sea rolled with terrific violence, and a heavy, angry roar. Far below stretched a narrow, white sand-beach, upon which lay scattered the bones of sea-fowl, and the skeletons of a couple of sea-lions. In the little basins along the edge of the rocks, the tiny mariners, familiarly known as the "Portuguese men-of-war," were reefing and unreefing their mimic sails; the white sand glittered in the sunlight, which reflected in the showers of spray that fell in jewelled cascades upon the grey rocks.

The whole face of the cliff was brilliant with mosses of the most beautiful dyes, scarlet, crimson, purple, and a variety of greens, among which were strewn myriads of bright-hued anellides, and the most delicately-tinted and exquisitely-shaped mollusks. Underneath, in the crannies of the precipice, a couple of penguins were sitting on their nests, and the air was literally alive with every species of seabird, rending the air with loud, sharp cries, or low, mournful wails. Beyond rose other cliffs, and other caverns, with their fringes of feathery surf; around stretched the bright blue sea, radiant in the sunshine, the great rolling waves glittering and sparkling as they rose and fell with that long, slow swell that seems the pulsation of a universe. Blowing and swimming about among the weird grottoes were numberless seals, and schools of sea-lions. I cannot conceive of anything more horrible than these sealions. Huge monsters, with round, earless heads, enormous fangs, cat-like whiskers, and great glaring eyes, half-fish half-beast; they seem altogether unnatural. It is enough to make one shudder as they spring up towards you, with their great eyes, ferocious, yet agonized in expression, loud sobbing breathings, and melancholy wailing cries. Up and down, in and out, voracious, hideous, terrible, perfect demons of the sea-if they had speech, what might they not utter, what secrets disclose, what treasures unfold?

Long I gazed at the new, the wonderful scene; wonderful and glorious, terrible yet sublime, gazed, and thought of the ages and ages that this ocean-fortress has uplifted its battlements, in their grand solitude, to the warfare of the elements. Century after century have the waves beat their base, dashed up the stupendous steeps, and thundered amidst the sounding caves. By sunlight, by starlight, in the silvery sheen of the moon, while the earth has been upheaved from its foundations, and all the powers of the universe shaken, they have stood calm, fixed, impregnable-a type of the power, the majesty, the mystery, and the beauty of the Eternal! I gazed, while imagination pictured long arrows of moonlight striking athwart the dripping rocks and sparkling in the silvery surf, and mermaids coming from the shell-enamelled grottoes, to comb their tresses in the bright rays, or sport with sister sirens of old Neptune's court. The gallant Asopus, the lovely Galatea, Tethys, with all her attendant Oceanides; Oceanus, hoary and

majestic, and the great sea-monarch, in his dolphin-drawn car; a merry carnival of the water-gods, a high festival of the sea. I was drawn down to present realities by the hurried tones of Frank and Doctor H.

"I must come with them; they had discovered a most wonderful, a most magnificent cave. It could not be entered by a boat, the surf was too high, but if I would trust myself to them they would bear me over the rocks." Scarcely understanding where I was going, I followed my conductors down the steep declivity to the edge of the waves. Crossing their arms, as children play arm-chair, they bade me seat myself. Bewildered, almost stunned, I obeyed, and was borne over the slippery rocks. The waves were so strong that the receding point was the only time when progress could be made. Waiting for the rushing current, then jumping to another foothold, there to wait for the next backward wave, we made our way into a vast cavern, a lofty, spacious chamber witk groined and fretted roof. Wading waist-deep in water, my gallants placed me upon the only standing-room in the cave, a sort of pulpit, that upreared its fantastic columns nearly in the centre.

Why is it that, in every great collection of caves, there is always one compartment to shadow forth the idea of worship? Has the great Architect thus set his seal upon the sanctuary' mirroring it forth amongst the grandest of his works? Hand-in-hand, with hushed pulsations and suppressed breath, we three stood and gazed at the fairy-like, yet sublime and aweinspiring scene. Above and around rose pillar and architrave, arch, dome, niche, and pedestal. From base to summit every inch of the jagged walls was crusted with marine life. Tritons, star-fish, harp-shells, ear-shells, and marine snails of every variety, while from every fretted point and groined arch depended myriads of volutes, and wing-shells of the most beautiful forms; adding still more of interest to the delicate tracery, amid which the exquisite "pelicanfoot" (strombus) was particularly conspicuous. How beautiful are all of God's works! How much loveliness lies hidden from every eye except his own! The waves dashed in at the opening with a roar that drowned all other sounds, and ever and anon one higher than the others completely closed the orifice, leaving us in a solemn twilight that rendered the scene still more impressive.

It was impossible to note time in such a spot. We were recalled to the outer world by our fear-stricken companions, who from our long absence had imagined the worst. After a vain attempt of a part of the party to enter into a boat, which ended in their complete drenching, we turned from the mysterious depths, and joined the group upon the beach, who had seated themselves to watch the penguins roll over in the water. These penguins are especially diverting. From the various islands they select some for their own individual property, which they are permitted by the other birds to

A A

READING AS A MEANS OF CULTURE.

In the early ages of the world, before the art of writing was invented, men had to depend, for the acquisition of knowledge, chiefly upon oral instruction. In this way, each generation were, in turn, the pupils of the preceding, and the teachers of the following generation in the reception and the transmission of the traditionary lore of the times. And as the family bond was then a strong one, each child was in a preeminent sense the pupil of his parent, and each patriarch was in a pre-eminent sense the teacher of his child, when he "sat with him in the house, and when he walked with him by the way, when he lay down, and when he rose up.

otherwise would hang heavily on their hands. Their minds are listless, or they are tormented with sad thoughts, or inward upbraidings, or remorse, or shame, from which they wish to escape; and by killing time in this escape from themselves, so far forth, they commit suicide.

Another class read in order to make a show of learning. They read incessantly, and incessantly boast of what they have read. They are ostentatious; they are vain in their knowledge, and pedantic.

The true end of reading, as the means of selfculture, is evidently, in the very statement of the terms of the proposition, self-culture. Now, self-culture aims at the improvement of all the After the invention of alphabet-writing, and higher powers of our nature. Just so far, then, before that of printing, oral instruction was still as reading contributes to self-culture, it conthe principal means of imparting knowledge. tributes to improve, and elevate, and refine our Readers were few; books still fewer, and not whole nature. By holding intercourse with the accessible; transcription was expensive. So great minds of the world as they still live in valuable, indeed, were some works, that, in their works, we can become like them. Our order to obtain the loan of a book, it was memories can be stored with the treasures of necessary to pledge an estate for its safe return: knowledge gathered by them. Our imaginaindeed, in some instances, books were kept tions can rove freely among the forms of thought thained, so that they could not be removed among which they expatiated with delight. Our from the place where they were kept. judgment can decide correctly in view of the facts which they have collected, and the principles which they have evolved, and the reasonings they have elaborated. Our wills can be confirmed by the motives they administer. Our hearts can be brought into harmony with their hearts by contemplating what awakened their emotional nature. Our moral feelings can be come assimilated to theirs by inhaling their spirit.

But since the art of making paper was invented, and, as related to this, the art of printing, a mighty change has taken place in respect to the number of books and the number of readers. In our own country, where all may, if they choose, enjoy the advantages of popular education, the majority are readers. All, therefore, must be interested in the subject which I have chosen, namely, READING AS THE MEANS OF SELF-CULTURE.

In treating this subject, I hope, in some degree, to supply a felt want frequently expressed by those who are engaged in self-culture, whether they are at school or at home, or engaged in some professional employment.

What end shall I aim at in reading?
What time shall I spend in reading?
What mode shall I adopt in reading?
What books shall I read?

These are interrogatories prompted by a desire of self-improvement on the part of the modest and earnest aspirant, whatever be his position; and they demand a careful and a correct answer. WHAT, THEN, IS THE END TO BE AIMED

In books we have the concentrated wisdom of past ages and of the present, which we can appropriate to ourselves, for our own improvement and that of others. The true end of reading is to make this appropriation. Lord Bacon's rule is the best: "Read, not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider."

The improvement of your intellectual and your moral powers being the true end of reading, I shall proceed to the second question: WHAT TIME SHALL I SPEND IN READING?

The answer to this question must depend upon the circumstances in which you are placed and the duties you have to perform. You are in the district-school, or the academy, or in the preparation for some profes sional employment, or in the practice of some profession, or are actively employed in family duties. Now, whenever reading, by consuming time, interferes with your regular studies, or your professional employments, or your family duties, it should be avoided, even though at a sacrifice of inclination.

Moreover, when it creates a distaste for studies or other duties, by withdrawing attention

from them, by impairing the intellectual vigour, by weakening the moral power so as to disqualify you for study or labour, it defeats the main purpose for which you were placed under instruction, or for which you devoted yourselves to labour. For instance: if a student has in his room a book that creates a distaste for the study of arithmetic, a branch which he is pursuing, he had better spend no time in reading that book, for the plain reason that arithmetic, in relation to his duties as a student, is of more importance to him. If a merchant's clerk has a book which creates a distaste for his ledger, he had better spend no time in reading that book, for the plain reason that it disqualifies him for his paramount duties.

And so too, when reading fatigues and exhausts the mind, it should be avoided. Some books are so exciting to the attention, to the imagination, to the passions, that they produce a mental debauch, which, if often repeated, destroys the firm tone of the mind, and renders it fitful and inefficient in its exertions.

Moreover, reading should be avoided when it interferes with necessary repose, as it does when pursued at a late hour of night. It then has a pernicious influence upon the health first, then upon the spirits, then upon the mind itself. The knowledge gained in this way is, for the most part, but of little value, for it is gained at the expense of mental vigour, and sometimes even of life itself. To read when you ought to be in bed, especially to read when in bed, is to inflict a great evil on yourself without an equivalent. It is to injure your eyes, your brain, your nervous system, your intellect.

Again, reading ought not to interfere with the due cultivation of the social affections, whether by personal intercourse with friends or a punctual correspondence. Some are such bookworms that they become insensible to the sweet charities of domestic life, and all the delightful amenities of general society.

Finally, only so much time should be spent in reading, as will allow leisure for reflection upon what has been read, in order that it may become our own, for the purposes of mental discipline and strength. Now it happens that one may have a great appetite and a poor digestion. He may read much and think little. Hence, what he reads, not going through the process of assimilation, instead of invigorating, burdens the mind. Thus addicted to mental gluttony, thus suffering from mental repletion, he is incapacitated for high achieve

ments. He is

"A bookful blockhead ignorantly read,

With loads of learned lumber in his head."

He is, it may be, a living lexicon, a walking encyclopædia; but he is motionless and dead, so far as practical usefulness is concerned.

With these cautions and exceptions, endeavour to find time, if possible, to read every day of your life. Read, if you can, in the morning,

in the sweet hour of prime, if it be only for five minutes. Read, if you can, when resting from your toil at noon. Read especially more or less during the long winter evenings. Read in the season of youth, when the impressions made on the mind are permanent. Read in middle life, when the judgment is strong. Read in the season of old age, when your minds become contemplative, and the body unfitted for active life. Let some book furnish daily food for the mind, as the table does for the body.

We are now prepared to answer the third question: WHAT IS THE BEST MODE READING?

OF

The best mode of reading is that which is best adapted to accomplish the end of reading. And the highest end of reading, as in every part of education, is to furnish and discipline the mind, and thus to prepare it to act in accordance with its high capacity on earth and in heaven. In order to gain these high ends, the mind must be tasked to a high effort.

But, as a matter of fact, there is often careless reading when there ought to be the closest application of the mind. There is often reading, in the common sense of the word, when there ought to be study, because the former is easier than the latter. It has been said, with some appearance of truth: "Study is labour, and labour is pain, and no one loves pain." There is, therefore, a temptation to substitute the pleasure of negligent reading for the pain of study. Reading is often identical with study, as when one is said to read law. For success in study, the higher powers of the mind must be put in requisition. There must be the full vigour of the attention without any of its wanderings, the full retentiveness of the memory, the full activity of the imagination. In the examination of the subject, the judgment must be ever vigilant; the will, even in the midst of discouragement, must never swerve from its high purpose, The affections must often be summoned from their repose, to give impulse to the intellect. And the body, too, in that much study which is a weariness to the flesh, must be roused from its languor, only to writhe and quiver under the chafings of the intellect. In short, for successful study, there must be the highest efforts of the best powers of the mind. But in reading the mind is often in nearly a passive state, like that of dreaming or reverie, in which images flit before the mind without any act of volition to retain them. In rapid reading it is nearly in the same state as yours is when you are whirled through a country in a railway-carriage or post-chaise. How much do you know of that country in the one case? How much do you know of the book in the other? A person mentally indolent may be fond of reading. He may love to read in a recumbent posture until he falls asleep, every day or night of his life. It might be too much to say that his room resembles the famous cave of the god of sleep. But he furnishes proof in his experience, that the leaves