to its own profit, and be able to deduce some good, even from the most unpromising; it will extract comfort from the most barren circumstances,-it will suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock.

But the supreme excellence of this complacent quality is, that it naturally disposes the mind where it resides to the practise of every other that is amiable. Meekness may be truly called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obstruction, and smooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their progress. The peculiar importance and value of this amiable virtue may be further seen in its permanency. Honours and dignities are transient,-beauty and riches frail and fugacious to a proverb. Would not the truly wise, therefore, wish to have some one possession, which they might call their own in the severest exigencies; but this wish can only be accomplished by acquiring and maintaining that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no hand in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take away. JOSEPH SCHOFIELD, P. PROV. G. M. Saint George of England Lodge, Waterhead Mill, Oldham District.

THE EXPERIMENTAL SECRET.

WOMEN, time out of mind, have been

Rare secret keepers,-'tis well known
That what they ne'er have heard or seen,
They ne'er have 'mongst the neighbours blown;
Therefore what they do not know,

Surely will no further go.

When you of secrets they'd beguile,-ah!
Then think of Samson and Delilah !

Once, in the gloom and silence of the night,
A loving spouse half killed his wife with fright.
"Murder," he cried, "ye gods! what do I ail?
O mortal flesh! thou art in pieces torn."

"Lord!" quoth the wife, "what makes you weep and wail?"
""Tis over now," said he,-" this egg, new born,-
New laid! I mean. I dreamed when in my sleep,-

(But oh! you must the thing a secret keep,)

I dreamed that I was laying of an egg!

(But keep it secret let me once more beg.)

I woke with throes and pains, tha seized me then,
That must be common to a laying hen;
And here's the egg, quite fresh and warm,
As I have laid it. But, my dear,

There is no more cause for alarm,—

Keep you but this, I've nought to fear:

But, if you make my secret known,
I shall be talk for the whole town

Many a day; malicious men

Will cry,-There goes the laying hen!"

'Twas only done his loving wife to try,

And is, of course, a thumping, barefaced lie!
How long she kept it, 'tis but fair to say,

She kept it even till the break of day;

But scarcely did the morning sun appear,

Before she told a bosom friend most dear,

Whom she could trust: what makes the case more shocking,

She hurried so, she left behind a stocking.

"It will no further go, dear Mrs. Prattle!"

"Lord, bless ye, no! d'ye think my tongue's a rattle ?”

How could it go? Ere night the whole town said,

That such a man a nest of eggs had laid!

Women their secret thoughts cannot control,—

Yet men there are, not less infirm of soul.

Lily of the Valley Lodge, Manchester.

SAMOHT NOSLOTRCIN.

DESCRIPTION OF HER MAJESTY'S STATE COACH,

Finished in the year 1762; the most Superb Carriage ever built.

Designed by Sir William Chambers, and executed under his directions. The Paintings executed by CYPRIANI.

THE FRONT PANEL.

BRITTANIA seated on a Throne, holding in her hand a Staff of Liberty, attended by Religion, Justice, Wisdom, Valour, Fortitude, Commerce, Plenty, and Victory, presenting her with a Garland of Laurel; in the back ground, a view of St. Paul's and the River Thames.

THE RIGHT DOOR.

Industry and Ingenuity giving a Cornucopia to the Genius of England.

THE PANELS OF EACH SIDE OF DITTO.

History, recording the Reports of Fame, and Peace burning the Implements of War.

THE BACK PANEL.

Neptune and Amphitrite issuing from their Palace in a triumphant car drawn by Sea Horses, attended by the Winds, Rivers, Tritons, Naiads, &c. bringing the Tribute of the World to the British Shore.

UPPER PART OF DITTO.

Is the Royal Arms beautifully ornamented with the Order of St. George, the Rose, Shamrock and Thistle entwined.

THE LEFT DOOR.

Mars, Minerva, and Mercury, supporting the Imperial Crown of Great Britain.

THE PANELS ON EACH SIDE OF DITTO.

The liberal Arts and Sciences protected.

The front and four quarter panels over the paintings are plate glass.

The whole of the carriage and body is richly ornamented with laurel and carved work, beautifully gilt. The length 24 feet, width 8 feet 3 inches, height 12 feet, length of pole 12 feet 4 inches, weight 4 tons,

The

The carriage and body of the coach is composed as follows: Of four large Tritons, who support the body by four braces covered with blue morocco leather, and ornamented with gilt buckles. The two figures placed in front of the carriage bear the driver, and are represented in the action of drawing by cables extending round their shoulders and the cranes, and sounding shells to announce the approach of the Monarch of the Ocean; and those at the back carry the imperial Fasces, topt with tridents. driver's foot-board is a large scollop shell ornamented by reeds and other marine plants. The pole represents a bundle of lances; the splinter bar is composed of a rich moulding issuing from beneath a voluted shell, and each end terminating in the head of a dolphin; and the wheels are imitated from those of the ancient triumphal chariot. The body of the coach is composed of eight palm trees, which branching out at the top, sustain the roof, and four angular trees are loaded with trophies allusive to the victories obtained by Great Britain during the late glorious war, supported by four lions' heads. On the centre of the roof stand three boys, representing the Genii of Eugland, Scotland and Ireland, supporting the imperial crown of Great Britain, and holding in their hands the sceptre, sword of state, and ensigns of knighthood; their bodies are adorned with festoons of laurels, which fall from hence towards the four corners.

The inside of the body is lined with rich scarlet embossed velvet, superbly laced and embroidered with gold as follows: In the centre of the roof is the star, encircled by the collar of the Order of the Garter, and surmounted by the imperial crown of Great Britain, pendant the George and Dragon, in the corners the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle, entwined. The hind lounge is ornamented with the badge of the Order of St. Michael and St. George; and on the front the badge of the Order of the Guylph and Bath, ornamented with the Rose, Shamrock, and Thistle. The hind seat fall has the badge of St. Andrew; and on the front, the badge of St. Patrick, adorned with the Rose, Shamrock, Thistle, and Oak Leaf. The hammock cloth of the same costly materials. The harness for eight horses is made of red morocco leather, and decorated with blue ribbons, the royal arms, and other ornaments richly gilt; and it is used when Her Majesty goes in state, drawn by eight cream coloured horses, and is kept in the Royal Mews, Pimlico.

THE MOUNTAIN CHILD.

BY JAMES GREGOR GRANT.

[THE following poem records the unhappy fate of a child in the Isle of Man, (a boy scarcely eight years old,) who perished one stormy night upon the Clughree mountain, in one of those fearful mists which has often been seen rolling down like a vast ocean from the yet higher tops of Snafield and North Barrule. The poor little fellow had unfortunately wandered from his father's side in the evening, and was found dead next morning under the mountain wall.]

As we roam along this mountain wild,
Hark to my song of a mountain child!
No carol or ditty of blythesome breath,

But a low, sad chaunt of sorrow and death!

A song for the cottage maiden's tear,

When she hears the night-winds whistling drear;
A song for the passing traveller's sigh,

When he hears the tempest gathering nigh,—

And the mists from the Barrule and Snafield's brow,

Roll like a sea, as they're rolling now;

And he scarce may catch, on the mountain wild,

A glimpse of the home of the mountain child!

Where'er on English ground I roam,

I love to gaze on a cottage home!
With its pastoral grace, and its rustic air,
And its clear white wall, and its garden fair.-
And the thin blue smoke on the upland breeze,
Gracefully curl'd o'er the sheltering trees;
And the door where trellising woodbine creeps,
And the lattice where many a tall rose peeps
Through its small bright panes that the sunset gilds,
Beneath the eaves where the swallow builds ;
And the meadow where all is verdant and mild,-
Was such the home of the mountain child?

Look on the bleak, lone, comfortless cot,—
Toil and penury mark the spot!
Bare and shelterless, savage and drear,
Nor shrub nor floweret blossoming near!
The roof is sod, and the walls are mud,

Half wash'd down by the winter flood;

And through many a ruined cranny and rift,

The fierce rains dash, and the bleak snows drift!
What, oh! what should inhabit there?
Beasts of the field, or fowls of the air!

All is desolate, stern, and wild ;

Such is the home of the mountain child!

When the winter-winds are whistling shrill,
Heap up the bright coal fire as ye will,
And spread the festal board beside,
With the generous cheer of Christmastide,-
And sip the red wine as it laughs in the rays
Through the crystal shot by the ruddy blaze,
And wrap ye in luxury's fleecy fold,

From the biting tooth of the keen, sharp cold,-
E'en then, from the shutter'd and curtain'd panes,
One breath will send a chill through your veins !
Oh what, in the hut of the shelterless wild,
Can warm the veins of the mountain child?

Dearer than raiments of purple and gold,
Is fire to the wretch who trembles with cold:

Dearer than feasting is fuel to him
Who feels the sharp winter in every limb!
Happy sleeps he, though but stretched on a rug,
Where the mines of pitchy coal are dug ;
Happy is he whose lone hut stands

Where the forest yields him its crackling brands ;
Happy is he with a morsel of bread,

Whose hands to a cheerful blaze are spread!
Oh! what, and where, on the mountain wild,
Is the fuel that warms the mountain child?

God hath spread for the mountain child
Fuel all o'er the mountain wild!-
Where earth's bituminous treasures rest,
Far, far down in her fathomless breast!

And there waves not above one tree to throw
A wither'd twig down when tempests blow.
Climb but the Clughree's topmost fence,
Fuel is there for the gathering thence;
And he of whom I chant my rhyme
Loved with his sturdy sire to climb,

To cut the dark turf on the mountain wild ;-
Such was the joy of the mountain child!

It was stormy December's stormiest day;
The waves were roaring in Laxey Bay;
And the loud winds-louder never than then-
Howl'd like demons o'er Laxey Glen;
But louder and fiercer, if fiercer might be,
They swept the heights of the dark Clughree;
And the mists from Barrule and Snafield's brow
Roll'd like a sea, as they're rolling now;
And nothing with life would brave the sky,
Save the toiling poor, who must toil or die ;-
Yet away, away, up the mountain wild,

Through storm and cloud sped the mountain child!

What reck'd he that the black mists roll'd

Blacker along the storm swept wold?

What reck'd he that his scanty vest

Bared to the blast his shivering breast?

What reck'd he, as he panted on,

That the brief dark day was well nigh gone?
Oft before, like a bird set free,

He had sped to his sire on the wild Clughree,
Playfully busy to aid the while

The peat to cut, and the stack to pile;
For the mountaineer, thongh rugged and wild,
Was dear to the heart of his mountain child.

That rugged sire was gentle to him!
And away with straining breath and limb,-
Away, away, like a bird set free,
Hurries the boy up the wild Clughree!
Why does he tarry in mid career?

Does he flag with toil, or droop with fear?
Does he dread the blast, as louder it blows,
Or the night, as darker and nearer it grows
No! half like a chiding, and half like a wail,
A voice seems loading the stormy gale;
And he thinks he hears, far sweeping the wild,
His mother's lament for her mountain child!

Oh! louder and wilder at night was sent
To the deaf, dark heaven that mother's lament!
And loud and wild was the father's groan,

When he entered his desolate cabin alone,

And hurried around in vain to greet

The child he had met not, and never should meet !
Desolate parents! how did they brook

Each in the other's wild eye to look?
Each in the other's wild glance of despair,

Asking and answering,-"Where, oh, where?"
Oh! frantic and far, and fruitless and wild,

Was the long, long search for the mountain child!

Never again alive did they see

Their dark-hair'd boy on the wild Clughree !
Never again did his sweet glad voice
The desolate parents' hearts rejoice!
Never again for the lone hut's fire

Did he toil in sport with his toiling sire,
And, playfully busy, help the while

The peat to cut, and the stack to pile!

When the dim morn sped its cold grey eye,
Misty and pale, through the storm-swept sky,
And the dull beam crept o'er the mountain wild,-
There lay the corpse of the mountain child!

How long, how long, with the tempest's wrath
Did the lost one strive on his darken'd path!
How oft did he call on the bleak hill's side,
And scream with terror when none replied,
And shriek for those who could not hear,

Till hope grew sick in the grasp of fear!

And his young heart's strength in its agony quail'd,
And his young blood froze, and his young limbs fail'd!
Alas! he had known nor terror nor tears,

And his was the strength of but twice four years;
And, long ere the tempest was hush'd on the wild,
Cold and low lay the mountain child!

In the fair Kirk-Lonan's earth they made
The cold, cold bed where his ashes are laid;

But ever, 'tis whisper'd, when night, and cloud,
And storm are gathering dark and loud,

On the bleak bare top of the wild Clughree,

That child the traveller yet may see!
Gaze but e'en now with a trusting eye,

And you'll see the dim form hurrying by!

Listen but now, with a trusting ear,

And his shrill, sad wail on the blast you'll hear !

Such are the tales of the mountain wild,—

Such was the fate of the mountain child!

A CONVERSATION with a young Irishman of good natural abilities (and among no race of men are those abilities more general) is like a forest walk; in which, while you are delighted with the healthy fresh air and the green unbroken turf, you must stop at every twentieth step to extricate yourself from a briar. You acknowledge that you have been amused, but that you rest willingly, and that you would rather not take the same walk on the morrow.-Landor.