We own we have treated Professor Draper's work with very little respect, for we have felt very little. His _Intellectual Development of Europe_ is full of crudities from beginning to end, and for the most part below criticism, or would be were it not that it is levelled at all the principles of individual and social life and progress. The book belongs to the age of Leucippus and Democritus, and _ignores_, if we may use an expressive term, though hardly English, Christian civilization and all the progress men and nations have effected since the opening of the Christian era. It is a monument not of science, but of gross ignorance. Yet in our remarks we have criticised the class to which the author belongs, rather than the author himself. Men of real science are modest, reverential, and we honor them, whatever the department of nature to which they devote their studies. We delight to sit at their feet and drink in instruction from their lips; but when men, because they are passable chemists, know something of human physiology, or the natural history of fishes, undertake to propagate theories on God, man, and nature, that violate the most sacred traditions of the race, deny the Gospel, reduce the universe to matter, and place man on a level with the brute, theories, too, which are utterly baseless, we cannot reverence them, or listen to them with patience, however graceful their elocution or charming their rhetoric. ---------- {174} Morning At Spring Park. Along the upland swell and wooded lawn The aged farmer's voice is heard at dawn: That well-known call across the dewy vale Calls Spark and Daisy to the milking-pail. The robin chirps; from farm to farm I hear The bugle-note of wakeful chanticleer; And far, far off, through grove and bosky dell, The dreamy tinkle of sleek Snowflake's bell. The huddling sheep, just loose from kindly fold, Their nibbling way along the hill-side hold; And timid squirrels and shy quails are seen Flitting, unscared, across the shaded green. The low horizon's dusky, violet blue Is tinged with coming daylight's rosy hue, Till o'er the golden fields of tasselled corn Breaks all the rapture of the summer morn. Through forest rifts the level sunbeams dart, And gloomy nooks to sudden beauty start; Those long, still lines which through rank foliage steal, Undreamed-of charms among the woods reveal. The yellow wheat-stooks catch the early light; Far-nested homesteads gleam at once to sight; While, from yon glimmering height, one spire serene Points duly heavenward this terrestrial scene. Long may the aged farmer's call be heard. At dewy dawn, with song of matin bird. Among his loving flocks and herds of kine, A guileless master, watchful and benign. And, when no more his agile footstep roves These flowery pastures and these pleasant groves, Good Shepherd, may thy call to fields more fair Wean every thought from earth, make heaven his care!