IONA AND STAFFA.

It was a dismal, rainy day when we dropped our anchor near Iona. Wet and weary, I first set foot on the sands of this famous island. The Christian pilgrim, wandering over the plains of ancient Judea, standing for the first time in the streets of the modern Jerusalem, can hardly realize that he is upon the spot which has been rendered memorable by the life and the death of the Son of God. Disappointment may come at first; but as he reflects, amid the sacred places which our Saviour frequented while on earth, imagination more easily cements the present with the past history of our race and the world; and then kindles up, as the thought ateals on, that the hoary hills which stand sround the sacred city have been witnesses of events which not only connect the present with the past, but which link all the present and all the past with the great, unbounded, and neverending future. The traveller, also, who feels sympathy with the advance of Christian learning, truth, and civilization, can hardly fail to have his sensibilities awakened as he visits cities and islands which were frequented by the early followers of the Cross. Iona is a sacred spot. As we approached it, there was some feeling of disappointment. True, in my own experience, were the lines of Wordsworth:

"How sad a welcome! to each voyager

Some ragged child holds up for sale, a store
Of wave-worn pebbles, pleading on the shore
Where once came monk and nun, with gentle stir,
Blessings to give, news ask, or suit prefer."

But busy memory called up the celebrated passage in Dr. Johnson's "Tour to the Hebrides":

"We were now treading that illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever withdraws us from the power of our senses; whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present-advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me, aud from my friends, be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us indifferent and unmoved over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery, or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona."

This little island, only three miles long by one in breadth-a mere dot in the ocean, looking

out on the rugged rocks of Mull, and buffeted by stormy waves-has yet borne no inconsiderable part in the spread of Christianity in Western Europe. Its history is one of great interest. About the year 372, there was born on the Clyde, not far from Glasgow, a child whose surname was Succat. This was the future St. Patrick. His life was eventful. When a mere youth, he was stolen from his home and carried a slave to Ireland; and was engaged in the humble occupation of a swineherd. Restored afterward to his family, but having, during his captivity, while reflecting on the pious teachings of his mother, become a "freeman whom the truth makes free"-he resolved to return to Ireland, and preach there the gospel of Christ. In his subsequent career in the Emerald Isle, he was eminently successful; and, living in a rude and superstitious age, truth and fable have sometimes united in the history of his deeds. Whether he destroyed the serpents and all venomous reptiles, and chased out of Ireland the great arch-enemy of man; hurling after him, as he fled toward Scotland, the two great rocks which lie in the Clyde (one, on which rests the castle of Dumbarton, and the other, the vast rock of Ailsie), it is not necessary to inquire. At all events, there must have been some commotion in the air and in the water by their removal; and sufficient, one would think, to frighten even his satanic majesty.

However this may be, a follower of St. Patrick reflected and considered that there was a debt due to Scotland; not because the great traitor had been driven over there, but rather for the reason that it was the birthplace of the great Christian teacher. "Shall be not repay to the country of Succat what Succat had imported to his?" "I will go," said he, "and preach the word of God in Scotland."

This was Columba, a descendant of an Irish monarch. It was nearly two centuries after the time of St. Patrick, that Columba resolved to pay the debt. In the year 565, he and a few followers landed upon the island afterward known as Iona, or the “Island of Columba's cell." Here he proclaimed that the Holy Scriptures were the only rule of faith. Here the schools of the church were established. Here the missionary fire was kindled, and this little spot became literally the "luminary of the Caledonian regions." Here, under various tides of fortune, and with different success, the gospel was preached for more than a thousand years. But her glory has departed. The ruins are there-the walls and tower of the old cathedral, the remains of a nunnery, and a chapel-but the missionary-fire has gone out lang syne. As

we moved about, we could but feel the solemnity of the place; for we were treading on the dust of monarchs, noblemen, and yeomen, as well as on that of the priest and the peasant; for, by its sacred character, it became the burial-place of many of the families of Scotland.

"Merrily, merrily goes the bark

On a breeze from the northward free:
So shoots thro' the morning sky the lark,
Or the swan through the summer sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,
And Ulva dark, and Colonsay;
And all the group of islets gray
That guard famed Staffa round:
There all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturbed repose
The cormorant had found;

And the shy seal had quiet home,
And weltered in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In serried tones, prolonged and high,
That mock the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane;

That Nature's voice might seem to say:
'Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Task'd high and hard-but witness mine!'

About nine miles to the north of Iona, and eight miles from the western coast of Mull, rises the famed isle of Staffa. Of irregular shape, and only three-quarters of a mile in length by half a mile in width, it forms but a mere speck in the vast Atlantic. It is one immense rock; on the top a green pasture spreads out, supported by vast basaltic columns. A few cattle were grazing here, but there is no human habitation upon the island; and, save when startled by the visitor, the cormorant might still find

"Dark and undisturbed repose."

seen reflected by the ocean-waters, forms truly a picture of unrivalled grandeur, and one on which it is delightful to dwell, even in remembrance."

Nature was in a wild mood. The lowering clouds were discharging even more than a Scotch mist. The sea-birds were whirling round in the air. I had been all the morning dancing over waves which sung more than a lullaby. Wearied in body, and with spirits awed and subdued, I entered under the vast arch-way, and clambered along a projecting ridge of rocks to nearly the extreme end of this noble specimen of Nature's handiwork. There I sat down, and watched the never-ceasing ebb and flow of the ocean, now surging in and rolling onward, beating against the wall of basaltic rock at the extremity of the cave; and then, broken and retreating back only to prepare for a renewed assault. Here Neptune might have swayed his sceptre; old Æolus may have gathered here his winds, and the monks on Iona have turned pale as the north-wind and the west wind issuing forth swept by in wild fury, lashing the sea into foam, and singing the death-song of many a mariner whose course lay across the stormy sound of Mull. As I mused here, the questions Did old arose, Did Ossian live and sing? Fingal reign? Did the old monarch of the islands sit here in the cave which bears his name, and chant the wild songs of the Hebrides and the mountains of Caledonia? If Reason answered no, Fancy contradicted, and said all was true. So Fancy took the reins: and I was sitting on the spot where Fingal sat of yore. Here he sang his songs of war, of peace, and of love, a century before the arrival of Columba on the island of Ïona. Here Ossian, the witness of his father's valour, and the heir of his virtues, drank in inspiration, and gathered some of the most beautiful of his images. Here the old Scottish Homer, himself both hero and bard, may have embodied some of the memories which are sweet, yet mournful. Here came the monks. Here they worshipped at early dawn, bowing the knee as they entered the temple built by an Almighty hand. Here came architects to take the gauge and measurement, so that they might imitate the Creator's works in the cathedrals which they designed to build on the British Islands and the main land of Europe. Who can tell how many a missionary monk from Iona carried the story of this famed temple to distant parts of the earth?

But the day is waning, and we must away. The whistle of the boatswain is heard; we cannot see the fair island of Ilay to-day. At another time we must look over it, and visit

Loch Finligan, and search among the ruins of its little isle of the same name for the stone on which the McDonalds stood when they were crowned Lord of the Isles.

And so night settles on the lonely island of

Staffa; and we are once more out on the sea and again

Merrily, merrily goes the bark;

Before the gale she bounds:
So darts the dolphin from the shark,
Or the deer before the hounds."

IDA'S FLOWER S.

BY ANDERSEN.

"My flowers are all withered!" said little Ida; "yesterday evening they were so beautiful, and now they hang their leaves; what can be the reason?" asked she of a young collegian, who was seated on the sofa, and who was a great favourite of hers, because he told her fairy tales of princes and princesses. "Why are the flowers so faded to-day?" asked she again, showing him a whole bouquet of withered flowers.

"Don't you know?" asked he; "the flowers were at the ball last night, and that is the reason why they hang their heads.”

"But flowers cannot dance !" "Certainly they can; when all is dark and we quietly at rest they spring up vigorously, and have a ball every night."

"Can all kinds of flowers go to the ball?" asked Ida.

"Yes," said he, "daisies, with lilies of the valley, mignionette with wallflowers." "Where do these lovely flowers then ?"

dance,

"Were you never in the large garden, before the gates of the King's Summer Palace, where there are so many flowers, and where the swans are, which come swimming to you, when you throw them bread crumbs?"

"I was there yesterday, with mamma," said Ida; "but all the leaves were off the trees, and not a flower did I see. Where are they gone to? in summer there were so many."

"They are now inside the palace. As soon as the King leaves his summer residence, and comes with his Court to town, the flowers are brought into the castle, and enjoy themselves merrily; the two most beautiful roses set themselves upon the throne, and are the King and Queen; then the red cockscombs place themselves in rows, bowing low before them: they are the ladies of the bedchamber. The fairest flower then steps forward, and the ball begins; the violet and the narcissus place themselves before the crocus and hyacinth, who are ladies, and ask them to dance, the tulip and crown-imperial are old ladies, who look on to see that everything proceeds with order and propriety."

"But," said little Ida, much astonished "how dare the flowers have a ball in the palace?"

"No one knows anything about it; the old housekeeper comes through the rooms with her great bunch of keys, once during the evening, and as soon as the flowers hear the jingling they hide themselves under the window-seats: 'I feel the scent of flowers,' says she, but she cannot find them."

"That is very funny," said Ida, clapping her hands; "how I wish I could see them."

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Oh, you can see them; when you pass the palace, peep in at the window; I did so to-day, and saw a large yellow lily lying on the sofa; that was a lady of the Court."

"Ah! but," said Ida, somewhat faithless, "how can the flowers tell all these wonderful stories which you relate? they cannot speak."

"No, they cannot; there you are right, but they make themselves understood by pantomime; have you never noticed how they bend here and there whenever there is a little wind; they understand it as well as if they spoke to each other."

"Can the Professor of Botany understand their pantomime?" asked Ida.

"Yes; for one morning he came into the garden, and noticed that a large nettle was carrying on a secret flirtation with a lovely scarlet carnation: "You are so exquisitely beautiful,' said the nettle, 'I love you with all my heart.' But the Professor could not allow such proceedings, so he seized the nettle by the leaves (which are its fingers), and received such a severe sting, that from that time he never ventured to interfere in a nettle's courtship."

"Ah! ah!" laughed Ida, "he was right served."

"What are you doing to fill that child's head with such nonsense," said Ida's papa, who had been waiting some time for the student. He always found fault with his stories, and could not bear to see the young man cutting figures out of cards, such as a man riding a goose, or an old witch astride a broomstick, carrying her husband on the end of her nose. On such occasions he always broke out with, "What pure imagination! What good do you do by teaching a child in that way?" But little Ida ventured to think them very funny, and she could listen to nothing but what her friend had told her;

for nothing was more reasonable than that the flowers should droop, because they had been tired with dancing the night before. She carried them off to her other playthings, which were laid in order on a beautiful little table. In a cradle lay her doll asleep, but Ida said to her: "You must get up, Sophy, and be content to lie in the drawer to-night, for my poor flowers are ill, and must sleep in your comfortable bed; perhaps they will be well in the morning."

So she took the doll out of bed, at which the young lady pulled a very cross face, to think that she should have to leave her bed for those withered old leaves. So the flowers were put in and covered up with strict injunctions to lie still, until Ida could make them some tea, and, drawing the curtains, that the sun might not shine into their eyes, she bid them adieu.

The words of the student were never out of her head the whole evening, and as she went to bed she walked up to the window, where the tulips and hyacinths stood behind the curtains, and whispered to them, "I know very well that you will be at the ball to-night," but they appeared not to hear, and never moved a leaf. Lying in her bed, she imagined how beautiful it would be to see the flowers dancing in the king's palace; "Will mine be there, I wonder?" but before she could answer, she was asleep, and dreaming of the student and his story, and the old housekeeper with the keys.

When she awoke, all was still in the room, the night-lamp burnt on the table, and her father and mother were asleep. A sound like the notes of a piano fell upon her ear, but very low, and more beautifully played than she had ever heard them before.

"Now I am sure the ball is beginning," said she; "I must go and see."

So stepping out of her little bed as lightly as she could, that she might not awaken her papa, she went to the door of the drawing-room. How astonished she was with what was going on there!

Though the lamps were gone out, the room was perfectly light, because the moon shone through the windows, and made everything visible.

All the hyacinths and tulips stood in two rows down the centre, and in front of the window were the empty pots; at the piano sat a large yellow lily which Ida thought she had seen before, then she remembered it was the one the student had mentioned. The next thing was, that a blue crocus sprang upon the table, where were Ida's playthings, and undrew the curtains from the bed; there lay the sick flowers, which raised themselves and bowed to their friends; partners came forwards asking them to dance, and immediately their faded appearance vanished, and they were as lively as the others.

Soon a loud noise was heard of something falling from the table, and looking under it, Ida saw the remains of her christmas-tree, which had lain on her doll's bed ever since christmas

eve.

And a beautiful fir-tree it had been, a wax doll was on the top, with a broad round hat on, like the lady of the bedchamber, and a striped red and blue dress. She raised herself upon her wooden legs, and stamping loudly with her foot, began to dance the mazurka, which the flowers not being so light-footed could not follow; but the fir-tree insisted upon having her for a partner, and as she was very slender, they were not well-paired; but no matter, thin or fat, tall or little, he would have her, and teazed her so much that the flowers were obliged to interfere, and desired him to leave her in quietness.

"Open, open," cried a loud voice from the drawer in which Ida's doll had been put. It was Sophy, who with her head half out of the drawer, looking quite astonished, said; "Is the ball here, why did you not tell me of it?"

"Will you dance with me?" said a pair of saucy nutcrackers.

"How dare you ask me to dance, sir?" said Sophy, at the same time turning her back upon him. She seated herself at the edge of the drawer, and thought one of the flowers would invite her, but no one presented himself; she coughed, but still no one came; and the nutcrackers in the meantime danced away, by no means inelegantly.

Though the flowers were so forgetful of her, Sophy could not deny herself the pleasure of dancing, so she let herself fall on to the floor, which created great confusion, and all the flowers pressed round to ask if she had suffered; but she was unhurt, and now the flowers were anxious to make up for their neglect, especially Ida's flowers, who seized the opportunity of thanking her for her beautiful bed, in which they had slept so sweetly; and then taking her by the hand, they danced with her, the other flowers standing round in a circle.

Sophy was now satisfied, and she begged that Ida's flowers would occupy the bed again after the ball, as she thought nothing of sleeping a night in the drawer; but the flowers answered, "Thank you a thousand times, but our lives are not long, and to-morrow we shall be dead. Ask dear little Ida to dig us a grave near her canary bird, and next summer we shall again spring up and be as beautiful as this year." 99

"No, you shall not die," replied Sophy sorrowfully, at the same time kissing them affectionately.

Immediately the hall door opened, and a long row of flowers danced into the drawing-room. Ida could not understand where they came from, unless it were from the king's garden. First came two beautiful roses with golden crowns, then followed wallflowers and pinks, bowing on all sides. They had a band of music with them, large poppies and peonies blew upon pea-shells until they were red in the face; and blue and white campanulas played the chimes. After these a crowd of every sort of flower, violets, daisies, lilies of the valley, narcissus, &c.

All dancing so beautifully as to make a splendid spectacle.

At last the happy flowers bid good-night, and Ida returned to her bed, where she dreamt of all the wonderful things which had passed before her eyes.

When she was dressed in the morning, her first care was to go to her playthings and see if the flowers were there still. She drew the curtains to one side, and yes, there they lay, only still more faded than yesterday; Sophy too was in the drawer, monstrously sleepy as ever.

"Cannot you remember what you were to tell me?" said Ida to her, but Sophy put on a stupid face at this question, and answered not a syllable.

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"You are very naughty," said Ida, even though the flowers did all ask you to dance." She then chose out of her playthings a little pasteboard box painted all over with birds, and laid the flowers in it.

:

"That shall be your coffin," said she, “when my cousins come from Norway they shall dig your grave, that you may bloom next summer as beautifully as this." These Norwegian cousins were two lively boys called Henry and Charles their father had bought them two new bows and arrows, which they brought to show to Ida. She told them the story of her dead flowers, and how she wished to bury them in the garden. The boys went first with the bows on their shoulders, and little Ida carried the flowers in the beautiful box.

The grave was dug, Ida kissed the flowers but once, and put the box into the earth, whilst Henry and Charles shot their arrows over them, as they had neither muskets with which to do them honour.

nor cannon

A RETROSPECTION.

BY IDA AFTON.

Ah me! the ruthless stranger's axe
Hath felled the grand and stately trees
That stood like sentinels around

Our childhood's home; the merry breeze

Now seeks in vain the fragrant boughs

That waved above our cottage-door, Through which the friendly sunshine cast A burnished network on the floor.

The birds flit songless o'er the spot

Where erst their sweetest lays were trilled; For nests are strewed like little graves, Soft wings are folded, chirpings stilled.

Down by the trellised arbour, where

Upon the morning's dew-gemmed breast, The moss-rose leaned her queenly brow,

Now droops the grain's rich golden crest.

Those grand old trees! What tender words

The summer winds sighed thro' their boughs Caught from my boyish lips, for I

Had learned to breathe love's sweetest vows.

The roses in the hawthorn hedge

Than Anna's cheeks were not more rare; You might have deemed the raven's wing Bathed in the midnight of her hair.

The blackberry its milk-white bloom

Shook down to woo her airy tread; For her the wood-birds seemed to weave Their web of songs above her head.

Her rosy feet the brooklet plashed,

As it went dancing to the dell, Till o'er the pansy's purple sheen A shower of silver softly fell.

When gath'ring up the blushing fruit,
Down by the mossy orchard spring,
Within the soft autumnal wave

We watched the blue-Lird bathe his wing.

Up through the golden future loomed
Our airy castle's turrets high,
Rose-crowned, but while we gazed, I saw
The fairest blossom droop and die.

Long years the daisied sod hath veiled

The love-light of her dear, sweet eyes; Wild strawberries their bleeding hearts Trail o'er the spot where Anna lies.

ENTHUSIASM OF WOMEN.-Women are naturally more warm-hearted and enthusiastic than men, more easily excited, and give way to their feelings with less restraint. There is nothing so charming as a young, lovely, and unsophisticated girl, in the outset of her career, with cheek all blushes, and heart all throb, ere the world and its habitudes have had power to repress the one and make her ashamed of the other-before the pure dew of the morning has been brushed from the budding rose, and life is still in its freshness and purity. The best regulated female mind is tinctured with an enthusiasm wholly unknown to calculating man she could sacrifice anything, everything for the object of her affection. Man looks at both sides of the question, or, as he would have said, examines the debit and credit side of the account.