journey of life. A friend well chosen is the greatest, treasure we can possess. We have in such a friend the addition of another mind, whose strength supplies our weakness, and whose virtues render us ambitious of the same. We see frequent instances that men alone in the world--unknown, and unvalued, will commit errors, we might say vices, from which the well-timed warning of a friend would have restrained them, and stain their character with follies, for which, if a friend had blushed, they too would have been ashamed. All the endearing associations which enhance our pleasures, or console us under affliction, are centred in the name of friend. When the stroke of adversity falls upon us, the sympathy of a true friend takes away half its heaviness. When the world misunderstands our meaning, and attributes bad motives to what are only ill-judged actions, we think (with what satisfaction those who have experienced the feeling alone can tell) that there is one who knows us better. When good fortune comes unexpectedly upon us, in a tide too sudden and too full for enjoyment, we hasten to our friend who shares the overplus and leaves us happy. When doubtfully we tread the dangerous path of life, misdirected by our passions, and bewildered by our fears, we look for the hand of friendship to point out the safe footing, from whence we shall bless our guide. When wounded, slighted, and cast back into the distance, by those whose fickle favour we had sought to win, we exclaim in the midst of our disappointments, "There is one who loves me still!" And when wearied with the warfare of the world, and "sick of its harsh sounds, and sights," we return to the communion of friendship, as we rest after a laborious journey, in a safe sweet garden of refreshment and peace. There is unquestionably much to be done in the way of cultivating this garden, and maintaining our right to possess it; but it repays us for the price,

and when we have exercised forbearance, and inter changed kind offices, and spoken, and borne to hear the truth, and been faithful, and gentle, and sincer we find a recompense in our own bosoms, as well a in the affections of our friend.

There are yet other modifications of love such al that which constitutes the chain of domestic unionthe love of brothers and sisters; and lastly, and mos to be revered as the foundation of family concord and social happiness, we might almost say of moral feeling the love which subsists between parents and children uniting on one hand the tenderest impressions we have received, with the first lessons we have learned on the other, the warmest affection, with the weighties! responsibility. The weakness and the waywardnes: of a child watched over by parental love, directed by parental care, and reclaimed by parental authority, are so frequently alluded to in the Scriptures, when describing the condition of man in reference to his Maker, and in themselves harmonize so entirely with that relation, that we use the name of "Heavenly Father," not only in obedience to scriptural authority, but because we comprehend in these holy words, the highest object of our love, our gratitude, and our veneration.

We cannot better conclude this chapter than with the following appropriate lines by Southey.

"They sin who tell us love can die.
With life all other passions fly,

All others are but vanity.

In heaven ambition cannot dwell,

Nor avarice in the depths of hell.

Earthly these passions, as of earth,

They perish where they have their birth.
But love is indestructible;

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From heaven it came, to heaven returneth;

Too oft on earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times oppressed,

It here is tried and purified,
And hath in heaven its perfect rest;
It soweth here with toil and care,
But the harvest time of love is there.
Oh! when a mother meets on high
The babe she lost in infancy,

Hath she not then, for pains and fears,
The day of wo, the anxious night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight!"

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THE POETRY OF GRIEF.

THE poetry of grief is exhibited under so great a variety of forms, all capable of so wide a difference in character and degree, that it will be necessary to speak of the sentiment of grief, first, under that mild and softened aspect which assumes the name of sadness or melancholy, and then as a gloomy passion, absorbing every faculty of the soul.

Of all the distinctive characters assumed by grief, from simple sadness to wild despair, melancholy is the most poetical, because while it operates as a stimulant to the imagination, its influence is so gentle as to leave all the other intellectual powers at full liberty to exercise their particular functions. Burton speaks of melancholy as engendering strange conceits-as quickening the perceptions, and expanding the faculties of the mind; and Lord Byron, scarcely less intimate than this quaint old writer with the different mental maladies to which our nature is liable, describes the "glance of melancholy" as "a fearful gift."

"What is it but the telescope of truth
Which strips the distance of its phantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real?"

When melancholy takes possession of the soul, we lose as it were the perspective of our mental vision. We forget the relative proportions of things, and mistaking the small for the great, or the distant for the near, magnify their importance, examine their particular parts, and fill our imaginations with their nature

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and essence. This is in fact making the cold reality too real;" for though there is much of truth in the vivid perceptions of melancholy, it is truth misplaced truth with which the wise man has little to do, but which ministers powerfully to the wretchedness of the "mind diseased."

Being in our nature as liable to pain as we are susceptible of pleasure; and by the neglect of our privileges, and abuse of our faculties, subjected to the experience of even greater suffering than enjoyment; it necessarily follows, that those views of the condition of man which are tinctured with the sombre hues of melancholy, should be regarded as the most natural as well as the most interesting. There is little poetry in mirth, or even in perfect happiness, except as it is contrasted with misery; and thus all attempts to describe the perfection of heavenly beatitude fail to interest our feelings. The joys of heaven are, according to the writers who have ventured upon these descriptions, chiefly made up of luxuries which in this world money alone can purchase, and money is connected in our ideas with toil and strife, with envy, and jealousy, and never-ending vexation; or they con, sist of fountains always pure, flowers that never fade, and skies which no cloud has ever obscured— things which we find it difficult to conceive; or of perpetual praises sung by an innumerable host of saints -an employment which we are not yet able to separate from ideas of monotony and weariness. Far more touching and more descriptive of that state to which the experienced soul learns to aspire as to its greatest bliss, are those descriptions and allusions abounding in the Holy Scriptures, and particularly in the Book of Revelations, where a great multitude which no man could number, are seen standing around the throne arrayed in white robes, and with palms in their hands and when the question is asked, who are these, and whence came they? it is answered, "these