For hearts ne'er weary when they're young,

And fu' o' faithfu' feeling,

And love's ain law is on the tongue,
There is nae end, if said or sung;
O' what they're then revealing.

Too soon the laverock clamb the clud,
Blythe frae its ain sweet-hearting,
To pour its sang o'er wild and wud,
And bid them part who even could

Be blessed wi' ought but parting.

A gallant lad was Jonnie then;

A brisk and brawer could na

Guide lamb and yowe by hill and glen-
The very wale and tap o' men-

Although I say't, wha should na.

But these blythe days are a' gane bye,

And ilk ane kens the rest o't:

There're hardships baith for low and high;
And while we live below the sky,
It's but a fight, the best o't.

"Ye then hae children o' your awn," The stranger said right fondly, "And they may aiblins, now and than, Send something to the lame auld man— I've kenned some do as kindly?"

Ay, Sir, we've had five gallant bairns, Four sons, and ae sweet lassie ;

But she and twa o' them are laid Where nae mair aching trys the headAneath the turf sae grassie.

Our Mary liket weel to stray

Where clear the burn was rowin'; And trouth she was, though I say sae, As fair as ought e'er made o' clay, And blythe as ony gowen.

And happy, too, as ony lark

The clud did ever carry:

She shunned the ill and sought the good, E'en mair than weel was understood; And a' folk liket Mary.

But she fell sick wi' some decay,

When she was but eleven;
And, as she pined frae day to day,
We grudged to see her gaun away,
Though she was gaun to heaven.
There's fears for them that's far awa',
And fykes for them are flitting;

But fears and cares, baith grit and sma',
We by and bye o'er-pit them a';

But death there's nae o'er-pitting. And nature's bands are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken; And e'en the form we loved to see We canna lang-cauld though it be, Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart

Heaven did as gently free her;
Yet lang afore she reached that part,
Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start,
Had ye been here to see her.

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair,
And growing meek and meeker,
Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair
She wore a little angel's air,

Ere angels cam' to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out-by
The wee wild flowers to gather,
She oft her household plays wad try,
To hide her illness frae our eye,
Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did

Aye pleased the sweet wee creature; In trouth ye wad hae thought she had A something in her made her glad Ayont the course o' nature.

For tho' disease, beyont remeed
Was in her frame indented,
Yet aye the mair as she grew ill,
She grew and grew the lovelier still,
And mair and mair contented.

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last,

As it to a' is comin';

And may it be, whene'er it fa's,
Nae waur to others than it was
To Mary-sweet wee woman!"
"A-men!" the stranger said, but he
Strangely the word divided:

The tear somehow stood in his e'e,
And this he spoke, as it might be,
The only way to hide it.

Then hastily he said again,

But ye hae failed o' giving

Account how died your gallant sons,
Or how this weary warl' runs

Wi' them wha still are living?"
"Alak! dear sir," the auld wife said,
"If Mary did expire

By silent, sad, and soft degrees,
It was far otherwise wi' these,
Wha now are sleeping bye her.
For they went out ae stormy day
'Twas in the snawy winter-
But lak-en-ee! it happened sae,
Their father's hame in life that they
Again should never enter.

The snaws lay deep on moor and dale,
For a' the winds had lifted,
And round the coombs o' ilka hill,
Still heigher, and aye heigher still,
To awsome wreaths had drifted.
They hung like cluds upon the sky,
And white as angel-garments,
And living things 'mid nature waste
Seemed nought but dowieness to taste,
And dream o' their interments.
For nature has an awfu' power

When snaws lay sic a lot on,
And things alike, baith near and far,
Sink dowff and sad, as if they were
Of God himself forgotten.

The hill was steep-the glen was deep;
And our twa sons, thegither,

Were stan'in' wi' their father's sheep,
When down the wreathe cam' wi' a sweep,
That nane could aid the ither.

And they were buried forty feet
Aneath that awsome hurl.

And caulder than the snaw itsel',
When they were gotten, where they fell
A warning to the warl'.

But we can trust they went to God;
And as they went thegither,

It e'en wad be a blythsome road,
For it, I think, nane ever trode
Were fonder o' ilk ither.

As for the twa wha still survive,
May nae sic hap befa' them!
The tane has to the Heelan's gane,
To herd the sheep o' ane M'Lean-
I think it's that they ca' him.

The other is a gar'ner bred,

And weel ta'en wi' his master,
And favoured muckle-weel he may,
For he was kind and faithfu' ave,

And nought gains favour faster.

But they hae generous hearts, and proud,
And wadna that we wantet,
For a' the hills that hae withstood
The overflowings o' the flood,

If only just they kent it.

Sure, that they hae for us sic care

Is thing that wisdom warrents;
Yet whiles we think they gie far mair
Than they constintantly can spare,
To aid their aged parents.
But there is ane can pay it a',

And may he aye watch o'er them:
I've often thought, in grit or sma',
It's nae ill sign o' men ava,

To look to them that bore them." "Indeed it is not, by my troth!"

The stranger said, and boldly; For simple tho' the tale might be, It filled him wi' such generous glee, He could not say it coldly.

There's beauty in the wild green bower,

And beauty all the greater

That hand ne'er there trimmed twig or flower;
As simplest words have deepest power
When they are true to nature.

METEOROLOGY.

THE Science of meteorology embraces a history of the atmosphere, that zone of air which surrounds the earth, and which is computed to extend upwards to the height of forty-five to fifty miles. The various conditions of this atmosphere arise from its pressure, its temperature, its moisture, its electricity, and hence arise the natural divisions of its history, embracing the variations of heat and cold, currents and winds, rain, dew, and snow, thunder storms, meteors, aurora borealis, and other appearances. The atmosphere, too, exercises very important influences on the vegetable and animal kingdoms, and hence its study becomes intimately connected with life in all its forms. To man, it affords a constant source of interest. The splendid canopy of the sky, curtained with its ever changing and gorgeous masses of clouds by day, or the blue vault of heaven by night, fretted with its golden fires, presents a never failing object of wonder and delight. In the sky, as on the earth, every season of the year has its different appearances, and every hour of the day a new change, which marks the successive periods. Nothing can be more beautiful than the soft roseate hue of early dawn, the splendour of sunrise, the pure cerulean tint of mid-day, with the thin fleeces of clouds, now turning their milk white bosoms to the sun, and now retiring, rolled up in dark fantastic canopy; or the evening sun-set, when the great luminary dips, as it were, into the dim receding ocean. We have said that the computed height of the atmosphere is from forty-five to fifty miles,-a perpendicular column of this zone of air has a pressure of about fifteen pounds on every inch of the earth's surface, and this column would be balanced by a column of water thirty-five feet in height, and a column of mercury about thirty inches. Yet, light as the substance of air is, it still, even at its remotest limits, obeys the laws of the earth's attraction, and thus the highest particles gravitate towards the earth, so that the great circle of the atmosphere has definite limits, and a well marked line separates its

verse.

rarest particles from the etherial space of the uniCould the eye view the globe of the earth as revolving in space, the fifty miles of atmosphere would be seen as a thin transparent ring, of comparatively narrow dimensions, encircling the opaque sphere. In all that regards organised beings, it is only a few miles of the lowest part of this atmosphere that is of importance; and, indeed, it is in this lower part that all the important changes and phenomena of the atmosphere take place. The clouds rarely ascend beyond four or five miles, the aerial currents prevail most within five or ten miles of height, and the electric agencies alone seem to extend farther upwards. The pressure of the atmosphere diminishes as we ascend, just as we find in a pile of books, that the undermost one bears the weight of all those above it, while those nearer the top are relieved of all the pressure of the books below them. This arises from the elasticity of aeriform bodies ; and hence we say that the lower strata are more dense than the more expanded upper strata. The atmosphere is not composed of one uniform air, but of divers gases, every hundredth part containing, in round numbers, eighty parts of nitrogen, and twenty parts of oxygen. A third, carbonic acid gas, exists in proportions varying from one hundred to one thousandth part. These gases are mechanically mixed together, not chemically combined; that is, their particles or atoms remain uncombined, but mingle together in a similar manner as the particles of three differently coloured masses of sand would do if mechanically agitated together. Besides these, its gaseous constituents, the atmosphere contains a proportion of aqueous vapour, of ammonia, and other volatile substances. The heat of the atmosphere is derived from the sun's rays; but as air itself is an imperfect absorber of these rays, in the first instance, the atmosphere transmits the calorific rays to the earth; the surface of the earth readily becomes heated, and this heat is communicated to the stratum of air next in contact with it. But immediately that air becomes heated it expands or rarifies; the consequence is, that air next the earth's surface mounts upwards, and colder and heavier air rushes in to supply its place; hence the prime origin of the motion of the atmosphere. As the greatest degree of heat exists in the equatorial regions, the earth's surface there receiving the fullest compliment of the sun's rays, so there the greatest and most constant currents of the atmosphere are produced. A stream of heated and rarified air is continually passing up from the regions of the tropics, and a stream of colder air from the polar regions is following onwards, to supply the place of the other. This gives origin to the trade winds, and, in fact, constitutes the great equatorial and polar currents, which prevail, more or less, over every region of the globe. To understand the general course of the upper or heated current of air, you have only to draw a curved line, rising from the equator, and extending in a parabolic curve to either pole-another similar line, drawn from the pole to the equator, but nearer the earth's surface, will represent the cold or polar current of air. This will exhibit the general course of the currents, but not the exact one; for the rotatory motion of the earth on its axis from west to east, deflects the true north and south directions of the currents, and makes the trade winds in reality blow considerably to the east of north. From these processes continually taking place, both in the northern and southern hemispheres, we have two great currents regularly agitating the whole atmosphere of the globe. But, even suppos ing a calm and still condition of the atmosphere. ||

a difference of temperature exists in it, according as we ascend in altitude. The capacity of rarified air for heat is much less than that of dense air; hence the lower strata of the atmosphere have a higher temperature than the more elevated. That portion of air next the earth's surface is in the same locality, always warmer than the higher portions, so that, as a general rule, the temperature decreases as we ascend. In every region of the globe we thus arrive at an altitude where the thermometer would stand at the freezing point. This is called the line of perpetual congelation. This line is highest at the equator, being computed at about 15,000 feet, and it gradually descends lower till it approaches the surface of the earth at the poles. It is thus that high mountains in the tropical regions of the earth are found to have their summits crowned with perpetual snow, while their middle regions and base enjoy an equatorial climate. The unequal distribution of heat on the earth's surface, arising from the position of the sphere as respects the sun, and the property which heat has of rarifying and rendering highly elastic the atmospheric air, give rise to those continual agitations of the atmosphere called winds. Were it not for this rarifying power of heat, the air would ever remain uniform and stagnant, but thus agitated, its healthy condition as respects animal and vegetable life, is preserved, and a more uniform degree of heat is diffused over every region of the earth. Though many causes interfere to disturb the atmospheric currents just described, yet their influence, which is steady at the tropics, is no less felt in all localities, so that, even in our far northern climate, the prevailing winds of the year are essentially the great tropical, the average wind being either S. W. and W., or N.E. and N. The speed at which these aerial currents travel is various. Air moving at the rate of fifteen miles an hour causes a brisk gale. A speed of from thirty to thirty-five miles an hour causes a high wind, and yet this is not more than the velocity of a railway train; from eighty to one hundred miles constitutes a perfect hurricane. The mean annual temperature of the air varies with the locality. The greatest heat occurs in the torrid zone where the thermometer rises occasionally to 144°, the mean annual temperature there being 81°. In the temperate zones, the average heat is about 54°, while in the polar regions it sinks to below the freezing point. To render a climate habitable, there must be at least for two months of the year a temperature equal to 60°. Excessive heat as well as extreme cold is alike fatal to animal existence. A heat of 109° proved fatal to not less than 10,000 of the inhabitants of Pekin in China.

Heat and light, the two grand stimulants of life, are concentrated in the torrid zone-their intensity gradually decreasing towards the poles. Without a due supply of both these elements, neither vegetable nor animal being could exist. In order, therefore, as it were to diffuse the influence of these agencies as extensively over the earth's surface as possible, the obliquity of the earth's axis has been instituted, by which either pole is in succession exposed to the full influence of the sun, and thus the variation of seasons is produced in all latitudes beyond the tropical boundaries. This arrangement still further disturbs the atmospheric equilibriums, and brings in other elements to be considered in the arrangements of temperature. To this may be added the distribution of land and sea, by which continents and islands are produced. In this arrangement, when we consider that dry land has a much greater capacity for absorbing the sun's rays than an equal surface of

water, it will at once be apparent that the temperature of islands and large continents, though in the same degrees of latitude, must vary greatly. As a general rule in countries not tropical, it may be stated that the summer temperature of large continents greatly exceeds that of insular situations, while the winter cold of the same continents is proportionately more intense. In islands the summer heat is modified by the low absorbing power of the surrounding ocean, while in winter the higher medium temperature of the ocean has a genial effect upon the land which it encircles. On large continents, again, the summer sun exercises its full influence, while the severity of winter is not tempered by the influence of the sea. On these principles are the isothermal lines of Humboldt constructed.

When a vertical sun shines on a considerable portion of a continent, the air in contact with the earth becomes heated, and an ascending current takes place. To supply this rarefaction, the colder air from the neighbouring ocean rushes in, and hence the monsoons are caused, a species of trade wind which sets in on either side of the equator, according as the sun becomes vertical in the north or in the south during the summer or winter solstice. The breeze from the sea, so common in our summer days, is also caused in a similar manner. During the day the sun's heat rarefies the air over the land, a heated current mounts upwards, and a colder oceanic current comes towards land with its grateful and cooling influence.

In many tropical countries this sea breeze prevails during the greater part of the year, and a fortunate arrangement it is for the inhabitants, for no sooner does the sea breeze cease, and the wind begin to blow over the marshy land, than disease and death make their fatal appearance.

It is probable, too, that the earth's atmosphere is considerably influenced by the conjoint attractions of the sun and moon, the air thus obeying laws similar to those which regulate the tides of the ocean. In this way periodical winds and currents may be produced, and it is well ascertained by experience that the daily ebbing and flowing of the tidal wave has an effect upon the wind.

From this continual agitation of the atmosphere it follows, that the several gases of which it is composed are found to bear the same proportions to each other in all localities, and under all circumstances. Indeed, from the law of permeability, which aeriform bodies maintain, this would be the case, even in the event of a still and unagitated state of the atmosphere; but its incessant motion must still farther promote this due admixture, and the healthful purity of this indispensable necessary of life.

all weakness and dependence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while treading the prosperous paths of life, suddenly rising in mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her husband under misfortune, and abiding with unshrinking firmness the bitterest blasts of adversity.

As the vine, which has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils, and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by Providence, that woman, who is the mere dependant and ornament of man in his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten with sudden calamity, winding herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting the drooping head, and binding up the broken heart.

I was once congratulating a friend, who had around him a blooming family, knit together in the strongest affection. "I can wish you no better lot," said he, with enthusiasm, "than to have a wife and children. If you are prosperous, there they are to share your prosperity; if otherwise, there they are to comfort you." And, indeed, I have observed that a married man, falling into misfortune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than a single one; partly because he is more stimulated to exertion by the necessities of the helpless and beloved beings who depend upon him for subsistence, but chiefly because his spirits are soothed and relieved by domestic endearments, and his self-respect kept alive by finding that, though all abroad is darkness and humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas a single man is apt to run to waste and self-neglect,-to fancy himself lonely and abandoned, and his heart to fall to ruin, like some deserted mansion, for want of an inhabitant.

These observations call to mind a little domestic story, of which I was once a witness. My intimate friend Leslie had married a beautiful and accomplished girl, who had been brought up in the midst of fashionable life. She had, it is true, no fortune, but that of my friend was ample; and he delighted in the anticipation of indulging her in every elegant pursuit, and administering to those delicate tastes and fancies that spread a kind of witchery about the sex." Her life," said he, "shall be like a fairy tale."

The very difference in their characters produced an harmonious combination; he was of a romantic and somewhat serious cast-she was all life and gladness. I have often noticed the mute rapture with which he would gaze upon her in company, of which her sprightly powers made her the delight, and how, in the midst of applause, her eye would still turn to him, as if there alone she sought favour and acceptance. When leaning on his arm, her slender form contrasted finely with his tall manly person. The fond confiding air with which she looked up to him seemed to call forth a flush of triumphant pride and cherishing tenderness, as if he doated on his lovely burthen for its very helplessness. Never did a couple set forward on the flowery path of early and wellsuited marriage with a fairer prospect of felicity.

It was the misfortune of my friend, however, to have embarked his property in large speculations; and he had not been married many months when, by a succession of sudden disasters, it was swept from him, and he found himself reduced almost to penury. For a time he kept his situation to himself, and went about with a haggard countenance and a breaking heart. His life was but a protracted agony; and what rendered it more insupportable was the necessity of keeping up a smile in the presence of his wife; for he could not bring himself to overwhelm her with the news. She saw, however, with the quick eyes of affection, that all was not well with him. She marked his altered looks and stifled sighs, and was not to be deceived by his sickly and vapid attempts at cheerfulness. She tasked all her sprightly powers and tender blandishments to win him back to happiness, but she only drove the arrow deeper into his soul. The more he saw cause to love her, the more torturing was the thought that he was soon to make her wretched. little while, thought he, and the smile will vanish from

A

that cheek, the song will die away from those lips, the lustre of those eyes will be quenched with sorrow, and the happy heart, which now beats lightly in that bosom, will be weighed down like mine by the cares and miseries of the world.

At length he came to me one day, and related his whole situation in a tone of the deepest despair. When I had heard him through, I enquired-"Does your wife know all this?" At the question, he burst into an agony of tears. "For God's sake," cried he, "if you have any pity on me, don't mention my wife: it is the thought of her that drives me almost to madness!"

"And why not?" said I. "She must know it sooner or later; you cannot keep it long from her, and the intelligence may break upon her in a more startling manner than if imparted by yourself, for the accents of those we love soften the harshest tidings. Besides, you are depriving yourself of the comforts of her sympathy; and not merely that, but also endangering the only bond that can keep hearts together-an unreserved community of thought and feeling. She will soon perceive that something is secretly preying upon your mind; and true love will not brook reserve-it feels undervalued and outraged when even the sorrows of those it loves are concealed from it."

"Oh, but my friend! to think what a blow I am to give to all her future prospects-how I am to strike her very soul to the earth by telling her that her husband is a beggar!-that she is to forego all the elegancies of life all the pleasures of society-to shrink with me into indigence and obscurity! To tell her that I have dragged her down from the sphere in which she might have continued to move in constant brightness-the light of every eye-the admiration of every heart! How can she bear poverty? she has been brought up in all the refinements of opulence. How can she bear neglect? she has been the idol of society. Oh! it will break her heart—it will break her heart."

I saw his grief was eloquent, and I let it have its flow; for sorrow relieves itself by words. When his paroxysm had subsided, and he had relapsed into moody silence, I resumed the subject gently, and urged him to break his situation at once to his wife. He shook his head mournfully, but positively.

"But how are you to keep it from her? It is necessary she should know it that you may take the steps proper to the alteration of your circumstances. You must change your style of living-nay," observing a pang to pass across his countenance, "don't let that afflict you. I am sure you have never placed your happiness in outward show; you have yet friends, warm friends, who will not think the worse of you for being less splendidly lodged; and surely it does not require a palace to be happy with Mary.”

"I could be happy with her," cried he convulsively, "in a hovel! I could go down with her into poverty and the dust!-I could-I could-God bless her! God bless her!" cried he, bursting into a transport of grief and tenderness.

"And believe me, my friend," said I, stepping up, and grasping him warmly by the hand, "believe me, she can be the same with you. Ay, more; it will be a source of pride and triumph to her-it will call forth all the latent energies and fervent sympathies of her nature; for she will rejoice to prove that she loves you for yourself. There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up, and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity. No man knows what the wife of his bosom is-no man knows what a ministering angel she is, until he has gone with her through the fiery trials of this world."

There was something in the earnestness of my manner and the figurative style of my language, that caught the excited imagination of Leslie. I knew the auditor I had to deal with, and following up the impression I had made, I finished by persuading him to go home and unburden his sad heart to his wife.

I must confess, notwithstanding all I had said, I felt some little solicitude for the result. Who can calculate