might strive to do them ill, and which led them to compassionate most of all the heart agitated by hateful passions. The man imbued with this religion, though he might act on the defensive, could never be an agressor. Akin to the sentiment of Aristippus, already quoted, is the following precept of Jesus: Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, and do good to them that despitefully use and persecute you.'

Man being so constituted that he cannot choose but seek happiness, as the great end and acquirement of his pursuit, he casts his attention in every direction in order to arrive at and secure this treasure. And, if he be not diverted to follow delusions, with the hope of attaining his much-desired object, he soon discovers that he cannot be happy without virtue. The only difference discoverable between happiness and pleasure is, that happiness is continued pleasure, and pleasure a short happiness.

'Virtue is to man,' says St. Pierre,' the true law of nature. It is the harmony of all harmonies. Virtue alone can render love sublime, and ambition beneficent. It can derive the purest gratifications even from privations the most severe. Rob it of love, friendship, honor, the sun, the elements, it feels that under the administration of a Being just and good, abundant compensation is reserved for it, and it acquires an increased confidence in God, even from the cruelty and injustice of man. It was virtue which supported, in every situation of life, a Socrates, an Epicetus, a Fenelon; that rendered them at once the happiest and most respectable of mankind.'

From the imperfection of both the bodily and mental constitution of man, it follows that he cannot be uninterruptedly happy. From the varieties, also, in the ideas which men entertain of this their chief good, as well as their different capabilities and situations, a greater chance exists of their being happy, as well as the various characters, offices, occupations, and geniuses, being supplied, which are so necessary in the social state.

The ideas which we entertain of our interest, which is conceded to be the great lever that moves the world, resolve themselves into the notions we have of happiness. And when we have become so far deluded as to suppose that our happiness or interest can be promoted by that which procures misery to others, we have imbibed an error, which will infallibly secure our wretchedness. Observation and reflection will inevitably convince us of this truth. Poverty is the frequent, but not invariable, companion of vice. There are other worldly or physical ills more certain to accompany the vicious; and ills of the mind and feelings, a thousand times more unendurable than external evils, which pursue the debased soul, and which the ancients fancied under the name of the Furies, whose office was to torment the guilty by the stings of conscience.

We see men living and breathing around us, and passing us every day in the street, with countenances and histories such as convince us that the wrung heart would gladly barter its wealth for a bare subsistence, if it could but undo a portion of their life's history, and which warn us to beware of their path. I could name a long list of such, who tell us, with trumpet tongue, and gorgon countenances, that the way of the vicious is not a pleasant one. The curse of dis

honesty, even when gilded with wealth, is hard enough to bear. Examples of this class are sufficiently frequent, without resorting to those convict villains who fill our jails.

Thus observation and reflection, by exhibiting to us the dire effects of vice, as well as commending to our lips the pleasant cup of virtue, strengthen the foundations of morality. If, therefore, we are ever to find materials to improve and perfect the science of morality, I am persuaded we must find them in observing the relations existing among mankind, of all classes and denominations, and a minute and careful study of these relations. These studies, together with a contemplation of the great works of nature, may, and probably will, bring back that simplicity of religion, which is supposed to have existed in the early ages of the world the fabled golden age.' In religion, as in other sciences, there are two ages of its simplicity; first, in the infancy of the world, and next, in the maturity of its philosophy. To the first, we cannot return; to the latter, we appear to be hastening; and all philanthropists, having an influence in society, should, I humbly conceive, use their endeavors to hasten our return to that more perfect simplicity.

PRAYER.

1.

ARRESTED Suns and tranquilled seas declare
To heaven and earth the omnipotence of prayer;
That gives the hopeless hope, the feeble might,
Outruns the swift, and puts the strong to flight,
The noon-tide arrow foils, and plagues that walk by night.

II.

Unmatched in power, unbounded in extent,
As omnipresent as omnipotent;

To no meridian nor clime confined,

Man with his fellow man, and mind to mind, "T is hers, in links of love and charity, to bind.

III.

But farther still extends her awful reign:
To her indeed belongs that golden chain,
From fabled gods and their Olympus riven;

But, since to Truth and her adorers given,

E'en with his MAKER man to join, and earth with heaven.

IV.

Then let those lips that never prayed, begin!

We must or cease to pray; or cease to sin?

Each earth-born want and wish, a grovelling brood,

Are oft mistaken, or misunderstood;

But who could dare to pray for ought that is not good?

V.

Not that our prayers make heaven more prompt to give,
But they make us more worthy to receive:

There is in that celestial treasury

Wealth inexhaustible, admission free;

But he that never prays, rejects the golden key.

And can it be that him the grave
Can in its dark jaws hide?
So bid I then adieu to home,
And with my pilgrim staff I roam
The broad world, far and wide.

'But first I'll turn me to his vault,
And there will I kneel low,
There shall, with kisses and with sighs,
And thousand tears from these poor eyes,
The grass more greenly grow.'

'My child, O turn thee first in here,

And take refreshment meet! [spire,
Hark! how the storm shakes tower and
And glassy hail-stones in their ire
On roof and window beat?'

"O no! most rev'rend sir, O no!

Hold me not back, I pray!
The rain upon my head may dash,
No rain in all the world can wash
My guilt from me away.'

'Ha! ha! good mistress, turn thee round,
And see thy comfort nigh!

Fair love, see here whom thou hast got!
Knowest thou Brother Gray-Frock not?
The dearest that am I!

'Through pain of ever hopeless love,
This garb of serge I chose;
Soon had in monastery lone
My life and never-ceasing groan
High oaths brought to a close.

'Now heaven be praised! My trial year

Is not yet quite pass'd o'er ;

Fair maid, if now to you I'm known,
And thou mak'st hand and heart my own,
I enter there no more.'

Thank heaven! thank heaven! now pass
All sorrows from my heart! [away
O welcome, welcome, pleasures blest,
Come, my heart's chosen, to my breast!
Death only can us part!'

FOX-CHASE OF OLD ENGLAND.

BY W. H. SOTHAM.

'Nothing I admire

Beyond the running of the well trained pack.
At fault none, losing heart, but all at work!
None leaving his task to another! - answering
The watchful huntsman's caution, check, or cheer,
As steed his rider's rein! Away they go!'

LOVE CHASE.

I HAVE never seen, in any publication in America, a true description of an old-fashioned English fox-chase. Let me endeavor to sketch one, for the entertainment of readers who have never been called to mingle in the exciting sport. I have thought that it might prove amusing, since it has afforded pleasure to so many great men, in the old world. Their minds are chiefly engaged with it through the winter season, and their indulgence in it is indeed extravagant. It is the topic of conversation, both in the field and drawing-room. The ladies enjoy it; they admire a 'bold rider,' and consider such as call themselves sportsmen, and yet cannot give an accurate description of every check, turn, and desperate leap, they take, and distinguish the notes of their favorite hounds, as cowards and 'milksops,' and unworthy to protect a 'spirited lady.' Such opinions spur young men on to purchase high-priced horses, to keep an extra number, and by these means, to gallop out of their fortunes.

A true sportsman is literally enamoured with a favorite hound. He delights to see him take his meals, and caresses him, as he would his dearest friend. He cheers him with a 'view-halloo,' a sound which will at all times charm the ear of a tired hound, and enliven the spirits of a weary hunter; and when he dies, instead of throwing him to the muck-hill, to decay ingloriously, he bestows a tomb, a monument, and an epitaph, to his memory, erected in the most con

spicuous part of his pleasure-ground. No sportsman passes by, without giving a 'death-halloo' over the remains of the old and valued friend, who has afforded him so much pleasure. He turns away with many a lingering look behind, saying, perhaps, 'A better hound than lies buried there, never entered a cover!'

A great brag is your professional fox-hunter. His descriptions of the chase are generally exaggerated. As a farmer, however, cannot be deemed a true sportsman, he is more likely to confine himself to facts. Having trained a number of young horses, to attract attention, I was induced to ride rather boldly. Should a farmer's horse be seen to flag in the chase, every sportsman is soon aware of it, and will not purchase. Give me a fair start, and I could keep as near the hounds as the best of them; and my repeated success in obtaining the brush, when but a beardless boy, elicited many a curse from certain jealous sportsmen. Having, as I modestly conceive, a thorough knowledge of the chase, the reader may rely upon the faithfulness of my sketch. A pack of fox-hounds contains from sixteen to twenty couples, to which are attached a huntsman and two whippers-in. Each pack generally hunts four days in a week, when the frost will permit. They make their appointments near woods, where foxes frequent, at ten o'clock in the morning. Each duke, lord, baronet, and esquire, who may attend the meeting, send their servants forward with the horses they intend to ride through the day, who take care to ride them steadily to the cover, and have every thing as clean and neat as if just out of the stable. Many gentlemen who have long distances to come, send their servants and horses to a tavern near the meetingplace, the previous evening, and come in parties, or alone, as their inclinations lead them; some in a carriage and four, some driving tandem, some in a chaise, and some on horseback. There are generally a great many students from the Universities, who go to cover as fast as their horses can carry them. When these various parties enter the meeting-field, each looks out for his own servant and horse, and the gentlemen all turn out of their carriages, each one with scarlet coat, black waistcoat, buckskin or white cord breeches, top boots, spurs, and long hunting-whip in his hand; unless it be a parson, who is obliged to content himself with a black coat, his calling rendering the scarlet one a forbidden privilege, though his dress in every other respect corresponds with the others. Gentlemen who come to cover on horseback, generally wear overalls' to keep their dress clean; and when they arrive, their servants take them off, and turn them out as neat as those who came in their carriage. A sportsman's dress, it may be observed, is strikingly genteel. Not a pin, a broach, or any show of jewelry, is seen about his person.

The nobility and gentry pass their morning compliments, talk over the last run,' relate the amusement, perhaps, of the previous evening- the fortunate boasting of his winnings at play, and the loser swearing at his losses, etc. The young farmers assemble around them, riding fine young horses, trained for the purpose of sale. The nobility will give any amount for them, if spirited and successful. Among some of the high bloods at college, whom their fathers supply well with money, the price of a good horse is no object. The credit of gaining the brush,'' scalp,' or 'pad,' is worth the price of