|i

vol. XMM.

LITERATURE. _

~ THE EXAMINE

SANCTUS

Fol SPIRITUS n the shadow, Mingling in the vere of friends— Mid the turmoil of the etty, «xprestered glens ;

atili

And in Present {2 my 4 aking hours

Sil! beside we in my dreaniw Glides an unseen heart that loves me

Glows a love that on me beams

Heard above the rush of waters,

Iv life's never-ending storm,

Whispered in the faintest echo, That of loving words is born.

(‘omes a song of deep devotion, Frem the voice I always bless— Calming all the troubled sources

Of my weary beart’s distress.

Farth withholds her sunshine from me— Fate decrees that I shall bear

Gyves and fetters on me alWaya, Chaining life unto despair

Bat this spirit that abideth With ‘me in my joy and pain,

Hides the darkness with her featurea— With her smile lifts up my chain !

Ne’er so dark the night and lonely— Ne er so hidden be the stars,

But those eves that love me only Shine within my prison bars.

Sweet is rest from painful watching— Sweet the calm that follows storm— Sweet the reconciliation

After heart from heart is torn.

Bat unto my storm-toased being Sweeter far the bliss I know, in this #pirit's sacred service, Loving me through weal or woe. M. C. 8. cmrenemcinentelll pecans WOMEN'S RIGHTS. You eannot rob us of the rights we cherish, Nor tarn our thoughts away, From the bright picture of a “ woman's mission,”’ Uur hearts portray

We claim to dwell in quiet and seclusion, Beneath the household roof, From the great world’s harsh strife, and jarring voices, Te stand aloof ;—

Not in a dreamy and innane abstraction To sleep our life away,

But, yuthering ap tae brigltuess of home sunshiue, Te duck our way.

As bumble plants by country hedgerows growing, That tresure up the rain,

And yield in odours, ere the day's declin’: The gfe meme ;

Wy

So let us, unobtrusive and unnoticed, But happy none the less,

Be privileged to fill the air around us With happiness ;

To ‘ive, unknown beyond the cherished circle Whiek we can bless and aid;

To die, and not a heart that does not love us, Kaow where we're laid.

( From the North British Reviac.) ~

SCOTTISH HUMODR,

Kentiniseences of Scottish Life and Charaster. By E.B. Kameay, M.A., LL.D., F.R.S.E., Dean of Edinburgh. First and Second Series.

Familiar Iljustrations of Scottish Character. By the Kev. Charles Koyers, LL.D., P.S_A. Scotland.

Though net yet admitted into the ‘Society for taining Justice to Scotland,’ and not very sen- sitive nor ‘sudden and quick iu quarrel’ in regard the proeise heraldic position of the Scottish

, We are pevertheless sincerely and profoundly attached to our native land. We are proud of Scotland—of her history, ber seenery, her charac- wr, and her institutions. We relish the smacie of

A Wee

Orne?

ly

~~

Hournal of

“This is true Liberty, when Preeborn Men, having to advis

rue

lindeed, like all human fhreulties, liable to abuse, and capable of being perverted to evil; but it is essentially a good gift, and ought to be turned to the 1 , and to manife increase of the cheerfulness, | the happiness,and the aflection of secial and funaily Hlife. We might go further ;—we adduce much evidence to support that, as humour is discerned only by ' can, to some extent, catch the ithe humouriet, so the sense or } humour is one phase or department of sympathy, and thus the springs of mirthfulness and of kind- | ness are not far distant: aod many a heme, amid | the alternations of joy aad serrew, that darken or | brighten the course of life, has found an ever fresh | gladness in the comic vein and jocund humour of some merry and mirthful member of the family.

good account of which it is sus veptible

st itself in the wiigat RAY, AG }

those who

discernment of

Many of the best men we have ever known—the |

| best in the highest sense of the term—with the | best heads and the best hearts,have been men who

| thoroughly appreciated, and heart&y enjoyed, true |

j humour. There are, indeed, some men whe, to jthe jocund and genial aspects of life, present a

j front so cold and hard as to be quite unimpres- | | sible; over whom the brightest flashes of merri- |

|) ment pass unheeded, ‘as o'er th’ impassive ice the lightuings play.’ There are others, with small aud narrow minds, self-seeking and selfcomplacent,

sormpromise their diguity or peril their reputation, will not descend from the grave dulness of their deeorous walk, or permit themselves the pleasant relish of a wholesowe jest, or the innocent enjoy- ment of a hearty laugh. In this they greatly err, as much so as those who, in the midst of bright scenes and sweet sounds, would close their eyes lewt they should see evil, or their ears lest they should hear folly.

by nature—that it is a source of great enjoyment, and that it is consistent with werth, and truth,and purity,—caunot be denied; and therefore the part of wisdom is, not to stitle, but to guide it, Humour is described by Addison as the offspring of wit and wirth, descended from good sense, and closely allied to truth, It may also be added, that humour is the co-mate of liberty,and thrives only in a free soil. As Sir William Temple truly says, ‘We have in ovr country originals, and more that appear what they are. because every mat Is free tu follow his owl hu- mour, and takes a pleasure, perhaps a pride, to show it. There may ve humour amid poverty aad rags—humour amid toils aud dangers—ii- mour evea amid ignorance, and recklessness, aud folly ; chains. The heart must be free before the springs | of true humour can be opened,aud then the streat | will be free, full, and gushing, in proportion as | Wit and mirth abound. It is the peculiar quatity of humour, that it cannot be forced, er bought, or artilictally stimulzted. More aptly and truly than of the poet, may it be said of the humeourist, ‘ vas- jcitur noa fit.” As we have already said, it is a

}

| gift, to be recognized, develuped, and guided,—anot |

| an art to be learned, or an accomplishment to be acquired,

aere are many things within the reach of aim, |

| attainable by effort and industry, or capable of being unparted by instruction. Distinction in

; Many departments—wealth, power, learning, wis- |

}dem—are generally within the reach of these | modes of acquisition ; and even those aceomplish-

. . e | } ments which imply somewhat of the aglatus divi-

| #us, Which we call genius, and which Cicero de- clares to be indispensable to greatness—such as | poetry, music, taste, eloguence—demand and re- quire the aid of assiduous culture. But humour is beyond the reach of art, the sphere of aim, or | the scope of acquisition. Not ouly is it impalpable to search, and unattainable by etiort, se and

it should seem to be seized and retained, it dies in j the capture: its charm, its spirit, its very life, dissolves under the grasp; * And every touch that wooed its stay, Had brushed its brightest hues away.’

Of this humour —clothed in Seottish tongue,and illustrative of Scottish character—the volumes be- fore us contain mauy specimens. But no collection of anecdotes, uo repository of jokes, from the

factize of Hierocles to the reminiscences of Dean Rewmsay, can adequately iustrate the humour of a country, or faitafully represent that delicate and j subtle influence which, floating over a free and | Joyous society, awakes the wit and the mirth of which humour is the offspring. The buniourous

anecdotes of our country cannot be comprehended | '

or even represented in a volume. Seattered amid | all classes in all parts of Scotland, treasured in | countless memories, and told by countless tongues, | the good things of the Laird of M‘Nab and the Laird of Logan, of Harry Erskine, and Jolin ) Clerk, and Patrick Robertson, and many others, | | cannot be so gathered together as to be presented in a combined form. All that can be done, and all that is attempted in these volumes is to‘ sainpl them;’ and by no selection of samples can the spirit of the whole be adequately expressed. Those

<: . . “i veeu the rails; | who remember Sir Walter Scott and Dr. Andrew sy iene than acd oie head out; eh, Dex | Thomson—those who knew Lord Cockburn and | @Y 's*? fle os Se | Sir Thomas Dick Lauder—those who now enjoy

the social privilege of a night with Mr. Daniel

the proposition, |

feeling and spirit ot |

who pass through life in the bondage and gloom of subservience ,to the opinion of some clique er| coterie around them, and who, lest they should

That a sense of humour, and | an appreciation of fun, is implanted in many of us | I )

We have more humour, |

but there can be no genuine humour in |

Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, Monday, February

ning with the letter P without stammering A neighbouring gentleman, seeing him diy to make him ridiculous, naid, ‘What do you call these things you're digging !’ ‘Sir, says poor Pat, ‘1 don’t call them; when | want them I feteh them.’

A nobleman and his lady, walking through a magnificent avenue in one of the finest parts of Ireland, were accosted by a poor woman as fol- lows :

ng pota-

toes, and wishing

I dramed adrame abou U dramed your lordship gave

your gracious ladyship you both last night.

me a pound of tobacco, and your ladyship a pound

of tay.” ‘Ah, my good Woh,’ says the peer, ‘dreams go by contraries.’

‘To be sure they do,’ says the woman;

the tobacco.

A poor old Irish cripple sat begging at a bridve, urging his appeal to the charity of passengers with the eager and versatile eloquence of his country. A gentleman and lady—young, gay, and handsome,

|

with that peculiar look of gratified and compla- |

cent cousclousness Which indicates the first tew weeks of married lhie—crossed the bridge. They regarded not the petitions of the beggar; so, just jas they passed hin he exclaimed, ‘May the bless- | of your lifes’ a pause; the couple passed heed- lessly on, and the beggar, with a fine touch of caustic humour, added, ‘and never overtake you.’

Dean Ramsay tells us of a Scotsman whose ten-

der toe was trodden on: the offender said, ‘J’m | tual fight.

very Sorry, SIT;

sir.” To our mind, there was come not much humour in this, The Lrish beggar who, on being refused alms, swung his cruteh on the toes of the gouty gentleman, whom his prayers moved not to charity, bad more humour, when hi said tothe enraged owner of the suffering foot, |‘ Bless your honour, if your heart was aa tender | #8 your toes, you'd have given me the tenpenny.’ i In all these anecdotes, we think that net a eca- jsualcomie ineongruity, or mere blundering j fun, but a vein of rare humour, can be discerned, j the purer and rarer frow its natural simplicity Art is fatal, and premeditation is unfavourable to j humour. Sheridan was a wan of brilliant parts | aud of sparkling wit; and the exquisite wit of the | School for Scandad is searcely equalled, aud cer- | tainly not surpassed, by Cervantes or Moliere. That he was also a man of genuine humour can- not be doubted ; but whik of his writings, | his wit gained in terseness and polish from the | elaborate care with which he was went to prepare | his favourite passages, the fresh and racy charac- ter of his humour is sometimes marred by the same careful preparation.

*, 1 SOIé

j like blunders, are perhaps the finest specimens ot

| true humour, in which there is no greater charm |

than that of uasephisticated sunpbeity. This is the key to the peeuliar kind of humeur sometimes found in the remarks of persons of weak intellect,

of which Shekespeare’s clowns and fools, and |

Walter Scott’ “Wamba’ and ‘Davie Gallathe,’ afiord geod illustrations. There are many speel- j mens of such remarks in Deen Ramsay’s book :— ‘A miller, laughing at the wiflessness of a poor weak lad, said he knew nothing. “Na,” said the lad, “ there’s some things I ken, and some I dinnn ken.” On being asked what he knew, he said, ‘ ] ken a miller has aye a gay fat sow. “ And what d'ye no ken?” said the miller. “Oh,” said he. “I doa’t ken at wha’s expense she is fed.” | ‘The congregation of Lunan, in Foriarshire, | had distressed the minister by their habit of sleep- ing in church. One day Jamie Fraser, an idiot, Was sitting in the front gallery, whey many were slumwbermg around him. “ Louk,” said the ininis- ter, “ you see even Jamie Fraser, the idiot, does not fall asleep, as 80 many of you are doing.”

plied, “ An’ I hadna been an idiot, 1 would have | been sleeping too.”’ ’

The clergyman of a north country parish, on |

coming into church, found the pulpit occupied by the parish idiot. ‘Come down, sir,’ was the per- lemptory and indignant call. ‘Na, na, minister,’ says the idiot, with a confidential wink, ‘just come ‘ye up wi’ me. This is a preverse generation, and | taith they need us baith.’ | The following anecdote of Rab Hauuilton. ‘the daftie of Ayr,’ as he was called, is not, we think, jembered it in our youth. In the doys of Rab, the Newtown Kirk in Ayr, under the niinistry of the Rey. Dr. Peebles, wis supposed to be attend d by the most devout part of the population; and puir Rab followed the multitude of those w ho preferred the preaching of the good man whom Burns mev- tious as *‘ Peebles frae the Water-foot,’ to that of the ‘auld-town minister.’ One day, however, was induced to go to the *Auld Kirk” Behind the magistrates’ seat in the gallery, opposite th

pulpit, there were iron rails, between two of whic! Rab’s head was inserted, and got fast jammed. The poor mau called out at first rather quietiv, then louder and louder on each successive appeal ‘Oh! my head! Eh, Provost Cowan, take tu} eh, Bailie M‘Taggart,

Rab

con Convener, take out my head, afore it comes atf; eh, pious congregation, uy head will be aff;

. : . *h, god! inister, help ime, aud take ead.’ the old Seottish tongue, and enjoy the dry pawk-| M‘Nee, or our friend the author of the Hore ©! So's minister, help ime, aud takeout my head

mews of the native Scottish humourist. yet not lost, in the union with her sister England,

Seutlaud has distinet and peculiar claims ou our | r memory, our convictions, and oar affections,which | their stories with effect. we gladly and heartily recognise. It is, therefore, |

with much cordiality, though not in a spirit of

warrow or illiberal nationality, that we welcome |

toese ustrations of Seottish life and character, | aod express our admiration of the patriotic spirit whieh prompts and pervades them.

That the Rev. Dr. Edward Ramsay should have |

Written a work on ‘ Scottish Life and Character,’ which his countrymen eagerly read, and heartily admire, ean be surprising to none Who know him. de man in more inighly, generally, and deservedly edeemed aud beloved, than this rev. gentleman.

fascity much affected by political and denomi- |

tational differences, where conflicting opinions are

Mrougly entertained aud keeuly expressed, ke has

—_ a loug, useful, aud honvurable life, without in

ga friead or making au enemy; and in iis posed to think, that in genuine eel character the venerable is so gracefully | of the mirthfal oy the

ended with the loveable, that all classes regard bie with feelings at ouce respectful and affection ale The Reminiscences are very entertaiving, avd, Sheaever the views and seutiwents of the author espressed, they are full of his own good sense aibeuevolence. We do not mean tosay that all tte stories are good, or that, in every instance, “ehumonr has been effectively brought out; it Would be easy to point out some aneedotes that aight well have been omitted, and others that Might be somewhat improved in narration. Bat, eenetally, they are well selected and well teld,aud there ix that about the anther and the book which Ms critica. We enjoy the stories, we feel the truth and aptness of the comments,we become Hore intensely, yet not less liberally Scuttish, as We read; and we feel that the best Ulustration of “Seottish Life and Character’ is to be found in sound sense in the quaint aod simple Scottish wour and janguage, in the kindly and genial tien, and the stedfast yet graceful and gene- us vationnlity of Dean Kausay. Dr. ogers’ Familiar IMustrations of Scottish \aracter is an amusing bouk, with some good Mories, and much good intention, and breathing a kindly and plesaant spirit, thenugh itis not, we think, equal in any respect to the Meméiniscences by Dean Ramsay. ae Object of both works is the Ene : the eol- and — Saeedotes Hustrative of the life,ebaract: r henwent* of Scotlaud—tmore especially in ite all Nesting ot Phe stories are, accordingly, humane severally ¢ laracteristic, and frequently them it io a + alway 4, however, lor in sume of iedoad t cult to diseover the humour. T wed, may be the fault of the reader, not of the Writer; for humour ix feeee prodigal to her favourites, yet verling her ured trom those she favours not. Tue per-

Ceiving ; Wing of humour ig a gift, as well as the pro- |

<a ty aad Ssuie lies e dueat as of production. colour-blind, and cannot discrimiuate between red, g = aud blue: and many persons are humour- a and cannot discern, or understand, or enjoy, ouch af fun or 4 stroke of humour. For our Part, We think such persous are to be pitied. To jo m the spring of much hearty and innocent en- at it dried up, aud they are not the better, gh much the duller , for want of it, power of discovering a comic poiut, of ap-

it is os difficult of dis-

Preriating & humorous hit, and enjvvi > fun of : 4 hum shit, eying the fun of eg Position, is a gift not to be Teaasd, At ia

vain, silly, or unbeewning thing, as sowe owls aud grave dulucds suppose. It is,

Merged, }

| the basket, went on his way, and delivered the

That, |

strange and perverse |

Some persons are |

Subsecicva,—know well how impossible it is so to catch the spirit of true humour as to do justice to it by narration at second hand. No oue can repeat | Whether it is the fact, that our countrymen are deficieut in humour, while Englishmen excel in humour, may admit of doubt. We are by no means prepared to acknowledge that the fact is so, hotwithstanding the high authority of Sydney Sutith, who was himself a man of humour, rieh and rare. But of this we are satisfied, that the attempts toexplain aud account for the deticiency | assumed as a fact, have totally tailed. No satis- factory or even intelligible reason has yet been

; suggested, why Scotsmen should be inferior in |

humour to Englishmen, Such an explanation as, that the Scottish people are poorer than the Euglish, caunot be reasonably accepted. Riches | do not create or even stimulate humour. The | Irish peasantry are poorest of all; yet we are dis- humour, whether | satirical order, they are su- | perior to both English aud Scoteh. An frishman |

3 . } , 18 not, as is often supposed, a mwcre blunderer into | }fun. Noman ean seck occasions for hwnour.

But whea occasion comes, the poor Irishman is | prompt and ready. There are some Irish anec- | dotes, the point and pith of which are generally | supposed to be a blunder or bull, but which really | turn on a stroke of five natural humour. : An Irishman thus describes his cold reception by an old friend: ‘T saw Pat Ryan t’other side of the way. I thonght it was Pat, and Pat thought it was me; aud when 1 came up if was neither of us.’ | | A lad was sent with a note, and a basket con. j taining some fiving partridges. On his way, | tempted by curiosity, he peeped into the basket, | wheu the partridges flew away. Mach perplexed was he; but after a little consideration he reclosed

} j

letter with his best bow. * Well, my Ind,’ said the

gentleman on reading it, ‘I see there are some |

| live partridges in this letter.’ ‘Oh, by the powers,’ | j says Paddy, ‘I'm viad of that, for they flew out |

the basket.’

Au English gentleman had an Irish servant, whom he took as his attendant toa Highland grouse-sheoting. ‘The expense of the sport to the | Englishinan had been very great: a large rent | for the muir, new guhs, and muniments of war on | grouse, high-bred dogs, a fashionable shooting tuine, anda countless number ofiucidental charges. | Unfortunately, the sportsman was less expert than | extravagant. Like a friend of our own, of whom we have heard old Willie M speak, ‘he was grand at the shooting, but ne very gude at the killing ;’ so, after the first week of the war, as the master and man were seated on a rock consoling themselves wader the fatigue and disappoinuucut of unsuccessful pursuit, the Eugtishiman says, ‘Weill, Pat, this 1s expensive work. I’ve been calculating that every one of these birds cust me jabovs £0.” ‘Faith, your houour, says Pat, throwing a dash of lumour into the sy inpathizing | simplicity of his reply, ‘ I’m sorry for that, buat it’s

i

CORB-

| lucky there’s no were of them.’ |

A traveller iu Ireland, having been inclined to , deny that the peasantry were humourous, was tuld | to ask any question of the first labouring wan he | met on the road. Accordingly, on seeing a sturdy

fellow breaking stones, le says, ‘Now, my mau, | if the devil were to come here just sow, whether | would he take you or me? ‘Me, to be sure,’ says | the mau, ‘ for he’s certain of your honour at aay | time.’ , ‘ A poor Irish labourer had an impediment in Lis speech, aud could put prououuce words begia-

jing togi

}was asked, ‘ What is the

Rab was at length reheved by the removing of a rail, when, rubbing lis head, and looking mourn- fully around him, he groaned out, ‘This is a judg-

j ment from the Lord for leaving gude Dr. Peebles.’

Next Sunday, Rab was in his wonted place in the Newtown Kirk. He was asked how he liked the | Auld Kirk, and replied, ‘It’s no the best, it’s ne gude ava: Vi never leave Dr. Peebles; but, on | being pressed to state what the sermon was about, or what was the text, he declined to speak, saying, with a knowing wink, ‘J never tell in ae house what I hear in anither.’

This Rab Hamilton, though certainly daft, had # curious readiness of humour. Mr. William

’ , of D——, who was a clever mimic, was green of Ayr, bs

once amusing some friends on ths

j imitating Rab’sfeeble and rambling mode of speak- ing. Rab came up bebind him, unscen, and, as

the mimie concluded, clapped Lim on the back, saving, ‘It’s nu me that; it’s po me, Mr. William, it’s yoursell.’

Rab was once met on the road by a stranger, who asked, * Llow far is it to Ayr?’ Rab, ‘ you'll be come from Kilmarnock!) ‘What ou earth is your business where I come from?’ ‘Very weel, sir, as little is it my business where ye gang to.’

' Rab met the late Mr. Ramsay Maule (after-

“The Lord bless vour noble lerdship and |

‘so it will be your lordship will | give me the tay, and her ladyship will give me |

ing of the Lord, which brings love, and joy, and | wealth, and a fine family, follow you all the days |

urtiness and | they did.

The poor Trishiman’s | conic hits, so sunple and natural that they leek |

eluding pursuit; bat if, by some bold adventurer, | Jamie, not liking to be thus designated, coolly re- |

quite as well given by Dean Ramsay as we rem- |

olities, Litera

t

e the Pubtie,

t

muy speak free.”---Euripides,

10, IS62.

nee, and slews,

Oe eee

Rhine all alike present the features, not of; had returned to its bed, tranquil and slum-' the other circumstances we have described

: those douce, temperate and somewhat slug- gish streams which Englishmen call rivers, but of the torrents which in the tropics shift, change, and throw up new territories, as if they own, made of Holland a swamp, through which the German rivers would have wandered slowly and sluggishly towards the sea, losing themselves en route in the sands, and sometimes fighting harmlessly with the storm- | driven rush of salt water. The Dutchmen, however, not approving of an arrangement which involyes among other things the life |of a wild duck for themselves, haye banked

in the rivers, a work in itself of some mag- |

nitude, but a trifle ta the wark it produces. These rivers carry down silt, which in the na- tural course of things they would slowly de- posit in their own beds. These rise, there- ture, steadily every year, till at the present moment the traveller who veatures upon the trackboat finds himself crawling along on rivers suspended jn air, and looking down on the plains as men look down over a precipice, | Naturally, as the rivers rise, so do the dykes, which, as they rise, become weaker, and but | that there is some compensating cause, man | would one day be vanquished in this perpe- M. Esquiros does not assign this

I beg your pardon ;’ and the only | cause ; but, he says, the dykes as they rise acknowledgment was, ‘and you've as muckle need, |

undoubtedly hold the river in better than The reasoa is sufficiently simple. ‘The bed of the river is not rising through its /whole length, but only through its length | in the delta, Consequently every rise dimi- | wishes the difference of Jeyel between the | great outflow through the Ardennes, and the [outlet of the river, and the velocity of the | Waters, though not their volame, is lessened.

ute | It is quite possible that this process may go

/on till the rivers are in the delta almost as

- | sluggish as canals, and man will not be called

| upon for that improvement in his faculties

‘| in which alone M. Esquiros, sees hope for

the future. During the transition period, however, the danger is very great, and we }cannot better illustrate its extent, or M. | Esquiros’s style, than by extracting his ac- | count of the inundation of 1855:

‘- It was in the month of March, after a hard winter, which had suspended the course of the Rhine andthe Meuse. Spring arrived suddenly for that portion of these rivers to the south, while the northern part remained petrified beneath the ice. ‘Phe solid surface | of the Rhine being broken up, the thaw met in Holland a mass of the sti}l frozen river. A motionless river and moving ice-blocks came in a fearful collision. The foree of re- sistance being opposed to that of expansion must necessarily entail a catastrophe. There was a solemn and terrible moment, during which the-river, coutending with itself, utter- fed a hourse roar. All at onee the Ded of ice

rose and burst, and the tumultuous strength of the waters, exasperated by the he avy clashing ieo-masses, no longer knew obstacles or res'raint. “The river roared and rose jike } a sea, and vyerflowed its banks. bough the dykes were so strong and tall they were ecar- ried away, cut :wander by the ice as by a razor-blade. The whule coantry becume a sheet of water; it was no lenger a breaking up of the ice butadeluge. The ice-lumpe were burled on ice-lumps3 and these ruins of the thaw destroyed, tore awty, and j crushed everything they meton their pass- age. Lofty oaks fell shattered in the constant- ily rising waters. On all sides the floods jrushed up like a peck of howling wolves. | The Rhine had already seized upon one-

fourth of Gelderman and the provinee of |

| Utrecht, and a portion of North Brahant | had disappeared beneath the waters of the Meuse. It was hopeless to search for the fat prairies, the smiling polders, and the splen- didly cultivated Duateh farms; ali that was beneath the level of the two rivers disappear ed, and was covered by the angry, secthing waters. In some places they rose above

roofs of the houses, and frail boats, surround- ed by a belt of moving and floating rocks, ulone struggled against this tempest of ice.

+ “The ramparts and bridges were swept

‘ Ay,’ says |

| Village.

wards Lord Panmure) and Lord Belhaven, walk- |

ther on the race-conrse of Ayr. ‘I’m a Hatnitton, your honeur; I’m a Hamilton,’ says

Rab, approaching his Lordship. ‘Give him a)

sliiling, Belhaven, he is a cousin ot yours,’ says Mr.Maule. ‘My mither’s name was Ramsay,’ says Rab, slipping reund to the other side, and getting another shilling as his reward.

In like manner, there is frequently humour iv the observations of very young persous; aud these derive the charm of their pleasantry from their artless simplicity. A very litle girl at school, in

the course of tuition by 4 particularly ugly teacher, |

meaning of the word flattery?’ Her reply was, ‘Gin I were to say ye were bonnie, that would be flattery.’ ( To be concluded in our next.) oe =

THE DUTCH

Most educated Englishmeu are aware that

the Dutch have to maintain an incessant | o

fight with the sea, the stake being uo less than the right of their country to exist, but they du wut realize quite so fully that the

{same warfare, only differing in its degree, is

carried on with a deadly internal foe The sea, of course, is the atctiman’s most

‘dangerons antagonist, and appeals to the | Unagination all the more strongly becaus: |

science has demonstrated the precise extent }of the peril. The local hydrographers, fo facilitate inquiry, have invented, or rather defined, a water level, which they call the

iisay be described ag safe. wind bluws from the north-west, the ten- ‘dency of the water is to exceed this level, and during a storm the tide rises at the Teast ex-

yosed places ten feet six inches above all

lolland. Those who know most of the power of water will best understand the re- sult of precipitating ten feet of the German | Ocean over aa inha ited plain.

menacing. The Meuse, the Scheldt, and the

fragments of masonry, heaps of ruins and | bricks in a nameless medley.

‘our emotion at the sigit of these habita-

away. From steeple to steeple the tocsin rang out, and the alarur guns were heard along the menaced line. An infinite desola- tion tell with night upon the villages and farms. The words ‘The dyke is burst !’ could be beard in all the tones of horror. Men were afraid for their homes, their rural riches, their winter stock, their eattle ; they feared for themselves, but before all for their wives and children. Before the foe who ad- vanced, stern, irresistible, and inevitable, the abodes were abandoned ; the inhabitants | sought shelter on the hills, and on buildings standing on an elevation, such as churches | and mills. From these spots the terrified | pecple surveyed the sabmerged fields, and | the villages in which they had left firiends., | Do you see down there that house in which a faint light is burning? A female shadow | is designed on the window panes, That wo- | man refused to take to flight. An enormous! ice-iass dashes against the house and carries | it away. Each moment roofs, furniture, corpses of domestic animals pass in a whirl- | pool of water and ice. Alas! doe you not ses an empty cradle floating along?) What | has become of the infuut? What tas become of the mother ?”’

M. Esquiros went himself to one scene of desolation :

‘It was a sad und painful excursion, for, |

truth to tell, we went but to reconnoitre a) bat I know you laugh at these ignorant fan- |Mr. B. * You will he mere sight of the localities cies; and you know me too well to suppose concert by-and-b

could furnish no idea of the ruin the villagers that | would treat them otherwise than with | spit and swear with ‘had sustained. At each instant along adeep pity and contempt. Tel) me at once what) ‘ Swear away you

ditch which had formerly been the highway, we met with roofs from which the tiles had been stripped, beaten-in doors, broken win- dows, and barns suspended sadly on the ex- posed piles, in a word, the skeletons of houses. Elsewhere, there was nought but

The further we advanced in the village, the greater grew

tions without inLabitants, this littie ehureh which have served as an ark amid the deluge,

bering like a lion in its den after a successful foray.*?

Man will win, neverthcless,as he wins

| everywhere, except in the tropics, where the

y had a creative volition of their | energy of one generation is exhausted in the | Nature left to herself would have | effort to repair the losses time has inflicted |

upon the works of the last.— Review of Es- | quires’ ** The’ Dutch at Ilome.”?

ee

An architect of Vienna having occasion to Visit the country-house of a nobleman of that jcity, accepted the hospitable invitation he received and determined to remain asa guest for several days. The first day wae in business and he retired exhausted, but bis thoughts were still occupiedwith the improve- ments in the house that were contemplated. | He could see, however, that the room allotted | to him was handsome and commodious, though not large; and at length he suffered his head to sink upon the pillow with the sigh of satisfaction with which we take leave of the world for the night,

‘* And draw around a wearied breast The curtain of repose.”

But when he was just sinking to rest an un- easy sensation, he knew not of what nature, stole over him. He persuaded himself that the air was close—that he perceived a faint smell—and he lay for some time considering whether he was not suffering from fever. ‘Che question was speedily answered, for the bed began to move. Presently it was near the window~-so near that he could look out, could see the trees in the garden below and could observe the out line of asummer-house which had attracted his attention by its | classical proportions in the forenoon. He /was of course surprised, nay terrified; but when he stretebed toward the window in order to ascertain that all was real, the scene grew dimmer and dimmer and at length dis- uppeared. And no wonder, for the bed was receding tu its old position—and did not stop there. Ile was presently at the door—be might bave touched the panels with his hand. ile telt bis breath come back and the air more confined ; he would have got up to ring for | assistance but persuaded himeel! that he was | too weak and would fall down before reaching i the bell

The bed agam moved and this time it took

| Up its position in the very middle of the fire- ‘hish’ again, emphatically, and threw his_

place. This was the sheer frenzy of fever, | for the fireplace was of course nut a fourth , part of the size of the bed itself. Yet he saw distinctly the walls of the chimney sarround- ing him,and he even felt that one of the feet , of the bed rested upon a dog iron so as to dis- jturb its level. Bat he had no time fer more ‘minute observation, for presently the bed emerging from the chimney begun to rise with slow undulations towards the roof and there it continued to awing, as he imagined, for hours together, till his alarm sunk grad- 'aally inco lassitude, and he fell into a deep though short and unfresbing slamber. | The next morning the visitor appeared at the breakfast table pale, wearied, and dis- pirited. He was not weil. jwatter? What could be done for him? \** Nothing,’ be replied to all their inter- ‘Togateries. He had not slept but the air | would revive him. fle would take healsh-

‘THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERY.)

What was the!

proved to be the solution of the mystery ; for | mephytic gas engendered in the garret, pene- | trating through the mouldy wood work of | the antique ceiling intoa place where it found no egrese and, where it could mingle only with the foal air ,was in reality the nucternal specire which haunted the room. The effect of this gas upon the brain in exciting a temporary delirium is well known ; and in the present instance the result of what was done to remedy the evi! left no doubt.

The door and window were opened, the chimney was cleared made and two opeuings were, in the roof. During the last mentioned operations it is worthy of note that when the tools of the workmen penetrated for the first time into the garret,the mephiy tic vapor which escaped had such an effect upon one of them that he must have fallen from the roof had he not been caught hold of by his comrades After the alterations were made, the architect retired to bed for the fourth time and enjoyed an excellent sleep, together with a great

art of the arrears of the preceding nights. rom that moment the room lost its repu- tation asa Chamber of Mystery.

> + am -o

A VENTRILOQUIST AND CATS.

A ventriloquist travelling, put up over night ata country hotel, and getting into a room with a fidgety old fellow, he thought he'd get up a little fun by treating the old gent to a catserenade. Valentine, the yen- triloquist, on having his bed pointed out to him, darted between the sheets in the of a minute; for, as Mr. Junes Beagie face- tiously observed, he had but to shake him- self and everything came off. He then turned the thing seriously over in his own mind, while Mr. Beagle was quictly undressing, being anxious for that gentleman to extin- guish the light before he commenced oper- atiuns,