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tion; and that there is no use in trying to create what must be in general only a fictitious interest. But I do not admit that literature, even the higher literature, must belong to the few. Poetry is, in the main, essentially catholic- -addressed to all men; and though some poetry requires particular knowledge and superior culture, much, and that the noblest, needs only natural feeling and the light of common. experience. Such poetry, taken in moderation, followed with genuine good-will, shared in common, will be intelligible and delightful to most men who will take the trouble to be students at all, and ever more and more so.

7. Perhaps, also, there may be a fragment of truth in what Charles Lamb has said,-that any spouting "withers and blows upon a fine passage;" that there is no enjoying it after it has been "pawed about by declamatory boys and men." But surely there is a reasonable habit of recitation as well as an unreasonable one; there is no need of declamatory pawing. To abandon all recitation, is to give up a custom which has given delight and instruction to all the races of articulately-speaking men. If our faces are set against vain display, and set towards rational enjoyment of one another, each freely giving his best, and freely receiving what his neighbor offers, we need not fear that our social evenings will be marred by an occasional recitation, or that the fine passages will wither. And, moreover, it is not for reciting's sake that I chiefly recommend this most faithful form of reading-learning by heart.

8. I come back, therefore, to this, that learning by heart. is a good thing, and is neglected amongst us. Why is it neglected? Partly because of our indolence, but partly, I take it, because we do not sufficiently consider that it is a good thing, and needs to be taken in hand. We need to be reminded of it: I here remind you. Like a town-crier, ringing my bell, I would say to you, "O-yes, o-yes! Lost, stolen, or strayed, a good ancient practice-the good ancient practice of learning by heart. Every finder should be handsomely rewarded."

9. If any ask, "What shall I learn?" the answer is, Do as you do with tunes-begin with what you sincerely like best, what you would most wish to remember, what you would most enjoy saying to yourself or repeating to another. You will soon find the list inexhaustible. Then "keeping up" is easy. Every one has spare ten minutes; one of the problems of life is how to employ them usefully. You may well spend some in looking after and securing this good property you have won.

VERNON LUSHINGTON.

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XLIX. THE SONG OF THE RAIN.

I.

O! the long, slender spears, how they quiver and flash
Where the clouds send their cavalry down!

Rank and file by the million the rain-lancers dash

Over mountain and river and town:

Thick the battle-drops fall-but they drip not in blood;
The trophy of war is the green fresh bud:

O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

II.

The pastures lie baked, and the furrow is bare,
The wells they yawn empty and dry;

But a rushing of waters is heard in the air,

And a rainbow leaps out in the sky.

Hark! the heavy drops pelting the sycamore leaves,

How they wash the wide pavement, and sweep from the eaves! O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

III.

See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane,

The kind drops dance in on the floor;

And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain

On the step by her half-open door;

At the tune on the skylight, far over his head,
Smiles their poor crippled lad on his hospital bed.

O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

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See, the weaver throws wide his own swinging pane,

The kind drops dance in on the floor;

And his wife brings her flower-pots to drink the sweet rain On the step by her half-open door.

IV.

And away, far from men, where high mountains tower,
The little green mosses rejoice,

And the bud-heated heather nods to the shower,

And the hill-torrents lift up their voice:

And the pools in the hollows mimic the fight

Of the rain, as their thousand points dart up in the light: O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

V.

And deep in the fir-wood below, near the plain,
A single thrush pipes full and sweet,

How days of clear shining will come after rain,

Waving meadows, and thick-growing wheat;

So the voice of Hope sings, at the heart of our fears,
Of the harvest that springs from a great nation's tears:
O, the rain, the plentiful rain!

SPECTATOR.

IT

L.-THE LOVE OF NATURE.

T is strange to observe the callousness of some men, before whom all the glories of heaven and earth pass in daily succession without touching their hearts, elevating their fancy, or leaving any durable remembrance. Even of those who pretend to sensibility, how many are there to whom the luster of the rising or setting sun, the sparkling concave of the midnight sky, the mountain forest tossing and roaring to the storm, or warbling with all the melodies of a summer evening; the sweet interchange of hill and dale, shade and sunshine, grove, lawn, and water, which an extensive landscape offers to the view; the scenery of the ocean, so lovely, so majestic, and so tremendous, and the many pleasing varieties of the animal and vegetable kingdom, could never afford so much real satisfaction as the steams of a ball-room, or the wranglings of a card-table.

2. But some minds there are of a different mould, who, even in the early part of life, receive from the contemplation of Nature a species of delight which they would hardly

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