reason to doubt that there, also, they will always be found in the future. The banished duke in the forest was in the right, no doubt, when he assigned "the seasons' difference as the penalty of Adam;" but, as he has shown so beautifully, that penalty was not altogether for punishment, but for discipline, now rendered needful to raise again the creatures who had fallen.

It is quite remarkable how many of the arts and sciences owe their existence to the call of winter, urging man, from year to year, to provide against its rigours. But for the frown of winter, architecture would never be worthy of its name; and if it existed at all, would soon depart altogether from its true design. Instead of palaces and dwelling houses, we should have only large sheds and little sheds, and at best only solid pyramids and blind temples. Of ornament, there would be none, or if there were, it would be resorted to for its own sake, merely to flatter the eye; and instead of rising into the beautiful, it would be constantly straying into the fantastical. It is winter, through the cold and darkness, the rains and snows, which it brings along with it, that gives its true enhancement to the enjoyment of a fine day in summer, out of doors, and calls so loudly for everything which can minister for enjoyment in winter, within doors. Hence the real problem of ornamentation, that is, to beautify the useful. Hence the fine features of a wellconstructed staircase, apartment, or hall, preserving an ample area, and thus satisfying reason, while displaying beautiful proportions, and thus gratifying taste; and hence, also, the fine features of the palace, the mansion, the villa, where staircase, hall, and chamber, are so accommodated to each other, and combined, as to give every facility and elegance within, while they give a beautiful and picturesque structure when viewed from without.

It might, indeed, be logically contended that surely structures more truly beautiful might be expected, if beauty were the only consideration that needed to be attended to. But nature does not countenance attempts of this kind on the part of man. She seems to have reserved to herself the privilege of producing the purely or merely beautiful; and this privilege, which she claims for herself, she sanctions also, by doing it all without effort, and merely as her pastime. And hence we accept from nature, with thankfulness, the purely or merely beautiful, and are wholly satisfied with it when we behold it. But, with the productions of man, our feelings are different. We know the labour which a large building has cost, and we never fail to ask what is the use of it. In order to satisfy the beholder, a piece of architecture, in general, must be useful, as well as merely beautiful. The poet, the painter, the sculptor, we do indeed allow to bestow themselves upon the purely or merely beautiful; we are satisfied if they succeed, and we are thankful to them for the pleasure which their creations give us. There are some, indeed, who ask for more,-even a moral lesson, as well as enjoyment, especially from the poet. But however that may be, there can be no doubt with regard to the architect, that to secure a

unanimous vote in favour of his work, he must never lose sight of the useful. The idea of utility alone has weight enough, at least in this economic age, to vindicate the existence of that which obviously costs so much hard labour as the heaping of heavy stones above each, other, in opposition to their natural tendency to be still, or fall down.

Now it is winter, with its bad weather, which demands these piles of stones so loudly. Winter, in fact, insists upon them not only as useful, but as indispensable. Winter thus opens, in reference to this art, a field for human industry, energy, taste, genius, in which civilization unfolds and maintains itself, and by which even nature is adorned by princely palaces and churches, lordly castles and towers, beautiful villas and villages, towns and cities.

To the same cause we owe the development of all those arts which deal with textile fabrics. The human form is in itself so much more pleasing to the eye than any trappings that can possibly be put over it, that but for the cold, people in general would care little for clothes. We are indeed wont to associate the idea of naked with that of savage; but the term nude (though it means the same) awakes quite other associations; and if there be any necessary connection between the absence of clothes and savage life, thanks to the winter that the approach does not extend to the civilized. It is only to provide against the cold that tailors and dressmakers find anything to do. Those who have been among the civilized races of the tropics, where there is no winter, and have taken notice of their costumes-as, for instance, in southern Indiacannot fail in being convinced that a mere web of muslin as it comes from the bleacher, and that without the use of scissors or needle or even pin, may be wrapped about the loins, and brought over the shoulder, in such a way as at once to satisfy the most sensitive feelings of the most modest woman, and to form a drapery of the most perfect beauty. It is not to taste, nor is it to morality, but it is to the

“Icy fang, the churlish chiding of the winter's wind,"

that we owe all those fabrics, and arts of ornamenting them, which engage such a considerable part of our population and of everybody's thoughts, and which minister so much at once to our personal pleasures and to our national wealth. And if by these means, by the comfort and elegance of our homes, our warmly-covered walls, our curtains and carpets, our couches and bright fires, and brighter gas-lights within, and, when out of doors, our waterproofs, furs, mohairs, dreadnoughts, and whatnots, we succeed in mastering the cold, and even in enjoying it, what is this but a display of the latent energy of human nature, which winter has been the teacher to evoke and educate, what but an evidence that man is still good for his original mission to replenish the earth, and to subdue it.

Nor let us repine that such is our mission, or that we are appointed to an interminable war, the war of spirit against matter, of

liberty against necessity. If life were all one dulcet, piping time of peace, then how should we prevent that indolence and ennui, that impotence and sleepiness, that are too often apt to steal over us, even when there is a call to be up and doing? The war in which we are enlisted, by our very existence as men, is not an unequal war. On the contrary, man is appointed to victory after every struggle from age to age. The hostile powers of nature are not more numerous, nor are they stronger now than they were ages ago; while man, by the progress of the arts and sciences, has been gaining upon them. The Alps are no higher or harder now than they were in the days of Hannibal; but the engineer can tunnel them now right through, and shoot a train into Italy when he pleases. The Atlantic is no broader nor more stormy now than when Columbus first crossed it: but the sailor now, instead of having to wait, all anxious for a favourable wind, can go to sea when it suits him, and shape a straight course in his steamship, and keep to it all the way across, though right in the wind's eye. Nor needs the man of business or the errand of affection now even to wait for the post, though it travel so rapidly. With the speed of lightning his message may be sent thousands of miles in a few moments, and from extremest distances his answer may be received before the sun go down. Now of the "natural enemies" thus provided by our Creator to offer us battle, not to conquer us but to develop our powers and make us men, winter is one of the chief.

Nor is this mere argument and theory. To see how it goes with human creatures, when the climate where they dwell is without a winter, it is only necessary to inspect the condition of the native population in regions near the equator. There, of course, there is no winter. The sun rises and sets within a quarter of an hour of six o'clock morning and evening all the year round. The air is also generally moist, and there is a luxuriant vegetation every month in the year. Near the sea there is also an ever-blowing sea breeze, so benignant, that any one may sleep in it all night without risk. The name of winter is unknown to the natives, and there is nothing corresponding to the reality. The amenity of the climate is indeed perfect, and those who have resided there, and then have returned to this country, generally recall it to memory like a beautiful dream. Well; what of the natives there? their physical, moral, intellectual development in a region of nature that seems so enviable? Take the island of Ceylon, for instance. On the authozity of Bishop Heber, who has been upon the spot, we know that "every prospect pleases;" but to this there is the sad addition, that "only man is vile." And it is certain that the native there is the very antipode of all energy, the very personification of apathy. His sleep is so profound that, though he commonly lies on the hard brick floor, with nothing softer than a mat for a bed, from which one would suppose that he would be easily woke up, yet it usually takes a good kick to start him. And when he is up and awake to the utmost, still he is not wide awake, and can never keep his own

He has been put down and ruled by races from wintry regions, one after another, from time immemorial. And although in the present day, through the goodness of the British government, which now holds the sway over him, he has generally a garden of his own, yet it is everywhere a garden of weeds; and he is content to subsist on the nuts and fruits of the trees which his father once planted, and which, though left to themselves ever since, have not yet ceased-so great is the bounty of nature, to yield such food as he deems good enough for him, year after year, nay, month after month, for half a century and more. Thanks to the weight of the nut (the cocoa) which he likes best, he has not to climb for it. The nut falls from the tree when it is ripe; and, in falling, makes a noise loud enough to awake him when he is sleeping in the shade beneath. And thus he is not without his dinner and his dinner bell; though the returns of the coroners show that, in this way, not a few natives get their crowns cracked every year.

Europeans, when in these parts, experience the same effects of a perpetual summer. The most trivial action is found to require an effort, and to prove fatiguing. And not the chair but the couch is that piece of furniture which is most in demand; and stretched on which you are surest to find the party whom you visit. This effect may, perhaps, be ascribed to the excessive heat rather than to the perpetual summer. At the same time, it is not to be observed in countries where there is a winter, however oppressive the summer heat may be. Thus, in the United States, and even in Canada, the temperature of summer rivals that of India, and is much more oppressive; but there is a winter also, and of this the bracing effect appears to be such, that no constitutional languor is induced. Nay, where is such energy to be found as in the inhabitants of North America? In India, also, the same thing is to be observed. Those who can afford to spend a portion of each year among the mountains, or in any region where a winter cold can be reached, do not suffer the loss of their energy like those who continue to live in a perpetual summer. It is not the winter's cold alone, however, that is favourable to the maintenance of the tone and energy of the human frame, but also the variation, the change from the one season to the other, and the stimulus of the variety and novelty which this implies. Unless man is to lead a life that is purely inner and reflective, he requires external excitants to keep him alive and in due relation with the other beings and things around him; and of these excitants the revolution of the seasons, and the return of winter, is one of the chief. For a life of solid or fruitful reflection, indeed, not less than for a life of social activity and usefulness, these external excitants appear to be necessary. The philosophers of a perpetual summer, at least, the sages of India, have not made much of their thoughts. To them dialectics is everything; truth next to nothing. To them words are things, and things are of no account. The popular mind also displays a similar tendency. When we ask, and are eager to know, the cause of a phenomenon,

the natives of India merely wonder. Nor do they wonder long. Some one says it is magic, and all are satisfied. Nothing more difficult than to find an earnest man among thousands that may be around you. Or, rather, let us say that the mind of the population is like that of the clime-a perpetual summer, of which contentment with self is the sunshine, and every change unacceptable.

It might be even contended that it is in temperate regions, in regions diversified by the variety of the seasons, and where a winter annually recurs, that the Creator has provided, by anticipation, for the most powerful races of man. Thus, the family of the grasses, which includes all pastures, and all the most valuable kinds of vege table food, attains its finest development in temperate regions; and for the maturation of the most valuable fruits and grains, a winter, or rather the anticipation of it, is indispensable. But here our argument opens in another walk, suggesting the propriety of bringing our present remarks to a close. M.

The Reviewer.

Seth Bede, the " Methody;" his Life and Labours. Tallant & Co.,

Paternoster Row. 1859.

THIS tract professes to give the real history of several of the principal characters in "Adam Bede," which we reviewed in our October number. We are not aware that it lies open to any objec tion on the score of correctness; however, we do object strongly to any one poaching on the literary preserve which belongs indisputably to another. The publication of this tract is scarcely less reprehensible than that of another, under the title of "Adam Bede, Jun." The object of both we conceive to be nothing higher than to extort money from a curious public; and, as such, we are glad to believe that both have proved failures. Moreover, we do not care to have the veil of fiction withdrawn from the characters which are immortalized in "Adam Bede." To us-and, we doubt not, to all other readers, as far as impression goes-the "true" history is fictitious, and the fictitious true.

Tweedie's Temperance Almanack for 1860. London: Tweedie, Strand. Price 3d.

A GOOD almanack, accompanied with much information, which will be useful to all friends of the Temperance cause.

The Public Speaker, and How to Make One. London: Nisbet. In the preface to this book the author apologizes for sending it to the press, because there are several works before the public which treat of the same subject. He only mentions two, however,