curious and beautiful shapes of vegetable or animal life, the graceful fern, or the finely vertebrated lizard, such as now, it may be, have been extinct for thousands of years, are permanently bound up with the stone, and rescued from that perishing which would otherwise have been theirs; so in words are beautiful thoughts and images, the imagination and the feeling of past ages, of men long since in their graves, of men whose very names have perished-these, which would so easily have perished too, preserved and made safe for ever. Many a single word is itself a concentrated poem, having stores of poetical thought and imagery laid up in it. Examine it, and it will be found to rest on some deep analogy of things natural and things spiritual; bringing those to illustrate and to give an abiding form and body to these. There are cases in which more knowledge of more value may be conveyed by the history of a word than by the history of a campaign."*

Another most important view of words is that of their grammatical structure. We merely mention the topic for the purpose of remarking, that it is this which gives to language its wonderful compass, flexibility, and fineness of expression. The changes of form in the nouns, pronouns, verbs, and adjectives, with the use of the minor parts of speech, answer the purpose of dovetailing in cabinet work, fit the words to each other, give to them the character of language, and render this language an instrument of unbounded pliability and power. Words thus used are like the stones in some noble building each has its separate shape and value, but their combination makes the edifice. Or rather, perhaps, they are as the bones, muscles, and nerves in the body, which answer, with astonishing variety and precision of movement, to the purposes of the mind. Had Nathan merely said to David, "Thou

*Trench on "The Study of Words," a little work abounding in examples, illustrative of these statements, as interesting as they are instructive and suggestive.

art a man," the effect would have been entirely different from that of the conscience-rousing charge," Thou art the man!" And if so weighty, and, as in this case, terrible a stress of meaning can rest on the smallest particle of speech, what must be the capabilities of speech viewed in all its parts and inflexions, and the individual words that range under them? It is in effect infinite.

This brings us to remark on the work actually done by the use of words. It requires, however, no slight effort of imagination to conceive, in even a tolerably adequate measure, the effects daily produced by human language-the information imparted, the emotions excited, the business transacted, the characters moulded, the destinies decided! "Speech is indeed the rudder that steereth human affairs, the spring that setteth the wheels of action on going; the hands work, the feet walk, all the members and all the senses act by its direction and impulse; yea, most thoughts are begotten, and most affections stirred up thereby. It is itself most of our employment, and what we do beside it is however guided and moved by it. It is the profession and trade of many; it is the practice of all men to be, in a manner, continually talking. The chief and most considerable sort of men manage all their concernments merely by words. By them princes rule their subjects, generals command their armies, senators deliberate and debate about the great matters of state. By them advocates plead causes, and judges decide them; divines perform their offices, and minister their instructions; merchants strike up their bargains, and drive on all their traffic. Whatever, almost, great or small, is done in the court or in the hall, in the church or at the exchange, in the school or the shop, it is the tongue alone that doeth it-it is the force of this little machine that turneth all the human world about. It is, indeed, the use of this strange organ which rendereth human life, beyond the simple life of other creatures, so

a

exceedingly various and compounded; which creates such multiplicity of business, and which transacts it; while by it we communicate our secret conceptions, transfusing them into others; while therewith we instruct and advise one another; while we consult about what is to be done, contest about right, dispute about truth; while the whole business of conversation, of commerce, of government, and administration of justice, of learning, and of religion, is managed thereby."*

By words, God has to a wonderful extent manifested himself to men. "The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament sheweth his handiwork;" but in words he has made known to us his nature and attributes as the heavens and the earth could not possibly have done. The words he has condescended to use, interpret to us the signs and wonders of creation and of Providence. The words of Scripture inform us of the origin of our race, and thus place it above the dim and doubtful region of mere conjecture. In words, God has made known to us his will, and thus dealt with us as accountable, and laid on us the full weight of responsibility.† In words, the "strange design" of human redemption is unfolded. "Unto us is the word of this salvation sent." "The word of God" entering the sinner's mind "is quick and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit, and of the joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart." "I have slain them," says the Almighty, "by the words of my mouth." Those words are like fire in the bones; they melt the heart; they bring the prodigal back to his Father. The words Christ

Barrow's Sermons, vol. ii. p. 123.

Speech, says Aristotle, is made to indicate what is expedient and what is inexpedient, and, in consequence of this, what is just and what is unjust. It is therefore given to men because it is peculiar to them, that of good and evil, just and unjust, they only, with respect to other animals, possess a sense or feeling.

speaks are spirit and life, words through the instrumentality of which those mightiest and most glorious of all changes, reconciliation with God, the new birth, and the sanctification of our defiled hearts, are wrought. Words embody those great and precious promises, which are given to the end that we might be partakers of a divine nature, and which contain inexhaustible treasures of consolation and encouragement. Taking with us words we return unto the Lord. Christ has put words into our mouths, with which to approach the throne of grace in petition for ourselves, and intercession for the church and the world; and they are the casement through which we look beyond the limits of earth and time, into the glory to be revealed.

Homer calls words "winged"-an epithet which probably means that they have the power of conveying thought easily and swiftly from mind to mind. And they may well be called so, as they carry thought "all abroad," as on the wings of the wind, from clime to clime, and from age to age. Thus words which have once been spoken or written, words of instruction, beauty, and blessing, or words of evil, like the arrows of the Indians, tipped with poison, have often a diffused and prolonged life, and are working good or ill, fertilizing the soil of humanity like the dews and sunshine, or desolating it like the pestilence, centuries after the lips that uttered, or the hand that wrote them, have been mouldering in the grave.

G. GRUNDY. (To be continued.) NATURAL HISTORY OF THE YEAR. JANUARY.

"See, Winter comes to rule the varied year,

Sullen and sad, with all his rising train,
Vapours, and clouds, and storms."

THE New Year is frequently ushered in amidst 66 vapours and clouds and storms;" yet, even when its aspect is most unpropitious, we usually welcome and hail its approach.

As yet the character of the year 1859 is undiscerned even by the most sagacious conjectures. We are all anxious to pry into it, and to read its histories, so closely interwoven with our own. Some, it may be, have already indulged in fruitless speculations as to what the new year will become, and in what way the condition of humanity will be affected by the events which its short existence will evolve. What promises does the opening year bring with? it and what warnings? Is it the harbinger of days of peace or of commotion? Is mercy or judgment, or are both, the burthen of its message to us? These, however, are subjects on which the opening year, as yet, maintains a profound silence. All is dark and uncertain as to its issues; but we are not without the consoling assurance that all its events are under the wise and kind direction of that Being who sees the end from the beginning, and whose purposes, although incomprehensible to us, are those of infinite love.

We propose, with the Editor's permission, to place before our readers, in a series of papers, a Natural History of the Year. Although to speculate on the probable events which may characterize its history would be a vain and fruitless employment, yet to take notes of the natural occurrences which, in the order of things, God has appointed-to investigate and survey the workings of his providence in this created world of wonders, filled with his never-absent power-this will be an employment which will invest with interest every rural walk, and will teach and induce us to acknowledge

"These are thy works, Parent of Good-thyself how wondrous

then!"

But what can there be that is interesting at such a season as this? The month of January brings with it the frosts and snows of winter; the trees are leafless, and the hedgerows are stripped of their drapery. We see nothing, you are ready to say, so attractive in the appearances of nature as to induce us to take a

walk at such a season. With those in "populous cities pent," whose morning walk is confined to the streets of the metropolis, and whose only view of nature is the shrivelled vegetation of some square or circus, the objection offered may seem to possess some weight in it; but not so with those residing in the country. Even in the cold and dreary month of January, an intelligent observer of nature can discover much to interest the mind and to lead the thoughts to God.

Vegetable life during the last few weeks has to some extent been suspended.

"The vital energy that moved, While summer was, the pure and subtle lymph

Through the imperceptible meand'ring veins

Of leaf and flower. It sleeps; and th' icy touch

Of unprolific winter has impress'd
A cold stagnation on th' intestine tide."

But who can gaze on the frostenamelled trees and shrubs without

feelings of admiration? "A cold stagnation" has been impressed upon “the vital energy that moved while summer was;" but, see, in the absence of beautiful green foliage, how from every branch the thick rime hangs, and a thousand icicles glisten in the beams of the sun, sparkling like beautiful diamonds. When decked even in their most gorgeous summer attire, the trees and shrubs can scarcely be said to present a sight more beautiful than that which is now exhibited.

But, at times, ere the month closes, "unprolific winter" begins to relax-its icy hand is now and then withdrawn; and when the weather is somewhat open and mild, a walk, even in January, may be gladdened by unmistakable indications of a resuscitation of vegetable life. The catkins of the hazel may be seen beginning to unfold. The red deadnettle, the groundsel, and the chickweed, adorn each sunny bank, and the snowdrop, the herald of the flowers, may sometimes be seen towards the end of the month putting out its pure white flowers.

Silv'ry bud, thy pensile foliage
Seems the angry blast to fear;
Yet, secure, thy tender texture

Ornaments the rising year.
Drooping harbinger of Flora,
Simply are thy blossoms dress'd,
Artless as the gentle virtues

Mansioned in the blameless breast.

In our January walks we are sure to meet also with the flower of faithful love "that constellated flower that never sets," the day's eye of the poets (Bellis perennis). Who can read the words of Montgomery without feeling for the daisy a more tender regard?

"There is a flower, a little flower,

With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour,
And weathers every sky.'

Or those of the poet Burns?
"Wee modest crimson-tipped flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy tender stem.

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem."

If we direct our steps to the heath-land, we shall be sure to find the winter furze or gorse, with its golden blossoms, bidding defiance to the winter's frost. The species is of much lower growth than the common gorse (ulex Europæus); and one peculiarity of the dwarf furze is, that it exhibits its flowers solely in the autumnal and winter months, beginning to blossom in August, and remaining in full beauty until the end of January:

"A token to the wintry earth that beauty liveth still."

But, listen! Although we do not hear now those gushes of song which ring from the copse and greenwood during the summer season, yet a few of the feathered tribe still delight us with their sweet minstrelsy.Listen!

"The redbreast warbles still, but is con

And yonder is the song-thrush, the
speckled leader of the woodland
choir, pouring forth his full rich
flood of melody. According to
Gilbert White, from the 6th to the
22nd of January is the early period
of the year at which this bird com-
mences his song. Certain it is when
we hear its wild sweet music poured
forth loudly and continuously, we
may hail it as an indication of com-
ing spring, and with William Browne,
the pastoral poet, may exclaim-
"See the spring

Is the earth enamelling,
And the birds on every tree
Greet the morn with melody.
Hark! how yonder throstle chants it,
And her mate as proudly vaunts it."

The melodious strains of the woodlark may also now be heard, for sweetness and richness considered by many to be little inferior to the nightingale; and the hedge-sparrow, another of our winter songsters, while the snow is yet upon the ground, warbles a gentle, yet sweet and varied song, the thick hedge concealing the well-known but plainly-dressed minstrel.

How wonderful is the instinct which the Great Creator has imparted to inferior animals! Many of the feathered tribe no sooner experience indications of approaching winter than they prepare to migrate to warmer climes. There are some birds which, when food begins to fail, hide themselves in the earth or in caves, to sleep out the winter; and there are some quadrupeds which bury themselves in the earth towards the end of summer. The most remarkable of these is the mountain rat, which generally lives on the Alps. About the end of September, or the beginning of October, these animals hide themselves in subterraneous dwellings, in which they remain until April. The reptile tribe, and many of the insects, which during the summer months give to nature so beautiful and lively an appearance, are also enjoying a profound slumber. But others are quite alert. See! the transient sunshine has roused whole hosts of midges, and regardless of winter's

cold, they dance about as if in the exuberance of pleasure. The sixcleft moth (Phetorophorus hexadactylus) may not unfrequently be seen towards the latter end of the month resting on the garden wall, or sporting on the window-panes. The carpet moth (Aplocera casiata), the bay-shoulder, and the small egger moth, may sometimes be seen, as may also the purple underwing (Lampronia purpurella), and the necklace veneer (Onocera ocellea).

What a picture of the wild and fearful winters of ancient times is presented to us in the name which our Saxon ancestors gave to January! They called it Wolf-month, on account of the ravages made by this animal during this dreary and desolate season of the year. At that time our island abounded with vast morasses, swampy wastes, lonely moors, and extensive tracts of dreary forest lands. Over these solitudes, in the dark midnight of winter, the howl of the wolf was heard as he prowled about the doorways of the habitations of man. But how changed the state of things! The ravages of the wolf are now unknown on our island; much of the waste land has

been brought into a state of cultivation, and instead of the dangerous paths then traversed by the lonely wayfarer, of which we have still some examples in the vast wolds of Yorkshire, and the wild broad marshes of Lincolnshire, now the shrill whistle of the steam engine thrills the air, and the traveller is conveyed, with bird-like speed, onward to his destination.

But we must bring our notes on the month of January to a close. By common consent, this is regarded as one of the coldest months of the year the thermometer varying from 20° to 30° of Fahrenheit in the more ordinary winters, while in unusually severe seasons it is sometimes down to zero, or even two or three degrees below it. At these times the greatest degree of cold generally occurs between the 14th and the 26th of the month, usually followed by a considerable increase of temperature, the rapid melting of the snow causing floods. But severe though the month may be, this consolation accompanies it-the shortest day is passed, and every sunset brings us nearer to the flowery spring. Stourbridge.

PROPHECY FULFILLED

IN THE TIME OF OUR LORD'S INCARNATION BY F. J. R.*

IN several pagan countries there were expectations of the coming of a great and divine deliverer. These expectations were founded upon original truth derived from revelations, which with more or less clearness had become widely diffused among heathen nations, and which,

*The article here inserted is only the concluding part of a long essay, by a young man, on "The appropriateness of the Time of Christ's Coming an Evidence of the Divine Origin of Christianity." The entire essay is too long, especially as it came late. We insert that portion only which is appropriate to the season of the year, and our readers will agree with us that it is highly creditable to a young

man

in the lapse of ages, were ascribed to the oracles of their gods. In some cases even the time was indicated when the great deliverer should come, and in others the glory of his administration was graphically set forth. One of the Persian oracles had fixed the time of his coming. Commencing with the creation, it divides its chronology into six "ages," which amount in the aggregate to 3,970 years; and in the last year of the "sixth age "-so runs the prediction—

"Of a virgin shall be born The Prince of Peace, crowned with a wreath of thorn;

Him the seventh age shall follow, and extend

Till the world's frame dissolve, and time itself shall end."

And the predictions of the Roman