Winter invades the Spring, and often pours Though this is poetry, yet poetry utters a great many truths; and it is a very curious and suggestive fact that English climate and character so entirely coincide. John Bull is a blustering fellow, just like his winds, and, if his climate is fickle and sudden in its changes, so is he moody and his tempers uncertain. Are his winters frosty, and his summers genial? So are his likes and his dislikes, his loves and his hates; he has much winter and not a little sunshine mingled in his character. Now, if we turn to France, we shall find a people of very different character, and an equally diverse climate. The atmosphere is soft and transparent, and the temperature uniform and genial. Every breeze is freighted with the odor of flowers, and every grove is vocal with the song of birds. Now, though we would not ascribe everything to climate, yet how strikingly do French manners coincide with the aspects of nature around them! "The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, In Italy, the same correspondences exist between the face of the country and the character of the people; for, though it be true that idleness and sensuality have debased the Italian character, and brought down its high aspirings, yet such is the magic of their sunny clime that, despite the most adverse moral influences, it still, chameleon-like, reflects the hues of the scenes amid which it is nursed. We shall find a further confirmation of our idea by a reference to barbarous nations. The life of the poor Esquimaux is peculiarly dreary, rendered so as much by their modes of life as by their climate. Captain Parry says they are dull and gloomy, living together like swine in snow-houses and dark caves, and that they are scarcely ever seen to laugh or heard to joke. All the circumstances of their lives conduce to these results. A poet has embodied these ideas in the following beautiful lines:— "Half enlivened by the distant sun, That rears and ripens man, as well as plants, Here, human nature wears its rudest form. Deep from the piercing season sunk in caves, Here, by dull fires, and with unjoyous cheer, They waste the tedious gloom. Immersed in furs, Doze the gross race. Nor sprightly jest nor song, Nor tenderness they know; nor aught of life Beyond the kindred bears that stalk without." It may be said that the vices of these people have blunted their sensibilities, and rendered them brutal and dull. If we but turn our eyes to the islands of the Southern Pacific, we shall see a people more degraded, equally destitute of education, and, so far as we know, equally low in natural endowments. But do we find the same dullness, grossness, stupidity, and gloominess that characterize the Esquimaux? Here, the sun shines in all his glory, gilding the mountains and trees and waters with his radiance, and making the earth beautiful to look upon; here flowers bloom, birds sing, and warm and soft breezes blow. Can man be gloomy here? Can he resist the spirit of gladness that breathes around? These islanders are expert and elegant dancers. Unlike their northern brethren, they rejoice in a rude music, and take pleasure in social assemblages and personal display. Dancing is generally regarded as an indication of hilarity, and of some degree of exhilaration of animal spirits, though, in promiscuous assemblies, certainly attended with a deterioration of manners; yet, so far as it is the expression of gayety in these islanders, it shows a correspondence between their climate and character. No such amusement obtains in rude climes and on inhospitable shores. These observations might be extended to all the countries of the earth. Wherever extremes in climate and striking characteristics of natural scenery obtain, we are certain to find corresponding developments of character in the people. Certainly, the instances are not all equally striking or manifest, yet are we never without some signal proof of the facts in question. As before observed, we do not refer all the peculiarities of character that distinguish one nation from another to the influences of external nature; on the contrary, we believe that Nature lays the foundation of many of them, and Some may be traced to the influences of other nations, to traditional and religious observances, and other causes. If our facts and observations have established the proposition that the aspect of external nature exerts a very important influence in moulding the character of man, we think the fact itself cannot be devoid of interest as a matter of curious information, or barren of instruction in matters of higher moment. If it is the law of man's nature that he becomes assimilated to the things around him, it becomes important for him to bestow some attention upon the architecture of his dwellings and places of constant resort, and upon the aspect of their position and adornments. We know that this law of our nature has been taken advantage of in bygone ages to nurse the worst superstitions, and even now resort is had to the same measures for impressions to bolster up decaying systems of error. The law of assimilation is peculiarly active in associations between moral and intelligent beings. We are told, in the Scriptures, that "we all with open face beholding, as in a glass, the glory of the Lord, are changed into the same image from glory to glory, even as by the Spirit of the Lord." What a glorious assimilation is this! With what gratitude should we reflect on the fact that God has given us natures susceptible of such glorious trans formations, and capable of such high attainments in the scale of being! Scripture exhortations to cheerfulness have a reference to the same law. "A sad countenance" seems to be the peculiar characteristic of the hypocrite, and is always a premonition of moral blight. POETRY. This lofty mount, The Sweet-smelling herbs, and fragrant buds, Behold the Sabbath! O sacred morn, that saw the rock-closed tomb Resolves. Breathe strength once more their stiffened joints Their pleasant voices ring; invading, with VOL. XLV.-33 Mount Tom, with joy, the merry peal receives The farmer's wife looks glad Each humble cot, With careful steps, across the village green, O fragrant flowers THE SILENT MULTITUDE OF THE DEAD. O MIGHTY city of the dead! what numerous hosts are here; And yet all motionless they lie, unmov'd by sorrow's tear, Or by the mourner's wailing grief, who weeping stands above This temple fill'd with pulseless hearts of lost and buried love. Though gladsome rays of morning come to gild the hallowed spot, Unnoticed all their glories shine; the sleepers heed them not: Though radiant beams of noontide fall with clear, effulgent light, Yet to that silent multitude 'tis one long dreamless night. The evening sunshine kindly stays to throw its influence there, And twilight's pitying dews descend to weep the gentle tear; That hour so full of holy thought, to sweet communion given, When the spirits of the loved below commune with those in Heaven. But beauty all of earth and air, of sky and boundless seaThe glorious face that nature wears, all glad and bright and free Charm not the sleepers resting here, nor cause one throb of joy: O Death, insatiate conqueror! thou 'rt mighty to destroy. The husband here in calmness lies, and resting at his side Is she, his heart's young chosen one, his fond and trusting bride: He cares not that she there reclines in quiet by him now, For Death's unfeeling touch has chilled that fair and polished brow. When, with the sunset's tearful gleam, And scented vine and slender tree, I met a maiden in my walk, A blossom that was scarcely blown, With summer folded in her heart, And fragrant in her tone. And soon came to her shaded eyes A joy which none before had taught herA light soft as the mirrored star, When dusk is on the water. It was a look that met not mine, A stolen look, which, when I saw, What could I do? the spring was gone; I whispered! while her cheeks o'erflowed, The leaf may fall, the blossom blow- THE FADED FLOWER. BY HELEN HAMILTON. I LAID her in her beauty down And not a single sunbeam pressed A shade was resting on the earth, I watched long with a growing pride For death had set his awful seal Her eyes were glorious with the light She faded slowly from the earth, The weight of changeless sorrow: This is no passing cloud of grief, 'Tis night without a morrow. And now his heart has such a thirst For early friendship's smile and tone, It seems as though with grief 'twould burst, With bitterest pangs his soul it stirred, Deep is the gloom his features wear: He longs to slumber with the dead! And feebly now his breast's core beats The vital thread Fate soon will sever; Ere many morns his spirit greets, His eyes may close, and close forever! And when his form shall pulseless lie, Outstretched beneath the coffin-lid; Ah! who think you from Sorrow's eye Will o'er his urn one tear-drop shed? Who'll seek his grave at twilight hours, When earth is robed in vernal bloom, And o'er it strew those fragrant flowers That speak of hope beyond the tomb. Ah! none may mourn that he is gone- Nor glance from longing eyes e'er fall Nor those he knew fond thoughts recall IN EXTENUATION. BY BERTHA BRAINERD THE Sweetest bird that ever raised Its morning song of praise to heaven, Though soaring often to the skies, Hath still most vainly striven To live without the aid of earth, Her berries ripe, her waters clear; Though loud its song, and bold its flight, Its nestling-place is here. The fairest flower that ever shed Its blessed fragrance on the air, Had not its roots still fondly clung Its resting-place is earth. If things as purely beautiful As singing-birds, and perfumed flowers, Cling still to earth, though softly wooed By genial suns and showers, Then I, more earthly far than they, May for my frailty be forgiven, Though for a human love I raise My fervent prayers to heaven. TO THE WEAK. BY JANVIER. OH aching hearts, by care oppressed, Oh weeping ones, that know no rest; Oh mourners, that have suffered long; Oh ye, the faint of heart, be strong! Ye drooping ones, your sorrows bear; Steel your weak breasts, repel despair; For they who buffet with their fate, And brave its anguish, shall be great! Sorrow is power, and when ye bow, Some struggling star, that, freed at length, Bursts into brilliancy and strength, And leaves the clouds, that clogged it so, Alone to grovel on below. His eye sweeps in, with rapid glance, His Donald flies with outstretched arms- His neighbors, joyous, hasten down He starts! a shot is fired near- And as the life-blood gushes forth The soldier's dream is past for aye- THE SOLDIER'S DREAM OF HOME. [From a Picture.] BY FANNY FALES. TEARS! tears! they gather as I gaze The soldier dreams of home- But oh! the heart's light beams o'er all- He sees anear the humble cot The harvest sheaves around- They fly to meet him-to his breast His Jeannie's soft and loving arms Her bright lips to her own are pressed; The pretty bird, his little "Jean," With outstretched arms, wee Donald flies; "Thank God for this!" the soldier cries. Faded!-and was it but a dream? Did not his spirit meet The darlings by his mountain home, PAUSE NOT. BY H. COLMAN PAIGE. PAUSE not! thou 'It reach the goal at last; Thy scenes of toil and sorrow past Will seem like dreams to thee: And when thou 'st gained the darling prizeWhen vision's hope shall reach the skiesThrice happy then thou 'lt be. Pause not! whate'er the case may be, That leaves a dark'ning course behind, Pause not! the feeble arm is strong The debt-but pass these by- Pause not! but battle earnestly; |