if I had one. John. Why nobody can walk along either the one or the other, without being pushed and poked, and jostled and crammed, as if you were in a cattle fair. You are safe nowhere on the pavement: errand lads running against you, porters thumping your head with their packs, and passengers pressing on all sides. One had need have ribs of wrought iron to stand it all. And then, if you want to cross the street, you may try, and come back again a dozen times over, unless you like to run the risk of being jammed between the back of a cab and the pole of a carriage, or of having your toes ground off by the wheels of an omnibus. I don't like London; it will do, I say, for a rich man, but not for a poor one. Henry. The country has too few people for you, and the town has too many! John. I have sauntered up and down London streets till I am tired of them. Henry. You look at London with a twist in your temper, as I said before. That there is evil enough in it, and too much, nobody can deny; but there is no reason in passing over what is good in it. Look at London in the month of May, when the public meetings are held; why is not it a glorious place then? John. To my mind these meetings are nothing to boast of. I have heard say, that they work up a man just for all the world as if he had been drinking a glass of brandy. Henry. You are somewhat wrong in this matter, John. A tree is known by its fruits. He who drinks brandy, or rum, or gin, and gets excited by it, is more ready to do evil than to do good. He may do a kind act, but he is much more likely to do an unkind one. If in the country, he will contrive to run his head into a hornet's nest of one kind or other; and if in the town, he will blunder along like a wild bull in a china shop, doing mischief at every step. He may be in good temper himself, but he will make every body else in a bad one. John. But you own that these public meetings make a man warm, and put him all in a flurry. | Henry. All in a flurry! I wish some of us could be put in a flurry a little oftener. The tree, I tell you, is known by its fruits. Now, let us look at the fruits of this flurry, as you call it. These public meetings warm our hearts certainly, but they do something else, they excite us more than ever to love God, and to serve mankind. They make us fumble in our pockets, that we may lend a helping hand to the widow and the orphan in their poverty. They bring before us the cause of the ignorant, the sick, and the destitute. They open our hearts to the welfare of sailors, and we are encouraged by them to practise temperance, and not to give way to cruelty to God's creatures. A poor man, it is true, cannot do much, and he is not expected to do much, but he may do something; if he has not a copper coin to give, he can put up a prayer; and the word of God tells us, that the fervent prayer of a righteous man, however poor he may be, availeth much with the High and Holy One, Jas. v. 16. John. But what time has a poor man to attend a public meeting? Henry. Not much, I grant you, if he minds his work; but plenty if he does nothing but "saunter up and down London streets, till he is tired of them." A poor man, ay, and a poor woman, too; for I do not see why women should be forgotten, when we are speaking of deeds of charity, seeing that they are always first to perform them-I believe that women have done more in the way of true kindness and Christian charity, ten times over, than all the men that have ever lived in the world-a poor man, I say, or a poor woman, may perhaps run into one or two of the public meetings, though not into all of them; but I was telling you of some of the fruits of the flurry these meetings put us into. They make us long to do something towards spreading the Bible abroad and at home, towards sending missionaries to the ignorant on this side the sea, and to the heathen on the other; towards scattering pious publications and religious tracts; towards the increase of Sunday schools, and the spread of the ever-blessed gospel of Jesus Christ. The flurry, then, in one word, moves us to honour God, and to do good to the bodies and the souls of men. You do not see much mischief in all this, do you, John? John. Perhaps not, but I see right little in London that I like. Henry. And I, on the contrary, see a good deal that I like; but we look on things with different eyes. It is true, that London streets are not paved with gold, as I once thought they were; but I cannot look at St. Paul's, Westminster Abbey, the British Museum, the docks, the public gardens, the parks, the squares, the bridges, and the river, without wonder; nor can I think of the libraries of London, the hospitals, the asylums, the charitable institutions, the almshouses, the Sunday schools, the places of Divine worship, and the many holy ministers of the gospel, without thankfulness. A book that I had in my hand yesterday, says, "London is a strange place, and strange are the people who inhabit it: it is a general resort for the bad, and a point of attraction for the good; it is stained with every vice; and yet for all this, it has more liberty, more loyalty, more patriotism, more principle, more learning, more wisdom, more power, more benevolence, and more piety and virtue, than any city under the canopy of heaven." John. Come, you have so painted up town and country, that I hardly know which you like best. Henry. Ah, John! it is not so much where we are, as it is what we are. Where God's presence and a thankful heart are, let it be town or country, a jubilee may be enjoyed. If we could only see God's hand plainer than we do in the crowded city, we should gladly call on "young men and maidens, old men and children, to magnify his holy name; and if in the country, we saw more visibly in the outward creation, the Creator, the Preserver, and the Redeemer of the world, we should be ready to shout aloud to the mountains and the hills to break forth into singing, and to the trees of the field to clap their hands. Wherever we are, we shall do well to have on our hearts and on our lips the words of the last verse of the last Psalm: "Let every thing that hath breath praise the Lord. Praise ye the Lord." one uniform appearance of death and decay. The howling of the long-continued storm, and the few faint bird notes still heard at intervals in the thickets or hedges, are monotonously mournful. The devastation of the earth, and the sounds that seem to bewail it, are general and unvaried. Such, at a cursory glance, appear to be the aspect and tone of our winter scenery. But the keenly observant eye discovers, even at this desolate season, and in the midst of seeming monotony, that endless variety which characterizes every province of creation. On close inspection, indeed, all we behold is varied. Whatever be the season, and wherever lie the scene of our observation, though many things are apparently similar, yet none are exactly or really so. At certain times and places, the mutual resemblances between all the common objects of sense, all that solicits the eye or the ear in the landscape, may be so numerous and striking, that a feeling of monotony ensues; groups of mournful sights and sounds may, in the dead of the year, successively impress us with a sense of melancholy, and incline us to set a limit to the usual prodigality of nature; but yet true wisdom, aided by quick and active observation, easily draws the dull veil of uniformity aside, and reveals to the admiring eye boundless diversity, even in the ravaged and gloomy scenery of winter. Are the woods so uniformly dead as, on a first survey, they appear? The oak, the ash, the beech, and most of our forest trees, have lost their varied foliage; but, with the exception of the larch, the numerous varieties of the fir and the pine retain their leaves, and variegate the disrobed grove with their unfading verdure. In the woodland copse or lonely dell the beautiful holly still gladdens the eye with its shining and dark green leaves. Nor are our shrubberies without their living green. The laurel and the bay defy the WINTER NOT MONOTONOUS. blasts of winter, and continue to shelter THE winter landscape has been ac- and beautify our dwellings. The flowers cused of monotony; and certainly all have not all vanished. One of the fairest, nature has at this season a less animated and seemingly one of the most delicate of and varied aspect than at any other. Un-them all, the Christmas rose, spots the less when it is sprinkled over with hoar frost, or covered with a cold mantle of snow, the surface of the earth is arrayed in a bleak and faded hue. The woods have now lost the variegated foliage that had already ceased to be their ornament; and the branches of the trees, with their "naked shoots, barren as lances," have garden or shrubbery with its bloom, unhurt by the chilling influences of the season. Before the severity of winter is over, the snowdrop emerges from the reviving turf, the lovely and venturous herald of a coming host. Thus, in the period of frost, and snow, and vegetable death, the beauty of flowers is not un known; but rather what survives or braves the desolating storm is doubly enhanced to our eyes by the surrounding dreariness and decay. And are the atmospherical phenomena of this season monotonous or uninteresting? Independently of the striking contrast they present to those of summer and autumn, they are of themselves grandly diversified. The dark and rainy storm careers over the face of the earth till the flooded rivers overflow their banks, and the forest roars like a tempestuous sea. The hoar frost spangles the ground with a white and brilliant incrustation; or the snow, falling softly, covers the wide expanse of mountain, and wood, and plain, with a mantle of dazzling purity. Then the dark branches of the trees, bending under a load of white and feathery flakes, have a picturesque aspect, and seem to rejoice in the substitute of their last foliage. And how fantastically beautiful are the effects of frost! Water is transmuted into solid forms, of a thousand different shapes. The lake, and even the river itself, becomes a crystal floor, and the drops of the house-eaves collect into rows of icicles, of varying dimensions, differently reflecting and refracting the rays of the midday sun. The earth is bound in magical fetters, and rings beneath the tread. The air is pure and keen, yet not insufferably cold. Calm and clear frosty days, succeeded by nights that unveil the full glory of the starry firmament, are intermingled with magnificent tempests, that sweep over the land and sea, and make the grandest music to the ear that is attuned to the harmonies of nature. Variety seems to be a universal attribute of creation. It is stamped upon the heavens, the earth, and the sea. The stars are all glorious, but "one star differeth from another star in glory." The sun eclipses them all, and the moon reigns among them like their queen. The earth is covered with numberless mountains and hills, thick as waves on the ocean, and more wonderfully diversified. From the tiny hillock to the cloud-piercing peak, no two eminences are wholly alike in shape, or size, or in any single quality. What valley or plain, what tree, or flower, or leaf, or blade of grass, is, in all points, similar to another? Search the whole world, and you will find no pair of any of these created things exact counterparts to each other, in regard to weight, colour, structure, figure, or any other essential or accidental property. The animal world is as endlessly diversified. Not only is the distinction between the various genera and species wide and impassable, but between the individuals of each species no perfect similarity exists. Twins are commonly most like each other; but yet we are at no loss to distinguish between them. Even when we take two parts, however apparently alike, of two individuals of the same species, we find the same diversity. The variety observable in the human countenance has long been a matter of remark and admiration. The general features are the same in all; but their colour, their relative size, and numerous other peculiarities, are irreconcilably different. Hence we can at once recognise an individual among a thousand, even when they are of the same stature and complexion with himself. The diversity of colour is truly astonishing, and is the source of much beauty and enjoyment. Though the primary colours are only seven, yet these are so mixed and blended over all nature, as to delight the eye with millions of different hues, of all degrees of depth and brilliancy. Let us look at a bed of blowing summer flowers, and behold the ravishing wonders of colour. The unstained silvery whiteness of the lily, the deep crimson of the rose, the dark and velvety blue of the violet, the bright yellow of the wallflower and the marigold, are but specimens of the rich and gorgeous hues that delight us with a sense of beauty and variety. The fields and lawns, with their bright green, spotted with white clover and crimson-tipped daisies; the meadows, with their butter cups, and all their peculiar flowers; the woods, with their fresh spring verdure, and their flaming autumnal robes; and the mountains, at one time bathed in a deep azure, at another shining with golden sunlight, all exhibit the marvellously varied touches of that pencil which none but an omnipotent arm can wield. This universal variety is not merely a display of infinite skill, but is equally beautiful, pleasing, and useful. It adds immensely to our enjoyment of nature, and greatly enhances our idea of God's creative attributes. It furnishes us with the means of discrimination, without which the earth would be to us a scene of confusion. Were there only one colour, and were every mountain, for example, of the same shape, or every shrub and tree on the river Sarno, and its walls were washed on the one side by the sea. The bay, however, has now receded, and is full a mile distant from these ruins. Its present situation is very beautiful, it being located in the midst of a fertile country, commanding a view of Vesuvius, the Apennines, and the sea. We entered Pompeii by the Street of the Tombs and Diomede's villa. All that I had read in relation to the pavements of the streets, the gates of the city, the spacious gardens, the apartments of the dwellings, the mosaics of the floors, and the frescoes of the ceilings, I found literally true. I did not fail to explore the cellar where Diomede, with a bunch of keys in one hand, and a purse of gold in the other, perished; while the skeletons of numerous other individuals that lay strewn around him, but too clearly proved that they with him had fled here for shelter. The house of Sallust, and of the Faun, the Forum Civile, the Fanes of Jupiter and Venus, the Ba of the same size, how dull and monotonous would be every landscape! And if every human face were exactly alike, how should we be able to distinguish a friend from an enemy, a neighbour from a stranger, a countryman from a foreigner. Or, to take an example still more impressive, were the powers and passions of every individual mind in every respect similar, that diversity of character and pursuit, which constitutes the mainspring of society and civilization, would not be found. In all this, there is an adaptation and wise design. Amidst apparent uniformity, the necessary variety everywhere obtains. And seldom does variety run to an excess. Utter dissimilarity is as rare as complete resemblance. All things are beautifully and usefully varied; but they also all wear the distinguishing mark of the same great Artist, and can all be arranged into classes, the individuals of which bear to one another the most curious and intimate resemblances. There is in nature a uniformity that is as bene-silica, the temple of Isis, the amphitheficial as variety itself. The leaves, flowers, and fruits of a tree or shrub, though infinitely varied in their figure and appearance, are yet all so much alike, that they can easily be referred to their parent I am satisfied that a few hours' stroll species. All the animals of a kind have through the streets of Pompeii will give each their peculiarities; but every indione a livelier and more accurate idea of vidual can at once be recognised by the the mode of life of the ancient Romans, naturalist's practised eye. Thus has the than all the books in the world. Their Author of all things so blended variety temples, theatres, basilicas, and forums, and uniformity together, as to delight, are on the most splendid scale; while yet not bewilder us, with exhaustless their private dwellings are small, and variety; to enable us to class his works appear to have been built without much into great groups of genera and species, reference to comfort; showing that, like and thereby to exercise our powers of the French, and many of the present inreason and observation in tracing the habitants of the continent, they passed delicate resemblances and disagreements most of their time in the open air, or at that meet us in all our inquiries. O places of public resort. Lord, every quality of thy works is the result of infinite wisdom! The grand diversities of the seasons, with all their distinguishing characteristics, the beautiful harmony and unlimited variety of nature, alike evidence thy goodness, and demand the cheerful gratitude of man.Duncan. atre, and a hundred other places, too numerous to specify, were visited. Indeed, the sun was beginning to decline before we left this scene of wonder. FLOWERS. How good is God to us! What should we think of a friend, who had furnished us with a magnificent house, and all we needed, and then coming in to see that all had been provided according to his wishes, should be hurt to find that no scents had been placed in the rooms? Yet so has God dealt with us. Surely flowers are the smiles of his goodness. Wilberforce. THE EYE OF FAITH. IF the eye of our faith be unto God, the eye of his favour will be upon us.— Henry. COAL. A Coal Mine. THIS highly important substance is found in beds, or strata, in that group of the secondary rocks, which includes the red sandstone and mountain limestone formations, and which is commonly called the carboniferous group, or coal measures. From the peculiarities of their deposition they are often spoken of under the names of coal basins and coal fields. There are two or three points, and those of much theoretical importance, respecting the origin of coal, on which geological authorities are nearly unanimous. The one is, that our present coal is exclusively of vegetable origin, formed apparently from the destruction of vast forests; and the prodigious quantities of timber drifted by some of the great rivers of the world into the present ocean, render it not improbable that a similar formation may now be carrying on in the depths of certain parts of the sea. Secondly, from the nature of the preserved vegetables, it appears probable, that the climate of these parts was not merely tropical, but ultratropical. It may also be inferred, that the coal strata were deposited in the neighbourhood, and often probably upon the verge, of extensive tracts of dry land; for the trees that are found in coal strata are often like those of our sub-marine forests, as far as position goes. And, finally, the deposits of coal appear afterwards to have been elevated, and often singularly dislocated and contorted, by forces acting from below, and probably of a volcanic nature. In some coal fields there are appearances which justify the term coal basins: they are of limited extent, frequently dip, as it were, to a common centre, and consist of various beds of sandstone, shale, and coal, irregularly stratified; and sometimes mixed with conglomerates, showing a mechanical origin. That these deposits have taken place, and that the change of wood into coal has often been effected, under great pressure, and often under pressure and heat, seems evident, from the appearance of some of the vegetable masses; and also from the manner in which the carburetted hydrogen escapes, in the form of blowers and eructations, from the strata, as if pent up in their cavities under vast condensation, and even sometimes, perhaps, in a liquid form. |