lence. I could relate hundreds of incidents which might prove to you the dreadful effects of such an inundation, and which have been witnessed by thousands besides myself. I have known, for example, of a cow swimming through a window, elevated at least seven feet from the ground, and sixty-two above low-water mark. The house was then surrounded by water from the Ohio, which runs in front of it, while the neighbouring country was overflowed; yet the family did not remove from it, but remained in its upper portion, having previously taken off the sashes of the lower windows, and opened the doors. But let us return to the Mississippi. There the overflow is astonishing; for no sooner has the water reached the upper part of the banks, than it rushes out and overspreads the whole of the neighbouring swamps, presenting an ocean overgrown with stupendous forest-trees. So sudden is the calamity, that every individual, whether man or beast, has to exert his utmost ingenuity to enable him to escape from the dreaded element. The Indian quickly removes to the hills of the interior, the cattle and game swim to the different stripes of land that remain uncovered in the midst of the flood, or attempt to force their way through the waters until they perish from fatigue. Along the banks of the river, the inhabitants have rafts ready made, on which they remove themselves, their cattle, and their provisions, and which they then fasten with ropes or grape vines to the larger trees, while they contemplate the melancholy spectacle presented by the current, as it carries off their houses and wood-yards piece by piece. Some who have nothing to lose, and are usually known by the name of Squatters, take this opportunity of traversing the woods in canoes, for the purpose of procuring game, and particularly the skins of animals, such as the deer and bear, which may be converted into money. They resort to the low ridges surrounded by the waters, and destroy thousands of deer, merely for their skins, leaving the flesh to putrefy. lately were blooming in all the luxuriance of spring. It opens up a new channel, which, for aught I know to the contrary, may carry its waters even to the Mexican Gulf. I have floated on the Mississippi and Ohio when thus swollen, and have in different places visited the submersed lands of the interior, propelling a light canoe by the aid of a paddle. In this manner I have traversed immense portions of the country overflowed by the waters of these rivers, and, particularly whilst floating over the Mississippi bottom-lands, I have been struck with awe at the sight. Little or no current is met with, unless when the canoe passes over the bed of a bayou. All is silent and melancholy, unless when the mournful bleating of the hemmed-in deer reaches your ear, or the dismal scream of an eagle or a raven is heard, as the foul bird rises, disturbed by your approach, from the carcass on which it was allaying its craving appetite. Bears, cougars, lynxes, and all other quadrupeds that can ascend the trees, are observed crouched among their top-branches. Hungry in the midst of abundance, although they see floating around them the animals on which they usually prey, they dare not venture to swim to them. Fatigued by the exertions which they have made in reaching the dry land, they will there stand the hunter's fire, as if to die by a ball were better than to perish amid the waste of waters. On occasions like this, all these animals are shot by hundreds. Opposite the city of Natchez, which stands on a bluff bank of considerable elevation, the extent of inundated land is immense, the greater portion of the tract lying between the Mississippi and the Red River, which is more than thirty miles in breadth, being under water. The mail-bag has often been carried through the immersed forests, in a canoe, for even a greater distance, in order to be forwarded to Natchitochez. disagreeable, and at times noxious, exhalations arise, and fill the lower stratum of the atmosphere as with a dense fog. The banks of the river have almost everywhere been broken down in a greater or less degree. Large streams are now found to exist, where none were formerly to be seen, having forced their way in direct lines from the upper parts of the bends. These are by the navigator called short-cuts. Some of them have proved But now, kind reader, observe this great flood gradually subsiding, and again see the mighty changes which it has The river itself, rolling its swollen waters along, effected. The waters have now been carried into the presents a spectacle of the most imposing nature. Al- distant ocean. The earth is everywhere covered by a though no large vessel, unless propelled by steam, can now deep deposit of muddy loam, which, in drying, splits into make its way against the current, it is seen covered deep and narrow chasms, presenting a reticulated appearby boats laden with produce, which, running out fromance, and from which, as the weather becomes warmer, all the smaller streams, float silently towards the city of New Orleans, their owners meanwhile not very well assured of finding a landing-place even there. The water is covered with yellow foam and pumice, the latter having floated from the rocky mountains of the north-west. The eddies are larger and more powerful than ever. Here and there tracts of forest are observed undermined, the trees gradually giving way, and falling into the stream. Cattle, horses, bears, and deer, are seen at times attempt-large enough to produce a change in the navigation of the ing to swim across the impetuous mass of foaming and boiling water; whilst here and there a vulture or an eagle is observed perched on a bloated carcass, tearing it up in pieces, as regardless of the flood, as on former occasions it would have been of the numerous sawyers and planters, with which the surface of the river is covered when the water is low. Even the steamer is frequently distressed. The numberless trees and logs that float along, break its paddles, and retard its progress. Besides, it is on such occasions difficult to procure fuel to maintain its fires; and it is only at very distant intervals that a wood-yard can be found which the water has not carried off. Following the river in your canoe, you reach those parts of the shores that are protected against the overHowing of the waters, and are called Levées. There you find the whole population of the district at work repairing and augmenting those artificial barriers, which are several feet above the level of the fields. Every person appears to dread the opening of a crevasse, by which the waters may rush into his fields. In spite of all exertions, however, the crevasse opens, the water bursts impetuously over the plantations, and lays waste the crops which so Mississippi. If I mistake not, one of these, known by the name of the Grand Cut-off, and only a few miles in length, has diverted the river from its natural course, and has shortened it by fifty miles. The upper parts of the islands present a bulwark consisting of an enormous mass of floated trees of all kinds, which have lodged there. Large sand-banks have been completely removed by the impetuous whirls of the waters, and have been deposited in other places. Some appear quite new to the eye of the navigator, who has to mark their situation and bearings in his log-book. The trees on the margins of the banks have in many parts given way. They are seen bending over the stream, like the grounded arms of an overwhelmed army of giants. Everywhere are heard the lamentations of the farmer and planter, whilst their servants and themselves are busily employed in repairing the damages occasioned by the floods. At one crevasse, an old ship or two, dismantled for the purpose, are sunk, to obstruct the passage opened by the still rushing waters, while new earth is brought to fill up the chasms. The squatter is seen shouldering his rifle, and making his way through the morass, in search of his lost stock, to drive the survivors home, and save the skins of the drowned. New fences have everywhere to be formed; even new houses must be erected, to save which from a like disaster, the settler places them on an elevated platform, supported by pillars made of the trunks of trees. The lands must be ploughed anew; and if the season is not too far advanced, a crop of corn and potatoes may yet be raised. But the rich prospects of the planter are blasted. The traveller is impeded in his journey, the creeks and smaller streams having broken up their banks in a degree proportionate to their size. A bank of sand, which seems firm and secure, suddenly gives way beneath the traveller's horse, and the next moment the animal has sunk in the quicksand, either to the chest in front, or over the crupper behind, leaving its master in a situation not to be envied. Unlike the mountain-torrents and small rivers of other parts of the world, the Mississippi rises but slowly during these floods, continuing for several weeks to increase at the rate of about an inch in the day. When at its height, it undergoes little fluctuation for some days, and after this subsides as slowly as it rose. The usual duration of a flood is from four to six weeks, although, on some occasions, it is protracted to two months. Every one knows how largely the idea of floods and cataclysms enters into the speculations of the geologist. If the streamlets of the European continent afford illustrations of the formation of strata, how much more must the Mississippi, with its ever-shifting sand-banks, its crumbling shores, its enormous masses of drift timber, the source of future beds of coal, its extensive and varied alluvial deposits, and its mighty mass of waters rolling sullenly along, like the flood of eternity! A DAY'S ADVENTURES IN THE INTERIOR OF BRASIL. THE road between Sucuruh and the Diamond Washeries, at the source of the brook Calhao, was fatiguing and dangerous. We lost our way among the innumerable wood-clad hillocks. Every thing around us had a foreign aspect, and filled the mind with apprehension. The thick forest looked like one wide grave, for the dry season had stripped both its foliage and blossoms: here and there, indeed, some parasitical flower appeared, but, in general, the huge stems upreared themselves quite naked, waving their giant branches amid the dark-blue ether. The thorny acacia grew beside the capivi, with its interlaced branches; and, more striking than either, the chorisia, slender where it springs from the ground and at the summit, but half-way up swollen like a tun, showed its corky rind. Myriads of ants' nests hung upon these trees, many of which were several feet in thickness, their black colour contrasting forcibly with the clear grey of the leafless branches. The unwonted forms of armadillos and ant-eaters met our eyes at every step, and the sloths hung stupidly dreaming on the branches of the ambamba. Occasionally a huge snake would cross our path, and disappear amid the underwood. The harsh screams of periquitos sounded through the sun-dried wood, and herds of the howling ape were heard in the distance. Our path led us two several times across the heights, which were only covered with brushwood, and whence we obtained a view over the monotonous and seemingly endless wilderness. When we descended the second time, the sun went down ; and, as the sudden darkness fell upon us, we remarked, by the anxiety of our guide, that he had lost his way. At this perplexing moment he discovered, in a glen on one side of our road, the house of a family with which he was acquainted, and advised us to seek shelter there during the night. He added, reluctantly, "You had better ride on before, gentlemen; for if the son were to see me first, he would think I came to apprehend him for the murder of his brother, lately perpetrated by him." A cold shudder past through our frames as we approached the house. An old man, bent more with grief than age, around whose venerable countenance hung long locks of snow-white hair, received us; affirming, in tremulous accents, that he and his maniac daughter were alone in the house. As soon as we had satisfied him regarding the object of our visit, and the guide had ventured to approach, he broke out into passionate wailing, cursing his sons, another of whom, we now learned, had, a few years before, murdered his uncle in a fit of jealousy. We recoiled with horror from the idea of passing the night in this house of blood and grief; and desired our guide to reconduct us into the unstained solitude of the forest. The old man showed us the path which led to the highroad, and, after riding a short way, we arrived at the hut of a deserted cotton plantation. We soon kindled a large fire. The fatigues of the sultry day had exhausted us, and yet we could not sleep. The image of the unhappy old man haunted us. The guide, too, did his best to keep us awake, by telling us stories of murders, which, according to his account, were of such frequent occurrence in the thinly-peopled district of Minas Novas, that in one year he had counted sevenand-twenty, and in another eighteen. He observed that the Portuguese emigrants more frequently experienced depravity among their children than the native Brasilians; and sought to explain this by their neglect to impress upon them, at an early age, the necessity of a strict morality in their intercourse with the slaves. Something was yet wanted to sum up the horrors of the day. We had scarcely fallen asleep, when we were again roused by a violent crackling in the fire, and a peculiar sound, something betwixt a snort and a whistle. We seized our fire-arms and were about to leave the hut; but our more experienced guide anxiously detained us, pointing to an immense snake, which, with infuriated bounds and writhings, sought to hurl the firebrands asunder. It was the surucucú, the strongest of Brasilian poisonous snakes, and on this account doubly terrible in a nightly visit. We fired several times at the monster, but did not dare, when it became still, to seek it in the darkness. Next morning it was nowhere to be found. The horses, which we had left overnight with their fore feet bound together, stood timidly huddled together at the edge of the wood, whence they had in all probability observed the approach of our dangerous visitant. FIFTH EXHIBITION OF THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY. THERE is no kind of criticism more difficult than that which professes to estimate the value of works of art, and there is none more rashly and unadvisedly hazarded. Few men who were unacquainted with mathematics would pretend to give an opinion of the works of La Place ;-any individual, possessed of an imperfect or uncultivated ear, would hesitate before he gave his opinion of a piece of music or a performer. But set any man, taken at a venture, before a picture or a statue, and it is ten chances to one that he tells you, "right slick away,” that it is good or bad. If he contented himself with saying it pleased or displeased him, there would be some sense and modesty in the speech. This is annoying and offensive enough in the exhibition room; but when it finds its way into print, it is positive injustice. A modest and talented artist is bowed down by unjust censure, because a person, who can neither see nor comprehend his unobtrusive merits, has stepped, self-elected, into the critic's chair; or a painter, of no merit whatever, is lauded to the skies, because the eye of friendship discovers beauties in his works which no one else can. It is not enough to constitute a critic of art that he possess a spirit alive to the impulses of poetry, and an eye susceptible of the beauties of colour and form. The poetical mind is so much the slave of association—so much We (in order to return from the impersonal to the personal mode of speaking—although there are few who have less taste for personality than ourselves) have indulged at too great length in discussing what a learned barrister calls "the general question," to admit of our entering at present upon the individual merits of the different artists. This we shall, however, in the course of the next week-briefly and pithily. We may, however, remark, that, after a careful study of the present Exhibition, we are unanimously of opinion that it is the best we have yet seen in Edinburgh. It has little glare, but much real sterling merit. There are more works in it capable of bearing repeated examination than we remember to have seen on any former occasion. It gives us a higher idea of the advanced state of art among us than we had previously entertained. accustomed to value objects merely as they suggest stir-have never been out of their own. In their views of the ring trains of thought—that it is often incapable of dwell- general principles of art they are at one; but different ing upon the simple, enduring, and therefore to it mono- tempers and habits frequently occasion a difference of opitonous, beauties of a picture; while, on the other hand, nion upon particular points. As every judgment is the the veriest daub that re-awakens in it some elevated or final and deliberate decision of the whole, there is little tender fancy, receives the credit of the pleasant reverie to danger of their being misled by the partialities of friendwhich it has accidentally given birth. Again, it does not ship, or the peculiarities of individual taste. follow because a man has a love for the beauties of nature, that he is capable of thoroughly appreciating art, any more than because the ear of one wandering upon the moonlight beach is capable of feeling the full sweetness of notes awakened by the alternate dash and rippling of the waves, he must be expected to appreciate the linked and giddy melody, or the overpowering harmony of some masterpiece of music. The stray beauties of nature, isolated and accidental, are within the reach of every capacity; but it is not every one to whom it is given to quaff the rich cup which the poet, the painter, or the musician, mixes up with such ingredients. Most people look upon a picture as they do upon a beautiful object in nature. They are struck by one or other of the arrows which it shoots forth on all sides. They catch a random charm. And even this is much-it adds to their happiness, it softens and attempers their disposition. Much is already gained in a nation, when a large body of its inhabitants have attained even this imperfect stage of feeling for art. But he who presumes to speak and judge of the works of art, must go further. He must feel not only the incidental beauties of a picture, he must feel its worth as a whole; he must, in short, comprehend it. To this power he cannot attain-however liberal nature may have been to him-without long and anxious study-study not of books, but of pictures. Words are here of no avail; the living and embodied object must be dwelt upon. We appeal to painters themselves, whether their views of the AN ingenious paper on the Beacon-Lights of remote anart, after they had mastered it, had any resemblance to tiquity, by Robert Stevenson, Esq., civil engineer, was read those vague but passionate yearnings which made them by the secretary. In this communication, the author enwoo it as a bride. With every step they made in learn-deavoured to show, that the Cyclops of the heathen mythoing, a new light went up before them regarding its nature and object. Practice in this, as in every thing else, can alone give knowledge. tor. By keeping in view the requisites of a good judge, even the uninitiated may soon be enabled to detect his imitaThe incompetent (because ignorant) critic may always be recognised by one of two marks. Either he is clamorous and frequent in his declaration of contempt for all technicalities, and indulges in rhapsodical descriptions of the trains of thought and feeling which a pic ture suggests; or, on the contrary, having picked up a few terms of art, he applies them at random-talking a sort of Babylonish dialect which neither he nor any one else understands. The first is in general a literary man, with some talent, and a great command of words, but who has not cultivated that sense to which the art of painting addresses itself the second is a man of neither talent, information, nor feeling, who has been taught all that can be taught the mixing of colours, drawing straight lines, and carrying into execution a few conventional rules. Looking back upon what we have written, and feeling that decided and strong as our expressions are, they are yet but the simple truth, we feel considerable reluctance and trepidation at the idea of ourselves presuming to enact the part of judges. One reflection alone consoles us that we have in reality studied the subject with our best attention; and that our judgments, although expressed with decision, are formed deliberately, and maintained without arrogance. The word we is not used on the present occasion, as it frequently is, merely because it forms a modest substitute for the word I. The criticisms which we propose to publish upon the works exhibiting in the rooms of the Scottish Academy, are really the joint work of a little knot of friends, who are enthusiastic lovers of art. Some of them have had opportunities of studying it in other countries-some of them LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC SOCIETIES OF WERNERIAN SOCIETY. Saturday, February 19. PROFESSOR JAMESON in the Chair. logy and of the poets were, in all probability, nothing more than lighthouses. In concluding his paper, Mr Stevenson alluded to the outcry raised by some individuals on the decline of science and the arts in this country. In the scientific improvement of lighthouses, he proved that Great Britain stood first in the world, and that these national establishments had, besides, been brought to their present state of perfection within the last fifty years. A paper was then read on the influence of rocks on the nature of vegetables, by Dr Murray of Aberdeen, in which mon plants of the floras of Paris, Edinburgh, and Aberthe author instituted a comparison between the most comdeen, and came to the conclusion, that general vegetation, in regard to species, is not influenced by the subjacent rock. Exceptions to the rule were of course admitted. In the conversation which ensued, Dr Graham seemed to favour the same views. The last communication laid before the meeting was a highly graphic description of a flood of the Mississippi, by J. J. Audubon, Esq. ROYAL SOCIETY. Monday, February 21. A NOTICE of the fossil tree discovered in the quarry of Craigleith, in the month of November last, was read by Henry Witham, Esq. The Essayist remarked, that the geological position of this magnificent fossil stem was in the mountain limestone group, and considerably below the great coal basins of the Lothians. Judging from the unworked must have been upwards of 100 feet in depth. The explored rock near where the stem lies, the superincumbent mass part of the fossil, with what has already been removed, is thirty-seven feet in length. Its appearance is that of a large branchless trunk, flattened in some parts, so as to Fossil tree found at Wideopen, near Newcastle : Carbonate of lime, Fossil tree found at High Heworth, near Newcastle : Carbonate of lime, form an elliptical section. The stem tapers gradually, and is marked at unequal intervals with transverse ridges, or irregular prominences. The bark has been converted into coal, and presents indistinct longitudinal markings, with very small transverse rings. At some of the prominences these rings are contorted, in the same manner as we see them round the coming off of the branches of various plants. The practical inference to be drawn from this marked The flattened appearance of the trunk, Mr Witham argued, difference in the component parts of fossils found in the was not necessarily the result of pressure; and he demon- mountain limestone, and those found in the coal-field, is of strated this point by pointing out the existence of a similar the utmost importance to the miner. As we are enabled appearance in some specimens of recent tree which he laid to ascertain the precise geological nature of many sedimenbefore the society. Indeed the idea of pressure, in the pre-tary deposits by certain species of shells which they consent case, is nearly inadmissible, the tree not being parallel tain, so we may now hope, by the obvious distinction beto the strata. Should it hereafter appear, upon working tween the structure of these plants, to be enabled to ascerdownwards, that the stem is perpendicular, and the roots tain at once the group of rocks to which they belong. By imbedded in shale, Mr Witham was prepared to esteem it attending to such indications, large sums of money may be direct proof that the tree stands where it originally grew, and spared, which might otherwise be squandered upon experithat the bending had been caused by the overwhelming influ. mental mining. ence of the current, which brought the matter, now form- Professor Wallace read the introductory part of a paper ing the sandstone, upon the weaker part of the plant. In this on the nature of the hour-lines on the ancient dials, by case, the direction of the tree would show that of the current. T. S. Davies, Esq., Bath. The body of the paper was The Essayist next proceeded to enquire to what order of not laid before the Society, as it consisted entirely of matheplants the fossil belonged. He dissented from several scien-matical demonstration. The details of the introductory tific gentlemen who had pronounced it to be a lycopodium. part were of the same materials, and consequently unsuitThere was in the external configuration of the plant no able to our pages. ground for such a conjecture-there were no traces simi- Mr Stark read a notice of the black salamander of the lar to the scales of the palm and fern, or the imbricated Alps, two specimens of which, presented to the Society by leaves of the lycopodium. The plant more resembled a tree George Fairholme, Esq., were exhibited. This reptile, of the dicotyledonous or gymnospermous phanerogamic from its only appearing for a few weeks at a time, is rarely classes. But Mr Witham proceeded further to examine its met with, and for this reason was not described in the first internal structure, according to the rules laid down in his edition of Cuvier's Règne Animal. It appeared, however, valuable Observations upon Fossil Vegetations. By the aid in the second, under the name of Salamandra atra, a speof a powerful microscope, he discovered most decided me- cies distinct from the S. terrestris with which it has been dullary rays, and a woody texture, with some appearance of confounded. Mr Stark noticed the power which the young concentric circles. He was therefore led to infer, that the of this genus, in common with the tadpoles of frogs, posplant belonged to the class of coniferæ. The stem, how-sessed of establishing currents in particular directions in ever, so much exceeded the generality of kindred plants the water around them, as observed and described by Dr found in similar situations, that the Essayist hesitated, with Sharpey. Mr Fairholme's specimens were obtained from our present limited knowledge of fossil botany, to name the the High Alps in the Canton of Berne, where it is respecies. Mr Witham adverted, in the conclusion of his garded by the chamois hunters as poisonous, an opinion essay, to the difference in composition of this fossil from the which appears to be utterly unfounded. surrounding medium. It was difficult to explain how the petrifying substance should be different from that forming the matrix of the fossil. Abundance of lime was to be found everywhere in the mountain limestone group, and perhaps the reason why the sandstone contained less of it than the fossil might be, that before the strata were consolidated, the sandstone being of looser texture than the wood, the calcareous matter more easily found its way through the former, but was detained by the latter, and as it decayed replaced it. It was worthy of remark, that the fossils found in the coalfield proper, lying immediately above the mountain limestone, contained little or no lime. While the coniferæ of the mountain limestone range was found to contain carbonate of lime, iron, and small quantities of carbon, those of the coal-field were found to consist almost entirely of siliceous matter. The Craigleith fossil just described, when analyzed, was found to contain ORIGINAL POETRY. PRAYER. Go, when the morning shineth, Go, in the hush of night; All who are loved by thee; Then for thyself, in meekness, A blessing humbly claim, Or if 'tis e'er denied thee Should holy thoughts come o'er thee Of thy spirit raised above, With this can we compare, His grace who gave thee all. GERTRUDE. duced upon his character at the period when the Enquiry concerning Political Justice was published: "A new epoch occurred in my character, when I pub Thoughts on Man, his Nature, Productions, and Disco-lished, and at the time I was writing, my Enquiry concernveries; interspersed with some particulars respecting the Author. By William Godwin. 8vo. Pp. 471. London. Effingham Wilson. 1831. We are not disciples of Godwin, but we have always been ready to admit the pure and noble character of his moral system. We admire his stately flow of language, his manly style of reasoning, and we are glad to hear, at this late hour," the old man eloquent" lifting up his voice once more. The volume before us consists of a series of essays, only connected by the kindred tone of thought and feeling which we recognise in all of them. It is, to use the author's own words, an attempt "to give a defined and permanent form to a variety of thoughts which have occurred to his mind in the course of thirty-four years." It may be regarded, in short, as a continuation of the series of essays published by Mr Godwin under the title of the "Enquirer." It is impossible within our narrow limits to give any adequate notion of a work so multifarious in its contents. It is difficult to choose amidst such a variety; but we are inclined to think that our readers will thank us for laying before them some of those incidental confessions, which let us, in some measure, into the secret of Godwin's mind. He speaks thus of the recollections of his early days: ing Political Justice. My mind was wrought up to a certain elevation of tone; the speculations in which I was engaged, tending to embrace all that was most important to man in society, and the frame to which I had assiduously bent myself, of giving quarter to nothing because it was old, and shrinking from nothing because it was startling and which I thus formed put me more on the alert even in the astounding, gave a new bias to my character. The habit scenes of ordinary life, and gave me a boldness and an eloquence more than was natural to me. I then reverted to the principle which I stated in the beginning, of being ready to tell my neighbour whatever it might be of advantage to him to know, to show myself the sincere and zealous advo cate of absent merit and worth, and to contribute by every means in my power to the improvement of others, and to the diffusion of salutary truths through the world. Í desired that every hour that I lived should be turned to the best account, and was bent each day to examine whether I had conformed myself to this rule. I held on this course with tolerable constancy for five or six years: and, even when that constancy abated, it failed not to leave a beneficial effect on my subsequent conduct. At "But, in pursuing this scheme of practice, I was acting a part somewhat foreign to my constitution. I was by nature more of a speculative than an active character, more inclined to reason within myself upon what I heard and saw, than to declaim concerning it. I loved to sit by unobserved, and to meditate upon the panorama before me. first I associated chiefly with those who were more or less admirers of my work; and, as I had risen (to speak in the "I go back to the recollections of my youth, and can slang phrase) like a 'star' upon my contemporaries without scarcely find where to draw the line between ineptness and being expected, I was treated generally with a certain degree maturity. The thoughts that occurred to me, as far back of deference, or, where not with deference and submission, as I can recollect them, were often shrewd; the suggestions yet as a person whose opinions and view of things were to ingenious; the judgments not seldom acute. I feel myself be taken into the account. The individuals who most strethe same individual all through. Sometimes I was un-nuously opposed me, acted with a consciousness that, it reasonably presumptuous, and sometimes unnecessarily distrustful. Experience has taught me in various instances a sober confidence in my decisions; but that is all the dif ference. So to express it, I had then the same tools to work with as now; but the magazine of materials upon which I had to operate was scantily supplied. Like the apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, the faculty, such as it was, was within me; but my shelves contained but a small amount of furni ture: A beggarly account of empty boxes, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses, Which, thinly scatter'd, serv'd to make a show.' In speaking thus of the intellectual powers of my youth, I am, however, conceding too much. It is true, "Practice maketh perfect.' But it is surprising, in apt and towardly youth, how much there is to commend in the first essays. The novice, who has his faculties lively and on the alert, will strike with his hammer almost exactly where the blow ought to be placed, and give nearly the precisely right force to the act. He will seize the thread it was fitting to seize; and though he fail again and again, will show an adroitness upon the whole that we scarcely know how to account for. The man whose career shall ultimately be crowned with success, will demonstrate in the beginning that he was destined to succeed." In a subsequent essay, he describes the change pro they affected to despise me, they must not expect that all the bystanders would participate in that feeling. "But this was to a considerable degree the effect of novelty. My lungs, as I have already said, were not of iron; my manner was not overbearing and despotic; there was nothing in it to deter him who differed from me from entering the field in turn, and telling the tale of his views and judgments in contradiction to mine. I descended into the arena, and stood on a level with the rest. Beyond this, it occasionally happened that, if I had not the stentorian lungs, and the petty artifices of rhetoric and conciliation, that should carry a cause independently of its merits, my antagonists were not deficient in these respects. I had nothing in my favour to balance this, but a sort of constitutional equanimity and imperturbableness of temper, which, if I was at any time silenced, made me not look like a captive to be dragged at the chariot-wheels of my adversary. "All this, however, had a tendency to subtract from my vocation as a missionary. I was no longer a knight-errant, prepared on all occasions, by dint of arms, to vindicate the cause of every principle that was unjustly handled, and every character that was wrongfully assailed. Meanwhile I returned to the field, occasionally and uncertainly. It required some provocation and incitement to call me out : but there was the lion, or whatever combative animal may more justly prefigure me, sleeping, and that might be awakened. "There is another feature necessary to be mentioned, |