there by his Almighty Maker, of hallowed purpose or benevolent design-aught of reverence for the Great Giver of Good, or of love for mankind-these institutions are calculated to mature it, and to make it bring forth fifty and a hundred-fold. Faithful ministers of the Most High, humble-minded, yet ardent proclaimers of the gospel of Jesus Christ, are all suns, shining with more or less intensity. Not always do they beam forth with power scattering the mists of ignorance and unbelief. Not always do they enlighten the dark places of the earth, making the desert to rejoice, and the wilderness to blossom as the rose, for He, from whom they derive their influence in his wisdom limits their power; yet is it a fearful thing for these suns to be withdrawn. "It is usually," says one, "a sign of displeasure, when a sovereign recalls his ambassador." Do we value these lights of the earth, and do we profit by their emanations? Show me a man whose heart and soul are animated with the desire to do good; and whether he is seeking to instruct the young, to correct the vicious, to inform the ignorant, to relieve the destitute, to heal the sick, to liberate the slave, to extend the comfort of the suffering sons and daughters of affliction, or to protect the lower creatures of creation from cruelty, I will regard him as a sun; I will rejoice at the radiance of his course, and mourn when he is shorn of his beams. Authors are suns in the sphere in which they move; and though, you may say, some of them give but little light, others there are who fling a radiant beam on the paths of thousands, and whose lustre will only shine the brighter when they are withdrawn from the world. Oh! how I yearn, at times, to grasp and gripe the influential hand that has quickened my pulse, and made my heart feel too big for my bosom. And think not that I allude only to those who treat on holy things, for I am an excursive reader, and often revel in the flowery realms of imagination and poetry. Very kindly do I feel towards such as contribute to the hoard of human happiness by their talented fancies, and free-hearted, though ephemeral works of genius; but remembering how many resplendent risings and sorrowful settings we have had among these glittering suns of literature, I can hardly be out of order in mingling with the kindly emotions I entertain for them, the ardent desire that, while they have the wit to sparkle through time, they may have the wisdom to prepare for eternity, Artists, too, have a claim on my regard, for I owe them the amount of many a beaming hour. If you know what it is to be carried away by the pencil of the painter and the chisel of the sculptor; if you have marvelled at the skill that could give life and animation to canvass, and impart all but breath and motion to marble; you will not quarrel with me for putting painters and sculptors among my rising and setting suns, nor for feeling interested in their prosperous course. Have I said enough on the subject of rising and setting suns; or shall I give you another page or two of my wandering thoughts? Hardly do I think it advisable to proceed; for if my fancies afford no pleasure, the sooner they are brought to an end the better; and if, on the other hand, you enjoy them as a feast, it is an excellent thing to rise from an entertainment with an appetite. Whichever the case may be, have a care, whether I have been trifling or not, that you do not trifle with yourselves. The viper has a sting in his head, and the scorpion has one in his tail-I hope that no sting will be found either in the head or tail of my remarks, but I do wish the close of them to be influential. Whatever may be your years, the sun of life will soon set with you-improve your advantages. "Make haste! make haste!" said the aged New Zealander, when he wished missionaries to be sent to him, "for my sun is fast going down." Yes, Christian reader, whether thou art young, middle-aged, or old, thy sun is fast going down, and therefore, I again say to thee, improve thy advantages! Let the new year be an especial period in thy life for good. Make the most of its rising and setting suns, and of all the gifts of thy heavenly Father. Seek, with redoubled ardour, the Sun of Righteousness, and keep ever in view that fastapproaching eternal world, in which "the sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory," Isa. lx. 19. MILTON AND SUCCEEDING POETS. POOR, old, blind, persecuted Milton, with an intellect as capacious as it was cultivated-with a mind enriched with all the learning of a learned age, possessing, unimpaired thereby, an imagination perhaps the most sublime ever bestowed upon man,-appeared, to redeem his country, if not from the despotism by which its liberties were crushed, at least to free it from subjection to that foreign influence, which was at variance, not only with true taste, but with nature itself. A philosopher, a politician, a theologian, a Christian, a patriot, in a word, the greatest scholar of his own times, Milton affords us the best example of those principles which we have been endeavouring to illustrate-namely, That the highest mental culture, and the severest intellectual discipline, are not unpropitious to the grandest efforts of imagination. Why dwell on the wonders of the "Paradise Lost?" Why trace the flight of this daring genius through the regions of death, and chaos, and the elder night? Why pursue his sublime track through that terrible abyss whose soil was "burning marle," whose roof was one vast concave of hottest flame, and whose oceans were floods of tossing fire? Why gaze with astonishment on the labours of the infernal hosts, or listen to the sound of angelic harmony of "harp, and lute, and dulcimer," and behold, rising from the flaming deep, "like a gorgeous exhalation," the palace of Hell's potentate, the stargemmed Pandemonium? Why, crushed under the weight of so much misery, and splendour, bathe our wearied spirits in Elysium, and wander with heavenly guests through the fragrant groves and amaranthine bowers of Paradise, listening to "the song of earliest birds," and the sound of lulling waters, quaffing immortal draughts from cool and sacred fountains, or reposing with the most innocent and the loveliest pair that earth has ever borne upon its bosom, beneath the embowering branches of the tree of life? Why, satiated with "this verdurous beauty," this green repose, reascend with the adventurous bard and view "the celestial hierarchies," armed in panoply of adamant and gold, and behold, engaged in angelic sport, the "youth of heaven!"-why call up these visions, seeing that all this, and more than this, has been so often reiterated as to have become the very cant of criticism? Yet no less eloquently than truthfully has it been said, that "To Milton, and to Milton alone, belonged the secrets of the great deep, the beach of sulphur, the ocean of fire, the palaces of the fallen dominions glimmering through the everlasting shade, the silent wilderness of shadow, and verdure, and fragrance, where armed angels kept watch over the sleep of the first lovers, the portico of diamond, the sea of jasper, the sapphire pavement empurpled with celestial roses, and the infinite ranks of cherubim and seraphim blazing with adamant and gold." From the contemplation of the works of this great poet we rise with hope, we gather strength and confidence, and we feel assurance in the truth of our assertion, that the most perfect mental discipline is not inimical to the muses, that civilisation is not the antagonist of poetry, and that the imaginative faculties attain their highest development, and reach their greatest excellence, when under the guidance of the most matured judgment. With the reign of the second Charles seemed to occur a pause in the progress of intelligence. A deep gloom overspread not only the political, but the intellectual atmosphere; if genius exerted her powers, it was only fitfully, and her efforts were dedicated to vice, rather than consecrated to virtue. The only poet that can be mentioned after Milton, who, perhaps, might have been his rival, had he flourished in a more propitious era, is Dryden. The necessities of his circumstances, the cry for daily bread, compelled him to imitate the false taste which was then in vogue: but though he followed the vicious models which fashion had set up, it was evidently with constraint; his strong natural genius could not always be coerced, and as often as he forgot the pressure of poverty, and followed his own promptings, he rose to the dignity of an original writer. Though Dryden possessed strength, he was deficient in tenderness. He was but little acquainted with the secret workings of the human heart: he viewed man as the creature of society-his vision could not penetrate beneath the surface; the silent depths, the terrible abysses of the individual spirit were to him unfathomable. Hence, as a dramatist, he was totally unsuccessful. As a satirist, he made a nearer approach to the power and energy of Juvenal than any modern writer; and as a translator he has scarcely an equal. During the troublous time which succeeded, no poet of eminence appeared till the reign of Anne; then the effects of the preceding reigns began to manifest themselves in polite, though feeble imitations of the ancients. If we except Pope and Thomson, there are no names of renown to illustrate this period. The writings of the former may justly be regarded as the perfection of the artificial school. Terse, clear, elegant, Pope raised the language of his country to the very extreme of refinement. To affirm, as some writers of modern fame have done, that Pope was no poet, is to betray both ignorance and prejudice; though devoid of high powers of imagination, such as those of Shakspeare or Milton, he was gifted with the most brilliant fancy, and the keenest wit. Thomson was a writer of truly original genius; though his "Seasons are modelled after the Georgics of Virgil, they rise, in their treatment, far above imitation. If a pomposity of diction sometimes obscures and weakens his finest thoughts, yet his love of nature, the picturesqueness of his delineations, the truthfulness of his descriptions, the feeling of ease and earnest ness, and the delight with which the poet luxuriates in his subject, captivate every reader, and please all who can admire the beautiful in external nature. On account of these excellences, "The Seasons" have become a household book. If, during the reign of George III., the principles of civil liberty were advancing, the poetry of the early part of that reign had reached the lowest point of feebleness. The nerve, vigour, originality, and raciness of the elder writers were supplanted by elegant versification, flimsy sentimentality, a meaningless parade of language, and a servile imitation of foreign models. The vital, or at least the natural spirit of our poetry had disappeared, and all hopes of resuscitation seemed extinct. But a change was at hand. Two poets appeared to re-invigorate the whole body of our imaginative literature we mean Cowper and Burns. Did our limits admit, we would willingly dilate on the peculiar excellences of these writers, whose works we regard as having given birth to those quickening influences which have since elevated our poetical literature to the rank of originality. British Quarterly Review. THE SUFFICIENCY OF GOD. LUTHER, speaking of his own deficiency and of God's sufficiency, says, God stays the sea waves on the beach, and he stays them with sand. ALAN QUINTIN'S INQUIRIES. WHAT SHALL WE GIVE HIM? THEY that receive, ought to give; and he who has received much, should give much. Have you received much or little? or, rather, have you not received everything that you possess? God gave you your body; he formed you out of the dust of the earth. God gave you your soul, and breathed into you the spirit of life. Body, soul, and spirit are the gifts of God. Health, ease, peace, and joy, the word of God, the means of grace, and the hope of glory, all have been given you by the Holy One. Everything you and I possess here, and everything we hope for hereafter, the Lord of life and glory has bestowed. What, then, are we prepared to give him in return? Shall we give him our thoughts and our thanksgiving? our love and our obedience? our hearts and our souls? What do you give to the young? Do you give them love, tenderness, and kindness? Do you remember that you were once a child, that you spake as a child, understood as a child, and thought as a child? and do you bear with their childish ways? Do you draw them to you, or drive them from you? Do you give them knowledge, reproof, and encouragement? Do you act to them as i they were always to remain on earth? or do you treat them as beings that you desire in heaven to live for ever? What shall we give to the old? They have been young, like ourselves; and if we live, we shall be aged as they are. Despise not thy mother when she is old. Honour thy father in his years. Do you do this? Do you listen to the wisdom of the aged? Do you sympathize with them in their sorrows? Do you give them kindness, attention, respect, and reverence; hiding their infirmities, bearing their burdens, and smoothing their path to a better world? What shall we give to a neighbour? Never mind whether he has given us anything or not, what shall we give to him? He may be very kind, or very churlish-very proud, or very affable. Are you willing to give your neighbour what you ought to give him? Do you give him kind thoughts, kind words, kind deeds, and kind counsel? Do you give a good example? Oh this will be worth more to him than a diamond ring! Do you respect his good qualities, and bear with his infirmities? Are you a neighbour to him, whether or not he is a neighbour to you? The word of God says, "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." Do you do this? Do you love him truly, sincerely, and heartily? Do you love him in riches and poverty, in health and in sickness, in joy and in sorrow? Do you love him for a day, and for a year, for the present and the future, for time and eternity? Would you do him good on earth, and help him on in the way of heaven? What shall we give to the stranger? Shall we leave him alone, or treat him as we would be treated, were we strangers? Job acted well to the wayfaring man, he opened his gates to the traveller, and we ought to open our hearts to him. How act you to the stranger, and what do you give him? Do you give him food when he is hungry, clothes when he is naked? Do you send him on his way rejoicing, and give him your blessing in the name of the Lord? What do you give to a friend? Do you give him the right hand of fellowship? He "that hath friends, must show himself friendly." Do you give him affection? for "a friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity." Do you give him your countenance, your support, your prayers? Do you aid him in earthly, and help him in heavenly things? Do you give him honest and upright counsel, and, when necessary, just reproof? for "faithful are the wounds of a friend; but the kisses of an enemy are deceitful," Prov. xxvii. 6. What shall we give to an enemy? Shall we be angry with him, and hate him, and do him an injury? Shall we pursue him, and smite him, and reproach him? Has he not cursed us, and hated us, and despitefully used us, and persecuted us? Is it not just to treat him as he has treated us? What says the word of God? "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you," Matt. v. 44. It seems, then, that we must give love for hatred, blessings for curses, and good for evil. How odd! how strange! to love the foes that spite us, And kiss the hand that 's ready raised to smite us. What shall we give to the rich? for we are all ready enough to give them something. Some bow the head to them, some bend the knee to them, some fawn upon them and flatter them, some excuse their failings, some praise their virtues. What do I do? What do you do? What ought we to do? What ought we not to do?-We ought not to envy them, to malign them, to injure them; we ought to bear with them, to serve them, and to do them good. We ought to give them good thoughts, good words, and good deeds. What shall we give to the poor ?-Shall we pass them by, like the priest and the Levite, or help them, as the good Samaritan? Shall we neglect them, deceive them, and despise them; or pay them attention, instruct them, and increase their comforts? If they ask for bread, will you give them a stone? If they ask for a fish, will you give them a serpent? Some give the poor half-picked bones, fragments, table crumbs, leavings, things for which they themselves have no use, and call it charity. You may not be able to give them much, but do you give them what you can? "Whoso bath this world's good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?" Give him aid-give freely, give cheerfully, give gladly; for "God loveth a cheerful giver.' Be eyes to the blind, be feet to the lame, and deliver him who hath no helper; then When troubles come and earthly comforts flee, The Lord will comfort and deliver thee. 17 Orange-gathering in the Azores. THE ORANGE TREE. THE members. of a varied family of plants comprise the citron, the lemon, the shaddock, and the orange. There are many kinds of the lemon, and one author enumerates no less than forty-four different varieties of the orange. The orange is a finer and more beautiful tree than either the citron or the lemon; like them, when in its native soil, it possesses prickly branches. In the east, the orange trees are capricious in their growth, the leaves and fruit frequently altering from their original form. They continue to flower during nearly the whole of the summer, the fruit taking two years to arrive at maturity, so that, during several months in each year, a healthy tree exhibits every stage of the production, from the flower-bud to the ripe fruit, all in perfection at the same time. In some places, they are, however, more like shrubs than trees; their leaves and twigs bearing some resemblance to those of the laurel; but in Spain and Italy, the trees attain to a great size, and form a considerable amount of timber. In the convent of St. Sabina at Rome, there is an orange tree thirty-one feet high which is said to have reached the extraordinary age of six hundred years, and at Nice, in 1789, there was another that generally bore five or six thousand oranges, having a trunk, fifty feet high, and requiring two men to embrace it. The size, however, depends much on the age of the tree. It may appear remarkable, but it is a fact, that the older the trees are the more valuable is the produce, and they may be often observed more than a hundred years old, bearing plentiful crops of a highly-prized, thin-skinned orange, full of juice, and free from pips. The young trees of the St. Michael species, when in full vigour, bear fruit with a thick pulpy rind, and an abundance of seeds; but as the vigour of the plant declines, the peel becomes thinner, and C |