too much the training of the memory, which should be to us a treasury of beautiful thoughts, to cheer us in the prose of every-day life, to refine and elevate taste and feeling.  We do not think it was a waste of time to learn, as our mothers did, long extracts from Milton, the sweet lyrics of Watts, the Psalms of David.  Have we not often been soothed by their recitation of them in the time of sickness, at the hour of twilight, when even the mind of the child seems to reach out after the spiritual, and to need the aliment of high and holy thought?  The low, sweet voice, the harmony of the verse, were conveyancers of ideas which entered the soul to become a part of it forever.

If we would be rich in thought, we must gather up the treasures of the past, and make them our own.  It is not enough, certainly, for ordinary minds, simply to read the English classics; they must be studied, learned, to get from them their worth.  And the mother who would cultivate the taste, the imagination of the child, must give him, with the exercise of his own inventive powers, the rich food of the past.

It need not be feared that there will not be originality in the mind of one thus stored with the wealth which others have left.  Where there is a native vigor, and invention, it will remould truth into new forms, and add a value of its own, having received an inspiration from the great masters of thought.

If, then, you would bless your child, persuade him to make Milton and Cowper, and other authors of immortal verse, his familiar friends.  They shall be companions in solitude, ministers of joy in hours of sadness.  And let the “songs of Zion” mould the young affections, and be associated with a mother’s love, and the dear delights of home.  Perhaps in a strange land, and in a dying hour, when far from counselor and friend, they may lead even the prodigal to think upon his ways, and be his guide to Heaven.

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NOTICES OF BOOKS.

“THE WIDE, WIDE WORLD.”—­This is a charming book, written by one of our own countrywomen, which we think may be safely and appropriately given to a pure-minded and simple-hearted daughter.  If it is fictitious, it is only so as the ideal landscape of an artist, which, though unreal, compels us to exclaim, How true to nature!  If the delineation of true religious character is not its main object, that of piety and benevolence is as truly a part of it, as is its fragrance a part of the rose.  We should love to give it to some of our friends whose Christianity may be vital, but which does not make them lovely—­who may show some of its fruits, but who hardly cultivate what may be called the leaves and flowers of a holy character.  If the sternness and want of sympathy of Aunt Fortune does not rebuke them, perhaps the loveliness and patience of Ellen, and her friends, may win them to an imitation.