But let me now to the subject of this paper-The Love of Country, Among the many virtues which adorn the character of fallen man, none ranks higher than patriotism or the love of one's country. No one properly feels the patriotic glow, till he leaves his home, and becomes an adventurer in a foregn land; it is then, that longing desire exists for a return of the scenes of childhood; it is then the watchfulness and love of parents are sighed for; it is then the mournful reflection springs up, of the disrespect we have shown them, and the wish to see them again, ere it be too late, to counteract that conduct by filial affection. How noble, how virtuous then, even for this alone is the love of one's country. There is a passage in Zimmerman, illustrative of the patriotism of a French Officer "a French Officer on his returning to his native country after a long absence" exclaimed, "I should prefer a residence in my native fields to all others; not because they are more beautiful, but because I was there brought up. The spot on which we pass our earliest days possesses a secret charm, an enchantment, superior to any other enjoyment the world affords, and the loss of which no other country can compensate; the spot where the gambols of my infant days were played;

those happy days which passed without inquietude or cares." Nearly all the great men Britain has produced have been celebrated for love of country. George the Third, Fox, Pitt, Burke, Sheridan and Sir Walter Scott, seem to have held it uppermost in their hearts, and a thousand others; the former at the prorogation of Parliament in 1760, when a young man, was highly thought of by the nation for this single patriotic speech, "born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Briton." The celebrated Kosciusko is a noble specimen of patriotism. I shall conclude this paper, with an anecdote of him.

"In the invasion of France in 1814, some Polish regiments in the service of Russia, passed through the village where this exiled patriot then lived. Some pillaging of the inhabitants brought Kosciusko from his cottage. "When I was a Polish soldier," said he, addressing the plunderers, "the property of the peaceful citizen was respected." "And who art thou," said an officer, "who addresses us with a tone of authority?" "I am Kosciusko." There was magic in the word. It ran from corps to corps. The march was suspended. They gathered round him, and gazed with astonishment and awe upon the mighty ruin he presented.

"Could it indeed be their hero," whose fame was identified with that or their country? A thousand interesting reflections burst upon their minds; they remembered his patriotism, his devotion to liberty, his triumphs, and his glorious fall. Their iron hearts were softened, and the tear of sensibility trickled down their weatherbeaten faces. We can easily conceive what would be the feelings of the hero himself in such a scene. His great heart must have heaved with emotion, to find himself once more surrounded by the companions of his glory; and that he would have been upon the point of saying to them,

"Behold your general come once more

To lead you on to laurel'd victory,

To fame, to freedom."

The delusion could have lasted but for a moment. He was himself, alas! a miserable cripple; and, for them! they were no longer the soldiers of liberty, but the instruments of ambition and tyranny. Overwhelmed with grief at the reflection, he would retire to his cottage to mourn afresh over the miseries of his country."

POLYPHILUS.

Thursday, March 21, 1844,

No. 35.

Voltaire on India.

(Translated from the French.)

"Till Voltaire appeared, there was no nation more ignorant of its neighbour's literature than the French. He first exposed,

and then corrected, this neglect in his countrymen. There is no writer to whom the authors of other nations, especially of England, are so indebted for the extension of their fame in France, and through France, in Europe. There is no critic who has employed more time, wit, ingenuity, and diligence in promoting the literary intercourse between country and country, and in celebrating in one language the triumphs of another."

Lord Holland.

The antiquity of the arts in India has always been acknowledged by the people of every other nation. We preserve still an account of two Arabian travellers, who went to India and China a little after the reign of Charlemagne, and 400 years before the celebrated Marco Paolo. These Arabs asserted they had spoken with the then reigning Emperor of China: they relate that the Emperor told them that he only reckoned 5 great Kings in the world, and that he placed in this number "the King of Elephants and of Indians, who is called the King of Wisdom, because wisdom originally came from India." I confess I think this story for the most part fabulous, like

all oriental writings, but at length the tale proves that the Indians were considered the first inventors of the arts throughout the East,-whether the Chinese Emperor made this confession to them, or whether they have related it themselves. It is beyond doubt that the most ancient theology was invented by the Indians. They have two books written about 5,000 years ago in their ancient sacred language, named Sanscrit. Of these two books, the first is the Shasta, and the second the Veidam. Hear the commencement of the Shasta! "The Eternal, absorbed in the contemplation of his existence, resolved, in the full

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ness of time to create beings, partakers of his "own nature and happiness. These beings were "not he spoke the word and they appeared." We are certain that this sublime exordium, which for a long time was unknown to other nations, has never been even feebly imitated by them. These new beings were the demi-gods, heavenly spirits, worshipped afterwards by the Chaldeans, and introduced among the Greeks by Plato. Jews adored them, while captives in Babylon; it was there they learned the names the Chaldeans had given to the angels, and these names were not Indian. Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, even Israel,are Chaldean words which were never

The