'I, of course, did not refer to individuals, but to the nation in general.' '

Lecturing at Chatham, Mr. Pilkington tells us, that "a number of military officers, as well as men, were present, and listened with great patience and attention-an example at once consistent with good sense, and worthy of their station as members of polished society. This meeting took place at an hotel, where it was announced that I would lecture again in the Baptist chapel. I accordingly returned in a few days, and found it filled with about a thousand persons, amongst whom I observed many of the officers who had been present upon the preceding occasion. In the middle of this lecture, some person imprudently called out, 'Fire!' consternation that ensued was alarming; I endeavoured to encourage the people by sitting quietly on the cushion of the pulpit, but in vain; seven hundred rushed out at once. It was, indeed, a matter of thankfulness that no accident occurred.

The

"This reminded me of a similar occurrence which took place at Dewsbury. In the course of my lecture I was stating that some thousand tons of human and horse bones were imported into Great Grimsby, in Lincolnshire, from the plains of Leipsic and Waterloo, and ground into manure. I remarked thereon that we are not satisfied in engaging others to fight for us, but after their souls are hurried before the bar of judgment, we take their pulverized bones to manure our lands, and eat the vegetables rendered luxuriant and delicious by the essential oil extracted from the dead bodies of our fellow-men. At this moment, one, who, I afterwards heard, was subject to fits, being overcome by the heat of the place, uttered two or three sepulchral groans. The alarm, thus produced, was as if all the skeletons of our slaughtered soldiery were seen stalking through the windows; many of my affrighted auditors shrieked, and many, both male and female, rushed to the door. One respectable young lady, following the example of others, vaulted from the seat over the side of the pew, because, in her haste, she could not open the door."

Mr. Pilkington went over to Ireland, and his lectures on peace and temperance were, on the whole, very well received, in the various towns he visited. In Dublin, he went to visit the scenes of his childhood; and meeting with an old lady who had known his family, she remarked, amongst other conversation, "Your father was a very benevolent man-everybody loved him; he was always doing good. But sure your step-mother was a very proud woman, at least everybody said so. But oh! how like your father you are-sure, I remember you when you were this height-what a beautiful boy you were-oh! but time has made a great change in you, I would hardly have known you. I always observed that the handsomest children grew up the ugliest men.'

Here we part with Mr. Pilkington. Whatever differences of opinion there may be between us, we wish, as cordially as he does, that "War may cease unto the ends of the earth."'

SHAKSPEARE, A STUDY FOR DIVINES.

"DR. SHARPE was the rector of St. Giles's, and was both a very pious man and one of the most popular preachers of the age, who had a most peculiar talent of reading his sermons with much life and zeal." So far Bishop Burnet; to which Onslow, the Speaker, adds this note :-"Sharpe was a great reader of Shakspeare. Dr. Magnay, who had married his daughter, told me he used to recommend to young divines the reading of the Scriptures and Shakspeare; and Dr. Lisle, Bishop of Norwich, who had been chaplain at Lambeth to Archbishop Wake, told me that it was often related there that Sharpe should say, that 'the Bible and Shakspeare made him Archbishop of York. ".

THE REDUCED FAMILY.

GENTEEL, poor families, reduced to poverty by sudden and recent misfortunes, occupy the least enviable position of any of the numerous classes of which society is composed. We say recent― because otherwise they become so entirely incorporated and assimilated with the class on which they have been thrown back, that no distinguishing traits or features remain visible to awaken our sympathies.

The picture, then, which we would point out for contemplation and commiseration is, that of such a family struggling to maintain an appearance before the eye of the world worthy of their former state, but sorely at variance with their present means. Such attempts as these may be called foolish, and by those who have more wisdom than feeling they may be considered as the offspring of vanity; but we would not be disposed to give them so harsh a name. As we are no casuists ourselves, however, we leave the adjustment of this point to those who are, and content ourselves with saying, that for our own parts, we never look on such melancholy attempts as those we speak of, or think of the condition of those who make them, but with unmingled feelings of kindness and compassion.

Particularly do we sympathise with such a family when it contains one or more young adult females. Modest, accomplished girls they are, but oh! pitiful, most pitiful is the contrast between their poverty-stricken home, their poor, thin raiment thrown on their sylph-like forms with an affecting aim at gentility, and the lady-like manners, the pure and beautiful style of language, and the With the elegant carriage, of their fair but unfortunate wearers. spirit of former days still strong within them, and still fondly clinging, with a hold which they must soon forego, to that status in society from which poverty would tear them, the reduced family contrive to continue to reside in a house of rather genteel appearance externally; but few except themselves know the dreadful struggle they have to keep such a house as this over their heads, and fewer still know of the misery that is within it, or the wretched shifts to which its inmates are driven to make out a livelihood.

Although, however, the house is of rather a genteel appearance in itself, it is yet, very often, in a populous neighbourhood, and for their selection of such a residence there are two principal reasons. The first is, that houses so situated are generally lower rented. The second is, a consciousness of their inability to keep up appearances with an aristocratic neighbourhood in any of the essentials of respectable housekeeping; for it would be impossible to conceal many trivialities from the prying eyes of those who, being in comfortable circumstances themselves, quickly observe indications of an opposite state in others. The reduced family shun this humiliation, and seek a vicinity where the elegances and refinements and luxuries of genteel life are less known, and less regarded. But if the reduced family avoid one evil they encounter another, perhaps still less easy to bear. They cannot altogether conceal from the neighbourhood that poverty is in the house. In despite of all the family's efforts to maintain appearances, their condition becomes known, and often has the blush been called into poor Miss Louisa's pale but beautiful cheek, by the rude remarks spoken out that she might hear them as she passed. Modestly she trips, or rather steals along; for her steps are stealthy, her deportment meek; indicating a painful and oppressive sense of her changed condition and prospects. Poor Louisa's appearance is still genteel, and this of itself is enough to excite spleen, but there is yet another provocative. By toiling night and day with her needle, Louisa has contrived to purchase a new scarf, and this thrown gracefully around her has raised the hue and cry of envy and uncharitableness.

We have said that Louisa is subjected to all this. So she is, but she is not alone in this species of suffering. Her sisters are equally persecuted. The blight falls, and with equally withering effects, on Miss Harriet and Miss Sophia, and equally keenly do they feel it. Even little modest Anne, who would not harm the meanest thing that lives, is subjected to this torture, and often, also, has the blush been called into her little innocent cheek, and the tear into her gentle but brilliant eye, by vulgar unfeeling slatterns. Often in her innocence and simplicity has she expressed her wonder to her mother, while the tears were streaming down her cheeks, and her little heart was like to burst; for she is yet too young to observe the caution of her elder sister. On these occasions her mother sighs heavily, kisses away the little girl's tears, and bids her pay no attention to the idle remarks of idle people, and adds, "My child, say nothing of this to your poor father: it would only grieve him."

The girls of this unfortunate family have all received the elements of a first-rate education, and, in the case of the two eldest, that education was completed before the misfortune befel them which reduced them to their present poverty. They, therefore, had looked confidently forward to such a settlement in the world as their superior accomplishments and their position in society entitled them to. Suitors they once had: many who fanned them with the soft breath of flattery, but, one by one, have they all departed, and departed, too, by the slow, torturing, humiliating process of gradually widening the intervals of their visits, and offering the most frivolous excuses, until they had rendered even this unnecessary by returning no more.

The girls sometimes meet these mushroom admirers in the streets, and frequently in situations where the latter cannot avoid coming in contact with them, but they always endeavour to escape, and the ladies feel a momentary sense of humiliation; but pride comes to their aid, and they return the constrained and hollow salutation with a dignified manner. Still, these rencontres are painful to the sensitive minds of the poor girls, rendered doubly sensitive by their misfortunes.

- It is an affecting sight to see these amiable accomplished young ladies, now assembled around one little table in one mean-looking paltry apartment, labouring with that needle to earn their bread, nay, not only their own bread but that of their parents, and their younger sisters and brothers. There is an air of sad cheerfulness seated on their countenances. Gentle, mild, and resigned, are they all. But the poverty that presses on them is great. They who once had splendid wardrobes can now with great difficulty command even such trifles as a pair of new gloves or a cap; and in the case of the two younger ones, their best apparel is now so faded and gone that they cannot appear in the streets unless their scanty and decayed dress be eked out by some of their elder sisters' better-conditioned gear. The girls love each other with the most tender affection, and each is more anxious to deck out her sister than herself.

Early and late, as you may perceive by the pale waxen hue of their countenances, do they toil for the support of the family, yet all their toil scarcely produces the means of a meagre subsistence. Their table, which was wont to be so abundantly spread, now boasts but the scantiest, and often the meanest fare. Yet for this they care nothing, as the merest and plainest trifle will now, as indeed it always did even in their best days, satisfy their wants. It is, however, a striking and melancholy memento of their fallen condition. Still, neither are they discontented nor unhappy. The house still rings with their melodious voices, singing the songs of their happier days; and in the correct and scientific manner in which these songs are sung the listener at once recognises the effects of a superior education. All the girls, especially the two eldest, play delightfully on both piano and harp, and they once possessed handsome instruments. Their father was in arrears for the rent, and the instruments were sold, and sold at half their value, to satisfy the landlord; and thus, piece-meal, has the whole of their ornamental furniture gone from time to time for the last few years.

The father entertained once the most brilliant prospects for his two boys, and the education he gave them was calculated to adapt them for almost any situation they could be called upon to fill, and the lads themselves felt a full consciousness of the advantages they possessed, and fully participated also in their father's high hopes regarding their future fortunes. Grievous, therefore, was the disappointment, and sad the feelings of both father and sons, when it was found necessary, in order to eke out the scanty income, to allow one of them to go behind the counter of a druggist, and the other that of a haberdasher. Too young to think of calling philosophy to their aid, or to reason themselves into submission to their destiny, the proud boys' hearts were like to burst when the humble employment was proposed to them, until habit had reconciled them to their lot, and perhaps shown them the folly of their pride. They still struggle to maintain their pretensions to superior consideration, and more especially do they struggle after this distinction in the article of dress. But the boys will be the makers of their own fortunes yet, and the humiliations to which they are now subiect will prove a hard, yet a wholesome lesson.

The father is a highly respectable-looking elderly man, but his countenance is care-worn and melancholy. He still dresses genteelly, however, although his coat certainly appears to be rather the worse for the wear, but it is carefully brushed; and his neck cloth is at once remarkably clean and neatly put on. His grave countenance, his stately form, and his grey locks, prematurely grey,

render his appearance highly prepossessing and gentlemanlike. His friends say, however, that they remark a great change upon him for the worse within the last four or five years. He is failing fast, and no wonder he should, for he has had much to distress him and when he looks on his unprovided children, and thinks how different is their condition from what he once hoped it should be, the old man wishes himself in his grave. He rarely goes abroad now, and never into the city; for he dislikes to revisit the scenes of his prosperity, or to meet the friends and acquaintance of his better days. When he does go out, it is to take a solitary walk of a mile or two into the country, where he may be occasionally met, and appearing to be half interested in the scenery around him, and half absorbed in melancholy reflection.

At home he has become a little peevish and cross-tempered. In the days of his prosperity he was all kindness, all goodhumour, and urbanity. An angry word then scarcely crossed his lips, a frown seldom marred his countenance, but misfortune has soured his temper, and sickened him of the world. His affectionate family make every allowance for the old man's weakness, and not only never resent his little hasty ebullitions of anger, but always endeavour to soothe and allay the irritability which occasions them, and he is not insensible to the kindness; for he often apologises for the rudeness of a hasty expression the moment he has uttered it, and if it is to one of his daughters he draws her towards him and imprints a kiss upon her forehead, a tear glistens in his eye, and he bids her never mind the unguarded language of a cross old man. His daughter on these occasions makes no reply, she cannot, her heart is too full, but she flings her arms around his neck and sobs.

The mistress of this fallen house, again, is a tall, genteel, ladylooking person. She evidently was once beautiful, but her beauty has long since faded away, not so much from the encroachments of age as from the pressure of misfortune. Her countenance, too, like her husband's, is grave and melancholy, yet is there much to admire in these elegant features, and in the dark eye whose brilliancy affliction could not altogether quench. The whole coun tenance is eminently impressive, and calculated to command respect.

Like her husband, she still dresses well, and it is most pleasant to look upon her even in these the days of her poverty. Her plain, clean, frilled, close cap, white as the driven snow, and her flowing silk gown, one of the remnants of more prosperous times, deck out a figure of more than ordinary dignity, a dignity which is not a little improved (indicative of decaying physical powers though it be) by a pair of slender tortoise-shell spectacles. Her manner is calm, solemn, and deliberate; but there is nothing of austerity in it, nothing repulsive. On the contrary, it is gentle, kind, and affable. She is evidently a woman of education, her language and deportment bespeak it; and the apartment in which she at this moment sits exhibits some beautiful specimens of her attainments in the accomplishment of drawing; executed in the days of her youth, when she feared no evils, when no approaching misery was anticipated.

But the shifts to which this unfortunate family are often driven to procure even the means of subsistence, ay, even these, for they are reduced indeed, is, perhaps after all, the most melancholy part of the picture. More than once has Louisa been seen, under the cloud of night, disguised in an old cloak and bonnet, stealing up to the pawnbroker's to procure something wherewith to put off the morrow, or perhaps to furnish the long-delayed meal of the day. She hesitates and lingers about the entrance to the pawnbroker's before she can muster courage enough to go in, yet this courage, perhaps, she would never find, did she not also watch the oppor tunity when the place was clear of applicants. Never, poor girl, does she leave that place but in tears, for it is only when the trial is past, when agitation and anxiety have given way to reflection, that she feels fully impressed with the degrading nature of her errand. This expedient, however, and all others of a similar kind, are carefully concealed from the unfortunate father. He knows nothing of them, or, at least, he is saved the pain of hearing them discussed.

His table is always furnished if not plentifully at least comfortably, and he does not inquire whence or how it has been procured. He is afraid to ask, for although he does not know he guesses the source and the means. Poor decayed family!

Our object in sketching them will have been accomplished, if any of our readers, in danger of falling into such a condition, have been inspired with a feeling of MORAL COURAGE to burst their trammels, and boldly to face the world.

A LONDON POLICE OFFICE.

In endeavouring to obtain the usual assistance to enable a poor boy to return to his parish in Liverpool, I was directed by the overseer to put him in charge of the police, as the only means suitable to his case, to obtain an order from the sitting magistrate directing the parish officers to send him to his home. This, with the boy's consent, I accordingly did; and accompanied him, whilst yet in custody, to the magistrate's office, Hatton Garden. On arrival, I passed, whilst following the young prisoner, through groups of policemen, who were standing in the doorway and dark passages. At length I arrived in the outer room: here my feelings were shocked on hearing the chief of this lower apartment vociferate authoritative directions, intermixed with cursing and swearing, whilst similar oaths were continually uttered in the buzz and din of official converse, consequent on his orders, among the subordinates. When I pressed through the crowd, the gloomy appearance of the filthy floor, greasy walls, cobwebbed ceiling, and dirty windows, seemed to be so perfectly in keeping with their gross expressions, that I fancied myself in some lower abode: nor did this imagination want heightening, when, in waiting for my turn, I observed so many parties of male and female pickpockets and rioters, who remained, as they arrived, in distinct divisions, each in charge of its respective district policeman. I was some time detained here, and not a little shocked at the unconcernedness with which, in business-like style, the police were conducting some to trial and some to punishment. At length 1 and my young pauper were summoned into the judgment-hall. On entering, I could not fail to notice that it was not surpassed in dirtiness and filth by the room which I had just left; and, although the official inmates were few, their superiority over those of the outer chamber was more discernible. The bench, above which was placed the royal arms, covered with dust, was elevated as high as the ceiling permitted on either side of it were magistrates' chairs; and, in front of the whole, a long narrow table, like a counter. On the bench sat the principal magistrate, a person of immense corpulence; his substantial countenance, being thrown into shade by the only light which passed through the dirty windows at his back, without doubt must have rendered him an object of terror to the criminal. Below the level of the bench sat clerks at a small table taking notes, while others were engaged swearing the witnesses as they entered. One of these advanced to meet me with a quick step, evidently anxious to save time, and without any ceremony presented me a New Testament, saying, "You shall well and truly

swear on the "

"I will not swear at all."

Starting, he quickly turned to the magistrate, and sharply said, "Here's a man won't swear, sir!"

"Come up here," said the magistrate, in a deep and hollow

'Why-won't-you-swear?"

AN ARMENIAN MARRIAGE.* DURING a residence of some length at Constantinople, my acquaintance with the Turkish language enabled me to gratify the natural curiosity of my disposition. Before I had been there a fortnight, I had already an extensive acquaintance, and very shortly I found myself admitted to the familiar society of several families.

It was on the 9th December, 1837, that an Armenian banker called on me, to carry me with him to assist at the marriage of one of his countrymen. We entered his caicque, a kind of boat peculiar to the port of Constantinople, elegant in form, and very light and swift, but not very commodious. We passed up the Golden Horn, and directed our course towards Hasse-Keai, at the bottom of the port of Constantinople, and passed under the recently erected bridge connecting Galata with Constantinople. We left behind us, on our left hand, the mosque of the Sultana Valide; the magnificent mosque of the great Solyman; and the Fanal, a low and obscure suburb, the residence of the Greeks: on our right hand, the Arsenal, the public baths, and the beautiful mounds where the mortal remains of the Mussulmen repose beneath the green shade of the cypress.

We landed near the barracks of the artillerymen, near the house of the bridegroom. Here I was received with a politeness and cordiality that affected me, and with honours which confused me. Pipes, sweetmeats, and coffee, were handed down; then, all wrapped in long pelisses, we reposed upon the cushions of the divan, whilst waiting the arrival of other guests. all brothers, we are all children of Christ," was a phrase frequently repeated to me.

"We are

We shortly took our places at table: the repast was not long, but agreeable and delicate; just midway between the scrambling dinners of the Orientals and the formal meals of Europe. We each had knives and forks, but we all carved from the same dish. As soon as dinner was over, all hastened from the restraint of a chair, which is as hateful to an Armenian as to a Turk, and sought the comfort of the divan and chibouk. The presence of a Frank served to break the ordinary silence which is the general accompaniment of the pipe. All these Armenian bankers, usually so grave and quiet, became most merciless questioners. Many were the queries put to me upon the customs and institutions of Europe, upon our treatment of women; on the best means of making and preserving a fortune; on the different commodities of life; on the various productions, the fruits, and the quality of bread and of water in Europe. I answered all these questions as well as I could, and with the more pleasure as my national pride was gratified whilst doing so; and I had it also in my power to remove, or at least to weaken, many prejudices, especially regarding the place which women occupy in our families and in society.

After a well-occupied evening, we all lay down on mattrasses spread on the floor in the Turkish fashion, but nevertheless form

"I will."

"Will you affirm?"

Say on, then."

ARMORIAL BEARINGS.

THESE ensigns, which are commonly supposed to be peculiar to European nations, were customary among the Saracens. Joinville, a French Nobleman, who accompanied St. Louis on his unfortunate expedition to Egypt,bears witness, with many others, to this fact. He says, speaking of the Saracen chieftain, or Soldan,-- This

Sacedon chief of the Turks was held to be the most able and courageous of all the Infidels. He bore on his banners the arms of the Emperor, who had made him a knight. His banner had several bends, on one of which he bore the same arms with the Sultan of Aleppo, and on another bend on the side, were the arms of the Sultan of Babylon."-Johnes's Joinville.

Constantinople, was pointed out to me) were seated on the carpet in one corner of the room, and composed the orchestra. Two of the musicians sang, accompanying themselves on the guitar; there were also two violins and a flute. Even with a knowledge of the words of the song, it was impossible to distinguish a single syllable, the artist rested so long upon each letter, as it were, drawling out his nasal tones. The airs are sometimes melodious, but monotonous, and quite destitute of rhythm and harmony. The music, however, appeared to give great delight to some of the bankers, who, being either richer or better judges than the other guests, encored their favourite airs and liberally rewarded the musicians. An air on the violin, executed by the famous Miron, gave them the greatest delight; every time he prolonged for a full minute a harsh quivering tone on the treble string of his three-stringed violin, they held their sides with laughter. After amusing us in

* Translated from the "Revue de Paris.'

INFLUENCE OF HABITS.

THE whole character may be said to be comprehended in the term habits; so that it is not so far from being true, that "man is a bundle of habits." Suppose you were compelled to wear an iron collar about your neck through life, or a chain upon your ankle; | would it not be a burden every day and hour of your existence? You rise in the morning a prisoner to your chain; you lie down at night, weary with the burden; and you groan the more deeply, as you reflect that there is no shaking it off. But even this would be no more intolerable to bear than many of the habits of men; nor would it be more difficult to be shaken off.

Habits are easily formed-especially such as are bad; and what to-day seems to be a small affair, will soon become fixed, and hold you with the strength of a cable. That same cable, you will recollect, is formed by spinning and twisting one thread at a time; but, when once completed, the proudest ship turns her head towards it, and acknowledges her subjection to its power.

Habits of some kind will be formed by every student. He will have a particular course in which his time, his employments, his thoughts and feelings, will run. Good or bad, these habits soon become a part of himself, and a kind of second nature. Who does not know, that the old man, who has occupied a particular corner of the old fire-place in the old house for sixty years, may be rendered wretched by a change? Who has not read of the release of the aged prisoner of the Bastile, who entreated that he might again return to his gloomy dungeon, because his habits, there formed, were so strong, that his nature threatened to sink under the attempt to break them up? You will probably find no man of forty, who has not habits which he laments; which mar his usefulness, but which are so interwoven with his very being, that he cannot break through them, at least he has not the courage to try. I am expecting you will form habits. Indeed, I wish you to do so. He must be a poor character, indeed, who lives so extempore as not to have habits of his own. But what I wish is, that you form those habits which are correct, and such as will every day and hour add to your happiness and usefulness. If a man were to be told that he must use the axe, which he now selects, through life, would he not be careful in selecting one of the right proportions and temper? If told that he must wear the same clothing through life, would he not be anxious as to the quality and kind? But these, in the cases supposed, would be of no more importance than is the selection of habits in which the soul shall act. You might as well place the body in a strait-jacket, and expect it to perform, with ease, and comfort, and promptness, the various duties of the body, as to throw the soul into the habits of some men, and then expect it will accomplish anything great or good.

Do not fear to undertake to form any habit which is desirable; for it can be formed, and that with more ease than you may at first suppose. Let the same thing, or the same duty, return at the same time every day, and it will soon become pleasant. No matter if it be irksome at first; but how irksome soever it may be, only let it return periodically, every day, and that without any interruption for a time, and it will become a positive pleasure. In this way all our habits are formed. The student who can with ease now sit down, and hold his mind down to his studies nine or ten hours a day, would find the labourer, or the man accustomed to active habits, sinking under it, should he attempt to do the same thing. I have seen a man sit down at the table spread with luxury, and eat his sailor's biscuit with relish, and without a desire for any other food. His health had compelled him thus to live, till it had become a pleasant habit of diet. Previous to this, however, he had been rather noted for being an epicure. "I once attended a prisoner," says an excellent man," of some distinction, in one of the prisons of the metropolis, ill of a typhus fever, whose apartments were gloomy in the extreme, and surrounded with horrors; yet this prisoner assured me afterwards, that, upon his release, he quitted them with a degree of reluctance; custom had reconciled him to the twilight admitted through the thick-barred grate, to the filthy spots and patches of his plastered walls, to the hardness of his bed, and even to confinement."

I shall specify habits which, in my view, are very desirable to the student, and, at the same time, endeavour to give specific directions how to form them.

1. Have a plan laid beforehand for every day. These plans ought to be maturely formed the evening previous, and, on rising in the morning, again looked at, and immediately entered upon. It is astonishing how much more we accomplish in a single day, (and of what else is life made up?) by having the plan

previously marked out. It is so in everything. This morning a man was digging a path through a deep snow-bank. It was almost insupportably cold, and he seemed to make but little head-way, though he worked as if upon a wager. At length, getting out of breath, he paused, and marked out the width of the path with his shovel, then marked out the width of each shovel-full, and consequently the amount of snow at each throw of the shovel. In fifteen minutes, he had done more, and it was done neater and easier, that in thirty minutes previous, when working without a plan. It is of little consequence by what we illustrate, if we make a thing clear, and impress it upon the mind. I have found, in my own experience, as much difference in the labours of two days, when working with, or without a plan, as, at least, one-half, without having the satisfaction, in the latter case, of knowing what I have done.

Experience will tell any man, that he is most successful in his own pursuits, when he is most careful as to method. A man of my acquaintance has a small slate, which hangs at his study-table. On that he generally finds, in the morning, his work for the day written down; and in the evening he reviews it, sees if he has omitted any thing, and, if so, chides himself that all is not done. -Todd's Student's Manual.

IMMORTALITY OF THOUGHT.

FEARFUL indeed is the responsibility which rests upon each one in the formation of the characters of those around him! a

responsibility, too, from which none can escape, not even the weakest. Every one to whom God has granted the liberty of speech-nay every one to whom is given the power of conveying even a single idea to the mind of another, may contribute in some degree to modify his character. Look how much the whole complexion of the soul may be changed by the operation of a single thought. Its influence ceases not as the sound of our voice dies away. In the mind of him to whom it is imparted it often long Neither does it stand there afterwards "lives and moves." isolated and alone. Perhaps it touches some secret spring, and awakens a train of reflections, of which he who first gave it birth never dreamed. By the principle of association, another thought, which seems naturally to arise from it, is called into being, and then another from this, until they flow on in long succession to end we know not where. Sometimes the sentiment thus lightly imparted in conversation, which was forgotten at once by the speaker, has remained in the mind of him who heard it, recurring to his memory again and again, through a length of years. How powerful an effect then may a single sentence produce in modulating character! and who would carelessly take the responsibility of fixing in the mind of another that thought, which is to link to itself such important results?

What a striking hypothesis, by the way, is that of Coleridgeconnected with his curious history of the German servant-girl, familiar, no doubt, to our readers-that no thoughts which have once entered into the mind ever perish-that, instead of passing away, as we are accustomed to believe, or being utterly blotted out, they are only for a time concealed and buried beneath more recent impressions-that they are inscribed upon the imperishable tablet of the memory, there to remain for ever; like those buried cities of Italy, safe and uninjured, though their very existence was forgotten. Every one's experience furnishes at least something analogous in confirmation of this idea. How often do thoughts, which for years have slumbered, again suddenly flash upon us in all their force, we know not how, or whence! The words of an old song-the incidents of our childhood-the feelings which then influenced us, but which had for years perished from the memory, suddenly awake from their silence, and sweep back over the soul. There is fearful solemnity in the thought, that in our unguarded moments of social intercourse, we may fix in the minds of others thoughts and influences which we would not wish to remain there for ever, especially if we follow out the suggestion referred to that this is the mysterious record implanted within man, which is one day to give with unerring certainty the long history of his life, at that day when the thoughts of all hearts shall be called into judgment-nothing lost-nothing forgotten.New York Review.