becomes engrossed with material life, unless cherished like one of the precious germs of his being. Wordsworth expresses something like this sentiment in the following lines:

Heaven lies about us in our infancy :

Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy;

But he beholds the light, and whence it flows,
He sees it in his joy.

The youth, who daily further from the East
Must travel still, is Nature's Priest,

And by the vision splendid

Is on his way attended.

At length the man perceives it die away,

And fade into the light of common day.

The child's heaven remains spread about him, its kingdom is close at hand, and he is invited "to come" into it, by the flowers all about him, by the shining of the stars, and the whispering of the wind. These constitute the alphabet of Nature's language, by which she reveals herself even to a little child, so that he may afterwards learn to read her book as a story, without an end-or he may become inattentive and indifferent to her, so that she will be to him a "sealed book," and even her glorious handwriting on the walls of the firmament shall have no more significance to him than an undeciphered hieroglyphic.

It is the spirit that giveth life. The man who has no love of nature lives in the midst of lifeless unmeaning forms, from which he is quite isolated,

except for certain material purposes. He is not a part of Nature's harmonious whole, but a dry, cold unit. He fills his lungs with the air of heaven, and feeds himself on the fruits of the earth, and enlists the magic potency of the north star in the pilotage of his ships, and yet has no distinct recognition of the wonderful circle of affinities of which he is himself the centre, linking him with Nature in all her ramifications, and subjecting him to her most subtle influences. He is glad of a bright sun, because it will ripen his grain; of clouds, because they will pour down rain for the same purpose. He is glad of day for labor, and night for rest. The sun is not the king of day, but simply light and warmth, and the facilitator of many plans. The clouds are not His "pavilion round about Him" who made them, but rain-sifters. Night is not a peerless queen, with a coronet of diamonds upon her brow, but darkness; day is not an uncovering of the fair face of Nature, and the filling of her countenance with light and beauty, but the opener of workshops and factories, the uplifter of signals for labor, the appointer of taskwork. He beholds, without emotion, the perpetually recurring miracle of the morning's dawn— the newly-created day. Its freshness is not imparted to his soul; its marvellous beauty, as it gradually bursts into bloom, is not reflected there; its hymn of joy is not heard there; its anthems

of praise to its great Author find there no response. He sees not how jocund it "stands on the misty mountain-tops;" how out of its glorious chambers it brings out a garment of light wherewith to cover the earth. He has no fellowship with it—it does not bring a corresponding morning in his soul, nor enlarge it by its beautiful expansion; it awakens no gratitude within him.

But one who is in Nature's secrets, who is her lover, and to whom she is a friend and a revealer of God, has his own peculiar share in all her glories and beauties, and is elevated, refreshed and strengthened by them. They confer upon him a kind of state, which he will do nothing to dishonour, among the essential attributes of which are purity, refinement, and nobleness of soul.

Gratitude to God for making the world so beautiful ought to be inculcated. I am often made both sorry and indignant by hearing it spoken of as such a miserable place. Men can mar it to any extent; but God has made it lovely, and spread his tender mercies over it. No season is without its charm. In winter, nature does not die, but lies entranced in great pomp of state. Snowcovered mountains are transfigured, and their raiment is white and glistering. Others have a royal robe of blue, more magnificent than that they wear at any other period. The forms of the bare trees are so beautiful, that you are content not to

have them "clothed upon." The fresh snow has the purity of the heavens from which it falls. The evergreens, which it touches but to adorn, stand as beautiful emblems of immortality; and the skies above are clear and gorgeous beyond the dream of a summer-worshipper. Notwithstanding my long observation of the fact, that in the dullest day, and when nature's aspect is most forbidding, some charm will be unexpectedly revealed, it has often surprised me to see a flash of her countenance, like that which an eye suddenly kindled darts over a human face.

The question, of what use are the influences of nature, resolves itself into one, the irreverence of which will be easily acknowledged. Why did God, who does nothing in vain, make the world beautiful? and give to man the perception of beauty? As well ask, what need have earthly beings, whose material wants necessarily claim much of their time and attention, to be surrounded with all possible aids for the development of their spiritual natures. What need has selfish man, prone to be occupied with his own petty interests, of that which shall make him look away from himself? What need has plodding man, whose eyes are bent on the ground, to have them uplifted towards God? What need has vulgar man, whose nature has so much that is kindred with the brute, to be refined and elevated? What need has sorrowing man to

see God's love and pity expressed in beautiful symbols on every side of him? What need has artistic man for nature's exquisite models and rich materials? What need has weary man for refreshment procured without labor, that he can drink in with every sense? What need has the poor man of a banquet where no payment is demanded, and where no one shall say to him, "Friend give place"-because he is in his father's house? And lastly, What need has the solitary man of soothing companionship? In the great sense, there is but one mediator between God and man. Nature is also a mediator between him and his creatures, because she is a medium of influence from him, and of communion with him. Natural religion is the worthy handmaid of revealed religion, and many of the heathen, doubtless, have lived much nearer to God, in consequence of her ministrations, than they would otherwise have done. I have no doubt, too, that the asperities of religious creeds have been softened through her influences, and their bad effects in some degree corrected.

I once heard a clergyman in the pulpit describe the effect upon a young man, of a sermon upon the awful nature of sin, and the terrible punishment that awaited the sinner of an "avenging God," which filled his soul with horror, and wrought him to a pitch of tremendous and most painful excitement. As he emerged from the tem