agree.

and be as nothing. Your muskets will become sick (mati, or dead); your tomahawks will become worn to the handle, or lost; is it not so speak, white man, and say that my words and your heart Another chief, named Arripiro, also confirmed the sentiments of his liege, adding, What comparison can you make between the money of the white man (na pakahá), and the lands of the natives (na tangata maori)? Your money, like the hard water (haupapa, or snow) on the mountains of the south, will dissolve, in the purchase of such articles as we may require; your moni kora (gold money) will be exchanged for blankets (ná prankiti) and muskets (na poo); your moni torra (dollar or silver money) will be smoked away in tobacco (tupakka), or wasted in powder; is not also iron brittle? then be a generous man (tangata hoa) and make your payment a good one for us.' This stickler for the rights of man had not ceased his harangue, when, apprehensive of its probable prolixity, two of the lady proprietresses addressed us in a similar strain directed to the same object. I have no garment to make myself respectable of a Sunday,' said Khora, the lady love (wife we must add) of Reti, a chief also interested in the purchase: Runji-apiti, sister to the chief, also added in her shrill voice a confirmation of the plaintive fact, and that the payment should comprise an article of a similar nature for herself. The argument was concluded by Kamura, who spoke for his tribe. This tree,' he observed, pointing to one of the numerous peach-trees that fronted our residence at Parramatta; 'look at it should a single branch fall, does not another supply its place? if you die, the land you purchase will yet belong to your children, but what will fall to my children' (na tamariki naku), pointing to his tribe, 'when your payments have ceased to be serviceable? The payment was then arranged, and the several articles taken from the store, and laid in the centre of the circle, which the chiefs, females, and tribe, had made. Kamura, as head proprietor, distributed to each chief such articles as he knew they required, and in quantity according to the interest they personally possessed in the property, reserving a very minor portion to himself. The title deed was then read, describing with minute care the several boundary-lines, which on being named, was assentingly nodded to by the chiefs most interested in the part described. The deed was then presented to Kamura, in presence of several native chiefs, as witnesses on the part of the late owners, and some Europeans performing a similar service on our part. Kamura then drew his moko, or representation of a portion of the tattooing on his face, as his signature, which was followed by the other recipients of the purchase doing the same. Congratulation passed on both sides, the chief Kamura declaring that we had become incorporated in his tribe, as an actual possessor of territory in the same district as themselves. The slaves were also well pleased, as a moiety of the articles also fell to their share. On the titledeed being signed, as also by the European witnesses, the meeting separated, the natives taking to their canoes, well-pleased with the transaction of the day.

"Gifts of land from the natives to Europeans are not valid, nor are the promises of a chief to a European who obtains land in consequence of his cohabiting with the daughter or female relative to the chief. Such titles have been insisted on, after the European has left the country; in the mean time, the lands have been regularly purchased by another resident in the legal manner; the titular claim of the former is consequently out of the question, leaving no doubt as to the rightful owner.

Among the circumstances that entitle a native to become a claimant of land, unpurchased by a European, the following may

be mentioned :

"For having practised fishing for a length of time on the shores of a place, and sleeping there for the night.

"For having been in the habit of cutting bulrushes (raupo) in the marshes (if any) for covering houses.

"For having experienced a serious accident on the place, such as making an incision in the arm or leg in cutting fire-wood. For planting and reaping while the land was uncultivated, without let or hindrance, while in the native possession. "For a relative having been buried on the place. "For having fought in an engagement on the territory. "For dancing a war-dance on the land previous to, during, and after a battle, and even from circumstances yet more trivial.

RAMBLES OF AN AMERICAN NATURALIST.-No. V. BY JOHN D. GODMAN.

THOSE who have only lived in forest countries, where vast tracts are shaded by a dense growth of oak, ash, chestnut, hickory, and other trees of deciduous foliage, which present the most pleasing varieties of verdure and freshness, can have but little idea of the effect produced on the feelings by aged forests of pine, composed in great degree of a single species, whose towering summits are crowded with one dark green canopy, which successive seasons find unchanged, and nothing but death causes to vary. Their robust and gigantic trunks rise a hundred or more feet high, in purely proportioned columns, before the limbs begin to diverge; and their tops, densely clothed with long bristling foliage, intermingle so closely as to allow of but slight entrance to the sun. Hence the undergrowth of such forests is comparatively slight and thin, since none but shrubs and plants that love the shade can flourish under this perpetual exclusion of the animating and invigorating rays of the great exciter of the vegetable world. Through such forests and by the merest footpaths in great part, it was my lot to pass many miles almost every day; and had I not endeavoured to derive some amusement and instruction from the study of the forest itself, my time would have been as fatiguing to me as it was certainly quiet and solemn. But wherever Nature is, and under whatever form she may present herself, enough is always proffered to fix attention and produce pleasure, if we will condescend to observe with carefulness. I soon found that even a pine forest was far from being devoid of interest, and shall endeavour to prove this by stating the result of various observations made during the time I lived in this situation.

The common pitch, or, as it is generally called, Norway pine, grows from a seed which is matured in vast abundance in the large cones peculiar to the pines. This seed is of a rather triangular shape, thick and heavy at the part by which it grows from the cone, and terminating in a broad membranous fan or sail, which, when the seeds are shaken out by the wind, enables them to sail obliquely through the air to great distances. Should an old corn-field, or other piece of ground, be thrown out of cultivation for more than one season, it is sown with the pine seeds by the winds, and the young pines shoot up as closely and compactly as hemp. They continue to grow in this manner until they become twelve or fifteen feet high, until their roots begin to encroach on each other, or until the stoutest and best-rooted begin to overtop, so as entirely to shade the smaller. These gradually begin to fail, and finally dry up and perish; and a similar process is continued until the best trees acquire room enough to grow without impediment. Even when the young pines have attained to thirty or forty feet in height, and are as thick as a man's thigh, they stand so closely together, that their lower branches, which are all dry and dead, are intermingled sufficiently to prevent any one from passing between the trees without first breaking these obstructions away. I have seen such a wood as that just mentioned covering an old corn-field, whose ridges were still distinctly to be traced, and which an old resident informed me he had seen growing in corn. In a part of this wood, which was not far from my dwelling, I had a delightful retreat, that served me as a private study, or closet, though enjoying all the advantages of the open air. A road that had once passed through the field, and was of course more compacted than any other part, had denied access to the pine seeds for a certain distance, while on each side of it they grew with their usual density. The ground was covered with the soft layer or carpet of dried pineleaves, which gradually and imperceptibly fall throughout the year, making a most pleasant surface to tread on, and rendering the step perfectly noiseless. By beating off with a stick all the dried branches that projected towards the vacant space, I formed a sort of chamber, fifteen or twenty feet long, which above was canopied by the densely-mingled branches of the adjacent trees, which altogether excluded or scattered the rays of the sun, and on all sides was so shut in by the trunks of the young trees as to prevent all observation. Hither, during the hot season, I was accustomed to retire, for the purpose of reading or meditation; and within this deeper solitude, where all was solitary, very many of the subsequent movements of my life were suggested or devised.

From all I could observe, and all the inquiries I could get an

its full growth until it is eighty or ninety years old-nor does its time of full health and vigour much exceed a hundred. Before this time it is liable to the attacks of insects; but these are of a kind that bore the tender spring shoots to deposit their eggs therein,

and their larvæ appear to live principally on the sap, which is very abundant, so that the tree is but slightly injured. But after the pine has attained its acme, it is attacked by an insect which deposits its egg in the body of the tree, and the larva devours its way through the solid substance of the timber; so that, after a pine has been for one or two seasons subjected to these depredators, it will be fairly riddled, and if cut down is unfit for any other purpose than burning. Indeed, if delayed too long, it is poorly fit for firewood, so thoroughly do these insects destroy its substance. At the same time that one set of insects is engaged in destroying the body, myriads of others are at work under the bark, destroying the sap vessels, and the foliage wears a more and more pale and sickly appearance as the tree declines in vigour. If not cut down, it eventually dies, becomes leafless, stripped of its bark, and, as the decay advances, all the smaller branches are broken off, and it stands with its naked trunk and a few ragged limbs, as if bidding defiance to the tempest which howls around its head. Under favourable circumstances, a large trunk will stand in this condition for nearly a century, so extensive and powerful are its roots, so firm and stubborn the original knitting of its giant frame. At length some storm, more furious than all its predecessors, wrenches those ponderous roots from the soil, and hurls the helpless carcass to the earth, crushing all before it in its fall. Without the aid of fire, or some peculiarity of situation favourable to rapid decomposition, full another hundred years will be requisite to reduce it to its element, and obliterate the traces of its existence. Indeed, long after the lapse of more than that period, we find the heart of the pitch-pine still preserving its original form, and from being thoroughly imbued with turpentine, become utterly indestructible except by fire.

If the proprietor attend to the warnings afforded by the woodpecker, he may always cut his pines in time to prevent them from being injured by insects. The woodpeckers run up and around the trunks, tapping from time to time with their powerful bills. The bird knows at once by the sound whether there be insects below or not. If the tree is sound, the woodpecker forsakes it for another; should he begin to break into the bark, it is to catch the worm, and such trees are at once to be marked for the axe. In felling such pines, I found the woodmen always anxious to avoid letting them strike against neighbouring sound trees, as they said that the insects more readily attacked an injured tree than one whose bark was unbroken. The observation is most probably correct; at least the experience of country folks in such matters is rarely wrong, though they sometimes give very odd reasons for the processes they adopt.

A full-grown pine-forest is at all times a grand and majestic object to one accustomed to moving through it. Those vast and towering columns, sustaining a waving crown of deepest verdure; those robust and rugged limbs standing forth at a vast height overhead, loaded with the cones of various seasons; and the diminutiveness of all surrounding objects compared with these gigantic children of nature,-cannot but inspire ideas of seriousness, and even of melancholy. But how awful and even tremendous does such a situation become, when we hear the first wailings of the gathering storm, as it stoops upon the lofty summits of the pine, and soon increases to a deep hoarse roaring, as the boughs begin to wave in the blast, and the whole tree is forced to sway before its power! In a short time the fury of the wind is at its height, the loftiest trees bend suddenly before it, and scarce regain their upright position ere they are again obliged to cower beneath its violence. Then the tempest literally howls, and amid the tremendous reverberations of thunder, and the blazing glare of the lightning, the unfortunate wanderer hears around him the crash of numerous trees hurled down by the storm, and knows not but the next may be precipitated upon him. More than once have I witnessed all the grandeur, dread, and desolation of such a scene, and have always found safety either by seeking as quickly as possible a spot where there were none but young trees, or, if on the main road, choosing the most open and exposed situation, out of the reach of the large trees. There, seated on my horse, who seemed to understand the propriety of such patience, I would quietly remain, however thoroughly drenched, until the fury of the wind was completely over. To say nothing of the danger from falling trees, the peril of being struck by the lightning, which so frequently shivers the loftiest of them, is so great as to render any attempt to advance, at such time, highly imprudent.

Like the ox among animals, the pine-tree may be looked upon as one of the most universally useful of the sons of the forest. For all sorts of building, for firewood, tar, turpentine, rosin, lampblack, and a vast variety of other useful products, this tree is in

valuable to man. Nor is it a pleasing contemplation, to one who knows its usefulness, to observe to how vast an amount it is annually destroyed in America, beyond the proportion that nature can possibly supply. However, we are not disposed to believe that this evil will ever be productive of very great injury, especially as coal fuel is becoming annually more extensively used. Nevertheless, were I the owner of a pine-forest, I should exercise a considerable degree of care in the selection of the wood for the axe. Among the enemies with which the farmers of a poor or light soil have to contend, I know of none so truly formidable and injurious as the crows, whose numbers, cunning, and audacity can scarcely be appreciated, except by those who have had long-continued and numerous opportunities of observation. Possessed of the most acute sense, and endowed by nature with a considerable share of reasoning power, these birds bid defiance to almost all the contrivances resorted to for their destruction; and when their numbers have accumulated to vast multitudes, which annually occurs, it is scarcely possible to estimate the destruction they are capable of effecting. Placed in a situation where every object was subjected to close observation, as a source of amusement, it is not surprising that my attention should be drawn to so conspicuous an object as the crow; and having once commenced remarking the peculiarities of this bird, I continued to bestow attention upon it during many years, in whatever situation it was met with. The thicklywooded and well-watered parts of the state of Maryland, as affording them a great abundance of food, and almost entire security during their breeding season, are especially infested by these troublesome creatures; so that at some times of the year they are collected in numbers which would appear incredible to any one unaccustomed to witness their accumulations.

Individually, the common crow (corvus corona) may be compared in character with the brown or Norway rat, being, like that quadruped, addicted to all sorts of mischief, destroying the lives of any small creatures that may fall in its way, plundering with audacity wherever anything is exposed to its rapaciousness, and triumphing, by its cunning, over the usual artifices employed for the destruction of ordinary noxious animals. Where food is at any time scarce, or the opportunity for such marauding inviting, there is scarcely a young animal about the farm-yards safe from the attacks of the crow. Young chickens, ducks, goslings, and even little pigs when quite young and feeble, are carried off by them. They are not less eager to discover the nests of domestic fowls, and will sit very quietly in sight, at a convenient distance, until the hen leaves the nest, and then fly down and suck her eggs at leisure. But none of their tricks excited in me a greater interest than the observation of their attempts to rob a hen of her chicks. The crow, alighting at a little distance from the hen, would advance in an apparently careless way towards the brood, when the vigilant parent would bristle up her feathers, and rush at the black rogue to drive him off. After several such approaches, the hen would become very angry, and would chase the crow to a greater distance from the brood. This is the very object the robber has in view; for as long as the parent keeps near her young, the crow has very slight chance of success; but as soon as he can induce her to follow him to a little distance from the brood, he takes advantage of his wings, and before she can regain her place, has flown over her, and seized one of her chickens. When the cock is present, there is still less danger from such an attack; for chanticleer shows all his vigilance and gallantry in protecting his tender offspring, though it frequently happens that the number of hens with broods renders it impossible for him to extend his care to all. When the crow tries to carry off a gosling from the mother, it requires more daring and skill, and is far less frequently successful, than in the former instance. If the gander be in company, which he almost uniformly is, the crow has his labour in vain. Notwithstanding the advantages of flight and superior cunning, the honest vigilance and determined bravery of the former are too much for him. His attempts to approach, however cautiously conducted, are promptly met, and all his tricks rendered unavailing, by the fierce movements of the gander, whose powerful blows the crow seems to be well aware might effectually disable him. The first time I witnessed such a scene, I was at the side of a creek, and saw on the opposite shore a goose with her goslings beset by a crow: from the apparent alarm of the mother and brood, it seemed to me they must be in great danger, and I called to the owner of the place, who happened to be in sight, to inform him of their situation. Instead of going to their relief, he shouted back to me, to ask if the gander was not there too; and as soon as he was answered in the affirmative, he bid me be under no uneasiness, as the crow would find his match. Nothing could

next meal.

exceed the cool impudence and pertinacity of the crow, who, perfectly regardless of my shouting, continued to worry the poor gander for an hour, by his efforts to obtain a nice gosling for his At length, convinced of the fruitlessness of his efforts, he flew off to seek some more easily procurable food. Several crows sometimes unite to plunder the goose of her young, and are then generally successful, because they are able to distract the attention of the parents, and lure them farther from their young. In the summer, the crows disperse in pairs for the purpose of raising their young; and then they select lofty trees in the remotest parts of the forest, upon which, with dry sticks and twigs, they build a large strong nest, and line it with softer materials. They lay four or five eggs, and when they are hatched, feed, attend, and watch over their young with the most zealous devotion. Should any one by chance pass near the nest while the eggs are still unhatched or the brood are very young, the parents keep close, and neither by the slightest movement or noise betray their presence. But

if the young are fledged, and beginning to take their first lessons in flying, the approach of a man, especially if armed with a gun, calls forth all their cunning and solicitude. The young are immediately placed in the securest place at hand, where the foliage is thickest, and remain perfectly motionless and quiet. Not so the alarmed parents, both of which fly nearer and nearer to the hunter, uttering the most discordant screams, with an occasional peculiar note, which seems intended to direct or warn their young. So close do they approach, and so clamorous are they as the hunter endeavours to get a good view of them on the tree, that he is almost uniformly persuaded the young crows are also concealed there; but he does not perceive, as he is cautiously trying to get within gunshot, that they are moving from tree to tree, and at each remove are farther and farther from the place where the young are hid. After continuing this trick until it is impossible that the hunter can retain any idea of the situation of the young ones, the parents cease their distressing outcries, fly quietly to the most convenient lofty tree, and calmly watch the movements of their disturber. Now and then they utter a loud quick cry, which seems intended to bid their offspring lie close and keep quiet; and it is very generally the case that they escape all danger by their obedience. An experienced crow-killer watches eagerly for the tree where the crows first start from; and if this can be observed, he pays no attention to their clamours, or pretence of throwing themselves in his way, as he is satisfied they are too vigilant to let him get a shot at them; and if he can see the young, he is tolerably sure

readily.

of them all, because of their inability to fiv or change place The time of the year in which the farmers suffer most from them is in the spring, before their enormous congregations disperse, and when they are rendered voracious by the scantiness of their winter fare. Woe betide the corn-field which is not closely watched when the young grain begins to shoot above the soil! If not well guarded, a host of these marauders will settle upon it at the first light of the dawn; and before the sun has risen far above the horizon, will have plundered every shoot of the germinating seed, by first drawing it skilfully from the moist earth by the young stalk, and then swallowing the grain. The negligent or careless planter, who does not visit his field before breakfast, finds, on his arrival, that he must either replant his corn or relinquish hopes of a crop ; and, without the exertion of due vigilance, he may be obliged to repeat this process twice or thrice the same season. Where the crows go to rob a field in this way, they place one or more sentinels, according to circumstances, in convenient places; and these are exceedingly vigilant, uttering a single warning call, which puts the whole to flight the instant there is the least appearance of danger or interruption. Having fixed their sentinels, they begin regularly at one part of the field, and pursuing the rows along, pulling up each shoot in succession, and biting off the corn at the root. The green shoots thus left along the rows, if they had been arranged with care, offer a melancholy memorial of the work which has been effected by these cunning and destructive plunderers.

Numerous experiments have been made, where the crows are thus injurious, to avert their ravages; and the method I shall now relate, I have seen tried with the most gratifying success. In a large tub a portion of tar and grease were mixed, so as to render the tar sufficiently thin and soft; and to this was added a portion of slacked lime in powder, and the whole stirred until thoroughly incorporated. The seed-corn was then thrown in, and stirred with the mixture until each grain received a uniform coating. The corn was then dropped in the rills, and covered as usual. This treatment was found to retard the germination about three days, as the mixture greatly excludes moisture from the grain. But the crows

did no injury to the field; they pulled up a small quantity in different parts of the planting to satisfy themselves it was all alike; upon becoming convinced of which, they quietly left it for some less carefully managed grounds, where pains had not been taken to make all the corn so nauseous and bitter.

It rarely happens that any of the works of Nature are wholly productive of evil; and even the crows, troublesome as they are, contribute in a small degree to the good of the district they frequent. Thus, though they destroy eggs and young poultry, plunder the corn-fields, and carry off whatever may serve for food, they also rid the surface of the earth of a considerable quantity of carrion, and a vast multitude of insects and their destructive larvæ. The crows are very usefully employed when they alight upon newly-ploughed fields, and pick up great numbers of those large and long-lived worms which are so destructive to the roots of all growing vegetables; and they are scarcely less so when they follow the seine-haulers along the shores, and pick up the small fishes, which would otherwise be left to putrefy and load the air with unpleasant vapours. Nevertheless, they become far more numerous in some parts of the country than is at all necessary to the good of the inhabitants; and whoever would devise a method of lessening their number suddenly, would certainly be doing a service to the community.

THE FUNERAL OF A MOTH.

A CHILD'S VISION.

A LITTLE child had been amusing itself at the feet of its mother, kicking and rolling about, and playing all sorts of antics, when it espied a moth disengage itself from the fibres of the carpet, and poise its small wing with a short, wavering flight. The child stopped its noisy song, rolled over upon all-fours, and commenced a scramble for the poor insect, slapping its clumsy hand upon the carpet in the hope of striking it down. It did so at last-the moth fell upon its side, quivered slightly, and was still.

The child would have taken it in his hand, but suddenly there was a sound as of innumerable tiny bells tolling, and very low sad music. He laid his check upon his arm, the bright curls falling all about the carpet, and his little feet stretched out, and crossed one over the other, the disarranged tunic revealing liberally his round white limbs, indolently exposed. Thus the child lay. listening to the music, that seemed to say—

"Alas! for death is amongst us."

It could not tell what was meant, but it saw that the beautiful moth stirred not, and it felt something very sad must have happened. At length a large black beetle was seen to move slowly along, and look at the little insect, and then, while the eyes of the child were fixed intently to see what would come of it, the beetle seemed a little, small old woman, much wrinkled, and dressed in black. She moved about quite briskly, and the child could scarce forbear a smile to see such an alert, diminutive thing. His mother's little gold thimble had fallen from her basket, and now stood upon the carpet beside the dead moth; and the child observed that the little She took a robe, woman in black was not as tall as the thimble. made of the fibres of a rose-leaf, from her pocket, and shrouded the moth, singing all the time,

Rest thee; sad and early call'd

From our pleasant haunts away, Where we meet in sunset revels At the close of summer-day."

The child heard the hum of their voices when he had ceased to distinguish the words. Then he arose, and laying his head upon his mother's lap, wept bitterly, telling her what he had heard and seen, and asking what death meant. She talked long upon the sad but pleasant subject, telling of that land where death is not, till the heart of the little child grew joyous within him, and he called that land his home. Had the child been less young or less innocent, the visions of the moth's funeral had not been vouchsafed. But he never from that time wantonly destroyed the humblest creature made by the wisdom, the goodness, and love of our Heavenly Father. He saw there was room enough in the great world, and in the pleasant sunshine, for him and them; and he remembered that a better land had been promised to man onlytherefore he would not abridge the few days of happiness granted the little insect. The child daily grew gentle and loving; for the exercise of kindness, even in one simple instance, had fixed the principle in his young heart, till it expanded so that it embraced all the creatures made by our great and good Parent. It was thus that he learned, not only to love worthily the good and loving, but even those in whom the image of God, stamped upon the human soul, had become marred and effaced by sin. He loved and prayed even for these, and the blessedness of such prayers returned upon his own head. Thus did the child learn a lesson of wisdom and of goodness from the Funeral of the Moth.-From the Ladies' Companion, a New York Monthly Magazine.

EDUCATION AND EMIGRATION.

Two things, great things, dwell, for the last ten years, in all thinking heads in England; and are hovering of late even on the tongues of not a few. Universal education is the first great thing; general emigration is the second.

Who would suppose that education were a thing which had to be advocated on the ground of local expediency, or indeed on any ground? It is a thing that should need no advocating. Were it not a cruel thing to see, in any province of an empire, the inhabitants living all mutilated in their limbs, each strong man with his right arm lamed? How much crueller to find the strong soul, with its eyes still sealed, its eyes extinct so that it sees not! Light has come into the world, but to this poor peasant it has come in vain. For six thousand years the sons of Adam, in sleepless effort, have been devising, doing, discovering; in mysterious infinite indissoluble communion, warring, a little band of brothers, against the great black empire of Necessity and Night; they have accomplished such a conquest and conquests: and to this man it is all as if it had not been. The four-and-twenty letters of the Alphabet are still Runic enigmas to him. Oh! what are bills of rights, emancipations of black slaves into black apprentices, lawsuits in chancery for some short usufruct of a bit of land? The grand "seed-field of Time" is this man's, and you give it him not. Time's seed-field, which includes the earth and all her seed-fields and pearl-oceans, nay-her sowers, too, and pearl-divers-all that was wise, and heroic, and victorious, here below; of which the earth's centuries are but as furrows, for it stretches forth from the beginning onward even unto this day!

"My inheritance, how lordly wide and fair!
Time is my fair seed-field, to Time I'm heir!

Heavier wrong is not done under the sun. It lasts from year to year, from century to century; the blinded sire slaves himself out, and leaves a blinded son; and men, made in the image of God, continue as two-legged beasts of labour; and in the largest empire of the world, it is a debate whether a small fraction of the revenue of one day (30,000l. is but that), shall after Thirteen Centuries, be laid out on it!

All new epochs, so convulsed and tumultuous to look upon, are "expansions," increase of faculty not yet organised. It is eminently true of the confusions of this time of ours. The confusions, if we would understand them, are, at bottom, mere increase, which we know not yet how to manage; 'new wealth which the old coffers will not hold." How true is this, above all, of the strange phenomenon called "over-population! Over-population is the grand anomaly which is bringing all other anomalies to a crisis. Now, once more, as at the end of the Roman empire, a most confused epoch, and yet one of the greatest, the Teutonic countries find themselves too full. On a certain western rim of our small

Europe, there are more men than were expected? Heaped up against the western shore there, and for a couple of hundred miles inward, the tide of population swells too high, and confuses itself somewhat! Over-population? And yet, if this small western rim of Europe is over-peopled, does not everywhere else a whole vacant earth, as it were, call to us, "Come and till me, come and reap me!". Can it be an evil that in an earth such as ours there should be new men? Considered as mercantile commodities, as working machines, is there in Birmingham or out of it a machine of such value? A white European man, standing on his two legs, with his two five-fingered hands at his shackle-bones, and miraculous head on his shoulders, is worth something considerable, one would say! The stupid black African man brings money in the market; the much stupider four-footed horse brings money; it is we that have not yet learned the art of managing our white European man!-Chartism, by Thomas Carlyle,

HOME.

THAT is not home, where, day by day,

I wear the busy hours away.
That is not home, where lonely night
Prepares me for the toils of light.
'Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give
A home in which the heart can live.
These walls no lingering hopes endear;
No fond remembrance chains me here.
Cheerless, I heave the lonely sigh-
Eliza, need I tell thee why?
'Tis where thou art is home to me,
And home without thee cannot be.

There are who strangely love to roam,
And find in wildest haunts their home;
And some in halls of lordly state,
Who yet are homeless, desolate.
The warrior's home is tented plain;
The sailor's, on the stormy main;
The maiden's, in her bower of rest;
The infant's, on his mother's breast.
And where thou art is home to me,
And home without thee cannot be,

There is no home in halls of pride:
They are too high, and cold, and wide,
No home is by the wanderer found:
'Tis not in place--it hath no bound.
It is a circling atmosphere,
Investing all the heart holds dear;→
A law of strange attractive force,
That holds the feelings in their course.
It is a presence undefined,
O'ershadowing the conscious mind,
Where Love and Duty sweetly blend,
To consecrate the name of Friend.
Where'er thou art is home to me,
And home without thee cannot be.

My love, forgive the anxious sigh-
I hear the moments rushing by,
And think that life is fleeting fast,
That youth with us will soon be past.
Oh, when will Time, consenting, give
The home in which my heart can live?
There shall the past and future meet,
And o'er our couch, in union sweet,
Extend their cherub wings, and show'r
Bright influence on the present hour.
Oh, when shall Israel's mystic guide,
The pillar'd cloud, our steps decide,
Then resting, spread its guardian shade
To bless the home which Love has made?
Daily, my love, shall thence arise
Our hearts' united sacrifice;
And home indeed a home will be,
Thus consecrate and shared with thee.

JOSIAH CONDER.