Her eyes on me, at length, with piteous look,

Were cast-now on the babe once more were fixed-
And now on me: then, with convulsive sigh

And throbbing heart, she clasped me in her arms,

And, in a tone of anguish, faintly said

66

My dearest boy, thy brother does not sleep;

Alas! he's dead; he never will awake."

He's dead! I knew not what it meant, but more
To know I sought not. For the words so sad,
"He never will awake"-sunk in my soul:

I felt a pang unknown before, and tears
That angels might have shed, my heart dissolved.

Pickering

RUSSIAN VILLAGES.

A RUSSIAN village generally consists of one long and broad street, at the end of which is the church. The cottages and the church are entirely constructed of wood, and even the street is frequently laid with the trunks of

trees.

The trees are not generally cut into boards, but, being barked, and divided into requisite lengths, are laid upon one another, morticed together at the various angles, and the interstices filled with moss and clay. This use of wood is quite as much a matter of choice as necessity. There is a very decided preference among the Russians for it as a building material; and even among the nobility there is a very general impression that houses of wood are much more healthful than those of brick or stone. It is certain that such houses are warmer, which is a consideration of much importance in so cold a country. They are, besides, of comparatively small cost, are easily and speedily erected, and from the simplicity of their construction, admit of being readily altered. Even when of a superior description, they admit of being transported from one place to another. Dr. Clarke mentions the fol

lowing anecdote on this point :

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They speak of moving a house in this part of the world as a very trifling undertaking. When Sir Charles Gascoyne went from St. Petersburgh to preside over the

foundry at Lugan, he paid a visit to a gentleman about twenty-seven miles distant from the establishment. Finding him excellently lodged in a well-furnished, handsome, and very convenient house, I wish,' said he, I could have such a building erected for me at Lugan.' His host replied If you admire my house it is at your service, exactly as you see it; and I engage to place it for you at Lugan in the course of the week.' A bargain was concluded between them; the house was moved, and Sir Charles, who informed us of the fact, resided in it when we were in the country."

A Russian cottage, of the common sort, is generally of a form nearly square, consisting only of a ground floor, with a steep roof covered with thatch or with shingles. The gable end is towards the street, and the roof projects greatly over the house. The light is admitted through two or three apertures in the walls, which may be closed occasionally with shutters; sometimes, however, there is a small window of glass or of bladder, oiled linen or paper. There are no chimneys, but the smoke finds its way through the apertures in the walls in the best manner it can. Onefourth of the single room which composes the interior is occupied by an oven, which not only serves to warm the house and to cook victuals, but the top serves as a sleeping-place.

If the family be too large to find sleeping accommodation on the top of the oven, a number of boards are joined together, so as to form a great shelf, which is fixed on a level with this top to accommodate the remainder.

The furniture of these rooms consists of benches placed against the walls, a table, dishes of pottery and wood, and some iron utensils. The cottages, which will come under a stranger's observation in travelling between Petersburgh and Moscow, will be found in many villages to correspond with this description. The cottages in this line are of a superior order: they are larger and higher, have more than one room in the interior, are neater externally and more convenient within. A good cottage of this description is certainly a picturesque object, particularly while new. When old they are rather unsightly, as the wood is never plastered or painted, and it acquires a dingy and cheerless appearance from age.

On advancing towards the south of European Russia,

wood becomes comparatively scarce.

The walls of the

cottages are there built with mud and faced with boards, or, as more frequently happens, the sides are of wickerwork plastered over.—Anon.

THE RIVULET.

THIS little rill, that from the springs
Of yonder grove its current brings,
Plays on the slope a while, and then
Goes prattling into groves again,
Oft to its warbling waters drew
My little feet, when life was new.
When woods in early green were drest,
And from the chambers of the west
The warmer breezes, travelling out,
Breathed the new scent of flowers about,
My truant steps from home would stray,
Upon its grassy side to play,

With blooming cheek and open brow,
As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou.

And when the days of boyhood came,
And I had grown in love with fame,
Duly I sought thy banks, and tried
My first rude numbers by thy side
Words cannot tell how bright and gay
The scenes of life before me lay,
Then glorious hopes, that now to speak
Would bring the blood into my cheek,
Passed o'er me; and I wrote on high
A name I deemed should never die.

Years change thee not, upon yon hill
The tall old maple's verdant still,
Yet tell, in grandeur of decay,
How swift the years have passed away,
Since first, a child, and half afraid,
I wandered in the forest shade.
Thou ever joyous rivulet,

Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet;

And sporting with the sands that pave
The windings of the silver wave,
And dancing to thy old wild chime,
Thou laughest at the lapse of time.
The same sweet sounds are in my ear
My early childhood loved to hear;
As pure thy limpid waters run,
As bright they sparkle to the sun;
As fresh and thick the bending ranks
Of herbs that line thy oozy banks;
The violet there, in soft May dew,
Comes up, as modest and as blue;
As green, amid thy current's stress,
Floats the scarce-rooted water-cress;
And the brown ground-bird in thy glen,
Still chirps as merrily as then.

Thou changest not-but I am changed, Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged; And the grave stranger come to see The play-place of his infancy, Has scarce a single trace of him, Who sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past— Too bright, too beautiful, to last, I've tried the world-it wears no more The colouring of romance it wore. Yet well has nature kept the truth, She promised to my earliest youth; The radiant beauty shed abroad, On all the glorious works of God, Shews freshly to my sobered eye Each charm it wore in days gone by.

A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and grey, Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold My ashes in the embracing mould, May come for the last time to look Upon my childhood's favourite brook, Then dimly on my eye shall gleam The sparkle of thy dancing stream,

And faintly on my ear shall fall
Thy prattling current's merry call;
Yet shalt thou flow as glad and bright,
As when thou met'st my infant sight

And I shall die-and on thy side,
As ages after ages glide,
Children their early sports shall try,
And pass to hoary age and die.

But thou, unchanged from year to year,
Gaily shalt play and glitter here;
Amid young flowers and tender grass
Thy endless infancy shall pass,

And singing down thy narrow glen,
Shalt mock the fading race of men.-Bryant.

ON TIDINESS.

THERE are few things which would add more to the comfort of the poor than tidiness. I speak chiefly of the women. Some are slatterns from laziness; they wish to save themselves all possible trouble, and will therefore do nothing more than what is absolutely necessary. They cannot live without food, and therefore food must be procured; but a dirty and ragged gown they are not ashamed to wear, and they care not whether the clothes of themselves, of their husband and children are in holes, as long as they can escape the trouble of mending them. They care as little whether their cottages are clean or dirty, in good order, or in a constant litter. There are other wo men so busy and bustling, that they do not allow themselves time to look to their clothes. Not considering that tidiness helps to save clothes, and makes them last longer, they can think of nothing but how to turn the penny in a more direct, but not in a surer way of profit. If they did but know how much persons accustomed to neatness are disgusted with the sight of a cottage full of litter, and of clothes dirty and ready to fall to pieces from raggedness, one might hope that they would be shamed into a little more regard for appearances. Tidiness, I have no doubt, not only produces much comfort, but, in course of time,