to oppose to this goodness of the bower. The Père de Neuville knew well what was life at a distance from it in the world, when he summed up the different humours which govern mankind. "There," he says, "you meet with the sombre and abstracted humour, always retired within itself, plunged in a profound and sterile revery, seeming to see nothing and to hear nothing; by its indifference to every thing about it displeasing to all; there you observe the savage and melancholy humour, which flies human society, pleased with having no friendships, and in troubling those of others; there you have the passionate humour, which can do nothing without violence; the critical humour, which makes its honour consist in esteeming nothing; the jealous humour, which loves in an inverse ratio to the titles to love; the suspicious humour, which condemns before examination, and which examines only to condemn more severely; which confides in no one, and believes in no virtue; there you meet with the reserved and mystic humour, which ignores that tenderness and sweet simplicity that form the charm of friendship; which loves concealment, insinuates rather than affirms; speaks only by halves; reveals only a part, in order to conceal more securely the rest under the veil of this pretended confidence; there is witnessed the envious and inquisitive humour, which follows with an attentive eye every step you take, seeking to discover every thing; the restless and hostile humour, that seeks to snap all bonds of society and friendship, detested because they are known, humoured because they are feared; the humour of contradiction, which loves to walk alone, with ideas that are its own, merely because they belong to no one else, that would condemn their own sentiments if others adopted them; imperious humour, which demands timid respect; humour of delicate susceptibility, which is wounded at the least inattention, the least trifle; irritable, implacable, alive to what wounds themselves, careless of what wounds others; who must be pardoned for every thing, and who will pardon nothing; there is found the capricious humour, which causes them to be many men in one man, which can neither be for you nor against you; and, in fine, the angry humour, which is nourished by the anger that it provokes, and by the anger that it receives." It is in the midst of all

these dispositions that children and young people live; and how much might not be reformed by only studying the contrast presented by their character, and transferring their way of thinking and of acting to the life of mature manhood!

"Yes, if the spirit gazing through

The vista of the past, can view

One deed to heaven and virtue true;

If through the wreck of wasted powers,
Of garlands wreathed from folly's bowers,
Of idle aims and misspent hours,
The eye can note one sacred spot,
By pride and self profaned not;

A green place in the waste of thought-
Where deed or word hath rendered less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And gratitude looks forth to bless
The simple burst of tenderest feeling
From sad hearts worn by evil dealing,
For blessing on the hand of healing;-
Better than Glory's pomp will be

That green and blessed spot to me

A palm-shade in Eternity *!"

What is that green place, that blessed spot, where, if ever goodness and justice should be forced to leave our earth, their last footsteps would be traced? It is the very nook in which they are now seated-the Children's Bower. Ought we not then, as Plato says, “like huntsmen, closely surrounding a thicket, to take great care that goodness does not somehow or other escape, and vanish from our sight?" For it is certain that it is somewhere here. Look earnestly, then, or rather pass in at once, and no one need be called to point it out to you.

* Whittier.

CHAPTER IV.

HY should they call this sweet pretty place any one's Folly? Inquisitive giant! What does it matter? Here we are to enjoy it with the singing birds, and perhaps with Folly herself, if some will so designate the spirit that has led us here. What delicious shade under the branches, and how this steep hillside is fragrant with the violets, which smell so much sweeter in consequence of the heat! What a number of smiling people, too, pass on to the tower that has given the whole wood its name! After helping this fair damsel down the bank, which proves too steep for her, I, for one, sit down

Do you, master Jack, scamper where you will, and make the woods resound with praises of what you best love. But stay; a thought strikes me, or, rather, without knowing much of Horace Walpole and of his talk about "le sieur Orphée," what some one else proposes comes into my head. As we are actually in the Folly, and with Folly, under the green leaves, let us invite the friendly trees to dance with us, and never mind the snarler who may abuse me for filling up my page with extracts, though till this moment I never cited any author whose thought was not mine before I heard him express it better than I could do myself; so let us use the very words as well as the thought, so new to me, of our sweet poet Mackay, and say to them

"If you could dance when Orpheus piped,

Ye oaks, and elms, and beeches,

Try, when a man of modern time
Your courtesy beseeches.

"Come, Father Oak, so old and staid,

But vigorous and hearty,
Shake off the soberness of years,

And join the merry party.

'Tis not becoming? Harmless mirth
Takes no account of ages,-
So, Monarch of the Woods, unbend,
And frolic with your pages!

"And thou, superbest matron Beech,
In all thy bloom of beauty,

Relax! and learn that, now and then,

Enjoyment is a duty.

And Lady Lime, the honey sweet,

With music in thy tresses,

Step out, the wild winds pipe the tune,

And every moment presses.

"Ye damsel Birches, slim and fair,

And capersome with fun,

Who've just come home from boarding-school,
And love to dance and run,

I know you're ready: come away,
With silver-braided kirtles,

And taper limbs, and flowing hair,
And breath as sweet as myrtles.
"Ye Firs and Larches, rough as lads
Let loose from School or College;
Ye Poplars, stiff as men on 'Change,
Forget your cram of knowledge.
You're no such beauties of yourselves,
But every tree an aid is,—
And you'll improve in elegance,
By contact with the ladies.

"And you, like melancholy maids
Who sigh on lonely pillows,

Or widows, ere they've cast their weeds,—
Ye fond, romantic Willows,

Come from your looking-glass, the stream,

And cease to play at Sorrow,

And taste a little Joy to-day,

To think about to-morrow.

"And thou, dear Hawthorn,--sweetest sweet,

The beautiful, the tender,

Bright with the fondling of the sun,

And prankt in bridal splendour,—

Come with thy sisters, full of bloom,

And all thy bridemaids merry,—
Acacia, Chesnut, Lilac fair,

The Apple, and the Cherry.

"Strike up the music! Lo! it sounds!
The expectant woodlands listen;
They wave their branches to the sky,
And all their dew-drops glisten.
There comes a rustling from the heights,
A buzzing from the hollow,

They move, the ancient Oaks and Elms,
And all the juniors follow.

"They move, they start, they thrill, they dance,
They shake their boughs with pleasure,
And flutter all their gay green leaves,
Obedient to the measure.

They choose their partners: Oak and Beech
Pair off, a stately couple;

And Larch to Willow makes his bow,
Th' unbending to the supple.

"The Hawthorn, charm of every eye,
In Beauty's ranks a leader,
Has choice of many for her hand,
But gives it to the Cedar.

She loves the wisdom of his looks,

And name renown'd in story:
And he, th' effulgence of her eyes,
And fragrance of her glory.

"The Elms and Lindens choose their mates,
And e'en the sturdy Holly;

And all the Brambles and the Ferns

Think standing still is folly,
And foot it briskly on the sward,

As wild as lads and lasses,-
But make sad havoc, as they twirl,

With all the flowers and grasses."

"Good master stranger," as Elia says, "you look wise. Pray correct that error." But come, children, since you have so long danced, and I see you are tired, let us sit down on the soft