all who will exert themselves to make use of them. There are also two colleges-Columbia College, situated on an open square, near the Park, west of Broadway, and ornamented with majestic trees. The standard of classical education is supposed to be higher in this than in most of the colleges of this country. It was founded by royal charter, in 1754, which has been frequently confirmed, with occasional alterations, by the legislature of the state. It possesses an estate valued at four hundred thousand dollars. The University of the City of New York is an institution recently established, chartered by the legislature in 1831. It is projected on the broad and liberal scale of the universities on the continent of Europe, and promises to be of great advantage to the literature of our country. Its funds have been raised by the subscriptions of liberal individuals. The Theological Seminary of the Protestant Episcopal Church is situated in the upper part of the city.

There are more than 100 churches in the city, of almost every denomination of believers; of these, some are of a handsome order of architecture, and splendidly ornamented within. The portico in front of the church of the Ascension, in Canal Street, would do honor to any city-it is chaste and classical in the highest degree. The disposition of the people of New York is liberal towards the endowment and support of religious establishments, Bible, Tract, and Missionary Societies, &c., and there is scarcely a want or infirmity to which our nature is exposed, which has not a resource in some one of the different charitable institutions which are supported by public munificence or private charity. Neither is New York behind her sister cities in the number of her literary and scientific institutions, although her almost exclusively commercial pursuits might furnish some apology if she were.

The population in 1697, was 4302—in 1790, 33,031 -in 1800, 60,489-in 1810, 96,373-in 1820, 123,706 -in 1830, 207,021. The present population is sup posed to amount to two hundred and thirty-five thousand souls.

CALENDAR OF NATURE.

MARCH.

MARCH is a rude and sometimes boisterous month, possessing many of the characteristics of winter, yet awakening sensations perhaps more delicious than the two following spring months, for it gives us the first announcement and taste of spring. What can equal the delight of our hearts at the very first glimpse of spring-the first springing of buds and green herbs. It is like a new life infused into our bosoms. A spirit of tenderness, a burst of freshness and luxury of feeling possesses us, and let fifty springs have broken upon us, this joy, unlike many joys of time, is not an atom impaired. Are we not young? Are we not boys? Do we not break, by the power of awakened thoughts, into all the rapturous scenes of all our happier years? There is something in the freshness of the soil-in the mossy bank-the balmy air-the voices of birds-the early and delicious flowers, that we have seen and felt only in childhood and spring.

There are frequently mornings in March, when a lover of nature may enjoy in a stroll, sensations not to be exceeded, or perhaps equalled, by any thing which the full glory of summer can awaken-mornings which tempt us to cast the memory of winter, or the fear of its return, out of our thoughts. The air is mild and balmy, with, now and then, a cool gush by no means unpleasant, but, on the contrary, contributing towards that cheering and peculiar feeling which we experience only in spring. The sky is clear-the sun flings abroad not only a gladdening splendor, but an almost summer glow. The world seems suddenly aroused to hope and enjoyment. The fields are assuming a vernal greenness -the buds are swelling in the hedges-the banks are displaying amid the brown remains of last year's vegetation, the luxuriant weeds of this. There are arums,

ground-ivy, the glaucus leaves and burnished flowers of the pilewort,

The first gilt thing

That wears the trembling pearls of spring,

and many other fresh and early bursts of greenery. All unexpectedly, too, in some embowered land, you are arrested by the delicious odor of violets, those sweetest of Flora's children, which have furnished so many pretty allusions to the poets, and which are not yet exhausted-they are like true friends, we do not know half their sweetness till they have felt the sunshine of our kindness--and again, they are like the pleasures of our childhood, the earliest and the most beautiful. Now, however, they are to be seen in all their glory-blue and white-modestly peering through their thick, clustering leaves. The lark is caroling in the blue fields of air-the blackbird and thrush are again shouting and replying to each other from the tops of the trees. The woods, though yet unadorned with their leafy garniture, are beautiful to look on-they seem flushed with life. Their boughs are frequently of a clear and glossy lead color, and the tree tops are rich with the vigorous hues of brown, red, and purple; and if you plunge into their solitudes, there are symptoms of revivification under your feet the springing mercury and green blades of the blue bells and perhaps above you, the early nest of the thrush, perched between the boughs of a young oak, to tinge your thoughts with the anticipations of summer. These are mornings not to be neglected by the lover of nature; and if not neglected they are not forgotten, for they will stir the springs of memory, and make us live over again, times and seasons that we cannot, for the pleasure and purity of our spirits, live over too much.

March, which was the first month in antiquity, was named so after Mars, the god of war, because he was the father of their first prince. This, at least, is the reason given by Ovid. The Saxons called it Lenctmonath, because the days now began in length to exceed

the nights. Lenct also means spring, therefore it was their spring month. It was called too, by them, Rhedmonath, from Rheda, one of their deities, to whom sacrifices were offered in March, and from raed, council, March being the month wherein wars or expeditions were undertaken by the gothic tribes. They also called it Hlyd-monath, or the stormy month.

THANATOPSIS.

TO HIM who in the love of nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings, with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images

Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall,

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart ;-
Go forth, under the open sky, and list

To Nature's teachings, while from all around-
Earth and her waters, and the depth's of air,-
Comes a still voice-Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more

In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go

To mix for ever with the elements,

To be a brother to the insensible rock

And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thy eternal resting place

Shalt thou retire alone-nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings,
The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.-The hills
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,-the vales
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods-rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks

That make the meadows green; and poured round all,
Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-

Are but the solemn decorations all

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun,
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,
Are shining on the sad abodes of death,
Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.-Take the wings
Of morning and the Barcan desert pierce,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Orogon, and hears no sound,
Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there,
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep-the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest-and what if thou shalt fall
Unheeded by the living-and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe'
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man,—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those, who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,.

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.—Bryant.

EXTRAORDINARY PRESERVATION OF LIFE
UNDER SNOW.

THE following event, which occurred during the remarkable hard winter of 1708-9, is recorded on the most unquestionable authority. A poor woman near Yeovil, in Somersetshire, having been at Chard to sell her yarn, in her return home fell so very ill that she was forced to take refuge in a small house by the way-side, and being towards evening, she desired the people that they would let her sit by the fire during night. This was denied.She left the house, and feeling very ill, laid herself down under a hedge. It snowed very hard; and in a little