tion of which is "Garden of Delight” (see Three Years in Persia, vol. I. p. 76). The Elysian Fields, the Gardens of the Hesperides, of Jupiter, and of Alceneus and Adonis, are supposed to have their origin from the Garden of Eden. Other curious speculations have arisen out of it, as to how far the ground of Eden was bituminous, since they say that a large portion of it to the eastward was on fire during the awful expulsion of Adam. God's judgments being executed by his angels, who are sometimes compared to flames of fire, it is supposed that the flaming sword was nothing more than the ground being ignited, and that at a distance it appeared like a brandished sword, turning every way with the wind. Others imagine the sword to have been no more than the torrid zone, or a region of flame inconceivably hot, like a furnace, and consequently impassable-its encompassing the whole earth sufficiently answering the Mosaic description that it turned every way.

What became of our first parents, after their expulsion from Paradise, I cannot find out; it is presumed that they did not remove far off; the corpse of Adam was said to have been carried by Noah into the ark, and to have been afterwards buried by him, and I visited the reputed tomb of Noah's wife at Marand, a village about a hundred miles from Arrarat. The period of their remaining in Paradise is very vaguely given; the sixth day, when God terminated his great work of creation, is men

tioned as the day of transgression, but some think that a day and a year had at that time the same meaning. The juice of the forbidden fruit is said to have opened the eyes of the criminals by that awful mystery of sin! They felt the full degradation of their naturethey fell from innocence to shame-they shuddered at the presence of their Maker; the ground was cursed for their sake, as was all their posterity, and I feel in every pore of me that legacy of the divine vengcace which can only be cleansed by that precious blood" which cleanseth from all sin." The awful realities of the curse were before me of this reputed Garden of Eden: "Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth :" a few wretched huts were occupied by the most degraded species of the wild Koords; these were notorious brigands. Nothing remained of that once blissful garden of "Groves

Whose rich trees wept odorous guins and balm." Where was the place

"Chosen by the sov'ran-Planter When he formed all things to man's delightful use." And where was Eve's bower? Echo answers, where! GERSHOM.

POSTCRIPTUM.-If the Geographical Society were to offer their gold medal for the most approved and authenticated report of the terrestrial Paradise, the subject may be deemed worthy the prize, and there would be many competitors. (ED.)

ON THE ENGLISH HEARTH.

IT was the fullest winter-time, and snow lay very deep upon the Longmynd hills in Shropshire.

It was, however, not a sad or dreary time, for the moon had risen in splendour to welcome in the Christmas eve, so that the loneliest places on the hoary mountain-tops seemed one with more frequented scenes in beauty, in cheerfulness, and in serenity!

After a long and weary ride of many miles, Mr. Mynor, a country surgeon, dismounted, and, leading his horse, began the ascent of one of those lonely hills that lay betwixt him and the village where he lived. He had promised his young wife to be home by nine o'clock that evening, and as it was now much past seven, he wound the reins round his arm, and walked

on at a quick pace. His heart was, however, very sad, for he had set off that morning in the hope that a bill long owing to him would be paid, but the country hunks, forgetful of the doctor's kindness to him through a long illness, and willing to reap the last penny of interest on the sum, had again put the payment off by paltry and disingenuous excuses. Too proud to beg where he had a right, Mr. Mynor had not urged the claim; though, as the miles lessened between him and his home, his mental suffering amounted to anguish, as he thought of his young wife's anxious face, and the comparatively breadless morrow for his little children.

Once or twice he was aroused from the absorbing subject of his meditations by the barking of a dog, but, judging that it belonged to

some shepherd out upon the hills, he forgot it again as soon as its deep mouth was silenced. Thus, pursuing his way, the sterile mountain top was gained just as it seemed his mental anguish had reached its keenest point; but then, raising his face to make sure of his path amidst the untrodden snow, a change came over him, such as has come to many a heart, and will, thank God, to the end of time. The exquisite beauty of the scene, and the deep, unutterable peace that lay over it, gave him, as though it were, a sudden power to see into the great under-current of this human life of ours, and how transient and how small are all its ills, those even of the largest, when its infinity and its immortal purpose can be viewed in all their sublimity and moral grandeur. A long and often times a weary road it doubtless has to be, but still an eternal progress up to light and good; a way that in the abstract is all of hope, a way whose travellers' steps are ever being helped and lifted by a divine and loving hand, a way whose mountains at the close are heaven itself-the mountains of the " Shining Ones."

A little undulating hollow so occupied the surface of the hill that, once within its encircling ridge, nothing but the richly lighted heavens could be seen; but there pouring down a flood of glory from moon and stars upon every flake of spotless snow, every outstandiug blade of withered fern, every lichen on the few hoary roots-nothing could exceed the tranquil, suggestive, peaceful beauty of the little scene, so shut out from all the world, and yet so peopled by the multitudinous evidence of God. It was a place for peace, a place for hope, a place from which to descend into the world on this sweet Christmas eve, with a heart new touched by the divine humanities taught to us so long ago!

Warmed and gladdened by feelings such as these, the poor country doctor had just crossed the ridge with quickened steps, when a cloud of snow was all at once scattered in his face, and a large dog leaped up against him and the frightened horse. Pushed down, but spoken to kindly, the poor brute no sooner heard the human voice than it seemed wild with joy, and looking back, as though to lead the doctor on, retraced its own wild steps. Feeling sure that some one was in distress, for the dog he knew did not belong to any of the hill people, Mr. Mynor hurried on, and soon came up to where the dog, stretched out with extended fore-feet on the snow, was watching beside a little heap of broken hoar-stones, on one of which a fine athletic young man was seated,

apparently asleep. Knowing the certain danger of such a position, on such a night and in so desolate a spot, the doctor spoke to him and then attempted to arouse him, though without success. He still breathed, his face and hands were already rigid with the intense frost, and his stupor extreme; Mr. Mynor had fortunately a little brandy with him in a flask. He poured a few drops of this down the stranger's throat, loosened his neck-handkerchief, and rubbed his hands for some minutes with snow. He then attempted to lift him on the horse, which after some difficulty, and by raising him by degrees on to one of the lichen-covered stones, he accomplished. Then, securing a small black canvas bag and a stick to the saddle-bow, he urged his horse on, and walked beside it to support the stranger. The snow in places was so deep, and the descent of the mountain had to be so carefully made, as to occupy double the ordinary time, so that when the doctor reached the little village street it was far past nine, the lights were gone from out the small ivied church, where the rustic singers and the parish clerk had been practising Christmas carols, and all the villagers were gathered round their glowing hearths, making merry and welcoming in the grand old festival of the morrow. The poor stranger was by this time so far roused as to sit up with little help, and to answer the doctor's kindly words in monosyllables, whilst the dog, keeping pace with the horse, or running on in little circuits before, seemed conscious that its master was in friendly hands.

Just where the little street wound by a declivity towards a mountain brook-in summer the loveliest spot the eye might rest upon for many a mile-Mr. Mynor pushed open a wide door, and led the horse into a little courtyard, on which gleamed, through the lattice panes of a wide casement, the light of a ruddy fire. Though most sounds were deadened by the snow stretched everywhere, a quick ear detected his return, so that scarcely had the gate swung back than the house door opened, and a pretty little fair, young creature of a woman, with two or three children crowded round her, came running out into the moonlight to welcome the doctor home. In her first eagerness she did not perceive the drooping stranger; when she did, just as she reached her husband's side, she drew back in wonder and terror.

"Nothing for fear, my Flo., but much for care and pity," said her husband, tenderly; "it is a poor stranger I met with on the hills, and who would have been dead by this time but

for my timely passing by. Come my love, help me to lead him in; we must be Samaritans, if for no other reason than that this is Christmas eve."

His young wife had too fine a heart to doubt or question; when her husband had lifted the stranger from the horse, she at once supported him on the other side, and thus, together, she and her husband slowly helped him across the threshold of the house, and from thence into a fine old country kitchen, whose ruddy fire had gleamed out so cheerfully upon the court-yard snow. Two of the little children, full of awe and pity, ran on before, whilst the third, a brave little lad of some six years' old, or so, staid behind to watch the dog that, absolutely wild with joy, ran up and down the snow, now behind a laurel bush, now off into the orchard, till at last, after leaping up on to the child, by way of a concluding flourish, it bolted into the house to seek its master. He was there already in a great arm-chair beside the fire, with the doctor and his little wife at hand. A lovely baby of a few months' old, lay in a cradle near, children's playthings were strewn around, a tiny feast of apples roasted on the hob, and though this was the only sign of Christmas cheer, there was purity, and gentleness, and love presiding over all.

"He must have some stimulants, and this as soon as possible, my Flo.," said the doctor, as he laid the stranger's head back on the chair; “and though faint he must be got to bed. He shall then have a cup of strong tea with brandy in it; next some beef tea-good beef tea-he wants nourishment."

The young wife looked up into the doctor's cheerful face with an expressive glance. At once he understood it, for, absorbed in his ministrations, he had forgotten the whole matter of his penniless return; now the whole bitter thought came back to his heart, heavier and heavier than before. Not liking to speak of this deep humiliation before his guest, even though a heavy stupor yet lay on him, he drew his little wife away into the tall shadow of the ticking clock, and said, "My darling Flo., you must forgive me; Hodge would not pay me, and I have come home as I went. But do not be down-hearted, I will ride to the Braithwaites carly in the morning, and get a sovereign on account of the bill, and be back in time for it to buy a Christmas dinner.”

The smile of the little loving wife was a fortune in itself. "Oh, never mind, dearest," was her quick reply, and in a light-hearted voice, for his dear sake, "it is not worth a care, excepting for the children. And now only

VOL. H. N. S.

think," she twined her little hands round his arm as she spoke, "I'm rich with a shilling; you recollect that bright one you gave me seven years ago, in those dear courting days of ours. Well, in hunting for some playthings for the children this afternoon, I found it as by a miracle. So, if you'll put on your hat, William, and fetch good Mary Rock, she can go and buy a pound of beef and an ounce of tea, as though for herself, and after that help me with the stranger's bed; and if Joe, her husband, would not mind coming as well, he can litter down the horse whilst Mary is absent."

The cheerful goodness of his little wife took a load off the doctor's heart. So, first kissing her tenderly, he went, and scon came back with a middle-aged countrywoman of pleasant aspect, who, occupying with her husband a cottage at the rear of the doctor's garden, came in at intervals through the day to do the household work; Mrs. Mynor having, for prudence's sake, dismissed her servant since the early summer.

She now bustled about in preparation of the stranger's room. As soon as Mary came back from Hayway, the butcher's, and the "shop," the good woman and her husband helped Mr. Mynor to take the stranger up stairs, whilst the doctor's little wife put the beef tea to nicely simmer on the hob, and made the other steaming tea that was to be administered with brandy. When Joe came down to say that the young man was in bed, she poured it nicely out, and with cream and sugar, and sippets of toasted bread, carried it up stairs. When some of it had been given to him, and the bottles of hot water and bags of bran, that had been got ready and applied, began to take effect, rapid signs of recovery soon showed themselves; but the doctor, judging that stillness and natural sleep were now needful, would not suffer him to be disturbed, but, leaving Mary to watch beside him, descended once more to the pleasant kitchen fire. Both the doctor and his wife had been greatly struck by the stranger's face as it rested on the pillow, and now, whilst they sat at their poor supper with their children, it was the subject of conversation; the little ones being very curious to know what papa thought of "the poor man." Why, he has come a long way I should think, my dears," answered their papa, "from a far-off place like Cumberland or Northumberland, I dare say. And I think, too, that he has been used to an active out-door life, such as country surveyor or bailiff. At least he must be a stranger to our hills."

66

"And I think he must be do'od to you, and

C

love you all his life, papa," said little lisping Edith, as she slid her tiny hand into that of her papa's, "for it was very do'od of you to bring him out of the deep snow; and p'raps, papa, he'll think of it every Chrismas eve he lives."

"He may, my dear; his face looks like that of one who has a fine noble heart. As for what I did for him, it was no more than duty, what others may do for me some day. Whilst, though we should be charitable at all moments of our lives, binding, and healing, and pouring balm into wounds, on this sweet eve we should be so especially, for His sake, whose humanity, and charity, and love were so divine."

"And pe'ase pa," asked the tiny questioner again, "do angels t'um to night, as mamma tells us they came so long ago."

"I scarcely know, pretty one," answered her papa, tenderly, "but it is beautiful, and perhaps well, to think that angels always hover over us, especially when we are good and kind."

"Then, dear papa," answered quickly the poetic little one, as fondling her curly head upon his arm, she turned her child's face sweetly up to his, "then a g'ate and shiny angel was over you when you lifted up the poor man on the mountain-top."

Right, darling child-our virtues are in themselves angelic-and thy very breadless home this winter's night shelters an angel

unawares!

When this dear papa had told the little ones about the faithful dog, how it had crept up stairs, and now lay curled beside its master's feet, and when they had all said how they loved it, and would play with it on the morrow, they repeated their little prayers beside his knee, and went to bed, the happiest of childish hearts, for they knew not of the need that lay upon their home.

It was nearly twelve before the beef-tea was ready; Mrs. Mynor then poured it out, and, attended by her husband, went up stairs. To their astonishment, they found the poor stranger awake, leaning with his elbow on the pillow, and talking in a low voice to Mary. But he held his trembling hands out at once to both of them, and looked at them with a brave manly look, though yet bespeaking stupor and bodily suffering.

"What am I to do for you both, you good angels and unknown friends?"

"Nothing more," replied the kind doctor, "than to make perfect my small aid, by getting quickly well. It is nothing, sir; you or

any other good Christian would have helped me, I'm sure, had you found me on a snowy waste, like where I met you. Now sip this beef-tea, then lie down and get another sleep, and then, with a few days' rest, I'll promise to send you forth a renovated, and, I hope, a more careful traveller."

"God bless you, and thrice bless you," said the young man, as he folded both Flo. and the doctor's hands within his, and held them there fervently, with his head bent down. Both saw that he was deeply moved, and wisely remained silent.

"I am a stranger to this wild country," he said, presently," as you may well suppose. But my rest cannot be longer than the morning; I am only on a less distant journey than that I should have by this time taken, had you not found me on the waste, dear doctor. I am on my way to Australia; I must be in town on the morning after to-morrow, to transact vital business. From thence I hurry to Plymouth, as the ship

sail by is already there." Both the doctor and his little wife expressed surprise.

So on by degrees, from his slow, faint words, they found that he was a Scotchman, and that his name was Farquharson; that he had been living in the Lothians as land-steward to a great proprietor, but receiving, awhile before, a letter from Australia, from a servant who had once lived under him, and in which was some strange information, he had determined to go thither himself. With this view he had resigned his situation, gone up to London a fortnight before this date, secured there his berth and outfit, and then come down into this country to bid some relatives of his mother, who had been a Shropshire woman, farewell. Leaving the quiet farm of these good people that very day, he had attempted to cross the desolate Longmynd Hills, in the hopes of finding a nearer way to the farm of another friend, who had promised to drive him to the next town, in order to meet the mail-train on Christmas night. Losing his way, and wandering about the desolate waste, he had been suddenly overcome by an intense drowsiness, though well used to the snows and storms of a northern country. This feeling becoming irresistible, he had sat down and sunk into the deep, nay almost death-sleep in which the doctor found him.

"And it would have been death long before this hour," spoke the doctor, with a feeling that brought tears to his Flora's eyes. "But now you must talk no more, if you intend to leave us in the morning. You must sleep till eight or nine, then let us give you a good

breakfast, and then I shall be able to say whether you can leave us. If so, Joe shall harness my spare horse to the gig, and drive you to your friend's, or to the town."

He then made Flora feed his poor patient with the beef-tea, whilst he himself descended to the surgery for a little needful medicine. When he returned, the young man's head lay again upon the pillow. Saying a kind goodnight, and leaving him to the best care of her husband, the doctor's tender little wife hurried down stairs to the kitchen, to consult with Mary Rock about the morrow's breakfast. Her heart was full of hospitality and kindness, but it sank at the thought of their desolate poverty.

Indeed, before Mary had spoken twenty words, the dear soul burst in tears. "I should not have cared for ourselves or the children," she heartily sobbed, "but for this poor stranger's sake I grieve. Oh! it will be like turning him breadless from our doors."

"There missis, there missis, don't take on," said Mary in her tender, homely way; "ladies as have been brought up like you take on so at a little bit o' poverty o' this sort. We poor folks, missis, dunna, because we be so used to't. Many and many a time have I been straitened for a bit o' bread; more nor once I've seen nothing but the union-house 'afore us, and my heart's gone down plump-likethat it has but only for a minnit, as I may say, for I've said-if the missis's heart fails, the maister's sure to do'-so I've hoped, and worked, and put a cheerful face on things, and trusted in the Lord and things o' come right again. So cheer up, dear missis; there's a skeleton in many a house that's worser than poverty, you may depend on 't; and the dear maister's got brighter days 'afore him, that you may be sure. And now, this is jist what I waited to say; please go to bed, and make your mind easy; there's hafe a p’und o' coffee, my big lad Tom brought from Hereford the last time he wun there-and mighty nice it become fra' Lunnon I b'leve, and you can have hafe on 't, an'a bit o' the soft sugar as come as well. There's some butter, too, i' my pantry, as Martha Clark churned this afe'ternoon; and this, wi' a bit o' new bread, I can set to rise wi' the barm 'afore I go to bed, 'll make a nicish breakfast if thee'll be letting one thing, missis?"

Mrs. Mynor looked up interrogatively, though tears dimmed her tender eyes.

"Well now," even Mary hesitated, "if thee'd let me crop the pair o' fowls, and then wi' a bit o' the bacon up on the cratch, and a few o' the mushrooms that be under the glass, made

wi' a bit o' butter into sauce, there'll a breakfast as 'd serve the grandest folks!"

"Oh, Mary, Mary!" exclaimed Flo., scarcely letting the homely creature finish her sentence, "what would the dear little ones say, when they went to feed them with the breakfast crumbs, and missed Cocky and Henny. Oh! their hearts would be broken."

"Well missis," said Mary, in a tone that sounded like reproach to Flo.'s sensitive car, though not meant as such, believe me, "if I had 'em o' my own, I wouldn't speak on't, that you'd be sure. But now go thee to bed and sleep, I'll do the best, depend on't."

"But Mary, Mary," sobbed Flo., struggling with still deeper tears than any that had yet fallen, "I cannot, cannot take the other things; why should we rob you-how should we repay you?"

"There missis," spoke Mary, with that firmness that is so often characteristic of the plain and homely, "it aint often I'm angered, but I shall be if thee say more o' this thing. Why if I giv' thee all o' th' house, it wouldn't be enough. For didn't the doctor save my maister to me and the lads, and didn't-"

"Hush," interrupted Mrs. Mynor, seeing she had wounded the poor soul in thus refusing, “I will accept what you give, to repay though when I can."

"Say no more o' that ma'am," interrupted Mary in her turn, "now go thee to bed, for it be past midnight." She, in her kind way, partly led her mistress to the kitchen door as she spoke. When it was closed, Mrs. Mynor opened it again.

"Mary," she said, "take the fowls; the children's tears will be of less account than tenderness to the stranger. Take them, they'll dry them when I tell the homely truth, for like their father, they have warm and generous hearts."

"Like thee, dear missis, too," thought Mary Rock; then she added aloud, "I'll see, I'll see. Now do thee go, dear missis, it's late, and all thee hast to think about, is putting on thy own and the dear little ones' best things, for it'll be the Christmas morning, and bringing down wi' thee th' best table-cloth, and the bits o' silver plate. My maister shall sweep the garden walks against thee be down, so if thee like to add a posy to th' table, thee can-thy hand be so nice like to such prettiness." So saying, the good creature closed the door; and, long after she was in bed, the doctor's wife could hear her busy at her cheerful, kindly labours.

At four o'clock, the doctor rose, and went