drawn circle, with many other solemn ceremonies. In a medical treatise, not a hundred years old, I find this root recommended to be worn by persons suffering of scrofula, with a yard of white satin ribbon, round the neck.

Among the ancient Greeks, who dedicated it to Venus the Victorious, it was known as the "sacred herb;" and a custom existed, not long since, in some of the German valleys, of presenting a bride with a hat made of vervain, to ward off ill-luck, and insure its contrary. With a similar intention, but in a more general way, another classic plant is made use of by the peasants of Magna Græcia, who never present a nosegay which does not contain the leaves or blossom of moly, because this plant-by means of which, Homer tells us, Ulysses escaped the spells of Circe is still regarded by popular superstition as a charm.

The religious veneration paid to the mistletoe by the ancient Gauls and Britons, is too well known to require notice; it was in all cases gathered with closed eyes-when neither moon nor sun shone; a golden sickle was used in cutting it, and care was taken to receive it in a cloth held for the purpose, that it might not come in contact with the earth. The Druids used it medicinally, and tradition appears to have perpetuated the belief in its virtues, for it subsequently received the name of lignum sancta crucis, and was deemed efficacious in removing epilepsy, averting the evil eye, and preserving from many dangers; little sigils and crosses were made of it, and worn with these intentions; and a remnant of the superstition still exists in many parts of England.

Beads of the root of "our lady's seal," as white briony was formerly called, are worn at the present day as an anodyne; and though men no longer believe, as did the ancient Greeks, in the divine origin of the peony-nor imagine that at night it shines with moon-like splendor, a floral reflex of the orb from which it was supposed to emanate-nor wear its fascicled roots by way of spell, to ward off evil spirit, and avert tempestsnor plant it in their gardens to preserve them from all injuries-faint vestiges of its use as a charm may be traced in the necklaces made of the root of the male plant in every apothecary's window in England, and which are in high esteem with many a village nurse and mother to hang about the necks of children when teething, to preserve them from convulsions, and assist, as it is believed, dentition.

Nor is it in such instances only, that the ancient faith in the powers of the vegetable world, when

used as "charms and knots," still survives. It was a custom with some of the Greek women to hold palm branches in their hands in order to procure an easy delivery; and Mrs. Starke tells us that a superstition analogous to this obtains, at the present day, in Tuscany, where, "when the peasant's sposa is taken in labor, the husband, after procuring medical help, deems it his next duty to get some of what is denominated the 'life-giving plant'—aleatrice the peasants call it— which he places on her bed, and without which he believes his child could not be born."

In brief, there is no exigence of life that had not its floral spell or counter-charm. There grew by every wayside herbs of grace, in which men had faith to ward off mental griefs and physical ailments; nor was their potency less efficacious to the credulous understandings of by-gone times, where elementary and supernatural powers were concerned; lightning and storms, witchcraft and accident, might be controlled by means of them; while, on the other hand, henbane and aconite, mandragora and hemlock, with many others— mostly Saturnine plants-"digged in the dark," or "found by Phoebe's light, with brazen sickles reaped at noon of night," were deemed of consequence to magic rites, and could work mischief in the hands of witches of the most baleful nature. Nor had the tradition of their potency died out when Shakspeare and Ben Johnson wrote; both poets frequently refer to the belief, and quote by name some of these herbs of evil reputation.

The yellow-horned poppy figures in the witches' calendar; they gather its gilded flowers, sickleshaped pods, and pale green glaucus leaves, damp with storm-spray, from lonely sea-shores, at the dead of night, and from its roots compressed juices which occasioned madness; the mullein, with its large leaves underlined with wool, and staff-like stem, and clustered spike of flowers; the flamma of the Greeks, who burnt it in lamps; the candelaria of the Latins, who dipped its tall stalks in suet to burn at funerals, and which, from being used in the same way in England, obtained the name of "high taper," was another famous plant with the enchanters; vervain, and yew, and cypress, were also used in incantations, with almost every other dark-hued evergreen, and herbs of poisonous and narcotic qualities. No wonder that in these days, when it was presumed that every malevolent hag might gather spells as housewives did their salads by the waysides, that counter-charms abounded, and that the credulous many comforted themselves by wearing about them, and hanging up in their abodes,

certain boughs or blossoms of "powerful grace," to preserve themselves, their dwellings, fields, and cattle. The black hellebore, or Christmas rose, ranks among the most ancient of these floral counter-charms; long before its name bore reference to the winter festival of Christianity, it was used by the ancients to purify and hallow their dwellings; the ceremony of strewing or decking their apartments with it was performed with great devotion, and accompanied with solemn hymns; its presence was supposed to drive away demons, and they also blessed their cattle with it to preserve them from spells.

In England, St. John's wort was used with precisely similar intentions; but the tradition of its virtues came by way of Rome; for, according to Pliny, it was known in his time under the name of "Fuga Damonum," possibly on account of its medical uses in cases of melancholy and distraction, which diseases in these times subjected their victim to the imputation of being possessed. Jeremy Taylor, in his "Dissuasions from Popery," refers to the use of this plant by the priests. "They are to try the devil by holy water, incense, sulphur, rue"—which from thence, as we suppose, came to be called herb of graceand especially St. John's wort, which therefore they call "devil's flight:" this reference shows how literally Catholicism had translated its Latin name. In Ireland it is annually gathered on the eve of St. John, dipped in holy water, and hung up in the dwellings of the peasantry to preserve them from sickness, witchcraft, and spirits. In France and Germany we read that the same custom obtains among the rustic population, who gather it with great ceremony, and place it in their windows as a charm against thunder-storms and evil spirits.

It was an axiom with the believers in floral sigils, that "witches have no power where there's wood of the rowen tree;" hence herdsmen and farmers were careful to hang up branches of the ash in their barns and stock-yards, and to plant it in their hedge-rows, and on a certain day of the year their flocks and cattle were made to pass through hoops or under arches made of its boughs; withes of woodbine were also used for the same purpose; and in Germany, in the time of Tragus, garlands of blue night-shade were hung about the necks of cattle to preserve them from the evil eye and witchcraft.

The fumitory, with its jagged leaves of a blueish sea-green hue, and lax spikes of small flowers, made, as Culpepper quaintly describes them, "like little birds of a reddish purple color," received its name from being burnt by exorcists in

their adjurations. Garlic was formerly used by miners in the Hartz mountains to keep off the gnomes and demons of the mines; a root which at the present day is found in every Turkish house, is a charm to avert the evil eye.

Plowman's spikenard was another plant that prevailed against enchantments; Virgil mentions it in his seventh Eclogue, under the name of Baccharis: an ointment was made of the root to rub the forehead with. In many cases, however, where plants were esteemed for their magical properties, it was sufficient to bear them about one, to insure their protective influence; and, accordingly, the anemone that opened its gray or purple petals to the winds of March, was gathered and worn, wrapped in scarlet, as a preservation from pestilence, till pasque flowers bloomed again. The hypochondriac in those days found a charm in the root of the melancholy thistle, which "made a man merry as a cricket," if worn about him, and cured him, we are told, by sympathy, of all care, sadness, fear, envy, and despair-it was, indeed, for him cardius benedictus!

These were times in which the most reckless hunter might insure the safety of his neck, by means of the heart-shaped leaves and radiant flowers of doronicum, or leopard's bane-a marvelous preservative in perilous places! and when he might also defend himself from the stings of serpents and other venomous beasts, by simply eating the leaves or root of viper's bugloss, the speckled stem of which and gaping blossoms bore, according to the old herbalists, a patent of remedy from nature herself, coming, as it did, into their category of signaturea plantarium. This belief in the iconism of plants is another curious branch of our subject; thus, the pearl trefoil, as it was anciently designated-from the white spot in its leaf, which was fancifully thought to resemble a pearl-was deemed effectual to remove that contrivance of the foul fiend, the disease of the "pin and web," or pearl in the eye, which Shakspeare speaks of. Another species of the same plant was supposed to defend the heart from spleen and poison, because such leaf contains, we are told, "the perfect icon of a heart, and that in its own proper color, namely, flesh color." How strange a phase of the human mind such traditions exhibit-by how much must the powers of imagination have exceeded the reasoning faculties in these peculiar periods of credulity, which research shows us that all the nations of the earth have passed through!

But we have not yet come to the end of our illustrations. Possibly, on account of its dedication to Apollo, the bay-tree was held in great

esteem by the ancients, who planted it near their dwellings to preserve them from lightning and enchantments; for, according to Mizaldus, neither witch nor demon, thunder nor lightning, could hurt a man where it stood. The fig-tree was said to possess a similar immunity from the blighting elements, and was also so pacific in its effects that the most violent animal, when fastened to it, became docile and appeased; a virtue from which the "loose strife" also received its name-insomuch that it used to be laid on the yokes of restive cattle to calm them.

In Pliny's time mignonnette, under its name of reseda, was used by the Romans as a charm to allay the irritation of wounds; and he has left us the form of words with which the application was accompanied, to insure its remedial effect. A very curious relic of this faith in floral charms still exists in Ireland, where the cherished patch of houseleek on the thatched roof conveys to the poor inhabitants a feeling of more comforting security than the plate of a fire insurance company, from which element they regard it as a preservative.

Anciently the pretty cyclamen was cultivated in houses, not for its beauty or its perfume, but as a protection against poison. Perhaps one of the most curious superstitions on record with regard to plants, is that connected in the western nations with the

"Basil tuft that waves

Its fragrant blossoms over graves," and which Keats's poem has touched with such pathetic interest. Sacred with the Hindoos, and used by them in their religious ceremoniesprized by the Greeks, as a counter charm to venom-and used by the Egyptian women as a funeral herb to strew the sepulchers of the dead. In England many persons refused to admit it in their gardens, because if thrown upon the simplest approach to a hot-bed, it was supposed to produce venomous beasts; and, according to Culpepper, one Hillrius, a French physician, went farther than this, and affirmed that the mere smelling of it bred scorpions in the brain. The Greeks, in planting it, were wont to get up an affected quarrel, with the singular idea that it grew the stronger for being set amidst angry words and railings.

Moonwort was another powerful herb, with the mischievous faculties of drawing off the shoes of horses and unlocking doors, and in the early part of the eighteenth century was known by the name of "unshoe the horse" in country places. "Besides," says the author of "The English Physician enlarged," "I have heard commanders

say that on Whitedown, in Devonshire, near Tiverton, there were found thirty horseshoes pulled off from the feet of the Earl of Essex his horses, being there drawn up in a body, many of them being but newly shod, and no reason known, which caused much admiration; and the herb described usually grows upon heaths."

With the aid of this vegetable picklock, at the very presence of which doors flew open, burglary to the initiated must have been a very easy process, especially if hound's tongue grew in the vicinity, the soft, dark hairy leaves of which, or the racemes of its dull red flowers, if laid beneath the feet, hindered the dogs from barking at him who wore it. But, if to these charms could have been added fern seed—the presumed impossibility of finding which had resulted in the belief that he who did so walked invisibleno "gentleman of the shade," or "minions of the moon "-under whose dominion, by the way, and that of Mercury, these herbs were heldcould have desired a more perfect panoply in the strength of which to practice his profession.

Christian pilgrim,

As the words of the young girl fell upon my ear my heart responded, Yes, we shall see in heaven; and my mind reverted to the past, with its lights and shadows, and even penetrated into the future, even to the time when darkness shall be made light, and hidden things be revealed; and my soul reveled in glorious anticipations, till the trials of earth dwindled into insignificance, and the words, "we shall see in heaven," seemed as a sort of talisman to cheer me amid earth's cares and sorrows. doth the hand of the Lord seem heavy? "Do friends forsake and foes prevail?" Hath the worldly substance, for which thou hast spent many an anxious thought, melted away like dew before the sun? Canst not thou see now? Walk carefully. Hereafter thou shalt see in heaven; and earth's burden being dropped rest will be all the sweeter. The green grass waves over the grave of the fair blind girl; but when assailed by trials from without, or temptations from within, I seem to hear a voice saying, "Shall we see in heaven?" and to my troubled heart comes the sweet response, "We shall see in heaven; there will be no darkness there."

THOUGHTS OF HOME-FROM FAR AWAY.

BY REV. J. W. WHITE.

SWEET HOME! I see thee still-upon the east
There sits thy sunny little lake! from out
Whose glassy waves, when but a tiny boy,
I've hooked the shiner, salmon, trout, and perch;
More pleased and proud than when, in after life,
Angling, I caught earth's fleeting wealth and fame.
Thy orchard, too, with many a goodly tree,
Their bending branches full of tempting fruit,
Mellowed and ripened by an autumn sun;

I've sought with those most dear, who, now alas!
Are sundered far by mount, and grave, and sea:
Thy meadows, too, and fields of golden grain,
Waving a welcome to the reaper's hand,

And verdant pastures, fresh and green, and full
Of lowing herds, and flocks of bleating sheep,
In quiet resting on the sunny knolls,

Or drinking from the never-failing spring,

Or rippling brooks, its banks bedeck'd with flowers,
Which give new power to a loving heart;
And then thy forests, stretching to the west,
In mighty hemlocks clad, whose burly trunks,
And long majestic arms proclaim their rank,
And goodly cedars-with a heart of red-
And graceful white pines, waving in the wind-
And fir-trees, beauteous in their modest pride-
And noble spruce-trees, with their silvery shafts-
And junipers, whose ill-formed, crooked knees
Are sought for ships, by men whose lives are spent
In many perils on the broad, blue sea-
All these are evergreens, and fadeless stand
Mid the mutations of the passing year.
And there the ivy, too, came creeping up
To twine its tendrils 'round the little shrub,
Which had withstood cold winter's chilling blast,
But died amid the smiles of summer's sun.
True emblem thou of love sincere, which dies
Not with a friend; but ever living, loves
To linger near his grave and scatter flowers.
And there the granite rock-imbedded deep,
Which saw revolving spheres begin their march
Obedient to their Maker's great behest,

And which shall see the sunset of the world's
Last day! in pride doth rear its giant head-
And velvet moss, which loves a sterile home,
Its massive brow doth deck with silken locks-
So Gospel graces sinful hearts have robed
In faith, and hope, and holy, humble love,
Beneath the cross of Christ! Then angel bands,
With mighty wings, have borne them home to God;
But dearer far to me yon little grave,
Where Joseph, sweet companion of my youth
Finds quiet rest from all earth's ills and tears.
Methinks I see it now, though years have pass'd
Since I, with measured steps, trod on, amid
The ranks of those who gently laid him there.
My parents wept; brothers and sisters wept;
My heart did anguish feel; and yet no tears
My eyes did shed upon his new-made grave.
There is a grief the heart alone must bear;

Nor eye, nor pen, nor friend may sympathize;
Its home is in the soul. Such grief was mine
When thou, dear brother, found an early grave.
In after years I saw that grave again,
And swelling rose-buds cluster'd sweetly o'er
The precious dust which gave them rapid growth;
Beauty from mold'ring ashes blushing sprang,
And life look'd lovely by the home of death.

THE MUSIC OF THE SOUL.

BY AMANDA T. JONES.

THERE is a music soft and low,
That dwelleth in the soul,
And ever there in secrecy

Its untaught numbers roll.
It hath no words, but O it bears
The raptured soul along,
As though the atmosphere around
Were tremulous with song!

It hath a wilder, sweeter sound
Than all earth's melodies;
Its dwelling-place is in the heart,
Its birthplace in the skies.
And like a far-off anthem swell,
It chimeth ever there;

And on its unseen wing it bears

The burden of a prayer.

All through the long and weary day
Its dreamy murmurs flow,
Chanting afar within the soul
A requiem, sad and low.

The eye may flash with angry light,
The lip wear falsehood's smile;
Yet the sad music of the soul
Swells softly all the while.
Forever sweeping through the heart,
Those holy murmurings are
Unheard, but felt, as melodies
Roll on from star to star.
When Night, the solemn, dewy-eyed,
Calls the lone soul to prayer,
Then all earth's music melts away
Like discord on the air;

And in its dim cathedral sits

The dark and troubled soul,
And, wondering, hears through nave and aisle,
Its own wild music roll.

O very dear to earth-worn hearts,
Are those wild heaven-born lays;
Fresh from our spirit-home they come
And teach us love and praise!

Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul; Holding the eternal spirit against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath.

BY REV. T. STOWE.

"And there's the mock-bird with its varied song,
Exalted sits, and pours its notes along;
With mimic art, derides the feathery race,
And clothes its satire with unoffending grace."
OLD MANUSCRIPT.

WE

E have in North America three kinds of birds that so vary their notes in singing as to secure to themselves the appellation of mockbirds.

Of these the thrush takes the lead in melliflu

of light. I have listened long to the mournful strain, as time would permit, but have never been weary in listening. Sing on, thou sweet bird; the dreams of life are passing. And as to thy sweetly lingering lay succeeds the stillness of night, so to the busy turmoils of life shall succeed the silence of death. And wilt thou then chant thy lone "requiem" over the spot, where low in the dust forgotten my weary head shall lie?

cause simple and natural.

The cat-bird-so called from the likeness of its cry, when disturbed in the vicinity of its nest, to the mew of kitten has a note in singing ingeniously varied, though not pleasantly sonorous. But of all the deeply touching strains heard from the feathery songsters, the "robin's requiem to departing day" is the most beautifully moving. It is, indeed, melting, because of its inimitably sweet pensiveness. The admirer of nature could not do otherwise than experience deep emotion while listening to it. And then the lay is performed under so appropriate circumstances of time and place; and is so different in style and composition from what he exhibits on other occasions and in other places, where his lay is remarkably sprightly and animating; so much so, that in passing over certain portions of his song he appears to become perfectly intoxicated with joy. For these animating displays of his musical powers he chooses the open field, and an elevation upon the dried spur that is frequently seen extending above the tufted foliage that surrounds the trunk of some top-blasted oak, while his red breast glows in the light of a forenoon or mid-afternoon sun.

But his mournful requiem he rarely performs other than at the close of day; beginning a little before sunset, and frequently extending to the middle of twilight. He chooses invariably a scene suitable to the style of composition the skirt of a wood, where the shades deepen as sunlight retires, and is always concealed in the thickest and most elevated foliage, never permitting his fair form to be visible. His lay is made up of regular anapestic feet, from which measure it rarely varies, unless at the commencement, where he throws in an occasional animated passage, corresponding to the style of his afternoon glee, that he has performed in the open field so cheerily. But as he proceeds he settles down in his song to that sweet pensiveness so

SUCH

BY M. E. FRY.

UCH is the impetuosity and intense anxiety with which we of the present day pursue every object capable of attracting our attention or enlisting our sympathies, and on such an extensive scale do we transact the daily concerns and business of life, that the thing moderation is all but unknown among us, and the word itself seems in danger of being obliterated from our vocabulary; for in all our undertakings nothing appears to stop us, nothing to satisfy us, short of a grand consummation or a stupendous failure. To such a degree of perfection have we brought science in the mental, and machinery in the mechanical world under our control, so completely have they become our agents, with such speed and precision do they act for us on all necessary occasions, that what our fathers did in a lifetime we, with a degree of impatience, perform in scarce a day. Indeed, so completely intensified has modern life become in every nerve, muscle, and particle of its being, that it is not unfrequently its own destroyer. It pervades all ranks and occupies all minds, till it has become, as it were, a vital part of the mental atmosphere in which the mind exists; and look in whatever direction we may, we shall every-where see this fire of intensity burning, and ceaselessly gathering into an immense crucible every thing within its reach.

It is this that is condensing the world of the present day into the smallest possible compass. Not that we have less habitable territory than in times of old; nay, we have discovered continents and explored lands which our fathers in ancient days never dreamed of; we have gone forth to the nations sitting in darkness and obscurity, and given to them freely the knowledge and arts of civilized life, and thus added strength and numbers to the human family. For just so often as we rescue a nation from heathenism and barbarity, giving them a language, a literature, and Christianity, just so often have we strengthened