Intellectual Freedom.

INTELLECTUAL FREEDOM .

There is a conflict between opposing tendencies in our nature of which we become early conscious . On the one hand , we constantly tend towards bondage—bondage to our own lusts , to the social habits of our time , to its intellectual creeds , to its moral or immoral maxims ; and , on the other hand , we are animated by an intense passion for freedom , to which every form of bondage is

simply intolerable . No sooner do we discover that our liberty has been curtailed , that whether owing to our own base submission to the growing power of any personal craving or habit , or the usurpation of any alien authority , we can no longer choose our own course of action and abide by it , than we begin to fret against the yoke into which we have thrust our foolish necks , and struggle to

be free . The upshot of our struggles is not , for the most part , encouraging . Too often , after a brief revolt , we sink back into our former captivity , and sink all the deeper for the effort we have made to rise and assert our freedom . Which of us cannot recall many such ineffectual conflicts , many such growing defeats ? It may be that we have fallen into some base physical indulgence

injurious to health ; or we become conscious of some moral weakness which renders us unstable in purpose and action ; or we are taught by some sudden shock and onset of truth that certain of our traditionary beliefs are unsound ; or we discover that our deference to the current maxims has grown excessive : Ave feel that it is high time we made a stand , that if we go on much longer as

we are going now we shall be utterly enslaved . And we make our stand . For a time we present a bold front to the alien usurping force . But soon we grow weary , nnweary , forgetful . A new temptation , the old foe with a new face or an added force assails us , and we succumb . Once more Ave are overcome : once more we are led away into captivity ; and the conflict , now more arduous and hopeless than ever , has all to be begun again . —The Quiver .

Masonic Solicitude.

MASONIC SOLICITUDE .

By S . ASHTON . Mothers do not feel or manifest a greater solicitude for the welfare and manhood of their children , than does Masonry for those of her fold . We here speak of true , model Masonry—Masonry as it should be , and as it will surely be as the result of the present laudable emulation among its true friends . She will take maternal care of all her sons , with a truer devotion

and more ardent love than any other social organization , either of Church or sect . She watches over their oujgoings and incomings with a vigilance more effective and more faithful than any other friend . She sees them when and where the mother cannot go—in the midnight revel and in the wild debauch—amid dangers unseen by day , and temptations that move the very soul . And all this is Masonic duty . To watch and to warn . To

snatch as a brand from the burning the brother on the road to death . She has often done this . She has reconciled enemies , and by the cement of a strong love she has affiliated those whom estrangement had embittered . She appoints committees to intercede and to plead with the erring , and to reconcile the estranged , that her children may tread tlie paths of prosperity , and live in peace and harmony . And if this is Masonicthen it is the individual duty of

, every member to exercise his kind offices in every similar case that comes under his notice . He is not to hesitate for the appointment of tbe usual committee . He is not to " stand upon the order of his going but go at once , " to duty as peacemaker , or as the " guardian angel , " that would save a brother . Whatever is Masonic , is individual duty . Whatever may conduce to the honor or utility of the Craft , should be assiduously pursued of

as a means doing good with an earnestness that would be creditable in any business calling—that would insure success . It is thus that Masonry is " a city upon a hill , " bnd it is thus ttiat her children should be shining lights in the world . —Mystic

Poetry.

Poetry .

SCOTIA PATRIA . 0 Scotia , my own na * Eive land , I adore thee , Thy streams and thy mountains , thy valleys and rills ; And history belov'd , for it calls up bofoi-e mo Thy struggles that freedom might reign o ' er thy hills , What blood of thy patriots thy mountains hath swallowed ! Ere thou skould'st bo couquer'd by king or by priest ;

0 where is tho land by such mom ' rios so hallowed ? Dear Scotia , thy name is enshrined in my breast . Thy streams lod have ran with the blood of thy foemon , Both Eoman and Dane , ayo , and South Briton , too ; But dearer than all , thy own heart was tho fountain When thou to thj ^ solf o'on had need to be true . The song of tho Lord from thy glens hath arisen ,

When tyranny strove to chain freedom of thought ; Thy rivulets serv'd oft as fonts in that season , When men stirr'd by priestcraft so ruthlessly fought . 0 duty , how hast thon for blood keenly panted ! When doing to others as thou'dst be done by ? 0 love wort not thou of tho Lord sure implanted , Thy wounds would have kill'd theeand dead would'st

, lie , But prais'd be tho Lord for His goodness to Scotland , The land of true liberty , courage , and love ; For Ho through tho fire all the purer her brought , and Ho keeps her ' lamp burning with oil from above . W . P . B .

FEAR NOT . By Mrs . L . A . CZARXECKI , authoress of "Hero of Italy , " and other poems , § c . Fear not for men ' s opinion When conscience foels at rest ; Walk boldly in tho thickest Of tho world's hot contest . Fear not the laugh of vice

, Nor yet tho Atheist's sneer ; Walk in the path of truth , And thou shalt know no fear . Fear not , for God Ho roignoth , And virtue it is true , Bo thy name for stainless honour Among the chosen fow .

Rank with tho pure and noblo In that great devoted band , Who , linked by ties of love , Are found in every land . Whoso deeds of holy duty Shine radiant as the light , Whose Order is tho hihest

g For tho sacred cause of right . Enter that glorious temple Where mighty men have trod , Whoso hearts ne'er know a fear , Only the fear of God .

LATE AUTUMN . Tho violet , whito spring cloud , and summer rose , Tho slips of sunshine on tho forest floor , Tho ocean's blue luxuriant roposo , The long calm days and sunsets by its shore , Swoot air , that from tho meadowy stretches flows , Tho lark , the dusky nightingale that sings

To morn and twilight's star , when fields are green And golden—past and passing are I weon . And Autumn late from western evenings , Rison in tho wild sad winds , that shawdowing blows Up the dim void , murmurs , "Winter is eome : "Pile up the logs and dust the books , for sonn Will swell the broadening tempest ' s sullen hum , From the whito surf-line underneath tho nioou .