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sea rolled with terrific violence, and a heavy, angry roar. Far below stretched a narrow, white sand-beach, upon which lay scattered the bones of sea-fowl, and the skeletons of a couple of sea-lions. In the little basins along the edge of the rockSi the tiny mariners, familiarly known as the "Portuguese men-of-war," were reefing and unreefing their mimic sails; the white sand glittered in the sunlight, which reflected in the showers of spray that fell in jewelled cascades upon the grey rocks.

The whole face of the cliff was brilliant with mosses of the most beautiful dyes, scarlet, crimson, purple, and a variety of greens, among which were strewn myriads of bright-hued anellides, and the most delicately-tinted and exquisitely-shaped mollusks. Underneath, in the crannies of the precipice, a couple of penguins were sitting on their nests, and the air was literally alive with every species of seabird, rending the air with loud, sharp cries, or low, mournful wails. Beyond rose other cliffs, and other caverns, with their fiinges of feathery surf; around stretched the bright blue sea, radiant in the sunshine, the great rolling waves glittering and sparkling as they rose and fell with that long, slow swell that seems the pulsation of a universe. Blowing and swimming about among the weird grottoes were numberless seals, and schools of sea-lions. I cannot conceive of anything more horrible than these sealions. Huge monsters, with round, earless heads, enormous fangs, cat-like whiskers, and great glaring eyes, half-fish half-beast; they seem altogether unnatural. It is enough to make one shudder as they spring up towards you, with their great eyes, ferocious, yet agonized in expression, loud sobbing breathings, and melancholy wailing cries. Up and down, in and out, voracious, hideous, terrible, perfect demons of the sea—if they had speech, what might they not utter, what secrets disclose, what treasures unfold?

Long I gazed at the new, the wonderful scene; wonderful and glorious, terrible yet sublime, gazed,] and thought of the ages and ages that this ocean-fortress has uplifted its battlements, in their grand solitude, to the warfare of the elements. Century after century have the waves beat their base, dashed up the stupendous steeps, and thundered amidst the sounding caves. By sunlight, by starlight, in the silvery sheen of the moon, while^ the earth has been upheaved from its foundations, and all the powers of the universe shaken, they have stood calm, fixed, impregnable—a type of the power, the majesty, the mystery, and the beauty of the Eternal I I gazed, while imagination pictured long arrows of moonlight striking athwart the dripping rocks and sparkling in the silvery surf, and mermaids coming from the shell-enamelled grottoes, to comb their tresses in the bright rays, or sport with sister sirens of old Neptune's court. The gallant Asopus, the lovely Galatea, Tethys, with all her attendant Oceanides; Oceanus, hoary and

majeBtic, and the great sea-monarch, in bis dolphin-drawn car; a merry carnival of the water-gods, a high festival of the sea. I was drawn down to present realities by the hurried tones of Frank and Doctor H.

"I must come with them; they had discovered a most wonderful, a most magnificent cave. It could not be entered by a boat, the surf was too high, but if I would trust myself to them they would bear me over the rocks." Scarcely understanding where I was going, I followed my conductors down the steep declivity to the edge of the waves. Crossing their arms, as children play arm-chair, they bade me seat myself. Bewildered, almost stunned, I obeyed, and was borne over the slippery rocks. The waves were so strong that the receding point was the only time when progress could be made. Waiting for the rushing current, then jumping to another foothold, there to wait for the next backward wave, we made our way into a vast cavern, a lofty, spacious chamber witk groined and fretted roof. Wading waist-deep in water, my gallants placed me upon the only standing-room in the cave, a sort of pulpit, that upreared its fantastic columns nearly in the centre.

Why is it that, in every great collection of caves, there is always one compartment to shadow forth the idea of worship? Has the great Architect thus set his seal upon the sanctuary* mirroring it forth amongst the grandest of his works? Hand-in-hand, with hushed pulsations and suppressed breath, we three stood and gazed at the fairy-like, yet sublime and aweinspiring scene. Above and around rose pillar and architrave, arch, dome, niche, and pedestal. From base to summit every inch of the jagged walls was crusted with marine life. Tritons, star-fish, harp-shells, ear-shells, and marine snails of every variety, while from every fretted point and groined arch depended myriads of volutes, and wing-shells of the most beautiful forms; adding still more of interest to the delicate tracery, amid which the exquisite "pelicanfoot" (strombus) was particularly conspicuous. How beautiful are all of God's works! How much loveliness lies hidden from every eye except his own! The waves dashed in at the opening with a roar that drowned all other sounds, and ever and anon one higher than the others completely closed the orifice, leaving us in a solemn twilight that rendered the scene still more impressive.

It was impossible to note time in such a spot. We were recalled to the outer world by our fear-stricken companions, who from our long absence had imagined the worst. After a vain attempt of a part of the party to enter into a boat, which ended in their complete drenching, we turned from the mysterious depths, and joined the group upon the beach, who had seated themselves to watch the penguins roll over in the water. These penguins are especially diverting. From the various islands tbey select some for their own individual property, which they are permitted by the other birds to hold in undisputed possession. They are from two to three feet high, with dark backs and white breasts, and they range themselves on the edges of cliffs, looking for ail the world like so many children in white aprons. The Peruvian cognomen of "munos" (baby-bird) is very appropriate. As the afternoon wore on, the sky became fairly darkened with pelicans soaring in long lines and circles to and from the ocean. Multitudes lighted on the rocks, far and near, where they stood, as in solemn conclave, reminding one of a company of greybeards settling the affairs of a nation; or, as one of our captains affirmed, a party of spirit-rappers rapping out eternity. Doctor H. was wicked enough to compare them to a party of old women gossiping over their tea.

Evening approached, and it was declared time to think of our return. The "paraca" had set in; the ocean swell had been increasing for some hours, and the surf now dashed with tremendous force over the rocks, and surged and thundered within the immense hollows. All aboard 1 Impromptu sails, in the shape of table-cloths, were rigged to catch the afternoon breeze, and we went cheerily forward. The sun was slowly sinking, and as we passed the long gigantic line of volcanic crags and cliffs, the lights and shades were indescribably splendid; rowing up the bay, the scene grew absolutely enchanting. Amber and amethyst, topaz and ruby, mingled with neutral greys and sombre black. Afar stretched the azure expanse, barred by dancing streams of goldenlight, while around us appeared fantasticislands,with their wreaths of sparkling foam, the stately fleet and other sails coming and going, the green outline of Pisco, and above all, towering far toward the zenith, in their own clime, the sublime guardians of the sea, the majestic Andes, their glaciered sides roseate in the sunset.

The surf around the north island was particularly fine, where some of the detached rocks to the seaward are remarkable both in size and conformation. One of these rocks is singularly picturesque, and always strikes the eye of a new comer.

It consists of two craggy arches crossing each other, and joined together at the apex so as to form a natural temple, with four equidistant pillars. The summit of the alcove is usually tenanted by an assembly of pelicans, evidently in solemn conclave. Fully absorbed by the grandeur and beauty of the scene, I scarcely heed our progress, or the bail that comes to us across the water. The boat's course is suddenly changed: there is a clamour of voices. Am I awake or dreaming? Before me vast and dark, rises the phantom ship of my vision—that sea-worn whale ship. There is the stalwart captain, the hardy crew, and—yes, I am not mistaken—over the side comes that dear, familiar face, older and bronzed, but still the same, and in another moment I am in the arms of my long-lost, longmourned Walter.

I have an indistinct idea of a rapid expla

nation. Two years before, he and three otheri had been picked up from one of the boats of the wrecked " Orient," by this whale ship, then on her way to cruise in the Arctic seas. Then comes a mazy recollection of our progress forward amid deafening cheers, while the band plays " Hail to the Chief and "Haste to the Wedding." It was hours afterwards, when 1 listened to the details of that sad story of death, Buffering, and deliverance, that I began to realize the actuality of what had occurred j even now I can scarcely realize that it is not all i vision. Ann's matter-of-fact voice in the after cabin reassures me.

Another surprise was in store. Amongst yesterday's arrivals was a dear friend who accompanied her father on his voyage hither. She and Ann have constituted themselves t committee of ways and means. Ann is siring :—

"Laura must wear the dress that was bought for her bridal; you know she made me take it when I was married; but I only wore it that brief hour. The veil and pearls are in that box; we must send to Callao for white kids and orange-blossoms."

"I had a box of white kids given me in London; and as Lora and I wear the aameiiie, I can supply the gloves," replies our friend.

"Yes, dear Clara, our hands are alike, and the personal resemblance is such between u that strangers often take us for sisters." Doctor H. was immediately struck with the likeness. Dear friend, how wholly unselfish his congratulations have been; would that Clara night comfort him for his disappointment 1 Perhapi she may; but I have no faith in made matches, so I shall hold my peace.

A firm step is on the threshold, a brown face peeps in at the half-open door.

"May I come in>"

"No, I am coming out." A toil-hardened hand is out-stretched, and grasps the low sheets.

"A journal! I may read this r"

"Yes, no—some day." The sunny hot thoughtful eyes look down into minel for a moment both search, each the other's son! with a serious, questioning glance.

"Laura, your Adonis has become a weatherbattered old salt."

"I like him none the less."

"You don't? And you have changed; the little girl I left must be treasured among other sweet memories of the past; Laura the woman is quite a different being."

"Do you regret the change i"

"Far from it! The girl I left behindwu my darling, my sweet little love; the Lann' find, is my companion, my help-meet, emphatically my better half."

Again there is a silence, while hand dup hand with that mute eloquence that speaks so much more than any lip utterance. I raise my eyes to those that sink so deep within Bit own.

"Walter, 'it is good for us that we have suffered.*"

The low, humble, solemn tones reply: "The Lord's ways are not our ways; to him be the glory! My dear, dear Laura! my bride, my wife!""

"Sister, sister I Ann's tones are both imperative and impatient.

Passing out we enter the forward cabin. Frank and Dr. H. stand aside to let us pass. To the right aits Miss Clara Bascom, with little Chincha on her lap; Marsellas grins delight in the background. Ann looks up from the heap of silk and lace by which she is half hidden, with the exclamation :—

"Everything is arranged. The chaplain of the 'Tribune' is to perform the ceremony, You are to be married 'Twelfth-day,' early in the morning; then you will take a bridal trip to Lima."

"Whether I will or not?"

"Yes, inademoisselle, 'whether you will or not.'"

LOVED TWICE.

BY ADA TREVANION.

Before he loved and bade me live

This new life half divine—
Before I let his future give

Colour and form to mine,
A tearful shadow dim and dree
For ever rested upon me.

E'en when his arm was round me cast,

And when our lips first met, There was a link within the past

Which bound my spirit yet, For I before in years goneby Had been beloved with fervency.

I sighed and trembled, for I knew

I had that to confess Which might in black night merge the bine

Of my sky's happiness.
Oh! had my heaven been won in vain—
An instant mine—then lost again?

I told him all, and hid my face,
Lest Fate should love estrange;

But I was clasped in close embrace—
The dear voice did not change.

I felt as if my heart had grown,

In that brief moment, to his own!

Yet even in these happy days,

When his eyes on me turn.
Beneath their earnest searching gaze,

My check and forehead burn:
He knows I was beloved of yore,
But deems not I ne'er loved before.

1867.

A SUMMER-DAY RHYME.

BY EBEN BEXronD.

The buttercups bloom in the meadows, The clover nods on the hill,

And the violets blow in the shadows, Where the summer winds are still.

The breezes in wild commotion

Sweep down from the mountain-side,

And the meadow sways like an ocean At the rising of the tide.

The sunshine drifts like a shower
Across the swaying grass,

And kisses each little flower
That watches to see it pass.

I can hear the honey-bees humming, As they gather in their sweets,

And 1 hear the whispers coming From the water-nymph's retreats.

The pinks by the walk are bending
Their royal heads to the gale,

And the lilies their sweets are spending
Where the morning-glories pale,

The robin sings on the cherry
A song that is plaintive and sweet,

And the blackbird's answer is merry
As he looks at the ripening wheat.

The mountains are wrapped iu grandeur,

A purple and rosy mist,
And the sunshine glitters like amber

On their brows which the clouds hath kiss'd.

Ere long the leaf will be falling With a patter like the rain,

And the robin will be calling To the meadow-lark in vain.

The Summer's radiant sweetness Will change at Autumn's breath

To the glory of full completeness— Fruition will herald death.

Ilobcd like a queen at her crowning,
In the brightness of her charms,

She will fall islcep forever
In thc_royal Autumn's arms.

And shrouded in royal splendour,
They will lay her down to rest,

And the winds will chant sad masses
O'er the ravished Summer's breast,

HEADING AS A MEANS OP CULTURE.

In the early ages of the world, before the art of writing was invented, men had to depend, for the acquisition of knowledge, chiefly upon oral instruction. In this way, each generation were, in turn, the pupils of the preceding, and the teachers of the following generation in the reception and the transmission of the traditionary lore of the times. And as the family bond was then a strong one, each child was in a preeminent sense the pupil of his parent, and each patriarch was in a pre-eminent sense the teacher of his child, when he "sat with him in the house, and when he walked with him by the way, when he lay down, and when he rose up."

After the invention of alphabet-writing, and before that of printing, oral instruction was still the principal means of imparting knowledge. Readers were few; books still fewer, and not accessible; transcription was expensive. So valuable, indeed, were some works, that, in order to obtain the loan of a book, it was necessary to pledge an estate for its safe return: indeed, in some instances, books were kept thained, so that they could not be removed from the place where they were kept.

But since the art of making paper was invented, and, as related to this, the irl of printing, a mighty change has taken place in respect to the number of books and the number of readers. In our own country, where all may, if they choose, enjoy the advantages of popular education, the majority are readers. All, therefore, must be interested in the subject which I have chosen, namely, Reading As The Means Of Self-culture.

In treating this subject, I hope, in some degree, to supply a felt want frequently expressed by those who are engaged in self-culture, whether they are at school or at home, or engaged in some professional employment.

What end shall I aim at in reading?

What time shall I spend in reading?

What mode shall I adopt in reading?

What books shall I read?

These are interrogatories prompted by a desire of self-improvement on the part of the modest and earnest aspirant, whatever be his position; and they demand a careful and a correct answer.

What, Then, Is The End To De Aimed At In Reading?

Now, a large class of readers propose to themselves no end at all, in their reading. They feel attracted to the page of a book or to the column of a newspaper, just as they are to a garden of flowers, or to a winding river. They have no purpose in view; they have no object to be accomplished. The act of reading ter- | minates in itself, so far as any end is concerned. It is just a matter of present gratification, of present amusement.

Another class read only to kill time, which

otherwise would hang heavily on their hand?. Their minds are listless, or they are tormented with sad thoughts, or inward upbraiding!, or remorse, or shame, from which they wish to escape; and by killing time in this escape from themselves, so far forth, they commit suicide.

Another class read in order to make a show of learning. They read incessantly, and incessantly boast of what they have read. They are ostentatious; they are vain in their knowledge, and pedantic.

The true end of reading, as the means of selfculture, is evidently, in the very statement of the terms of the proposition, self-culture. Now, self-culture aims at the improvement of all the higher powers of our nature. Just so far, then, as reading contributes to self-culture, it contributes to improve, and elevate, and refine our whole nature. By holding intercourse with the great minds of the world as they still lire in their works, we can become like them. Onr memories can be stored with the treasures of knowledge gathered by them. Our imaginations can rove freely among the forms of thought among which they expatiated with delight Onr judgment can decide correctly in view of the facts which they have collected, and the principles which they have evolved, and the reasonings they have elaborated. Our wills can be confirmed by the motives they administer. Our hearts can be brought into harmony with their hearts by contemplating what awakened their emotional nature. Our moral feelings can become assimilated to theirs by inhaling their spirit.

In books we have the concentrated wisdom of past ages and of the present, which we can appropriate to ourselves, for our own improvement and that of others. The true end of reading is to make this appropriation. Lord Bacon's rule is the best: "Read, not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, bat to weigh and consider."

The improvement of your intellectual and your moral powers being the true end of reading. I shall proceed to the second question: What

TIME SHALL I SPEND IN READING?

The answer to this question must depend upon the circumstances in which you are placed and the duties you have to perform. You are in the district-school, or the academy, or in the preparation for some professional employment, or in the practice of some profession, or ara actively employed in family duties. Now, whenever reading, by consuming time, interferes with your regular studies, or your professional employments, or your fanuiy duties, it should be avoided, even though at a sacrifice of inclination.

Moreover, when it creates a distaste for studies or other duties, by withdrawing attention from them, by impairing the intellectual vigour, by weakening the moral power so as to disqualify you for study or labour, it defeats the main purpose for which you were placed under instruction, or for which you devoted yourselves to labour. For instance: if a student has in his room a book that creates a distaste for the study of arithmetic, a branch which he is pursuing, he had better spend no time in reading that book, for the plain reason that arithmetic, in relation to his duties as a student, is of more importance to him. If a merchant's clerk has a book which creates a distaste for his ledger, he had better spend no time in reading that book, for the plain reason that it disqualifies him for his paramount duties.

And so too, when reading fatigues and exhausts the mind, it should be avoided. Some books are so exciting to the attention, to the imagination, to the passions, that they produce a mental debauch, which, if often repeated, destroys the firm tone of the mind, and renders it fitful and inefficient in its exertions.

Moreover, reading should be avoided when it interferes with necessary repose, as it does when pursued at a late hour of night. It then has a pernicious influence upon the health first, then upon the spirits, then upon the mind itself. The knowledge gained in this way is, for the most part, but of little value, for it is gained at the expense of mental vigour, and sometimes even of life itself. To read when you ought to be in bed, especially to read when in bed, is to inflict a great evil on yourself without an equivalent. It is to injure your eyes, your brain, your nervous system, your intellect.

Again, reading ought not to interfere with the due cultivation of the social affections, whether by personal intercourse with friends or a punctual correspondence. Some are such bookworms that they become insensible to the sweet charities of domestic life, and all the delightful amenities of general society.

Finally, only so much time should be spent in reading, as will allow leisure for reflection upon what has been read, in order that it may become our own, for the purposes of mental discipline and strength. Now it happens that one may have a great appetite and a poor digestion. He may read much and think little. Hence, what he reads, not going through the process of assimilation, instead of invigorating, burdens the mind. Thus addicted to mental gluttony, thus suffering from mental repletion, he is incapacitated for high achievements. He is

"A bookful blockhead ignorantly read,
With loads of learned lumber in his head."

He is, it may be, a living lexicon, a walking encyclopedia; but he is motionless and dead, so far as practical usefulness is concerned.

With these cautions and exceptions, endeavour to find time, if possible, to read every day of your life. Read, if you can, in the morning,

in the sweet hour of prime, if it be only for five minutes. Read, if you can, when resting from your toil at noon. Read especially more or less during the long winter evenings. Read in the season of youth, when the impressions made on the mind are permanent. Read in middle life, when the judgment is strong. Read in the season of old age, when your minds become contemplative, and the body unfitted for active life. Let some book furnish daily food for the mind, as the table does for the body.

We are now prepared to answer the third question: What Is The Bbst Moos Of

READING?

The best mode of reading is that which is best adapted to accomplish the end of reading. And the highest end of reading, as in every part of education, is to furnish and discipline the mind, and thus to prepare it to act in accordance with its high capacity on earth and in heaven. In order to gain these high ends, the mind must be tasked to a high effort.

But, as a matter of fact, there is often careless reading when there ought to be the closest application of the mind. There is often reading, in the common sense of the word, when there ought to be study, because the former is easier than the latter. It has been said, with some appearance of truth: "Study is labour, and labour is pain, and no one loves pain." There is, therefore, a temptation to substitute the pleasure of negligent reading for the pain of study. Reading is often identical with study, as when one is said to read law. For success in study, the higher powers of the mind must be put in requisition. There must be the full vigour of the attention without any of its wanderings, the full retentiveness of the memory, the full activity of the imagination. In the examination of the subject, the judgment must be ever vigilant; the will, even in the midst of discouragement, must never swerve from its high purpose. The affections must often be summoned from their repose, to give impulse to the intellect. And the body, too, in that much study which is a weariness to the flesh, must be roused from its languor, only to writhe and quiver under the chafings of the intellect. In short, for successful study, there must be the highest efforts of the best powers of the mind. But in reading the mind is often in nearly a passive state, like that of dreaming or reverie, in which images flit before the mind without any act of volition to retain them. In rapid reading it is nearly in the same state as yours is when you are whirled through a country in a railway-carriage or post-chai'e. How much do you know of that country in the one case? How much do you know of the book in the other? A person mentally indolent may he fond of reading. He may love to read in a recumbent posture until he falls asleep, every day or night of his life. It might be too much to say that his room resembles the famous cave of the god of sleep. But he furnishes proof in his experience, that the leaves

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