practical lessons which it may help to teach. This is, in fact, the most important part of your object in mental cultivation. Many young persons err exceedingly in seeking simply knowledge, which they treasure up in a cold and speculative form, without drawing from it any moral lessons, or making it the means of awakening any of the strong emotions of the heart. But I wish my readers would always remember that moral progress is far more valuable than intellectual; the latter, in fact, is but the instrument of the former. In all your writing, then, aim at accomplishing the real object which ought always to be kept in view. In selecting from your reading, or from personal observation, what you will impress upon your memories with the pen, choose those facts and occurrences which touched your hearts, and whose impressions your pen may strengthen or renew.

SONG OF THE SEA.

BRIGHTLY the sun from the ocean returning,
Throws o'er all nature his life-giving light;
Back roll the clouds to give place to the morning,
And now is withdrawn the black curtain of night.

Gaily are waters his mild beams reflecting,

As wave follows wave bounding swiftly away, Ting'd with purple and gold are the few clouds remaining,

Thus brightly illum'd by the monarch of day.

Look at yon harbour that fine ship is leaving,
Furl'd to the breeze are her wide spreading sails,
List to the hearty-the warm-hearted hailing,

As the canvass is filled by the up-rising gales.

See now how proudly her course she's pursuing,

Nobly she's plowing the froth-crested waves, Her flags rear'd on high, in the winds are all streaming, Proclaim her tars English-free, happy, and brave.

She'll soon reach the land where are torrid suns burn

ing,

Where spices perfume the scarce moving breeze,
And freighted with riches, these countries are yielding,
She'll return to old England-the queen of the seas,

Joy's is in each face, in each eye is hope beaming,
As the vessel is nearing this loveliest place,-
All dangers forgot in the warm-hearted greeting,
As wife gives to husband the welcome embrace.

HOSPITALITY.

"HOSPITALITY (says Dr. Robertson), among a people whose manners are simple, and who are seldom visited by strangers, is a virtue of the first rank." It was not considered as one of those virtues which men may practice or not, according to the temper of their minds, and the generosity of their hearts. Hospitality was enforced by statutes, and those who neglected the duty were liable to punishment. It must be observed, that it was the custom among the ancients, when any stranger asked for lodgings, for him and the master of the house, each of them to set a foot on each side of the threshold, and swear they would neither of them do any harm to the other. It was this ceremony which raised so much horror against those who violated the law or duty of hospitality on either side; inasmuch as they were looked on as perjured.

In consequence of those laws, or rather of that state of society which made it proper to enact them, hospitality abounded while the intercourse among men was inconsiderable, and secured the stranger a kind reception under every roof where he choose to take shelter. As the intercourse among men increased, that which was a pleasure became a burden; and the entertaining of travellers was converted into a branch of commerce.

The hospitality of the convent of St. Bernard, and the unwearied humanity of the monks on every occasion, that can possibly call for its exercise, have long been proverbial, and numerous instances occur every season, of persons saved by their interference, or relieved by their bounty. In the year 1818 alone, the meals furnished to travellers by this convent, amounted

to no fewer than thirty-one thousand and seventyeight.

An enterprising English party, consisting of men and women, took shelter in the convent of St. Bernard, during a fall of snow. The monks fed them and their horses as long as they could, giving up their bread to the beasts, when they had no more crude grain to bestow on them. The guests had no other alternative but that of departing; but how were they to get the horses over the snow, which was yet too soft to support them? The ingenuity and activity of the monks found an expedient. They turned out with their servants, and placing blankets before the animals, which were carried forward and extended afresh, as soon as passed over, conducted men, women, and beasts, in safety over their mountains!

The breed of dogs kept by the monks to assist them in their labours of love, has been long celebrated for its sagacity and fidelity. All the oldest and most tried of them were lately buried along with some unfortunate travellers, under one of those tremendous snowfalls, so common in the Alps; three or four hopeful puppies were left at home in the convent, and still survive. The most celebrated of those which are no more, was a dog called Barry. This animal served the hospital for the space of twelve years, during which he saved the lives of forty individuals. His zeal was indefatigable. Whenever the mountain was enveloped in fogs and snow, he set out in search of lost travellers. He was accustomed to run barking until he lost his breath, and would frequently venture on the most perilous places. When he found his strength was insufficient to draw from the snow a traveller benumbed with cold, he would run back to the hospital in search of the monks.

One day this interesting animal found a child in a frozen state between the bridge of Dronaz and the ice-house of Balsora; he immediately began to lick

him, and having succeeded in restoring animation by means of his caresses, he induced the child to tie himself round his body. In this way, he carried the poor little creature, as if in triumph, to the hospital. When old age deprived him of strength, the prior of the convent pensioned him at Berney, by way of reward. After his death his hide was stuffed and deposited in the museum of that town. The little phial in which he carried a reviving liquor, to the distressed travellers whom he found among the mountains, is still suspended from his neck.