and holy memories. Peace, then, to the memory of my dear departed friend! And prosperity and happiness, reader, to you, until we have another half-hour together, which will be, with God's blessing, before long!

BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

Now that half of the nineteenth century is past, the time may seem to have arrived for taking a deliberate view of the literature which it has produced. We shall not attempt at present to give more than a skeleton map of the subject; but perhaps such a map may best enable us at first to obtain a correct notion of the nature and aspect of the country we have to survey. We shall content ourselves, then, with marking out the general features of the land, the highest mountains, and the principal rivers, without caring to ascertain the precise altitude of every petty hill, or the exact width and depth of every tributary stream.

It seemed probable, at the end of the eighteenth century, that the literature of England would share the fate of that of Spain or Italy, and that the country of Shakspere, Milton, and Bacon, would in future produce only Hayleys, Darwins, and Beatties. English poetry, in particular, had never been at a lower ebb since the time of Chaucer. Pope had taught every one to versify smoothly, and smoothness of versification was accepted in lieu of genius, originality, and power. From the Paradise Lost' to the Epigoniad,' the distance was as great as that from Hildebrand to Leo the Tenth; and it was evident that, if English poetry was not to die out altogether, it must undergo a reformation. But better days were at hand: the reformation took place.

To Bishop Percy's Reliques of Ancient English Poetry is generally and justly attributed the credit of having led the way in effecting that reformation. Doctor Johnson might laugh; but the public were not so entirely dead to truth and nature as to be insensible to the beauties of our fine old ballads. The poetry of Cowper, and afterwards of Barns, helped not a little to accelerate the change that was taking place in taste, and the tremendous events of the French Revolution completed the work, and drove the poetasters out of the field, for the poetry must be stirring, indeed, that could compete in interest with newspapers which recorded from day to day the downfall of

time-honoured institutions, the dethronement and execution of royalty, and the sayings and doings of such men as Mirabeau, Danton, and Napoleon.

Whatever might be the other faults of the author of Marmion,' as a poet, want of spirit and action was not one of them. He recounted, with all the fire of Homer, the feats of gallant knights and bold freebooters; and it was therefore not surprising that a public, accustomed to the strains of a Hayley, should eagerly welcome narratives which vied in interest with the story of Lodi or of Austerlitz. But Marmion was no hero for the nineteenth century; the Last Minstrel's lay might for a time carry back his hearers to that age of chivalry he loved so well; but it could only be for a time, and the poetry of 'the Ariosto of the North,' immensely popular as it was in its day, soon gave place, first to the passionate Werterism of Byron, and afterwards to the far deeper and more intellectual song of Wordsworth. 'The Ariosto of the North' then became the Author of Waverley.'

Towards the end of the last century, the ancient kingdom of Scotland was inhabited by two races, differing widely from each other in all respects. The Highlander was in religion a Papist; in politics, he was a Jacobite; in civilisation, half a savage. Quite another being was the shrewd, well-educated, Whiggish, and Presbyterian Lowlander. They knew but little of each other, and that little served to make them hate and despise each other most heartily. The Englishman, in his turn, most heartily hated and despised them both. But, under all this seeming rudeness and poverty, there lay hid a new world, rich in all the treasures of romance, the Columbus of which appeared at last in the shape of a young Edinburgh advo cate, who neglected Scotch law for old Scotch ballads, and cared far more for a rusty piece of armour or a superstitious legend than for the march of intellect or the rights of man. 'Waverley' appeared, and Scotland became at once the very land of romance. The middle ages, too, were called up to life, as by the wand of a magician, and so presented as to command the sympathy and admiration even of an age which believed in liberty, equality, and fraternity.' And whatever abatement there may be, as already there has been some, in the applause with which the Waverley Novels were received by the public, there is little doubt that posterity, as well as his contemporaries, will rank their author among the very greatest writers, not of his own age and country only, but of any age or any country.

It cannot be denied that much of Lord Byron's poetry is now usually left to the admiration of boarding-school girls and ensigns in the army. The 'Corsair,' and those other tales, which created such a sensation in the days of the Regency, are now, it must be confessed, somewhat out of date. But they perfectly reflected the spirit of that day-the contempt of the past, the despair of the future, the universal incredulity and indifference, the melancholy and misanthropy. Still more powerfully were these feelings expressed in 'Childe Harold;' and, if that remarkable work has also lost much of its former popularity, it is only because we have outgrown the Werterism which it breathes in every line. But it is by Don Juan' that Byron will be best known to posterity; and bigoted, indeed, must be the critic who does not see and confess the extraordinary versatility of genius and talent displayed in that poem.

But the world could not be content with negation, and in William Wordsworth we find the true poet of our age. Wordsworth's mind was essentially democratic. He turned from the corrupt and corrupting society of cities to the companionship of nature as eagerly as Rousseau himself. He sought for true wisdom and virtue among pedlars and peasants, just as any Jacobin might do. He was revolutionary even in his diction, and discarded the ornaments of poetry, as the sans culottes did the trappings of royalty and the refinement of the old régime. He is the poet of the common, and tells us of glory in the grass, of splendour in the flower;' of the beauty that is to be found in the most homely objects and persons around us. No need of going for poetry to the age of chivalry, or to