not whether the shelter of a "gourd" be extended over us or taken away. I have always grieved, ever since the schoolmistress bid me read, with a loud voice, Jonah's journey to Nineveh, that the prophet should chafe, like a roused brute of the forest, because a gourd, a short lived plant of the night had wilted. It appears to me, even, if the sun beat fiercely upon his head, and the east wind blew sharply upon his breast, that the prophet might have found so much alleviation of his misfortunes, in beholding" sixteen thousand" people, and " also much cattle," spared from destruction, that a dead "gourd" would not have given him the spleen. I cannot help feeling a degree of indifference, and, perhaps aversion towards this fretting messenger to the Ninevites. I have a profound respect for all, and a warm affection for most of the other prophets. Many were courtly, as well as ingenious writers. I admire the sublimity of Isaiah, the sensibility of Jeremiah, and the generous zeal of Ezekiel. Even the lowly Amos, the herdman of Tekoah, though the narrowness of his education has induced a degree of rudeness in his writings, still I believe him to be as honest a prophet as ever ut

tered a prediction. But as for Jonah, setting aside his disobedience, selfishness and vanity, he was so sulky and so morose a mortal, that I never could like his character or his principles. I am not so uncharitable as to wish that he had actually been digested by the whale which swallowed him; but he ought to have kept no better company; for not the " great Leviathan of the deep" ever floundered more impatiently in his element, than discontented Jonah in the voyage of life.

On a review of what I have thus far written, I believe that there is no occasion to look so far back as the history of an ancient prophet for an instance of anger employed upon trifles. If I should lift the window-sash of my study, I should discern whole companies fretting and fuming for the "gourd."

Walking in a studious mood, by the side of a neighbour's garden fence, I observed him stamping upon the ground with such disorder, that I concluded he was in convulsions, or practising a dance of St. Vitus. Humanity urged me towards him, and I meditated medical rather than moral aid. But to my eager question of "What aileth thee?" he replied to my aston

ishment, that the bugs had blighted all his cucumbers, and was not that enough to make a wise man mad? I endeavoured to compose his perturbated spirits, and quoted to him Seneca upon tranquillity of mind, and part of one of Basil's homilies; but all in vain. He appeared to be possessed, and it required an abler exorcist than myself to drive his devil away. I retired, and thinking of Jonah and his "gourd," could not help allegorizing a little in Bunyan's manner. My neighbour Irritable's forefathers, quoth I, probably cultivated cucumbers without the wall of Nineveh; they fretted when the fruit was cut off, and my worthy friend here, I find, has not yet been cured of the family taint!

ON DISAPPOINTMENT.

"Wherefore, when I looked that it should bring forth grapes, brought it forth wild grapes?”—Isá. v. 4.

THUS fares it with most of the vineyards in the world. Dressed by the vintager, they promise plausibly, as a courtier. In the season of maturity, what is the fruit? When we "looked" for perfection, we found our hopes mocked with wildness, crudity, bitterness; with fruit austere, as sloes; or sour, like the berries of the gadding barberry.

The poet Isaiah, for the prophet no less than Homer, merits the title of bard, has beautifully allegorized the common disappointments of man. He describes his beloved as the proprietor of a vineyard in a champaign country. Well fenced, well planted, freed from stones, protected by a tower, and crowi by a wine press; such a vineyard might inspi, e the owner with the fondest expectations of pressing sweet

fruit, and of drinking the purest nectar. Mortified Hebrew, I see thee walk away with anguish. At autumnal noon, thou hast met the vine dresser, and he has told thee of blight, and mildew, and caterpillar; that the grapes are wild, acid, their juice vinegar; that the vineyard is no better than a thistle field, and thy time and money wasted without recompense. I hear thee, in the bitterness of thy heart, exclaim, "What could have been done more to my vineyard, that I have not done in it?" It is natural. Many a parent has spoken in the same language, when hearing of the sorry adventures of a prodigal son. Where men have lavished wealth, hours, affection, whether in rearing grapes, or offspring, if either prove wild, it is like a dart through the liver.

Wild grapes, in the sense which the prophet: intends, are "as plenty as blackberries." Hoyden girls, forward boys, and dissipated men, are all wild grapes. Parents may dress, and schoolmasters prune as much as they please; all culture is in vain, where there is rottenness at root and heart.

The banks of many a western lake, and the savannahs of Georgia and Tennessee have been