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Fi There is a spot —u quiet snot, which blooms - tin earth's cold,heartless desert—li hath power To vive u sweetness to the darkest hour, As, in tiie starless midnight, from the rose, New (lipp’d in dew, a sweeter perfume flows; And suddenly the w and rer's heart assumes New courage. ‘ ini he keeps hisrourse along, Cheering the darkness witli u whisper’d song: At every step a purer, fresher air Salutes him, and the winds of morning hear Soft odours from the violet bed* and vines ; And thus he wanders, till the dawning shines Above the misty mountains, and h line Os verrnil blushes on tiie cloudless blue, Tike henltli disporting on the downy check— it is time’s fairest moment—as a dove Shading the earth with azure* wings of love. The sky broods o'er us, and the cool winds speak The peace of nature, andth/- waters fall, From leap to leap, more sweetly musical, And, from the cloudy bosom of the vale, Come, on the dripping pinions of the gale, The simple melody of early birds Wooing their mates to love, the low of herds Ami the faint bleating of the new-born lambs Pursuing, with light-bounding step, their dams; Again the shepherd s whistle, and the hark. That shrilly answers to his call; and hark! As o'er the trees the golden rays appear, Bursts the last joyous song of chauticlere, Who moves, in stately pomp, before his train, Till, 4 from his emerald neck, and burnish’d wings, The pla} till light a dazzling beauty flings, As it the stars had lit their fires again— So sweetly, to the wand’rer o’er the piain, The rose, the jessamine, and every flower, That spreads its leaflets in the dewy hour, And catches in its bell night's viewless rain, In temper’d balm their rich aroma shower; And wit'll this charm the morning, on his eye, Looks from her portals in the eastern sky, And throws her blushes o'er the sleeping earth, And w akes it to a fresh and lovely birth— O! such a charm adorns that fairest spot, Where noise and revelry disturb me not, But all the spirits that console me, come, And o'er me spread a peaceful canopy, And stand with messages of kindness by, AuPbne sweet dove, with eyes that look me bless’d, Sits brooding nil my treasures in her nest, Without one slightest wish die world to roam, Or leave me, and that quiet dwelling—Home. PERCIVAL. LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY The fountains mingle with the riv er, And the rivers wuth the ocean ; The w inds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single; All things by a law divine In one another’s being mingle;— Why not I with thine ? See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No leat or flower would be forgiven, If it disdains to kiss its brother. And the sun light clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? ‘sKrgreat A\r:r. From the Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life. THE FAMILY-TRYST. • (Concluded from our last.) Had any one died whose absence would damp the joy and hilarity of the Family-Tryst, and make it a meeting for the shedding of tears ? No. A kind God has counted the beatings of each pulse, and kept the blood of them all in a tranquil now. 7’lie year had not passed by without many happy greet ings—they had met often and often— at church—at market— on chance vis its at neighbors houses ; and not rarely at the cottage at the Hall-gate. There had been nothing deserving the name of seperation. Yet, now that the hour of the Family-Tryst was near at hand, all their hearts bounded within them, and they saw before them all day, that smooth verdant plat, and heard the de lightful sound of that waterfall, The day had been cheerful,both with breezes and w ith sunshine, and not a rain cloud had shown itself in the sky. Towards the afternoon the wind fell, and nature became more serenely beutiful every minute as the evening was coming on with its silent dews.— The Parents came first to the 7’ryst ing place, cheered, as they approached it down the woody glen, by the deep ening voice of the Shaw-linn. Was that small turf-built Altar, and the cir cular turf-seat that surrounded it, built by fairy hands? They knew at once that some of their happy children had so employed a few leisure hours, and they sat down on the little mound with hearts overflowing with silent; perhaps speechless gratitude. Gut they sat not long there by them selves ; beloved faces, at short inter vals, came smiling upon them ; one through the coppice-wood, where there was no path; another across the mead ow ; a third appeared with a gladsome shout on the dirt of the w aterfall; a fourth seemed to use out of the very ground before them ; and last of all came, preceded by the sound of laugh ter and of song, Abel and Alice, the fairies who had reared the green gras sy Altar, and who, from their covert in the shade, had been enjoying the gradual assemblage. “ Blessings be to our God ; not a head is wanting,” said the Father, unable to contain his tears; “this lligl.t could 1 die in peaceJ” Little Abel and Alice, who from their living so near the spot, bad ta ken upon themselves the whole man agement of the evening’s ceremonial, brought forth from a bush where they had concealed them, a basket of bread and cheese and butter, ajar of milk, and anothe r of honey, and placed them upon live turf as if they had been a ru ral gift to some rural diety. “ I thought you would be all hungry, ’ said Abel, “ after your trudge ; and as for Simon there, (he jolly gardeuer, lie will eat all the kibbock himself, if ldo not keep a sharp eye upon him. Si mon was always asure hand at a meal. But Alice, reach me over the milk jar. Ladies and gentlemen, all your very i good healths jour noble selves.” Tlvisj was felt to be very fair wit of Abel’s ; and there was an end to the old man’s j tears. “ 1 vote,” quoth Abel, “ that every man (beginning with myself, who will: be the oldest among you when I have ’ lived long enough) give an account ol! himself, and produce whatever of the, ready rhino he may have made, found or stolen, since lie left the llow. j However, I will give waytotny father —now for it father—let us hear it you have been a good boy.” “Will that j imp never hold his tongue?” crit'd the mother, making room for him at the same time on the turf seat by! her side—and beckoned him with a smile, which he obeyed, to occupy it. ‘ ‘ “ Well then,” quoth the father, “ I j have not been sitting with my hands j folded, or leaning on my elbows.— j Among other small matters, I have helped to lay about half a mile of high i road on the Macadam plan, across the lang quagmire on the Means Muir, so that nobody need be sucked in there again for fifty years to come at the ve ry soonest. With my own single pair of hands I have built about thirty rood of stone dyke five feet high, with two rows of through-stones, connecting Saunders Mills’ garden wall with the fence round the Fir Belt. I have delv ed to some decent purpose on some halt score of neighbors’ kail yards and j clipped their hedges round and straight, not forgetting to dock a bit oil’ the tails o’ the peacocks and outland- 1 ish birds on that queer auhl-fashioned | terrace at Mallets-Heugh. I cannot; have mown under some ten braid j Scots acres of rye grass and meadow I hay together, but finding my back stiff’ in the stooping, 1 was a stooker and a , bandster, on the Corn-rings, I have | threshed a few thrieves in the minis ter's barn—prime oats they were, for the glebe had been seven years in lea. I have gone some dozen times to Lcs mahago for the clear-lowing coals, a drive of forty miles back and forward l’se warrant it. [ have felled and houghed about forty ash trees, and lent a hand now and then in the saw-pit. I also let some o’ the day light into the fir wood at Hail-side, and made a bonny bit winding walk along the burn side for the young ladies’ feet. So, to make a long story short, there is a re ceipt (clap a bit o’ turf on’t, Abel, to keep it frae fleeting off the daises) ‘rom the Savings Bank, for 25/. 13s. signed by Baillie Trumbuell’s ain land. That is a sight gude fer sair een. Now Mis. Alison, for I must give you the title you bear at the Hall, what say you ? “ 1 have done nothing but surperin tend the making o’ butter and cheese, the one as rich as Butch, and the other preferable to Stilton. My wages are , ust fifteen pounds, and there they are. Bay them down beside your Father’s receipt. But l have more to tell. If ever we are able to take a bit faTin of our own again, my lady has promised to give me the Ayrshire Hankie, that yield sixteen pints a day for months at a time, o’ real rich milkness. She would bring 20/. in any market. So count that 55/. my bonny bairns.”— Speak out my Willy, no fear but you have a good tale to tell. “There is a receipt for thirty pounds, lent this blessed day, at five per cent, to auld Laird Shaw—as safe as the ground we tread upon. My wages are forty pounds a year —as you know—and I have twice got the first prize at the competition o’ Plough men—thanks to you father, for that, ‘/’lie rest of the money is gone upon fine cloths and jpon the bonny lasses on a Fair day. Why should we not have our enjoyments in this world as well as richer folk ?” “ God bless you, Willy,” said the old man, “ you would not let me nor your mother part with our Sunday clothes, when that crash came upon us—though we were w illing to do so to right all our creditors. You become surety lor the amount—and you have paid it—l know that. Well—it may not be worth speaking about—but it is worth thinking about—Willy— and a Fa ther need not be ashamed to receive a kindness from his own flesh and blood.” “ It is my turn now,” said Andrew, the young gardener: “ Tlfere is twelve pounds—and next year it will be twenty. lam to take the flower garden into my own nand—and lef the Paisley florists look after then pinks, and tulips and, anemones, or l know where the prizes will come af ter this. There’s a bunch o’ flowers for vou Alice —if you put them in wa ter they will live till the Sabbath-day, and vou may put some ol them into your bonnet. Father, \\ illiatn said he had to thank you for his plough manship—so have 1 for my garden ing. Anil wide and rich as the flow - er-garden is that I am to take under my own hand, do you think I will ever love it better, or sa weel, as the bit plot on the bank side, with its bower in the corner, the birks hang ing ower it without, keeping oil the sun, and the clear burnie wimpling away at its foot ? There I first del ved with a smaH spade o’ my ain— you put the shaft in yourself, Father —and, (rust me, it will be a while before that piece o’ wood gangs into the-fire.” “ Now for my speech,” said Abel —“ short and sweet is my motto. I like something pithy. Loand behold a mowdiuart’s skin, with five and for ty shillings in silver ! It goes to my heart to part with them. M ind,father, I only lend them to you. And if you do not repay them with two shillings and better of interest next May-day, Old Style, I will put the affair into the hands of scranty Pate Orr, the writer at Thorny Bank. But, hold —will you give me what is called heritable security r That means land, does’n’t it? Well then, turf is land, | and 1 thus fling down the mowdiwart j purse on the turf—and that is lend ing money on (he heritable security.”! A general laugh rewarded this ebul-j lition of genius from Abel, who recei-j ved such plaudits with a face of cun-j ning solemnity,—and then the eldest daughter meekly took up the word! and said—“ My -wages were nine! pounds—there they are !” “Oh ho,”, cried Abel, “ who gave you that blue spotted silk handkerchief round yourj neck, and that bonny but gae droll pattern’d gown ? You had not these | at the How—may be you got them ‘ from your sweetheart;” and Agnes, blushed in her innocence like the j beautiful flower, “ Celestial rosy red, Love’s proper hue.” The little Noutice from the Manse laid down on the turf without speak ing, but with a heartsome smile, her small wages of four pounds ; and, last of all, the little fair-haired, blue-eved, snowy-skinned Alice the shepherdess, with motion soft as light, and with a j voice sweet as an air-harp, placed her j wages too beside the rest, “ There is ‘ a golden guinea ; it is to be two next year, and so on till lam fifteen. Ev- ( ery little helps.” And her lather j took her to his Heart, and kissed her, glistening ringlets and her smiling I eyes, that happily shut beneath thei touch of his loving lips. By this time the sun had declined ;’ and the sweet sober gloaming was about to melt into the somewhat dark e** beauty of a summer night. The air was now still and silent, as if unseen ; creatures that had been busy there had i all gone to rest. The mavis that had j been singing loud, and mellow, and; clear, on the highest point of larch, now and then heard by the party in their happiness, and flitted down to be near his mate on her nest within the hollow root of an old ivy wreathed yew tree. The snow-white coney looked , oqt from the coppice, and bending his long ears towards the laughing scene, drew back unstartled into the thicket. The old man now addressed his children with a fervent voice, and told them that their dutiful behaviour to him, their industrious habits, their moral conduct in general, and their regard to their religious duties, all made them a blessing to him, for which he could never be sufficiently thankful to the Giver of all mercies. “ Money,” said he, “is well railed the root of all evil; but not so now. There it lies—upon the turf—an of feringfrom poor children to their pa rents. It is a beau iful sight, my bairns, but your parents need it not. They have enough. May God for ever bless yon, my dear bairns. That night at the He w, I said this meeting would be either a fast or a thanks giving, and that we should praise God with a prayer, and also the voice of psalms. No house is near—no path by which any one will lie coming this quiet hour. So let us worship our Maker—here is the Bible.” Father,” said the eldest son, “ will you wait a few minutes—for I am every moment expecting two dear friends to join us. Listen, 1 hear footsteps and the sound of voices round the corner of the coppice. They are at hand.” A beautiful yong woman, dressed almost in the same manner as a farm er’s daughter, but hith a sort of sylvan grace about her, that seemed to de note a somewhat higher station, now appeared, along with a youth, who might be her brother. Kindly greet ings were interchanged, and room be ing made fur them, they formed part of [the ciide round the altar of iu... A sweet surprise was in the hearts of the partv at this addition to their number, and every face brightened with anew delight. “ That is bonny Sally Mather of the Burn-House,” whispered little Alice to her brother Abel. “She pas sed me ae day on the brae, and made me the present ol a comb for my hail you ken; when you happened to be on the ither side o’ the wood ! Oh ! Abel lias nae she the bonniest and the sweetest ct-n that evei you saw smile ?” This young woman who appeared justly so beautiful iu-the eves of little Alice, was even more so in those of her eldest brother. She was sitting at his side, and the wide earth did not contain two happier human beings than these humble, virtuous and sin cere lovers. Sally Mather was the beauty of the parish ; and was also an heiress, or rather now the owner of the Burn-House, a farm worth about a hundred a year, fck. one of the pleasan test situations in the parish remarkable for 1.1 ie picturesque and romantic character of its scenery. She had re ceived a much better education than young women generally do in her rank of life, her father having been a com mon farmer, but by successful skill and industry having been enabled, in the decline of life, to purchase the farm which lie had improved to such a pitch of beautiful cultivation. Her heart William Alison had won—and now she had been for some days be trothed to him as his bride. He now informed his parents and his brothers and sisters of this ; and proud was lie, land better than proud, when they all bade God bless her, and when his fa ! ther and mother took her each by the hand, and kissed her, and wept over ner in the fullness of their exceeding ! joy. “ \\ e are to be married at mid summer, and, father, and mother, be 'fore winter sets in, there shall be a dwelling ready for you, not quite so roomy as our old house at the How, but a bonny bield for you, I hope for many a year to come. It is not a quarter of a mile from our own house, and we shall not charge you a high rent for it, and the two three fields about it. You shall be a farmer again, Father, and no fear of ever being turn ed out again, be the lease short or long.” Fair Sally Mather joined her lover in this request with her kindly smiling eyes, and what greater happiness j could there be to such parents than to j think of passing the remainder of tiieir ! declining life near such a son, and such a pleasant being as their new daughter? “ Abel and I,” cried little : Alice, uiiable to repress her joyful affections,” will live with you again |—l will do all the work about the house that lain strong enough for land Abel, you ken, is as busy as the, 1 unwatered uee, and will help my Fa ’ ther about the fields, better and bet : ter every year. May we come home to you from service, Abel and 1?” 1 “ Are you not happy enough where | you are?” asked the mother, with a j loving voice. “ Happy, or not happy, i quotii Abel, “ home we come at the term, as sure as that is the cuckoo.— Harken now the dunce keeps repea ting his own name, as it any body did not know it already. Yonder he goes w ith his titling a! his tail. People talk of the cuckoo never being seen, why, J cannot open my eyes without seeing either him or his wife. W ell, as I was saying, Father, home Alice and I come at the term. Pray what wages ?” “ But what brought the young Laird of Southfield here r” thought tiie mo ther, while a dim, and remote suspicion too pleasant, too happy to be true, past across her mutual heart. Her sweet Agnes was a servant in his father’s house, and though that father was a laird, and lived on his own land, yet he was in the very same condition of life as her husband, Abel Alison ; they had often sat at each other’s table; and her bonny daughter was come of an honest kind, and would not dis grace any husband either in his own house, or a neighbour’s or in his seat in the kirk. Such passing thoughts were thickening in the mother’s breast and perhaps not wholly unknown al so to the Father’s, when the young man, looking towards Agnes, who could not lift up her eyes from the ground, said, “ My Father is and is willing and happy that I should mar ry the daughter of Alnd Alison.— For he wishes me no other wife than the virtuous daughter of an honest man. And I will lie happy—if my Agnes makes as good a wife as her mother.” A pei feet blessedness now filled the souls of Abel Alison and his wife. One yiar ago, and they were what is call ed, utterly ruined—l hey put their trust in God—and now they received their reward. But their pious and humble hearts did not feel it to be a reward, for in themselves, they were conscious of no desert. The joy came from heaven, up lescrved by them, and Vviui silent tliar.L-givif,g a.id *\ tion did they receive it, lik L . their opening spirits. But now the moon shewed ( < zling crescent light over their ;, P ’ as if she had issued gleaming j!, ‘’ from tiie deep blue of that very', of heaven in which she hung; an (; ■ ‘ ‘ ter or brighter far and w ide over t’ firmament, was seen tiie great |, os " f stars. The old man reverently u, vered Ins head ; and looking up l( , diffused brilliancy of the magi;',:’ arch of heaven, he solemnly exth • ed, “ The heavens declare the g| o '., of God, and the firmament slmv,. forth his handy work. Day unto t | ls uttereth speech, niirhtuntn night s | 1(l , eth knowledge. My children, | t ( ( kneel down and pray.” They ,r; so; and on rising from that pKiv, the mother, looking toward her | iu band, said, “ 1 have been young aill now am old ; yet have l not seen tl Righteous forsaken, nor his seed be*, ging bread.” A Rowland for an Oliver. A fresh water yankee, on a p e( j, dling voyage Turk State’ arrived in our village last week.-! Independent of the usual supply Jonathan, it seems, had added t w his stock of 1 nicknacs a number of umtehes, to be disposed of either in the 4 bartering line,’ or to be ‘ swapped off V as opportunities f o j driving a trade offered. Meeting a Dutch vagrant, well known in our streets, with a long brass chain dangling at his fob, Jonathan hit him for a trade “ utt sight. unseen.” Tommy was his man. The usual preliminaries being settled, the watches were deposited in the hat of a third person. The umpire then drew out the first watch.— 44 ‘That,” said Jonathan, ‘ is the Dutchman’s watch.’ The other watch, (which proved a wooden one !) was drawn. — 4 I)at,’ cries honest Tommy, ‘ ish de Yankee’s vatch.’ 4 All firelock,’ exclaimed the chop fallen Jonathan, holding the apology for a watch by its chain ‘ a tarnal Dutchman got the rig on ter a Yankee ! Who’d thought it” While the Yankee stood viewing his watch, with emotions that par took less of anger than of chagrin. Tommy, not satisfied with his tri umph observed that “ de wooden vatch would make good nutmegs.” u Yes,” exclaimed Jonathan with exultation, 44 and that there watch of your’n would make a good nut meg grater, for the case of it is real block tin'’ Roch. Telegraph, Ancient Laic of Virginia. —Amor,* the edicts,founded on the martial code sent over by Sir T. Smith, and put in force bv Sir T. Dale, who was Gover nor in Virginia in If>l4, there wasone by which it was declared, that ever) person should go to church, Sunday and holy days, or be neck and heels that niaht, and be a slave to the co lonv the following week ; for (he se cond offence he should be a slave for a month ; and for the third a year and a day.” When any one was speaking ill of another in the piesence of Peter the Great, he first listened to lum attentively, and then interrupted him “Is there not,” said he, “i fair side also to the character ot the person of whom v ou are speak ing ; Come, tell me what good qual ities you have remarked about him.’ One would think this mon arch had learnt that precept, 44 speak not evil of one another.” Ham of Bacon. —A gentleman at table, observing another paying particular attention to a ham ofba con, asked him what he would say to that ham, if he were a Jew ; the other replied, 44 I would say as Agrippa said to Paul—thou al most persuadest me to be a Chris tian.” A laborer in a stone quarry in the village of Pautin, near Paris bavins detached a large block of stone,found in the middle, a skeleton of arani pe trified. Each part of the stone con tained a perfect half of the anim-* 1 - the parts were very distinct. block was dug out of the natural rot at the depth of 30 feet from the suin’ mit of the quarry. A petrification curious, was immediately deposited m the Museum of Natural History. JV*. E. Farmer, It is the infirmity of poor spirit 51 be taken with every appearance, a nu dazzled with every thing that spar; kies ; but great geniuses have little admiration, because few thing 5 appear to them new. Trite Sayings. —Plato said ‘that w re the only .men dial might lie without trol, since our health depends upon the vall • ’ and laliacy of their promises. r