baffled and put to a stand, when we try to form a conception of immensity, before sun or star existed, before any creature had a being, of immensity filled with nothing but the pure ethereal, invisible essence of the great uncreated spirit. When we think of the millions of worlds, with all their interminable varieties of spiritual and material, animate and inanimate, brute and intelligent, tribes of being, there is unavoidably in our minds the conception of Deity as having, in the superintendence of all his works of wisdom, power, and goodness, both incessant occupation, and exhaustless sources of enjoyment.

But when we set our imaginations to the task of blotting out creation,―of annihilating all but God,-and endeavor to fancy the vast solitude of immensity with no existence whatever save that of the unseen all-pervading Deity, and conceive of this being, as having from eternity been in possession of infinite enjoyment,—all within himself, not at all requiring to put forth his creative power on his own account, in order to supply any lack, any felt deficiency;— our conception of him, although it may be less brilliant and less inviting yet has in it, from its very undefined mysteriousness, a more appalling grandeur; a grandeur, which is depressed rather than elevated, diminished rather than amplified, by the obtrusion upon the scene of solitary vastness, of the rising magnificence of the created universe. It is the grandeur of self-sufficiency-the majesty of eternal independence.

We may feel it more easy to contemplate the Godhead through the medium of his works, and withal more attractive and pleasing, because it brings into play the feelings generated by the relations in which he stands to created existences, and the attributes of character which those relations unfold;-but, although we are sensible that there is a coldness in the undefined conception of solitary infinitude of a being existing by himself, unrelated, and holding no communion with any mind but his own ;-yet, chilling as the abstraction is, it is the chillness of a deeper awe,- -an awe which annihilates self in the presence of that mysterious being, who, before a creature existed, and even for a preceding eternity, possessed within himself all that was necessary to infinite and unchanging °felicity! REV. DR. WARDLAW.

LXVIII.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,
Cries "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?"— "Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast, before her father's men, Three days, we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather

"His horsemen hard behind us ride:
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief, I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady.

"And, by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:

So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace;
The water wraith was shrieking:
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore-
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover:

One lovely arm she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover!

"Come back, come back," he cried in grief,

66

Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief—

My daughter! Oh! my daughter!"

'Twas vain-the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

LXIX.-USEFULNESS OF THE SPIDER.

THE spider has provided the astronomer with his measuring line. Its web has determined the distances of the heavenly bodies, and by it the movements of what were till lately considered fixed stars have been ascertained. By its agency the comet has been tracked in its wanderings, and it is not too much to assert that it has contributed to the preservation of human life, and that by its slender cord vessels have been turned aside from dangerous rocks. It may be asked, How could the spider's web produce such results? We reply, Inasmuch as it has led to an accuracy of observation which might never have been attained without it.

The astronomer must have delicate instruments, the essential feature of which is some means of determining the precise instant when a heavenly body crosses the central line, or axis as it is called, of the telescope. For this purpose, a line of some kind, or, more correctly, a system of lines, must be stretched across the tube, in or near the focus of the eye glass, marking precisely the axis of the instrument. A fine thread of silk or linen, or even the finest human hair, or the most delicate wire, is too coarse and uneven for the purpose, where great exactness is required. A spider's thread is found to answer perfectly, being exceedingly fine and regular.

On a minute examination, a spider will be found to have four protuberances or spinners, each furnished with a large number of tubes, from which very slender threads proceed, and immediately

unite into one.

These four again unite and form the proper thread, which it is calculated consists of no fewer than four hundred lesser threads! And yet so delicate is it, that the eye cannot detect any coarseness or roughness in it, and it is fitted for the nicest calculations! Hence it is used in nearly all the better class of astronomical instruments; and daily, in various parts of the world, astronomers are watching the passage of the sun, the moon, the planets, and the fixed stars, behind the fine spider lines that stretch across the tubes of their telescopes. It is computed that ten thousand of the single threads of a spider are not so big as a single hair of a man's head. What must be the touch of the claws which guide and arrange these threads as they proceed from the spinners!

Professor Mitchel, by an invention of his own, has been able to divide a second into a thousand appreciable parts. To do this he converts time into space, seconds into inches, by causing the beats of the clock to be recorded (by means of a little magnetic telegraph) on a revolving disk, so that the distance between the marks thus made represents a second. The instant a star crosses one of the spider lines in the telescope, the observer touches the telescope key with his finger, and thus causes a mark to be made on the same revolving disk. The position of this mark among those made by the beat of the clock, gives the time of the observation, and, as its distance from the preceding second's mark can be very accurately measured, the time is obtained with corresponding exactness.

The great difficulty in this arrangement was to break and connect the galvanic circuit, at every stroke of the pendulum, by an apparātus so delicate as not to interfere with the regularity of the clock's motions. A very delicate wire lever was constructed, which by being made to vibrate, alternately broke and completed the circuit. How to connect this with the clock, without interfering with its rate of motion, was the next question. A very fine human hair was tried; but it was "rough, too coarse, too cable like," to answer the purpose. A fibre of silk was next tried with no better success. At length a spider's thread was selected, and it worked to an entire satisfaction. For twenty months that slender line has been moving to and fro in the Cincinnati Observatory, measuring off second after second on the revolving disk, and in this way exhibiting accurately the time of a multitude of astronomical observations, thus connecting, as it were, the heaveus and the earth.

Reader, when next thou brushest the cobweb from the wall, or thine eyes light upon the circular webs, glittering with pearly dewdrops on the hedge row, and the grass by the way-side, remember what the spider's thread has accomplished.

ANONYMOUS.

LXX.-CHILDHOOD AND ITS VISITORS.

ONCE on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play

Before a bank of blushing flowers.
Happy-he knew not whence or how;

And smiling-who could choose but love him? For not more glad than Childhood's brow Was the gay heaven that läughed above him.

Old Time came hobbling in his wrath,

And that green valley's calm invaded; The brooks grew dry beneath his path, The birds were mute, the lilies faded; A Grecian tomb stood full in sight,

And that old Time began to batter, But Childhood watched his paper kite, Nor heeded he, one whit, the matter.

With curling lip, and eye askance,

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute,
But Childhood's archly simple glance
Had such a holy spell within it,
That the dark demon to the air
Again spread forth its baffled pinions,
And hid its envy and despair,

Self-tortured, in its own dominions.

Then stepped a gloomy Phantom up,

Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's woful daughter,

And proffered him a fearful cup,

Full to the brim of bitter water;

Says Childhood, "Madam, what's your name;"

And when the "beldam muttered "Sorrow,"

He cried, "Don't interrupt my game,

I pray thee call again to-morrow."

The muse of Pindus thither came,

And wooed him with the softest numbers
That ever scattered wealth and fame
Upon a poet's youthful slumbers;
Though sweet the lyre and sweet the lay,
To Childhood it was all a riddle;
"Good gracious!" cried he; "send away
That noisy woman with a fiddle !"