aside from the rushing stream of onward-moving life, and be content with being, merely, and not doing; if these lovely forms could fill all the claims and calls of one's nature, and all that we ask of sympathy and companionship could be found in mountain. breezes and breaking waves; if days passed in communion with nature, in which decay is not hastened by anxious vigils or ambitious toils, made up the sum of life,-where could a better retreat be found than along this enchanting coast? Here are the mountains, and there is the sea. Here is a climate of delicious softness, where no sharp extremes of heat and cold put strife between man and nature. Here is a smiling and good-natured population, among whom no question of religion, politics, science, literature, or humanity is ever discussed, and the surface of the placid hours is not ruffled by argument or contradiction. Here a man could hang and ripen, like an orange on the tree, and drop as gently out of life upon the bosom of the earth. There is a fine couplet of Virgil, which is full of that tenderness and sensibility which form the highest charm of his poetry, as they probably did of his character, and they came to my mind in driving along this beautiful road ::

"Hic gelidi fontes; hic mollia prata, Lycori;

Hic nemus; hic ipso tecum consumerer ævo."

There is something in the musical flow of these lines which seems to express the movement of a quiet life, from which day after day loosens and falls, like leaf after leaf from a tree in a calm day of autumn. But Virgil's air-castle includes a Lycoris; that is, sympathy, affection, and the heart's daily food. With these, fountains, meadows, and groves may be dispensed with; and without them, they are not much better than a painted panorama. To have something to do, and to do it, is the best appointment for us all. Nature, stern and coy, reserves her most dazzling smiles for those who have earned them by hard work and cheerful sacrifice. Planted on these shores and lapped in pleasurable sensations, man would turn into an indolent dreamer and a soft voluptuary. He is neither a fig nor an orange; and he thrives best in the sharp air of self-denial and on the rocks of toil.

1 "Here cooling fountains roll through flowing meads,

Here woods, Lycōris, lift their verdant heads,
Here could I wear my careless life away,

And in thy arms insensibly decay."

Virgil's Bucolics, x. 42, Wharton's version.

SPAIN.

History is ever justifying the ways of God to man, and never more forcibly than in the fortunes of Spain. If the power has been taken away from her, it is because it was abused; if the sceptre has been wrested from her grasp, it is because it was converted into a scourge. To no men it is permitted to do wrong with impunity; least of all to the rulers of the earth. The selfishness of tyranny is punished by the weakness to which it leads, and bigotry extinguishes in time the religious principle from which its power to do mischief is derived. In her present weakness, Spain is reaping the harvest of wrong-doing. If her ships, colonies, and commerce are gone; if agriculture and manufactures are neglected; if she has no railroads, no active press, no generally-diffused education,-it is because her rulers have been tyrants, her ministers of religion iron-hearted and narrowminded bigots, and her nobles indolent and profligate courtiers. In her desolate estate insulted humanity is avenged, and the retributive justice which has overtaken her, speaks in a voice of warning to the oppressor and of consolation to his victim.

And is there hope for Spain? Will the night pass away and the morning dawn? To hazard even a conjectural answer to these questions requires far more knowledge of the country than we possess. No traveller has visited Spain without bringing away a strong sense alike of the virtues and the capacities of her people. With God all things are possible; and for mourning Iberia the hour may yet strike, and the man may yet come. Who would not rejoice to see that prostrate form reared again, and the light of hope once more kindling those downcast eyes,-the golden harvest of opportunity again waving over her plains, and the future once more unbarring to the enterprise of her sons its gates of sunrise?

BOOKS.

In that most interesting and instructive book, Boswell's Life of Johnson, an incident is mentioned which I beg leave to quote in illustration of this part of my subject. The Doctor and his biographer were going down the Thames, in a boat, to Greenwich, and the conversation turned upon the benefits of learning, which Dr. Johnson maintained to be of use to all men. "And yet,' said Boswell, 'people go through the world very well, and carry on the business of life to good advantage, without learning.' Why, sir,' replied Dr. Johnson, that may be true in cases where learning cannot possibly be of any use; for instance, this boy rows us as well without learning as if he could sing the song of

6

Orpheus to the Argonauts, who were the first sailors.' He then called to the boy, What would you give, my lad, to know about the Argonauts?' Sir,' said the boy, I would give what I have.' Johnson was much pleased with this answer, and we gave him a double fare. Dr. Johnson then turning to me, 'Sir,' said he, a desire of knowledge is the natural feeling of mankind; and every human being, whose mind is not debauched, will be willing to give all that he has to get knowledge.'"

For the knowledge that comes from books I would claim no more than it is fairly entitled to. I am well aware that there is no inevitable connection between intellectual cultivation, on the one hand, and individual virtue or social well-being, on the other. "The tree of knowledge is not the tree of life." I admit that genius and learning are sometimes found in combination with gross vices, and not unfrequently with contemptible weaknesses, and that a community at once cultivated and corrupt is no impossible monster. But it is no overstatement to say that, other things being equal, the man who has the greatest amount of intellectual resources is in the least danger from inferior temptations; if for no other reason, because he has fewer idle moments. The ruin of most men dates from some vacant hour. Occupation is the armor of the soul, and the train of Idleness is borne up by all the vices. I remember a satirical poem in which the Devil is represented as fishing for men, and adapting his baits to the taste and temperament of his prey; but the idler, he said, pleased him most, because he bit the naked hook. To a young man away from home, friendless and forlorn in a great city, the hours of peril are those between sunset and bedtime, for the moon and stars see more of evil in a single hour than the sun in his whole day's circuit. The poet's visions of evening are all compact of tender and soothing images. It brings the wanderer to his home, the child to his mother's arms, the ox to his stall, and the weary laborer to his rest. But to the gentle-hearted youth who is thrown upon the rocks of a pitiless city, and stands "homeless amid a thousand homes," the approach of evening brings with it an aching sense of loneliness, and desolation which comes down upon the spirit like darkness upon the earth. In this mood, his best impulses become a snare to him, and he is led astray because he is social, affectionate, sympathetic, and warm-hearted. If there be a young man thus circumstanced within the sound of my voice, let me say to him that books are the friends of the friendless, and that a library is the home of the homeless. A taste for reading will always carry you into the best possible company, and enable you to converse with men who will instruct you by their wisdom and charm you by their wit, who will soothe you when fretted, refresh you when weary, counsel you when

perplexed, and sympathize with you at all times. Evil spirits, in the Middle Ages, were exorcised and driven away by bell, book, and candle; you want but two of these agents, the book and the candle.

Address before the Mercantile Library Association.

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 1808--1825.

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, second daughter of Dr. Oliver Davidson, was born, September 27, 1808, at Plattsburg, on Lake Champlain. Her parents were in straitened circumstances, and her mother in feeble health, and from these causes it became necessary that she should devote most of her time to domestic duties. But for these she had no inclination; and therefore, when her work was done, she retired to enjoy those intellectual and imaginative pursuits in which her whole heart was engaged. Her thirst for knowledge was wonderful; and before she was twelve years old, she had read Shakspeare, and many of the standard English poets. Though she had no one to direct or advise her, she continued not only to read poetry, but also to write it so as to excite the astonishment and admiration of every one. When about twelve years old, a gentleman who was delighted with her verses sent her a bank-note of twenty dollars. Her first joyful thought was that she had now the means of increasing her little stock of books; but, looking towards the sick bed of her mother, who had been confined by illness for many months, tears came into her eyes, and she instantly put the note into her father's hand, saying, "Take it, father: it will buy many comforts for mother. I can do without the books." Such an exhibition of filial love and gratitude endears her to us far more than all her poetry.

When she had just passed sixteen, a gentleman who was on a visit at Plattsburg, being made acquainted with her history, genius, and limited means, resolved to afford her the benefits of a good education. Accordingly, she was placed at the "Troy Female Seminary," where she had all the advantages for which she had hungered and thirsted. Here her application was incessant, and its effects on her constitution-already somewhat debilitated by previous disease-soon became apparent. On her return home in vacation, she had a serious illness, which left her more feeble than ever, and she gradually declined, till death released her pure spirit from its prison-house on the 27th of August, 1825. "In our own language," says the poet Southey, "we can call to mind no instance, except in the cases of Chatterton and Kirke White, of so early, so ardent, and so fatal a pursuit of intellectual advancement."

1 "Let no parent wish for a child of precocious genius, nor rejoice over such a one, without fear and trembling! Great endowments, whether of nature or of fortune, bring with them their full proportion of temptations and dangers; and, perhaps, in the endowments of nature the danger is greatest, because there is most at stake. It seems, in most cases, as if the seeds of moral and intellectual excellence were not designed to bring forth fruits on earth, but that they are brought into existence, and developed here, only for transportation to a world where there shall be nothing to corrupt or hurt them, nothing to impede their

In person, Miss Davidson was singularly beautiful: she had a high, open forehead, a soft black eye, perfect symmetry of features, a fair complexion, and luxuriant, dark hair. The prevailing expression of her face was melancholy.

SONG AT TWILIGHT.'

When evening spreads her shades around,
And darkness fills the arch of heaven;
When not a murmur, not a sound,

To Fancy's sportive ear is given;

When the broad orb of heaven is bright,
And looks around with golden eye;
When Nature, soften'd by her light,
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie;

Then, when our thoughts are raised above
This world, and all this world can give,
Oh, sister, sing the song I love,

And tears of gratitude receive!

The song which thrills my bosom's core,
And, hovering, trembles half afraid,
Oh, sister, sing the song once more
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made.

'Twere almost sacrilege to sing

Those notes amid the glare of day;
Notes borne by angels' purest wing,
And wafted by their breath away.
When, sleeping in my grass-grown bed,
Shouldst thou still linger here above,
Wilt thou not kneel beside my head,
And, sister, sing the song I love?

THE PROPHECY.

Let me gaze a while on that marble brow,
On that full dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow;
Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die,

I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy.

That brow may beam in glory a while;

That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile;
That full, dark eye may brightly beam

In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream;
But clouds shall darken that brow of snow,
And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow.

I know by that spirit so haughty and high,
I know by that brightly-flashing eye,

growth in goodness, and their progress towards perfection." Read the article in the "Quarterly Review" for November, 1829, by the poet Southey; also "Remains," by S. F. B. Morse.

Addressed to her sister, requesting her to sing Moore's "Farewell to his Harp."