tence is enclosed a truth worthy of deep consideration. But Divine Wisdom has not ordained that sufferings and errors are the only beneficial influences that act upon us. It is not by adversity alone that we are rendered good or happy. There are certain powers or facilities of the mind which, if nourished and cultivated, will shed a mild and steady light on our path through life and will keep the loftier and better part of our nature green and vigorous. Best and foremost amongst those powers of the soul is that beautiful and mysterious feeling of love and reverence that attaches to the word "home." Dear is that word to our hearts at all times,—dear even in its most limited sense, and when we are enjoying its peace, its blessings, and its affections; but oh! inexpressibly dear is that little word to the weary wanderer! To him its significance is limitless—everything his heart yearns after—Country, wife, child, brother, friend! all are enveloped in its mystic charm; and though wandering far, far away from the scenes of his joyous youth and merry boyhood, the purer part of his nature returns thither, and revels in dreams o'er the beloved haunt of the dim and dreary past. Yes, dear to the wanderer are those memories; they are shrined in the bosom of the emigrant, who, from his adopted home, looks not back to, nor thinks of, the dark cloud of want and misery or the cruel hand of oppression that drew him from the home of his fathers; they lighten the path of the mariner tossed about in the wild waves of the trackless deep; they cheer the heart of the tired soldier, who sleeping beside the bivouac fire, lives again his happiest years in the bright but visionary scenes of dreamland. They are dear to all, and one cherished by all, but deeper, purer, stronger than the love of the emigrant, the sailor, or the soldier, is that changeless and undying devotion that lives in the heart of the exile. To him the word has holy signification,—a power that embodies within itself everything that men can cheris. It conjures up the spirits of the past from their shadowy dwellings, and paints with vivid pencil the beloved features of the beloved dead. It carries him far away from the stern realities of the present; and, although in his retrospective journey he may again behold many saddening scenes, and indulge in reflections of happy days forever vanished, still he lingers fondly o'er the heart-cherished picture, and loves it all the dearer for every pang it afflicts on him. And is it better thus? What language can expose the baseness of the wretch who, through fear of causing pain to himself, would cast away and ignore forever the good and holy thoughts and memories that are etched upon him by the name and recollection of our childhood's home? If there exist such a being, let us speak of him in the words of our poet:—
"Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever;
Blessings shall hallow it
Never, oh! Never."
But why should we speak thus? Surely never, or rarely indeed, has our fair little country produced so degenerate a son. No, no!—wild, volatile, thoughtless, reckless, we may be called—but that stigma is undeserved. We love the little isle that it has pleased God to make our motherland. In her few smiles, in her many tears, and in her countless sufferings, we love her. The blessed hope of returning again
