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CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 
 924 085 792 186 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924085792186 
 
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 ,///J r''),/,^/M^y 
 
PEOGBESS OF CIVIL LIBERTY. 
 
 No fact is more evident, or more gratifying to the Chris- 
 tian and the Philanthropist, than the advancement of the 
 human race in the great principles of liberty, civilization, 
 and refinement. To become convinced of the reality of 
 this advancement, we need survey but a brief period of 
 the World's history. Only a few centuries since, one dark 
 pall of ignorance and despotism shrouded the earth in 
 gloom. The few bright spot's which here and there illu- 
 minated the dark pathway of the past, seemed about to 
 be obliterated in the obscurity of an eternal night. All 
 that the human mind had acquired through a long series 
 of ages, seemed buried in oblivion, and lost to the world 
 forever. No Plato longer charmed by his learning and 
 Wisdom ; no Virgil, with the beauty and grandeur of his 
 poetry ; no Cicero, with the magic of his eloquence. As 
 yet, no Luther had risen to wave the wand of truth over 
 the vices and superstitions of the age ; no ^^acon to strike 
 from the mind the shackles of a false philosophy ; no 
 Newton, to throw open the arcana of nature, and bring to 
 light the structure of the universe. As yet, no Washing- 
 ton had pointed to the Sun of Freedom, destined ere long, 
 to dispel darkness from the earth ; nor had he yet left 
 
 " His awful memory, a light for after-times." 
 
 Since those long centuries of night, how wonderful is^ 
 the progress which has been made ! Science and the 
 arts, then confined to the few, or absolutely unknown, 
 now unfold their untold treasures to the public mind, and: 
 are within the reach of all. The darkness and gloom of 
 the long night of ages have retreated before the noon-day 
 beams of Truth and Knowledge, Commerce, once creep- 
 ing timid and unknown along the shore from port to port, 
 
JQ PROGRESS OP CIVIL LIBERTT. 
 
 now, erect in her beauty, and with firm and fearless step 
 launches boldly ■ upon the stormy deep, " walking the 
 vater like a thing of life," exploring every region, and 
 epciricling th^ globe with free pxincipleg, intelligence, ,and 
 wealth- Religion in its purity, ennobling the hopes and 
 enlarging the benevolence of the human heart, is extend- 
 ing its, mild sceptre of love over the drear and desolate 
 places of the earth; while superstition, tyranny and op 
 pression, affrighted, flee before it. The people, so long 
 debased, cast down, and trodden under foot as the mere 
 willing instruments of power, are beginning to feel and 
 know their rights and their strength, and to throw around 
 themselves the bulwarks of protection. The precious 
 privileges of freedom of thought, of speech, and of action, 
 are theirs ; while the doctrines of passive obedience, and 
 of the absolute and divine right of Kings, are exploded as 
 the dogmas of an age of ignorance and barbarism. 
 
 The inquiry naturally arises ; what are the causes 
 which have wrought changes so surprising in society, and 
 w^hich, especially, have so contributed to the advance- 
 ment of Civil Liberty during the ,last four hundred years ? 
 Every mind instantly recurs to the Reformation, as the 
 first and the greatest. The high purposes for which 
 ■'Christianity was introduced into the world, had long been, 
 in a great measure, defeated by the perversions to which 
 it had been- exposed. Its simplicity was concealed under 
 innumerable forms and ceremonies. Its great truths, de- 
 signedt to correct and purify man's inner being, his im- 
 mortal part, and raise him from his low condition, making 
 him free indeed, were so perverted as to administer only 
 to the avarice and passions of an artful few. In a word, 
 it had lost its saving power, and was no longer Christian' 
 tg/. But, at the Reformation, it was stripped of its cor- 
 ruptions ; the dead calm of the waters vyas broken up ; 
 and though lashed.ijitQ tempest by:the fui-y.of the storm, 
 and for awhile man's foijdest helps and hopes seemed 
 tabout to be engulfed in irretrievable ruin ; yet when the 
 
tumult subsided, anji the,elem^ntp bad ceased from .their 
 commotion, Trutb, like thp goddess ofbeauty, reared l;er 
 angel-form from the bospm of the angry deep. A spirit qf 
 active inquixy, ,an^ of vigilance untiring, was thus aw^» 
 ened and called forth, which from that day , to the pregejgt 
 has never slumbered; — a Spirit which is now pa^sji^g 
 found the gipbe, arousing the miiid from its deep l^tji^-rgj?, 
 reforming Religion and Politics, and restoripg to m3.P!hi$ 
 long Ipst moral and civil power. The , enfranchisement 
 of the mind fropa religious despotism, led directly to jn^ 
 quiries into the natune of,'G\Yil Goyerament. A^ th^ peo- 
 ple had suffered qlpceptipn, tyrapny, and a privatiop pf 
 their rights in Religion, so had they in Politics. TJiey 
 began immediately to investigate tlie nature of goyqrB'' 
 Bjent,' — for. whose bepefit it was igstahlis^d ; . whether <^ 
 the many or the tfew, — whether for a jingle indiyi4ui|l 
 upon whose head accijjjent had placpd a crown of pov^ei", 
 or for the million whom the sam,e accident, had sep^a^q^ 
 from the throne. It was from inquiries of this nature that 
 resulted the memorable, revolution pf 1649,- — a revQlutlop 
 which gave Kiiigs to thp block, and Uberty to Englgn^* 
 Actuated l^y a common sentirnent ; urged on by a. cqjp,- 
 mpn cause, men gathered into one great phalanx — strpi:\a 
 ffarles5, irresistible; and guided by the, same principle 
 of Iree thought lanfj inquiry, widely and. more widely.^dis- 
 seniin^ted, they, meirched onyarji to su^qess an^.vipfcory. 
 To the Reformatio|v then, js Europe mainly indebted -Cgi 
 wjiatevj^r of liberty and, free principles jsfeie piay now 
 possess. ■ I 
 
 But we turn to. a far loyeliier and lu^hter scene in .t)^ 
 high career of Civil Liberty. Far off from the viceis a^^ 
 coxxuptions of the Old World,, to a fairer clime and a blot- 
 ter country, whose atmosphere was pure, ,3,^4 whose soil 
 ■jpcontaminated by the fpot-prints of despotism, Ljib^r;^ 
 Qed an esile. Here, houseless a^d ^f n4ksfs, , shjs , t^t^ 
 up ^er ,abp4®' Upon Plymputh rqci, 
 
 •' — ; --rrr- d|^t holiest spot, . 
 
 The high place of freedom's birth,** 
 
12 PROGRESS OP Civil. LffiERTT. 
 
 6he laid the comer-stone of what has already become a 
 Ifreat Republican "Edifice, — an edifice destined, we be- 
 lieve, to be more enduring than the Parthenon or the 
 Pyramid, — sublime, though simple in its proportions; 
 more beautiful than the palaces of kings, or the temples 
 6f Roman pontiffs ; upon whose portals are inscribed Jus- 
 tice and Mercy ; whose pillars rise in the simple majesty 
 df ^ruth ; and from whose majestic dome waves the broad 
 flag of Freedom and Equality. Into this temple, she 
 iftvited the injured and the disfranchised of all nations, to 
 take refuge and worship. And gladly did they obey her 
 invitation. Hither fled many of the choicest, spirits 6f the 
 age, — the, high-minded and the bold, the conscientious 
 afad the meek, ^— men prominent for intelligence and in-^ 
 fluence, who cduld no longer brdbk the scoffs and insults 
 of tyrants, — as well as the devout and humble follower 
 of Jesus, who had too long suffered persecution for right- 
 eousness sake. Here, once more, Civil and Religious 
 Freedom walked hand in hand; mutually animated, and 
 atistained each other ; bowed at the same shrine ; encoun- 
 tered the* same perils, and grappled with the same foes. 
 Side by si<ie,amid the solitudes of the wilderness, sprang 
 up at once, sanctuaries of justice and solemn temples. 
 Religion was the handmaid of Politics, and Virtue of 
 both. No one feature, perhaps, was more characteristic 
 of their lives and their actions, than this their love of jus- 
 tice and their devotional Spirit. "We could not live 
 without the worship of God," exclaim our Pilgrim Fath- 
 ers, in one of their addrbsses to the King. And it was 
 upon sentiments and principles such as these, that arose a 
 System of society and morals, freer and purer than any at 
 liiat time existiftg ; a system, which^ though stained, 'tis 
 tru6, with many of the errors and imperfections of the 
 age, was gradually ripening and approxitnating to the 
 fulness of maturity. But Liberty's eternal foes, ever 
 active and vigilant, pursued her even into her asylum in 
 the Western wilds. Their day of triumph, however, was 
 
CONSCIENCE. 13 
 
 past. She met them upon the threshold ; and by that strug- 
 gle, — the struggle of our Revoliition, — was forever put to 
 rest the question ^which thfpugh all time had been agitated, 
 
 WHETHER MAN SHOULD BE FREE. This WaS the plaCC, 
 
 and this the time, when the doctrines of Popular Rights 
 and Civil Liberty, were permanently settled and estab- 
 lished ; and to use the words of one of our first historians, 
 " within tlie short space of two centuries, have they 
 infused themselves into the life-blood of every rising state, 
 from Labrador to Chili; have erepted. outposts on the; 
 Oregon, and in Liberia ; and, mating a proselyte of em- 
 lightened France, have disturbed all the ancient govern- 
 ments of Europe, by awakening the mind to resistless 
 action, from the shores of Portugal to the palaces of the 
 Czars." 
 
 CONSCIENCE. 
 
 Every passing hour 
 Is crowded with a thousand whispers ; 
 The night has lost its silence, and the stars 
 Shoot fire upon my soul. Darkness itself 
 Has objects for mine' eyes to gaze upoii, 
 And sfends me terror when I pray for sleep 
 In 'vain upon my kriees. Nor ends it here ; ' 
 My greatest dread of all — detections-leasts 
 Her shadow on my walk, and startles me 
 At every turn : sometimes will reason drop 
 Her frightful chain of probable alarms 
 AcrQss my, mind ; or, if fatigued, she droops,. 
 He^ P^ngs sur^if\'e; the while ; as yoii have seen 
 The Ocean tossing when the wind is down, 
 And the huge storm.is dying on the waters. 
 
THE PEACHES. 
 
 tAIaWslA^'^D from the GERMAN. 
 
 A FARMER .brpuglht five peaches from the city, the finest ttat 
 were to be founcj. But this was the firsttime that his children had 
 3©en any fruit of this kind. So they admired and greatly rejoiced 
 ovfr the .Wutiful apples with red chepks , and soft pulps. , The 
 father giaveone to each of hite four sons, and the fitth to their 
 
 raouysr. i > r i 
 
 fii'the evening, as the^children were about to retire to sleep, their 
 fath'ei- inquired, Well, boy's, li'pw did the apples taste ■? 
 
 Sxicfellent, dear father, said the eldest. It is a beautiful fruit, so 
 jui(5f jln'iJ so pleasant I haV'e carefully preserved the stone, arid 
 win ChltiVate a trefe for fi^^lE' , ' ' 
 
 Well done ! said the father. This is husbandry to provide for the 
 future, and is becoming to a farmer ! 
 
 I ate mine, exclaimed the youngest, and threw away the stone, 
 and mother gave me half of hers. .0, that tasted so sweet, and 
 melted in my mouth. 
 
 You, said the father, have not apted^very prudently, but m a 
 natural and child-like mariner. There is still time enough in your 
 life to practise wisdom. 
 
 Then the second began, — I picked up the stone, which my little 
 brother threw away, and cracked it open. It contained a kernel 
 that tasted as good as a nlit. But my peach I sold, and got for it 
 money enough to buy twelve, when I go to the city. 
 
 The father patted him on the head, saying,' That was indeed 
 
 prudent, but it was not natural for a childv' May heaven 
 
 preserve you from being a merchant ! 
 And you, Edmund I inquired the father. 
 
 Frankly and ingenuously Edmund replied, I carried my peach to 
 George, the son of our neighbor, who is sick with a fever. He 
 refused to takp^it. But I laid it on the bed and came away. 
 Now ! said the father, Who has made the best use of his peach ! 
 All exclaimedj Brother Edmund ! 
 
 But Edmund was silertt. And his mother eriibraced' Wm with a 
 tear standing in her eye. 
 
THE SINNER'S dALL. 
 
 Awake I Sinner, wafie ! 'tis tlie dawning' of mom ; 
 The misPs on tKe mountain, the dew's on the thorn ; 
 The birds warble Sweetly in valley and, groye. 
 All offering thew STaker a morn-song of love. 
 
 Awake! Sinner, wake,! for the noon-tI(le|s, bright snn. 
 Proclaims by its fervor, the day is half ijone ; 
 Up, up and be doing, while yet it is day; 
 Ayrake ! to thy labor and work whilst thou Aay: 
 
 Awake ! Sinner, wake i for the sun sinjs to rest. 
 
 On his pilI6# or clouds in tHe shades of the west; 
 
 E'en the wild feamiered songsters have warbled theij prayer. 
 
 In doubf SnS m darkness. Why sl'eepest thou there .' 
 
 Awake! Sinnfer, w£ike f for the tempter's abroad 1 
 Heaven's pathway is {hornless, and pleasant the road. 
 Through the wide openl gate of repeniSance and prayer 
 The smile of thy Saviour i^waiteth ties there. 
 
 EARLY TRANSPLANTED FLOWER, 
 
 Oh Death ! how daald'st thoU seek our pleaBanJfbotrer, 
 And steal from it d/at fairesL, sweetest flower ? 
 
 Before Ris little feet tad trod ^ ,, 
 
 TTpon ihe dusty paths of life, , . , j 
 
 His soul has' passed away to God, 
 ^ ' Far, far from mortal care and strife ; 
 He has laid, him down by the ctystnl.rijfer 
 To bathe in its waters of life fof ever. 
 
 We weep — ^but not, sweet child, for thee,— 
 
 Oui- tears in silent sadness flow; 
 'Tis only for ourselves, that we 
 
 One bitter thought of grief can kno^. 
 
15 EAKLT TEANSPLANTED FLOWER. 
 
 We weep that we no more can presa 
 That little hand to lis so dear; 
 
 No more can feel thy soft caress, 
 Thy birdrlike voice no longer hear. 
 
 We weep ; for He who came to save 
 
 Our souU from endless floods of weepiq^ 
 Shed tears of sorrow at the grave 
 
 Where he, He loved was sleeping. 
 
 f 
 
 We weep — but hark ! methiiiks I hear 
 Celestial music round me float ; 
 
 And while I bend my listening ear, 
 I seem to catch a seraph's note. 
 
 "Oh mother ! if you could but hear 
 
 The golden harps uround me ringing, 
 You would not shed a single tear, 
 But join HxB songs which we are aingmg. 
 
 " And could you see the shining train . 
 
 Whp met me at those pearly gates, 
 Anal led me o'er the gjolden plain 
 
 To where my God, my Saviour wfu(a^ 
 'Twould make you long from earth to flea, 
 And seek this radiant home with me. 
 
 " Sweet mother, father, brothers dear, 
 All — all whom I so fondly love, 
 Wilh patience will I wait yon here, 
 Until we meet agaiil above. 
 
 "About your steps with watchful eye, 
 Will lyour guardian angel fly; 
 
 And when you've shed the latest tear. 
 When all your griefs and cares Me o'eti 
 
 How joyful will i meet you here, 
 Whp™ Rijjlis and pains are known no mcr*' 
 
 Where ties' so sweet are never broken. 
 
 And parting words no longer spoken.*' 
 
THE LOST CHILD. 17 
 
 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 A THRILLING STOSY. 
 
 " A CHILD is lost !" was the fearful and pulse-stilling rumor» 
 that coursed like wildfire throughout one of those small settle- 
 ments which odcasionally skirt the entrance to bur American 
 forests. A cry like this, was isnough to thrust the warm 
 blood bafck to the heart with the chili of horror ; to arrest the 
 throb of joy, even in its gayest humors ; and to send the busy 
 imagination forth with the little wanderer in the deep solitude 
 of the forest ; whom it pictured, seeking in vain to discover 
 some opening, while he wipeid away the tears that were flow- 
 ing over his yovflrg face like rain ; holding himself in an attitude 
 to listen, till his startled fancy brought back the gro\Vl of some 
 hideous inhabitant of those dark places ; then, running onward, 
 would either fall A prey to the very fate he was elideavoring 
 to flee froni ; or, after threading the same little cirftle, till fa- 
 tigue overpowered his feeble limbs, lay himself down, despair* 
 ingly, to die. Such tragedies had been acted : and the sons of 
 tl^e forest well knew that it is efasier to pursue their course 
 through the trackless ocean without a compass, than to ascer- 
 tain their pathway in those deep wilds, where the light of the 
 sun is almost excluded, and no footprint guides to human habi- 
 tations. 
 
 In the present instance men crowded together, scarcely dar- 
 ing to whisper to their own souls that the sweet child of Agnes 
 Wade was lost. " He was the only son of his mother, and she 
 was a widow !" Can there be a more pathetic appeal to the 
 sensibilities of human nature? Can there be a picture of more 
 utter desolation, than the heart of the tereaved one under such 
 circumstances ? Agnes Wade was the idol of the settlem^it. 
 She had been in it but a few fleeting months; yet they had 
 been time enough for her memory and her interests to find a 
 resting-place in every bospm. She had come there to reside, 
 with the parents of her lost husband. They were in humble 
 life, but it needed only to look at Agnes, to know that she had 
 
IS THE LOST CHII/Df. 
 
 been educated in refinement, if not in elegance. And she had 
 borne the change of circumstances tfith so much s-iveet and 
 pious resignation ; she was so gentle, so condescending, so be- 
 nevolent, that it was itnjiossibTe' to fee wi|h her and nOt to love 
 her. She always had a word of encouragement for th^ timid; 
 she always whispered consolation to the ■ soiyowful ; that con? 
 solation which comelh only from, above. With irresistibjl^ 
 persuasion she endeavorisd to reclaim the vicious, and lead the 
 contrite spirit to "the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins 
 of the world." ^ 
 
 Agnes Wade wasyoung. She bajd married the husband of hej 
 affectiojjs ; one to whom her fond vows of constancy had been 
 yielded aljnqst in childhood. His parents had labored har^ to 
 give him an education; and it was during his college years 
 thg,t he saw and loved the d.elicaf e and attractive Agnes. Their 
 hearts, as it were, njelted into one. The opinions and feelings 
 of William^ Wade were refleeted' in the mind and soul of his 
 g^eet betrothed one; an4 when they wedded, it was only to 
 make we^ blending of .interests and emotions more filosely inti- 
 mate. But happiness sp perfect cannot abide long in a world 
 which has been blasted by the frown of its Creator- Dreams 
 tliat are so delightful, must; have) ^ sudden, if, not a fearful, wak- 
 ing. Two years had passe4. since Agneisljad felt all the- deso- 
 lation and all the misery, which, is cojnprised in that^one word — 
 widow. She had known sorrow before in the loss pf her 
 youngest , born ; but/it; was a? the; few drops which preclude the 
 torrent. She committed its body to the dust in the ^e bppg 
 that its spirit was even at that moment mingling in kindred 
 holihess and happiness with the blessed in Heaven; that it was 
 a bright angel aroui^d the throne of Goi^d ; ajid it was a though^ 
 full pf, beauty, and full pf cpnsolation, that she had, been jhe 
 honpred instrmment of adding one to those pure spirits, who 
 dwell in the blissful presence of their Redeemer. But when 
 the grave closed pver. him, who had ^een her guardJMi, her 
 Caunselloir,Jbie)f, support ; who had, shared hey joys, and soothe^ 
 her sorrows ;. wjip had been her companion in health, and pil- 
 lowed hep ,head in siokn,ess'; ^he feJlt as if ^l^it out Jfrom the 
 
THE LOST CBI£D. 1'9 
 
 loveliness of life forevei' : and she would willingly have laid her 
 throbbing temples and despairing heart oh the cold earth b6^ 
 side him/ nev.er more to rise. . i >• vi . > 
 
 Agnes was left without fortune, but she contrived, by ecofid^ 
 my and industry, to keep herself from absblute dependance, 
 and was always abfe to bestow iie vvidbw's mite iti charity. 
 She treated her son as- a^ eompknioh-^— he Was associated in her 
 visits of benevolence — he shared in her labors with all the 
 strength andt ingeiiuit^ his yoiing days could farnish. 
 
 It Was this darlingi son— this fair pledge of her young affec- 
 tions — that was now nowhere to be found. It! was a bright 
 day in Spring, and Agnes had risen with the sun, and gohe 
 several miles to visit a dying friend. On thi& occasion she left 
 her little dear Will -behind, contenting herself with imprintin:^ 
 a mother's kiss upon his glowing- cheek, as he lay wrapped itt 
 slumber. " Is he not the sweetest of all sweet children ?" thoi^ht 
 she, as she- turned to look Once more updn his sleeping lovefr 
 ness. ''Oh, if I were bereft of him too,' I .shouM have nothing 
 left to live for !" 
 
 The hours and the momtents'.sped awaymtil the time arrived 
 when Agnes vyas expectedi Ahl who «han be the first to tell 
 her of these; heavy tidings ? All shrunk from "the task. She 
 came— yes, they could not help her coming ! — and there the^ 
 s^t,.Growded together in a little circle, as children pr^ss to- 
 gether wh^a they are listening to something frightful — all eyes 
 turned upon her with sad and fearful meaning; but.nota word- 
 was uttered. 
 
 "What is^the matter?" she qfli'ckly asked — ''Where is my 
 child ? — Sonjething dreadful has occarred !-^Ohv;teIl me ! wherd 
 is my child ? — Father ! — Mother ! — W^l you ixot speak to riiel 
 I'hen he is dead ! — The judgment is at last administered' — th^ 
 righteous judgment^ which I have been so long anticipating I" 
 She, continued in a; low plaintive moan, as if oomipuning'with 
 her own spirit: "Qh! I have loved him too fondly-^-bette* 
 than I have loved my God-!^— I tried htird not to do it But, 
 oh ! he was so^sweet,, so engaging,, so afiectionate! He was 
 my last, too— the last being left on earth that I could call my 
 
20 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 ova !— the last !— do you hear that, Agues ?— the last !— and 
 thatis taken !. Yes \ I am left alone— alone, and solitary in all 
 this world — it has nothing now for me to love— .-and' I too may- 
 die!" ' 
 
 Exhausted by the strength of her emotions, she sunk into the 
 arms of the sympathizing females who had clustered round 
 her, penetrated to the soul by this, to tlitm, novel exhibition ot 
 maternal grief. There were no tears, no wringing of the 
 hands, no frantic exclamations ; but the low breatHings of ntter 
 desolation-^the solitary joy cut off, in a heart long familiarized 
 to sorrow-r-the one overflowing 4rop added to a cup already 
 full of bitterness. Every tongue was silent, as if spell-bound 
 Either they dared not awaken the least "glimmering of hofnet 
 lest it should be again extinguished in deeper darkness ; or 
 they were afraid. the' suspense excited by their intelligeilee 
 might be worse for her than the most painful certainty. Agnes 
 was conveyed to bed,' and the good women left her to consult 
 together what it was best to do. It was determined that oniJ 
 of them should return to her, and tell the whole truth. 
 ' She found her giving vent to her heart in the most pathetic 
 eacclamatibns. " My sweet; sweet Will ! I had hoped that we 
 should enter Heaven together ! that together we should join 
 the dear ones who have gone before us !' But now, there is no 
 more hope for me on earth ! Oh! what do I say? Father! 
 save me from sin! save me from murmuring at thy righteous 
 ehastenings ! Teaoh me to trust in thee, although thou slay 
 me!" 
 
 ' " Yes ; that is right, child ! put your trust in Heaven ! -the 
 Lord is good, and He is kind, atid He Will comfort you; so 
 don't take on so," said the warm-hearted old lady, addressing 
 Agnesi . '• ^ ■ 
 
 The voice of affection brought tears to the dry eyes of Agnes. 
 But they were not the refreshing tears that moisten^ and cool 
 the withering spirit j they came not gently and sweetly, like 
 the dews of heatven. The short, convulsive heavings bf an 
 almost bursting heart, were mingled with violent and painful 
 weepihg. This soon spent itself, and was succeeded bv suffbi 
 
THE fcOST CHH-D. 21 
 
 eating sobs ; like the swelling of ocean whfen- the storm is gone. 
 The aflFectionate yoman leaned over her persuasively. 
 
 " Nay ! now dearie, you do'wrong to- grieve so ; you must 
 submit to the will of God !" 
 
 " Oh !" interrupted Agnds, " I Iwrould that I cotild, resign my- 
 self entirely to his justice ! but my soul is full of darkness ! I 
 can only remember that my child is dead." This one thought 
 had occupied her mind : but now, as if a new light had broken 
 in upon her, she suddenly raised herself from the pillow- — ^"Dead? 
 who, says that he is dead ? Where, how, when, did he die ?" 
 
 'f He is not dead ! dearie, not dead !" 
 
 '^ Not dead ?" cried Agnes, starting up, •for the love of Hea- 
 ven, tell me AVhat you mean ! oh, speak ! where i^ he ?" 
 
 Both hands were upon her bosom, as if to hold in her throb- 
 bing heart ; and the wildness.of her looks madfe the old woman 
 tremble. 
 
 " Be quiet, my child ! only be quiet, and I will tell you: all 
 about it ! , The dear little boy was playing at the door, and 
 picking daisies to slick in your hair. He was so much diverted 
 by it, that his grandmother let him play on, only telling him 
 not to go away from the door. She was busied about the dairy, 
 and when she come to look, after him he was gone. She gave 
 the alarm right away, and all the men in the settlement turned 
 ovit to hunt him up. But you know the woods is a bad place 
 to find a body !"• — - , ■ ' 
 
 Agne,s , stopped npt to hear the conclusion of the sentence 
 She was at the door in an instant. 
 
 The old woman pulled -her forcibly back— "Are you cr9.zy?" 
 said she ; " Do you want to get lost too t If man can find him, 
 h© will be brought in before sUiidown !" 
 
 While she- was yet speaking, several men who had been out 
 in q,uest of the little wanderer, returned, despairing of success. 
 f ;"Let pone but mothers search !" cried Agnes, and darted 
 from the house. They called to her in vain. One of the party 
 who had just arrived, followed ; hallooing, as he went, to his 
 comrades, to light a fire for a beacon, if they returned not 
 before night. 
 
22 THE XOST ciiir.»« 
 
 Agnes fled on with incredible rapidity. Affection lent her 
 wings, and strength and courage ; or rather, she Xvas supported 
 i^ Him who with such sweet. arid powerful emphasis, declares 
 himself "the God of the widow, ai\d the Father of the father- 
 less." With the lightness and speed of the antelope, she pass- 
 ed over the brush and bnderwood that sometinfles lay scattered 
 in her pathway. Difficulties seemed to vanish as she approach- 
 ed them; and she explored every little hiding-place that Rii^t 
 conceal her darling, with an ingenuity.and industry, resulting 
 from the mighty workings of a modier's love, that amounted 
 almost to intuition. Her companion looked on with wondier at 
 her performances ; fo see a creature so delicate, do that which 
 appeared to require the strength and judgment of a man. He 
 pretended: not. to cope with her in the search'she was accom- 
 phshing. . He seemed but the passive instrument of her plea- 
 sure ; but the humble satellite, attendant upon the evolutions of 
 iis mighty planet. 
 
 •*'I must find myiboy!" she exclaimed, "or the forest will re- 
 ceive us both, into the same grave ! But I shall find him I He 
 who has ever beten my gpidp in difficulties, my defence in teII^^ 
 tatbn, my strength in weakness, and my consolation in sorrotv, 
 will give him b^ck to me ! My trust is in the Lord 1" 
 
 Agnes went on aBd on. She knew not how far she had 
 traversed the forest, for there< are no way-marks to ascertain 
 the distance or direction ; and one may wander on for hours 
 and days, and terminate their joumey near the vety pliice 
 where they commenced it. She soon came to a spot more 
 open than she had hitherto passed; where the wild floWer and 
 the winter-green grew in such abundance as almost to cover 
 the earth with- a rich carpet of scarlet, and green, and purple. 
 Agnes' heart beat quidker as she thought — "Ah ! this is a pJace 
 whitsh would attract my darling 1" She almost expected to. see 
 him sleeping on the bed of flowers before her. She cast a 
 japid glance around-— 
 
 ?' William?" ^ . 
 
 'iShe paused, expecting a reply-w 
 "My darling Will?" 
 
TUB (LOST GBILS. •23 
 
 There was a. slight EMstUng>in thetbushes near her. -She flew 
 with outstretched arms to clasp her son— but it was only the 
 yoimg ^wn who ihad been startledfrom his slumbers. Agntes' 
 heart died withiri her. She felt the sickness of "hope deferred." 
 511?e, transition from expectation, from, almost certainty, to dis- 
 appointi^ent, had been ,so abrupt andi so decisive, that she seated 
 hfiit!Sfilf on theicold grass, and wept in uncontrolled emotion. 
 
 " Cheer up, lady !" said her companion ; " don't be down- 
 ^jifTted: I The boy will lyet he found, if human nature can ac- 
 pprnplish it,7fQr I nevef saw^anyBody so 'cute in the woods as 
 you be» An4 besides; all that^ you trust in the Lord," and the 
 gQ<?4ihock,says,that 'He hath said, I will never leave tliee, nor 
 forsake thee.'" 
 
 "^tisi true:!" replied Agnes, and, it is thankless higratitude in. 
 me to be so unmindful of :His precious promises, and so dis- 
 tri^fttful.of His goodness; but my heart hovers over my remain 
 ijftg, treasure, as the bird flutters around the only nursling that 
 i^ ,Jpft, in her rjflied, nest. Come, let us on ! the sun will soon be 
 setting, and alas ! for my little one, if he should have to spend 
 tlj,e ijight in the lone desert !" 
 
 ,, They pursued their search — but Agnes with less buoyafit 
 fa©pe§ than before. As hers faded, the faint expectations of 
 lUf^ conjpanion vanished utterly; and he gently hinted that she 
 had better consult her own iSafety, and return. 
 
 "I/vyill i)iE here,": she replied, " rather than desert my pre- 
 cious boy ! Do you g,o home, and leave me ! the God of the 
 wijdpw vvijl be my safeguard !" 
 , ^'Nq, no, lady! no, no! I didn't speak on my own account! 
 I^ws me!, I don't value it at all; many's the night I've laiii in 
 the ,woo4?,' with no cover but the blessed heavens." 
 
 The shadows of pvening gathered slowly round them; and 
 tlje.ftges, qfjtheJQr«st. began to assume in the twilight those 
 f^^f^&Jlf ^Pdj unearthly forms Avijich exicite startling fancies even 
 i^j|he S|li(?ut-_hearted. .Agnes thought pf the helplessness and 
 ig|lpr^ce^,Qfitjiii!.iattixli|dity and cowardice of children, and the 
 situation of her desolate little* one came over her, clad in ten- 
 fold horrors. In the anguish of her soul she supplicated. 
 
24 THE LOST CHILD. 
 
 "Oh God ! thou hearer of prayer — thou Father of the father- 
 less ! in mercy lead a mother to her child ! For his sake who 
 while on earth never turned a beggar from his feet, oh, listen, 
 listen to my cry !" — 
 
 « Hark ! do you not hear something ?" she said qjiickly,' turn- 
 ing to her companion. They stood still.—" There it is again !— 
 oh, hearken !" — Every faculty was now strained to its utmost 
 point to ascertain the nature of the sound. 
 
 " It is !— -it is ! — Oh God I thou hast heard my prayer ! it is 
 his angel voice ! — Be still, niy soul !-^oh, which way does it 
 come ? my heart beats so violently I cannot listen !" 
 
 « Quiet yourself, lady !" said the man who now distinctly 
 heard the soft, sweet accents of a child. 
 
 " Oh, look ! l(?ok i" said Agnes, whose eyes seemed as if they 
 would penetrate the thickening darkness of the forest in tlveit 
 intensity. "There he is! kneeling oq that rock ; that hard 
 bare rock. My child ! my precious boy! Oh God, I thank 
 
 thee !" She sunk upon her knees but a few paces from hef 
 
 prostrate child. 
 
 The little William was soon locked fast in the arms of his 
 doating, and now happy mother ; and was delating to her the 
 simple story of his wanderings ;' his alarm ; his trust in God ; 
 his ascent Uipon the rock, to see if he could discover any signs 
 of habitation ; his consequent disappointment ; and the feelings 
 with which. he was submitting to his lot; — ^wbile his sympa- 
 thizing protector shed tears of pleasure and admiration. ' 
 
 The happy party were soon seated, but they were not long 
 obliged to wait. The beacon which they had kindled stream- 
 ed upward to the heavens ; and showed them, to their aston- 
 ishment, that they were not very, far from their own dwelhngs. 
 The light of a brilliant moon shone upon their footsteps ; and 
 Agnes and the kind-hearted associate of her search, returned 
 laden with the treasure they had so effectually sought ; they 
 neturned, to awaken happiness in the hearts which they had 
 left sorrowing, and to render devout ' thanksgivings to the 
 widow's God and orphan's Father. 
 
, .CHRIST fi^lSlHj^.^ ,T^ PfiA^. ^ 
 
 f 
 
 CHRIST RAISING. THE DEAD. 
 
 ,BX HOBACB DRJESSEE, ESft. 
 
 ' The primaeval Curse of 1(he Almighty, Dupt fhou art, and unto. 
 Hust shalt thpu rfetiirri, hath found universaj lodgment in the off- 
 spring of thef ^eat progenitor. Sis disobedience to the mandatp 
 of the Creator, whye dweller and denizen of Eden, loS't tp hiftde- 
 soerid'ants its hallowed beatitudes ^and the high pleasures of itS' 
 paradise, Its fearful .^ind 'appalling execution on the race hath 
 made earth groan; and mortals, gasping for 'continuance, of life,, 
 and stretching tbeir dim ,gaze on blank vacuity, have gone,, 
 generation after generation, down tq, tie dj^ykness jof the, gravp. 
 ■Q^d' chronicles of ^^ys' beyond the. flood, and genealogies of an- 
 cestry reaching thrpi^h the Jinjje^ age^ of tjie world's b^ing, ?ill< 
 teach the mournfjil Ii^sson of n^an'^, decay .^^pd , final #parture. 
 The hoary and century-laden, Methuselah, . wbpse. vista of y^ars 
 Was bounded by the l^rttest stretch of ^tinie ever yet m^teji out, 
 tb'p,ny of the earth-bornj, at length .c^nie to die — and all his time-, 
 worn ancesti^rs; numbering bfiek tp^ tie fii;st of his kind, yielded 
 up the ghost and jyere , npt upon .^Ijie eartb,|,Bnoc,h his sire ,ex- 
 cejpted. Ob, jie dark ■vfing^.p^ Jih^ Destroying Angel hjath- ever 
 hovered dyer a,nd' btppded upon, tbe race — rand his. victims ©ty)sen 
 frdm all. climes and rS^Jl fCl^ss'e^ ,apd ,{^11 ages, .are .every day, and 
 hour, and moment going .hienoe ^n.d, passing away! Beauty, and 
 ran!^', and we^-Hh — innjj^enqe ,^^ guilt — the just ajid the nn-; 
 just — -all, all ,ijn4e^d, qannot .gtay ,^jni in fhis ^gbt among thg. 
 doomed, inhabi|;ants o,f ^^r,th. . How wj;|1. his mercile^p . mission 
 hath "been fulfilled, let the co.nntlegsi.^heses^tpmbsrof tbe 'fallien sbJ^i 
 ferers of Ijiis rage i^jjd violence, t^EOugh ^^f.tfae piled-up ages pf 
 his unchecked Sway, ^^ ^x^-\,&^^ tjie sons ,jof men. ,!The .li|e><. 
 ratufi of all the tribes, and tongues, and kindreds of men on 
 the wide surface of the grea-t *|^tjbe, is 'pregnant 'with sadest 
 tales and sorrowful ^histories j^ ^.^ dre3,dfnl doings. < Th6 great 
 sea itself hath' had regisitered.nnp/Oin /its' ba/trier bowddaries how 
 ruthless have been its ravages;, and upon the bed Of ^its nether- 
 most abyss have been'defp6s|led'tlie ,nuEtt!^erJ.?as itr^fhies of his 
 
26 CHKIST RAISING THE DEAD. 
 
 victories over the human race. Your fathers, where are th&y t 
 and the prophets, do they live forever 1 ' ' 
 
 Long ages in the world's history pass away, and the predic- 
 tions unheeded of prophets and sacred seal's, come to be fulfilled. 
 In thy territories, P.alestina, shall now be settled the great 
 question propounded by the old man of, Oriental Uz, the greatest 
 of all the men of the East,, perfect and upright. God-fearing and 
 evil-eschewing in all bis ways, once owner of oxen, apd asses, and 
 camels, and flocks of sheep in myriad numbers, and head of 
 household great and happy, but stripped, at length, of all his 
 substance by Sabean swords and baildits from the Chaldee hills, 
 suffering atid Satan-stricl^en : — If a man die, shall he live 
 AGAIN 1 In beautiful Glililee — in the ancient and patriarchal 
 allotmfent of Issacher — in the neighborhood of Endor, fearful 
 dwelling-pkce, in time of Saul, of seCress and sorceress — in the 
 city of Nain — in view of Mount Tabor and beneath the shadow 
 of dewy Hermon — in her home made desolate by the Destroyer, 
 sitteth solitary and sad, the mother of an only son lifeless apd 
 ■^shrouded for the sepulcher, and she a widow. The, weeds of 
 widowhood "have ever told how deep her love for him whose im- 
 age sat upon the face and fotm of the fair but now fallen chili. 
 Memory thickly teems with the visions of other days when the 
 husband lived and loved, and the boy now departed, climbed the 
 father's knee and kissed him into joydusness. The birds sing 
 happy carols in the tree-tops, but she heedeth not their music. 
 The mountain air breathes among the leafy branches of the oliva 
 and the palm, and awakes ten thouselnd harps-eolian to softest 
 eadest strainsj that but too well chiine in with the current of 
 Borrow which now s\?eeps the heart-strings breaking in her bo- 
 som. In her sorrow hath she deeply pondered upon the pages 
 of the Uzite philosophy of man's mortality and destruction of the 
 body, and will not be comforted by its profoundest teachings :' 
 
 Man, th^ offspring of woman, 
 
 Is of few days, and is full o^ trouble 
 
 He ootneth forth like a flower, and is cut down , 
 
 And he fieeth as a shadow, and doth not stay. 
 
 Foe there is I)ope of a tree. 
 
 If it be cut down that it will flourish again. 
 
 And that its tender branch will not fail. 
 
 Though its root grow old in the earth, 
 
CHRIST KAISING THE DEAD. 27 
 
 . And its tr^nk dieon the groiin,d. 
 From the vapor of trater it will Bpring up agalr, 
 And put forth boughs as a young plant. < 
 But man dietb, and he is gone — 
 Ypa, man' expires — and where is he ? 
 , The waters from the lake fail, 
 
 And the river is exhausted and dried up, 
 
 go man lieth down, and riseth not ; 
 
 Till the heavens be no more th^y shall not be aroused, 
 
 Ai^d they shall not be awaked out of their sleep. 
 
 If a Aa.£ die, shall he live again ? 
 
 Th^ baptizer in Jordan, the holy harbinger of a new era 
 among the children of meri, and forerunner of Him who shall 
 raise to life the sleeping dead, hath proclaimed to the gathered 
 multitudes in the desert wilderness and in the wild fastnesses of 
 the mountains, His advent, and that the kingdom of Heaven is 
 tit hand, , A homeless wanderer goeth about, mingling with the 
 crowds by the way side and entering the circles, of the sorrow- 
 ful around the hearths of the Holy Land. That wandering one 
 cometh to the city of the sorrowing mother — that childless and 
 htisbandlfss woman, with train of humble followers, and people 
 struck with wonder at His words. He neareth its gateway-en- 
 tirance, and there meets the funeral train of the widow's son', 
 whose body is on its way to burial. Obsequies how ^ad ! — ^wjio 
 shall comfort and console the childless one in her loneliness? 
 The people of the city come forth in thronging multitudes, sym- 
 pathizing and sbrrowful, to accompany her in the mournful rites 
 of sepulture. Who among that throng can measure the length 
 and the breadth and the depth of her affliction 1 But there is 
 one in their midst who bringeth coinfort and consolation, and 
 hath power to turn ber grief into fullness of joy. The long 
 looked-for visitant, Messiahs, Israel's Grfeat IJeliverer, hath made 
 his advent. God hath, indeed. His people visited, and a great 
 prophet is risen up among them — such prophet is that homelegs 
 wanderer ! He hath compassion on the tearful and grief-smitr 
 ten mother, and in accents soft, He saith unto, her. Weep not, 
 woman ! Tiey that bear the body withhold their footsteps, 
 and He approacheth unto the bier of the dead. A voice, oracu- 
 lar and emphatic, is heard, saying in the dull ear of death, 
 Young man, I say unto thee, arise. They are nd idle words, 
 trifling with maternal hopes and fears; or po^esrless pretense 
 
^ dfiilST llAlSilfG THE 6EA't».' 
 
 practiced on cy^ulous minds, .^elidld,^ te fli^t was ,dead heard 
 that' voice; and,' obedient ^o. tha high and mighty bekest, he sit- 
 teth upright and is alive again ! 
 
 Again is heard that voice withotit the walled city of David, 
 sacred te the' Jew aii4 pluitering with memories of the renowned 
 ones whose names have been chrcaiicled in its hallowed history, 
 saying, I AM the resurrection and the litFE. The be- 
 reaved and sorrowing sisters of Bethany — birth and li)urial-place 
 of Lazarus their brother — •)ieard. it and were glad. The dpad 
 i&;n likewise ^eatd it, with the summons, conje forth; and. 
 {iWak^iigfrota the slumibferS of tlie grave, his muffled and bandaged 
 body, yielding ^o the call, rose from its resting-place, reanimale 
 and instinct withv vitality. The cerements of the sepiilcher arej 
 (i^t away ; ^iid, again invested with'the'habiliniehts of the living^ 
 the loved of the tdrd "gbeth forth To live again ! Albeit the 
 great prophet hath departed from the grave of liazarus. 1^ 
 Cbiiieth to the ears' ofthdse near by and afar off, that a man 
 who tras dead is alive again ! The rumor reaches' those high 
 in plstce aSttd power; chief priest and, Pharisee stan4 ^^gtast,; 
 and \he old Sadduoee surrenders iis disbelief in a resurrection 
 fripm the dead. It hath also come to tlie hearing of the Baptist], 
 w|iile exercising the rites of his high commission, in the waters 
 of '^iion, near to Salim. He seeketh to learn wheftier the wonJ. 
 der'-wprker is He that should come. His messengers witness His 
 wprks and return to tell tim, that the blind see — the lame waffi 
 -^the lepers are cleansed^he deaf ha,r— the dead are raised 
 — and to the poor the gospel is prejiched ! 
 
 ' t'he Hebrew seer, from first, prophesied and sun^ of Sheol ; ancl 
 iihough'his strains were sometimes sad and sorrowful, his reye-j 
 lalions were a lamp to dispel, the darkness of the grave, ancl a 
 light to illumihate the valley of the shadow of death. The min- 
 strelsy of the bards of 'Zion, in tent or temple, hath ever told 
 t^at'he should live again,' whpse body borne to Hinnom's Vale, 
 beca,me the food of worms, or consumed away by firps unquenchail 
 by night or isff. 
 
 ' IviUransomthfimfrom the power of the grare; '' 
 
 I,wiU,Tf<leein1A>eiii frojEji death. 
 Ode^th!twUll^tfer|pj^^^^^ , 
 
 u grave! I will be thy de8truetilD&! 
 
WINTER SKETCH. ' !29 
 
 WpTTEB SKETCH. 
 
 BY HPRACE.HRESSEK, ESdi. 
 
 It is a'chilly day ; tbe, bud has hid! 
 Himself befiind the clouds tliat, vail ttie sl<y; , ^ 
 
 There is no lieam that warms the frigid fields ; 
 All that which once my gazing eye well pleased, 
 Looks drear; and every stream that murmured on 
 Through meadows decked witli flowers, and rattled o'er 
 Its pebbled bed, congeals and turns to ice. 
 Bat just above my dwelling climbs the smoke. 
 And forms a Noiid^hat Hangs j^ortdndKng storms. 
 The glowing fire that heats the fireside hot. 
 Scarce warms me. All is chill, and whistliag winds 
 Forewarii that soon a storm will fill the air, ' 
 And wliiteEl all the ti^aok that 'stretches wide. 
 The fiirest groans and utters 'forth those sounds 
 , 'Tl^at, Jiell .that Wintej; wdelds Jljs tyrant ijqd, , ^ 
 ]^et^iQ;ks he, now shows^fprth his hoai;y head;, 
 Fmr 'mong the trees, ^iieei thick falling r6und, 
 Like leaves in Autumn shaken by the vTindi 
 The:flakes of snow that dress in white the ground. 
 
 chiljing Potentafp ! thy coming st^y ; 
 Dohpar my prayer: no more my limf)3 l^numli. 
 An me ! how ruthless — sure 'tis that with all 
 "iih blustei'ing arid sleet he heSirs me not. 
 
 See herb'— (be- brAati-'hdrizon that just now 
 
 Appeared to reach as far as eye could ken. 
 
 Becomes confined to bounds that reach not far. 
 
 The reverend elm that high o'ertops my cot, 
 
 Around whose, tra^ ai^4 liipbs.fhp, ^pows in years 
 
 Gone by, hefe flung a garb quite colorless. 
 
 Bows downlvs krftytop and. seems to shake . .: - 
 
 Ti'ie, snow ffom off. Jiis leaflets pendent boughf. ;; ' -,, i, 
 
 1 heap a sound as if, the. stb^rm's more .fierce — , ■ . 
 'Tis sp ; it comes Euiji buries deep in drifts 
 
 The walls and fence thaflfne the highway side, , 
 And herds and' flocks if chance they be unstalled. 
 See where the,-.sl^etiblows on from drift to drift— 
 And roifl^ what ?f range, pffept theptprm'has-had-— 
 And how the hills appear deep-clad in snow. 
 The wind not yet gone down sweeps t4irough tile woodt 
 
^ TROE BEAUTTi 
 
 And brings a dismal harsh uncheerful sound 
 Of creaking branches writhed and tossed about; 
 ' While round my window lyhirl the yellow leaves 
 That grew on some tall tree now bending low. 
 'Tis witater ! lo, all nature Wears a look 
 That saddens and an aspect void of cheer. 
 But why complain I thus at Winter's looks I 
 The jingling bells will soon dispel its gloom, 
 And all the town will be a gladsome scene. 
 
 TRUE BEAUTY. 
 
 Let me see a female possessing the beauty of a meek and 
 modest deportment — of an, eye that bes,p6aks intelligence and 
 purity within— o-f the lips that speak no guile : — ^let me see 
 in her a kind and' benevolent disposition— a heart that can 
 sympathise with distress— and I will never ask for the beau- 
 ty that dwells in " ruby lips," or " flowing tresges," or ' snowy 
 hands,' or the forty other et ceteras upon which our poets 
 have harped for so many ages. These fade, when touched 
 by the hand of Time, but those ever enduring qualities of 
 the heart shall outlive the reign of time, and grow brighteh 
 and FBESHEK, as the ages of eternity roll away. 
 
 LET US LOVE MORE. 
 
 • How little do we appreciate a mother's tenderness while 
 living ! How heedless are we, in childhood, of all her anxie- 
 ties and kindness ! But when she is dead and gone, when 
 the cares and upldness of the world come witliering to oui 
 hearts, when we learn how hard it is to find true sympathy 
 aow few love us for ourselves, how few will befriend us in 
 •ur misfortunes ; then it is we think of the mother we have 
 «st 
 
LONDON^WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 BY THE EDITOR. 
 
 It has been said of the pious and venerable Jay of Lon- 
 don,- that he failed, not every Lord's day to offer up the 
 petition, " Loyd ! Bless This great City ! " Ministering 
 in this vast metropolis, containing a population of more than 
 Two • Millions and a half, what wonder that the pious heart 
 is filled with emotions of indescribable solicitude ; and often 
 has it occured to us, when listening to the deafening roar 
 ,of its busy population, or when all was lulled to repose, 
 what a fearful weight of responsibility restis upon London 
 Pastors. 
 
 The more we saw of London, the more were we amazed 
 and our amazement deepened into solemnity and interest in 
 Its welfare. London, city of the mighty dead,- depository 
 of the wealth of Empire, whose population is constantly 
 overflowing its widely extended borders, what a history is- 
 thine, in which light has for ages struggled with darkness, 
 and the paralyzing influence of degeneracy has grappled 
 with the might of progress and the march of improvement 
 What changes thou hast witnessed in the lapse of 2000 
 years! What adversities thou hast seen by fire and by 
 pestilence! What prosperity thou hast experienced in the 
 pursuit of wealth. and fame! What nation has not felt the 
 might of thy power! How hast thou been exalted, and 
 humbled;! 
 
 It is a current opinion among Americans, that the growth 
 of our towns and cities surpasses in rapidity and extent those 
 of any other part of the world. . To this remark, however, 
 London is an exception. In a report tov Parliament, it is 
 stated tliat in less than twelve years, twelve hundred new 
 
32 LONDON WESTMINSTER ABBET. 
 
 streets have been added to London, which is at the rate of 
 a hundred new streets a year. These streets contain forty 
 eight thousand inhabitants, and houses built on a large and 
 commodious soa4e,jandin a f^^of' supe/JQr cojn,f)rt. The 
 traveller who visited the metropolis ten years ago is 
 astonished to find the vast improvements made in this short 
 period. 
 
 The revenue of the London Post Office is $30,000 a 
 AVeik! atid' above #1,500,000 a year. > There' are 2b00 
 mbrchants and btokers Vi^ithin half a mile of the Exchange. 
 The business of the London bankers alorte avtera^* 
 $3S3,000»000 a 'month. The Bank of England is said to 
 have eighty one millions' of dollars in its vaults, and -& 
 sound paper circulation of 200,000,000 of dollars. These 
 statistics give some idea of the business and wealth of Lon- 
 don, But one inuSt vi^it this great metropolis, and see with 
 his o^Vn eyes the -i^ast scale on v^Hich its affairs are conduc- 
 ted, to realise fully what London is, and what it is destined 
 to he, should nothing occur to impede its growth or mat its 
 ! prosperity. 
 
 The lovers of riiral pleasure find every thing to gratify 
 their taste and their love of nature in the magnificent Parks 
 of London. In Hyde Park, as well as in others, the visitor 
 is pfesented, on an afternoon, with a stirring display of the 
 aristocracy. About 4 o'clock the carriages of the nobility 
 aild gentry may be seen iMovifig in jill directions, Etnd ladies 
 displaying their skill with the whip, and driving their hign 
 spirited horseS with a rapidity and safety truly astonishing. 
 
 Ill our various perambulations. We were struck with the 
 order aii^<}uiet of London. During our stay, we heard no 
 ^ alarm of fire, and saw no disturbances in the streets. Burg- 
 laries and, outbreaks, are more frequently noticeii' in Ne'^ 
 York than in this metropolis. One reason assigned for this 
 is, that the convicts are transported and not permitted to 
 return and re-enact their villahies ; many* of the disorderly 
 are shipped to America. Birt, more than all, London is 
 indebted for the order and peace which prevails throughout 
 
its whole exigent,' to the perfeclibn and efBciency of "ts 
 Police. M organizafioti is most perfect. Men are n^t 
 armed with bl'ddgefens t6 quell disorder, but uniformly appear 
 in the conciliatory charalcter of peace makers. They 
 are neter known tb' drag people indiscriihJriately t6 fhe 
 tvatch-hotise;; and it is sfeldonl that their judicious and* kind 
 tj^featmdnt fail's of restoring order. London Policemen Ave 
 not taken frofn th'e low and ignorant 'class which infest 
 large cities, and tvho know' ho other argument than brute 
 force, but they are selected with a ptoftef regard to their 
 intellectual and moral 'qiiahfications. iTiis accounts -for 
 their gentlemanly Conduct, and the readiness with which they 
 "Su|)p^ strangers with nseful information. The time, we 
 trtist, is not far' disfailt, when this department of our city 
 governments, so essential to the preservation of order and 
 even life, shall no" lotaget be subject to the control of party 
 'itifluerieies, but when, by common consent, men of known 
 intelligence, sterling integrity and sound discretion shall be 
 appoiiited to so responsible an office. We want men whose 
 sfcll is Hot priricipally Confined to ihe use of the shillelaJi, 
 iii thumping the pavemtent, or thumping the Bodies of luck- 
 less wights or thoughtless inebriates': in a word, we ■v^sEk. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 ,^mpng the number of public buildings which we visitod 
 .'^hiie' in London, Westminster Abbey awakened thfe liveliest 
 inte^est^ and made tfie most enduring impressioto; It is im- 
 possible to givfe the; reader a jUst idea of the emotioifi 
 awakened while Viewing this noble edifice. Sebert, king of 
 the East, Angles, Who flourished in the 6tli century, is tti- 
 garded as the original founder of' the Ahbey. It wa!s 
 restored by Edgar in 969-, and re-erected entirely by Edward 
 the pOnfessor in 1065. Edward spared no cost to make the 
 structure the most mkgnificerit that had ever been erected 
 iii, his dominions. He devoted to the work a tenth part of 
 his entire ^ubstalice;. as well in gold, silver and cattle and 'all 
 his other possessions., Henfy the IH enlarged the plan -of 
 the ancient Abtey, and begaU to rebuild it in a style of fer 
 
34 LONDON WESTMINSTER ABBEV. 
 
 greater magnificence than before- ^ Edward I, and succeed- 
 ing monarchs, continued the work, but it proceeded so slowly 
 that it was still incomplete when Henry VII came to the 
 {throne. Henry added the Chapel which is commonly 
 known by his name, and which may challenge competition, 
 not certainly in magnitude and grandeur, but in elegance 
 and richness of ornament, with any specimen of architecture 
 n the world. The principal repairs or alterations madp 
 since the time of Henry VII, were those under the direction 
 of Sir Christopher Wren. 
 
 It is impossible for us, in this brief survey, to attempt any 
 description of the form and architectural character of this 
 famous Abbey, or anything like an enumeration of the vari- 
 ous curiosities and objects of interest which it contains. 
 Westminster Abbey, is executed in the ancient Gothic style ; 
 it stands directly opposite the Houses of Parliament. Its 
 length from east to west is 416 feet — length of the transept 
 203— length of the nave 166— height 102— length of the 
 choir 156, breadth 28. What is properly the church, is in 
 the form of a cross. The, northern transept presents an ex- 
 ample of that diversified richness and elegant display which 
 belongs to the pointed style of architecture. It derives its 
 imposing effect from its immense buttresses, its elevated pin- 
 nacles, and its admirable Rose or St. Catherine wheel win- 
 dow, Thei eastern end of the Abbey is sorrounded by 
 chapels, varying both in their shape and dimensions. Of 
 these there were fornjerly fourteen — there are still twelve. 
 
 It is from the west entrance that the most striking and 
 effective view of the interior is, obtained. Entering the 
 west door between the >towers, the whole body of the church 
 opens itself to the eye. The happy disposition of the lights, 
 the noble raage of pillars, by which the whole buildii;ig is 
 supported, so nicely adjusted to the forms and magnitude of 
 the arches and to the aerial loftiness of the vaulting, can 
 not fail to strike the beholder with sentiments of awe border 
 ing on adoration. We stood wrapped in amazement at bo 
 holding this scene of unrivalled splendor and besiuty. 
 
LONDON WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 35 
 
 But the principal attraction of Westminster Abbey arise* 
 from the numerous tombs which it contains, some of which 
 are monumental erections of great splendor. Visitors are 
 admitted into the interior of the Abbey by an entrance from 
 the south-east, near which is "the Poet's Corner," named 
 from the number of monuments erected to the memory of 
 celeibrated English Poets. Here we stood at the shrine of 
 genius, while, with mingled emotions of awe and veneration, 
 we read the names of Shakespeare, Ben Johnson, Spencer, 
 Chaucer, Butler, Milton, Cowper, Gray, Prior, Granville, 
 Sharpe, Thompson, Rowe, G4y, Goldsmith, Handel, Addison, 
 Garrick, Dryden, Cowley, and a hundred others. Here, all 
 around us and under our feet, are the remains of those whose 
 names have adorned the brightest pages of English history, 
 illustrious for rank, power, beauty or genius. Here the 
 voice of history speaks amid the silence and gloom of 
 "Death's Doings," — facts are recorded in stone, and the 
 startling curiosities of antiquity, awe and solemnise the mind. 
 Here is the famous stone which was brought from Scone in 
 Scotland, by Edward I, in 1296, upon which the English 
 monai;chs have since been crowned. 
 
 In. the language of Addison, suggested by the contempla- 
 tion of this immpressive scene, as presenting somewhat a 
 picture of my own thoughts on this occasion, " When I look 
 upon the tombs of the great, every emotion of envy dies 
 within me ; when I read the epitaphs of the beautiful, every 
 inordinate desire goes out ; when I see kings lying by those 
 who deposed them, when I consider rival wits placed side by 
 side, or the holy men that divided the world with their con- 
 tests and disputes, I reflect with sorrow and astonishment 
 on the bitter competitions, factions and debates of mankind. 
 When I read the several dates of the tombs, of some that 
 died yesterday and some six hundred years ago, I coiisider 
 that great day when we shall all be cotemporaries and make 
 our appearance together." 
 
 Reader, wouldst thou feel thy lofty aspirings give way — 
 thine inordinate thirst for any thing save the riches, honors 
 
36 LONDON' — WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 and glories of Heaven ? Go — stand, but one half hour, in the 
 midst of that great congregation of the illustrious dead, in 
 Westminster Abbey— where kings and nobles, conquerors 
 and prelates, historians and scholars, poets and philosophers 
 'have laid their glory ;by.' Select as your post of observa- 
 tion the upper shrin:b ; cast your eye down upon this mighty 
 panorama of deaths — this wilderness of tombs ! ' Behold the 
 chambers and pillars and funeral trophies' of the immortaJ 
 dead ; and you may feel the crimson current of life chill 
 around the heart a^d r«n cold through all its channels, while 
 you reflect on the end of man ! 
 
 How full of silence add gloom — of shadows and fallen 
 ^ory is this place — and yet amidst the touching stillness 
 that reigns around the dead, the lightest footrfall and whis- 
 per, reverberates through all these spacious vaults and 
 Xihambers of the tomb 1 Here you see names that once 
 were the glory and admiration, or the terror and scourge of 
 Europe., Here are iqncofiined the blade and battle-axe of 
 ■ feudal times. The spear and sceptre that once causied the 
 civilised world to grow pale ; and which made whole realnas 
 a field of slaughter. Go down 1^ the tombs of kings and 
 conquerors, and in spite of a vigilance that never sleeps and 
 lamps that never go out, you will see how dishonored is the 
 memory of the dead! 'The coffin of Edward the Confessw 
 has been broken open, and his remains despoiled of their 
 ^neral ornaments; the sceptre has been stolen from the 
 hand of the imperial Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the 
 Fifth ii0s heaidless. Not a roy^l monument but bears some 
 proof how fals^ and fugitive is the homage of mankind ) 
 Some are plundered ;. some mutilated ; some covered with 
 jfibaldry and insult,' And, -in spit? of lasting marble, guards 
 of brass and. b3.rs of gold and all that human skill can devise 
 to deck the tomb and shield it from the wastes of time, you 
 see every thing heire crumbling to ashes ; yes, and the Abbay 
 itself, this great Mausoleum of the immortal dead, without 
 renewed skill and constant efforts, will soon become one 
 najghty pile of ruin? i , 
 
THE LIFE OF TREES, 
 
 B $■ Mies B. CHICKERING. 
 
 It was an A-utumn day. The touoh>of decay and cha^gq 
 was on, the Ufe and beauty of the Sumtper, while few of the 
 richly colored .leaves had yet fallen, and .the withering .flow- 
 er stalks still cherished their faded d;ependants. The wind 
 rushed ruthlessly along, ,as .if it wquld; icpntemn and annoy 
 the altered state of itbie? decaying. ^ sober Sun was Riifcii 
 of the day hidden by sailing clouds, while a clear atmosphere 
 reKeal^d every phase of natqre. My spirit wa^ in bondage 
 ajid.h,eavines& Days qf, the past were presei^it -wfit^i me, sea 
 sons. of spring-timei ,wberi,the World and iuamani life seempd^ 
 fi^U of hope 'and gladness, ere .disease, with bis heavy forn), 
 and dark visage, had' made oth&r than transient visits 'mid 
 oi|r household band, , ere death ^ had fcut. down, or changes 
 more painfid than the gheisti^n's death had blighted, cher-: 
 ished objects of aflFection. The trees of ithe fo;;egt ^^nd field 
 were before me as their fruit And th,eir verdure had left th^ni|.; 
 As J looked on them, an^ remembered all their state sincje,ja 
 f^w months before,; I saw them budding, in hppe and rich in 
 promise, my heart went out [to them as fellow-sharers , in a 
 Iptipf ; ^oss and change. I questioned .them of their jpysjajryd, 
 their sadness-i-?£^d thus was [answer made to me.' *' We re- 
 pp^dber with you when we bur^t .the ]3(}nds of Winter» an4 
 ^r^iqed.jii vthp ire^nming . Sajii, and, soft ;|jrs of the Spripg. 
 We remember whea v^e w.^pe cjlqjthed.in .fulpe§s,aij(| .decfed 
 in bloom. Our breath was fragrance, and in conscious joy 
 
33 {THE LIFE OF TBEES. 
 
 we spread our arms to shelter, and waved our brauches to 
 refresh. All who saw us delighted in us, and rejoiced in 
 what we further promised. Our fruits were gathered with 
 gladness, and still did the eye and heart of man bless us. 
 But we knew even then, that was not all our life, nor yet 
 was it our own ; we were but fulfiling an appointed course, 
 and therefore were we gentle and humble in our gladness 
 and glory, and therefore are we now meek and faithful, 
 though the biting frost and relentless wind strip our branches, 
 and Winter's cold comes on apace, and man will soon regard 
 us not, but as he gazes through our " wintry bareness," at the 
 changing sky. But He who made us forgets us not. Daily 
 does the Sun rise and bless us with his light, though clouds 
 may conceal, the waters above and beneath lend us refresh- 
 ment ; His mantle protects us. He teacheth us defence and 
 preparation, by the wind and storm. He trains us in 
 strength, and when His voice again bids us forth in fulness 
 and beauty, it findo us prepared. His loving kindness fail* 
 eth not, and our life fulfils this end, and so doth rejoice." 
 
 And when 1 had heard this I loved the trees yet more, and 
 rejoiced in their teachings^ and my heart asked if they, so 
 trusting and faithful through change and desolation, should 
 not know at last a life of immortal bloom. And this answer 
 was made to nie. — " Enough for thee that their lessons lay 
 hold of immortality. By these, and all the works of His 
 hand, the Creator and Father speaks to thee of truths and 
 duties. His word has more clearly revealed. Thou hasl 
 heard but a part. Listen, and mortality shall speak to thee 
 of eternal life — decay and change and revolution whisper of 
 endurance, abiding and rest. And then how blest did I feel 
 it to be immortal, for I believed Him who hath said — ^" I am 
 the Life," and by His word hath assured the believer that 
 because Christ lives, he shall live also. And I saw it is 
 blessed to live in Him by faith here — Himself hath said, "Ii 
 IS eternal life." His gracious supplies shall not cease, our 
 way and our end are for Him, and His designs shall not Fa'.I 
 
ART OF INVIGORATING HEALTH. 39 
 
 ART OF INVIGORATING HEALTH. 
 
 BY REV. W - m'j I M S E Y . 
 
 A FULL supply of temporal warmth is as essential to 
 nealth, as an ample supply of food. 
 
 Exercise in the open air, combined with agreeable mental 
 amusement, gives energy, strength and vigor to the body 
 Motion is the tenure of life, and exertion is the great means 
 of promoting the healthful circulation of the blood. Exer- 
 cise should be proportioned to physical strength. 
 
 If either the body or mind be distressed, the stomach, the 
 centre of sympathy, will be affected. The human frame 
 may be compared to a watch of which the heart is the main- 
 spring, the stomach the regulator, and that which is received 
 into it is the key by which it is wound up. According then 
 to the quality, quantity and digestion of the food, will be the 
 movement of th6 pulse and the general action of the system. 
 
 Avoid over exertion and anxiety of mind, and too much 
 fatigue of body. This is necessary, especially for the aged 
 and infirm. 
 
 Health may be as much injured by interrupted and insuf- 
 ficient sleep, as by luxurious indulgence. Sleep invigorates 
 the nerves and restores the exhausted strength. One hours 
 rest before midnight, is worth two after it. Let those, then, 
 who turn night into day and day into night, be assured that 
 nature's wholesome laws cannot be infringed with impunity. 
 
 Our strength and spirits are more es;hausted by the exer- 
 tion of our mental than of our physical faculties. Over ex- 
 ertion and anxiety of mind disturb digestion much more than 
 fatigue of body. Exercise of body and mind should serve 
 as relaxions to each other. 
 
 We should be as circumspect in the task we set our minds, 
 as in the exercise of the body. Preserve tranquility and 
 cheerfulness of mind, if you mean to be happy. 
 
Orlgimal. . 
 BRISTOL. CM. 
 
 T. Hasmwos. 
 
 , cnoBAjj, 
 
 
 1. O what a - maz - ing words of grace Are 
 
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 2. Come then, with all your wants and wounds, your 
 
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 S-* 
 
 3. This spring with liv - ing wa - ter flows. And' 
 
 ii^E^^L^fe^^ 
 
 in the gos - pel found ! Suit - ed to eye - ry 
 
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 :r 
 
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 eve - ry bur - den 'bring; Here love, o - ter - nal 
 
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 liv - ing: joy im- parts; Crape, tjiirs - ty souls, your 
 
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 W 
 
 gbi - ner's case, Who ,kuav)is the joy • fol sound. 
 
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 love a - bounds, A deep ce '- Tes - tial spring. 
 
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 1 
 
 wants dis ■ closei ' Atid drink with thank - fill hearts. 
 
ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, LONDON , 
 
 BY PH ILO. 
 
 London may be considered, not merely as the capita} of 
 England, or the British empire, but as the metropolis of 
 the world ; not merely as the seat of governinent, which 
 extends its connections and exercises its influence to the 
 remotest point of the earth's surface, but as being foremost, 
 and without a rival, in every means of aggrandizement, 
 and enjoyment of every thing that can render life sweet, 
 and man happy. Within a circumference, the radius of 
 which does not exceed six miles, there are never fewer 
 than two millions of human beings ; and if the great bell 
 ' 3 
 
44 ' ST. Paul's cathedral, lOndon. 
 
 of St. Paul's were swung to the full pitch of its tocsin sound, 
 more ears would hear it than could hear the loudest roar- 
 ing of iEtna or Vesuvius ; and if you were to take your 
 station in the ball, or upper gallery of the great edifice, the 
 wide horizon, crowded as it is with men and their dwell- 
 ings, would form a panorama of industry and of life, more 
 astonishing than could be gazed upon from any other point 
 in the universe. 
 
 This elegant structure, built in the purest style of Gre- 
 cian architecture, stands upon a'h eminence, on the same 
 spot where stood the ancient Gothic cathedral, destroyed 
 in the great conflagration of 1666. It is built of Portland 
 stone, in the form of a cross. The cost of this amount- 
 ed to about #7,500,000. 
 
 / Feet. 
 
 The dimensions of St. Paul's, from east to west, within the walls, . 610 
 From north to south, within the doors of the porticos, . . . 282 
 
 Its circuit, , . 2292 
 
 Its height within, from the center of the floor to the cross, . . 404 
 
 The circumference of the dome 420 
 
 The diameter of the ball, 6 
 
 From the ball to the top of the cross, .30 
 
 The diameter of the columns of the porticos, .... 4 
 
 Then: height is 48 
 
 From the bottom of the whispering gallery, are 280 steps ; 
 including those to the golden gallery, 534 ; and to the ball, 
 in all, are 616 steps. The weight of the ball is 5600 lb. 
 The weight of the cross is 3360 lbs. The extent of the 
 ground plat wherein St. Paul's stands, is two acres, six- 
 teen purches. This fabric is surrounded with about 2500 
 strong iron palisadoes. The library is remark able for its 
 flooring, which is inlaid without nail or peg ; it contains 
 2376 pieces, like the framing of a billiard table. The 
 great bell in weight is 11,474 lbs. ; the clapper is 180 lbs. ; 
 the diameter of the bell is 10 feet, on which the hour of the 
 clock strikes, and the quarters strike on two lesser bells 
 underneath ; the length of the minute hand, 8 feet ; i's 
 weight, 75 lbs. ; the circumference of the .dial, 57 feet. 
 
ST. PAUL S CATHEDRAL, LONDON. '45 
 
 In the whispering gallery, sounds are increased to an 
 amazing degree ; the shutting of the door resembles distant 
 thunder ; the least whisper is heard round the whole cir- 
 cumference, and one speaking against the wall appears to 
 be present to- another on the other side, though the distance 
 between th>m is 140 feet. Within this gallery, you have, a 
 fine view of the beautiful paintings by Sir James Thorn- 
 hill, who, in eight compartments, has represented the prin- 
 cipal passages in the history of St. Paul's life ;' namely, his 
 Conversion; punishing Elymas, the sorcerer, with blind- 
 ness ; preaching at Athens ; curing the poor cripple at 
 Lystra, and the reverence there paid him by the priests of 
 Jupiter as a God ; conversion of the gaoler ; preaching at 
 Ephesus, and the burning of the magic books ; trial before 
 Agrippa ; shipwreck on the island of Melita, or Malta ; 
 and miracle of the viper. The gallery encircles the lower 
 part of the dome, and extends to the extreme edge of the 
 great cantilever cornice, but is made perfectly safe by a 
 handsomely wrought gilt railing. 
 
 St. Paul's church is open for Divine service three times 
 everyday, at seven o'clock. in the morning in summer, 
 and eight in winter ; a quarter before ten in the forenoon, 
 and a quarter after three in the afternoon ; at all other 
 times the doors are shut. 
 
 London contains within itself about 600 places of wor- 
 ship, at the head of which we must place the ancient 
 Abbey op Westminster. St. Paul's Cathedral is not of less 
 importance, though comparatively modern. These edifices 
 are crowded with monuments ; and the dust of kings and 
 heroes, sages and legislators, poets, painters, and. philoso- 
 phers, are blended together. We have no space to de- 
 scribe thq monuments of the immortal dead that fill this 
 church. 
 
 The decease of Howard, the " Philanthropist," who ex- 
 pired at Cherson in Russian Turkey, in 1790, was the im- 
 mediate event that led to the erection of monuments in this 
 church. 
 
46 JOSEPH SOLD BY HIS BRETHREN. 
 
 JOSEPH SOLD BY HIS BRETHREN 
 
 B V THOMAS DALE. 
 With a Steel Enj^aTing. 
 
 Oh*, when the avenging flood 
 Swept the wide world, why swept it not away 
 
 The stain of innocent blood ? — 
 The race of Cain hath perish'd ; yet for aye 
 
 Endures the curse of Cain ! 
 Brother she(is brother's blood, for vengeance, or for gain. 
 
 In Dothan'a valleys lone 
 Their mingled flocks ten shepherd brethren feed, 
 
 And in the midst is one 
 Whom their unnatural hate had doom'd to bleed; 
 
 But sin hath sin withstood, 
 And by the thirst of gold is quench'd the thirst for blood. 
 
 Upon the victim's . brow 
 In mystic vision blazed a regal crown ;— 
 
 They have the dreamer now. 
 Their knees to him shall ne'er in life bow down : 
 
 For none is high to save ; 
 His sire ia far away — ^his mother in the grave ! 
 
 " Yet stay the avenging hand," 
 One cried ; " what profit if our brother bleed ? 
 
 Behold yon merchant-band ! 
 Let them this dreaming boy in bondage lead : 
 
 So we shall share the gain. 
 And he may dream at will — and dream, as now, in vain." 
 
 Oh, fierce and stem of mood, 
 Whom not an absent father's hoary hair, 
 
 Nor brother's kindred blood, 
 Nor thought of Israel's God can win to spare ! 
 
 Bears He the sword in vain. 
 Or can ye do the deed, yet shun the curse of Cain T 
 
JOSEPH SOLD BY HIS BRETHREN. 47 
 
 Ere yet the deed is done— 
 Ere yet your hands have touoh'd the accursed gold, ' 
 
 Think on the hapless son, 
 Tom from a doting sire— the brother, sold 
 
 By brethren, and the shame 
 Which must forever brand the base betrayer's name. 
 
 Think of the aged man 
 Whose care for you hath sent his loved one hither ! 
 
 'Regard his waning span ; 
 Doom not his dearest earthly hopes to wither : 
 
 Let pity plead to save, 
 Nor bring his hoary* hairs with sorrow to the grave. 
 
 If love hath lost its force ; 
 If nature's holiest ties no more restrain; • 
 
 Yet dread the late remorse, 
 The conscious writhings, of the outcast Cain : 
 
 StUl Abel's God in heaven 
 . Is Israel's too, and still that crime is unforgiven. 
 
 Boy, vainly dost thou plead : 
 They have no thought of pity — cease thy prayer ! 
 
 The God who marks the deed 
 Will guide thy course to Egypt; guard thee there. 
 
 In bondage thou must dwell. 
 But they in every breast shall bear a living hell ! 
 
 The pastured plain by day. 
 By night the sleepless couch, where'er they be, 
 
 Or wandering far away,- 
 Or in then: fether's tent, shall tell of thee : 
 
 Conscience shall sting within, 
 And hate and strife divide the brotherhood of sin. 
 
 • Prom God thy vision came. 
 He will fulfil it in His own good time : 
 
 Thy servitude and shame 
 Are lighter far than their dark load of crime — 
 
 Thou stiU hast hope in prayer — 
 What- can it bring to them but anguish and despaii i 
 
 Go then, and Israel's God 
 Go with tliee I — Thou must grind in bondage now, ' 
 
 But kiss the chastening rod. 
 And yet the promised crown shall grace thy brow. 
 
 When all once more shall meet — 
 Thy father in thy arms ; thy brethren at thy feet ! 
 
WHO CAN TELL? 
 
 « I HAVE heard," says Mr. Wilson, " of a certain person 
 whose name I could mention, who was tempted to conclude 
 his day over, and himself lost ; that, therefore, it was his 
 best course to put an end to his life, which if continued, 
 would but serve to increase his sin, and consequently his 
 misery, from which there was no escape ; and seeing he 
 must be in torment, the sooner he was there, the sooner he 
 should know the worst ; which was preferable to his being 
 worn away with the distressing expectation of what was to 
 come. Under the influence of such suggestions as these he 
 went to a river, with a design to throw himself in ; but as 
 he was about to do it, he seemed to hear a voice saying to 
 him, WHO CAN TELL? at least, as deep an impression was 
 made upon him, as if these words had been audibly de- 
 livered. By this, therefore, he was brought to a stand ; his 
 thoughts were arrested, and thus begun to work' on the 
 passage mentioried. Who can tell? Jonah, iii. 9. viz. 
 What God can do when he will proclaim his grace glori- 
 ous ? Who can tell how far God may suffer the tempter to 
 prevail and yet after all disappoint his malice ? Who can 
 tell how long the Spirit may strive, and yet return with re- 
 newing efficacious grace ? Who can tell but such an one as 
 I may find mercy ? or what will be the issue of humble pray- 
 er to heaven for it? Who can tell what purposes God will 
 serve in my recovery? By such thoughts as these, being 
 so far influenced as to resolve to try, it pleased God gra- 
 ciously to come in and enable him, through all his doubts 
 and fears, to throw himself by faith on Jesus Christ, as able 
 to save to the uttermost all that come to God by him. hum- 
 bly desiring and expecting mercy for his sake, to his own 
 soul. In this he was not disappointed ; but afterwards be- 
 came an eminent Christian and minister ; and from his 
 own experience of the riches of grace, was greatly useful 
 to the conversion and comfort of others. 
 
LOBS AND GAIN. 49 
 
 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 A TALE OF THE TIMES. 
 
 BY MRS. S. T. MAETYN. 
 
 " So, Mr. Merton has really failed at last," said a friend 
 to me one evening ; " his fall was announced some days 
 since on Exchange, and it produced quite a sensation, I as- 
 sure you. His business was so extensive, his credit so 
 good, and his connections so numerous, that the shock will 
 be very widely felt. Those who are not personal sufferers 
 by his suspension, will feel it deeply, for Mr. Merton is 
 beloved by all who know him, as a man of sterling integ- 
 rity and benevolence." 
 
 Like a true woman, I thought first of the wife and daugh- 
 ter of the ruined merchant, and eagerly ihquired how they 
 had borne' the shock. 
 
 " No one knows," was the reply, " for they have refused 
 to see even their most intimate friends since the announce- 
 ment of this disastrous event. Merton is too honorable to 
 keep back any thing from his creditors, and the splendid 
 house, equipage, servants, etc., have all been given up, and 
 they have taken a small cottage quite out of the city, where 
 they will be as completely buried from the fashionable 
 world when the nine-days wonder is past, as though they 
 had gone to another planet." 
 
 Mrs. Merton wa:s one of the friends of my youth, and 
 though her path in life had been widely different from 
 mine, our early intimacy had never been forgotten. 1 knew 
 what those who had only seen her in fashionable life never 
 suspected, that beneath that cold and polished exterior, a 
 warm and susceptible heart was concealed, not yet quite 
 
3t) LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 frozen over by the conventional rules to which it had so 
 long been subjected. In truth, though a vpoman of the 
 world, she was high-minded, intelligent and refined ; and, 
 though her tastes and habits were expensive and luxurioixs, 
 she wa^ yet capable of appreciating the sterner virtues she 
 had not the courage to imitate. Accordingly, when I pre- 
 pared, the following morning, to seek out the Mertons in 
 their new abode, I inwardly thanked God that my friend 
 had been met, by his Providence, in her career of vanity 
 and folly, and prayed that this affliction might prove a 
 blessing in disguise 
 
 On the score of old friendship, I was , admitted immedi- 
 ately on reaching the house, and found Mrs. Merton calm 
 but care-worn and dispirited. There was indeed a striking 
 contrast between her. present situation and that in which I 
 had last seen her. Seated in her splendid drawing-room, 
 the centre of an admiring circle, and surrounded by every 
 elegance which wealth could purchase, she shone " a bright 
 particular star," almost, it would seem, above the reach 
 of adversity or change. Now, she was alone, in a small, 
 plainly finished apartment, with but one vestige of her 
 former splendor left. This was the harp of Gertrude, the 
 eldest daughter, which had been presented to her by a ge- 
 nerous creditor, in the hope that her musical talents, which 
 had been highly applauded, might now be turned to a pro- 
 fitable account. Mrs. Merton mentioned this circumstance 
 with tears of gratitude, but added, sadly, " I fear, however 
 this generosity will be of little avail ; for, though my poor 
 Gertrude has had large sums expended on this accomplish- 
 ment, it was solely with a view to her own amusement, 
 and she has hot learned thoroughly enough to teach." 
 
 I inquired if she would not. find instruction on the piano 
 a surer and easier resource. 
 
 " She has been considered a proficient on that instrument," 
 was Mrs. Morton's reply; "but she has not the rudiments 
 sufficiently at command .to instruct others. Besides, she 
 says she could never have patience to teach music, when 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 51 
 
 she remembers the trials to which her - masters were sub- 
 jected." 
 
 *' Could not my young friend obtain a situation as go- 
 verness or assistant in a seminary," T asked, " where the 
 English branches of education alone would be required 1" 
 " Alas, my dear madam, Gertrude has been fashionably 
 educated, and though superficially acquainted with the 
 whole circle of arts and sciences, has Iearn«d nothing tho- 
 roughly. She now feels this deeply, as well as her delude,d 
 parents ; but it is too late'to remedy the evil." 
 
 Various plans were proposed, and thrown aside ; for, in 
 the present circumstances of the family, it was absolutely 
 necessary that Gertrude should do something, since her fa- 
 ther's small salary as book-keeper in a large establishment 
 was barely sufficient for the maintenance of his large fa- 
 mily. A situation as teacher in the loM'^est department of 
 some primary school was the only one which she thought 
 herself really qualified to fill, and such an one I promised 
 to obtain for her as soon as possible. 
 
 As I took my leave, Mrs. Merton grasped my hand, andl 
 exclaimed, with a burst of tears, " My dear friend, you i 
 have not yet seen the full extent of mj'^ losses. Of all my 
 large circle of friends and acquaintances, by far the great- 
 er number are gone. I have lost my house, my furniture, 
 my equipage, my servants ; in a word, all on which I for- 
 merly prided myself are swept, away. But all this I could 
 have borne, if it were not true, that I now find I have -lost 
 also my own former self. I have no longer the tastes, the 
 habits, the feelings which I once possessed. I have lost 
 that relish for simple pleasures, that love of nature, that 
 buoyant cheerfulness which once ponstituted'the charm of ' 
 my existence. My heart seems to haye grown prematurely 
 old, and the very spirit of life is gone for ever." 
 
 I thankfully embraced the opportunity thus afforded me, . 
 to direct the attention of my friend to that true source of 
 consolation which alone never disappoints nor deceives the 
 expectation of those who seek it aright. Gently and very 
 
52 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 tenderly, I pointed out to her the vanity and worthlessness 
 of the shadows she had been pursuing, and the kindness of 
 the hand which had smitten, . as I fondly trusted, only to 
 heal. I dwelt on the many blessings that still remained to 
 her, and as I spoke of her dutiful, promising children, and 
 her excellent husband, she interrupted me by exclaiming, 
 " Say no more. I see how selfish and ungrateful I have 
 been, and wonder at the mercy which has still spared my 
 richest earthly blessings. Henceforth I will commune with 
 my own teart, and be still." 
 
 As I slowly retraced my steps homeward, my thoughts 
 were busied with the scenes I had just left. Here was ^ 
 being on. whom God had bestowed the noblest gifts — beauty, 
 intellect, wealth and influence ; but how had these talents 
 
 -been perverted 1 They had all been laid on the altar of 
 fashion and worldly display, and now, in the hour of ad- 
 versity, their possessor knew not where to turn for help or 
 consolation. Truly, the service of the world is a hard ser- 
 
 " vice, and its wages like the Apples of the Dead Sea, allur- 
 ing to the sight, but filled with bitter and loathsome ashes. 
 It was painful, too, to think of the youthful Gertrude, doom- 
 ed so Barly to feel the instability of earthly possessions and 
 
 • enjoyments. True, she had been for years in the most ex- 
 
 :;pensive schools, and had been fashionably educated ; but, 
 for v^hat? She could not now shine in the charmed, circle 
 of gayety and pleasure ; for Wealth, that only " open sesa- 
 me," which never fails to obtain an entrance there, had 
 vanished. Of all useful knowledge, she was ignorant, and 
 even the accomplishment upon which she had prided her- 
 self had been so superficially learned, that to teach wthers 
 was impossible. She had never been taught plain needle- 
 work, and knew nothing of domestic economy, only that it 
 was something very vulgar and disagreeable, which be- 
 longed to an inferior race, called servants. Is it not heart- 
 less cruelty, thus to train the youthful female, in a state of 
 society like ours, where property is continually changing 
 
 (hands, and the reputed " millionaire" of to-day, may to- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 59- 
 
 morrow be a ruined bankrupt ? Why are parents so fa- 
 tally blind to their duty and true interest, in relation to the 
 education of those who may at any moment, by death or 
 misfortune, be deprived of a home, and "thrust out on a cold 
 world, to make their way unaided and alone? Surely, 
 parental love, so watchful in other respects, ought more 
 carefully to guard interests dear and precious as the tem- 
 poral and'eternal welfare of the young can render them. 
 
 It is not my intention to give a detail of the trials and 
 struggles through which Mrs. Merton and her family were 
 called! to pass, before she could say from the heart, " It is 
 good for me that I have been afflicted." She was made to 
 feel, as she followed the youngest of her beloved and cher- 
 ished flock to an early grave, that there was anguish far 
 more keen than any inflicted by the loss of wealth or sta- 
 tion ; but, she learned too, that He who wept at the tomb 
 of Lazarus, can heal even the deep wounds inflicted by the 
 hand of death. 
 
 A situation was soon found for Gertrude, in which, by 
 her sweetness of temper and untiring assiduity, she won 
 the esteem and confidence of her employer, who assisted, 
 by every means in his power, her laudable attempt to re- 
 gain tlu! ground she had lost, and thus to prepare herself 
 for a higher station. By a patience and perseverance sel- 
 dom witnessed, she succeeded in her endeavors, and is now 
 engaged as assistant in a Female Seminary, where she is 
 enabled materially to lighten the burdens that have long 
 rested on her excellent parents. 
 
 The last time I visited Mrs. Merton, I found her in her 
 "small, but neatly furnished and cheerful parlor, surround- 
 ed by her children, all busy with their books or needles 
 the whole presenting a picture of domestic happiness on 
 which 1 gazed with, delight. It was easy to see that the 
 presiding geyius of the little circle had found peace — that 
 " peace which the world can neither give nor take away 
 
54 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 and the hallowed influence of such a spirit was felt by all 
 around. 
 
 " You see me weep," she said, as after a long and inter- 
 esting conversation I prepared to take my leave, "but 
 these are tears of joy. I ohce told you what I had lost ; 
 now let me tell you what I have found. I have found all, 
 and more than all, my early cheerfulness and buoyancy of 
 spirit. I have found the health which, in the round of fash- 
 ionable folly, I had madly thrown away. I have found a 
 kind and admirable husband, with whom I formerly had 
 not time to become acquainted, and affectionate children, 
 who, in prosperity, might still have been neglected, or left 
 to the care of others. But, above all the rest, I trust I have 
 found " the pearl of great price," and am now the happy pos- 
 sessor of " a treasure which will never pass away, an in- 
 heritance reserved for me" by the Redeemer, whose pro- 
 mises cannot fail. Shall I then regret that I was not suf- 
 fered, in my infatuation, to take this miserable world for 
 my portion 1 Shall I not rather bless him who, in taking 
 from me the perishable riches of earth, has given me a title 
 to all the treasures of his own glorious kingdom V 
 
 " Thanks to God," I mentally exclaimed, as I turned away, 
 "for the blessed alchemy which can thus convert trials 
 and sufferings into sources of the sweetest and purest en- 
 joyment ! The worldling, in his pride, may look with pity 
 on my friend in her altered condition, but she needs it not ; 
 for she has found the true philosopher's stone, which turns 
 all she touches into gold. Henceforth, whatever may be 
 her lot, whether prosperous or ad verse, is to her a matter 
 of comparatively little moment ; for all she possesses of 
 real value, all on which her heart is set, is safely laid up 
 " where moth and rust cannot corrupt, an,d where thieves 
 do not break through and steal." 
 
 Thinking, not growth, makes manhood. There are some, 
 who, though they have done growing, are still only boys. 
 
THE MOTHER 55 
 
 THE MOTHER. 
 
 What deep and infinite etnotions rush through the heart 
 at the sight of. sleeping infancy ! What a shrine of tender- 
 ness ! What a prophecy of the future ! What a symbol 
 of hope ! What a crowd of anticipations cluster around 
 the young heir of the world ! What a vision of joys and 
 sorrows rise up before the mind as it penetrates the dim 
 vista of coming years, which wait to receive this inheriter 
 of the lot of humanity ! Those little hands, how eloquently 
 do they gesticulate in their ceaseless graspings, the old and 
 irrevocable sentence of toil ! On that miniature brow, 
 thought and care already perch beside the majesty of 
 reason. In that bosom the lion and the lamb are still 
 slumbering together in Utter unconciousness. Those alter- 
 nate smiles and tears, how emblematic of the storms and 
 sunshine of coming life ! That feeble wail, how does it 
 chime in with the under-tone of sadness which is heard in 
 all the music of this life. Those little feet, what path shall 
 they tread, where shall they wander, and where ^hall they 
 find their final rest ? 
 
 Such are the thoughts which must often pass through 
 the mind of a mother. Such are the musings to which she 
 must often be led when she watches in solitude over the 
 child of her hopes and affections. But let her know, while 
 these thousand conflicting emotions are agitating her bosom, 
 that it depends on her more than any other human being 
 to say, whether her hopes or her fears shall be realized. 
 
 No human being has so much power to preserve this 
 primeval image of heaven in the soul as the mother. Pe- 
 culiarly susceptible of religious emotion herself, she can 
 communicate it more effectually "than any other instructor. 
 The lessons she teaches are never forgotten. They will re- 
 cur with the softened image of her memory to remotest 
 years. The prayers that are said around her knees, will be 
 instinctively inurmured by the lips of extreme age. 
 
56 THE MOTHER. 
 
 It is in her power to fill their minds with every honora- 
 ble and noble sentiment, to establish in them a stern regard 
 for truth, and justice, and integrity. This, it is true, can be 
 done in no other way than by cherishing those principles 
 herself. As far as my own experience goes, I can say thai 
 the mother's influence is paramount and irresistable. So 
 accustomed am I to trace home to its source the moral 
 character I see developed by my acquaintance, that where 
 I see honor, delicacy, integrity, humanity, exhibited. in an 
 uncommon degree, I say to myself, " That man had. a good 
 mother," and on inquiry I found myself not often mistaken. 
 The sympathy of childhood is so strong with the bosom 
 from which it first drew its life, that every feeling and sen- 
 timent of the mother A'ibrates through its whole being. 
 
 The motives which operate upon the mother to induce 
 her to. fidelity, are stronger than are presented to any mo- 
 ral agent in this world for to none in this world a scene of 
 juster retribution. If she be faithful to her trust, her sons 
 grow' up to honor and success. As she sees them mount up 
 to the high places of wealth or station, or moving m an hum- 
 bler sphere in peace or prosperity, with a proud satisfac- 
 tion she may point to them and say with the Roman matron, 
 " These are my jewels." The very virtues she has cherish- 
 ed in their hearts secure to her that respectful and aflTec- 
 tionate attention which is so soothing to the decline of life, 
 and prepare her to leave the world with the satisfactory 
 reflection, that she has not lived In vain, She will see her 
 daughters adorning whatever spTiere they are called to fill. 
 In the good wife and mother she will see the fruit of that 
 domestic training which she so anxiously gave them, and 
 their oppreciation in society the influence of those talents 
 which she cultivated ; and in the unfeigned piety of sons 
 and daughters the reward of her prayers and instructions, 
 and tlie pledge that she shall at length present herself and 
 I hem faultless and unblemished before the throne of God 
 with exceeding joy. 
 
MUTUAL, DEPENDENCE. 
 
 MUTUAL DEPENDENCE, 
 DIVISION OF LABOR. 
 
 BY C. CUSHING. 
 
 The infant, upon whose vacant eye the light stamps its firat 
 image, is an emblem of dependence. For food, clothing, 
 and even life, it not only rests on the hand of Him who 
 sustains us all, but must cling to kindred around. It may 
 be true, that man, in the various relations of life, is not so 
 dependent upon his fellow as the infant upon its kind ; yet, 
 there is in the dependence of man on man, a length and 
 breadth, a height and depth, which we but faintly realize, 
 and which we never fully appreciate. 
 
 This dependence sustains* the important principle of 
 division of labor, and affords a remedy for the evils attend- 
 ing such division. I 
 
 Without the recognition among men of their mutual 
 dependence, no man could devote himself to any one pur- 
 suit, but each must with his own hands supply all the 
 demands of his nature. The importance of a division of 
 labor will appear, if we consider man as he is with it, and 
 as he is without it. Single-handed and alone, he labors 
 hard for the. mere essentials of his existence. 
 
 But with division of labor, taste and beauty adorn his 
 dwelling, and science and religion add strength to the ties 
 of social life. He has time for the cultivation of the mind, 
 and means for the improvement of the heart, and he is sur- 
 rounded with " all that adorns and embellishes civilized 
 life." 
 
 Such is division of labor, but it can exist only so far as it 
 is sustained by our mutual dependence. For if other mea 
 
58 MUTUAL DEPENDENCE. 
 
 attend only to their own wants, no one man can seek the 
 general good. 
 
 But this dependence not only sustains division of labor, 
 it also affords a remedy for its evils. Dividing the human 
 family in their occupations, it divides them in their feelings. 
 It sets up a wall of partition between man and man. 
 
 But our dependence affords a remedy for these evils ; for 
 it shows the enmity between persons of different occupa- 
 tions to be the result of ignorance and prejudice, of pride 
 and vanity. Of ignorance, for the laborer is not aware 
 that, for important discoveries and labor-saving inventions, 
 he is as dependent upon the student, as the student is upon 
 him for the comforts of life. So the student, when he meets 
 the laborer, does not recognise the hand from which he 
 receives " the staff of life." The merchant knows that, 
 without the farmer, he can make no more exchanges ; and 
 the farmer knows that, without the merchant, his portion 
 rriust be confined to the products of his own soil. So depen- 
 dent are we upon each other, that no one works for him- 
 self alone ; each contributes to the good of the whole. 
 Can the hand say to the foot, I have no need of thee, or the 
 eye to the ear, I have no need of thee ? 
 
 The importance of the dependence of man on man, is seen 
 in the fact, that it sustains division of^ labor, and affords a 
 remedy for the evils attending such division. 
 
 This same principle of dependence should harmonize 
 nations, as well as the different classes of individuals. For 
 in the interests of one nation are involved the interests of 
 every other. It should do away with war, and introduce 
 the reign of universal peace. 
 
 We have spoken of the infant as an emblem of depend- 
 ence. There's another emblem. It is man, when time 
 hath furrowed his cheek ; when his locks are frosted, his 
 form bowed, and his whole frame, like the crumbling pil- 
 lar of some ancient relic, totters, to fall. The old man 
 needs the prop of youth, he claims our fostering care. Let 
 us ease his fall, for his fate may soon be ours. 
 
THE YOUTH S INFALLIBLE GUIDE. 5'9 
 
 THE YOUTH'S INFALLIBLE GUIDE. 
 
 BY J, M'CARRELL, D. D. 
 
 The young, in every rank of animated being, attract a 
 peculiarly pleasing and powerful regard. It is not, then, 
 ' to be wondered at, that the rising generation of immortals 
 should dra,w upon themselves the deepest interest of all 
 who care for the glory of God and the happiness of man. 
 However yet unnoticed, by many, and unknown to fame 
 they are, the church and the world in a few years will im- 
 press their characters, for weal or wo, upon the genera- 
 tions to come, until the last trump shall sound, the knell of 
 departed time. Happy they in whom the prediction shall 
 be fulfilled, " One generation shall praise thy Works unto 
 another, and shall declare thy mighty acts." What must 
 be done, that it may be well for them for " the life that 
 now is and for that which is to come 1" Their moral and 
 spiritual welfare must first and" chiefly be regarded. All 
 things else are" of little comparative importaivse, and will 
 be working for their good in proportion to the prosperity 
 of their highest, their eternal interests. " Seek ye first the 
 kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things 
 shall be added unto you." Where shall the Christian pa- 
 rent find infallible directions for training up those who are 
 to succeed him in the world ? In the word of the living 
 God. Do you ask, wherein shall a young man cleanse his 
 way ? How shall he escape the ruin which in ten thou- 
 sand snares surround his path ? How shall he be freed 
 from the depravity of his own fallen nature, from tlie pot 
 lutions of the world that lieth in wickedness, and ihc power 
 of the unclean spirit who worketh in the children of disobe- 
 dience and leadeth them captive at his will ? A divine: 
 
 4 
 
60 
 
 oracle has uttered the response ; " By taking heed thereto 
 according to God's word." 
 
 Many are the claimants of the right, and candidates for 
 the honor of guiding the youthful mind, and forming the 
 principles, habits and manners of that class of our world's 
 inhabitants, who are soon to manage all its interests, and 
 share it^ various lot. 
 
 Public opinions, the world and fashion, are prompt to 
 assume the reins, to dictate what they shall think, and feel, 
 and do. Public opinion claims the right to prescribe the 
 principles ; the world, the habits and doings ; and fashion, the 
 manners of the rising race. But what is public opinion? 
 Often the clamor of a few artful and designing men, who 
 get up the cry of public opinion in order to carry their own 
 measures and secure their own interests ; and when it is 
 the general voice, there is no security that it ^vill be in the 
 right. If the public opinion of the world is to be our rule 
 in religion, we must be idolaters in politics, we must be 
 monarchists for protestant Christianity is in a A'ery small 
 minority in the one, and republicanism in the other. Who 
 is the world? The race of apostate men, the enemies of 
 God and his people. 
 
 " If ye were of the world, the world would love his own ; 
 but becauser ye are not of the world, but I have chosen ye 
 out of the world, therefore the world hateth you." Follow 
 not the multitude to do evil. 
 
 To walk according to the course of this world; is part of 
 the description of those who walk according to "the prince 
 of the power of the air," the spirit that now worketh in the 
 children of disobedience. All that is in the world, the lust 
 of the flesh, and the lust of the eye, and the pride of life, is 
 not of the Father,. but is of the world. Honor, wealth, and 
 sensual delight, are the three great idols of the world's 
 adoration ; these they pursue in constant rebellion against 
 God, hating every thing that opposes them, and therefore 
 pating God and his people, that testify against them, and. 
 ■at the hazard of their eternal ruin,.snatching their sic'dy 
 
THE YOUTH S INFALLIBLE GUIDE. 61 
 
 enjoyments from the very brink of hell. These are very 
 unsafe guides to direct the young in the way they should goi, 
 
 " If the blind lead the blind, both will fall into the ditch." 
 " He that walketh with wise men shall be wise, but a com- 
 panion of fools shall be destroyed." What is fashion ? The 
 arbitrary rule of the vain, with understanding incapable 
 of anything truly great and useful^ aim only at distinction 
 in modes and forms, in dress and manners. And millions 
 are weak enough to violate conscience and duty to acquire 
 or retain a standing with them. 
 
 This Molock, horrid king, besmeared with the blood of hu- 
 man sacrifices and parents' tears, demands and receives the 
 sacrifice of the young, the tender and the fair. Whose fee- 
 ble frames are crushed in his instruments of torture, and 
 their lives speedily exhausted in his midnight orgies. At 
 his command, the family altar and the closet of prayer are 
 abandoned, children are neglected, the confidence of cred- 
 itors is abused, and the smile of the idol bought at the price 
 of dishonor, crime and ruin. 
 
 The child that pursues the glittering butterfly through 
 fields and swamps, is wise compared With the silly votaries 
 of fashion. The high priest of this idolatry is the personi- 
 fication of all that is little and contemptible in man. 
 
 But, would you be wise and safe, honored and happy ? 
 Then take heed to your way, according to the word of him 
 who is all- wise. Almighty, the Blessed, and only Potentate, 
 the King of kings, and Lord of lords, the God of glory. 
 
 God, who knoweth all things, hath given us a map of 
 this World and the next. He has laid down the road that 
 leads to life, and that which leads to destruction. Ha 
 warns you to avoid the one ; he counsels, he commands 
 he entreats you to enter upon and pursue the other to tht 
 end, that you may obtain eternal life. 
 
 Make that your vade mecum, your constant companion, 
 the man of your counsel, the light to your feet, the lamp to 
 your path, to guide you ir.to the way of peace. That word 
 is stereotyped in the' sacred records. It is spoken by the 
 
62 THE youth's infallible guide. 
 
 ambassadors of Christ : " All scripture is given by inspira- 
 tion of God, and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for 
 correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of 
 God may be perfect, thoroughly furnis.hed unto all good 
 works.*' " The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the 
 soul ; the testimony of the Lord i^ sure, making wise the^ 
 simple." 
 
 " Now, then, we are ambassadors for Christ, as though 
 Grod did beseech yoU by us ; we pray you, in Christ's stead, 
 De ye reconciled to God, for he hath made him to be sin for 
 us"^ who knew no sin, that we might be made the righteous- 
 ness of God in him." But it is not enough that a cold as- 
 sent be given to the position, that the Bible is the only in- 
 fallible rule of faith and of manners. This may be given, 
 and yet the whole man remain under directions the most 
 opposite to that of the divine word. The rule, to answer 
 its purpose, must be understood and personally applied by 
 each individual, to himself. Beholding his natural face in 
 this mirror, " he must not go away and straightway far- 
 get what manner of person he is, he being not a forgetful 
 hearer, but a doer of the work, that man shall be blessed in 
 his deed. Beholding, as in a mii-ror, the glory of God, we 
 are changed into the same image, from glory to glory, by 
 the Spirit of the Lord." The word should be studied as a 
 whole, with diligence, preparation and prayer, laid up in 
 the heart,, and practised in the life. Go to that word for 
 direction in every difiiculty ; for light in darkness, for con- 
 solation in distress. Speak to God in prayer, in the name 
 of Christ, and he will speak to you by his word, and by his 
 Spirit ; cause you to hear his voice saying unto you, ■' This 
 is the way, walk ye in it," So will he «' .guide you with his 
 counsel, and afterwards receive you to glory, when you 
 shall see no longer as m a glass darkly, but face to face, 
 and know even as also ye are known." 
 
 Every deviation from integrity shojild be guarded against, 
 and accounted as inexcusable on any principle. 
 
THE MINISTER S FEAST. 53 
 
 A SPIRITED TALE. 
 
 I 
 
 ] THE MINISTER'S FEAST. 
 
 BY LJDIA JANE PIEESON. 
 
 The Reverend Mr. N was a man of excellent temper, 
 
 but he was eccentric. He was a powerful preacher, and 
 his ministration was blest to the reformation of many in his 
 parish. At the age of thirty-four he became enamored of 
 a beautiful hght-hearted girl of seventeen, daughter of a 
 rich parishioner. Well, the marriage was consummated, 
 the bride's portion paid ; and the husband, as husbands in 
 their first love are apt to do, consented to the humor of his 
 wife, and accompanied her to several festive parties given 
 by his wealthy neighbors in honor of his marriage. 
 . The happy couple were sitting together in their comfort- 
 able parlor one evening towards spring, the reverend gen- 
 tleman studying the Venerable Bede, and his wife equally 
 intent upon a plate of the latest fashions, when she sudden- 
 ly looked up with an expression between hope and fear, 
 and thus addressed her companion, 
 
 " My dear husband, I have a request to make." 
 
 " Well, Nancy, any thing consistent." 
 
 " You do not imagine that I would make an inconsistent 
 request, surely ?"' 
 
 " No — ^not a request that you consider inconsistent. But 
 come, what is it 1" 
 
 "Why, my dear sir," and her voice trembled a little, "we 
 have been to several parties among the neighboring gentryi 
 and now I think, that to maintain our position in society, we 
 should make a party too." The minister looked blank. 
 
 *' What sort of party, Nancy ?" he said at length. 
 
 " Why," she replied,." such a party as those we have at- 
 
Q4 THE minister's FEAST. 
 
 tended. We must make an elegant dinner, and have dan- 
 cing after it." 
 
 " Dancing ! in a minister's house !" ejaculated Mr. N . 
 
 " Why, yes, certainly," replied his wife,, coaxingly. " You 
 will not dance, the party will be mine ; and then we have 
 been to similar parties all winter." 
 
 " True, true," he muttered with a perplexed air, and sat 
 silent for some time, as if considering. At length, he spoke, 
 " Yes, :f\[ancy, you may make a party, give a dinner, and if 
 the guests desire it, you may dfance." 
 
 " Thank you, love " she cried, putting her arms around 
 his neck. 
 
 " But I have some stipulations to make about it," he said 
 " I must select and invite the guests, and you must allow 
 me to place some of my favorite dishes upon the table." 
 
 " All as you please, love," she answered delightedly; " but 
 when shall it be V 
 
 " l^ext Wednesday, if you please." * 
 
 " But our furniture and window draperies are very old- 
 fashioned. Is it not time we had new ?" 
 
 •' I should hardly think it necessary to refurnish our rooms, 
 Nancy. All our furniture is excellent of its kind." 
 
 " But our smooth carpets, white draperies, and cane chairs 
 have such a cold look, do consent to have the rooms new 
 fitted; we can move these things to the unfurnished cham- 
 bers." 
 
 " And of what use ■«vrill they be in those rooms which we 
 never occupy ? Besides, it is near spring, and to fit up 
 now for winter is superfluous." 
 
 " Well, I would not care," she persisted, " only people 
 will call us parsimonious and ungenteel." 
 
 " Oh, if that is all," he said, " I will promise to expend a 
 thousand dollars on the evening of the party, not in furni- 
 ture, but in a manner which will be far more grateful to 
 our guests, and profitable to ourselves, and which shall ex- 
 onerate us from all imputation of parsimony ; and you may 
 expend in dress, eatables and dessert, just what sum you 
 
THE minister's feast. 65 
 
 plpase." And so the colloquy ended. He resumed his 
 studies, and she gave her mind to the consideration of tke 
 dress which would be most becoming, and the viands that 
 were most expensive. The next day she went busily about 
 her preparations, wondering all the time how her husband 
 would expend his thousand dollars ; but as she had discover- 
 ed something of the eccentricity of his character, she doubt- 
 ed not that he meant to give an agreeable surprise ; and her 
 curiosity grew so great that she could hardly sleep during 
 the interval. • 
 
 At length, the momentous day arrived. The arrange- 
 ments were all complete, and Mrs. N ■ retired to perform 
 
 the all-important business of arraying her person in fine 
 attire. She lingered long at the toilet,* relying on the 
 fashionable un])unctuality of fashionable people, and when 
 the hour struck, left her chamber, arrayed, like Judith of old, 
 gloriously, to allure the eyes of all who should look upon, 
 her, and full of sweet smiles and graces, notwithstanding 
 the uncomfortable pinching of her shoes and dress. Her 
 husband met her in this hall. 
 
 " Our guests have all arrived," he said, and opened the 
 door of the reviewing ' room. Wonderful ! wonderful ! 
 What a strange assembly ! There were congregated the 
 cripple, the maimed, and the blind ; the palsied, the extreme 
 aged, and a group of children from" the almshouse, who re- 
 garded the fine lady, some with wide open mouths, others 
 with both hands in their hair, while some peeped from be- 
 hind furniture, the covert to which they had retreated from 
 her dazzling presence. She was petrified vk'ith astonish- 
 ment ; then a dash of displeasure crossed her face, till hav- 
 ing ran her eyes over the grotesque assembly, she met the 
 comically grave expression of her husband's cauntenance, 
 when she burst out into a violent fit of laughter. 
 
 " Nancy !" at length said her husband, sternly. She sup- 
 pressed her mirth, stammered an excuse, and added, 
 
 " You will forgive me, and believe yourselves quite wel- 
 come." 
 
65 THE minister's feast. 
 
 " That is well done," whispered Mr. N , then. « My 
 
 friAids," he said, " as my wife is not acquainted with you, I 
 will make a few presentations." Then leading her toward 
 an emaciated creature, whose distorted limbs were unable 
 to support his body, he said, " This gentleman, Nancy, is 
 
 the Reverend Mr. N , who in his youth travelled and 
 
 endured much in the cause of our common Master. A vi- 
 olent rheumatism, induced by colds contracted among the 
 new settlements of the west, where he was employed in 
 preaching the gospel to the poor, has reduced him to his 
 present condition. This lady, bis wife, has piously sustain- 
 ed him, and by her own labor procured a maintenance for 
 herself and him. But she is old and feeble now, as you see." 
 
 Then, turning to a group with silver locks and threadbare 
 coats, he continued, " These are soldiers of the revolution. 
 They were all sons of rich men. They went out in their 
 young strength to defend their oppressed country. They 
 endured hardships, toils, and sufferings, such as we hardly 
 deem it possible for men to endure and live ; they returned 
 home at the close of the war, maimed in their limbs, and 
 with broken constitutions, to find their patrimonies destroy- 
 ed by fire, or the chances of war, or their property other- 
 wise filched and wrested from them. And these worthy 
 men live in poverty and neglect in the land for the prosper- 
 ity of which they sacrificed their all. These venerable la- 
 dies are wives of these patriots, anil widows of others who' 
 have 'gone to their reward. They could tell you tales 
 that would thrill your heart, and make it better. This is 
 
 the celebrated and learned Dr. B , who saved hundreds 
 
 of lives during the spotted epidemic. But his great success 
 roused the animosity of his medical brethren, who succeed- 
 ed in ruining his practice, and when blindness came upon 
 him, he was forgotten by those whom he had delivered from 
 death. This lovely creature is his only child, and she is 
 motherless. She leads him daily by the hand, and earns 
 the food she sets before him. Yet her learning and accom- 
 plishments are wonderful, and she is the author of those 
 
THE MINISTER S FEAST 67 
 
 exquisite poems which appear occasionally in "the 
 Magazine. These children were orphaned in infancy by 
 the Asiatic cholera, and their sad hearts have seldom been 
 cheered by a smile, or their palates regaled by delicious 
 food. Now dry your eyes, and lead on to the dining room." 
 
 She obeyed, and notwithstanding her emotions, the thump- 
 ing of coarse shoes, and rattling of sticks, crutches, and 
 wooden legs behind her, well nigh threw her into another 
 indecorous laugh. 
 
 To divert her attention, she glanced over the table. 
 There stood the dishes for which her husband had stipula- 
 ted, in the shape of two monstrous homely-looking meat 
 pies, and two enormous platters of baked meats and vege- 
 tables, looking like mighty mountains among the delicate 
 viands that she had prepared for the refined company 
 which she expected. She took her place,' and prepared to 
 do the table honors ; but her husbund, after a short thanks- 
 giving to the Bountiful God, addressed the company with. 
 " Now, my brethren, help yourselves and one another, to 
 whatever you deem preferable. I will wait upon the chil- 
 dren." 
 
 A hearty and jovial meal was made, the minister setting 
 the example ; the old soldiers became garrulous, and each 
 recounted some wonderful or thrilling adventure of the 
 revolutionary- war ; and the old ladies told tales of priva- 
 tion and suffering, and interwove with them the histories 
 of fathers, brothers, or lovers, who died for liberty. 
 
 Mrs. N was sobbing convulsively, when her husband 
 
 came round, and touching her shoulder, whispered, 
 
 " My love, shall we have dancing ?" That word, with its 
 ludicrous association, fairly threw her into hysterics, and 
 she laughed and wept at once. 
 
 When she became quiescent, Mr. N thus addressed 
 
 the company: 
 
 " I fear, my friends, that you will think my wife a frivo- 
 lous, inconsistent creature, and I must therefore apologize 
 for her. We were married only last fall, and have attend- 
 
68 
 
 ed several gay parties, which our rich neighbors gave in 
 honor of our nuptials, and my wife thought it would be 
 genteel to give a dinner in return. I consented on condi- 
 tions, one of which was that I should invite the guests. 
 So, being a professed minister of Him who was meek and 
 lowly in heart, I followed to the letter his command, "But 
 when thou makest a feast, call the poor, the maimed, the 
 lame, the blind," &c ; you all recollect the passage. Mrs. 
 
 N , not knowing who her guests were to be, is highly 
 
 delighted with the ruse I have played, and I do not believe 
 there has been so noble and honorable a company assem- 
 bled this winter. My wife desired new furniture, lest we 
 should be deemed parsimonious, and I pledged myself to 
 expend one thousand dollars in a manner more pleasing to 
 our guests, and which should obviate any such imputation." 
 
 Then addressing the children, he said, 
 
 " You will each be removed to-morrow to excellent pla- 
 ces ; and if you continue to be industrious and perfectly 
 honest in word and deed, you will become respectable 
 
 members of society. To you, Dr. B , under God I owe 
 
 my life. I did not know your locality, neither had I heard 
 of your misfortunes, until a few days since. I can never re- 
 pay the debt 1 owe you, but if you and your daughters will 
 accept the neat furnished house adjoining mine, I will see 
 that you never want again. To you, patriot fathers, and 
 these nursing mothers of our country, I present the one 
 thousand dollars. It is just one hundred* dollars to each 
 soldier, and soldier's widow It is a mere trifle. No 
 
 thanks, my friends. You, Mr. N , are my father in the 
 
 Lord. Under your preaching I first became convinced of 
 sin, and it was your voice that brought me the words of 
 salvation. You will remain in my house. I have a room 
 prepared for you, and a pious servant to attend you. It is 
 time you were at peace, and your excellent lady relieved 
 of her burden." The crippled preacher fell prostrate on 
 the carpet, and poured out such thanksgiving and prayer. 
 
THE REV. JOHN M. MASON. 69 
 
 as found way to the heart of Mrs. N , who ultimatoly 
 
 oecame a meek aad pious woman, a fit helpmate for a de- 
 voted gospel minister. 
 
 ON THE PORTRAIT OP REV. JOHN iVl. iUASON, D. D, 
 
 BY REV. • WM. m'jIMSEY. 
 
 'Tis Mason's Portrait ! I behold him still 
 
 Whose voice the ear witli eloquence did fill, 
 When words of life forth from the Pulpit catne 
 
 In tones of power, through the Saviour's name. 
 His Memory lives, and is still enshrin'd 
 
 In the affections of the Christian mind. 
 On Memory's tablet we record the name 
 
 Of Genius, Science, Eloquence and Fame. 
 
 To many great and noble of the earth 
 
 He spoke the merits of the Saviour's worth. 
 Truth from his lips possessed Persuasion's voice, 
 
 And many hearts did in the word rejoice. 
 He warnings gave to Sion's many foes ; 
 
 His soul and thoughts with towering grandeur rose 
 When Sion's glory and Messiah's Throne 
 
 Were by his zeal to congregations shown. 
 
 Drawn by tlie Spirit, who Inspiration gives. 
 
 And for the world's salvation prays and lives, 
 Did he portray with freedom, force and power, 
 
 Salvation's triumphs in life'? p.arting hour. 
 His death was triumpli, and his name will live ; 
 
 He by his eflorts did an impulse give 
 ToJVirtue's cause, to Knowledge and to Truth, 
 
 And in Affliction did the mourner soothe. 
 
 His name is honoied, and wiU abide. 
 
 Borne down the current of Time's onward tide; 
 His soul was kindled by a life divine, • 
 
 And in his path did noble virtues shine. 
 In death he speaks, and from the world above 
 
 Come the sweet accents of redeeming love. 
 The Name and Memory of the just are bless'd 
 
 And endless glory is by them possess'd . 
 
70 GENERAL EDUCATION. 
 
 Or iginal. 
 
 GENERAL EDUCATION. 
 
 BY REV. I. M. M'AULeV, N. T. 
 
 Schools, Academies, Colleges and Universities, have done 
 much to bles^ our land ; but much still remains to be done. 
 In physical, intellectual, and moral education, how vast a 
 field lies uncultivated ! And the very part which deserves 
 the most, receives the least attention. The emotions, espe- 
 cially those relating to moral subjects, are of the highest 
 importance to the individual and to the community. 
 Educate man's bodily powers to a giant's strength, disci- 
 pline his intellectual powers until to force you add con- 
 summate art, and send him forth without moral principle 
 to check his passions and to control his powers, and you 
 send him abroad in himself unblest, and to all besides a 
 curse. " The great thing for man to learn is, now to do good, 
 AND to avoid evil." If SocTates had left no other thought, 
 his name would have been a star in the sky of, the past. 
 True are the words of Melville : " Let knowledge be gene- 
 rally diffused, and the" fear of God kept in the back-ground, 
 and you have done the same thing for a country as if you 
 had laid the gunpowder under its every institution ; there 
 needs but the igniting of a match, and the land shall be 
 strewed with the fragments of all that is glorious and 
 venerable." 
 
 When we cajl a man holy, we mean one who has more 
 h^ly feelings than wicked ; who is sorry when he sins, and 
 longs to be free from all sin. But when we say that God 
 is holy, we mean that he never had, and never can have 
 any sin. ^ 
 
LIGHT. 71 
 
 Original. 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 BY MISS C. A. FAT SON. 
 
 Darkness hung like a sable pall over the new created 
 earth. The sun rolled in gloom above each hemisphere 
 and obscurity, with its clouded drapery, enveloped the 
 world, and caused it to appear one vast chaotic mass. But, 
 a mandate proceeded from Him who has formed this mighty 
 universe — " Let there be light." Immediately, golden beams 
 proceeded from the hitherto darkened sun, which painted 
 the hue of the azure firmament, and spangled it with bril- 
 liant stars, that gleamed from their empyreal habitations 
 like gems of golden beauty. With bright splendor did the 
 light gleam on the happy bowers of sinless Eden. It pen- 
 cilled its flowers with rich and variegated hues, and 
 embellished its beauteous groves with a vesture of the 
 richest green. It touched with silver the white spray of 
 the fountain ; the glassy waters of thp lake mirrored back 
 its smiles, and all Nature seemed to be aroused to life and 
 aotion by its influence. 
 
 But when that blissful place was shaded with sorrow, in 
 consequence of man's rebellion, the rays of light sorrow- 
 fully gilded the dew drops that impearled every leaf, and 
 seemed the tears of angels lamenting the apostacy of 
 mortals. 
 
 When the Almighty's judgments had burst upon a sinful 
 world, convulsing all its inhabitants, save the "faithful 
 few," who inhabited the floating Ark, and had accomplished 
 their work of destruction, then the light arose to guide thfe 
 gentle dove to tfie green olive tree, where she plucked that 
 branch of peace which animated the father of the new 
 
72 LIGHT. 
 
 world, until his fears entirely ceased, by the appearance of 
 the beautiful " bow of promise" which rote on the dark 
 clouds of the storm. 
 
 Light guided the path of Moses, who led the chosen band 
 through the lone wilderness, and God himself gave a new 
 and additional lustre to that light by preparing a fiery pillar 
 to guide them in the darkness and deep gloom. 
 
 Wight's dark -shadows hung where lonely shepherds kept 
 their solitary vigils, when' brightly dawned on their sight 
 the star of Bethlehem, that guided to the spot where lay 
 cradled the infant Redeemer -, and joy swelled their notes of 
 praise as they sung of the love of Heaven for a guillr, 
 world, and as they chanted hymns of gladness for the birtt. 
 of the Prince of Peace. 
 
 When the wings of the tempest are spread abroad in 
 their wildness over the deep, and the mariner's bark is 
 compassless, he is guided over the foarfling waves and 
 safely brought to the desired haven, by the influence of the 
 unslumbering sentinel. Light. 
 
 It favors equally the just and the unjust ; the low and 
 the lofty; and beams as well on the humble flower that 
 blooms on barren wastes, as on the dew-glittering rose, that 
 unfolds its erubescent petals in the gardens of monarchs. 
 
 The birds rejoice in the dazzling rays. The flowers glow 
 with rich beauty in their dew-spangled arbors, as they bask 
 in its brightness ; and though often hid in transient gloom, 
 yet it is well calculated to declare the glory of God. , 
 
 When the starry gems of night fade away in the eastern 
 horizon, and the powerful and rosy gleams of morn pro- 
 claim the arrival of another day ; or when the moonlight is 
 streaming in brightness over valleys and mountains ; when 
 the stars, those "jewels scattered from the crown of the 
 Almighty," are flooding the sapphire vault with paths of 
 glorious light ; or when the heavens are paved with clouds 
 from which the lightnings flash, and lurk in the gloom ; 
 surely evidence is furnished of a higher, a nobler power, and 
 the irresistible conviction, that a Deity presides over these 
 
PEIENDSHIP. 73 
 
 scenes, must force itself on the minds of every unbeliever 
 The golden sun above is bright, and the flowers that deck 
 this world are beautiful, but brighter is the ray of light 
 emitted by religion ; fairer are the flowers that, seen by that 
 light, blossom in celestial regions. It can cheer amid the 
 most adverse circumstances, and almost inake a, paradise 
 of earth. 
 
 If then, light- is so necessar}';. what happiness and glory 
 must rest upon the homes of the blesseS, which are ever 
 enlightened and gladdened by the smile of God 1 What joy 
 must be their portion, who^have reached that happy, 
 happy land, where the rays of the sun and moon are not 
 needed, but where the "glory oTGod shall lighten it, and 
 the Lamb be the light thereof." 
 
 KINDNESS. 
 
 In whatever manifestation of its influence, the exercise of 
 kindness may be considered, it will always confer a rich 
 blessing upon the individual who directs it and the individ- 
 ual upon whom it is brought to' bear. Genuine kindness 
 never carries blight and ruin with it, like the.tornado ; it 
 always goes forth like thejight and heat of the sun, bearing 
 peace, joy, and syhjpathy to all whom it reaches. And 
 when it returns tonim who has eierted it, the rewards 
 which earthly things can form, are given him — or if he is 
 not in a situation to require assistance from those who have 
 felt the gentle dew of his affection, his soul is filled with 
 the calm and steady, but ecstatic thought that others have 
 been made happy by his actions. Kindness rewards its 
 followers abundantly, by cultivating their affections and 
 increasing their desires to become instruments of good in 
 their pilgrimage of life. 
 
 t 
 
74 SWEET VJOLET 
 
 SWEET VIOLET. 
 
 BY M. W. COE. 
 
 A GAUDT flower I would not bring, 
 To grace your am^anthine bower ; 
 
 Bat nature's simplest oiFeriiig, 
 
 Sweet emblem of affection's power. 
 
 Then let me place in your-boquet, 
 
 A violet love, though small the flower ; 
 
 It will not fade at close of day. 
 But lovelier look at every hour.- 
 
 Though clouds arise, and thunders dread, 
 And winds exert their utmost power ; 
 
 It bo^ws its unassuming head, 
 And brighter shines for storm and shower. 
 
 'Mid February's ice and snow, 
 
 Wheft nature looks around so bleakly, 
 I've felt my bosom warmly glow 
 ■ To see the blossom smile so meekly. 
 
 Ere nature has her mantle green. 
 
 Spread o'ar the earth of grass and clover ; 
 This little flow'ret may be seen, 
 
 For aught I know, the whole world over. 
 
 My little violet prettiest looks 
 
 Within some shady nook or cover ; 
 
 And I have read it in the books 
 'Tis much admir'd by friend and lover. 
 
 When gayer friends around you twine 
 Far brighter flowers, I murmur not ; 
 
 But when in sadness you recline, 
 I only ask — forget m1 not. 
 

THE HEIRESS. 
 
 » * 
 
 i BY THE AaTHOB OF ROSLIN CASTLE. 
 
 " Dear Mother !" cried Emily St. Clair, flinging herself 
 listlessly on a window couch in her mother's dressing rooirij 
 " how delighted I am that my cousin Augusta is really 
 comirg to reside with us i Such an heiress, and so beauti- 
 ful ! It will be one gala day with us when she comes. Of 
 course she is very fond of society, and will expect to^ be 
 perfectly at home with us, and have every whim gratified. 
 As far as lies in my power, she shall nevei; be thwarted. 
 No doubt she is very generous, and will bestow elegant 
 presents." 
 
 " I tliought what was coming," said her sister Sophia 
 archly, " when you declared you would never thwart her. 
 It is easy to bend to the will of those who " bestow elegant 
 pres'ents." For my part, I, shall say just what I think, be- 
 fore and to her. If I do not like her, I shall show it. If I 
 am pleased with her, I shall treat her politely, nothing 
 more. An heiress can aflTord to do without my panegyrics. 
 I have no doubt her brain is already turned by flattery." 
 
 '^ Poor girl," ejaculated their youngest sister, who, sitting 
 on an ottoman at their mother's feet, had been studying her 
 parent's countenance during the above conversation. " Poor 
 girl ! I am glad I am not an heiress ; flattered, obeyed, or 
 distrusted on account of my wealth. Did we not hear, mo- 
 ther, that cousin Augusta is as good as she is beautiful 1 
 I am sure I shall love her." 
 5 
 
78 the' heiress. 
 
 " I have no doubt you will, Caroline, for I have been told 
 by one v(rho knew her well, that she is uncommonly lovely 
 and loveable. An orphan has peculiar claims on our affec- 
 tion, independent of relationship. Think, my dear children, 
 on the isolated condition of Augusta, and ask yourselves if 
 money can compensate for those dear domestic ties of 
 which Providence has deemed best to deprive her. Your 
 father is her nearest surviving relative, and he is but her 
 half-uncle. We must all of us, by our tendeijness and at- 
 tention, endeavor to soothe and heal her lacerated heart. 
 How hollow, how agonizing, must the voice of flattery be 
 to her who mourns for those sweet familiar tones forever 
 hushed, below !" 
 
 A long pause followed these words of a good and noble 
 step-mother, who had been called to a garden of weeds, 
 which had rooted themselves too firmly for speedy removal. 
 Educated, herself, by a judicious parent, the faults of her 
 husband's children struck her most painfully. They had 
 been left to their own instincts by a worldly, dashing mother,, 
 who had just begun to tremble at Emma's maturing beau- 
 ty, which threatened to cast its shade upon her, when death 
 put an end to the rivalry, and consigned, her to the cold 
 realities of the grave. Her daughter was conscious of her 
 power, and openly complained of being kept in the nursery 
 after her seventeenth birthday. The Great Leveller of] hu- 
 man ambition removed the obstacle to her wishes, and af- 
 ter a year of decent show of grief, Emma started from her 
 forced obscurity, like the butterfly from its chrysalis, a giddy 
 beauty. Such Mrs. St. Clair found her, when introduced 
 to her new family. Happily for herself, as well as for her 
 housemates, Sophia was extremely plain in her appearance, 
 and finding herself neglected by Emma's thoughtless train 
 of admirers, was thrown upon her own resources for conso- 
 lation and £^musement. Her natural taste for literature had 
 free chance for improvement, and she devoted herself tp 
 mental culture with the zest of one possessed of a solitary 
 solace. 
 
THE HEIRESS, 79 
 
 The young, warm-hearted and sunny-tempered Caroline 
 was the hope of her parents. As the graceful floweret 
 turns its chalice to the warm beams of Heaven, so " turned 
 the guileless heart of this young child to the love 0/ her new 
 parent, and expanded and ripened under its holy influence. 
 The haughty selfishness of Emma, and suspicious self-will 
 of Sophia, often wounded the step-mother's heart, which 
 never turned in vain for solace, to the ipeek, confiding love 
 of Caroline. 
 
 When Mrs. St. Clair seconded her husband's invitation 
 to the orphan Augusta, she felt inexpressibly pained and 
 abashed, as she reflected on the dispQsitionSi of her elder 
 daughters, which seemed ill-adapted to making the lonely 
 heart forget its woes. Mr. St. Clair had gone to Boston, 
 for his niece, and she was expected to arrive on the evening 
 of this day, with which we have commenced our narra- 
 tive. 
 
 Emma had spent a longer interval than usual at her toi- 
 let, proud to show her cousin that she was her equal in 
 beauty, if not in those more solid gifts which enhance it. 
 Sophia was in a studied dishabille, which was intended to 
 ^announce to the new comer, her superiority of mind, her 
 contempt of wealthy importance, and her defiance of the 
 airs her cousin would undoubtedly assume. Mrs. St. Clair 
 understood this language of dress thoroughly, and secretly 
 hoped that her niece would be long in acquiring a know- 
 ledge of it. * 
 
 It was quite late when Augusta arfived. Actuated by 
 various motives, her relations hurried to the hall to meet 
 her. . Mrs. St. Clair pressed the orphan to her heart, while 
 Emma held the light close to her face, to disoep^ how 
 much she hiad to fear and envy ; whispering to the stern 
 Sophia, as she did so, " See Caroline, holding to her. bosom 
 the hand of the heiress." Augusta returned the polite 
 courtesy of Emma, and the cold bow of Sophia, with a look 
 of subdued sorrow, and allowed her aunt to unmuffle hw, 
 with a grateful smile on her pensive fape. 
 
80 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 The lovely, benignant countenance' of Augusta, half dis 
 armed the suspicious Sophia, who softened her asperity, 
 and forgot to chide Caroline for nestling so close to " the 
 heiress." Between these two a strong sympathy had al- 
 ready commenced, and to the astonishment of the over- 
 polite Emma, Augusta requested Caroline to be her room- 
 mate. " No doubt Caroline will feel highly honored," said 
 Emma, rudely answering for her mother, " but we were 
 afraid your apartment was already too limited and crowded 
 for an heiress."' " Oh, no," replied Augusta, " it is quite 
 large enough." A cloud rested on her brow as she spoke, 
 but it passed off as Caroline pressed her hand more warm- 
 ly, and said sweetly, " Dear cousin, I shall be too happy to 
 oblige you, if my mother thinks best." 
 
 Mrs. St. Clair gave her consent. As she kissed her niece, 
 before retiring to rest, she whispered, " I, too, dear Augus- 
 ta, am aij orphan. I trust to find a daughter in you, and 
 may God lead you to find a mother in me." The orphan 
 replied with her grateful tears, and was soon sleeping in 
 the arms of the. gentle Caroline. 
 
 The voice of Augusta awoke Emnia from, her late slum- 
 ber next morning, and caused her to hurry to the window 
 which overlooked the garden, where, to her surprise, she 
 saw her cousin simply attired, in a neat calico dress, busy 
 as a bee among the flowers. " Strange," soliloquized 
 Emma, " such an heiress should be up so early, and wear 
 calico ! But I suppose she thinks she can do as she pleases. 
 I shall pay homage to her in my embroidered crape. She 
 will no doubt expect me to be well dressed, as a compli- 
 ment to her." Accordingly, Emma sailed into the break- 
 fast room, behind the untidy Sophia, in full dress, and buried 
 her sister's slight, semi-disdainful nod, with a respectful 
 congee. With great adroitness, she turned the conversa- 
 tion in a channel through which her thoughts constantly 
 flowed. 
 
 " How strong and galling is the bondage of fashion," said 
 Augusta, in answer to a remark of Emma's, " yet how 
 
THE HEIRESS. 81 
 
 willingly the worldling bends beneath it. How ofitn we 
 see him hugging his chains, not because they are gold, but 
 because they glitter." 
 
 " Yes, that is true," replied Sophia, glancing proudly at 
 her careless costume. 
 
 "But you would not utterly rebel against fashion?" 
 asked Emma, aghast. " You, who are so able to obej'^ its 
 caprices to the very letter?" 
 
 " I shall certainly rebel against its caprices," replied 
 Augusta, smiling ; " I will never submit to be told how to 
 wear my hair or cut my gown, or what pattern it shall h6. 
 I shall yield so far as not to be conspicuous for oddity, not a 
 jot further." 
 
 " An heiress can do as she pleases," said Emma, " but we 
 "who must stand by our deserts alone, must be allowed to 
 be influenced by the voice of our judges." 
 
 " Not so," replied Augusta, in a low, serious tone," an 
 heiress may not do as she pleases. She must stand by her 
 deserts, uninfluenced by aught save the voice of duty. 
 Think you that God has thus lavished his bounties on me 
 for nothing ? I sit down to my full board, not to feast my- 
 self, but to break bread for others." As the heiress spoke 
 thus, she raised her eyes to heaven in speechless trust and 
 gratitude. So holy, so elevated was her countenance, none 
 would have been surprised had a halo played around her 
 brow. 
 
 Sophia dropped her book in silent admiration. " I was 
 wrong," she cried, virith her usual abruptness ; " I suspected 
 you of pride and conceit ; I see you have neither. I hope 
 you will forgive me." 
 
 " Forgive you ?" replied Augusta, drawing a deep sigh, 
 " certainly, but on condition that you no longer believe, that 
 to be rich is to be all that is evil. Many, very many, would 
 gladly throw off the heavy responsibility of their station, 
 did not duty bid them fill it with honor to Him who placed 
 them in it. It is no light thing to be God's steward. Bear 
 with the rich. Envy them not. Mistake them ngt. Give 
 
82 THE HEIRESS. 
 
 them your sympathy, the wealth of which they have the 
 least, and, believe, me it will seldom meet a poor return." 
 " I doubt it not," said Sophia. " I am glad that I know you 
 how. 1 shall judge all the wealthy by you." Augusta 
 smiled at these words, and withdrew. "To think," said 
 Sophia, as soon as the door closed behind her cousin, " that 
 I should have worn this old dress to mortify her pride ! 
 The noble creature !" " To think I should have worn this 
 crape, to flatter it ! I hope she did not mistrust my object," 
 cried Emma. " Dear Augusta !" said Caroline, " I never 
 thought you were proud." 
 
 " I trust, I believe, this lesson will sink deep in your re* 
 membrance," said Mrs. St. Clair. " It is generally those who 
 are proUd themselves, that find most fault with the rich. 
 They imagine them capable of all those petty vices of 
 which they themselves Would be guilty, had they the 
 chance. You spoke of your cousin's giving presents, Em- 
 ma ; thankful am I, for the beautiful moral gift she bestowed 
 this morning." 
 
 " Dearest cousin," cried Caroline, bounding into the 
 parlor, several months after her cousin's arrival, with her 
 hands full of flowers, and holding them uf. to Augusta, who 
 sat reading by the open window, " see what a beautiful pre- 
 sent I have brought you ! I have rambled over hill and 
 dale to find them, because I know you love wild flowers 
 the best. Here is one that Sophia says is a type of you ; 
 so purely white and beautiful, yet hanging so lowly on its 
 stalk, no one would mistrust it is spotted with gold." 
 
 As Augusta looked up from her book at the youthful 
 speaker, a warm beam of aflection played in her eloquent 
 dark eyes, and the flush of modesty crimsoned her cheek, 
 as she saw the floral type of herself. " And that beautiful 
 flower, twining around the stalk," said she playfully, " m*st, 
 I think, be a type of our Caroline, who has wound herself 
 so completely around my heart." 
 
 " Yes, to revenge you for stealing ours. It was only this 
 morning, Emma was saying she lovectjyou as an own sis 
 
THE HEIRESS. 83 
 
 ter, and declared she knew not which, to reverence the 
 most, the patient, resigned orphan, or the humble, generous 
 hearted heiress." 
 
 " See here," said Mrs. St. Clair, drawing their attention 
 from the confusion of Augusta, to something she held in 
 her hand. 
 
 " Admirable !" exclaimed Sophia, " you have caught the 
 expression exactly." 
 
 " How like our cousin !" said Emma. 
 
 " Dearest Augusta," cried Caroline, " mother has sketched 
 you, while you were looking at my flowers. Perhaps you 
 did not know she was famous at drawing, likenesses." 
 
 Augusta rose to look at her portrait. 
 
 " Edgar has asked me so often to sketch you," said her 
 aunt, " I could not resist the temptation to gratify him. As 
 you turned from your book, to look at Caroline's flowers, I 
 seized the chance. Will you consent to his having it 1" 
 
 " Certainly," replied Augusta, " his kindness to me merits 
 some return. When I think of all your goodness to me, an 
 orphan, I cannot be sufficiently grateful. Yes, every day, 
 I with gratitude perceive, that in the isolated, parentless 
 girl, you have entirely forgotten the heiress." 
 
 " My dear Augusta," said her aunt, " the possession of 
 the true riches has conferred a grace upon you that the 
 gems of Golconda could neither give nor buy. It is not 
 strange that we should forget, what seems so seldom to 
 have recurred to yO'Ufself, that the world counts you amongi 
 its fortunates, and is ready at any moment to bend to the 
 heiress." 
 
 Time matured the mental loveliness of the noble heiress, 
 who, in after years, bestowed her hand on the disinterested 
 brother of Mrs. SU Clair, for whom the sketch of Augusta 
 was taken. 
 
64 THE WINTER WREATH. 
 
 A WINTER WREATH. 
 
 BY MRS. L. a. AEELL. 
 
 Though few green leaves we find to mingle in 
 Our snowy garland, yes all the pearls and 
 Gems that glitter on the brow of night, we 
 Gather for our gift of love. 
 
 From every leafless limb 
 The feathery snow made up of crystal stars 
 Bends down like rich white plumes with their own 
 Weight of beauty; or else the jewel drops 
 And brilliant gems hang from the laden trees 
 Sparkling with every ray of light like costly 
 Diamonds on the robes of Kings — 
 
 The twinkling stars that 
 Seem to smile so archly, through the clear, 
 Frosty air, display their fairest charms in 
 The blue arch above. The full round moon comec 
 Forth in brighter hue, and as if Earth kept 
 Festival and she presiding Queen, lights 
 Up with her benignant smile the tiniest 
 Speck that lives beneath her ray. 
 
 A pure white robe is spread 
 Over each hill and dale of Earth and of all 
 The faded worn out garb of summer is 
 Concealed beneath a pearly covering 
 Eknblem of perfect purity ; then stealing 
 Down soft as an Angdl's wing, the tracing 
 Of shadows fall, and lie in deep repose 
 Picturing the Earth with trees and landscapes fair 
 True as daugeretype. 
 
 This light and shade, more perfect far than 
 Painter's skill makes every scene a picture 
 Bright on Nature's evening scroll — 
 
 Oh, the full heart o'erburdened 
 With its sense of light and beauty, sighs in 
 Adoring solitude its own weakness 
 To endure so faint a glimpse of Heaveh. 
 
MATERNAL RELATIONS. 85 
 
 MATERNAL RELATION. 
 
 ' BY EBV. J. N. DANFORTH. 
 
 A WOMAN, anxiously concerned for her soul's salvation, 
 weeping for sin, or rejoicing in the -first dawn of mercy, is 
 to me a solemn and affecting spectacle, not only considered 
 in itself, but in its relation to the future. I think of th« 
 seeds of influence that lie in the depths of that heart, now 
 throbbing with new and peculiar emotions. That anxious 
 one may be a }'oung mother. If, while the proud Pharisee 
 curled the sanctimonious lip in scorn at the sight of a peni- 
 tent woman, weeping at the feet of Jesus, the Son of God 
 himself looked with condescending tenderness on the same 
 object, and spoke in encouraging tones to a heart crushed 
 in sorrow, let not the heavenly example be forgotten by 
 any of his followers. Men may call it weakness, but let us 
 be careful how we confound the distinction between weak- 
 ness of mind and acute sensibility. Was Pascal a weak 
 man ? Yet who more sensitive ! Had Cowper a weak 
 mind ? Yet what a bundle of sensibilities was he ! Was 
 Jeremiah weak because his lile was one continued scene of 
 drooping tenderness ? Were we to review the catalogue of 
 broken hearts that shade the biography of departed genius, 
 we should instantly abjure the sentiment against which I 
 contend. 
 
 But in woman pre-eminently the enduring virtuf^ of for- 
 titude is often combined with exquisite sensibility. Let her 
 then weep. She would not be woman without her tears. 
 She would not be penitent without grief for sin. And tears 
 are natural, affecting expression of grief. In woman, too, 
 we look for the development of the sterling qualities of 
 constancy and fidelity. Lavater says there is more heart 
 in the affection of woman, and more fancy in that of man. 
 Are such qualities connected with weakness of mind ? Let 
 
86 MATERNAL RELATIONS. 
 
 that constancy be sustained, and that fidelity be invigorated 
 by the grace of the Spirit, and a moral agency is produced 
 fit for the great work of educating the child for immortali- 
 ty. This is the mother's work. It is the sacred trust con- 
 fided to her by Him, who gave her not only her own being, 
 but that of her children. To her are committed the first, 
 the most trusting, and most impressive, because the most 
 tender years of life. "_ It will be confessed," says Dr. Paley, 
 "that the subject and matter of this class of family du- 
 ties, are inferior to none in utility and importance ; and 
 where, it may be asked, is virtue the most valuable, but 
 where it does the most good ? What duty is the most obli- 
 gatory, but that on which the most depends ? And where 
 have we happiness and misery so much in our power, or 
 liable to be so afieoted by our conduct, as in our own 
 families ?" 
 
 And who has the family in her power ? The mother. 
 The good order and happiness of the world depend on the 
 good order and happiness of families. This is the original 
 and simplest form of government. The family sceptre is 
 shared between the father and the mother; the king and 
 queen of the miniature kingdom. But the mother has the 
 first and almost exclusive wielding of it. She holds in her 
 arms, subordinately considered, the destinies of kingdoms, 
 the fate of republics, the empire of mind, the means and in- 
 struments of religious happiness, the disposers of war or 
 peace, all that is to become predominant power, all upon 
 which depend the movement and management of the com- 
 plicated machinery of human affairs. This honor and oc- 
 cupation hath God given her, as if to sweeten the hours of 
 domestic retirement, and relieve the painful recollection of 
 the fact that she took the lead in the apostacy from the first 
 estate. How important, then, that the influence of mothers 
 should be a good influence ; that the lessons of early in 
 struction should be righteousness I The responsibilities of 
 their condition should be deeply studied, and diligently dis- 
 charged ! But how can this be unless the heart is regene- 
 
MATERNAL RELATIONS. 87 
 
 rated, the affections rectified, and the whole scul animated 
 by the high impulses of Heaven to the discharge of those 
 sacred duties which Heaven imposes ? 
 
 The toother of -Alfred the Great, seeing how his father 
 was neglecting the mental improvement of his son, Adgoi:- 
 ously undertook the task, after he was twelve years old, of 
 teaching him that knowledge, which gave a tone to the 
 mind, that afterwards directed fifty-irf-x victorious battles, 
 sent its renovating influence through all England, and ac- 
 quired him not only the title of the Great, but of the 
 Founder of the English Monarchy. 
 
 DoBDRiDGBj renowned and venerable name ! said of his 
 mother, that " she taught him the history of the Old and New 
 Testament before he could read, by the assistance of some 
 Dutch tiles in the chimney of the room, where they sat ; and 
 her judididus reflections on the stories there represented. 
 Were the means of making some great impressions on his 
 mind, which were never obliterated." 
 
 Who does not know how much John Newton attributed 
 to the instructions given him by his mother at four years of 
 age, and the interesting connection between his history and 
 that of Thomas Scott, the enlightened and judicious ex- 
 pounder of the oracles of God. 
 
 DvviGHT was a special object of maternal assiduity. , Mrs. 
 Dwight " found time, Without neglecting the ordinary cares 
 of her family, to devote herself with the most assiduous at- 
 tention to the instruction of this son," as well as the rest 
 of her numerous family. " It was a maxim with her," says 
 the biographer of this eminent American Divine, " that 
 children generally lose several years, in consequence of 
 being considered by their friends too young to be taught. 
 She began to instruct him almost as soon as he was able 
 -o speak." The task of educating the children chiefly de- 
 volved on her, in consequence of the extensive engagements 
 jf her husband in mercantile and agricultural pursuits. 
 The itopressions made upon his mind in infancy were ne- 
 
88 POLITENEiS OF MANNERS. 
 
 ver effaced. In a word, his mental habits might be said to 
 be formed before he was six years old. American mothers 
 remember this ! 
 
 Let Leigh Richmond close the selection from the catalogue 
 of those, who have had pious, pra^ying, faithful mothers. 
 How immense, then, their power ! How weighty their re- 
 sponsibility ! Woman is the instructress of the appointed 
 instructors of the human race. Oh mother, acquit thyself 
 well in thy humble sphere, for thou mayest affect the 
 world. Eternity will tell thy tale of joy or woe ! 
 
 Original. 
 
 POLITENESS OF MANNERS. 
 
 BY REV. W. M'JIMSEY. 
 
 Christian benevolence is the source of true politeness of 
 manners. Christian charity possesses a resistless charm. 
 Its eloqueftce speaks to the heart. It attains a superiority 
 to selfishness, prejudice and passion. It excites a sympa- 
 thy for affliction and suffering, and a desire to alleviate hu- 
 man misery and evil. The virtues of gentleness, of forgive- 
 ness, of generosity, of liberality of mind, of forbearance, of 
 magnanimity of sentiment and of conduct, so valuable to 
 society, and so honorable to human nature, flow from rec- 
 titude and benevolence of soul. 
 
 Politeness is an evidence of refined taste and of a good 
 education. External manners are pleasing when actions 
 are performed with proper disposition of heart. There is 
 a beautiful sentiment of a person of rank and distinction, 
 of another nation and of a former age, that worldly polite- 
 ness is an imperfect imitation of Christian charity. True 
 politeness arises from benevolence, sincerity and integrity 
 of heart It arises from a disposition to do good to all 
 
POLITENESS OF MANNERS. 89 
 
 within the sphere of our intercourse and influence. It is 
 manifested in society by gentleness and condescension, and 
 a disposition to promote the welfare and prosperity of all 
 around us, where our example may reach, in the intercourse 
 of life. It requires a just perception of propriety, good na- 
 ture, and self-denial. It wishes to improve society and th6 
 circle of friendship in which we move. It breathes the 
 spirit of love and candor. It is like the dew of Her- 
 mon and the dew-drops that descended upon the mountains 
 of Zion. It is manifested in life by love to our friends, and 
 riioderation to enemies. 
 
 Politeness requires more than external polish and court- 
 esy. These cannot please, if sincerity of heart and honesty 
 of purpose be wanting in the soul. It promotes the happi- 
 ness of society. It regards not only talents and fortune, 
 but has compassion for misery, and misfortune, and sorrow. 
 It respects the age, 'rank and circumstances of life. It is 
 the spirit of the Gospel. It is uniform and consistent in its 
 spirit and conduct. 
 
 The kind manners of gentleness are a charm in society. 
 The first impressions of beauty and youth are rendered 
 pleasing by attractive manners. These increase the beau- 
 ty and loveliness of woman. In domestic life, with mag- 
 netic power they draw heart to heart, and like the c^ain 
 of friendship, bind soul to soul. 
 
 Politeness of maimers leads to honor, wealth and distinc- 
 tion, and to success and happiness in life. It commands the 
 esteem, respect and admiration of the wise and good. It 
 sheds a lustre upon rank and station. It is pleasing in 
 youth and agreeable in age. It gives splendor to the ac- 
 complishments of life andj fascination to address. It gives 
 dignity, excellence and respectability to character. It gives- 
 gracefultiess to eloquence, energy to enterprise, pleasure 
 to learning, and an impulse to improvement. Politeness 
 is valuable to the Divine, to the Physician, to the States- 
 man, to the Scholar, to the Orator, to the Instructor of 
 
90 RULES FOR PEESERVING HEALTH. 
 
 youth, to all of every condition in life. It gives refinement 
 to taste, and advances knowledge, virtue and happiness. 
 " Be courteous," is the maxim of Christianity and the spirit 
 of Christian example. 
 
 RULES FOR PRESERVING HEALTH. 
 
 Habitual cheerfulness and composure of mind, arising 
 from peace. of conscience, constant reliance on the good- 
 ness of God, and the exercise of kindly feelings towrard 
 men. Peace of mind is as essential to health as it is to 
 happiness. 
 
 Strict control over the appetites and passions, with a 
 fixed abhorrence of all excess, and all unlawful gratifica? 
 tions. whatsoever. He that would enjoy good health must 
 be " temperate in all things," and habitually exercise the 
 most rigid self-government ; for every sort of vicious indul- 
 gence is highly injurious to health ; first, directly, in its 
 immediate effects on the body ; and, next, indirectly, in the 
 perpetual dissfl,tisfaction and apxiety of mind which it inva^ 
 riably occasions. 
 
 Early rising ; and in order to this, take no supper, or if 
 any, a very slight one, and go early to bed. The hour be- 
 fore bed-time should he spent in agreeable relaxation, or in 
 such exercises o?ily as tend to compose the mind aad pro- 
 ipote inwe^rd peace and cheerfulness. 
 
 Simplicity, moderation, and regularity, with respect to 
 diet. A judicious selection of the articles of food, the care- 
 ful avoiding «f unwholesome dainties, and whatever has 
 proved hurtful to the constitution. The quantity of food ' 
 should he proportioned to the amount of exercise a person 
 undergoes. Sedemtary people should be rather abstemious ; 
 their food should be nutritious, easy of digestion, and mode* 
 vate In quantity. Seldom eat anything between meals. 
 
RVLES FOE, yUESERVING HEALTH. 91 
 
 Abstain from the use of wine an^ other stimulants. They 
 may be employed to advantage in cases of extreme debility 
 or extraordinary labor ; but, under any circumstances, if 
 too freely or too frequently indulged in, they will most cer- 
 tainly impair your health and shorten your life. 
 
 Eat very slowly, with a view to the thorough mastication 
 of your food ; rather forego a meal, or take but half the 
 needful quantity, than eat too fast. . 
 
 Refrain from both mental and bodily exertion for a short 
 time after the principal meal, it immediate exertion be 
 required, only a slight repast should be taken instead of 
 the usual meal. Never eat a fi*!! meal when the body is 
 heated or much fatigued with exeseise. Wait till you are 
 somewhat refreshed by a sharti-Hl^val of repose. 
 
 Occasional abstinence. When the system is feeble or 
 disordered, diminish the quantity of your food, and allow 
 yourself laore time for exercise. In cases of slight indis- 
 position, a partial or a total fast will often be found the 
 best restorative. 
 
 Take no physio unless it be absolutely necessary. Learn, 
 if possible, how to keep well without it. In case of real in- 
 disposition, consult a competent medical adviser without 
 delay, and implicitly attend to his directions, so far as you 
 think he is fully acquainted with your constitution, and 
 with the best means of treating your disorder. Never risk 
 your health and life either by neglecting serious illness or 
 by tampering with quack remedies. 
 
 Gentle exercise should be taken regularly two hours a 
 day at l«ast ; and it must never be forgotten that cheerful- 
 ness is an essential ingredient in all beneficial exercisei 
 Mental relaxation in agreeable society, too* should be 
 sought as often as due attention to business and other imr 
 portant affairs will permit. 
 
 Let the chain of second causes, be ever so long, the first 
 ink is always in God's hand. 
 
92 
 
 THE APPLE TREE, OR CITRON. 
 
 SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY. 
 THE APPLE-TREE, OR CITRON. 
 
 No apples, according to our acceptation of the term, 
 grew in Palestine. It is therefore somewhat surprising 
 that our translators should have used the words apples and 
 APPLE-TREE. There is no tree which so exactly corresponds 
 with the account given in Scripture as the citron-tree, and 
 the lovely, golden-colored fragrant fruit for which it is dis- 
 tinguished. Here we may allude to those passages of the 
 Sacred Writihgs where the word taphuim, translated apples, 
 occurs and there we shall see exactly that the description 
 answers or applies to the fruit of the citron-tree. 
 
 Words fitly spoken are compared to apples of gold in 
 pdctures or baskets of silver. The first fruits were present- 
 ed by the Jews in baskets of silver in the temple. The 
 golden color of the citron-fruit leads us to believe that this 
 fruit constituted the apples presented in silver baskets, and 
 i»troduced so poetically into the figure of the inspired 
 writer. 
 
SLANDER A MONSTER. 93 
 
 SLANDER, A MONSTER. 
 
 BY PHILO. 
 
 Slander, in the common acceptation of the word, is false 
 accusation, or a malicious aspersion of the character. The 
 scriptures define it as " evil speaking." This is the oldest 
 and most malignant sin we know of. It was born in Para- 
 dise, if not in the very precincts of heaven itself. The im- 
 putation cast by Satan upon the Almighty, for interdicting 
 the use of the forbidden tree, filled our first parents with 
 discontent and unholy ambition, and they fell. The Saviour 
 charges Satan with being the author, and originator of 
 slander. " Lying, (he says) is of the Devil, who was a liar 
 from the beginning, and the father of it." . 
 
 Slander is the enemy of all goodness ; hence the virtuous 
 and the good have, in all ages, been the peculiar objects of 
 its vencfm. 
 
 " Her nature is all goodness to abuse. 
 And causeless crimes continually to frame ; 
 With which, she, guiltless persons may accuse, 
 And steal away the crown of their good name." 
 
 How shall we describe this odious vice ? what colours 
 shall we choose to delineate its character, and depict 
 its deformity ? In the great storehouse of the imagina- 
 tion we shall scarcely find materials for this work. We 
 cannot find language sufficiently glowing and graphic to 
 do justice to the subject. Yet though we fail in the effort, 
 our time and labour will not be lost if we may but impress 
 our readers with the immeasurable turpitude and malig- 
 nity of this vice, and lead them to set their faces, as a flint> 
 against it. 
 
 Slander is the product of a wicked disposition and a cor- 
 rupt heart — ^it is the offspring of falsehood, malice, envy, 
 and pride. It is essential wickedness, embodying all the 
 6 
 
94 SLANDER A MONSTER. 
 
 most malignant and deadly elements of sin. It displays 
 the spirit' of evil in all its power and malignity ; in its 
 power to blast the tender buds of virtue, its malignity to 
 poison the fountains of peace and happiness. Slander is 
 the outpourings of a malicious spirit, the droppings of a 
 foul, infectious tongue, which falls like mildew upon the 
 soul. It is the poisonous breath of a fiend — the fire of hell 
 which inflames the tongue and sets the world on fire. 1 
 is the upheaving of a mind consumed with passions : rest- 
 less as ever burning craters, sending forth from its boiling 
 entrails those fiery streams which blight and consume all 
 that is fair and lovely. In the slanderer we find what we 
 should scarcely expect to find in any person, the coinci- 
 dence and concentration of all evil qualities ; pride, envy, 
 hypocrisy, treachery, . malice and cruelty. Such a com- 
 pound of all the vices, needs some disguise to conceal its 
 loathsomeness aijd deformity. It would not be tolerated in 
 an enlightened community, were it seen in" all its detested 
 qualities and frightful enormities. 
 
 To whatever we may attribute this delusive itch for evil 
 speaking ; whether to natural cruelty of disposition, and a 
 love of mischief, or to an envious, jealous temper, impa- 
 tient of merit and superiority in others — whether to vile 
 ambition or insatiate lust — to which of these causes we at- 
 tribute this loathsome contagion, true it is, its growth and 
 progress is as injurious as it is disgraceful to a civilized 
 people. To pass an ill-natured reflection on a well-meant 
 and innocent action — ^to condemn a person for a word spo- 
 ken inadvertently or in jest — to rob an innocent man of his 
 character and good name, a jewel which he has toiled many 
 years to purchase, and which he would probably hazard 
 every thing to secure — to rob an innocent man of peace, 
 and a dependent family of bread, and all out of mere ca- 
 price and wantonness, and often from worse motives, is 
 such a complication of wickedness, and such a perversion 
 of the noble powers of the mind, as cannot fail to excite the 
 deepest disgust and incur the heaviest censure. 
 
SLANDER A MONSTER. 95 
 
 Numerous are the vehicles employed to prepare, and 
 circulate the poison of slander ; and often the infusion is so 
 subtle and skilful that it can only be discovered by its 
 effects. There are more private and secret ways of wound- 
 ing another's reputation as well as those which are more 
 open and public, each of which we shall cursorily notice. 
 Strange as it may seem, the poison is often conveyed by 
 THE MERE EXPRESSION OF THE COUNTENANCE, or by Certain Sig- 
 nificant gestures well known and understood. To but a 
 casual observer, the workings of the passions are plainly 
 discernible in the human countenance — the thoughts and 
 feelings are as strongly imprinted there as though written 
 with a pen or expressed wtA the tongue. Especially, the 
 darker and more unlovely passioms -are exhibited as shades 
 in a picture, or as clouds seen in a clear night passing over 
 the moon. Sla-nder lurks in every f«arture, and speaks in 
 every expression. When no word is spoken, the counter- 
 nance is telling tales and hinting at imperfections, and 
 emblazoning crimes. A slur ha« been put upon the purest 
 character, and the best actions, by a look which none could 
 fail to interpret. Doubts have been raised respecting the 
 honesty and integrity of such as are above reproach, by a 
 knowing wink of the eye, the peculiar movement of the 
 head, or a significant shrug of the shoulders. Who can tell 
 what injury has been done by a scornful toss of the head, 
 an adroit twirl of the fingers, or a mysterious whisper? 
 The effect has been like the stroke of the basilisk or the 
 sting of the scorpion. An expression of astonishment, or 
 of apparent sympathy and pity — a question proposed with 
 a certain air and manner— a solemn oh! or, oh dear!— a 
 heavy sigh, of. hysteric laugh, each have in their turn done 
 incalculable mischief, awakening siuspicion, impairing con- 
 fidence, and begetting prejudice. An expression of pity 
 has raised a feeling of contempt — a look of scorn and dis- 
 pleasure has brought down upon the head of many a 
 worthy person a shower of base epithets and a strt-m of 
 disapprobation. The solemn and measured tones of some 
 
96 SLANDER A MONSTER. 
 
 Simon Pure have produced the settled conviction that there 
 was some mischief brewing, or something radically wrong, 
 which time would disclose. The mysterious looks, and 
 simpering speeches of some wretched gossip — the spasmo- 
 dic fits of horror into which the righteous sometimes fall — 
 the holy grimaces, sour looks and petulent zeal of the over- 
 righteous ; all these have a powerful sympathetic influence, 
 and are attended with most pernicious effects. 
 
 Thus fruitful in expedients is slander ; thus it vents and dis- 
 guises itself. Thus does it lie in ambush, and without any 
 formidable accusations, or open demonstration of malignity, 
 silently diffuses its venom, and works the ruin of thousands. 
 Who can successfully guard against such a subtle and co- 
 vert enemy ? Who can detect the formidable evils which 
 lie in ambush ? 
 
 Slander does not confine itself to this covert and silent 
 mode of attack, but embodies, and displays itself more fully 
 in words, in language known and read of all men ; yea, she 
 fills her mouth with lying words. 
 
 Her words are not as common words are meant, 
 
 T' express the meaning of the inner mind ; 
 
 But noisome breath and poisonous spirit, sent 
 
 From inward parts, with cankered malice lined. 
 
 If SO much mischief and malice are couched in the varied 
 expressions of the countenance, what evils dire must flow 
 from the open and unblushing scandals of the tongue, sub- 
 ject to no caution, and governed by no restraints ! If the 
 former resertibles " the arrow which flieth by night," and 
 " the destruction which walketh in darkness," this is " the 
 pestilence which wasteth at noonday," sweeping all before 
 it, and levelling, without distinction, the good and the bad. 
 The first form of slander we mention under this head is 
 WHISPERING, to which reference is made in scripture. This 
 consists in speaking of one's failings in private. This is 
 generally done in a confidential way, to some particular 
 friend ; thus the story creeps along, and spreads like an in- 
 fection till the public mind is irremediably tainted. Back- 
 
SLANDER A MONSTER. 97 
 
 BITING comes next in order ; the thing explains itself. Per- 
 haps more have suffered in their reputation by backbiting 
 than by public accusations. Against the latter we may 
 arm ourselves ; but being ignorant of the designs of the 
 backbiter, we are taken unawares. Tale-bearing is a 
 more open form of defamation. The tale-bearer is the 
 grand carrier of news for the information of the curious, 
 and the gratification of the malicious. The whisperer, the 
 backbiter and the tale-bearer, are among the most odious 
 and mischievous characters in community, and they should 
 be abhorred and shunned as a pestilence. 
 
 The grossest form of slander is that of raising or spreading 
 false and injurious reports. This is the most common and 
 perhaps the most malignant form of slander. Detraction is 
 another mode of slander. This consists in robbing a per- 
 son of the praise to which he is justly entitled. Flattery 
 is another form of slander still. A flatterer represents per- 
 sons and things otherwise than they are, and thus hurts the 
 credit of an individual by an excess of praise, as much as 
 the detractor diminishes it by withholding what is due. 
 Such are some of the more common and odious forms of 
 slander. It would require a volume to delineate this mas- 
 ter vice ; to trace its serpentine course, and describe its 
 manifold operations. Like a ravening fiend it delights in 
 rending and tearing its victims, and subjects them to th« 
 tortures of a lingering death. 
 
 " His pillow is the peace of families 
 Destroyed, the sigh of innocence reproached, 
 Broken friendships, and the strife of brotherhoods." 
 
 Such is slander — a monster in form, in shape, in disposi- 
 tion and in deed ; a loathsome, unsightly thing, ruled by a 
 spirit whose malignity is equalled only by its ferocity. His 
 tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity ; it is a vast receptacle 
 of evil into which streams of evil thoughts and unholy pas- 
 sions are continually emptying themselves, from which 
 they are poured forth on community, spreading ruin in all 
 directions. " He sleepeth not ex(tept he have done mischiefi 
 
98 SLANDER A MONSTER. 
 
 and his sleep is taken away, unless he causes some to fall.'* 
 He numbers the midnight hours, devising mischief, or, 
 
 " Nightly by his horrid forge he stands, 
 Fabricating lies." 
 
 Now he may be seen wending his way, in silence, whisper- 
 ing in the ear of night, and peopling solitude with strange 
 fancies and forms of hidden evil— now following with 
 stealthy step some good man's track, and shooting in the 
 dark. Now, in babbling mood, and carrying his tales from 
 door to door — now surrounded with a gaping throng, tick- 
 ling their ears with strange stories of evils done or imagined, 
 or filling them With lies most infamous and improbable ; now 
 he is seen cringing and fawning in presence of the great 
 and powerful, flattering their vices — now dallying with 
 the young, feasting their imagination with obscene pic- 
 tures — now sighing and simpering in the ears of female 
 gossips, who start and stare at his strange recitals ; and 
 now he is seen " riding on the posting winds, belying all 
 the corners of the world." 
 
 "Peace flees the neighborhood in which he makes 
 His haunts ; and like amoral pestilence. 
 Before his breath the healthy shoots and blooms 
 Of social joy and happiness decay." 
 
 Almost every other vice meets with its due desert ; but 
 slander, perhaps the most odious and ruinous of them all, 
 in most instances goes undetected and unpi^nished. The 
 robber is consigned to prison, and the assassin to the gal- 
 lows ; but the slanderer, the infamous defamer and de- 
 stroyer of character, escapes by paying a paltry fine of a 
 few dollars. Neither human nor divine wisdom has provi- 
 ded any adequate check or punishment in this world, for so 
 great an evil. In no day, perhaps, has this baneful infec- 
 tion been so widely spread and operative as the present 
 The freedom and boldness with which the characters of 
 men are handled, both in public and private life, is one of 
 the most alarming symptoms of degeneracy. Even the 
 angel Gabriel, when disputing with the Devil for the body 
 
SLANDER A MONSTER. 99 
 
 of Moses, did not venture to bring against him a railing 
 accusation; but men, more bold and fearless, "rush in 
 where angels feiar to tread." Even children and youth are 
 infected with this spirit to an alarming degree. The evil 
 has entered the church, and laid waste the heritage of 
 God. The sacred name of brother, and the honourable ap- 
 pellation of Christian, no longer commands respect or conci-ji 
 liates esteem and kindness, as once they did. The great 
 sympathetic chord, by means of which the warmth of 
 Christian friendship is maintained, and which, under the 
 gentlest impulse, communicates a thrill of pleasure, seems 
 broken, and yields liitle else but discord and pain. Alas ! 
 that those professing the religion of Christ, and called by 
 his meek and lovely name, should ever be seen tearing in 
 pieces the character of their brethren, with the eager- 
 ness of bloodhounds, and the rapacity of tigers. 
 
 Love is the queen of the graces-^where this is found the 
 other graces will be seen in its train. The heart in which 
 this chiefest and loveliest' of virtues reigns, is assimilated 
 to God. " Whosoever loA'^eth is born of God, for God is 
 love." The spirit of Christ is eminently a spirit of love 
 and kindness. This was manifested in all his intercourse 
 with men. The apostles and primitive Christians showed 
 that they possessed a large measure of this spirit — whence 
 the world took knowledge of them, and said, " See how 
 these Christians love one another" Doubtless, a mea- 
 sure of this spirit has been found in the church of Christ in 
 all ages, but we are far from thinking that this is the golden 
 age of its brightest manifestations. While much zeal is 
 manifested, and efforts are making to spread the gospel of 
 Christ among the heathen, it -must be evident to all that 
 there is a great decline of brotherly love and true christian 
 affection in the church ; so that if Christ should send a 
 fresh message to christians of this land, it would probably 
 be in the language addressed to the church at Ephesus : 
 ' I know thy works, and thy labour, and thy patience, ne- 
 vertheless I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast 
 
loo QUALIFICATIONS AND RESrONSIBILITIES OF TEACHERS. 
 
 LEFT THY FIRST LOVE." Whither — oh! whither has the an- 
 gelic spirit of charity fled ? , That charity which " think- 
 eth" and " speaketh'* no evil — which, while it " rejoiceth 
 not in iniquity" " covereth a multitude of sins." Return, 
 return, thou lovely spirit, and take up thy lasting abode in 
 our bosoms, and we will grieve thee no more ! 
 
 QUALIFICATIONS AND RESPONSIBILITIES OF TEACHERS 
 
 BY SALEM TOWN, ESa. 
 
 Two points of deeper interest or more weighty con- 
 sequences could not have been propounded. We have 
 only to look at the business of Teachers, and contem- 
 plate the iNFiiUENCE of their instructions, in subsequent 
 life, to be satisfied they occupy a station of fearful re- 
 sponsibility. Their qualifications, of couvse, should be 
 such, as will combiiae every desirable requisite, in secur- 
 ing a happy issue, in their ultimate results. Natural 
 and acquired ability are, perhaps, equally essential, to form 
 a good and successful Teacher. If he is perfect master of 
 all those branches taught in schools, and at the same time 
 is deficient in such natural qualifications, as render him 
 familiar, engaging and communicative, his counsels and in- 
 structions may fall on the bar, but the impressions of the 
 MIND will mainly be lost, for want of interest in the manner 
 of communication. No principle of our nature is more 
 clearly developed, than the connexion between attention 
 and improvement. When the former is secured, 'the latter, 
 is almost a matter of .course. Teachers should, therefore,, 
 possess a kind' of native aptitude, superadded to every lite- 
 rary requisite. These qualifications combined, rarely fail 
 to win the affections, and secure the implicit confidence of 
 
QUALIFICATIONS AND RESPONSIBILITIES OF TEACHERS. 101 
 
 the pupils ; and, as a consequence, predispose them to re« 
 ceive instruction, with pleasurable anxiety. Under these 
 circumstances, the Teacher has the entire controll of all 
 the moral and literary susceptibilities of his pupils, and 
 can, if he choose, mould the former just as he pleases, and 
 awaken the latter to the most vigorous efforts. It be- 
 hooves Instructors, therefore, to be perfect models, in man- 
 ners and morals, and approved standards of correctness ; 
 for with the child, " the master says so," decides every 
 question. This single expression clearly unfolds the so- 
 lemn responsibilities of Teachers ; nor can it be denied, 
 that they are, instrumentally, responsible in a great de- 
 gree for the moral aijd literary character of their pupils ; 
 their standing in society, and the influence they exert in 
 subsequent life. Who, that has been an observer of the 
 diversity of moral training in different families, has not 
 seen this principle clearly exeinplified, in a life, more or 
 less, corresponding with principles thus early implanted ? 
 It is an every-day occurrence, which falls under common 
 observation, and should be regarded by Parents, Guardians 
 and Teachers, as a momentous admonition, in the proper 
 culture and training of youth. During the period of attend- 
 ance at school, the moral character, in ordinary circum- 
 stances, is so far advanced in its general outlines of 
 formation, that its completion is only maturing those prin- 
 ciples already imbibed ; and the proper foundation for fu- 
 ture literary attainments rests, almost exclusively, on the 
 strength and correctness of early taste. 
 
 For the implanting of such principles then, as tend to 
 the formation of excellency of character ; the inspiring of 
 sentiments, noble and manly ; cultivating and maturing a 
 correct taste ; the Teacher is largely responsible. The very 
 thought, that our common school Teachers do, in the aggre- 
 gate,' controll the morality and literature of the nation ; 
 that the whole mass of mind in community is, in a great 
 measure, under their moulding care ; that they are instil- 
 ling those principles of action, and planting those germs of 
 
102 VAIN PURSUITS. 
 
 virtue, which under their culture are to grow up into na- 
 tional character, is enough to make any man tremble, under 
 tte weight of such fearful responsibilities. These are not 
 speculative chimeras, but matters of sober fact. No class 
 of men, nor profession in society can be named, whose in- 
 structions bear any just comparison, in the great scale of 
 human intercourse, or whose influence flows in a channel 
 deeper or broader, than common school Teachers. Their 
 responsibilities can be measured by nothing short of the 
 entire results of those precepts, and that moral and literary 
 training of childhood, carried out in all their bearings on 
 society, and often extending to future generations. Who 
 is sufiicient for these things ? Yet the Teacher is obliged 
 to sustain them. How much they need the sympathies, 
 and efficient co-operation of every citizen ! Their labors 
 are arduous and indispensable. No profession merits a 
 more liberal remuneration, or is entitled to higher respects. 
 The spirit of the people must be aroused ; and it is ardently 
 hoped, a voice may go forth, long and loud, and reach 
 every section of our country, and turn every eye towards 
 this grand palladium of our nation's hope, this redeeming 
 principle in our Nation's Character. 
 
 VAIN PERSECUTION. 
 
 During the reign of Diocletian, in the third century, the 
 Christians were persecuted by the Heathens for ten years, 
 with scarcely mitigated horrors ; and such multitudes were 
 massacred in all parts of the empire, that at last the im- 
 perial murderers ventured to erect a triumphal column, 
 bearing the barbarously boastful, yet false inscription, that 
 they had extinguished the Christian name and superscrip- 
 tion, and restored the worship of the gods to its former 
 purity and splendor ! Where are their gods now ? 
 
A THRILLING ACCOUNT. 103 
 
 A THRILLING ACCOUNT. 
 
 I SAT alone in my study, on a cold knd blustering night 
 in December, having laid aside the book I had been read- 
 ing, and was ruminating on some of the scenes I had wit- 
 nessed during my ministry, when my door was opened by 
 my domestic, who said, " Walk in sir," and closed the door. 
 I looked up, and before me stood a tall and well-formed 
 man, whose auburn locks hung carelessly around his pale 
 ajid youthful face. There was in it an unusual blending 
 of mildness and agitation. I looked upon him, and loved 
 him. " My son," said I, " your business must be more than 
 ordinarily urgent, or you would not be abroad on such a 
 
 night." Stepping hurriedly to my side, " Mr. ," said 
 
 he, " for God's sake come, or my brother"— he sprang to the 
 door, and opened it ; while I, partaking of his feelings, 
 threw on my cloak and hat, and followed close behind him. 
 Not a word was said by either of us, until after turning 
 several corners, we stopped at a respectable looking house, 
 opened the hall door, walked up stairs, and just as he ush- 
 ered me into the first room, said, " Softly, sir." The room 
 was warm and comfortable, and the first object presented 
 to my view was a bed with some person lying upon it, and 
 near to it sat a delicate, pale young lady, apparently not 
 more than 14 years of age, weeping, who I took'to be the 
 sister of my guide. She arose at our entrance ; first giving 
 me her hand in token of welcome, then reached me a chair, 
 and pointed me to be seated. Although we made but little 
 noise, it was the means of aM^akening the invalid. " Mo- 
 ther, my dear mother, have you come at last ? O ! I have 
 wish'd so much for you, that you might again speak those 
 words of PEACE to your thoughtless boyi Oh, that 1 had 
 only done it-^with all my might— but alas, it is too late !" 
 The brother and sister wept bitterly ; when the former, clasp- 
 
104 A THRILLING ACCOUNT. 
 
 ing the hand of the individual, who appeared to be but little 
 
 older,) said, " My brother, Mr. has come to see you." 
 
 As I approached, he sat himself upright in the bed, with as 
 much ease, to all appearance, as if he had been well ; and 
 to their entreaties to lie down, his ear was deaf. He said 
 he felt perfectly able, although he had not done as much 
 for several weeks previous. " 0, sir," said he, " how kind 
 you are to come so soon. I was afraid I should not see you." 
 " Well, my young friend," said I, " what service can I ren- 
 der you 1" " A great deal," he replied. " We are the or- 
 phan children of your early friend and schoolmate. Do 
 you remember Mr. ? We have often heard our pa- 
 rents speak of you with great affection. I, by accident, 
 heard your name mentioned to-day ; and now, before I die, 
 I want to exact a promiise from you. Deny me not. I want 
 you to love my dear little sister and brother as I have loved 
 them ; speak, and I am ready to die." " My child, you are 
 here with us yet, and I see no reason why you should 
 think of leaviflg us at this time. Is it because you are so 
 well prepared to meet the Judge of all the earth ? Is it 
 because those dear parents have gone to hear the welcome 
 approbation, ' Come, ye blessed of my father V Are they 
 waiting, at the right hand of the Saviour, with open arms, 
 to receive you ?" " No, no, no, not tBis ; but my time has 
 come ; soon I shall be where my warning voice can no 
 more be heard by these, pointing to the orphans. Hear 
 me now for the last time ; and oh, take warning. Raise 
 me up, and do not interrupt me, while I recite my history. 
 We were once what the world would call a happy family. 
 By gome means, I know not how, my mother became a fol- 
 lower of the Saviour ; she was entirely changed, as far as 
 the world could judge of her actions. For this I felt 
 grieved ; I often found her weeping, and remember telling 
 her once, that I did not think that religion could make any 
 one happy , for she did not look as cheerful as formerly. 
 Her reply was, ' If you and your father were as happy as 
 I am, I should not so often have cause to we6p ; but when 
 
A THKILLING ACCOUNT. 105 
 
 I think of the awful eternity to which you are hastening, I 
 MUST BE SAD.' But I determined to follow my father, and 
 do as he did ; I therefore watched him closely. It is true, 
 I often thought of religion, and more particularly after my 
 dear mother had been talking or praying with me. Not 
 unfrequently, has she taken us together with her, to some 
 secret place, and read from her treasure, the Bible ; and 
 wept, and prayed with us ; and often has she taken me 
 alone. I fain would have staid behind, but she compelled 
 me to goi saying, ' My son, you must hear ; even if you for- 
 bear, I must do my duty, and point you the way to the 
 Lamb of God, even if you are determined not to follow ; 
 but remember, if you do not, where I expect to go, you ne- 
 ver can come.' I must be brief, for I want to tell you all. 
 I was unexpectedly surprised to see my father kneel and 
 pray with us. Now, thought I, it must be necessary to 
 have religion, in order to be saved ; for my father has, no 
 doubt, well weighed the matter. I now shall have no es- 
 cape ; both my parents will talk so seriously to me. O I I 
 wish I was a Christian. Notwithstanding my mother had 
 taught me the first principles of religion, I felt as though I 
 hardly knew how to commence. I was waiting from day 
 to day, expecting to have my dear father commence upoji 
 the all-important subject, but he did not— he never did — 
 and further, I have heard him censure my dear mother for 
 being so strenuous. At once I made my decision. Now, 
 thought I, for I was a close observer, my parents both 
 have what is called religion, but -how different they are ! 
 no doubt they will both go to heaven when they die. It is 
 most convenient for me to be like my father ; for I can serve 
 God and the world at the same time ; not that I ever saw 
 my dear parent commit a wicked act ; no, he was strictly 
 a moral man in all his dealings. Yes, he was — I can now 
 see it more than ever. I commenced, I prayed, I attended 
 upon the means of grace as far as my feelings led me, for 
 CONSCIENCE was my guide. I even professed to have obtained 
 a hope, and, for aught 1 know, passed for a Christian ; and, 
 
106 A THRILLING ACCOUNT. 
 
 TRULY, my conscience told me I was ; but in an evil hour — 
 oh, how shall I say it? my beloved father was seized with 
 a fit of apoplexy, and expired, with these words sounding 
 in my ears ; ' No hope^-no hope — in eternity.' My poor 
 mother, who stood by and heard the whole, fainted, and 
 was carried to her bed. She arose, to follow the corpse 
 to the grave ; but it was more than her wounded soUl was 
 able to bear ; she sank under it. Again she was carried 
 to her bed, from which she never rose. The ninth day from 
 that, her happy spirit took its flight, rejoicing in the hope 
 of a blissful immortality beyond the grave. We sat by the 
 bed incessantly, anxiously catching every sound which es- 
 caped her dying lips, but our grief was such that memory 
 has scarcely performed its office. However, her last words 
 have since sounded iii my ears — the last, in sleeping — the 
 first, upon waking — but they come too late for me. She 
 called us to her, and embracing us, said ; ' My children, I 
 am going home ; love each other as I have loved you ; fol- 
 low the Saviour ; and whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, 
 do it with thy might. Farewell !' She was gone." 
 
 He sank back upon his pillow, feebly uttering, " No 
 hope — no hope for me" — and death had done its work. 
 
 -Need I tell you, reader, that I took these drooping buds 
 to my bosom ? Oh ! I pressed them there ! and while life 
 remains, I shall tell them of a Saviour's love. 
 
 A. B. 
 
 Banish all malignant and revengeful thoughts ; a spirit, 
 of revenge is the very spirit of the devil; than which, 
 nothing makes a man more like him, and nothing can be 
 more opposite to the temper which Christianity was designed 
 to promote. If your revenge be not satisfied, it will give 
 you torment now ; if it be, it will give you torment here- 
 after. None is a greater self- torm enter than a malicious 
 and revengeful man. 
 
THE FOUNDATION OF HAPPINESS. 107 
 
 THE FOUNDATION OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 BY J. H. FONDA. 
 
 The pursuit of Happiness is an active principle of man. 
 The school boy, as he e^muses himself in chasing the hoop, 
 is in quest of Happiness, and finds it in proportion to the 
 pleasure derived from this healthful aniusement. The 
 young; man thinks he will drink plentifully from the foun- 
 tain of Happiness, when in the society of the young and 
 jovial ; but the Happiness which he finds there is " as the 
 morning cloud, and as the early dew it goeth away." The 
 avaricious man thinks, as he kneels by the heap of gold, 
 and counts it over, that he there can find Happiness ; but 
 she is not there. Well may the poet exclaim — 
 
 " Could we call all Europe ours, 
 With India and Peru ; 
 
 The mind would feel an aching void, 
 And still want something new." 
 
 The veteran thinks to find it at the domestic fireside, sur- 
 rounded by his wife and children ; who listen with atten- 
 tive ears to the recital of some favorite story. The man 
 of the world thinks that he shall see much Happiness when 
 enabled to say, " Soul, eat, drink, and be merry ;'' but no 
 sooner have these words escaped his lips, than Death may 
 be passing, and he falls before his unwelcome stroke. 
 Man no sooner begins to live than he is called to die, leav- 
 ing the avails of a life-time for the enjoyment of others, 
 and goes into the presence oi God, having his doom fixed 
 forever. There is no real Happiness in this world except 
 that whiclfts found in the religion of Jesus Christ. 
 
 " Precious Jesus ! what a treasure, 
 To a poor believing mind ; 
 
 Solid joy and lasting pleasure, 
 Here, and no where else, 1 find." 
 
MUSIC. 
 
 FAMILY CIRCLE 
 Tenderly. 
 
 ■while we sing Our 
 
 I, ■ r 
 
 pleas - ant eve - ning song. 
 
 I 
 
 :lr-s: 
 
 ^-"^c:, 
 
 -(S- 
 
 '-r 
 
 -Gt- 
 
 2. We come to own thy power divine. 
 
 That watches o'er our days ; 
 
 For this our gi-ateful voices join 
 
 In hymns of cheerful praise. 
 
 3. May we in safety sleep this night, 
 
 From every danger free, 
 Because the darkness and the light ^ 
 Are both alike to thee. w 
 
 4. And when the rising sun displays 
 
 His cheerful beams abroad, 
 Than shall our morning hymn of praise 
 Peclare thy goodness, God. 
 
'/■'■'- ' ' 
 
JKSnS APPEARING TO MART. 113 
 
 JESUS APPEARING TO M^VPi'/ 
 
 With a^Gteel Engraving. 
 
 "Not she with traitorous kiss, hpr Saviour stuiu;, 
 ■' Not she denied him with unholy tongue ; . 
 " She, while Apostles shrunk, could danger brave ; 
 " Last at his cross and earliest at his grave. 
 
 The heart of woman is the jiative seat of kindness, the 
 home of love ; lier bosom is ever warmed with that hidden 
 fire, whose fervor naught can" wholly chill. In every age 
 and country sheikhas been, dptingi^^ted for^entleness of 
 spirit and a heart to pity and succor the distressed. With^ 
 out the smiles and tender Ipve an^ sympathy of woman, 
 .this world would be a wilderness, and society would have 
 but few charms ; life itself but few attractions left. 
 
 The most ardent and devoted friend of Jesus, the one who 
 clung to him most firmly even in death ; the one to whom 
 he first appeared after his ResurrectionTOid who had the 
 honor of being the first witness of his Resurrection, was a 
 woman. This woman was Mary Magdalene, or Mary of 
 Magdala. Originally she was one of those unfortunate and 
 wretched females who had fallen from a state of purity, 
 and was looked upon as lost, equally to society and to vir- 
 tue. Speaking figuratively, doubtless, it is said that Jesus 
 " cast out of<her seven devils," meaning that he reclaimed 
 her from a course in which she seejijicd wholly ^iven up to 
 sin and the power of tlie devil. When,suCh an one is con- 
 verted from the error of her ways, the vilest may not des- 
 pair, who copae to Jesus. The repentanqe of Mary w;as 
 manifestly as #ep and thorough as her love was great and 
 constant. While Jesus was dining at flie, house of a Phari- 
 see, this chiM of sorrow and guilt, doubtless, oppressed with 
 the weight of her. sins, and, having understood that Jesus 
 1 
 
114 JESTJS ArPEAUING TO MART. 
 
 " had power to forgive- sins," came and poured pre- 
 cious ointment on his feet, liissed them, bathed them with 
 her teai"*, a.ad wiped them with her flowing tresses. 
 Whether she had before found comfort in his words, or was. 
 now for the iirst time seeking it, her action and her emo- 
 tion testified the sincerity of her faith and repentance. The 
 compassionate Saviour commended her for her great love, 
 and sealed her pardon. After this she is mentioned among 
 the devoted followers of Jesus who administered to him of 
 their substance. 
 
 Mary Magdalene whs distinguished by being the first to 
 whom Jesus appeared after Tiis Resurrection. In this tct 
 spect she was honored abovjs all, the d^ciples, and preferred 
 even before the beloved John, the a:raent Peter, and even 
 his own mother. Twice did she visit the Sepulchre on the 
 morning of the Resurrection. Haviri% engaged with some 
 of the pious womettsto meet at the tomb of their Lord and 
 embalm his body, she preceded them a little and was the 
 first on the ground*: 
 
 " Love sought him first at dawn of mom, 
 
 From her sad couch she sprang forlorn ; 
 
 She sought to weep with thee alone. 
 
 And saw thine open grave, and knew that thou wert gone.* 
 
 Alone, Mary entered the Sepulchre, and finding the body 
 of Jesus gone, she ran in haste to tell Peter and John. 
 Shortly after her companions, Mary and Salome, arrived, to 
 whom an angel appeared, informing them of the Resurrec- 
 tion of Jesus, and directing them to convey the glad tidings to 
 the disciples. While these women returned to the city, Peter 
 and John came to the Sepulchre, followed by Mary Magda- 
 lene. This was her second visit. Peter explored the tomb,and 
 departed, but Mary remained riveted to the spot ; there she 
 gave vent to her sorrows in floods of tears. T^^-e-^she stood 
 weeping ;" and purer tears were probably lfe(yer shed, ex- 
 cept by him whose Joss she so deeply deplored. " As thus 
 she wept, she stooped dowTi and cast a despairing look 
 
JESUS APPEARING TO MART. H5 
 
 once moi'e amidst the gloom of that forsaken Sepulchrs. 
 and to her surprise saw two angels, who tenderly accosted 
 her, " Woman, why weepest thou ?" , Love's answer was ■ 
 ready. She replied, " Because they have taken away my 
 Lord, and I know not where they have laid him." The dis^ 
 consolate Mary knew not the power of God ; she knew not 
 that Jesus had risen, but mourned him as among the dead. 
 Turning herself, she saw Jesus, but knew him not. Doubt- 
 less he appeared in a»disguise, and assuming a tone and 
 manner not his own, thus addressed her, " Woman, why 
 weepest thou ? Whom seekest thou ?" He addresses her 
 as a stranger. Supposing he was the gardener, and that 
 h-e probably had removed the body of Jesus, she replied, 
 "If thou hast borne him hence, tell ine wh-ere thou hast 
 laid him, and I will take him away !" Jesus knew the heart 
 of Mary ; he saw the agony which rent her bosom, and that 
 her heart was ready to burst wifS sorrow ; he knew the 
 strength of her attachment, and he could not longer witness 
 her sufferings without jiffording relief.. Instantly throwing 
 off his disguise, he addresses her irj the tone and manner 
 which at once showed who he was, and filled her with joy 
 unspeakabl^e'. He simply pronounces her name — Mary ! 
 The well known accent of that gen.tle voice, which in the 
 time of her greatest distress, had assured her of forgiveness, 
 now vibrated o.n every cord of feeling and filled her soul 
 with ddight. 
 
 " Oh ! joy to Mary first allowed 
 Wheli roused from weeping o'er his shroad, 
 By his own calm and soothing tone, 
 Breathing her name as still his own." 
 
 What effect has not the bare pronouncing of one's name, 
 in a titpe of great sorrow, by some dear and tender friend, 
 had upon us. Jesus had but to pronounce the namr; of his 
 ,sufferin^ sc/rrowful disciple, and, in an ecstacy of bliss, she 
 cries out " Master !" What a moment was this to the heart- 
 broken, disconsolate Mary ! What a touching scene ! How 
 
116 JESUS APPEARING TO MART. 
 
 :^blime, and yet how tender ! There stands the 'risen Sa- 
 'piour, having broken the sceptre of death and triumphed 
 over the grave. He- appears first to her who most deplored 
 Mis loss, and earliest, and most earnestly sought to honor 
 him. Behold Mary, still upon her knees g.s when she 
 stooped to look into the Sepulchre, overwhelmed with joy 
 at the discovery she had made, and stretching forth her 
 atms to embrace her Lord and Master. Jesus wisely checks 
 the ardor of her feelings, and immediately puts her upon 
 the perforniance of her duty, as the first witness of his Re- 
 Mrrection. " Touch me hot," says he, " or rather, embrace 
 ine not, or cling not to me. Spend no more time with me 
 in joyful gratulations, for I am not immediately going to 
 my father ; you will have further opportunities of seeing 
 iltte again. Go and tell my disciples that I shall depart to 
 hiy Father, and your Father." 
 
 The double honor conferred on this woman, of being the 
 first to whom he appeared after his Resurrection and of being 
 Ihe first witness of his Re^urreCtio», shows plainly the high 
 Estimate in which she was held by the Saviour. He Who 
 l&eaded not contamination, when, as a 'W^eeping penitent, 
 i^e anointed his feet in the house of the Pharisee, did not 
 ftoV under- Value the tokens of true love which the purest 
 ■kiid most enduring friend^ip gave, but he showed how 
 ttfUch 'he htooreJd arid loved her, by making her the bearer 
 of glad, news to his desponding disciples. 
 
 " Weeping' slle stays till' he appear^ 
 HerwiiMEssriEST the Chubch must hear." 
 
 Those eyes which had been so long clouded with grief 
 amd dissolved in tears, now brightened with joy — ^the load 
 •f j|orrow was taken from her heart. Gladly she goes to 
 the disciples and relates v,'hat she had seen and heard ; but 
 her sta tements were regarded as idle tales, until supported 
 hy oth(.r testimony. The truth respecting the Resurrection 
 rf Christ is. gradually revealed, until the testimony is full 
 
THl. CLOSET. 117 
 
 and saJasfactoi'.y. An angel, first declares the event ; the 
 empty Sepulchre confirms' the woman's report. Christ's 
 appearance to Mary Magdalene showed that he was 
 alive — then his appearance to the disciples at Emmaus and 
 to the eleven, and the conviction given to Thomas, fulfy 
 demonstrated the fact of his Resurrection. 
 
 THE CLOSET. 
 
 Closet Prayer is the most essential, to the ipnaintenanoe 
 and growth of spiritual life. Our Saviour lays great stresp 
 upon this duty, and graciously promises to rewa,rd its faitlj- 
 ful performance. Taking it for granted his Disciples ap^ 
 prehended the necessity of prayer, he gives them specific 
 directions relative to secret closet prayer. " When thou 
 prayest, enter, into thy clospit, and when thou ha,st shut the 
 door, to prevent interruption, pray to thy Father, who is 
 in secret, and thy Fathei* who seeth in secret shall reward 
 thee openly." True there is no place where we may nqt 
 pray-we should pray always, and every where, "pray withr 
 out ceasing." But the most suitable place for solemn, ^t 
 seasons of devotion, is some retired spot or private apart- 
 ment, where no one will be likely to interrupt or disturb u^, 
 andno eye but that of the a,ll-seeing God is upon us-the Be-i 
 ing whose presence a,nd gra.ce wp seelt, 
 
 Those who content themselves with attending puUie, 
 social, a,nd faijiily prayer, and wholly neglect their closet^, 
 show plainly that it is not communion with God they seek, 
 but that they pray to be seen of men. Many think it enough 
 to visit God morning and evening— these visits aye a mere 
 
118 THE CLOSET. 
 
 hurried repetition of an oft-repeated prayer, to satisfy con- 
 science, but not to commune with God. Others think it 
 sufficient to pray in some strait or difficulty, when no one 
 else ci*n help them. They only visit the throne of grace 
 in a season of affliction, and God would not see their faces, 
 if necessity did not drive them to seek deliverance. The 
 communion which God loves, and will ble^s, is that which 
 arises from love to him ; such love as we have for a dear 
 friend, which draws us often into his presence, not because 
 we seek any special favor, but because we delight in his 
 society. Thus, to come to God when n"bt pressed with fears 
 ©r burdened with cares, but because we love him and can- 
 not be happy without him ; this is the communion which God 
 will reward with his special favor. Lovers, we know, cpvet 
 to be alone where they may freely communicate their 
 thoughts -and feelings; so those who love God love to be 
 with him ; they will not be satisfied without frequent visits 
 to their closets, where they may be alone with God, and not 
 suffer ordinary engagements to interfere with their seasons 
 of pl-ivate devotion. Like a certain good man, who when the 
 hour of religious retirement arrived, broke away from his 
 company, saying, " I have a friend that waits for me 1" 
 Those who truly love God, will leave all to meet and com- 
 mune with Him. 
 
 The best time to call upon God is when we are alone ; 
 then it is he draws very near and communicates himself. 
 Said Scipio, an illustrious heathen, " I have never better 
 company than when I h?ive no company ; for then I can 
 freely entertain my thoiights, and converse with all the 
 learned of former ages." We can have no better com- 
 pany than when alone, if God be with.us. So also we are 
 never in greater danger than when alone, and not with God, 
 for then Satan comes and plies his most fatal temptations, 
 With a view to overcome Christ, he took him into the moun- 
 tain ALONE. When alone, our dangers are the greatest, there- 
 fore our cries to heaven should be most vehement and 
 importunate. 
 
THE CLOSET. 119 
 
 The fittest time for secret prayer is the beginning of the 
 day, the early dawn ; for then we need fresh ronruits and 
 auxiliaries from heaven. No sooner do we open our eyes, 
 &an we should open our hearts to God. The early morn 
 is the fittest season for closet devotion, for then the mercies 
 of the night are the freshest and sweetest, which, after a 
 while, like flowers, lose their fragrance. God's mercies are 
 renewed every morning, so should be our praises. Fur- 
 ther, by entering on business without first calling on God, 
 we virtually declare we need not the Lord's assistance. 
 The neglect of this hour unfits us for family worship ; like 
 an instrument untuned, the heart does not vibrate to the 
 touch of the spirit. 
 
 Reader, do you pray in secret ? Do you meet God daily 
 in ybur closet, and hold sweet converse with him ? Alas, 
 that any should be shy of God. Men have no good reason 
 to shun God, but every inducement and encouragement te 
 seek his face — ^he is merciful, and long suffering, and wait- 
 ing to be gracious ; he invites all to come to him. And yet 
 many never enter their closets and worship God in secret. 
 No man would treat his best friend so. Is it that men are 
 ASHAMED or afraid to meet God a-lone ? What has God done, 
 that any should be ashamed of him ? Why should they be 
 afraid of their greatest benefactpr and friend ? When we 
 think what a privilege and honor it is, to .converse with 
 the High and Mighty Ruler of the universe, the God whom 
 all Heaven worships, we know not how to reconcile such 
 conduct with the dictates of common sense. 
 
 Whoever pretends to be a Christian, and yet habitually 
 neglects his closet, is deceived and deluded. What, a 
 Christian and yet desire no privacy with God — a Saint, yet 
 have no need to spfeak with God ! The backsliding and 
 ruin of Christian professors begin always with closet neg- 
 lects, either by omitting the duty wholly, oj- attending to it 
 in a caieless and formal manner. Some will not visit their 
 closets lest they should play the hypocrite ; some because 
 they have no convenient time ; others consider closet prayer 
 
120 TfiE CLOSET.' 
 
 in the light of a free-will' offerings, whicfh they may preseni 
 01* not, as they pleas'e ; they do not consider it a duty. All 
 such excuses are vain and wicked. 
 
 Some there are who spiritualize^ the direction of Christ 
 respecting closet pfayer, and' interpret it as i'nteiiding mew- 
 TAL prayer only. Christ's own example teaches us the fal- 
 lacy of such an idea. He chose the still mortling and the 
 lonely mountain for prayer. He did not teach us to bury 
 ourselves in the recesses of our thoughts, but to seek Out 
 some solitary place, or retire to the secret dhamber, to con- 
 verse with God. 
 
 Reader, let nothing prevent your seeking God in yout 
 closet. He may indeed seem to hide himself; or his aspect 
 may seem severe, and he may, for a time, fepulse you. 
 These and other obstacles may present themselves to dis- 
 courage your approach, and drive you from his presence ; 
 but persevere, remembering all the while that you deserve 
 his frowns, because of your sins against him ; and cast' not 
 a-v*ay your confidence. Wait for his siiiile ; though he 
 smite you, trust in him. When Diogenes' went to Athens, 
 Antisthenes, the philosopher, at first refused to admit him 
 into his house, and even smote him with a stick to drive 
 him away. But Diogenes calmlybore the I'ebuke, an(J said, 
 "Strike me, Antisthenes; but never shall you find a stick 
 sufficiently harH to remove me from your presence, while 
 there is any information to be gained from your acquaint- 
 anoe." This firmness recommended him to Antisthenes, 
 and he became his most devoted pupil. The Master whose 
 acquaintance and blessing you seek, has said, " Ask^ and 
 ye shall receive, that your joy may be full." It has been 
 said, "prayer will make us leave off. sinning, and sinning 
 will make us leave off praying." 
 
A NIGHT AMONG THE WOLVES. 121 
 
 A NIGHT AMONG THK WOLVES.. 
 
 BY JOHN G. WHITTIER. 
 
 "The gaunt old wolf,. 
 Scenting tfie place of slaughter, with his long 
 And most offensive howl, didask for food." 
 
 • 
 
 "'TwAS a night of January, 17 — . We had been to a 
 iJlie quilting frolic, about two miles from our setflemenli of 
 four or five log houses. 'Twas rather late' — about 12 
 o'clock, I should say — when the party broke up. lllere 
 was no moon — and a dull grey shadow of haze hung 
 around the horizon, while overhead a few pale and sickly 
 looking stars gave us their dull light as they shone thi'ough 
 a ctlngy curtain. There were six of us in company — .Harry 
 Mason and four as pretty girls as ever grew up this side 
 of the Green Mountains. There were my two sisters, and 
 Harry's sisters, and his sweet heart, the daughter of our 
 next door neighbor. She was a downright handsome 
 girl — that Caroline Allen. I never saw her equal, though 
 I am no stranger to pretty faces. She was so pleasant and 
 kind of heart — so gentle and sweet spoken,. and so intelli- 
 gent, besides, that every body loved her. She had an eye 
 as blue as the hill violet, and her lips were like a red rose 
 leaf m June. No wonrfer, then, that Harry Mason loved 
 her — ^boy though he was ; for vvfe had neither of us seen 
 our seventeenth summer. 
 
 Our path lay through a thick forest of oak, with here and 
 there a tall pine raising its dark full shadow against the 
 sky with an outline rendered indistinct by the darkness. 
 The snow was deep ; deeper a great deal than it ever falls 
 of late years ; but the surface was frozen strongly enough 
 to bear our M'eight, and we hurried on over the bright 
 pathway with rapid steps. We had not proceeded far, 
 
122 A NIGHT AMONG THE WOLVES. 
 
 before a long low howl came to our ears. We all knew it 
 in a moment ; and I could feel a shudder thrilling the arms 
 that were close to my own, as a sudden cry burst from the 
 lips of all of us, ' The wolves ! the wolves !' 
 
 Did you ever see a wild wolf — not one of your caged, 
 broken-down,, show animals, which are exhibited for a six- 
 pence a sight, and children half price ; but a fierce, half 
 starved ranger of the wintry forest, howling and hurrying 
 over the snow actuaUy mad with hunger? There is no 
 one of God's creatures which has such a frightful 
 fiendish look, as this animal. It has the form as well as 
 the spirit of a demon. 
 
 Ahother and another howl ; and then we could hear dis- 
 tinctly the quick patter of feet behind us. We turned right 
 about and looked in the direction of the sound. ' The 
 wolves are after us,' said Mason, pointing to a line of dark 
 bodies. And so in fact they were, a whole troop of them- 
 howling like so many Indians in a pow-virow. We had no 
 weapons of any kind, and we knew enough of the vile 
 creatures who followed us, to know that it would be use- 
 less to contejid with them. There was not a moment to 
 lose ; the savage beasts were close upon us. To attempt 
 flight would have been a hopeless affair. There was but 
 one chance of escape, and we instantly seized upofl. it. 
 
 - ' To the tree ; let us climb this tree !' I cried, springing 
 forward towards a low boughed and gnarled oak ; which 
 I saw at a glance might be easily climbed. 
 
 Harry Mason sprang lightly into the tree, and aided in 
 placing the terrified girls in a place of compatative safety 
 among the thick boughs. I was the last on the ground, 
 and the whole troop were yelling at my heels before i 
 reached the rest of the company. There was t ne moment 
 of hard breathing and wild exclamation among us, then a 
 feeling of calm thankfulness for our escape. The night 
 was cold, and we soon began to shiver and shake, like so 
 many sailors on the topmast of an Iceland whaler. But 
 there were no murmurs, no complaining among us, for wc 
 
A NIGHT AMONG THE WOLVES. 123 
 
 could distinctly see the gaunt, attenuated bodies of the 
 wolves beneath us, and every now and then we could see 
 great, glowing eyes, staring up into the tree where we were 
 seated. And then their yells ; they were loud, and long, 
 and hideous. 
 
 I know not how long we had remained in this situation, 
 for we had no means of ascertaining the time, when I 
 heard a limb of the tree cracking as if breaking down be- 
 neath the weight of some of us ; and a moment afterwards 
 a shriek went through my ears like the piercing of a knife. 
 A light form went down through the naked branches, with 
 a duH heavy sound upon the stiff snow. 
 
 ' Oh, God ! I am gone !' 
 
 It was the voice of Caroline Allen. The poor girl never 
 spoke again ! There was a horrid dizziness and confusion 
 in my brain, and I spoke not ; and I stirred not, for the 
 whole, at that time, was like an ugly, unreal dream. I only 
 remember that there was smothered groans and dreadful 
 howls underneath ! It was all over in a moment. Poor 
 Caroline ! She w&s literally eaten alive ! The wolves 
 had a frightful feast, and they became raving mad with 
 the taste of blood ! 
 
 When I came fully to myself — when the horrible dream 
 went off — and it lasted but a moment — I struggled to shake 
 off^the arms of my sister, which were clinging around me, 
 and could I have cleared myself, I should have jumped 
 down among the raving animals. But when a second 
 thought caine over me, I knew that any attempt to rescue, 
 would be useless. As for poor Mason, he was wild with 
 horror. He had tried to follow Caroli-ne when she fell, but 
 he could not shake off the grasp of his terrified sister. 
 His youth, and weak constitution and frame w«re unable 
 to stand the dreadful trial ; and he stood close by my side, 
 with his hand firmly clenched and his teeth set closely, gaz- 
 ing down on the dark wrangling creatures below, with 
 the fixed stare of a maniac. It was indeed a terrible scene. 
 Around was the thick cold night— and below, the ravenous 
 
124 A NIGHT AMONG THE WOLVES. 
 
 wild beasts were lapping their blocdy ja ns, and howli&g 
 for another victim. 
 
 The morning broke at last, and our f igbtful euemies 
 fled at the first advance of daylight, like so many coward- 
 ly murderers. We waited until the sun had risen, before 
 we ventured to crawl from our hiding placest We were 
 chilled through ; every limb w&s numb and cold with ter- 
 ror ; and pobr Blason was delirious, and raged wildly about 
 the things he had witnessed, There were bloody stains 
 around the tree, and a few long black hairs were trampled 
 in the snow. 
 
 We had gone buta little distance, when we were met 
 by our friends from the settlement, who had become alarm- 
 ed at our absence. They were shocked at our wild and 
 frightful appearance ; and my brothers have oftentimes 
 told me, that at first we all seemed like so many crazed 
 and brain-sickened creatures; They assisted us to reach 
 home ; but Harry Mason never recovered from the dread- 
 ful trial. He neglected his business, his studies, and his 
 friends, anon murmuring to himself about that dreadful 
 night. He fell to drinking soon after, and died a misera- 
 ble drunkard, before age had whitened a single hair upon 
 his head; 
 
 For mj'^ par*, I confess, I never recovered from the ter- 
 rors of th» mtlancholy circumstances which I have endea? 
 vored to describe. The thought of it-has haunted me like 
 my shadow ; and even now the scene comes at times fresh- 
 ly before me in my dreams, and I start Lp with something 
 of the same feeling of terror which I experienced, when, 
 m«re than half a century since, I passed a night among 
 the wolves. 
 
 As a cloud, that has exhausted its treasured waters upon 
 the thirsting earth, fades from the vision, so Jesus Christ, 
 after fulfilling his earthly mission, passed awaj from among 
 men, and entered within the heavenly v§il. 
 
A FORGIVING FATHER. r2'5 
 
 A FORGIVING FATHER. 
 
 A pious father,' alive to the importance of his trust, neg- 
 lected nothing in order to give a good education to his son. 
 A good example and pious instructions were employed for 
 this purpose ; but criminal propensities obtained the as^ 
 cendency over the yoiith, and drove him to multiplied 
 irregularities, which wrung the heart of his parent, and 
 caused the most pungent sorrow. This unnatural son, list- 
 ening to the suggestions of a wicked heart, formed the hor- 
 rible project of assassinating his father, that he might at 
 once become possessed of his property, and be able to in- 
 dulge to a greater extent in licentiousness. The unhappy 
 parent received the painful intelligence through a medium 
 which left no doubt in his mind concerning the fact. Stung 
 with grief, and resolving to make a lafet effort to touch a 
 a heart so lost to itself, the father said one day to his son, 
 " My son, would you take a walk With me ? Your company 
 will give rae pleasure." The son consented to the propo- 
 sal, perhaps with a view of executing his barbarous inten- 
 tion. The father conducted Tiim insensibly to a solitary 
 place in the deepest recess of an extensive forest. Then 
 stopping suddenly, he addressed his son in the foHowing 
 terms : " My son,. I have been told, and have no doubt of 
 the fact, that yOu have formed the desperate resplution of 
 murdering me. Notwithstanding, the many just grounds 
 of complaint which I have against you, still you are my 
 son, and I love you still, and wish to give you a last token 
 of ray tenderness. I have led you into this forest, and to this 
 solitary place, 'whbre none witness our conduct, and where 
 none can have the smallest knowledge of your "crime." 
 Then drawing a dagger which had been feonqpaled, "There 
 my son," said he, " there is a dagger ; take your will of 
 
126 DEATH OF ADDISON. 
 
 me ; execute the cruel design which you have formed 
 against my life ; put me to death according to your reso- 
 lution ; I shall at least, in dying here, save you from falling 
 into the hands' of human justice ; this shall be the last evi- 
 dence of my tender attachment to you; in my extreme 
 grief, this shall be some consolation to nie, that I shall save 
 your life whilst you deprive me of mine." The son, struck 
 and astonished, could not refrain from crying ; he burst 
 into a flood of tears ; threw himself at his father's feet ; 
 implored the forgiveness of this foul offence ; protested that 
 he would change his conduct to the best and most benevo- 
 lent of fathers. He' kept his word to his father ; renounc- 
 ing his ruinous vices, and became the source of consolation 
 and joy, somewhat proportioned to the grief and sorrow of 
 soul which he had previously caused him. 
 
 DEATH OF ADDISON. 
 Addison, after a long and manly, but vain struggle with 
 his disteniper, dismissed his physicians, and with them 
 all hopes of life. But with his hopes of life, he dismissed 
 not his concern for the living, but sent for a youth wh<J was 
 nearly related, and finely iaccomplished. He came, and 
 after a decent pause, the youth said, " Dear sir, you 
 sent for me, I believe : I hope you have some commands ; 
 I shall hold them most sacred." Forcibly grasping the 
 young man's hand, he softly said, " See in what peace a 
 a Christian can die !" He spoke with difficulty, and soon 
 expired. 
 
 Never enter a sick room in a state of perspiration, as 
 the moijaent you become cool, your pores absorb. ..Do not 
 approach contagious diseases with an empty stomach, nor 
 sit between tHe sick and the fire, because the heat attracts 
 the thin vapor. 
 
THE RETURN OP SPRING. 
 
 BT H. A. DEL ORIEND. 
 
 " He scarce had said, when the bare earth, till then 
 Desert and bare, unsightly, unadorned, 
 Brought forth the tender grass, whose verdure clad 
 Her universal face with pleasant green." 
 
 Spring has come once more. The bright, gloriont 
 Spring ! With " its soft perfume and balmy breeze." 
 Already, the fairy songsters are returning from the orange 
 Groves of the sunny South, to enliven our forests and 
 Pleasant homes with their cheerful heart-music. 
 
 While virriting, a beautiful Robin — ^the first we 
 Have seen, has taken his position on thp lilac near 
 Our window, and is discoursing, most exquisitely, 
 " In the fuU tide of liquid song." Is it not an All-wise 
 Providence that guideth and npholdeth the weary wing 
 Over " the wide waste of waters ?" that.bringeth the 
 Seasons in their turn, and maketh the fruits and 
 Flowers to spring spontaneously from Earth's green bosom far 
 3ur comfort and happiness 1 
 
 The snow-drops, daffodil and modest 
 Violet, are, even now, peeping out with their soft, timid 
 Eyes — ^allured by the first warm sunbeams ; while the 
 Emerald turf — ^that rich, universal groundwork of 
 Nature's great picture, is everywhere asstuning a 
 Deeper green. Soon, the genial rays of the sun will 
 Awaken the slumbering germ amid the leafiess branches, 
 And Lo ! the dim old forest, with its'bare, swaying 
 Boughs — ^puts on once more its gorgeous imagery of 
 Waving foliage — fit canopy for the primeval sanctuary 
 Of our forefathers. 
 
 A thousand associations come thronging, 
 With the first warm zephyrs that &n the cheek ; 
 
128 THE RETURN OF SPRINO. 
 
 To the joyous heart of the child, it brings visions of the 
 Little streamlet with its fairy bark— and fair young 
 Flow'rets and the hum of bees; the sunny slope, too, with 
 " The bird and the blue fly that ro\e o'er it still," again 
 Comes back to him, and his little heart bounds 
 Exultiflgly in anticipation. 
 
 'To the invalid— whose feeble 
 Energies and flickering pulse, have — ^like the lingeripg 
 Flame of the lamp, brightened again and again only to be 
 Extinguished — it brings dreams of a sweet, untroubled .sleep, 
 Of a.silent, but.not lonely grave — where — 
 
 " The friends we loved may come and weep — 
 
 iThey may not haste to go — 
 ' Soft airs, and song, and light and bloom, 
 
 Shall keep them lingering round the tomb." 
 
 To the silver-haired sire of many winters, whose heart 
 Is yet young within him, by reason of " a goodly life—' 
 W"ll spent ;" it telleth that the return of one more 
 Season witli its leaves and flowers shall perchance 
 Find him gathered unto his fathers, in a green old age, 
 And in the hope of a glorious immortality. 
 
 To the yoilng maiden — ^that lovely, living 
 ' Personification of the beautiful, innocent flowet. 
 
 Which springs up alike, by the low thatched cottage 
 Of the peasant, and stately palace of the patrician — 
 Making beautiful and pleasant the thorny paths of 
 Life — ^the return of Spring brings soft visions of 
 The moonlight bower — the tiysting-place — ^the 
 Pond, half murmured vows of constancy, and all the 
 Bright, many colored anticipations of the future — 
 That future ! so fraught with deep interest and 
 Troubled, distracting uncertainties to some ; and to 
 Others, it is even as the smooth, tranquil stream, which 
 Mirrors the eefeection of a happy, virtuous heart on its 
 Outward surface — ^flowing onward, and making green 
 And beautiful, many a silent, desolate spot, and 
 Laving gently, the withered leaves of many a drooping 
 Flower,which raises its fragile head again in beauty 
 And gladness. 
 
 " Waking to life and light, what erst in sadness lay, 
 As the full glory of the eternal day !" 
 
THE PARTRIDGE. 
 
 12! 
 
 U 1» 
 
 
 SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 THE PARTRIDGE. 
 1. Sam. xxvi. 20. — "When one doth hunt a partridge in the mountains." 
 In ornithology, the partridge belongs to a genus of birds 
 of the order of gallin^e. The bill is convex, strong and 
 short ; the nostrils are covered above with a callous pror 
 minent rim ; the orbits are papillose ; the feet naked ; and 
 most of the genus are furnished with spurs. Their flesh is 
 good to eat ; their flight is low and of a small compass, and 
 they run almost as soon as hatched. Partridges are found 
 almost in every country, and in every clime, from the torrid 
 tracts under the equator, to the frozen regions of the pole. 
 It is very striking, how, by the kind arrangements of the 
 Creator, this interesting bird becomes assimilated and 
 adapted to the climate of Greenland in winter. As soon 
 as the icy winter sets in, it is clothed with a warm dowu 
 beneath, and its outward feathers become as white as the 
 snow among which it seeks its food. " In warmer climatesf 
 near the equator, theyare long-legged, much swifter of 
 8 
 
130 TREAT DOMESTIC ANIMALS KINDLY. 
 
 feet, and choose for their residence the highest rocks and 
 precipices. It is said, that on the lofty Alps the partridges 
 are white, and their feet protected by hair. Common partr 
 ridges delight most in corn-fields while the corn is growing, 
 where they shelter and breed. In winter, when the stub- 
 ble-fields are ploughed up, they resort to the upland mea^ 
 dows, and lodge among the dead grass, under hedges, 
 among mole-hills, or under the roots of trees. In the har- 
 vest, when every field is full of men and cattle, during the 
 day they frequent fallow-fields adjoining corn-fields, and 
 when evening arrives and the laborers are removed to 
 their homes, these birds' very wisely leave the fallow-fields 
 and enter into the fields of corn, where they may feed with- 
 out any fear of interruption from man. The nest of the 
 partridge, which is placed upon the ground in cornfields, 
 meadows, &c., contains from twelve to twenty eggs, of a 
 green ash-color. The maternal afiection is truly remark- 
 able. Pennant records a strong instance. " During a vio- 
 lent storm of rain, a partridge, attended by a large covey- 
 of young birds, spread her wings over them to secure them 
 from further injury, but all in vain ! The storm increased 
 in violence, but she would not quit her charge. She pre- 
 fisrred death, and we found her lifeless, with all the little 
 broodi her wings spread over them, retaining her attempt 
 to preserve them, even to the very article of death !" Lovely 
 example of maternal afifection ! 
 
 TREAT DOMESTIC ANIMALS KINDLY AND TENDERLY. 
 
 Domestic animals of all kinds, from a horse down to a 
 chicken, should be treated with gentleness and mildness ; 
 men or bOys who are rash and bad-tempered, ought not to 
 be permitted to have charge of them or to interfere with 
 their managment. Animals that are kept in constant fear 
 of suSering, never thrive well, and they often become vi 
 cious and intractable by unkind and cruel treatment. 
 
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENN^ . ISl 
 
 THE mSTORY AND ADVENTURES OP A PENNY 
 
 BY MRS. A. B. WHELPLBY. 
 
 I WAS born in a large building called a mint. My first 
 recollections were associated witt a large room in which 
 were a number of furnaces containing fires of different 
 degrees of heat. A great many men were busily at work 
 feeding these fires, and putting into the vessels upon them 
 different pieces of dark misshapen material which was 
 scattered in large quantities on all sides. My personal 
 appearance upon my first entrance into th6 world was ex- 
 ceedingly bright and comely. The first observations I re- 
 member to have made, are as distinct before me now as 
 at the time they occurred. I was placed on a long table 
 which extended half the length of a very spacious apart- 
 ment, with thousands like myself, perfect fac similes, all 
 very bright and shining. We were all placed in piles one 
 above another, and in regular files and ranks like soldiersj 
 and in the simplicity of my heart I could not but feel that 
 we presented an imposing appearance. Indeed, my earliest 
 recollection being almost exclusively connected with my- 
 jself, I did not at first perceive that there were other tables 
 in the same room covered with forms similar to ours, al- 
 though in substance, widely different. 
 
 How happy was my innocence, and how unalloyed the 
 pleasure of my early life when satisfied with myself, and 
 contented with my condition, the demon of pride and envy 
 had not yet entered into my soul, to embitter all the foun- 
 tains of life ; and how woful was the day when I first saw 
 those white and yellow shining things, which afterwards 
 cast a shadow on my path, and made me feel the bitter 
 regret of not being born to a higher destiny. But how 
 
132 THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OP A PENNY. 
 
 little did I then foresee or conceive such a thing. On the 
 contrary, my first observations of my glittering neighbors 
 did not produce any disagreeable sensations, any thing 
 like envy. I wras still in the innocence, brightness and 
 freshness of my early existence. I was fully as well 
 pleased with my own appearance as with theirs, and it was 
 left, as a bitter lesson for me hereafter to learn that a great 
 and impassible barrier lay between us, that we were de- 
 signed to fill very oppos'^e stations in life. 
 
 After a lapse of time, i luring which I was happy and 
 contented in the occupation of looking around me, my 
 companions by degrees departed to perform their parts in 
 life, while others as speedily were brought to fill their 
 places. At length, I began to meditate upon what should 
 become of me. My future destiny seemed dark, and I 
 never once heard of the fate of my companions after they 
 had left me, and for the first time I began to feel some 
 anxiety. When one day, in the midst of my hopes, fears, 
 and suspense a large sack was brought and set down in front 
 of the table whereon 1 was, and all at once 1 found myself, 
 with the greatest part of my companions, closely placed 
 down in it, it was then securely tied up and all was dark- 
 ness and silence. I knew nothing more, except that I felt a 
 slight motion for some time as I supposed the sack was 
 moved, until upon a sudden it was again untied, and I felt 
 as though I could leap for joy, as the bright beams of the 
 midday sun once more shone upon me, and I was taken out 
 with my companions and placed with some of them upon 
 the counter of a bank, while the rest were laid in a large 
 drawer. 
 
 A great many men seemed busily employed behind the 
 counter in writing and other matters. Strangers were 
 constantly entering, and I thought I had never seen so 
 many strange faces in my life before. What different ex- 
 pressions marked the countenances of as many different 
 individuals ; what varied characters seemed to be indica- 
 
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTUEES OP A PENNY. 133 
 
 ted by them ! I thought I could detect on the faces of some 
 pale anxiety, corroding care, disappointment, fear, sus- 
 pense, agitated haste and even despair and ruin. On the 
 other hand, there were faces beaming with smiles, joyous, 
 happy and with the appearance of hope and pleasing an- 
 ticipations. Oh ! thought I, is this a picture of the world ! 
 with what a multitude of passions and conflicting feelings 
 must it be agitated ! And am I destined to bear my part in 
 this busy scene, with its vicissitudes, toil and trouble ? Oh ! 
 thought I, could I only be instrumental in assisting some 
 of those whose faces bear the impress of such poignant 
 cares, I would willingly lend myself to their aid, could I 
 be of any service in removing their burdens and difficulties. 
 But alas ! this was beyond my ability to accomplish. I did 
 not, then, know how little I was worth ; what a small value 
 was set upon me in the world ; all this I was yet to learn. 
 And then again, my desire for happiness made me long to 
 be with some one of those whose happy faces seemed ta 
 make all sunshine around them, and whose hearts appeared 
 to be the abode of content. I found, however, that in my jour- 
 ney through life, I was not to have iriy choice of a pos- 
 sessor, or a sphere to move in ; my path had been marked 
 out for me, and with regard to it I was destined not long 
 to remain in suspense. 
 
 One morning, a gentleman with a fine cheerful-looking 
 countenance, came to receive the payment of some money ; 
 a great amount of bills; gold and silver were paid to him, 
 myself and some of my companions among the rest, as he 
 laughingly said, for beggars' tees. Beggars' fees ! thought 
 I, what are they ? this, among other things, I was destined 
 to learn hereafter. He immediately pocketed his treasure, 
 and we were conveyed to his house. Myself and compan- 
 ions were placed by ourselves, in a separate division of the 
 long purse, from the other money, as we were all promis- 
 cuously called, and on the way, two or three times, he 
 opened the part where we were stowed, and, as I thought, 
 .rudely threw some of my companions on the walk. 
 
134 THE HISTOEY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 
 
 The house was an elegant mansion, decorated with 
 costly furniture, and every thing bore the semblance of lux- 
 ury and splendor. As soon as my new master entered 
 the drawing room, he threw himself upon a sofa covered 
 with soft pillows and cushions. A lady, richly dressed, 
 soon entered, who seated herself by his side ; he accosted 
 her very affectionately, and, taking the purse from his 
 pocket, tossed it into her lapi, saying, there, love, is some- 
 thing to fiirnish your wardrobe. She opened it, and began 
 leisurely counting over what it contained, looking much 
 pleased at the gold and silver, but casting myself and 
 companions a^ide with some impatience and contempt, 
 seemingly caring nothing about us, only to get us out of 
 the way. After counting it all over, she looked quite well 
 satisfied, smiled very gracious thanks upon her husband, 
 as she said, you are just in time, Edward, as I have pur- 
 chased a shawl to-day for two hundred dollars, and I ex- 
 pect it home every moment. As she spoke, the front-door 
 bell rang, and a servatit ushered in a merchant's clerk 
 bearing the shawl. It was unfolded and displayed, placed 
 around the lady by her husband, and it almost enveloped 
 her in its ample folds. It was gj-eatly admired, the sum 
 paid in glittering gold, and the young man departed. 
 While she was counting out the money to the clerk, I was 
 accidentally dropped upon the floor, but wanting the power 
 of locomotion, and no notice being taken of me, I lay 
 where I first fell for some time, and had an opportunity 
 from my lurking place, under a splendid easy chair, almost 
 enveloped by the soft downy texture of the carpet, to ob- 
 serve the magnificence of all around me. Mirrors which 
 reflected the beautiful lady and her husband at full length, 
 costly paintings, curtains, divans and easy chairs filled 
 every side of the apartment ; and, above all, what attracted 
 me most, from the centre of the ceiling was suspended an 
 immense mass of glittering things, all strung together 
 in regular circles, and hanging in shining pendants reflect- 
 
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 135 
 
 ing all the colors of the rainbow, and, what I most admi- 
 red of all was, that, in one of the little drops was an exact 
 image of myself. I could not at first make out what this 
 meant, but possessing naturally something of a reflecting 
 power, I supposed that probably this was a reflection of 
 myself. 
 
 While the lady was engaged in admiring herself in the 
 spacious mirror, and' I as busily employed in admiration of 
 myself in the chandelier drop, a lovely little creature came 
 running into the room calling out mama, mama ; the lady 
 looked around smilingly and held out her arms to the 
 little one, who rushed into them with the greatest delight ; 
 but she scarcely remained there a moment, before, perceiv- 
 ing me, she jumped down and running to the place where 
 I was, picked me up. 
 
 Oh, mama, mama, said she ; look, look, how bright and 
 beautiful this is ; and I was immediately encircled in a 
 pair of the sweetest, softest little hands that ever I was in, 
 and, as I looked up in her face, I thought I never saw any 
 thing half so beautiful ; the bright curls clustering so 
 sweetly round it, and falling upon her fair neck and shoul 
 ders. Ohi thought I, how happy I am to have so fair and 
 gentle a possessor, would that it might be my lot to remain 
 with her who looks so fondly and admiringly on me ; it 
 was THE FIRST LOOK OF LOVE that had ever been cast upon 
 me ; I felt that harm could not be inflicted by a being so 
 pure and sweet. Oh, mama, said she, as she examined 
 me attentively, turning me from side to side, may I have 
 this beautiful guinea ? Guinea, said the mother with a look 
 of contempt, my child, it is only a penny ; yes, you may have 
 it. The ungracious words seemed to have no effect upon 
 the little one, but she continued looking just as admirmgly 
 upon me as ever, and jumped for joy as she ran up stairs 
 into the nursery to show me to her brothers and sisters. 
 
 ' So I am only a penny,' said I to myself ; well, I wonder 
 what is a guinea, that it should be so much more desira- 
 
136 THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 
 
 ble than I am ? How the words sank within me. When 
 the little girl came into the nursery, she held me up to the 
 view of the children, who were romping and playing in 
 high glee. 
 
 What have you got there, Rosa, said all in a breath ; and 
 her brother, a boy considerably older than herself, taking me 
 from her, threw me down with a look of contempt, saying 
 it is ONLY a penny. But a little one, smaller than Rosa, 
 taking me up, seemed as much delighted with me as her 
 sister had been. I could not mistake the reiterated 
 signs of contempt ; it was a fact that was fast revealing 
 itself to me, that I was of but small value indeed, scarcely 
 worth the notice even of children. It was a sad reflection, 
 and, if I had any remaining doubts left as to my conse- 
 quence, they were entirely dispelled when Rosa's brother, 
 who had so rudely thrown me down, took from his pocket 
 a piece about half the size of myself and of rather a lighter 
 color, though I did not think any prettier, and holding it 
 up, said, " there, I would not give that for a hundred such as 
 your penny ; no, for it is worth nearly three hundred of 
 tliem. It is a half guinea ; papa gave it to me the other 
 day to buy toys." 
 
 " Nor would I give this for fifty of them," said another 
 little boy, holding up a pale-white livered looking thing, 
 a little larger than myself. 
 
 " But it is so pretty," said Rosa, half distrustfully ; " if it 
 is a penny, it must be a new one ; and, as to that, I have a 
 half guinea too in my drawer, but I am sure that is brighter 
 than this is now." 
 
 A short time, however, had only elapsed, and I perceived 
 that little Rosa did not look upon me with the same afiec- 
 tion as she had done, and it was not long before, becom- 
 ing wholly neglected by her, I was thrown carelessly on 
 the floor, where I was trodden under foot by every passer 
 by, until one day the baby having picked me up, carried 
 me down stairs, and a poor woman standing by the door, 
 cold and hungry, begging some food to keep herself and a 
 
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 137 
 
 little barefooted child, which she held by the hand, from 
 stavving ; the nurse took me from the child, and put me 
 into the hard, shivering hand of the poor beggar. What 
 a delighted look she cast upon me, as if she had obtained 
 something of great importance. 
 
 After proceeding through several dirty, dingy streets, 
 she at length entered a wretched dwelling, where in a 
 small room, upon a miserable bed, lay a sick man, pale, 
 emaciated and deathlike ; on the floor around, were sev- 
 eral ragged, barefooted children ; one of whom was trying 
 to keep up a little fire in a black looking chimney, with 
 some straw and shavings. Every thing in that miserable 
 room had the appearance of wretchedness ; there was 
 scarcely any furniture, not such a thing as a table or chair 
 to be seen. The children jumped up as their mother en- 
 tered, and with hungry looks peered into the basket which 
 the other child held ; the mother endeavored to keep them 
 from devouring the whole of what it contained, as each 
 greedily snatched whatever their hands first lighted on, 
 and conveyed it to their mouths. The poor woman sighed, 
 and, as she again raised her hand, a tear dropped down hev 
 pale and sunken cheek, and fell upon me. 
 
 Thus did I find myself transferred from the possession 
 of the great, from the abode of princely wealth and mag-- 
 nificence, to the miserable dwelling of abject poverty and' 
 wretchedness. The mortification I had so lately felt from 
 the neglect and contempt I had experienced in the abode 
 of wealth, was now completely absorbed in pity for the 
 want and distress which I here saw. My pride was hum- 
 bled, and I thought if I could only transport a few of those 
 superfluous luxuries and comforts- here, which there I. saw 
 wasted and thrown carelessly away ; how willingly would 
 I do it ; willingly would I lend myself and all the pawer I 
 possess, to relieve a measure of this distress. But again 
 1 was made to feel my iriipotence in ministering to the 
 happiness or even the necessities of others,' for as the sick 
 man turned upon his bed with a groan, he asked in a fainl 
 
138 THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 
 
 voice, " 'Sarah, did you get any money to buy me some 
 medicine with ;" with a mournful voice, she replied, as she 
 held me up to his view, " only this ;" and the sick man 
 turned away again with a sigh, as he said, " Oh, how little 
 do the rich know of the miseries of the poor, or trouble 
 themselves about them!" But it was not a look of con- 
 tempt, that either of them cast upon me ; I could plainly 
 read, that it was only a look of sorrow that they had not 
 more like me, and that they cast no contempt upon me for 
 my small value. After a little mournful deliberation, it 
 was decided that one of the children should take me to the 
 grocery, and exchange me for a little meal to make the sick 
 man some gruel. This was accordingly done ; and upon 
 the grocer receiving me, he threw me carelessly into a 
 drawer, and much to my surprise, right into the midst of a 
 large company of my own species^ of all ages and colors ; 
 but there were very few as new and bright as myself ; 
 most were old and worn, their countenances daykened and 
 defaced by the ravages of time and change. Judging from 
 appearances, some of them must have been ten. twenty, 
 and thirty years old, and by the marks upon them, I con- 
 cluded that they must have been great travelers. 
 
 It was quite a consolation to me, once more to be in 
 the midst of my own species, and I hoped that I should 
 long be permitted to remaih in undisturbed enjoyment of 
 their society. The drawer was frequently opened, and 
 many others thrown in, and, sometimes, numbers were 
 taken out at a time. During my residence in this store, I 
 could not but observe the various tricks of trade ; among 
 others, an odd penny was often put upon the price of a 
 pound of any article, so as to obtain it in selling the half 
 pound, and sometimes two cents in the same way ; so that 
 the penny could be made clear on every quarter of a pound. 
 And it was a singular fact, that the advantage of this was 
 never allowed the raRCHASER, but always monopolized by 
 the SELLER ; this I characterized by the name of the odd 
 
 PEKNY SYSTEM. 
 
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 139 
 
 I was destined not long 1o remain in my new abode. 
 One day a boy came in and purchased some article, for 
 which he wanted change for a shilling ; the piece was 
 throw in, amd myself and two or three other pennies were 
 takea out and given to him. I perceived that his eye in- 
 stantly lighted upon me ; he seemed to admire my appear- 
 ance very much, as I was so much brighter than the others, 
 although I could plainly perceive that I was beginning to 
 lose- some of my lustre. However, as soon as he reaphed 
 home, he instantly went to his mother, and begged her to 
 gifve me to hiimt This she did without much reluctance ; 
 and, immediately going into the street where was a group 
 ot boys playing at pitch and toss, he joined them, and be- 
 gan tossing me. 
 
 Well, thought I, this^iffratheir rude treatment, indeed; 
 and I tremblingly awaitedf my fate, as I knew not what 
 should come: neact ; expectmg every moment to be pitched 
 into the mud^ or some deep hole, where I should never 
 again see the light. This fate I however escaped, as I 
 perceived, that, notwithstanding all this rudeness of being 
 pitched and tossed, he was very careful not^ to lose me. I 
 was, notwithstanding, somewhat bruised and battered, and 
 I bear the marks of that ill-usage to the present day. At 
 last, after two or three changes of possessors during the 
 play, I fell into the hands of quite a little boy, whom they 
 called Henry, who at the end of the game, carried me away 
 with evident satisfaction ; he put me into his vest pocket, 
 but, two. or three times, took me out to look at me. As he 
 proceeded on his.'way, a poor blind man, holding a little 
 dog by a string, was playing on a clarionet ; and, as Henry 
 was very fond of music, he stopped and listened for some 
 time. A great many persons stopped, and gave the poor 
 man pennies, and some were thrown from the windows to 
 him, which the little dog picked up with his teeth and car- 
 ried to his master. Henry was somewhat inclined ^to give 
 me to the poor blind man, he felt so sorry for him ; but, 
 seeing so many given to him, he thought to himself, be 
 
140 THE HISTORY ANB ADVENTUKES OF A PENNY. 
 
 will have enough without mine, and it is so bright and 
 new, I cannot bear to part with it ; he therefore concluded 
 to keep me, although he seemed to feel somewhat uneasy, 
 and kept feeling in his pocket after me, until at length 
 the poor musician laid down his clarionet upon which he 
 played so sweetly, and sang a mournful tale of all his sor- 
 row, so touchingly, while the tears dropped from his sight- 
 less eyes, that the little boy could resist no longer, and 
 putting his hand into his pocket, pulled me out and gave 
 me to him. 
 
 It would be an endless task to recount all the events at- 
 tendant upon my journeyings, and to enumerate all the 
 hands I passed through. It is sufficient to say that I 
 changed masters almost daily ; from the blind man's hand, 
 I passed into a baker's shop ; from thence to market, into 
 the possession of a butcher ; from there into a shoemaker's, 
 next to a tailor's ; from there to a milliner's, and then to a 
 merchant's ; and, in the course of a few years, I had been 
 through all the trades and professions, and learned some- 
 thing of the SECRETS of each. With all, however, I was 
 doomed to experience the same fate, that of being little val- 
 ued, and the gold and silver money taking entirely the 
 precedence of me. It was mortifying to see those who 
 were so much smaller, always preferred before me ; in 
 truth, I was scarcely thought suitable company for them, 
 almost always being placed separate from them. Even a 
 poor little pale-faced sixpence could always obtain six times 
 as much as I could, and consequently do six times as much 
 good ; so that when I was benevolent% Inclined, it was a 
 great trial to me, with which, no doubt, pride had some- 
 thing to do, that I was worth as much less than a piece of 
 money so much smaller than myself. I, however, had this 
 consolation, that if I could not do as much good in the 
 same proportion, I did as little hurt and tempted much less 
 to sin. And yet I was oftener given to the poor than either 
 gold or'silver, and for that reason was constrained to feel 
 that I was not entirely worthless. I do not recollect of 
 
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 141 
 
 having been stolen, except in three instances ; once, a poor 
 beggar saw me lying on the counter of a grocery unno- 
 ticed, and she slipped me slyly into her basket. At another 
 time I was lying on the table of a lady's bedroom, and her 
 little boy coming in, could not resist my tempting looks, 
 and slipped me into his pocket. The last time, I was stol- 
 en by a poor drunkard. Whereas I have often seen six- 
 pences and other pieces purloined from the same place 
 where I was, while I was thrown aside as worthless; thus 
 it is some consolationtometoknow in my declining j'^ears, 
 that 1 have only occasioned the sin of stealing in those 
 three instances. There is also another circumstance which 
 now affords me much gratification, and that is, that when- 
 ever I have been in the possession of a drunkard, he never 
 could purchase enough liquor, with me alone, to intoxicate 
 In the midst of my wanderings J again found myself in 
 the possession of a rich man. One day he took me to a 
 large house, the inside of which, consisted of only one 
 apartment, and it was nearly filled with people ; the sol- 
 emn tone of music re-echoed through all parts of the build- 
 ing as we entered ; then came the voice of prayer, and 
 then persons were seen going in all directions with plate^ 
 and the jingling sound indicated that money was being 
 collected. I happened at the time to be in the vest pocket 
 of my master, lying loosely with some other change ; put- 
 ting his hand in, he first took hold of a sixpence^ then a 
 shilling, but relinquishing them both, he at last took me 
 out, and dropped me softly into the plate. I do not know 
 how it was, but it seemed as 1 looked back from the plate 
 at him, to take my last farewell, that I perceived his eye 
 drop, and an almost imperceptible blush pass across his 
 cheek, as if ashamed, I could not tell whether of himself 
 or me ; I did not know but both. As I now very well un- 
 derstood my position in the scale of existence, and knowing 
 the superior value of silver, the thought instantly occurred 
 to me thathe felt as though, after all, a piece of silver 
 would have looked somewhat better than I did, and was 
 sorry notwithstanding his unwillingness to part from it, 
 that he had not put one of them in. I next found myself 
 
1 42 THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A PENNY. 
 
 in the hands of a drunkard ; the church where the colbc- 
 tion had been taken, having given some of the money and 
 myself^mong them, to a poor woman whose husband was 
 an inveterate drinker ; he by chance perceived me lying 
 alone upon the chimney piece, and immediately seizing me, 
 proceeded directly to a rum shop. He walked with a tot- 
 tering, unsteady gait, and his hand trembled so much that 
 in crossing a street where was quite a large puddle of wa- 
 ter, in trying to save himself from falling into it, he relax- 
 ed his grasp upon me, and I pitched headlong, into the 
 midst of it ; he immediately caught up a stick and began 
 poking about in the mud for me, and after a few moments 
 I made my appearance, though in somewhat of an evil 
 plight. As he took me up and wiped me on his tattered 
 clothes, he said with a grim smile, " ha, my little fellow, 
 did you think to escape me, you reckoned without your 
 master, you are too good a windfall to lose quite so easily." 
 
 In a few moments he entered a low dirty shop, where 
 were a half a dozen others just like himself " all tattered 
 and torn," smoking, drinking, and swearing. He imme- 
 diately walked up to the counter which was covered with 
 bottles, filled with all sorts of strange looking stufi", threw 
 me down upon it, and made a sign to have something, 
 poured into one of the glasses which stood ready before 
 him, this was immediately done, and he swallowed the 
 whole of it at one swig. Thus was I transferred from the 
 house of God almost immediately to the abode of drunk- 
 enness, and as the sound of obscene^mirth and drunken 
 merriment mingled with dispute, and; quarrelling filled the 
 shop. I thought how different is the abode of sin, to the 
 dwelling of righteousness. 
 
 I am now drawing towards the close of my account, 
 and I have only to add that some months ago, I came into 
 the possession of a little boy who dropped me down the 
 chimney of a minature house, constructed of tin, where I 
 now am. This house is very close and secure so that al- 
 though there is the appearance of doors and windows on 
 the outside,4here is no real entrance but down the chim- 
 ney, which precluding the very idea of escape, makes me 
 
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OP A PENNY. 143 
 
 feel like a prisoner. I however am not alone, I am in the 
 midst of quite a number of pleasant and respectable com- 
 panions, and we have all cpme to the unanimous conclusion 
 to make ourselves as contented as possible, and to be as 
 agreeable and accommodating to each other as lies in our 
 power. Although we are thus confined, the little fellow to 
 whom we belong, takes the greatest care of us and seems to 
 consider us quite a treasure, he, however, seems contented 
 with the possession of us without looking at us, as it is quite 
 as difficult for him to get at us, as it is for us to get out, and 
 every day he amuses himself by shaking us all together 
 for the sake, I suppose, of hearing our music, as together 
 we form quite a pretty concert, as well as to assure him- 
 self that we are all safe ; and every few days he gives a 
 little variety to our solitude by adding a new companion 
 to our number. 
 
 As there is, then, no immediate prospect of release, 1 
 think that the best thing I.can do in my present abode is 
 to reflect upon my past life, and give the result of my 
 meditations to the world. I .began life With too much 
 vanity, relying too much upon my outward appearance, 
 when I lacked intrinsic worth, and find that I have given 
 a strilcing exemplification of the old proverb, " that all is 
 not gold that glitters." True, I was at first, somewhat ad- 
 mired, but this admiration I magnified into something more 
 than reality, until I am now old and my beauty gone, I am 
 compelled to feel the sad truth that something more is 
 wanting than mere outward lustre which soon fades, to 
 give value in old age. A guinea though old, defaced, and 
 dimmed by time, is a guinea still, and a penny though new 
 bright and beautiful, is but a penny still. My history is 
 calculated to teach that the most insignificant person is 
 destined to pass through a great i^ariety of scenes, and to 
 exert an influence either for good or for evil, perhaps far 
 beyond the sphere to which he belongs, and from this influ- 
 ence may arise a chain of circumstances astonishing in its 
 results, and as pence malke. pounds, so every individual 
 
144 woman's influence on national character. 
 
 person however poor and ipsignificant, forms one impor- 
 tant link in the great chain of existence and intelligence. 
 
 Therefore let no one however poor or unlearned say, 
 what I do,'\vill be of no consequence to others; like the 
 penay which is laid out for different purposes, either for 
 good or evil, so is the smallest talent that a man may pos- 
 sess turned to some account in- the same manner. Like 
 human beings I had hot my own path in life to choose. 
 The only difference then between myself and the human 
 race is, whatever is done with me, whether good or evil, is 
 without my volition, therefore I cannot be held responsible 
 for the consequences. I have no moral responsibility. 
 
 Whereas the whole weight of the responsibility to do 
 good or evil, must rest with those who having the power 
 to do well , mis-spend, and throw away their time and en- 
 ergies. 
 
 WOMAN'S INFLUENCE ON NATIONAL CHARACTER. 
 
 • 
 
 There is a beautiful parallelism hetween the condition 
 of a woman in her domestic life and the character of a 
 nation. She is the mother of Men, and the former of their 
 minds at that early age when every word distils upon the 
 heart, like the dew-drop upon the tender grass. There is 
 to that young mind no truth or falsehood in the world 
 but that whose words flew from the mother' s lips. There 
 is no beauty in character, nor glory in action, which has 
 not been consecrated by her praise. There is to that 
 climbing child, no path where the mother's feet have not 
 trod. Her mind is to his the supernatural pillar of fire, 
 which illumines his midnight ignorance, and the silvery 
 cloud, which at mid-jday precedes him in every highway 
 to the world. And even when science has conducted her 
 pupils through the highest walks of knowledge, or when 
 art has polished him into an accomplished citizen, or when 
 power has dignified him with the memorials of office, she 
 still lives in his soul, which she has imbued with her heart's 
 
 -pictured urn, 
 
 With thoDfihts that breathe, antl words that bum." 
 
y^ C'>7yt, 
 
 ry.. 
 
 J-^^:mgy. 
 
HONESTY THE BEST POLICY. 
 
 ANONYMOUS. 
 
 A Gentleman, visiting London, a passenger on the river 
 Thames, observed on the stern of the boat these words, 
 " HONESTV IS THE BEST POLICY," became desirous to know why 
 he had given such a title to his boat. , " I can easily ex- 
 plain this to your satisfaction," answered the young man, 
 " if you will give me leave ;" and being requested to pro- 
 ceed, he replied as follows ; 
 
 " My parents died a few years ago, and left a large 
 family. My father was a waterman, and I was his assist- 
 ant in the management of a ferry-boat, by which he sup- 
 ported his family. On his death, it was necessary, in order 
 to pay his just debts, to sell our boat; an^ I parted from it 
 even with tears. But the distress which I felt spurred me 
 on to industry ; for I said I will use every kind of. diligence 
 to purchase my boat back again. I accordingly went to 
 the person who had bought it, and told him my design ; he 
 had given five guineas for it, but told me, as I had been 
 the owner, and had acted so honorably in regard to my 
 father's debts, that the. boat should be mine again when- 
 ever I could raise five pounds. My heart bounded at the 
 thought, and I resolved to do my utmost, in every honest 
 and fair way, to obtain my object. 
 
 "I was at this time married to a good young woman, 
 and we lived in a small cottage. She was healthy, indus- 
 trious, and careful. We loved one another dearly ; and, 
 united in our affections and our efforts, what might we 
 not undertake ? My father used to say to me ; ' Always 
 do what, is right ; labour diligently ; manage frugally, 
 trust in God ; and rest assured, that he will bless your 
 store,' We treasured up these rules, and determined to 
 *-y the truth of them. My wife had long been the support 
 
 »>" 9 
 
148 HONESTY THE BEST POLICY. 
 
 of two aged parents ; I loved them and took care of them 
 as my own. The desire of contributing to their support, 
 as well as to that of my own family, was an additional 
 spur to my endeavors to repurchase the boat. I entered 
 myself as a day-laborer in the garden of om- squire ; and 
 my wife was called occasionally to perform some service 
 at the house, and employed herself in needlework, spinning, 
 or knitting at home ; not a moment of the day was suffered 
 to pass unemployed. We lived sparingly, not a shilling, 
 was spent in the alehouse, nor on any improper object; 
 and by these means we were enabled to contribute a little 
 both to the support of religion, and to real objects of char- 
 ity, and also to drop every week a little overplus into a 
 fairing-box, to buy the boat. If any accident or charity 
 brought us an additional shilling, we did not enlarge our 
 expenses, or spend it on trifles, but we kept it also for the 
 bbat. The more careful we were the more comfortable 
 we felt;'Afor we' were more independent, and daily ap- 
 proached nearer to the object of our wishes ; and as we 
 were enabled to give ready money for all our family pro- 
 visions, we bought these both better and at a lower rate 
 than our neighbors ; and this saving supplied us with a fund 
 for pious purposes. 
 
 " Our family, indeed, increased, but with it our friends in- 
 creased also,; for the cleanliness and frugality which were 
 found in our cottage, and the content and cheerfulness 
 which appeared in it, drew the notice of our rich neighr 
 bors, and of my master and mistress particularly, whose 
 rule was to assist the industrious, but not to encourage 
 the idle. 
 
 " They did not approve of giving money to the poor ; but, 
 in severe winters, or dear times, allowed us to buy things 
 at a cheaper rate ; this was money to lis ; for w hen we 
 counts 1 our little cash for the week's marketing, all that 
 was saved to us by our tickets to purchase things at redu* 
 ced prices, went into our little box. 
 
HONESTY THE BEST POLICY. 149 
 
 " If our children got a penny at school for a reward, or a 
 present from a neighbor for any little service done, instead 
 of buying gingerbread with it, they brought it home, and 
 gave it to their mother, saying it woiild help buy the boat ; 
 and it was faithfully applied to increase our little store. I 
 felt it my duty to teach them from their infancy to be oblig- 
 ing, industrious, and careful ; recollecting that early 
 habits are most lasting ; and when we train up a child in 
 the way he should go, we have the assurance of God's 
 promise, that ' when he is old, he will not depart from it.' 
 
 " Thus our little store insensibly increased, from time ta 
 time, till one pound only was wanting of the sum so much 
 desired ; and often my dear wife and I used to 'remark, 
 that the blessing of heaven was very observable in the 
 Buccess of our honest endeavours. 
 
 " But the following accident seemed to disappoint all our 
 hopes ; comjng home one evening from my work at a late 
 hour, I saw in the road a pocket-book ; and on opening it I 
 found a bank note of 10/., which plainly enough belonged 
 to my master, for his name waav on the book, and I had 
 also seen him passing that way in the evening. It being 
 too late, however, to return to the house, I went on my 
 way. When I told my family of the circumstance, the 
 little ones were thrown into a transport of joy. ' My dears,' 
 said I, ' what is the matter ?' ' O, the .boat ! the boat ! we 
 may now have two or three boats !' I checked them by 
 my looks, and asked them if they knew whose money that 
 was ? They said, ' Yours, as you found it.' I reminded 
 them, that I was not the real owner ; and bade them think 
 how they wouU'all feel, supposing it had been our box of 
 money, which I had accidentally lost, and which a stran- 
 ger had found and carried away; telling them, at the 
 same time, that the Holy Scriptures direct us to do to others 
 always, as we would wish them to do to us in similar 
 circumstances ; and asking them whether, in this case, 
 they would not have wished the stranger who had found 
 our box to give it to us again. 
 
150 
 
 HONKSTY THE BEST TOLICY. 
 
 " This reasoning had the effect on their young minds 
 which I desired ; they were silent and pale with the repre- 
 sentation of such a disaster ; and I begged it might be a 
 lessor! to them never to forget the golden rule of doing as 
 they would wish others to do to them, and never to turn 
 aside from what God had made their duty. 
 
 " I also took this opportunity to show them, that the pos- 
 session of the boat by dishonest means would never answer, 
 since we could not expect the blessing of God upon bad 
 deeds. Nothing, I think, sir, is of greater consequence than 
 to embrace such opportunities for warning children against 
 what is wrong ; and for earnestly pressing upon their ten- 
 der'^minds those principles of religion and morality, which 
 are the means appdinted by heaven for guiding their youth- 
 ful steps to what is right. Early religious instruction has 
 been an unspeakable blessing to me. 
 
 " But Jo goon with my story: the next morning, I put 
 the pocket-book into my bosom, and went to work, intend- 
 ing as soon as the farnily arose, to give it to my master ; 
 but what were my feelings, when on searching in my 
 bosom, it was ho 'w^here to be found. I hastened back 
 along the road 1 came, looking diligently all the way, but 
 in vain ; there ' was no appearance of any such thing. I 
 Would not return into my cottage, because I wished to save 
 my family the pain I felt ; and, in the hopes of still recover- 
 ing the book, I went to my work, following another path, 
 which I recollected I had also gone by. On my return -to 
 the garden gate, I was accosted by the gardener, who in a 
 threatening tone, told me I was suspected ; that our master 
 had lost a pocket-book, describing what I had found, and 
 that I being the only man absent from the garden at the 
 hour of work, the rest of the men also denying that they 
 had seen any such thing, there was every reason to cori- 
 clude that I must have got it. Before I could answer, my 
 distressed countenance confirmed the suspicion ; and 
 another servant coming up, said I was detected ; for, that a 
 
HONESTY THE BEST POLICY. 1 5 1 
 
 HI 
 
 person had been sent to my house, and that my wife and 
 family had owned it all, and had described the poikct-book. 
 
 " I told them the real fact, but it seemed to every one 
 unlikely to be true ; every circumstance was against me, 
 and my heart trembles to look back upon it, I was "taken 
 into custody, and hurried away to prison. I protested my in- 
 nocence ; but I did not wonder that I gained no credit. Griet 
 now oppressed my heart ; my poor wife, my dear children, 
 and my grey-headed parents, were all at once plunged into 
 misery, instead of the ease which w^e were expecting ; all 
 our hopes were blasted at the very time when we were just 
 arriving at the height of our earthly wishes ; and, what 
 was worse, my character was tarnished, and all my un- 
 godly fellow-servants, whose practices I had often con- 
 demned, were triumphing and reviling religion on m}' 
 account. .-% 
 
 " My misery seemed almost complete ; and under these 
 accumulated sufferings I should certainly have sunk, if the 
 fjonsolations of religion had not borne me up. I knew I 
 was innocent, and these words afforded me direction, and 
 Were a source of unfailing comfort : ' Commit thy way unto 
 the Lord ; trust also in him ; and he shall bring it to pass. 
 And he shall bring forth thy righteousness as the light, and 
 thy judgement as the noonday',' Psalm xxxvii. 5, 0. These 
 words 1 made the man of my council. I committed my 
 way unto the Lord in frequent and fervent prayer, and 1 
 endeavoured to satisfy myselfj that, according to his word, 
 all things would come right at last. Often I thought on 
 the history of Joseph, who more than once suffered wrong- 
 fully ; and on the history of other Bible saints, "whose suf- 
 ferings were similar, to my own ; and in a little time my 
 mind was quite composed. I cast my burden on the Lord, 
 and he sustained me ; and I never recall to my mind the 
 consolations which I then enjoyed in converse with God, 
 but the tears of joy rush into my eyes. I take it for grant- 
 ed, sir, you are no enemy to religion. It is the most power- 
 ful thing to make men honest and upright in their dealings, 
 
152 HONESTY THE BEST POLICY. 
 
 and it has made me happier in a prison than many i. prince 
 is upon a throne. 
 
 " But to return ; I resolved to trust in the Lord, and act 
 honestly, and having been the cause, though without any 
 desigii, of the second loss of the property, I resolved to offer 
 the whole of our little store to make it good, as far as in 
 my power, and accordingly sent for my dear wife, to give 
 her this sad commission ; but, alas ! when she came, I 
 found this sacrifice would be of no avail ; for, said she, 
 'My master has been at the cottage, and I told him freely 
 how you had found the note, but unfortunately had lost it 
 again ; and I added,jtha,t I was sure both my husband and 
 I would make the best jeturn in our power ; after which I 
 produced our little fairing-box, and begged him to accept the 
 contents, which we had been so long raising, as all we had 
 to offer ; ' but sir,' said the waterman, ' conceive my agony, 
 when she added, that my master angrily refused, saying, 
 ' that our being in possession of all that money, was of 
 itself the clearest proof of my guilt ; for it was impossible, 
 with my large family, and no greater opportunitiM than 
 my neighbors, that I could come honestly by such a sura ; 
 therefore he was determined to keep me in prison till I 
 should pay the whole.' 
 
 " My distress for the moment was .certainly very great. 
 Every thing seemed to go against me. All my prospects 
 were darkened, and God, who has engaged to make dark- 
 ness light, and crooked things straight, vtras my only confi- 
 dence. In his promise and providence, my heart reposed, 
 and my mind immediately felt its former composufe. I 
 said to my dear wife, who, whilp, she was endeavouring 
 to comfort me, was horself overcome with a flood of tears, 
 ' Be not discouraged, all shall yet b'e well ; I am innocent 
 of the crime laid to my charge, a^nd the God whom we 
 have endeavoured, to serve will never suffer this reproach 
 to lie upon us. None ever trusted in him in vain, and I 
 am satisfied that m some way or other he will clear up this 
 natter, and also make it work for our good,' and so it hap- 
 
HONESTY THE BEST POLICY. 153 
 
 pened. One of my fellow-laborers proved to be the j erson 
 who had picked up the pocket-book after I had dropped it. 
 Having come a few minutes after me along the same road 
 to his work, and hearing that the suspicion had fallen 
 upon me, he was tempted to turn the accident to his own 
 advantage, and conceal the property ; havipg kept it for la 
 few weeks, till he thought no suspicion wotild rest upon 
 him, he went and olTered the note for change, and being 
 then suspected, my master had him taken up, and I was 
 released. 
 
 " The second change from so much misery to happiness, 
 was almost too much for us. It was the Lord's doing, and 
 it was wonderful in our eyes ; for my master sent for me, 
 and with many expressions of concern for what had passed, 
 made me give him an account of the means by which I had 
 collected the little fund that fixed his suspicion upon me. 
 I accofdingly related the history of it, as I have now done ; 
 and when I came to that part where I checked my children 
 for their inconsiderate joy, on my finding the note, he rose 
 with ijMich kindness in his looks, and putting the bank-note 
 into my hand, he said, ' Take it, the note shall be theirs ; it 
 is the best and only return I can make you, as well as a 
 just reward of your honesty ; and It will be a substantial 
 proof to your childrea of the goodness of your instructions ; 
 for they will thus early see and feel the benefit of honesty 
 and, virtue.' This kind and worthy gentleman interested 
 himself much in the purchase of my boat, which in less 
 than a week I had in my possession. .The remainder of 
 my master's bounty,: and the additional advantage of the 
 ferry, have placed me in comfortable circumstances ; 
 which I humbly trust God will continue to us, and enable 
 us to continue to act in obedience to his holy word, and to 
 be obliging, honest? and industrious ; and I can say, from 
 my own experience, that the fruit of honest industry is al- 
 ways sweetest. I have also the pleasure now of being 
 able to help others ; for when a rich passenger takes my 
 ferry, and many do it, as my story is well known in the 
 
15 I A TALE OJF THE LATE WAR. ' 
 
 \ 
 
 neighborhood, he often gives me more than my fare, which 
 enables me to let the next poor person go over for half- 
 price ; and this, with my known character for honesty, has 
 given me more than double the work of any ferryman in 
 the neighborhood. And, besides, it is a more regular em- 
 ployment : for all that go with me once, and get a little 
 acquainted with me, endeavour to go with me again, if 
 their circumstances will permit ; and they recommend me 
 to their acquaintances who are coming my way ; so that I 
 find honesty, in every point of view, to be the best policy: 
 
 " And when I go home to my family at night wif h my 
 little earnings, I. find it a paradise of domestic enjoyment. 
 My wife, according as our slender circumstances will per-" 
 mit, is always contriving how she can make me happier 
 at home than any where else. My children are waiting to 
 share a father's smiles,, and tell me all their little tales of 
 what has passed during the day. And my little cbttage, 
 though poor, is always neat, and clean and orderly, and 
 the habitation of peace." . 
 
 The gentleman was extremely pleased with the water- 
 man's story, and the piety of his remarks ; and from this 
 time, becoming acquainted with his family, did him every 
 service in his power ; giving books and schooling to the 
 little ones, and such things as would make the old folks 
 comfortable as long as they lived. 
 
 A TALE OF THE LATE WAR. 
 
 BY REV. WM. M'JIMSEY. 
 
 Ddrins the late war, there was a cantonment atGreetibosh, 
 in a retired situation near the Hudson River. Frequently 
 regiments of the snray were collected and stationed there, 
 rea'dy for orders of march to Canada and to the frontier 
 settlements. The place was often visited by travellers. 
 The school boys delighted to make occasionally an excur- 
 
A TALE OF THE LATE WAR. 155 
 
 sion across the Hudson River from Albany, to see the ti-eops, 
 with their glittering arms, assembled there on parade, and 
 to hear the martial music. A delightful grove surrounded 
 the region, and various associations are connected with the 
 scene. 
 
 The power of contrast, in its effect upon the mind under 
 peculiar eircurastances, is illustrated "in a remarkable 
 manner by the occurrence of a deserter reprieved wit; 
 nessed by the writer of this article. 
 
 On a certain occasion an incident of memorable and 
 remarkable interest to all who witnessed it occurred at thei 
 cantonment. A soldier had deserted from the army, was 
 taken, tried and sentenced to be shot. The time for the 
 execution and awful catastrophe, according to the sentence, 
 had arrived. The air and sky were clear and bright. It 
 was a tragedy of real life and interest. The life or death; 
 of a human being wa& involved. The solemn procession, 
 was formed, and slowly moved in regular order to the place 
 of execution, in profound silence, ignorant of the result. The 
 guns of the soldiers were inverted. A dirge of martial 
 music on the deep toned drum gave increasing interest to 
 the procession. Soldiers to perform the deed of execution 
 had been selected. They stood ready to- act their part and 
 to do their duty on the occasion. Dismay appeared in the 
 assembled crowd in groups around the circle of the place, 
 of execution. The grave was opened. The coffin was 
 placed by it. The executioners stood before the agitated 
 soldier. The deserter kneeled upon the coffin, in expecta-. 
 tion of death. All was silence around ; and it was a 
 moment of solemnity and awe. A pause ensued — a momen- 
 tary season for thought and prayer, and for contemplation 
 of the untried realities of the unseen world from whose 
 bourne no traveller returns. 
 
 In the midst of this scene of interest, of solemnity, and 
 of suspense, a reprieve was received and read with an 
 audible voice. It was the voice of authority, it was tke 
 voice of mercy. 
 
156 SURE SIGNS FOR YOUTH. 
 
 How changed the scene, as the intelligence was given 
 to the soldiers and to the assembled crowds, both, within 
 and without the regiment. How unexpected the deci- 
 sion and event ! how wonderful the effect, how striking the 
 contrast ! 
 
 The result was decisive ; and the effect could be wit- 
 nessed in the feelings and countenance of the assembled 
 soldiery, and of the surrounding groups collected on the 
 occasion. Hope re-kindles and re-animates the breasts of 
 all. To the deserter the reprieve was as "life from the 
 dead." The gloom of dismay, was changed for the bright 
 beams of joy and of hope. 
 
 The march of the procession was again resumed, but 
 with different steps and tones of music. The slow step of 
 the soldiers was changed to the quick march, and the 
 music struck up our celebrated national' air. All was glad 
 ness, joy, peace and activity around. 
 
 SURE SIGNS FOR YOUTH. 
 
 Solomon said, many centuries ago ; '' Even a child m 
 known by his doings, whether his work be pure and 
 whether it be right." 
 
 Some people seem to think that children have no charac- 
 ter. On the contrary! an observing eye sees in these young 
 creatures, the signs of what they are to be for life. 
 
 When I see a little boy slow to go to school, and glad of 
 every excuse to neglect his book, I think it is a sign that 
 he will be a dunce. 
 
 When I see a boy in haste to spend every penny as soon 
 as he gets it, I think it is a sign that he will be a spend- 
 thrift or a worthless man. 
 
 When I see a boy hoarding up his pennies, and unwilling 
 to part with them for any good purpose, I think it is a sign 
 that the child will grow up a selfish person. 
 
MARTIN Luther's activity. 157 
 
 When I see boys and girls often quarreling, I think it a 
 sign that they will be violent and hateful men and women. 
 
 When I see a little boy willing to taste strong drink,- 1 
 think it a sign that he will be a drunkard. 
 
 When I see a boy who never prays, I think it a sign that 
 he will be a profane and profligate man. 
 
 When I see a child obedient to its parents, I think it a 
 sign of a great blessing from Almighty God. 
 
 When I see a boy fond of the Bible, and well acquainted 
 with it, I think-it a sign that he will be a pious and happy 
 man. 
 
 And though great changes sometimes take place in the 
 character, yet as a general rule these signs do not fail. 
 
 MARTIN LUTHER'S ACTIVITY. 
 
 • 
 
 From 1517 to 1526, the first ten years of the Reformation, 
 the number of his publications was three hundred ; from 
 1527 to 1536, the "second decade, the number was two hun- 
 dred and thirty-two ; and from 1537 to 1546, the year of his 
 death, the number was one hundred and eighty-three. His 
 first book was published in November, 1517, and he died in 
 February, 1546, an interval of twenty-nine years and four 
 months. In this time he published seven hundred and 
 fifteen volumes, an average of more than twenty-five a 
 year, or once a fortnight, of his public life. He did not go 
 through the manual labor of all this writing, it is true, for 
 many of his published works were taken down from his 
 lips by his friends ; and it is also true, that several of the 
 volumes were small enough in size to be denominated 
 pamphlets; but many of them,- also, are large and elabo- 
 rate treatises. In the circumstances in which he wrotcj 
 his translation of the Bible alone would have been a gi- 
 gantic task, even if he had had a life-time to devote to it. 
 
158 EEV. JOHN WESLEY. 
 
 REV. JOHN WESLEY. 
 
 BY PHILO. 
 
 The name Methodist necessarily and always suggest 
 the idea) of the immortal man from whose gigantic labors 
 they sprung, a man around whose name fresh glories are 
 hourly gathering in every part of the world. John Wesiley 
 considered simply as 'a man, was a rare specimen of human 
 nature. Both in body and in mind, we think, he approach- 
 ed as nearliy to perfection as any individual known t© his- 
 tory. His creation, to no inconsiderable extent, determined 
 the question how far all virtues, and all talents, might be 
 combined in the same person. He was capable, without a 
 struggle, of having taken the first place in nearly all the 
 highest walks, of human greatness, and all but the first, in 
 the few that remained. He was a poet, a logician, an ora- 
 tor, and a consummate man of business ; in philosophy and 
 secular learning he ^fras a master ; he was equally adapted 
 to s]?ine on the Exchange, on the judgement-seat, in the 
 senate-house, and at the helm "of State. In his person, too, 
 a full experiment was made with respect to the possible 
 extent and duration of the use of this wondrous combina- 
 tion of powers, faculties, giffe, and graces. They were 
 exercised with a continuity, and exerted with an inten- 
 sity to which the history of human nature supplies no 
 parallel, and through a period which comprehends the 
 whole span of two generations. The annals of the church, 
 in modern time^, presents no such man ; the history of the 
 reformed religion exhibits no such labors. Does the won- 
 der then end with the individual ? No ; he was not only 
 himself a wonder, but, under God. the author ot wonders 
 which ^are not likely soon to know either limit or end. In 
 the person of this marvelous man, a further experiment 
 was made as if in order to determine how far an indivi- 
 dual may be rendered the instrument of giving a moral and' 
 religious impulse to the human race. 
 
SLEEPING APAETMENTS. JgQ 
 
 SLEEPING APARTMENTS. 
 
 " It must not be forgotten," remarks Hufeland," " that we 
 spend a considerable portion of our lives in the bed-cham- 
 ber, and consequently that its healthiness cannot fail of 
 having a very important influence upon our physical well- 
 being." 
 
 Every one, in fact, who is actuated by a due regard for 
 health and real comfort, will consider an equal degree of 
 attention necessary in regard to the size, situation, tem- 
 perature, and cleanliness of the room he occupies during 
 the hours of repose, as of his parlor, drawing-room, or any 
 other apartment ; and yet how often do we find families 
 crowded at night into obscure and confined chambers, of 
 dimensions scarcely more ample than those of an old^ 
 •fashioned closet, while, perhaps, in most instancesi the best 
 rooms in the house will be set aside for the sole purpose of 
 ostentatious display. 
 
 It is all important that the largest and most lofty room, 
 upon the second floor, be appropriated for the sleeping 
 apartment, and that it be freely ventilated during the day- 
 time, at all seasons, when the weather is not rainy or other- 
 wise very humid. 
 
 There are few houses, the rooms of which are so situated 
 as to render the latter impracticable, and the influence of 
 the practice upon the health of inmates is too important to 
 permit its being, neglected from any slight cause. 
 
 A bed-chamber should be divested of all unnecessary 
 furniture, and unless of considerable size, should never con- 
 tain more than one bed. There cannot be a more per- 
 nicious custom than that pursued in many families, of 
 causing the children more especially, to sleep in small 
 apartments, with two or three beds crowded into the same 
 room. 
 
160 SLEEPING APARTMENTS." 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to observe, that cleanliness, in 
 the most extensive signification of the term, is, if possible, 
 even more necessary, in reference to the bed-chamber, than 
 to almost any other apartment. 
 
 The practice of sleeping in an apartment which is occu- 
 pied during the day, is extremely improper. Perfect clean- 
 liness and sufficient free ventilation cannot, under such cir- 
 cumstances, be preserved, especially during cold weather ; 
 hence the atmosphere becomes constantly more vitiated 
 and' altogether unfit for respiration. 
 
 While too great a degree of caution cannot be observed 
 to avoid sleeping in damp rooms, beds, or clothing, the 
 temperature of the bed-chamber should,. if possible, never 
 be augmented, under the ordinary circumstances of health, 
 by artificial means. As this apartment is to be reserved 
 solely for repose, a fire is never necessary, excepting, per- 
 haps, during uncommonly severe weather ; and even then, 
 the temperature ought not to exceed fifty degrees. 
 
 A sleeping apartment, in which a large fire has been 
 kept for several hours previous to the period of retiring to 
 rest, may, to many, at the first view, present an appearance 
 of the most perfect comfort — it is, however, at the same 
 time a means of very effectually enervating the system — 
 creating an increased susceptibility to the influence of the 
 cold, -and thus opening the way to the attack of some of 
 the most serious diseases, especially of the chest. Happy 
 may they esteem themselves whose means forbid an indul- 
 gence in this species of luxury. 
 
 A person accustomed to undress in a room without a fire 
 and to seek repose in a cold bed, will not experience the 
 least inconvenience, even in the severest weather. The 
 natural heat of his body will very speedily render him 
 even more comfortably warm than the individual who 
 sleeps in a heated apartment, and in a bed thus artificially 
 warmed, and who will be extremely liable to a sensation 
 of chilliness as soon as the artificial heat is dissipated. 
 
THE SECRET OF HAPriNESS. 161 
 
 But this is not all, the constitution of the former will be 
 rertdered more robust, and far less susceptible to the in- 
 fluence of atmospherical vicissitudes than that of the latter. 
 
 THE SECRET OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 BY MmER. 
 * 
 
 Go, search the ponderous tones of human learning — ex 
 plore the works of Confucius — examine the pi'ecepts of Sen 
 eca, and all the works of Socrates. Collect all -the excel- 
 lencies of the ancient and modern moralists', and point to 
 a sentence equal to the simple prayer of our Saviour, 
 " Father, forgive them !" Reviled and insulted — suffering 
 the grossest indignation, crowned with thorns and led 
 giway to die, no annihilating curse breaks from his lips. 
 Sweet and placid as the aspiring of a mother for her nurs- 
 lings, ascends the prayer of mercy for his enemies, ' Father, 
 forgive them !" O, it is worthy of its origin, proving incon 
 testably that his mission was from Heaven. 
 
 Acquaintances, have you ever quarreled ? Friends, have 
 you ever differed ? If he who was pure and perfect for- 
 gave his bitterest enemies, do you well to cherish anger ? 
 Brothers, to you the precept is imperative. You should 
 forgive not seven times, but " seventy times seven." 
 
 Husbands and wives, you have no right to expect perfec- 
 tion in each other. To err is human. Illness will some- 
 times make you petulant, and disappointment ruffle the 
 smoothest temper. Guard, then, withninremitting vigilance, 
 your passions. Controlled, they are the genial warmth 
 that cheers us along the way of life — ungoverned, they 
 are consuming fires. Let your strife be, one of respectful 
 attention and conciliatory conduct. Cultivate with care 
 .the kind and gentle affections. Plant not, but eradicate, 
 the thorn in your partner's path. Above all, let no feeling 
 of revenge ever find harbor in your breast. A kind word. 
 
1S2 SONG OP THK SWEET BIRD. 
 
 an obliging action, even if it be a trifling ones, has a power 
 superior to the harp of David, in calnaing the billows-of 
 the soul. 
 
 Revenge is as incompatible with happiness as religion. 
 Let him whose soul is dark with malice, and studious of re- 
 venge, walk through the fields, clad with verdure and 
 adorned with flowers^ To his eye there is no beauty ; the 
 flowers to him exhale no fragrance. Like his soul, nature 
 is robed in the deepest jable. The smile of beauty and 
 cheerfulness light not up his bosom with joy ; but the fires 
 of hell rage there, and render him as miserable as he wishes 
 the object of his hate. 
 
 But let him lay his hand upon his breast, and say, " Re- 
 venge,, I cast thee from me ; Father, forgive as ' I forgive 
 others,"' and nature assumes a new and delightful garniture. 
 Then, indeed, are the meads verdant and the flowers fra- 
 grant ; then is the music of the groves delightful to his ear, 
 and the smile of virtue lovely to his soul. 
 
 SONG OF THE SWEET BIRD. 
 
 There sung a sweet bird in the spring of the year. 
 It sung in the forest, it sung in the grove, 
 
 So gaily the young lambs they listened to hear ; 
 And the song that was sweetest, was ever of love. 
 
 It sung of the wild flowers, it sung of the dew, 
 It sung of the sweet-scented blossoms above, 
 
 It sung of the home, and away the bird flew ; 
 
 But the song the woods echoed the last, was of love. 
 
In ornithology, the heron is a species of the aedea, and 
 of the order of grallce. The common heron has a black 
 crest hanging down from the back part of the head, the 
 body is variegated with black and white, and below blue- 
 ish ; the bill of a deep yellow ; the iris yellow ; the feet 
 brown, but yellowish towards the feathered part ; the 
 beak and legs are long, and they have four long, connected 
 toes on each foot. It is a tall bird, very light in propor- 
 tion to its size ; in weight about three pounds and a half. 
 The length is thre'e feet two inches, and the breadth from 
 tip to tip of extended wing, five feet four inches. 
 
 The heron is a bird found almost in every part of the 
 
 world. .At the season of reproduction, they congregate in 
 
 great numbers at their stations, or heronies, for which the 
 
 loftiest trees are selected. More than eighty nests have 
 
 been counted on one tree. The nest which is large and 
 
 flat, is built of sticks, lined with wool, or soft materials. 
 10 
 
164 MELANCHTHON COMFORTED. 
 
 MELANCHTHON COMFORTED. 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN BY HENRY S. LASAR. 
 
 MELANCHTHON, the hoiiored friend and helper of Luther, 
 had once met with him and several other divines at a very 
 critical period at Torgau, to take some measures about their 
 just established evangelical church, and to send counsel to the 
 princes of the protestant party. Much had been said, many 
 attempts had been made to devise some plans that would 
 turn out to their advantage ; they had not yet come to any 
 decision when Melanchthon, fatigued, sorrowful, and almost 
 comfortless, was called out for a few moments. On his re- 
 turn to the assembly he happened to step into a room, where 
 he found the wives of three preachers, who among their do- 
 mestic duties, taught their little children prayers to God, for 
 the preservation of the Gospel. The pious Melanchthon 
 heard the cries of these little ones, and the words came very 
 naturally to his mind: "Out of the mouth of babes and suck- 
 lings hast thou ordained strength." His depressed spirits at 
 once were raised, and he returned with a happy countenance 
 into the assembly of his troubled friends. With astonish- 
 ment Luther inquired the reason of this sudden change. 
 " Let us not be disheartened," replied the comforted Melanch- 
 thon, "I have seen the champions, who fight for us, and who 
 will be invincible ; they are our little ones, whose cries to 
 God 1 just heard, and God will not, God "Cannot leave them 
 unheard." 
 
 Happy is he, who has the tender heart and the pious mind 
 of this Noble One ! — He will find comfort everywhere, and 
 his strength shall be renewed evermore. 
 
 Let the mothers of our country learn from this simple and 
 touching incident, to teach their little ones also to pray for 
 the success of the Gospel. 
 
THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 16ff 
 
 THE FAMILY CIECLE. 
 
 The Family Circle ! What tender and endearing asso- 
 ciations does it call up. What a variety of pleasing emo- 
 tions does it excite ! What a verdant spot does it present 
 in this sin, defiled and storm, riven world, where bloom the 
 lovliest flowers and grow the richest fruits of earth — 
 where the. softest gales blow from paradise, the sweetest 
 melody pours on the ear, and love and hope still linger to 
 to cheer and lift up the heart of man. Here, alone, is 
 
 found 
 
 " The only bliss 
 Of Paradise, which has survived tlie Fall." 
 
 The Family Circle ! Who that has entered its sacred 
 enclosures, and observed the union of hearts, the provi- 
 sions made to solace hope and exclude sorrow, and the 
 generous motives it suggests to virttious activity and strong 
 endurance, but has felt a desire spring up in his bosom to 
 build on this spot, consecrated to friendship, an alter to the 
 Most High, and there abide. When I have brought this 
 subject home to my heart as I have mingled in the dear 
 circle, and partaken largely of its pure pleasures, the 
 words of Holy Writ have come over me with a soothing, 
 soul subduing power. " God maketh the solitary to dwell 
 in families." I have thought, then, what a gloomy, solitary 
 being man would be without the family state and rela- 
 tions — what a coarse, misanthropic creature he would be 
 without the refining and humanizing influences of Domes- 
 tic Society. What would there be to bind together mate- 
 rials so discordant and repellant ? How little love and 
 friendship would there be among beings so selfish and 
 litigious ! What would there be to check and control that 
 
Ii36 THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 
 
 restless, roving spirit so natural to man ! Without the 
 powerful attractions of home and friends, near and dear, 
 to draw forth the afFe6tions, man weald wander up and 
 down the world, restless and dissatisfied, and never taste 
 the sweet's of pure and unsullied friendship. In this state 
 of melancholy insulation, a lone exilfe from the family cir- 
 cle, he would brook no restraints — there would be no order 
 no harmony, no virtue left, and religion, driven from her 
 last, her favorite retreat, would leave the world never to 
 
 return. 
 
 Without the sweets of domestic society, and the happi- 
 ness found in the Family Circle, there is nothing in this 
 world worth living for. The best Porm of government 
 could not compensate for the destruction of the family 
 compact, nor long survive it. The family organization 
 stands first in point of importance. Without the ever-watch? 
 ful superintendence and care of parental love and the re- 
 straining, forming influence of parental government and 
 instruction, the germs of virtue would be rarely formed, or 
 the fruits of virtuous conduct appear in after life. Thfe 
 infancy of main's being is the forming period, the seed-time 
 of life, and, with but few exceptions, as is the child so is 
 the man. The Family Circle is, then. The Primary School 
 OF OUR RACE. The education of man commences here ; 
 here the rays of truth aftd knowledge first reach his mind, 
 and he receives his first impressions on every subject ; and 
 here, under the formative power and plastic influence of 
 parental example and instruction, his future character is 
 slowly, but surely developed. How great is the responsi- 
 bility, and how difficult and delicate is the duty of parents ! 
 What wisdom and grace do they need ! They are, in truth,, 
 the educators of the race ; others are only auxiliaries in 
 the work — 'they are the principals. One thing they fail not 
 generally to do, that is, to stamp their bwn image upon 
 their offspring. 
 
 We have seen the Christian in the Closet, let us now 
 view him in the Family Circle, as the head of an interest- 
 
THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 167 
 
 ing society. This is his appropriate and most interesting 
 and prpmising field of labor. His duties arfe those of an 
 instructor, Governor, and Priest. The faithful discharge of 
 these duties, demands the greatest diligence, firmness of 
 purpose, and promptitude of action. If he neglect or slight 
 any branch of duty, if he suffers one duty to interfere with 
 another, he will accomplish little or nothing. 
 
 As an liJSTRrTCTOR he needs a large fund of knowledge- 
 The family, and especially the younger members, look up 
 to him for instruction. But he cannot teach what he does 
 not know. He should therefore inform himself in every 
 branch of knowledge which it is requisite he should teach. 
 Knowledge is the food of the mind, without which, its pow- 
 ers will remain contracted and feeble, as the body de- 
 prived of its necessary aliment. Children need line upon 
 line, and precept upon precept. The same thing needs to 
 be reiterated. Day by day the work must be renewed 
 without weariness or relaxation. The work of religious 
 instruction brooks no delay, nor must it be superficially or 
 carelessly done. The Christian must teach by Example as 
 well as precept. He must do as well as teach. If he 
 teaches one thing and does another, the inconsistancy will 
 be seen, and his instructions will be powerless. Children 
 are close observers of character, and good judges too. Im- 
 pressions are made when parents least expect it, and they 
 treasure up in their memories all that they see and hear. 
 When precept is not enforced by example, it has little 
 weight, and is soon forgotten. But when both are united, the 
 impression made is deep and lasting, In the former case, 
 parents do but tamper dnd trifle with their children ; they 
 do not so much deceive as mock them, while in the latter 
 they bring the whole weight of truth to bear upon them 
 
 As Governor, the Christian parent has a very difficult 
 and delicate work to perform. There will be neither or- 
 der nor harmony in a family, without government. Gov- 
 ernment must be maintained in the family, or children will 
 be ruined. The extremes of severity and indulgence must 
 
168 THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 
 
 be avoided. Severity provokes to wrath, and generates 
 sourness and discontent. The face that is always covered 
 with gloom, does but repel and alienate. He who is al- 
 ways finding fault with his children, and scarcely ever 
 speaks a kind word to them, cannot expect to secure their 
 love and respect. It is discouraging to hear nought but 
 the harshness of reproof. The temptation to abuse pa- 
 rental authority proves too strong for many. Government 
 should be tempered with mildness ; kindness will give it 
 irresistible force. Excessive indulgence is the other ex- 
 treme to which many are prone — this, also, is ruinous ; it 
 takes away all reverence and fear of offending. Coaxing 
 and flattery will spoil the best disposition. Here mothers 
 often display great weakness — their tender mercies'are 
 cruel. Often they give them kisses and sweetmeats, when 
 they should apply tho rod. The cries and tears of children 
 obtain for them all they foolishly crave ; the tender heart 
 of the mother yields and the child conquers, but the victory 
 proves fatal ! Those who grow up without restraint, be- 
 come an easy prey to temptation, and are generally lost. 
 Eli restrained not his sons and they "made themselves 
 vile." David indulged Absalom to his undoing. As a 
 wise and upright ruler of his family, Abraham is presented 
 as a perfect model. He governed both with dignity and 
 authority. He taught his household to fear Godi and do 
 justly. He inculcated and enforced obedience to the law 
 of God. He was decided and firm, yet mild and temperate. 
 He exacted nothing but what was right, and God com- 
 mended him for his distinguished fidelity. 
 
 There is manifestly, in the present day, a great falling 
 off in family government, and to us it is one of the darkest 
 signs of the times. Children are, to an alarming extent, 
 left to do very much as they please ; and by many, the use 
 of the rod is repudiated both in the family and in schools, 
 hence their proverbial rudeness and recklessness. Boys 
 have little respect for any one, and girls are full of unseemly 
 airs. This both accounts for, and promotes the decline 
 
THK FAMILY CIRCLE. 169 
 
 and decay of true religion. This spirit of insubordination 
 is subversive of all order, it paralyzes every effort, to check 
 the progress of vice, andto promote the interests of religion. 
 
 A government like ours, cannot long be sustained with- 
 out the influence of Family government ; nor will religion 
 long survive its overthrow. A family is a kingdom in 
 miniature. It has its constitution, laws and governing head. 
 Here government is first exercised on a small scale. Here 
 the foundation of civil order and subordination is laid in 
 the habit of obedience and subjection to parental authority 
 and the seeds of disorder and misrule are sown. Thus, these 
 little societies stamp the character of a nation, which is 
 but a larger society.. Those who are not subjected to whole- 
 some restraints in the impressible and forming period of 
 childhood and youth, will not readily submit to the re- 
 straints of law systems, as members of civil society. 
 
 We must look, then, into the family for the potent causes 
 of a nation's prosperity or ruin. What daily takes place 
 here, effects vitally, all the great interests of society, and 
 all the movements of government ; the main spring and re- 
 gulator of the vast and complicated machine of government 
 ii formed in the Family Circle. The wisdom of legislators 
 cainot compensate for the neglect of family government. 
 Convention after convention may hieet to amend constitu- 
 tions and reform the judicial code, and remedy the evils 
 of bai government, but all will not avail if government 
 fail at its very source, if family government is not kept up. 
 
 We cannot fail to see that the relation of governors of 
 families to the country, is one of great responsibility. Ac- 
 cording to the character of those whom they send forth in- 
 to the community, ^!hey will show themselves friends or 
 traitors to their country, and contribute to its honor or dis- 
 grace, its prosperity or ruin. Families are sources of vir- 
 tue or feontagion. The Christian parent who holds the 
 reins of government with a steady hand, will rank among 
 the greatest benefactors of the country. Though unknown 
 and unnoticed his influence is felt through the nation. His 
 
170 
 
 THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 
 
 Bxertions tend more than any thing, to promote the order 
 and harmony of society, and the stability of government. 
 Let, then, the parents of this nation feel their responsibility, 
 and govern their households wisely, and nought will impede 
 the march of religion and truth, or prevent our reaching 
 the summit of happiness j our sun will never go down. 
 
 FAMILY DEVOTION. 
 
 The Christian is, m an important sense, a priest in his 
 own house, to offer the daily sacrifice of prayer and praise. 
 Family worship is as plainly a dictate of reason and relig- 
 ion, as is any other duty. There are obvious reasons for it. 
 Common interest, a sense of mutual dependence and obli- 
 gation, love, gratitude and reverence, prompt to it. Most 
 heathen nations have something like it ; and the pious, 
 in all ages, have practiced it. The morning and evening 
 sacrifice prefigured it. The Saviour is supposed to allude 
 to it in that promise, " where two or three are met" etc. 
 The exercises properly pertaining to ^'amily devotion are, 
 
 the READING OF THR SCRIPTURES, PRAISE AND PRAYER. 
 
 Wherever the patriarchs of old sojourned, there they 
 built an altar of wood or stone, and worshipped God. S4 
 now, whenever you find a Christian dwelling with lis 
 family, you find an altar, and prayer jointly offered, m(Trn- 
 ing and evening. The altar we speak of, is not of yood 
 or marble, but is a heart in which God dwells by his s/irit ; 
 the sacrifices are those of prayer and praise. The Chris- 
 tian in the closet, is an interesting sight — ^thence he e/erives 
 strength for every other duty. It is a sight still rnonb inte- 
 resting, to see him leading his family to the altar if God, 
 and seeking a blessing upon them. What sight s more 
 beautiful ; the scene is full of moral sublimity. He feels 
 the importance of the trust committed to him ; gratitude 
 and a sense of constant dependence, make him bow low 
 and lift up his soul in praise and strong aspirations ; his 
 heart expands with love to his children, and all under his 
 
 / 
 / 
 
THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 171 
 
 care, and he seeks a blessing on all. The secret of the Lord 
 is in his tabernacle — the most High dwells there. Blessed, 
 indeed, are those families which enjoy such privileges-; 
 yea, blessed is that people among whom such families 
 abound ; they are the nurseries of the Church, and the bul- 
 wark of the nation. 
 
 The motto of the Christian is, " As for me and my house, 
 WE WILL SERVE THE LoRD." He would as soon think of neg- 
 lecting prayer altogether as Family prayer. The fire nev- 
 er goes wholly out upon his altar. Satan cannot do much 
 in a praying house. Here the temptations of the world, 
 and the floods of ungodliness, meet an obstacle which 
 break their force and drive them back. Far away from 
 such a house, levity and. profane jesting is driven. The 
 heedless world see that this place is holy ground, and they 
 are not wont to intrude upon it. Let but an altar be 
 erected in a family arid wicked men and evil spirits de- 
 part. They cannot abide the presence of God. No sooner 
 does a man set up the worship of God in his family, than 
 he finds himself forsaken by multitudes of vain persons 
 that used to visit his dwelling. By this act, it is under- 
 stood that he has become a religious man, and intends to 
 serve God. They rightly judge that those who choose the 
 worship of God, can take no pleasure in the society of vain 
 and wicked persons ; until, then,, an individual takes this 
 step^ the world will not leave him, and withdraw. Re- 
 ligious and irreligious families are separated by this one 
 thing more than by any other. 
 
 Formerly Family worship was conducted in a much 
 more solemn manner than it is now. A particular hour 
 of the day was set apart for the service, vFith which noth- 
 ing was ever permitted to interfere. It was called the 
 HOUR OF PRAYER. The members of the family were all 
 assembled ; a portion of Scripture was read and com- 
 mented upon, then a hymn of praise was sung, in which 
 all joined ; and, lastly, fervent, solemn, prayer was offered 
 up. The place was solemn as the house of God ; the season 
 
172 THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 
 
 resembled holy time. Deep silence reigned in the little 
 group, broken only by the sweet apcent of praise, or the 
 thrilling tones of supplication. There was no levity, noth- 
 ing to turn away the eye from God. The service over, the 
 little band separated and retired, and silence reigned 
 throughout the dwelling. The remembrance of scenes 
 like these, in my own father's house, are as fresh as the 
 events of yesterday. Often, in imagination, I have been 
 carried back to my paternal home, and mingled again in 
 the hallowed scenes of family worship, where my father, 
 with patriarchal dignity, presided, and I seemed to hear his 
 voice again. Every eye was turned with respectful atten- 
 tion and confiding love towards him, while from his lips 
 dropped the words of instruction, or with solemn awe he 
 approached the throne of grace. 
 
 But now how different ! how changed the scene from 
 what it was ! We see, indeed, little of what, some have 
 denominated, this old-fashioned. Puritanical preciseness. 
 No particular time is set, no hour consecrated exclusively 
 to this service; but it occurs just as it happens, and with 
 little order and regularity. Perhaps it is observed at an 
 unseasonable hour, or not at all. The Bible is read with- 
 out comment ; no hymn is sung ; and prayer is hurried 
 over. There are, doubtless, exceptions ; but this we fear is 
 the general mode, and, if so, we have little to boast over 
 our pious ancestors. When we compare our laxness with 
 there strictness, we see we have not outrun them in piety. 
 If we have outstripped them in some things, we have cer- 
 tainly fallen behind them in this respect. On this subject 
 we need to reform and "rwturn to the old paths." 
 
 Many excuse themselves from the observance of family 
 worship. Some plead the want of ability ; some the want 
 of gifts and knowledge ; some plead the want of time, 
 and many the want of religion. But all these excuses are 
 vain and wicked. Some say they want capacity for the 
 work ; it is more probably a want of disposition. A man 
 who can give good counsel to his childreif, can pray with 
 
THE FAMILY CIRCLE, 173 
 
 them ; it requires no more ability to do the one than the 
 other. The parent who does not love his children enough to 
 pray with, and for them, must be hard-hearted indeed, and 
 if, through his neglect, they remain impenitent, and are 
 lost, hfe will be treated as the destroyer of their souls. 
 Think of this, ye who restrain prayer in your families, and 
 leave your children to go to destruction. 
 
 Some are ashamed to engage in the duty. Is it then 
 a weakness to worship God? Have not the greatest and 
 best men that ever lived, set you an example ? The glit- 
 tering host of heaven bow down and worship God, and 
 are you ashamed of Him ? For such dishonor cast upon 
 Him, you have reason to tremble. If you are ashamed of 
 God, He will be ashamed of you. If you honor not God 
 before your families, where then will you do it ? Is he not 
 the God of families, and will you not honor Him as such ? 
 Will a man rob God ? And have you not done this daily 
 in neglecting one of the most reasonable and solemn duties 
 you owe to him ? Will a man rob his own children ? Will 
 you rob yourselves and household of the greatest honor 
 and blessedness ? Do you not rob your children by leaving 
 them to wander in the dark, without the light of your ex- 
 ample, and the hallowed influence of j-our prayers ? Your 
 voice, it may be, is often heard in foolish jesting, or idle 
 conversation, or, perhaps, in scolding, but never in the 
 broken accents of supplication, or cries for mepcy upon 
 them. Is this not robbing them of the sweet consciousness 
 of your love and, tender solicitude for them, and of that 
 feeling of reverence and boundless confidence they would 
 otherwise cherish for you ? 
 
 But you have no time for this duty, you are pressed be- 
 yond measure with numerous cares ; and what was time 
 o-iven for ? Will you give it all to minor concerns, and 
 neglect the most important duties ? Will you provide for 
 the body, and neglect the soul ? By greater diligence and 
 order could you not save time, and have enough, for religious 
 duties ? Have you more to do than David had, who, with 
 
174 THE FAMILY CIRCLE. 
 
 the affairs of a kingdom and camp on his hands., found time 
 for domestic devotion ? What says the Saviour ? " Seek 
 FIRST the kingdom of God." 
 
 A house without a Family altar — what a dwelling that 
 must be ! how dark and cheerless ! No blood of atonement 
 is sprinkled on the door posts ; ministering angels come not 
 nigh ; the spirits of darkness are there to tempt, and torture. 
 In a dark and stormy night, a godly minister stopped at the 
 house of a stranger, but finding they had no Bible, and no 
 family altar, he rose up to depart, saying, he would rather 
 be exposed to the pelting of the storm, than tarry in such a 
 place ; but the master prevailed on him to stay, and called 
 his family together. He prayed, the blessing of God 
 descended, and the house became a house of prayer. 
 
 I wonder men, in a Christian land, are not afraid of liv- 
 ing without God in their dwellings. They have no promise 
 of protection, but God has threatened to pour out his fury 
 upon them. Parents, if God is not with you to bless you 
 how can you feel safe on your pillows ? A house, though 
 built of marble or cedar, is no protection where God is not. 
 It may keep out the wind and rain, but it cannot shield you 
 from the storm of his wrdth. You may have a lovely 
 wife and lovely children, but if you have no place for God 
 in your dwelling, no altar for Him, you have no friend on 
 whom you can rely when death rends asunder the ties of 
 nature. You may live in a peilace and fare sumptuously 
 every day, but this will not make you happy, or make 
 death and eternity less dreadful to you. Tremble to think 
 that your house is full of altars dedicated to pride, pleasure, 
 and ambition, but no altar to the great god is there. 
 Make haste, then, and build an altar to God. 
 
 Teach children to love and revere the Most High, by 
 studying and contemplating the works of his hands in 
 the light of divine revelation and the truths of science. All 
 nature is one vast system of Theology, one vast Temple 
 dedicated to the worship of the ever-living God ! 
 
WILLIE. ■ 1?^5 
 
 WILLIE.* 
 
 There sat upon a father's knee, 
 A beautiful, and joyous child, 
 
 ^With dimpling cheeks that told of glee, 
 Ahfl lips which without ceasing smiled. 
 And eyes of deep transparent blue, 
 Where life, and love, came guShiiig tW&ujgfn.' 
 'Twas a delicious sight to see 
 Young Willie sport so joyously. 
 Its slow, but ever-dropping sand 
 The hour-glass had not spent as yet. 
 When sorrow with a ruthless hand 
 Silenced this living Castanet; 
 And thought — a conquering element- 
 Came stealing on him with its stream, 
 
 ■ As though the infant might lament 
 The treachery of life's goldfen dreain. 
 And pine in spirit for a charm, 
 To guard his innocence from harm. 
 He sat awhile absorbed in thought: 
 You could but see the bosom heave. 
 And the lip tremble, as if fraught 
 With some unutterable grief. 
 Anon he raised his fallen eyte, 
 And gazed uporl his father's face; 
 Anon repressed the bursting sigh. 
 And whispered with entrancing grace, 
 " Dear father, will you read again 
 About the Saviour who was slain?" 
 Tears hung, like beads, oil his fair che6JC> 
 At mention of the cruel wrong. 
 Which sinners rendered to the meek 
 And lowly Jesus. And a throng 
 Of blessed recollections rushed 
 tJpon the happy father's mind. 
 His wrinkled cheek more deeply flushed 
 His feeble tones became more kind. 
 And with tender love, he prest 
 
176 THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 
 
 The weeping infant lo his breast. 
 
 ***** 
 
 A few bright suns have swept the sky. 
 
 And we Eire filled with sadness now, 
 
 For Death hath quenched sweet Willie's eye. 
 
 And spoiled the beauty of that brow. 
 
 Oh I what a lesson does it bring ! 
 
 There are few such who visit here ; 
 
 And they pass by on rapid wing. 
 
 Thus when dark clouds enclose our sphere — 
 
 We note small light ones speeding by. 
 
 And brightening the still darker sky. 
 
 • The incidents of the piece are true. A little boy scarcely three years old, 
 tecently died in a little village upon the banks of the Hudson, who was in the 
 habit of asking not only his father, but others also, to pray, and read the Scrip- 
 tares. He was a beautiful boy, and won the love of all who saw him. 
 
 Tour's &c. — 
 
 THE BROKEN HEARTED. 
 
 Two years ago, I took up my residence for a few weeks in 
 a country village in the eastern part of New fingland. Soon 
 after my arrival, I became acquainted with a lovely girl, ap- 
 parently about seventeen years of age. She had lost the idol 
 of her pure heart's affection, and the shadows of deep and 
 holy memories were resting like the wing of death upon her 
 brow. 
 
 I first met her in the presence of the mirthful. She was 
 indeed, a creature almost to be worshipped, — her brow was 
 garlanded by the young year's sweetest flowers, — ^her yellow 
 locks were hanging beautifully and low upon her bosom, — 
 and she moved through the crowd with such a floixting, un- 
 earthly grace, that the bewildered gazer looked almost to see 
 her fade away into the air, like the creation of some pleasant 
 dream. She seemed cheerful and even gay ; yet I saw that 
 her gayety was but the mockery of her feelings. 
 
 She smiled, but there was something in her smile, which 
 
THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 177 
 
 told, that its mournful beauty was but the bright reflection of 
 a tear, — and her eyelids at times closed heavily down, as if 
 struggling to repress the tide of agony that was bursting up 
 from her heart's secret urn. She looked as if she could have 
 left the scene of festivity, and gone out beneath the quiet 
 stars, and laid her forehead down upon the fresh green earth, 
 and poured out her stricken soul, gush after gush, till it min- 
 gled with the eternal fountain of life and purity. 
 
 I have lately heard, that the beautiful girl,^of whom I have 
 spoken, is dead. The close of her life was calm as the fall- 
 ing of a quiet stream, — gentle as the sinking of the breeze, 
 that lingers for a time round a bed of withered roses, and 
 then dies as 't were from very sweetness. 
 
 It cannot be that earth is man's only abiding place. It 
 cannot be that our life is a bubble, cast up by the ocean of 
 Eternity to float a moment upon the wave, and then sink into 
 darkness and nothingness. Else why is it, that the aspira- 
 tions which leap like angels from the temple of our hearts, 
 are forever wandering abroad unsatisfied ? 
 
 Why is it that the rainbow and the cloud come over us 
 with a beauty that is not of earth, and then pass off and leave 
 us to muse upon their faded loveliness 7 Why is it that the 
 stars, which hold their festival around the midnight throne,' 
 are set so far above the grasp of our limited faculties,— for- 
 ever mocking us with their unapproachable glory? And, 
 finally, why is it that bright forms of human beauty are pre- 
 sented to our view and then taken from us, leaving the thou- 
 sand streams of our affection to flow back in cold and Alpine 
 torrents upon our hearts ? 
 
 We are born for a higher destiny than that of earth. There 
 is a realm where the rainbow never fades, — where the stars 
 will be spread out before us like the islands that slumber on 
 the ocean, — and where the beautiful beings that here pass 
 before us like visions, will stay in our presence forever. 
 
RETIREMENT. 
 
 CM. W. B. Bradbdht. 
 
 The calm re-treit, the qui - et 
 
 ^^ 
 
 rom the world O Lord I flee, From 
 
 ij^ 
 
 From 
 
 calm re-treit, the qui - et shade. With 
 
 B^ 
 
 ^zzjzij: 
 
 J" 
 
 -P- 
 
 thy Spir-it touch the 
 
 soul, 
 
 I 
 
 Mil 
 
 -g)^" 
 
 iar, From scenes 
 
 -I 
 
 where 
 
 ^ppi^^P 
 
 prayer and praise a - gree, And seem by thy sweet bounty 
 
 _^ 9 1^ ^ ^^ 
 
 --^r^: 
 
 >^ ^ 
 
 t?3^^ 
 
 And grace her mean abode, O, with what joy, and peace and 
 
 -N— 1> 
 
 3P^ 
 
 I 
 
 U4*-U 
 
 "i_ 
 
 S-- 
 
 3* 
 
 ISJI 
 
 IT 
 
 "S^ 
 
 Sa-tan wages still His m ost succe ss - ful war. 
 
 ii^^ 
 
 Si3EE51 
 
 f^ 
 
 f^ 
 
 made. 
 
 For 
 
 ^r 
 
 those who fol - low 
 
 ~€S- 
 
 thee. 
 
 ^^i^^ 
 
 lov^ 
 
 She 
 
 com - munes with her 
 
 God. 
 
THE UNFORGOTTEN DEAD. 
 
 A B BOTHER. 
 
 Life is full of instruction. If sorrow never yisited man, he 
 would spend his days in delicious dreaips until startled by 
 the cold hand of Death. The Creator seems to have designed 
 that fallen humanity should be marked by vicissitude. The 
 stream is brpken by obstacles tha,t makes music, and "keeps 
 its waters pure ; the crushed flower yields sweetest ftagrance, 
 and the rock rent, .disclpses its gems. By these changes in 
 life, man is reininded thj^t ,the Earth is not his home, — that 
 the soul's tabernacle, frail at bes,t, will before long crumble 
 to the dust from which i,t was fashioned j and place its 
 inhabit?int beyon4 the-reach of ch?inge and death. 
 
 Among these events the loss of friends is one of deepest 
 interest. Pleasures may fail, honors diminished, riches take 
 wingSp but these are as nothing when compared with that 
 stroke which tears away — a bospm friend. We mourn, 
 when o^e falls from the high places of a nation ; such weep- 
 ing is only for a night, 'joy cometh in the jnorning.' We 
 grieve, when the patriarch, lays down his staff at the end of 
 hisJQurney; 
 
 " When his weak hand grew palsied and his eye 
 Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." 
 
 When the infant .is sn9,tched away iQ the bud of its being, 
 we often feel that a kind Hand has taken it from the evil to 
 come. But when one who has just entered upon active life, 
 with a mind matured and a heart warm as woman's alone 
 can be, with a circLe of friends, to whom she was the ceiitre, 
 the idol ; — ^when such an one passes from the ^arth^ hearts 
 are riven with incurable angujsh. 
 
 There was such an one, whose memory is as sweet as th< 
 11 ; 
 
182 THE UNFOR GOTTEN DEAD. 
 
 dew of Heaven. In extreme youth she manifested a taste foi 
 beauty of every kind. Flowers and music gave aliment to 
 her natural disposition. Repeated sickness, however, in- 
 duced, at times, a melancholy, which led her to shrink with 
 peculiar sensitiveness from the common amusements of 
 children, and find happiness in solitude. During the even- 
 ings of summer she often sat alone in a retired room listen- 
 ing with rapt delight to the low, plaintive music of an ^ohan 
 harp which she had placed in her window, and as the 
 vibrations rose and swelled and died away, her changing 
 features shewed with what relish her ear drank in every 
 breath and combination of beautiful sound. 
 
 The revolving seasons furnished a repast for her observing 
 eye. She watched their coming and departure with all the 
 enthusiasm, though not professional skill, of an artist. In 
 her estimation, Autumn ranked first, in true beauty and 
 grandeur. The blasts of wind that occasionally swept 
 through the sky giving note of Winter's march, but leaving 
 the air clear and bland, the forrests tinged with a thousand 
 dyes, the Sun going down in regal state to the islands of 
 the west, filled her with adoration and awe. 
 
 At the same time, poetry -began to open its treasures to her 
 mind. As she detected here and there a fine expression or 
 noble thought, her delight was perfect. Well does the 
 writer remember how her eye kindled as she hastened to 
 share with him her new-found treasure. In fact her natm-e 
 wa's poetry itself. Well has it been said that much true 
 poetry is never written. It is seen in the eye, the look, the 
 unpremeditated word, the every-day action, of those whose 
 names were never trumpeted. The lessons which such 
 persons teach are often more efiectual than can be learned 
 from the printed page. And the silent precept which she 
 has left, of whom we speak, is, to cultivate a perception and 
 love for whatever is excellent in thought or action, — a thirst 
 for something higher and nobler than Earth can give, — for 
 the water of Life, in the Paradise of God. 
 
 With such characteristics developed in youth, she arrived 
 
THE UNFOEGOTTEN DEAD. 183 
 
 at early womanhood, to display them in maturity, though 
 chastened by experience and sorrow. At this period she 
 met a noble spirit only to leave him soon, 'as birds on their 
 long flight from one clime to another sometimes meet in the 
 air,' to take a few circles together, and then are separated. 
 Her constitution became undermined by repeated assaults. 
 Her whole nature also seemed too heavenly, her eye toa 
 bright, her voice too mournfully sweet, long to breathe be- 
 low ; — God at length whispered to her heart, and a new lyre 
 was heard in Heaven ! 
 
 How appropriate here, her own words on the death of 
 another ! " Blessed Spirit ! Thy pilgrimage is o'er,-^tby 
 last sigh breathed, thy last prayer uttered, thy last tear shed. 
 Is thy robe less dazzling for ihy sorrows here ? Thy crown 
 less glittering? Breathes not thy harp as full and rich a 
 tone though here it wa.s touched with trernbling? Oh! we 
 will ask, and thou shalt tell us more, when we walk the 
 streets of the New Jerusalem together." 
 
 Why should tears be shed over such' a grave ! Consump- 
 tion did its office gently. Death himself, after he came near, 
 seemed to linger awhile over his prey; and as her warm 
 heart ceased beating, a heavenly smile lighted up her coun- 
 tenance, as if she recognized angels on the other side of the 
 stream beckoning her to their companionship. Then let 
 Memory wipe her starting tears. Such spirits come to the 
 Earth on a holy mission. They give us a glimpse of man's 
 primeval purity, wean us from the plaything's of life, make 
 us willing to die, and, like the Patriarch's ladder, lead to 
 Heaven. 
 
 Farewell ! — a little time and we 
 
 WJio knew thee well and loved thee here. 
 One after one shall follow thee, 
 
 As pilgrims through the Gate of Fear 
 Which opens on Eternit)-. . 
 
 Thoughts of' thy clear-eyed sense of Duty, 
 
 Thy generous scorn of aU things wrong — 
 The truth, the strength, the graceful heauty 
 
IM HOBOKEN. 
 
 Which blended in thy song, — 
 All loMly things by thee beloved 
 
 Shall •whisper to our hearts of thee , 
 These green hills where thy childhood roved— 
 
 Yon river winding to the sea. 
 The sunset light of Autumn eyes 
 
 fieftecting'on the deep, still floods; 
 Cloud, crimson rsky, and trembling leaves 
 
 Of lainbow-tintfld woods-^ 
 These in our view shall henceforth take 
 
 A tender meaning for thy sake. 
 And all thou loved'st of earth and sky 
 
 Seem sacred to 'thy memory !" 
 
 " Oh, weary One ! since thou ait laid 
 
 Within thy mother's breast — 
 The, green, the quiet mother-earth, — 
 
 Thrice blessed be thy rest ! 
 Thy heajt is left within our heaifs. 
 
 Although life's pang is o'er; 
 But the quick tears are in my eyes, 
 
 Aad I can write no more." 
 
 ,HO,BOiKEN» 
 
 This beaiitiful plia'cfe, is -pleEEsantly situated on the' Jtawy 
 shore of the Hudson, opposite "the foot of Canal street. Ho- 
 1)6ken is a town in Bergen 'County, N. J., early settled by 
 the iDutch, whose fragal and industrious irihabitants retain 
 their primitive habits, manners and language in a greater 
 degree than common. Its recent prosperity is owing, m a 
 great measure, to the enterprise of Col. Stevens' family, who 
 have made it a most deliglitful retreat, a little paradise, in 
 whose sRady bowers the overworked and fainting inhabitants 
 of a hot and crowded city, can refresh themselves, surround- 
 ed by the most picturesque scenery, and fanned by invigora- 
 ting sea breezes. The banks of the river at Hoboken, are 
 bold and easy of ^ approach. On reaching the shore, a gentle 
 
HOBOKEN. 185 
 
 asi,«nt leads to a lawn — in front of a spacious inn. The 
 lawn is a plat, with nohle elms and other ornamental trees, 
 under whose peaceful shade, the visitors may enjoy the pure 
 air, and partake of such refreshments as he may desire. To 
 this spot multitudes retreat from the noise and dust, and op- 
 pressive heat of the city, to pass a few hours of quiet repose 
 in the afternoon. 
 
 From the lawn ait Hoboken, the view is njagmficent and 
 enchanting. At the distance of two miles on the south shore, 
 we are presented with an imposing view of Jersey City, des- 
 tined, at no distant day, to be a place of considerable magni- 
 tude and importance. The broad expanse of waters is seen 
 through the openings of the trees and shrubs on the north- 
 east, and the city of New York, with its numerous spires and 
 majestic domes appears in fall view. In certain positions, 
 nearly the whole water line from the Battery far up the river, 
 is within the range of vision. Far down the waters of the 
 noble bay sparkle and hundreds of vessels of all sorts are seen 
 flitting over its surface like fleecy clouds in the Summer sky. 
 Long may the visitor gaze at such scenes without tiring, and 
 at every view and turn find frqsh subjects of thoughts and 
 contemplation. And when the eye has taken in every beau- 
 ty, he can turn and wander in shady groves, amidst rock 
 and glen, occasionally resting in some sheltered alcove, or 
 pausin^g on some projecting cliff, until the clear aijd thrillir^ 
 notes of the robbin, admonish him that the d.ay is fast decli- 
 ning. 
 
 The extensive and romantic pleasure grounds of Hobokenj 
 distinguished by the classic appellation of Elysian Fields, are 
 replete alike with pleasant and painful associations. Every 
 American is filled with emotions too intense for utterance, 
 when he approaches the spot where the companion and 
 Counsellor of Washington, the illusti:ious Hamilton, fell. 
 
 There are other pleasant retreats in the immediate vicinity 
 of New York, to which the citizens often flee in the hot sum- 
 mer months, but none so truly inviting as Hoboken, and 
 so near, or so much frequented. 
 
186 SOLITUDE. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 [Fnm the French of ijmarLDt.] ' 
 BT Mlas ANMI T. W 1 1. B U B . 
 
 Happt ia he, who, leaving haunts of meif 
 Conceals himself in Nature's solitudes, 
 EJffaces, living yet, his trace from earth, 
 Anil buried in the depths of forests wild, 
 Is fed on hope, and drinks oblivion's wave. 
 Like unseen spirits hovering in the air, 
 He traiaquil witnesses earth's shadows pasa, 
 Forever shielded from the storms of fate. 
 He sees the passions, on a troubled sea, 
 With stormy breath inflate the human sail ; 
 Inconstant winds disturb not his repose ; 
 He rests on God, whose being knows no change. 
 He loves to contemplate His noblest works. 
 Those mountains triumphing o'er age and stonns 
 Where, on the venerable and solid rock, 
 God has engraved eternity and strength. 
 When morn's first ray beams on their summita hig^ 
 Touching with silvery light the loftiest peak, 
 (Jpspringing from his couch of moss and leaves, 
 He climbs exulting o'er the I&jghing hills. 
 Which cluster round the hoary mountain's base ; 
 And pierces through the gloomy forest depths, 
 Where dark pines lift their tall stems to the sky ; 
 Here, the dry bed of torrents is his path ; 
 Now, shattered cliffs hang threatening o'er hia hoKif 
 Or, suddenly suspended on their edge, 
 Astonished he recoils ; his startled gaze 
 Turning with horror from the wildering sight, 
 Long views the whirl of the abyss beneath. 
 He mounts — the horizon in his sight extenda— 
 He mounts — immensity before him lies ; 
 While, beaming in the light of new-bom day. 
 At every step new worlds are still revealed ; 
 Till on the mountain top the enchanted eye 
 Has conquered space and roves at liberty. 
 So, when the soul aspiring to her source 
 Farevei quits thia low tenestrial vale, 
 
AN EXCITING SCENE. 
 AN AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE. 
 
 BT AN BYE-WITNESS. 
 
 On Tuesday, February 22d, 1831, a violent detonation 
 was suddenly heard in the coal mine of Bois-Monzil. The 
 waters from the old works rushed impetuously along the 
 new galleries. " The waters, the waters !" such was the 
 cry that resounded from the affrighted workmen through- 
 out the mine. Only ten miners were able to reach the en- 
 trance, Oi;ie of them brought off in his arms, a boy eleven 
 years old, whom he thus saved from certain death ; another, 
 impelled by the air and the water to a considerable dis- 
 tance, could scarcely credit his escape from such imminent 
 danger ; a third, rushed forward with his sack full of coals 
 on his shoulders, which, in his fright, he had never thought 
 of throwing down. • 
 
 The disastrous news, that sixteen workmen had perished 
 in the mine of M. Robinot, was soon circulated in the town 
 of St. Etienne. 
 
 The engineers of the mines, however, and some of their 
 pupils, who, on the first alarm, had hastened to the spot, 
 still remained there, continuing their indefatigable en- 
 deavors to discover the miners who were missing. Nothing 
 that mechanical science, manual labor, and perseverance, 
 prompted by humanity, could perform, was left undone. 
 
 Thirty hours had already elapsed since the fatal acci- 
 dent, when two workmen announced the discovery of a 
 jacket and some provisions belonging to the miners. The 
 
188 AN EXCITING SCENE. 
 
 engineers immediately essayed to penetrate into the gal- 
 leries where these objects had been found, which they ac- 
 complished with much difficulty, by crawling on their 
 hands and feet. In vain they repeatedly called aloud ; no 
 voice save the echo of their own, answered from those nar- 
 row and glootfly vaults. It then bcdutreid to them to strike 
 with their pick-axes against the roof of the mine. Still 
 the same uncheerillg silelice ! Listen ! yeS ! the sounds 
 are answered by similar blows ! Every heart beats, every 
 pulse quickens, every breath is contracied ;■ yet, perhaps,' 
 it is but an illusion of their wishes — or, perhaps, some de- 
 ceitful echo. They again strike the viittited roof. There 
 is no longer any doiibt. The sa,ttie iiutabei' bt stroke's iS 
 returned. ]?fo words cdil paint the v&ried feelings that 
 pei-vaded every heart ! It SvaS, tb uSe fhe expression of ^ 
 person present, a vefitablfe delir'itinl 6f jdjr, of fear, ktid bf 
 hope. 
 
 Without losing aii ifagtaht, this engihee'l'S oirdered a hole 
 to be bored in the direction, of the galleries where the 
 miners were presuined to be ; kt the same time, they di- 
 rected, on aiiother point, the forination of an ihcliiled Well, 
 for the purpose of corhrtiunicatiiig with thefn. 
 
 Two of the engineers' piipils 'were now dispatched td 
 the mayor of St. Etienne, to procure a coiiple of fire-pumps, 
 which they conducted back to the mine, accompanied by 
 firemen, tn the ardor of youthful huriianity, these yoimg 
 men imagined that the deliverance of the miners waS but 
 the affair of a tew hours ; and, wishing to prepare an 
 " agreeable surprise" for the friends of the supposed vic- 
 tims, they gave strict injunctions at the mayoralty to keep 
 the object of their expedition a profound secret. 
 
 Notwithstahding the untiring efforts hiade to place these 
 pumps in the mine, it was found impossible, fiithe^ thev 
 were upon a plane too much inclined to admit of their 
 playing with facility, or the water was too muddy to be 
 received up the pipeS ; they were therefore abatadoned. 
 
AN EXCITING' SCfENB. 189 
 
 In the tnidst of their cofporeal and mental labors, theif 
 attention was suddenly excited from another painful 
 source. The wives of the hapless miners had heard that 
 all hope was not extinct. They hastened to the spot ; witk 
 heart-rending cries, and through tears, alternately of des' 
 pair and hope, they exclaimed, " Are they all there 1" 
 " Where is the father df my children ? Is he amongst them* 
 or has be been swallowed up by the waters V 
 
 At the bottom of the mine, close to the water'ireservoir, 
 a consultation was held on the plan to be pursiled. Engi' 
 neers, pupils, workmen, all agreed that the only prospect 
 of success consisted in exhausting the water, which wafl 
 already sensibly diminished,, by the sol© working of the 
 steam-pump ; the other pumps ^produced little or no effect* 
 notwithstanding the vigorous efforts employed to render 
 them serviceable. Somebody then proposed Remedying 
 the failure of these pumps by une chaine a bras, viz ; by 
 forming a Une, and passing buckets from one to the other ; 
 this method was adopted, and several of the pupils pro- 
 ceeded with all speed t6 St. Etienne. It was midnight. 
 The generale was beat in two quarters of the town only* 
 The Hotel de Ville was assigned as the place of rendez- 
 vous. On the first alarm, a great number of persons hur- 
 ried to the town-hall, imagining a fire had broken out, but 
 on ascertaining the real cause, several of them returned 
 home, apparently unmoved. Yet these very same persons, 
 whose supposed apathy had excited both surprise and in- 
 dignation, quickly re-appeared on the scene, dressed in the 
 uniform of the National Guard. So powerful is the magic 
 influence of organized masses, marching under the orders 
 of a chief, and stimulated by I'esprit de corps. 
 
 It was truly admirable to see with what address and 
 rapidity the three or four hundred men, who had hastened 
 to Bois-Monzil, passed and repassed the buckets, by form- 
 ing a chain to the bottom of the 'mine. But thdr generous 
 efforts became too fatiguing to last long. Imagine a sub' 
 
190 AN EXCITING SCENE. 
 
 terranean badly lighted, where they were obliged to main- 
 tain themselves in a rapid descent, in a stooping posture, 
 to avoid striking their heads against the roof of the vault, 
 and, most of the time, up to the middle in the water, which 
 was dripping from every side ; some idea may then be 
 formed of their painful situation. They were relieved 
 from this laborious duty by the Garde Nationale of St. 
 Etienne, whose zeal and enthusiasm exceeded all praise. 
 But a more precious reinforcement was at hand ; the work- 
 men from the adjacent mines now arrived in great num- 
 bers. From their skill and experience every thing might 
 be «5xpected ; if they failed there was no further hope. 
 
 The chain a bras was again renewed by companies of 
 the National Guard, relieved every two hours, who, at re- 
 spective distances, held the lights, and under whose orders 
 they acted. It was a cheering spectacle to behold citizens 
 of all ranks engaged in one of the noblest offices of hu- 
 manity, under the direction of the poor colliers. 
 
 The immense advantages of the organization of the Na- 
 tional Guard, were never more strinkingly exemplified than 
 on this occasion. Without them, there would have been 
 no means or possibility of uniting an entire population ; of 
 leading the people from a distance of more than three 
 miles, night and day, so as to insure a regular and contin- 
 ued service ; all would have been trouble and confusion. 
 With them, on the contrary, every thing was ready, and 
 in motion, at the voice of a single chief ; and the wnole 
 was conducted with such precision and regularity as had 
 never, on similar occasions, been witnessed before. 
 
 The road from St. Etienne to Bois-Monzil, exhibited a 
 scene of the most animated kind. In the midst of the 
 motley and moving multitude, the National Guards were 
 seen hurrying to and fro ; chasseurs, grenadiers, cavalry, 
 and artillerymen, all clothed in their rich new costume, a^ 
 on a field-(^y. Some of the crowd were singing la Par- 
 isienne, others were lamenting, praying, hoping,, despair- 
 
AN EXCITING SCENK. 191 
 
 ing, and, by « fits and starts," abandoniiig themselves to 
 those opposite extravalgances of sentiment so peculiarly 
 characteristic of a French population. When night drew 
 her sable curtains around, the picturesque of the scene was 
 still more heightened. Fresh bands of miners, conducted 
 by their respective chiefs, coming in from every side ; their 
 sooty visages lighted up by glaring torches; National 
 Guards arriving from diffecent parts of the country, to join 
 their comrades of St. Etienne ; farmers and peasants, on 
 horseback and afoot hastening to offer their humane aid ; 
 sentinels posted — muskets piled — watch-fires blazing, and, 
 in short, the tout ensemble rendered the approaches of 
 Bois-Monzil, like a bivouac on the eve of an expected bat- 
 tle ; happily, however, the object of these brave men was to 
 preserve life, and not to destroy it. It is but just to render 
 homage here to the worthy cure of St Villars, who, in his 
 simple clerical dress, mingled every where with the anxious 
 throng, exhorting and encouraging them in their " good 
 work," both by precept and example. 
 
 On Saturday the chaine a bras was discontinued, as the 
 engineers had now brought the pumps effectually to work. 
 Suddenly a cry -of joy was echoed from mouth to mouth: 
 " They are saved ! they are saved ! six of them are freed 
 from their subterraneous prison !" shouted a person at the 
 entrance of the mine. The rumor was instantly repeated 
 along the crowd, and a horseman set off at full speed for 
 St. Etienne, with the gratifying news ; another followed 
 and confirmed the report of his predecessor. The whole 
 town was in motion, and all classes seemed to partake of 
 the general joy, with a feeling as if each had been individ- 
 ually interested. In the exuberance of their delight they 
 were already deliberating on the subject of a fete, to cele- 
 brate the happy event, when a third horseman arrived. 
 The multitude thronged round him expecting a more ample 
 confirmation of the welcome tidings. But their joy was 
 soon turned to sorrow, when they were informed that 
 
192 AN EXCITING SCENE. 
 
 nothing had yet been discoyered, save the dead bodies of 
 two unfortunate men, who, together, had left eleven chil- 
 dren to lament their untimely fate ! 
 
 On Sunday, the workmen continued their labor with 
 equal zeal and uncertainty as before. A sort of inquietude 
 and hopelessness, however, occasionally pervaded their 
 minds, which may easily be accounted for, from the hither- 
 to fruitless result of their fatiguing researches. Discus* 
 sjons now took place on what was to be done ; differences 
 of opinion arose on the various plans proposed, and in the 
 meantime, the sound of the hapless victims from the re- 
 cesses of the rocky cavern continued to be distinctly audible. 
 Every moment the embarrassment and difficulties of the 
 workmen increased., The flinty rock seemed to grow more 
 impenetrable ; their tools either broke, or became so fixed 
 in the stone, that it was frequently impossible to regain 
 them. The water filtered from all parts, through the nar- 
 row gallery they were perforating, and they even began to 
 apprehend another irruption. 
 
 Such was the state of things on Monday morning, when, 
 at four o'clock, an astounding , noise was heard, which re- 
 echoed throughout the whole extent of the mine. A gen- 
 eral panic seized on evfery one ; it was thought that the 
 waters had forced a new issue. A rapid and confused 
 flight took place ; but luckily, their fears were soon allays 
 ed on perceiving that it was only an immense mass of rock 
 detached from the mine, which had fallen into a draining- 
 well. This false alarm, however, operated in a discour- 
 aging manner, on the minds of the workmen ; and it requi- 
 red some management to bring them back to their respec- 
 tive stations, and to revive that ardor and constancy which 
 they had hitherto so admirably displayed. 
 
 They had scarcely renewed their endeavors to bore 
 through the rock, when suddenly one of them felt the in- 
 strument drawn from his hands, by the poor imprisoned 
 miners. It was indeed to them an instrument of deliveV- 
 
AN raCClTING SCENE. 1 93 
 
 ance from their cruel situation. Singular to relate, their 
 first request was neither for food nor drink, but for light, 
 as if they were more eager to make use of their eyes, than 
 to satisfy the pressing wants of appetite ! It was now as- 
 certained that eight of the sufFerprs still survived ; and 
 this time an authentic account of the happy discovery was 
 dispatched to St. Etienne, where it excited the most enthu- 
 siastic demonstrations of sympathy and gladness. But 
 there is no pleasure unmixed with alloy ; no general hap- 
 piiness unaccompanied by particular exceptions. Amongst 
 the workmen, was the father of one of the men who had 
 disappeared in the mine. His paternal feelings seemed to 
 have endowed him with superliuman strength. Night and 
 'flay he never quited his work but for a few minutes, to re- 
 turn to it with redoubled ardor ; one sole, absorbing 
 thought, occupied his whole soul ; the idea that his son, his 
 only son, was with those who were heard within. In vain 
 he was solicited to retire ; in vain they strove to free him 
 from labors too fatiguing for his age. " My son is amongst 
 <hem," said he, "ITiear him; nothing shall prevent my 
 hastening his release;" and, from time to time, he called 
 on his son, in accents that tore the hearts of the bystanders. 
 It was from his hand that the instrument had been drawn. 
 His first question was, "my child?" Like Apelles, let me 
 throw a veil over a father's grief. His Antoine was no 
 more ; he had been drowned. 
 
 For four days several medical men where constantly on 
 the spot, to contribute all the succors that humanity, skill, 
 and science could afibrd. It was they who introduced 
 through the hde, broth and scrap, by means of long tin 
 tubes, which had been carefully prepared beforehand. 
 The poor captives distrubuted it with the most scrupulous 
 attention, first to the oldest and weakest of their compan- 
 ions ; for, notwithstanding their dreadful situation, the 
 spirit of concord and charity had never ceased for a single 
 moment, to preside amongst them. The man who was 
 
194 AN EXCITING SCENE. 
 
 appointed by the others to communicate with, and answer 
 the questions of their deliverers, displayed in all his re- 
 plies, a gayety quite in keeping with the French charac- 
 ter. On being asked what day he thought it was, and on 
 being informed that it was Monday instead of Sunday, as 
 he had supposed, "Ah !" said he, " I ought to have known 
 that ; as we yesterday indulged ourselves freely in drink- 
 ing — water." Strange that a man should have the heart 
 to joke, who had been thus " cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd," du- 
 ring five days, destitute of food, deprived of air, agitated 
 by suspense, and in jeopardy of perishing by the most hor- 
 rible of all deaths ! 
 
 There still remained full sixteen feet of solid rock be 
 tween the two anxious parties ; but the workmen's labors 
 .were now, if possible, redoubled by the certainty of com- 
 plete success. At intervals, light nourishment in regulated 
 quantities, continued to be passed to the miners ; this, 
 however, they soon rejected, expressing but one desire, 
 that their friends would make haste. Their strength be- 
 gan to fail them ; their respiration became more and more 
 difficult ; their utterance grew feebler and fainter ; and 
 towards six o'clock in the evening, the last words that 
 could be distinguished were — " Brothers, make haste !" 
 
 The general anxiety was now wound up to the highest 
 pitch ; it was, perhaps, the most trying crisis yet experien- 
 ced since the commencement of these benevolent labors : 
 at length, the moment of deliverance was, all at once, an- 
 nounced, and at ten o'clock it was accomplished. One by 
 one, they appeared like spectres, gliding along the gallery, 
 which had just been completed ; their weak and agitated 
 forms supported by the engineers, on whom they cast their 
 feeble eyes, filled with astonishment, yet beaming with 
 gratitude. Accompanied by the doctors, they all, with one 
 single exception, ascended to the entrance of the mine 
 without aid ; such was their eagerness again to inhale the 
 pure air of liberty. From the mouth of the mine to the 
 
THE WEALTHY FAMILY. 195 
 
 temporary residence allotted them, the whole way was 
 illuminated. The engineers, pupils, and the workmen, 
 with the National Guard under arms, were drawn up in 
 two lines to form a passage ; and thus, in the midst of a 
 religious silence, did these poor fellows traverse an atten- 
 tive and sympathysing crowd, who, as they passed along, 
 inclined their heads, as a sort of respect and honor to their 
 sufferings. 
 
 Such are the affecting particulars of an event, during 
 the whole of which, every kind of business was suspended 
 at St. Ettenne ; an event-whieh exhibited the entire popu- 
 lation of a large town, forming, as it were, but one heart ; 
 in entertaing but one thought, imbued with one feeling 
 for the god-like purpose of saving the lives of eight obscure 
 individuals. Christians, men of all countries, whenever 
 and wherever suffering humanity claims your aid — Go ye 
 and do likewise I 
 
 THE WEALTHY FAMILY. 
 
 Those are not the wealthy, often, who appear to be so 
 or who boast of being so ; the sinner must be poor. He 
 has no God to comfort him ; no, Saviour to deliver him ; no 
 Guide to conduct him ; no Advocate to plead for him ; no 
 inward peace to support him ; no title to heaven to ani- 
 mate him. He is poor. He is in want. He will want 
 confidence and comfort in death ; a wedding garment, in 
 which to appear before God; and a comfortable home 
 throughout eternity. Everj' sinner is poor ; his resources 
 will soon be exhausted, and he will find himself " wretched, 
 and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked." They 
 may have the show of property, but not the reality ; this 
 belongs to another family. 
 
 The Lord's people all fear him ; that is, they fear to of- 
 fend Him, and desire above all things to please Him ; and 
 though they appear poor, they are really rich. God hath 
 
196 
 
 THE WEALTHY FAMILY. 
 
 provided all igood things for them, and JJe giveth all gjQpd 
 things to them. They have a solid peace, flowing from a 
 knowledge of acceptance with God, tbrouglx thg blood of 
 Jesas. Thi3y have a joyful hope, which blooms with im. 
 moutality. They are assured of strength equal to their 
 day; and of sanctifying grace to make all their troubles 
 woa-k for their good. . They are content with God's wise ancj 
 holy appointments ; and godliness with contentment is 
 great gaiiU,. They acquiesce in the will of God; and are 
 often iSiUed with joy whjch-flows from his presence. They 
 obtain victory over the temptations presented to ensnare 
 thenti ; and live above the world, which would allure and 
 beguile them.- They are sure of support in death ; they 
 look forward to a joyful resurrection ; and anticipate hea- 
 ven as their portion for ever. 
 
 Ther-e is no want to them, for all they can need is pro- 
 mised; and every promise is confirmed by the blood «f 
 Jesus. Jehovah is theirs with all He is or has ; His power 
 is their support— ^His wisdom their guide — His fulness their 
 fortune-T-His mercy their friend— and His love their hea- 
 ven. " Happy are the people which are in such a case.' 
 But all the Lord's people are in this case, and therefore 
 they are happy. Just think of having God for your pre- 
 sent, constant, eternal friend; of having the wealth of 
 Deity to supply and satisfy you. But if you fear God, this 
 is the case. No truth is more clearly revealed ; no fact is 
 more powerfully confirmed ; no subject is more rich with 
 consolation. Strength may be exhausted, health may de- 
 cline, courage may fail, riches may flee, friends may for 
 sake, enemies may increase, all circumstances may change ; 
 " but they that seek the Lord shall not want any good 
 thing." Sweet , promise of a failSiful God ! Here, pilgrim, 
 is thy staff; take it and travel .home. Here, saint, is thy 
 cordial ; drink and fqrget thy misery. Here, believer, is 
 thy fortune ; take it and live upon it, while a resident be- 
 low. Here, faithful soul, is thy antidote ; use it to dispd 
 thy fears and cheer thy fainting heart. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 197 
 
 THJJ CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 
 
 The peculiar and distinctive traits of the Christian and 
 the gentleman, are by many supposed to -originate from 
 sources widely different and independent, formed from dif- 
 ferent models, and adapted to widely different purposes ; 
 in a word, that the qualities of ,the gentleman and Chris- 
 tian are distinct, separable, and independent. The former 
 are supposed to be derived from the world and its school of 
 manners, under the tuition of such men as Chesterfield, and 
 after the models ,of the most polighed and accomplished 
 gentlemen of the age ; the latter are usually represented as 
 of divine origin, and therefore distinct and different in their 
 phases from every thing human, and no ways modified by 
 conventional usages or conformed to the laws of human 
 society. Both o'f these suppositions are wide from the truth. 
 In our view, the traits of the Christian and the true gentle- 
 man have a common origin — ^the qualities of each enter 
 into the character of the other, and the whole composition 
 is essentially Christian, the basis of which is the renova- 
 tion of the heart, and the implantation of all those graees 
 and virtues which are bodied forth in action and give 
 perfection to the character. We admit that milch that per- 
 tains to the outward manners, merely, may result from 
 'accidental causes, from the power of association, and from 
 artificial rules and customs ; but exceipt the basis of polite- 
 ness, suavity of manners, and a benevolent disposition, be 
 laid in a heart purified by grace, these assumed qualities 
 will shine only with mock luster like those bare composi- 
 tions which are made to imitate the lustre and beauty of 
 precious gems. As fine dress does not make the lady, 
 neither does the most polished exterior, nor a strict confor- 
 12 
 
198 THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 
 
 mity to the laws of etiquette, make the gentleman. Could 
 we compare and contrast the manners of Chesterfield and 
 Washington, doubtless the latter, for simplicity and pro- 
 priety, modelled less upon artificial rules than upon the dic- 
 tates of truth and virtue, would carry away the palm, and 
 Washington would be pronounced the true gentleman. 
 The present era is remarkable for the production, of numer- 
 ous works on Etiquette, which are designed to manufacture 
 fine ladies and fine gentlemen, to teach the best manner of 
 entering a room, the most polite mode of address, and the 
 AKT op PLEASING generally. The foundation of the whole 
 system is based upon false notions of propriety and deli- 
 cacy, well adapted to corrupt the simplicity of nature, 
 destroy all the sweetness of social intercourse, and freeze 
 up all the fountains of noble and generous feeling. The 
 whole tendency is to riiake men artificial, false, and hollow, 
 to make life a mere thing of form and ceremony, a compli- 
 cated machine of policy and treachery-^a painted sepul- 
 chre, which locks in the living spirit and prevents all 
 movement except what is indicated by the mournful pro- 
 gress of corruption. 
 
 The Christian gentleman is a child of God ; his charac- 
 ter has been moulded and adorned by the Spirit of God, 
 giving efiicacy to the word and means of grace. Its excel- 
 lence may be -inferred from the purity of its source, its 
 perfect symmetry, and its commanding influence. The 
 dignity of its descent is manifested by its heavenly aspect 
 and its noble bearing. The Christian gentleman is not the 
 slave of fashion; neither does he aflect to be singular in his 
 dress or manners ; these adventitious matters will be duly 
 regulated by his well-disciplined mind, so that he will be 
 neither liable to the charge of vulgarity nor ostentation. 
 His conduct and all his movements do but image forth the 
 beauty and grace of mind which has been accustomed to 
 array itself before the mirror of divine truth. The consti- 
 tuents of Christian character form the elements of the most 
 perfect character; iiito whatever mind they enter they 
 develope and cause to stand out in bold relief those lovely 
 
THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. ' 199 
 
 • 
 
 and distinguishing traits which display the character of the 
 true gentleman. The brightest qualities of an unrenewed 
 man, are but cold, counterfeit resemblances of those digni- 
 fied and noble traits which distinguish and adorn the 
 Christian gentleman. Apart from the formative power of 
 divine grace, there is ag much dignity and genuine good 
 manners in many an untutored savage, whose only covering 
 is a blanket, and whose only ornaments are a few beads and 
 a feather, as there is in the polished courtier arrayed in 
 costly habiliments and cringing at the feet of royalty. We 
 know, indeed, that the eyes of men are usually dazzled 
 with the pomp and glitter of wealth and ancestral honors : 
 these give, as it were, dignity to the step, and majesty to 
 the mien ; but, without the ennobling and purifying influ- 
 ence of grace, without the investiture of a spiritual nature, 
 this empty parade resembles much the representation of a 
 mimic court, ladies and gentlemen dressed in gold and 
 scajlet, manufactured to please and astonish foolish children. 
 
 The Christian gentleman is a member of Christ's school, 
 and by consequence, a man of cultivated mind. His mind 
 is expanded and strengthened with pure Christian litera- 
 ture — ^the literature of the Bible. The knowledge whteh 
 expands his mind has been drawn, not from the impure 
 streams of unsanctified intellect, but from the prime, uncor- 
 rupted source of all inspiration. The light which the Bible 
 sheds on all the great truths of religion and morals, saves 
 hirn from the errors which are mixed up with mere human 
 speculations, and tinge and poison the stream of general 
 knowledge. 
 
 Biblical learning is essentially liberal ; it removes the 
 film of prejudice, and leaves the mind free to range through 
 the boundless realms of thought, and lose itself in infinity 
 and eternity. "While other stimulants produce an unnatural 
 growth and a wasteful exuberance, this ripens the under- 
 standing ; this unfolds the principle of vital growth, and 
 converts all its acquisitions into elements of power and 
 means of enduring happiness. What may not the mind 
 
200 THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 
 
 • 
 
 accomplish for itself and others under the perpetually aug- 
 menting force of truth. See Milton, in his blindness, on 
 bold and venturous wing, describing things invisible, and 
 unfolding the counsels of Heaven ! What vigor of mind 
 does he display ! what capacity ! Whence did he derive 
 his inspiration, the power by which he vyas enabled to 
 grapple successfully with such mighty themes ? Contrast 
 with this the effects of Byron's erratic and malign genius, 
 and see what perverted, unsanctified intellect can do in 
 withering and blasting the fairest forms of virtue and 
 goodness. 
 
 The Christian gentleman's intercourse with mankind is 
 marked with unaffected kindness and disinterested liber- 
 ality. His affections and sympathies are not bounded by 
 the narrow circle of home, sect or country ; humanity, 
 wherever it is found, comes in for a share, and no stinted 
 share either ; his heart assimilates with goodness, and 
 sympathizes with suffering wherever found. His charity is 
 friendship to all the world. His friendship is frank, open, 
 manly ; not mean, pretended, and selfish. The base pre- 
 tender holds out his hand, but his heart goes not with it : 
 but the Christian gentleman says ; " Here's my hand and 
 here's my heart." His charity is not hemed in, nor is his 
 soul sequestered as in a cloister by the circumvallatory 
 walls of the sectarian Separatist ; the church to which he 
 belongs is composed of all the pious. He carries, therefore, 
 no banner before him, but the banner of the Cross: he 
 wars only with sin, and those false and damnable doctrines 
 which are the offspring of sin. While he takes no pleasure 
 in unrighteousness, he weeps over fallen humanity, and 
 reaches out his hand for its relief. 
 
 As an example of a true Christian gentleman, behold 
 the benevolent Howard going forth to survey the prisons 
 of Europe, to take the guage of human misery and do some- 
 thing to mitigate and assuage ij;. See him descending into 
 dark, damp, and loathsome dungeons, casting a tearful eye 
 upon the pale and haggard forms — half dead beings, left 
 
i THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 201 
 
 to pine and waste, and die without pity ! — The same spirit 
 glows in the Christian gentleman. 
 
 In the INTERCOURSE op PRIVATE LIFE, and in the intimacy of 
 familiar family converse, the character of the Christian 
 igentleman appears in its most loveFy and interesting light, 
 inspiring both respect and confidence. As a father he is 
 the center of attraction to the household and the medium 
 of intercourse ; he is, both by his example and conversa- 
 tion, the light and life of the Family Circle, prompting to 
 thought and reflection, and provoking to love and good 
 works. Christian morality decorates common discourse 
 with a beauty and dignity which naught else can impart. 
 Grace only, or goodness of heart, can give beauty and lus- 
 tre to the whole character ; the conduct is but the reflec- 
 tion, and, we might say, portraiture, of the inner man. 
 Hence the dignified ease and calm composure of the Chris- 
 tian gentleman, combined with gentleness of spirit and 
 sunlight cheerfulness which plays upon his countenance, 
 clearly show that his evil passions have been mastered, it 
 not entirely eradicated, and that his heart is right witk 
 God, so that while he walks with God on earth, his thoughts 
 and conversation are in .heaven. v 
 
 In his dealings with the world, the conduct of the Chris- 
 tian gentleman is governed by the eternal principles of 
 justice and equity. Where religion has eniered the mind, 
 it influences the conduct ; the reign of this principle is 
 manifested in the smallest lineaments of the character, and 
 in every department of life. The principle of Christiah 
 morality is not of limited and temporary influence, but it 
 pervades the mind, and runs through the whole contexture 
 of the conduct. Those little arts of deception which mer 
 of the world practice with so much dexterity, and by which 
 they often obtain credit for superior tact in business, the 
 Christian gentleman shuns with instinctive repugnance. 
 In HIS traffie with men he is mindful of his eompact with 
 heaven. In all his dealings, he is governed by the law of 
 
202 THE CHRISTIAN GENTLEMAN. 
 
 righteous recipkocity, or of doing as he would be done by. 
 The laws of honor, which worldly men profess to be go- 
 verned by, has little to do with conscience, and hence it 
 presents but a feeble barrier against the encroachments of 
 an all-grasping avarice and boundless ambition. In the 
 Christian gentleman, religion demonstrates its presence and 
 power in and through the restraining influence of con- 
 science. This it is that restricts his conduct within those 
 lines of circumspection which the word of God has drawn. 
 It intrudes every where, crossing every path, and meeting 
 him at every turn. Conscience is a sentinel who never 
 slumbers, and never quits his post. Acting in the fear of 
 God, and under the eye of such a monitor, the Christian 
 gentleman " does justly and walks humbly before God." 
 
 Such, in brief, is the Christian gentleman. We have 
 given but the outlines of the portrait ; these, however, will 
 give us some idea of the dignity and beauty of his charac- 
 ter, a character moulded and fashioned by the hand of 
 God, not modelled after the fashion of this world. This is 
 plain, that religion makes the true gentleman, and the 
 more religion a man has, the more of a gentleman he will 
 be. Christianity refines and polishes the character ; it lays 
 the basis for every virtue and grace in the renewal of the 
 heart in the image of God. How perfect must be the sym- 
 etry, and how lustrous the beauty of that character that re-» 
 fleets the Image of God ! 
 
 We grieve to say, that judging from the appearance and 
 actions of too many professors, one might suppose that re- 
 ligibn, instead of rendering men more amiable and agree- 
 able in their outward deportment, made them more boorish, 
 coarse, and repulsive. If they know what good manners 
 *is, they certainly do not practice it. It would seem they 
 study to make themselves as disagreeable as possible, as 
 though this was the way to show their contempt of the 
 world and their hatred of sin. They are sour and fretful ; 
 they will not brook opposition from any one, and whoever 
 stands in their way is counted an enemy. Of too many it 
 
THE WIDOW. 203 
 
 may be said, " Ye know not what spirit ye are of." » Reli- 
 gion has no fellowship with rudeness or coarseness. The 
 want of good manners argues a want of religion ; and in 
 vain may that man pretend to be either a gentleman or a 
 Christian, whose spirit religion has not sweetened, and 
 whose manners it has not improved. The more virtuous a 
 man is, the more easy and agreeable he will appear. That 
 man cannot be otherwise than at ease, and in perpetual 
 good humor, who is blessed with the friendship of God, and 
 animated with the hope of heaven. 
 
 THE WIDOW. 
 
 BY MISS ISABELLA O. ,SHAW 
 
 " O, the soft commerce ! O, the tender ties ! 
 
 Close twifrted with the fibres of the heart ! 
 
 Which, broken, break them, and drain off the soul 
 
 Of human joy, and make it pain to live — 
 
 And is il then to live 1 When such friends part, 
 
 'Tis the suEVivoR dies." 
 Bright are the beams of the morning, sun. Soft and 
 sweet are the notes of the tuneful lark, echoing from the 
 forest grove. Hope smiles in every eye, and joy beams 
 bright in every heart. Glittering pearls are seen sparkling 
 on the bosom of the unfathomable deep, while nature, clothed 
 in her richest garb, sends forth from every hill and vale, a 
 tribute of praise to the High and Lofty One. All is hap- 
 p'ness and joy. 
 But tell us not of joy. Speak not to us of happiness. 
 
 Joy it comes and goes, and leaves no trace behind ; and 
 
 ail that we have known has been its name. Happiness— 
 
204 THE WIDOW. 
 
 it is the poet's theme — the desire and aim of all below- 
 but oh ! a vain pursuit — a dream of fancied bliss, that 
 this earth cannot afford ; and he who seeks it here, will 
 find his efforts vain. 
 
 But oh the heart ! the fearful mystery of the heart \ 
 Veiled in deep and daiTc obscurity — concealed as 'twere 
 from every mortal eye ; 'tis like some hidden stream in its 
 deep cavern's power. Calm and still as the midnight hour, 
 it moves on in undisturbed repose, with scarce a ripple on 
 its breast. And as we are wafted silently along upon those 
 
 " (Jem-lighted waves, in their magical flow, • 
 So lovely and bright to the last," 
 
 what overwhelming and glorious tides of thought and feel- 
 ing are opened to pur admiring view ! What an ocean of 
 unuttered beauty lies spread before us, as the swelling 
 waves of sympathy anjd of love, one after another, in quick 
 succession, burst upon our enraptured gaze. And yet, al- 
 though we move beneath this mighty shadow, within this 
 gorgeous and fabled day-dream of existence, what are we ? 
 The children of a day. 
 
 "■Our lives are like an autumn leaf, 
 • That trembles in the moon's pale ray." 
 
 We live, and love, and pass away from this dull, and fleet- 
 ing, and transitory life, into an unknown and unending fu- 
 turity. 
 
 And here for a moment let us stop, and pay homage to 
 our mother earth. As we wander over her " fertile vales 
 and dewy meads," breathing the air of Heaven, and pluck- 
 ing wild flowers in our path, perchance our feet may stray, 
 and ere we are aware, we find ourselves surrounded by the 
 silent dead. Here lie hid from our view earth's rioblest 
 sons; here are the shining monuments of grief, and the 
 sculptured memories of dear departed friends. But 'tis not 
 these alone that thrill the soul with solemn warning. It is 
 not the emblazoned mausoleum, nor " storied urn of ani- 
 mated dust," nor graceful flowers, emblems of undying af- 
 
THE WIDOW. 205 
 
 fection, which springing from the dark and gelid tomb, are 
 watered hy the tears of fond and agonizing love — it is not 
 these that speak of oblivion and decay. But oh ! it is to 
 see around us the graves of buried hopes ; the fairest and 
 brightest of earth's loveliness entombed within their nar- 
 row home ; to behold the sublime find soul-wrought image- 
 ry of life, and its treasures of thought faded to stillness and 
 gloom ; and to View the tender buds of affection and the 
 sweet blossoms of love cut down by the icy hand of Death, 
 and withered in the dust. It is this. Yes ! it is this that 
 fills the soul with horror, and would cause us to fly, were 
 it possible, awe-struck from Him whose " presence filleth 
 immensity." 
 
 Such is death, and such were some of the thoughts of 
 that widowed heart, whose mournful tale it is ours to 
 tell. 
 
 With saddened brow and tearful eye, ye view her now ; 
 and although sad and lonely she now appears, hers had 
 been a happy lot. Yes, it was a joyous one, though short ; 
 for her lord had come when youth's bright morn was ra- 
 diant with hope, and joy's pure sunbeam sparkled in her 
 path, and won her heart away. Yes, in that hour of pride 
 he came, and in his steel-clad armour, low at the feet of 
 her aged sire, pleading in all the earnestness of deep, afld 
 fond devoted love, he sought her hand. The old man gazed 
 on him with a look of tenderness and love, as he yielded 
 his assent, and spake of her his only child. He knew him 
 not, but he knew that she who loved him, had known him 
 long and well ; and he knew too, thiat none but he who was 
 great and good, could win the love of her, whose being was 
 so pure, and whose soul bore semblance to its Creator. 
 Ah no ! his was no treacherous plot, no artful scheme, to 
 wile away her trusting heart. He loved her for herself^ 
 and as he gazed upon her, he felt that he had won a cost-' 
 lier prize than all the irophios he had ever gained upon 
 the battle-field. 
 
206 THE WIDOW. 
 
 The Sun shone as bright, the air was as pure, and the 
 morn as joyous, as any that had ever before or since dawn- 
 ed upon earth's fair domain, when Sir William led to the 
 altar his blushing bride. Her trembling lips breathed 
 forth the solemn vow, a tear-drop started in her eye. And 
 was it sorrow for her plighted faith that bade it start, or 
 did she deem her lord unworthy of his trust ? "No. She 
 loved him still. But her gentle spirit sighed, and her 
 moistened eye grew dim, as she thought of the loved ones 
 she must leave. But her loving heart was e'en too pure 
 to suffer her long to linger here. 
 
 And now she was his own, he felt that his was a holier 
 trust. But as he leads her forth from those gay old halls, 
 to seek with him another home, her bosom heaves a sigh, 
 as she bids farewell to those hallowed scenes of youth, 
 where mirth and joy have clustered around her path : and 
 her spirit faints as she speaks a last adieu to her beloved 
 parents. A father's farewell look, and a mother's parting 
 kiss are given, as she leaves the home of her childhood, to 
 go with him whom to her soul is dear. 
 
 It is over now. She comes with a heart full of tender- 
 ness and love, and throws herself on him who has promised 
 to be hers till death. His noble spirit seemed now to grow 
 more noble still, for he felt that he possessed in her all that 
 he could wish — she was the partner of all his joys — ^his 
 comfort in distress — his solace in affliction — she was his 
 soul, his heart, his life, his all ; in short, his very being 
 seemed but a part of hers. 
 
 At length the trying hour was come. He must part from 
 her he loved best on earth. But he felt that she who had 
 remained true to him in days gone by, would love him still ; 
 and as he pressed onward to meet the advancing foe upon 
 the battle-field, it was the thought of her that nerved his 
 arm to wield the sword ; aijd the consciousness of her pure 
 and fervent love, that braved his heart amid the bloody 
 strife and dying groans of victory. But hark ! amid the 
 din of clashing spear and shield, a shout is heard, of " a 
 
THE WIDOW. 207 
 
 leader fallen." And can it be ? Yes ! the noble, the great, 
 and the brave Sir William has fallen. Both horse and ri- 
 der have shared alike the same dread fate. Behold ! the 
 latter, girt w^ith shield and buckler, lies dying and bleeding 
 from the wounds of his deadly foe, while shouts of " victo- 
 ry" from the conquerors rend the air. 
 
 But where was Mary, the loved one of his bosom ? She 
 who in life atid health, was his joy, his comfort, and de- 
 light, in the trying hour of death, was now separated from 
 him. The Supreme Disposer of all events, had seen fit that 
 this should be the case. And now, amidst the clashing of 
 arms and shouts of victory without, and the struggles of 
 his own breast within, he resigns his spirit into the hands 
 of Him who gave it. 
 
 Turn we now to that widowed heart. Lonely and sad, 
 driven almost to despair, she has sought retirement in the 
 quiet of her chamber. With her the silver chord which 
 bound her to earth is loosed — the golden bowl is broken, 
 and life hath lost its spell ; even music hath no charms for 
 her. Those very things which once brought joy and glad- 
 ness to her heart, now serve only to recall the thoughts of 
 him, whose memory is dearer Jo her than life. The jewel- 
 led necklace that she wears, and the golden bracelet that 
 adorns her vvrist, are mementos of the past. Things of the 
 present are to her of no value : the wreath of roses, which 
 but yesterday had decked her hair, now lies forgotten upon 
 the floor. The sweet-toned muSic of the guitar, whose 
 soothing strains have so often a.nswered to the touch of him 
 who is now no more, no longer delights her ear. 
 
 It is the still, calm hour of twilight. Behold her now ! 
 alone, seated upon the same sofa, where they had used to 
 sit side by side, and surrounded by the trophies of the past : 
 stern memorials of other days. With a heart o'ercharged 
 with grief, she turns away as it were from all within, and 
 with a tearful eye gazes forth upon the scenery beyond, un- 
 conscious that there is aught in herself which can remind 
 
208 THE WIDOW. 
 
 her of the past, and there seems to See enacted before her 
 eyes the bloody scenes of that fatal day. But oh ! the 
 agony of her heart, as she reflects, that there was no kind 
 hand to soothe his " aching, death-dewed brow" — no voice 
 of sympathy and .love to cheer his pathway to the tomb, 
 and speak to him of death, of Heaven, and life beyond the 
 grave ! 
 
 But she knows that he rests in peace.* With him life's 
 weary battles now are o'er, and the stormy conflicts of an 
 unquiet world have ceased. Yes ! the dead are at rest, 
 weep not for them. And who would not die that he might 
 live ? Death is the universal friend, that unlocks the weary 
 prison-house of the soul, and brings to light a glorious im- 
 mortality ; it is the angel of the spirit's life. Oh ! who 
 would not exchange this dark and dreary exile, for one of 
 unsullied brightness and glory ? Sorrow and sin can never 
 enter the precincts of that soft and beauteous clime. 
 
 Our hearts no sorrow there shall know, 
 "" Our bosoms there no sigh will rend ; 
 
 There joy's pure stream shall ever flow. 
 And Heaven's own bliss with it shall blend. 
 
 There angelic music springs from God's bright throne ; 
 and love, and blessedness, and peace gush forth from every 
 heart. There parting is unknown. The sound, " Farewell" 
 is never heard. Oh, glorious, happy thought ! There, 
 round the throne of God, to meet kindred and friends, and 
 all we have loved on earih, to part no more 
 
 " Beyond this vale of tears, 
 
 There is a life above — 
 Unmeasured by the flight of years ; 
 
 And all that life is love." 
 
 " Cease then, fond nature, cease thy tearsi 
 
 Thy Saviour dwells on high ; 
 There everlasting spring appears— 
 
 There joys shall never die." 
 
THE lord's prayer. 209 
 
 TKE LORD'S PRAYER 
 
 BEAUTIFULLY PARAPHRASED ' INTO AN ACROSTIC. 
 BY THOMAS S TU R T E V ANT , J ITlf . 
 
 Our Lord and King, who reign'st enthroned on high, 
 
 Father of Jight ! mysterious Deity ! 
 
 Who art the great I AM, the last, the first, 
 
 Art righteous, holy, merciful and just, 
 
 In realms of glory, scenes where angels sing. 
 
 Heaven is the dwelling place of God our King, 
 
 Hallowed thy name, which dost all names transcend, 
 
 Be thou adored, our great Almighty Friend, 
 
 Thy glory shines beyond creation's space, 
 
 Named in the book of justice and of grace. 
 
 Thy kingdom towers beyond thy starry skies; 
 
 Kingdom satanio falls, but thine shall rise. 
 
 Come let thine empire, O thou Holy one, 
 
 Thy great and everlasting will be done ! 
 
 Will God make known his will, his power display 7 
 
 Be it the work of mortals to obey. 
 
 Done is the great, the wondrous work of love. 
 
 On Calvary's cross he died, but reigns above, 
 
 Earth bears the record in thy holy word. 
 
 As Heaven adores thy love, let earth, O Lord ; 
 
 It shines transcendent in th' eternal skies. 
 
 Is praised in Heaven — for man the Saviour dies. 
 
 In songs immortal angels laud his name 
 
 Heaven shouts with joy, and saints his love proclaim, 
 
 Give us, O Lord, our food, nor cease to give 
 
 Us that food on which our souls may live I 
 
 This be our boon to-day, and days to come, 
 
 Day without end in our eternal home : 
 
 Our needy souls supply from day to day. 
 
 Daily assist and aid us when we pray. 
 
 Bread though we ask, yet Lord thy blessing lend, 
 
 And make us grateful when thy gifts descend, 
 
 For&ive our sins,which in destruction place 
 
 Us the vile rebels of a rebel race ; 
 
 Otm follies, faults and trespasses forgive, 
 
 Debts which we ne'er can pay, or thou receive; 
 
210 
 
 WHERE ART THOU f 
 
 As we, O Lord, our neighbor's faults o'erloook, 
 We beg thou'dst blot ours from thy memory's book. 
 Forgive our enemies, extend thy grace 
 Our souls to save, e'en' Adam's guilty race. 
 Debtors to thee in gratitude and love, 
 Ahd in that duty paid by saints above, 
 Lead us from sin and in thy mercy raise 
 Us from the tempter and his hellish ways. 
 Not in our own, but in His name who bled, 
 Into thine ear we pour our every need. 
 Temptation's fatal charms help us to shun, 
 But may we conquer through thy conquering Son ! 
 Deliver us from all which can annoy 
 Us in this world, and may our souls destroy. 
 From all calamities which men betide, 
 Evn. and death, O turn our feet aside ; 
 For we are mortal worms, and cleave to clay ; 
 Thine 'tis to rule, and mortals to obey. 
 Is not thy mercy, Lord, forever free ? 
 The whole creation knows no43od but thee. 
 KrasDOM and- empire in thy presence fall ! 
 The King eternal reigns the King of all. 
 Power is with thee — ^to thee be glory given. 
 And be thy name adored by earth and Heaven, 
 The praise of saints and angels is thine own ; 
 Glory to thee, the everlasting One, 
 "Forever be thy triune name adored ; 
 Amen ! Hosannah ! blessed be the Lord ! 
 
 WHERE ART THOU? 
 
 Hast there never been a time, when, if God had spoken 
 in a voice of thunder to your soul, and asked, " Where art 
 thou 1." you would have trembled at the sound, and shrunk 
 from the appalling inquiry ? If there has, thank God, that 
 in that forbidden act, in that guilty hour, you were not cut 
 off and taken away forever ; thank God, from the bottom 
 of your hearts, that there was One who then said, " Let it 
 alone this time also," One who interceded for you, and we 
 trjst successfully, that you might yet be spared, to live, to 
 repent, to believe, to the saving of your soul. 
 
// //' ' f//' //^' '''' ''' ^-^ /'' ^ 
 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 HV BEV. S. D. BURCHAED. 
 
 " Domestic happiness ! Thou only bliss 
 
 Of Paradise, thou hast survived the fall 1" 
 
 There is an Elysium for man. It is not to be found in 
 the dance of pleasure ; nor at the shrine of fashion ; nor on 
 the crowded thoroughfares of life ; nor in the eager race 
 ■for wealth and fame. Disappointment and restless anxietv 
 mark the varied pursuits of man — the pleasures of sense 
 are momentary — ^the triumphs of ambition are short — the 
 laurels of honor wither and fade — the crown of glory drops 
 quickly from the conqueror's brow, and the music, that once 
 cheered him, falls dull and powerless upon his soul. Others 
 succeed him in the struggle for happiness ; but they retire, 
 weary and worn. Hope may, for a season, have created 
 images of beauty and gladness ; but like 
 
 " Th' illusive meteors of a lifeless fire, 
 Too soon they kindle, and too soon expire. 
 
 Ah '. sad picture this of human life ! And is it true that 
 there are no light shades ? Is there no oasis in the desert 
 — no verdaat spot, to which the eye may look with hope- 
 no E'ysiiim, where all is music to the ear, verdure to the eye 
 and velvet to the foot ? We shall be pointed, I know, to the 
 sublime revelations of the spirit- world, and told to listen to 
 those voices which speak of " a house not made with hands 
 eternal in the heavens." But these are objects of faith, 
 and lie in the dim and shadowy future. And the heart 
 naturally turns to earth and anxiously inquires, whether 
 the kind Father has provided no refuge for his earth-born 
 children ? Whatever may be the reply of the cynic or 
 skeptic, we believe He has. The family circle, where love 
 glows in every heart and beams in every eye, is a sweet, 
 pure emblem of heaven — And he who has found a trustful, 
 1 
 
10 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 true-hearted, loving wife, whom he can truly call his own, 
 may exclaim with the delis;hted philosopher. " Eureka ! 
 eureka !"' 
 
 " Tlie treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love." 
 
 To rest, in confiding fondness, upon her bosom — to feel 
 that her heart beats in unison with his — to share her joys 
 and sorrows — to listen to her expressions of tenderness, as 
 to the music of an angel — to know that he is enthroned in 
 her heart's best afliections ; thjs is happiness next to the 
 bliss of heaven. 
 
 Erasmus, an ancient writer, asks, " is there any friend- 
 ship, among mortals, comparable to that between husbana 
 and wife ? For the love of you she ceases to value tne 
 tenderness of parents, brothers, sisters — ^to tou alone hue 
 looks for happiness ; on you she depends, and with you she 
 wishes to live and to die." Are you rich ? You have one 
 to share your prosperity and double your happiness. Are 
 you poor ? You are not left to battle against the dark 
 waves of trouble alone ; she comforts you ; sits by your 
 side ; speaks of brighter days and serener skies ; waits 
 upon you, with all the assiduity and tenderness of woman's 
 love, and only wishes that she could appropriate to herself 
 the misfortune which gives you pain^ Rogers, the poet, 
 h s done justice to the pure devotion of a loving wife. 
 
 Across the threshold led 
 And every tear kissed off, as soon as shed, 
 His house she enters, there to be a light, \ 
 
 Shining within, when all without is night; 
 A guardian angel o'er his life presiding, 
 Doubling his pleasure, and his cares dividing. 
 
 There is truth as well as poetry in these lines. It would 
 seem that even the cold-hearted Byron caught something of 
 the inspiration of love, when he said, 
 
 " Bound where thou wUt, my bark, or glide my prow. 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer thou ! 
 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 11 
 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark, 
 The dove of peace and promise to mine ark : 
 Or since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 Be THOir the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray !" 
 
 The unbought affections of a generous and noble wife 
 are a solace and a treasure, whic-h, though scorned by the 
 treacherous and thoughtless, will be appreciated and valu- 
 ed by the virtuous and the good. But there is another fea- 
 ture in domestic life which adds beauty to the scene. If 
 there be children, there will be an increase of mutual love, 
 and consequently an increase of happiness. 
 
 A young clergyman, who had recently become a father, 
 as he dandled the little cherub upon his knee, remarked, in 
 ecstacies, to the writer, " O, brother, a new class of emo. 
 tions is awakened in my heart — a new world of bliss and 
 beauty is mine ! 1 feel that I am a better and a happier 
 man than I was before I received this precious gift." And 
 the mild, dark eye of his lovely wife brightened, and her 
 pale cheek crimsoned, as though every feeling of her heart 
 was responsive to his. 
 
 The nursery has often alleviated the fatigues of the bar, 
 the Senate house, and the pulpit. Statesmen and heroeSi 
 have shut out the acclamations of an applauding world, to 
 enjoy the prattle of their little ones and partake the endear- 
 ments of the family circle. They knew that even their 
 warmest admirers, in the common relations and intercourse 
 of life, were, in some degree, actuated by interested motivea 
 in displaying their affection — that many of their followers 
 applauded them in hopes of a reward. But the attention 
 paid them at their fire-side — the smiles which made home 
 a scene of perpetual sunshine, were the fruits of undissem- 
 bled love. And it is to this hallowed enclosure that they 
 have retreated from the conflicting interests and opinions 
 which agitate the external world. Here they have laid off 
 the dignity of station to indulge in the caresses of affection 
 
12 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 and in the sports of childhood. It is not unmanly thus to 
 unbend oneself and become a child with children. Its ten- 
 dency is to amend and elevate the heart — to soften the 
 rough asperities of our nature ; it is, indeed, one of the 
 purest sources of mirth. The great Author of evangeli- 
 cal religion has taught us to emulate the truthful simplicity 
 of the infantile age. He seems himself to have been de- 
 lighted with children, and found in them what he in vain 
 sought among the f'harisaical and proud, uncoerupted rurity 
 of heart. Among the great variety of pictures which the 
 vivid imagination of Homer has displayed throughout the 
 Iliad, none is more pleasing than the family piece, which 
 rapresents the parting interview between Hector and An- 
 dromache. It is full of inimitable pathos and beauty, and 
 DEEPLY interests the heart while it delights the imagination. 
 The hero ceases to be terrible that he may become amiable 
 — We admire him, while he stands completely-armed in the 
 field of battle ; but we love him more while he is taking 
 ofi" his helmet that he may not frighten his little boy with 
 its nodding plumes. We are refreshed with the tender scene 
 of domestic love, while all around breAthes rage and dis- 
 cord. ' We are pleased to see the arm which is shortly to 
 deal death and destruction among a host of foes, employed 
 in caressing an infant son with the embraces of paternal 
 love. A professed critic would attribute the pleasing effect 
 to contrast ; but the heart has declared, previously to the 
 inquiries of criticism, that it is chiefly derived from the 
 satisfaction which we naturally take in beholding great 
 characters mingling in the scenes and sharing the sympa- 
 thies of domestic life. 
 
 Cicero, with all his patriotism and power of oratory, re- 
 tired from the public arena to seek his elysium in the ex- 
 pressions of conjugal and filial aflfection ; and he, at one time, 
 acknowledged that he received no satisfaction in any com- 
 pany but that of his wife, his little daughter, and, to use 
 his own epithet, his honeyed young Cicero. 
 
 Sir Thomas More, who has secured that pre-eminence 
 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 13 
 
 which men award to the majesty of genius, has left it on 
 record that he devoted a great share of his time, from the 
 united motives of duty and delight, to the amusement of his 
 children. But notvi^ithstanding all this authority from the 
 Bible, to the sayings of the philosopher and the poet, in 
 favor of the purity and permanency of domestic pleasures, 
 to many they unfortunately appear insipid, unmanly, and 
 capable, of satisfying none but the weak, the spiritless, the 
 unaspiring, and the effeminate. There are those, in these 
 days of modern reform, who would gladly annihilate the ' 
 marriage relation, and denounce it as unnecessary and an 
 unauthorized restraint upon the passions of man. With 
 cloven foot they would enter the domestic sanctuary, where 
 all is purity and love, and where affections, all warm and 
 sensitive, are gushing forth in tenderness, and- deaf to all 
 their entreaties, would cruelly sunder them from the objects 
 of their endearment, like deamons of wrath, who knew no 
 pity, heard no groans, and felt no relenting ! Such pre- 
 tenders to reform would love to figure on the theatre of a 
 French revolution, and immortalize themselves by making 
 the Bible a bonfire, and the world a wide scene of lawless 
 and hopeless abandonment. We can but weep over 
 their folly and wickedness, while, with pious enthusiasm, 
 we cling to the sacred institution which made Eden a para- 
 dise, and is, indeed, the connecting link between earth and 
 heaven. 
 
 Bat it may still be objected by those who pretend to have 
 formed their ideas of life from actual observation, that do- 
 mestic happiness, however pleasing in description, like 
 many a poetic dream, is but an alluring picture,' designed 
 by a good heart, and painted in glowing "colors by a lively 
 fancy. They maintairi that the constaiit company, even of 
 those we love, occasions an insipidity — that insipidity grows 
 into disgust; disgust, long,continued,sours the temper. Peev- 
 ishness is the natural consequence — the domestic circle be- 
 comes the scene of alienation and angry dispute — and love 
 and charity, those angel graces that nestle a round the fam- 
 
14 
 
 DOMESTIC HAPPINESS. 
 
 ily altar, take their departure. Mrs. Caudle may have wit- 
 nessed such scenes in real life, and behind the drapery of 
 fiction may be concealed some vestiges of truth. But that 
 there are, here and there, isolated instances of domestic 
 happiness, we doubt not. But the young and the thought- 
 less often rush into the marriage relations without any af- 
 finity of thought and feeling, and they reap the reward of 
 their indiscretion. In the forced alliance, which the poet 
 of Venusium'mentions, of the serpent with the dove — of the 
 tiger with the lamb — ^there can be no true love. When 
 we expatiate on the happiness of the domestic group, we 
 presuppose that there is a mutual blending of sympathies 
 and hearts. Pure, intelligent love, is the basis of all real 
 happiness in the marriage relations. Neither wealth, nor 
 beauty, nor family distinctions, must be substituted for this. 
 
 " Love is a celestial harmony 
 Of likely hearts compos 'd of stars consent, 
 Which join together in sweet sympathy, 
 To work each other's joy and true content." 
 
 We conclude by saying that, to form, under the direction 
 of prudence, and by the impulses of virtuous love, and early 
 conjugal attachment, is one of the best securities of vir- 
 tue, as well as the surest means of happiness. The duties 
 which are imperiously called forth by the relations of hus- 
 band and father, are of that tender kind which awaken 
 the purest and sublimest emotions. He who beholds a con- 
 fiding woman whom he loves, and a helpless infant, look- 
 ing up to him for support, will not easily be induced to in- 
 dulge yi' idleness, folly, or crime — ^he is held by golden 
 cords. And thus it is that many who, . in their individual 
 or unconnected state, would probably have spent a life not 
 only useless to others, but profligate and abandoned in itself, 
 have risen to eminence and handed their names, with hon- 
 or, down to posterity, by linking their destiny with an ami- 
 able, intelligent, and virtuous woman. " Whoso findeth a 
 wife, findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favor of the Lor 
 
FOREST THOUGHTS, 
 
 BY B. P R.OMAINE. 
 
 Dear wood ! I greet thee ; with a heart that's full 
 
 Of thy lone whisperings, I greet thee now. 
 
 How pure that greeting ! — not the soulless note 
 
 From earth-polluted lips that falls in courts, 
 
 Where fashion, pride and pleasure show themselves,, 
 
 And dance a round of folly in an hour ; 
 
 Not the flippant tone of thousand passers 
 
 Through the crowded marts ; hui the deep breathings 
 
 Of a nature o'er full of sympathy — 
 
 Of a wild yearning nature, that would pour 
 
 The freshness of itself upon a world, 
 
 And find an echo to each chord of love. 
 
 It wakens by the viewless power of song— 
 
 The song of spirits that together blend. 
 
 Wing to wing united, strength to strength, 
 
 Beauty to beauty, grace to sweetest grace ; 
 
 Thus doubly roaming through the realm of thought. 
 
 Weave your spells around me, beings unseen ! 
 
 Hush earth-cold murmurs — drive its ghosts away — 
 
 Banish its vifrongs from this proud heart it knows not — 
 
 Givffto oblivion its cares and sighs,- 
 
 And let this hour be pure and svveet as heaven. 
 
 I feel thy welcome, woody shade — ^I feeV 
 
 There never was a nobler vyelcome given. 
 
 Than now thou giv'st to me ; grace in the wave 
 
 Of thy long branches, as they all bend down 
 
 In loving homage to their guest ; and truth, 
 
 Untainted truth, in myriad whisperings. 
 
 That steal like angel zephyrs o'er my soul, 
 
16 I THE TRAINING OF THE YO0NQ. 
 
 And as soft night-winds cool the scorching heat, 
 I come, I enter noiseless, sacred wood, 
 Within thy shade. This is God's dwelling place. 
 Far as the eye can reach thro' winding isles 
 Of this vast temple — range ils pillared courts ; 
 Gaze upward to its leafy dome, 'tis full ; 
 All full of God. Through openings made above. 
 Bright worlds look down on me. I am o'er-awed, 
 And bow my spirit to the mighty God, 
 Whose name alone I utter, or can breathe, 
 Within lis glorious house, the forest-wood. 
 
 THE TRAINING OF THE YOUNG. 
 
 BY REV. J. N. DANFORTH. 
 
 That eminent Christian minister, Samuel Davies, the 
 ornament of the American pulpit, and eminently pious 
 man, has left this record ; " I am a son of prayer, like my 
 namesake, Samuel the prophet ; my mother called me 
 Samuel, because, she observed, I have asked him of the Lord. 
 This early dedication to God has always been a strong in- 
 ducement to me to devote myself to him by my own per- 
 sonal act, and the most important blessings of my life I have 
 looked upon as immediate answers to the prayers of a 
 pious mother." Noble testimony ! Tell me, mother, is not 
 such a tribute worth all your tears, all your anxieties, all 
 your most assiduous instructions, and most devout prayers 
 for the child of your affections ? Not in vain does even the 
 dust of such a mother slumber in its silent bed. Thrice 
 blessed are the pious dead that thus die in the Lord, and 
 .yet live in those to whom they have given existence in its 
 highest sense. Nor is it the good alone who testify to the 
 power of maternal instruction. A convict in the Connecti- 
 
THE TRAINING OF THE YOUNO. 17 
 
 cut Penitentiary, of the very worst description, hardened by 
 frequent crime, could not forget the leading spirit in the 
 family circle. He expressed no affection for his brothers 
 and sisters, but honestly told the Chaplain that his mother 
 was not out of his thoughts an hour in the day. Even for his 
 wife he had lost that tender affection which once softened 
 his heart, for his cruelties had driven her from him, but his 
 mother, he said, he still loved. Stung with the recollection 
 of filial ingratitude, he would weep as he said ; " Oh, had 
 I listened to my mother's counsel, I should not have come 
 here." Yet, when a boy he would npt hear her pray. 
 
 The writer had occasion once to visit a criminal under 
 sentence of death for murder. Every imaginable motive 
 was presented that might be supposed fitted to reach the 
 sensibilities of his heart, or rouse his dormant conscience, 
 but all apparently in vain. The helplessness of his victim, 
 for she was a woman, the unpitying gratuitousness of the 
 act, the hopelessness of his owti condition, his proximity to 
 an ignominious deathj his speedy appearajice before the 
 dread tribunal of Jehovah, the enormity of his guilt, his 
 obligations to repentance, the love of Christ in dying that 
 he might pardon the chief of sinners, all, all failed to move 
 his marble heart, or to draw a tear from his cold eye.^ I 
 then touched that secret chord, that lies beneath the soft 
 hand of the mother. And he wept ! Oh, there is a charm 
 there, which crime itself cannot dissolve ; a power there 
 which even crimson guilt cannot extinguish. The turbid 
 current of years of wickedness may flow over those im- 
 pressions, but nob erase them. Mother, no hand like yours 
 can engrave these ineradicable letters, and that hand can 
 •^o it, even on marble ! Time but confirms them. Its re- 
 ceding tide leaves on the shore of life a thousand memorials 
 of maternal love. 
 
 Take the testimony of Cecil. " I had," says that excel; 
 lent man, " a pious mother, who dropped things in my way. 
 I could never rid myself of them. My mother would talk 
 
n 
 
 THE TKAININO OF THE YOUNG. 
 
 to me, and weep as she talked. 1 flung out of the house 
 WITH AN OATH but wcpt too whcu I got iuto the street." His 
 mother witnessed the ebullition of wrath, but not the flow 
 of tears. Such are the words that break the heart in 
 secret. Nor was that heart broken in vain. What Cecil 
 learned by experience he improved to the lasting benefit of 
 thousands. 
 
 A celebrated English Jurist, who has devoted much of 
 his valuable time and great talents to the subject of educa- 
 tion, says ; " A child is much more capable of learning 
 before than after six years of age. His faculties are more 
 acute, his attention more lively, his memory more retentive, 
 and his habits less decided than they are after that age. 
 From two years of age, a child is in a constant state of 
 learning, and so strong, persevering, and irrepressible is the 
 curiosity predominant in his mind, from two to six years of 
 age, he will learn more during these four years, than in all 
 his after progress, though he should live to be a philosopher 
 of eighty." Not in quantity, but in quality, for in child- 
 hood " the seeds of things ", are implanted in the mind. It 
 is the GERMINATION of a plant, that gives character to it. 
 The mind, like the plant, will grow, as it begins to grow. 
 How sure and skilful then should be that hand that trains 
 the tender vine ! Not afiection alone, but judgment, 
 patience, adaptation and prayer must be exercised in the 
 culture of that immortal scion intrusted to your care by 
 the creative hand of God. Mother, the Spirit will keep 
 you in your work, if you turn with a suppliant eye and a 
 trusting heart to his divine agency. The'dews of his grace 
 shall descend, the warm beams of his holy influence shall 
 waken every vital power into life, and you and yours shal^ 
 flourish together in the Paradise of God ! 
 
 If you have an enemy, act kindly to him, and make him 
 your friend. If you do not win him over at once, try again 
 Let one kindness be followed by another till you succeed. 
 
EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PRECEPT. 
 THE TWO FAMILY CIRCLES. 
 
 BY MRS. M. A. ERVING. 
 
 " Good morning, mama," exclaimed several little voices, 
 whose mother I was visiting, as she entered the nursery. 
 
 "Good morning, my dears," returned the mother, softly 
 and sweetly, at the same time stooping to kiss the cherub 
 lips that eagerly raised themselves to hers. 
 
 "And now, my little ones, we must prepare for break 
 fast, and make each other clean and tidy. You, Sophia, 
 may wash and comb Edward this morning, whilst 1 fix Al- 
 fred and Sarah." 
 
 The smiling mother, and equally smiling children, now 
 commenced operations ; and in less than ten minutes, the 
 whole little troop were as sweet and fresh, as soap and 
 water, combs and brush, and clean aprons could make 
 them ; not to speak of the sparkling, good-humored spirit, 
 that, like a sunbeam, lit up each young face with an expres- 
 sion of joy and loveliness that the most beautiful features 
 in the world could not have inspired without it. 
 
 After the towels and comb had been put in their places, 
 the mother knelt before a seat, and each young form was 
 soon kneeling in solemn silence beside her. The tiny hands 
 were clasped, and the closed eyes were reverentially lais- 
 ed, as the mother poured forth a short, simple and fervent 
 prayer to our Heavenly Father, begging his blessing and care 
 throughthe day, upon each of the little ones around her, 
 and placing her hand on the head of every child as she 
 
20 EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PKECEPT. 
 
 alternatively named it, she mentioned the sin that most 
 easily beset it. For instance, I remarked that she prayed 
 that Sophia might be kept from impatience and evil-tem- 
 per ; Edward, from obstinancy and sefishness ; and Alfred 
 and Sarah, from mischievousness and teazing one another ; 
 and that each might be kind and gentle to one another, 
 and obedient to their parents and elders. 
 
 It was a scene that angels must have rejoiced to behold, 
 that mother seeking blessings for her little ones ; and I felt 
 better for having been permitted to witness it also. 
 
 As for the children, they arose with a gentle and sub- 
 dued expression depicted upon their youthful faces, and 
 the most careless observer must have noticed that the 
 mother's prayer and actions had not been without effect 
 upon even the little two-year old Sarah, 
 
 In a few minutes the breakfast bell rung, and the 
 whole little troop soon descended to the basement story 
 where a white-spread table was cheerfully arranged, in 
 appearance, with the morning meal. With the utmost 
 order, and without any harshness or jogging impatience 
 toward each other, i\ie little ones were seated in their 
 respective places, and after the father had sought a bless- 
 ing, the viands were distributed ; each child taking what it 
 was helped to, with a " thank you," and a smile, and with- 
 out the slightest appearance of anything like murmuring 
 or discontent, although I observed the parents were not 
 particular in helping all alike, and Edward might justly 
 have muttered — as I have very often heard children do — 
 " You have given Alfred more than me." 
 
 But no such sounds greeted my ears here. All was 
 cheerfulness, gentleness, and love. The parents were 
 watchful and polite to each other, and the children, as is 
 most always the case, followed the parental example. The 
 natural evil of their dispositions was held in constant bond- 
 age by their watchful parents' care, and every effort was 
 EARLY made to teach them the art of SELF-government. 
 
EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PRECEPT. 21 
 
 Affection, gentleness, and firmness was the weapons 
 chiefly used, but the rod, when necessary, was not at all 
 spared. It was, however, as the mother told me, but very 
 seldom that severe punishment was required. She had 
 commenced early with them, and had found the discipline 
 of affection as potent as she bould desire ; and as she had 
 a natural horror of all harsh measures, they were only re- 
 sorted to in cases of real necessity, and were dreaded and 
 looked upon by the children with all the fear and awe she 
 could wish. 
 
 Thus, as gentle words were heard more frequently in 
 that household, than harsh ones, they habitually became 
 adopted by the children and domestics ; and a key-note of 
 love and kindness went through the wliole house, from 
 nursery to parlor, and from parlor to kitchen, making it 
 appear, despite the usual mishaps of li^, which here, as 
 elsewhere, sometimes had their abode, a little Paradise on 
 earth. 
 
 Happy the children that are reared under such an influ- 
 ence ! and happy the parents who have hearts, minds and 
 power to exert it ! Tliey are truly the ones who will here- 
 after receive the promised " wages ;" not to speak of the 
 reward that often follows even in this life. 
 
 But, to return to my little friends — a description of their 
 beginning the morning may suffice for the whole day, so 
 entirely in keeping was it with the commencement. The 
 same cheerful spirit animated them in their studies, and in 
 doing various little duties required of them in the family, 
 and after a week's stay among them, T can truthfully say, 
 not one harsh word, and but one or two impatient scenes, 
 had met my knowledge, and when I took my leave of 
 them, it was with the full conviction that peace and happi- 
 ness, and joy and love, would be found far more often in 
 the world, if parknts would but seek such influence for 
 their offspring, wfth but half the assiduity with which they 
 strive to supply their natural wants of food and raiment. 
 
22 EXAMPLE IfS BETTEK THAN PRECEPT. 
 
 And, surely, such things are as necessary to the human 
 spirit, in this world of " misfortunes and farewells." How 
 much of the bitterness of life would lose its sting, if the 
 heart was only early taught to bear it in a right spirit, and 
 more kindness and charitable feeling toward each other 
 was manifested in the actions of man, in his intercourse 
 with his fellow-man. And, where can all this be taught 
 so well as in life's miniature- world — the nursery ? 
 
 And now I must introduce my readers to another scene, 
 and another home, where the key-note of love is seldom 
 sounded. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Langdon have three children, Jane, Eliza, 
 and William. Fine looking children they would be, did 
 not a certain expression on their features give one an idea 
 of very evil Heart." ; nor is it to their features alone, such 
 expression is confined ; no, I am sorry to say that ; but 
 my readers may listen and judge for themselves. 
 
 " I tell you I won't do it. And you may tell mother as 
 much as you please. You think because you'r the oldest, 
 ydu can order me about as you like ; but I'll let you know 
 different. So you may do it yourself." 
 
 " But I won't have time I tell you, and I would not if I 
 had, for mother particularly charged me that you should 
 do it." 
 
 " I won't, I say ; I ain't a going to be kept sewing all the 
 afternoon, for such an ugly fellow as you — turning, as she 
 spoke, to her little brother ; there, I declare, you have tore 
 my new story book," and here a regular slapping, scratch- 
 ing, and pulling of hair commenced among the beautiful 
 trio — for Jane thought herself bound to take William's 
 part — unfcil the dinner bell put a stop to the disgraceful 
 scene, and gave a new turn to their thoughts. 
 
 Without stopping to put themselves into any thing like 
 order, they scrambled down stairs, running against eaci 
 ' other, and striving who should be the first to get at table 
 
EXAMPLE IS BETTERSTHAN PEECEPT. 23 
 
 The parents were already seated, but no notice was taken 
 of them by the unruly children, until each had got a seat 
 and THEN they commenced — 
 
 " Help me first, ma, and give me plenty of gravy." — 
 " You've got my fork, Eliza, so just give it here," and "I 
 want some of that pudding first, I won't eat potatoe if you 
 don't put gravy all over it," and so on, until the father, 
 after several efforts to get silence, knocked his fist loudly 
 on the table, and bade them " hush their tongues, or they 
 should not have a mouthful." Then turning to his wife 
 said 
 
 " 1 never saw such brcfught-up things ; they are more 
 like pigs than human beings, and unless you teach them 
 better, they shan't come to the table, that's decided." 
 
 " Me teach them better ! I should like to know if you 
 expect ME to do every thing ?" 
 
 " Certainly it' s your duty to bring up your children pro- 
 perly, and see that they behave themselves, and" 
 
 " My duty,, is it ? and, pray, have you nothing to do on the 
 subject ?" and the mother's face fairly glowed with anger 
 as she asked the question. 
 
 " That's neither here nor there, it's as much as I can do 
 to provide for them, let alone teaching them to behave 
 themselves. But I tell you what, if a stop is not soon put 
 to these actions, I'll turn over a new leaf that will make 
 you all start," — and the fist was again knocked fiercely on 
 the table. 
 
 During this matrimonial dialogue, the children had been 
 helping themselves to what they liked best, and cramming 
 their mouths to the utmost ; the parents being too angry 
 with each other to notice them, until they had nearly got 
 as much as their stomachs could hold, and then it was 
 found that the meat was all hacked, the pudding nearly 
 eaten up, and not a drop of gravy left. Of course, all this 
 only added to the parents' anger, and the children made 
 their escape, during a torrent of abusive words from both 
 
24 EXAMPLE IS BETTER THAN PKECKPT. 
 
 father and mother, in the same disorder in which they had 
 entered, but now laughing at the manner in which they 
 " had tricked mother in the pudding," and " spoilt father's 
 meat." 
 
 Thusj again, is a parent's example mirrored in the conduct 
 of their children. Anger and selfishness, harshness and 
 ill-humor, all were plainly perceptible in the conduct of 
 this family, and influenced every member of its household,, 
 and bitter indeed were the fruits daily reaped from such 
 an atmosphere and soil. 
 
 Surely the casual misfortunes of life are nothing, com- 
 pared to the daily inflictions of evil temper, that pestilence 
 of home, and destroyer of domestic happiness. Ah ! why 
 is it so often allowed to enter into our dwellings ? Why 
 is it that parents do not rise up oftener against it, and by a 
 constant, careful watching over themselves, banish it from 
 their hearth- stones, and thus free their little ones from its 
 baneful influence. Then would the hearts of children be 
 saved many a bitter feeling toward each other, and the 
 beautiful light of love would kindle all its glowing train 
 of peace and joy within their bosoms. 
 
 Parents ! we appeal to you, to which of these family cir- 
 cles would you desire, to have your children connected? 
 To the former or latter ? The influence you shall exert 
 over your ofispring, will have no small tendency to decide 
 their future destiny in their morals and manners for life. 
 Your child is an eagle-eyed spy upon your character and 
 conduct. His ear is open to catch every sound. If you 
 are tender, amiable and winning in your deportment, you 
 may hope that your children will be so too. If you are 
 harsh, morose, and cruel to your offspring, you cannot 
 doubt that your children will copy your example in their 
 deportment, and thus your example descend to your pos- 
 terity from age to age. 
 
THE GRECIAN EXILE. 
 
 BT MRS. E. A. COM STOCK. N.T. 
 
 On the eastern shore of the Morea stood, a few years 
 ago," the Ca'^le of Otranesto, mostly in ruins, but still re- 
 taining traces of its former grandeur. 
 
 Pietro Colocrotoni, the last male descendant of his ancient 
 race, and by birth a Sciote, had retired after the disastrous 
 conflicts of his country, with his only child, an infant 
 daughter, to this once famous stronghold ; and, abjuring all 
 hope of aiding his country, sank for awhile into the stupor 
 of despair. The claims of his child aroused him from his 
 lethargy, and the tender father subdued the stern warrior. 
 Garaphelia repaid his care. Nurtured amid gloom aiid 
 sadness, she early evinced a depth of feeling and vigor of 
 intellect far beyond her years. Totally isolated from hu- 
 man companionship, Pietro and his daughter -knew no 
 world but the environs of Otranesto. Absorbed in painful 
 reveries, Pietro would often sit for hours in the shade of a 
 Cedar which threw its broad arms over the ruined battle- 
 ment, while his daughter sought to dispel his sadness by 
 singing the strains of patriot bards, accompanying herself 
 on a harp, constructed by their only attendant, the faithful 
 Spirrio. 
 
 Lonely as it was, the young Sciote fondly loved her 
 mountain home, rendered more attractive by her care. Ita 
 picturesque ruins, partially concealed by climbing plants ; 
 
26 THE GRECIAN EXILE. 
 
 the decaying but spacious apartments throughout which 
 reigned the stillness of dieath, and the beautiful environs 
 of the ancient pile filled her young soul with poetic rap- 
 ture. That nameless shadowing of the spirit which ever 
 accompanies a highly wrought poetic temperament, had 
 subdued the exhilarance of youth, and saddened the aspi- 
 rations of the imaginative girl. In her happier, as in her 
 sadder hours, she never fdrgot she was a patriot's child, 
 and the daughter of an injured land. On her expanded 
 brow, and in the clear depths of her eloquent dark eyes, 
 Pietro often read the pensiveness of her young heart, which 
 knew not itsNjwn grief, but presaged with prophetic sad- 
 ness its coniing destiny. 
 
 Years had passed away, almost unnoted, amid a,quiet 
 contentment and mutual affection, beautiful in themselves, 
 and full of radiance to these two injured beings. Spirrio, 
 who had grown grey in the service of his master, watched 
 with deep interest his every action, fearful that the warrior 
 would again subdue the father. The storm-cloud of 
 battle hp,d long been lo^v'ering over the Morea, and the 
 murmur , from its dark bosom had stirred the trees that 
 surround the ruins of Otranesto, until eaph leaflet seemed 
 to the unhappy Spirrio, calling his master from his long 
 rest and indolence. Trembling at the approaching conflict, 
 the oppressors of Greece dreaded the presence of any brave 
 lover of his country, however pacific his deportment, or 
 enfeebling his age. The recluse at Otranesto was not 
 forgotten. Six Albanian warriors were dispatched with a 
 sentence of banishment, that fell like a thunderbolt on the 
 little community at Otranesto. Pietro heard the decree with 
 stoical calmness, but Garaphelia sank at his feet and wept. 
 Untouched by his Ipfty endurance, and unmoved by her 
 hopeless sorrow, the grim visitors left the Castle, and the 
 clang ef I their sabres was soon lo^t in the distance. When 
 the last echo of their presence had died away, Pietro, wiih 
 a deep sigh, such as comes from a strong heart, raised his 
 child from his fp^t. and folding her to his heart invoked the 
 
THE OKECIAN EXILE. 27 
 
 messing of God on her innocent head. With a convulsive 
 effort she subdued the signs of her inwatd anguish, and 
 busied herself in the preparations for their departure. 
 After much difficulty Spirrio succeeded in procuring a 
 vessel bound to the United States, their place- of banish- 
 ment. Pietro seemed suddenly endued with new life. His 
 step was firmer, and there was an expression of triumph 
 in his eye. Spirrio partook of his excitement, but wore 
 more of an air of defiance. The last few hours of their stay, 
 Pietro and <his follower spent in rambling amid the cellars 
 beneath the Castle, evidently engaged in some secret pro- 
 ject. Garaphelia Stood by the casement of her apartment 
 to take a last look of the -fair landscape before her. The 
 blue waters of the Mediterranean leaped amid the rocks 
 beneath the CaStle, studded with emerald isles, and be- 
 yond the fertile plains of the Morea, now undulating into 
 hills or sinking into luxuriant valleys, completed a picture 
 which needed no historic charms to captivate the human 
 eye. As she gazed on this fair portion of her native land, 
 a gleam of pride passed over her saddened countenance for 
 a moment, but soon she turned thoughtfully away, a,nd, with 
 her t^heek resting pensively on her hand,' stood lost in pain- 
 ful musings. Her father entered suddenly, and drawing 
 her arm in his, hurried her to the sea- shore ; the vessel was 
 anchored at some distance from land, but a yacht awaited 
 them at the base of the cliff. Near it was moored 
 d Small boat bdonging to her father, who observedi with 
 much emotion, iJiat Spirrio would join them in it. As soon 
 as they reached the deck of the ship, Garaphelia turned to 
 look at the desolate Castte. It was enveloped in smoke, 
 and suddenly a loiid explosion shook the vessel, causing it 
 to stagger on the water. A few moments after, Garaphe- 
 lia dtscovered'the foi-m of Spirrio revealed against the clear 
 blue sky, and a,s he tossed his dap in the air, the Greek cry 
 of defiance rang mid the rocks. As the air became clear 
 around the cliff, the astonished beholders saw that the 
 ruined Castle no longer stood on its summit. When Spirrio 
 
28 THE OBEGIAN EXILE. 
 
 breathlessly met them on the deck, Pietro clasped his hand, 
 and whispered to his daughter, " The home of the Colo- 
 crotoni shall never be a revelling place for Albanian 
 wolves !" 
 
 To save the home of his ancestors from such pollution^ 
 Pietro had overtasked his failing energies. Their reaction 
 overwhelmed him. Garaphelia was called to minister to 
 a dying parent on the boundless waves of the Atlantic. 
 All that kindness copld dictate was done for the sufferer by 
 the humane captain and his excellent wife. Their efforts 
 were unavailingi Pietro but lived to gaze for one moment 
 on the free soil of our country, and expired. 
 
 They laid him in a green spot beyond the city, and after 
 a short stay near him, Spirrio guided the lone Grecian to 
 the far West, where some of his kindred had emigrated. 
 But hope was cold in the heart of the orphan. Her cheek 
 grew palter, apd her step feebler. Spirrio watched her 
 slow decay with unutterable sorrow. Her kind regard for 
 him, wrung his heart, for he knew that she felt for his com- 
 ing loneliness. Not a murmur escaped her. With patient 
 trust she awaited her release. 
 
 It was sunset on ;the prairies. At her request, Spirrio 
 had \yheeled her chair to the door of the cabin. With her 
 eyes turned to : the East, the dying girl sat beside the aged 
 friend of her race, and pointing to a flowery knoll near by, 
 requested to be buried there by moonlight, ,in the dress she 
 wore. " It is," she whispered, " the only relic of my native- 
 land." As Spirrio replied, he felt her hand, trembling in 
 his, and, looking a moment in her face, knew by the fixed- 
 ness of her pensive smile, that she had, gone to her father. 
 Gently he placed her in a couch, and, wrapping ,his head 
 in , his mantle, kept his lone vigil by her side. , On the 
 morrow he arose, and, calling to his ai4 a few friends, by 
 the light of the full moon, in her national dress, he laid 
 the young sleeper amid the wild flowery, of the prairie, 
 and embracing the cold sod that covered her, lifted his 
 
POWER OP A WORD. 2i) 
 
 voice and wept above the last of a race so fondly loved, 
 and faithfully served. 
 
 Time hath passed with rapid foot, andSpirrio has ceased 
 to mourn. But in the hush of evening, youilg maidens 
 tread with gentle step amid the tall grass around the grave 
 of Garaphelia, and scatter with pious hands white flowers, 
 fit emblems of her purity, on the resting place of the 
 Grecian Exile. 
 
 POWER OF A WORD. 
 
 BY REV. A. B. THURSTON. 
 
 A WORD ! It is but a thought that flits before the mind, 
 and is forgotten ; the expression of a desire that, as soon 
 as felt, is gone ; the awakening of a passion, that in another 
 moment sleeps again. It is less than this, a sound, a 
 breath ; and once breathed, it is> nothing again. 
 
 But that word shall be brought into judgment. It was 
 from the abundance of the heart. It revealed the purpose ; 
 it anounced the motive, it declared the ruling passion ; it 
 betrayed the secret thought ; it disclosed thd state of the 
 heart ; and this is much. Perhaps it dropped from feign- 
 ed lips. It was the offspring of deceit, or envy, or malice, 
 and it covered a heart of evil, and disguised a spirit of 
 treachery. Perhaps it was the expression of sincerity and 
 love. It opened the heart, revealing all that is best, and 
 noblest, and purest in man. It was warmed with affection, 
 and winged with truth. All this is much, and therefor* 
 thou shalt give account thereof. 
 
 That little word was much to others also. It touched 
 other hearts. It touched a chord which may vibrate long. 
 It made an impression which perhaps may never be effa- 
 ced. It opened a fountain of thoughts, which may never 
 cease to flow. It kindled passions, which may burn un- 
 
30 POWER Of A WOED. 
 
 quenchably. Perhaps it infus&d tba poison of error, oi 
 awoke selfishness and malignity that dwell in the ibosom 
 of humanity. Perhaps it implanted truths in the heart pre- 
 pared to rebeive it, and awoke the haumonias of a pure 
 and generous affection in the breast ! Attesd to itsgrateful 
 note. This is much, and therefore thou; shaltgive account 
 thereof. ... 
 
 We often speak of flying thoughts. It was a beautiful 
 conception of Homer when he applied the same figure to 
 the medium which conveys them, and spoke of " winged 
 words." Now, they escape us almost involuntarily. Anon, 
 they leap forth as sparks at the kindling/ of passion. Now 
 obeying the dictates of reason and principle, they go on 
 errands of wisdom and truth. Again they fly at the prompt- 
 ings of a generous heart, and warm affection to waken 
 harihony and happiness in other hearts. Peradventm-e 
 they are the outbreaking of depravity and malice. Laden 
 with impurity and hatred, they inflame another's passibn, 
 and polute another's heart. In every instance, whenever 
 and however uttered, free as the air they fly to others, but 
 never return. They are past recall, but their spirit lives. 
 They are as fleeting as the breath that bore them, but this 
 is' endOring as the thoughts and emotions of the hearts 
 they reached. It has commenced its work, and that work 
 w*ill' be earrifed on immutably.' It has touched a string 
 which must ever vibrate with the same note. It has left 
 its iinpression on the mind, and that image abideth forever 
 We niay change, but the spirit of our words has gone forth. 
 Another spirit has been roused and these shall never change ■ 
 In vain we may design to recall the one, in vain perhaps, 
 to' appease the other. What we have spoken, we have 
 spoken. " Once uttered, it irrevocably flies " The spiriti our 
 words have roused, is not subject to our control. 
 
 In the boldness of Scripture metaphor, " tie tongue is a 
 fire." There is, indeed^ a magic in the living voice that 
 dwells nowhere elsfe. liiBtructions of truth and AKisdomj 
 strains of merited praise, and the gentle accents of conso- 
 
POWER OB A WOKD. 31 
 
 iation and affection, are as angel voices from heaven ; but 
 whence come bitter sarcasm, malignant slander, and fierce 
 imprecation ? Too often these thrill the soul with agony ; 
 and the living voice, as an instrument of good above 
 all other influences, is perverted to evil wi,th disastrous 
 and unequalled power. Confidence and affection, are 
 plants of a heavenly root, and when set out in the soil of 
 this cold world, must be nurtured with the tenderest care. 
 The bond of friendship is a silken tie„\yhich a word may 
 sever as the touch of fire. The domestic circle still may 
 be the Paradise of earth. Peace, love and bliss may reign 
 there, so that within its charged precints, we might almost 
 forget the serpent had ever entered ; but a word may break 
 the happy spell, and waken a spirit even there not from 
 above. A word, a little word, is sometinjes uttered, which 
 even in jest, is a sword, or a poisoned arrow. It was trir 
 fling with the feelings, it lacerated the heart of affection. 
 Often that wound will rankle long, though the emotions 
 which prompted it, may be fleeting as .thought; perchance 
 it can never be healed, even by bitter repentance, and 
 fruits meet for repentance. The bonds of friendship and 
 kindred love are too sacred tp be rudely touched. 
 Thoughtlessness with regard to them is not a mere nega- 
 tive thing, it is treason against both. We trust not our rich- 
 est affections where the treasure will be lightly esteemed, 
 or rudely assailed, Affection cannot brook neglect, much 
 less endure the raging of passion. " Make no friendship 
 with an angry man," is a sacred proverb, and well de- 
 serves its place. Passion breaks upon the sacredness of 
 love as would an irruption of infernal spirits upon the holi- 
 ness of heaven* A word spoken without a malicious in- 
 tent, may extinguish every warm and synipatbyzing emo- 
 tion, but passion rends and destroys the very elements of 
 love and trust, and he has much of the Saviour's meekness 
 whom it does not arouse to vengeance. Will the bonds 
 thus severedbe united again ? Will confidence abused, be 
 restored ? Will affection scorned and blasted, revive and 
 
32 EDITCATIOV. 
 
 glow afresh ? The heart, whose kindly outgushings have 
 been thus driven back, whose budding affections have 
 been withered, shrinks within itself; and at every approach, 
 its voice is, " touch me not." 
 
 But how precious are right words ! They are " like ap- 
 ples of gold, in pictures of silver." Deep and torturing ae 
 is the wound of a word, bitter as are the woes which malice 
 and passion inflict, the evil which attends the perversion 
 of the tongue, is but the measure of the good it may, it was 
 designed to confer. How dreadful is the raving of madness, 
 how hateful the rage of anger, how chilling the whispering 
 of envy and malice ! But, in the hallowed circle of friends, 
 in the Paradise of home, how sweet and inspiring are the 
 breathings of mutual trust and love, the words that gush 
 from true and affectionate hearts ! They drop as the rain, 
 they distil as the dew of heaven on the tender herb ; and 
 the home of affection is flowery and blissful as the very 
 Eden of earth. There light shines from the eye, and peace 
 sits on the brow, a smile plays on the lips, and gladness 
 dwells in the breast, while love and joy fly on these wing- 
 «d words from heart to heart. 
 
 . EDUCATION. 
 
 Every one should have his head, his heart, and his hand 
 educated ; let this truth never be forgotten. 
 
 By the proper education of his head, he will be taught 
 what is good, and what is evil, what is wise, and what is 
 foolish, what is right and what is wrong. By the proper 
 education of his he^rt he will be taught to love what is 
 good, wise, and right ; and to hate what is evil, foolish, 
 and wrong ; and by the proper education of his hand, he 
 will be enabled to supply his wants, to add to his comforts, 
 and to assist those that are around him. 
 
 The highest objects of a good education are to reverence 
 and obey God, and to love and serve mankind ; everything 
 that helps us in attaining these objects is of great value. 
 
FRAGMENTS OF THOUGHT. 
 
 BY REV- A. A. LIPSCOMB. 
 
 If it was necessary for Jesus Christ to descend from 
 Heaven to Earth, to begin the work of Redemption, it waa 
 equally necessary for him to ascend froiji Earth to Heaven, 
 to consummate it. One world could not be the scene of such 
 an enterprise. One world could not gather its trophies and 
 exalt its triumphs. The habitation of angels and men must 
 Doth become its theatre. 
 
 See the beautiful connexion, that has early been established 
 between these two worlds ! Jesus Christ is a part of the his- 
 tory of each ; he is the bond, thEtt, unites both togetljier. Did 
 he on Earth represent Heaven ? In Heaven, he represents 
 Earth. Did angels visit him here? Humanity goes to him 
 there. Did his tears fall here? Did he shed his blood here? 
 There the smile of joy illumines his countenance, and the 
 merit of his blood is pleaded. Here, he had a Cross ; there, 
 he has a Throne. Here, he was Priest and Prophet ; there, 
 he is King. 
 
 If we would appreciate the grandeur; of Redemption, we 
 must take it in its relation to both worlds. Christ below and 
 above can alone give us a true idea of its vastness. Stand at 
 thei Cross, aiid look up to the Throne ; stand at the Throne, 
 and look down upon the Cross. Do you find mysteries at 
 the Cross? They are explained at the Throne. Does the 
 majesty of the Throne alarm you? The humiliation of the 
 Cross removes it. 
 
 No wonder then that the blessed and blessing Saviour 
 attached so much importance to his Ascension to glory. No 
 wonder, that the magnificence of the Godhead was lavished 
 in the event. No wonder that the sublime enthronement of 
 oe returning Monarch was so widely and fervently celebra- 
 
34: GOD MUST DO THE WORK. 
 
 ted. If Divine justice pursues rebellious man and lays down 
 its sword only at the foot of the Cross, human faith, ever ac- 
 tive, and ever anxious under the agency of the Holy Ghost, 
 wanders through the Universe^ and rests serenely, and securely 
 before the Throne of Jesus m Heaven. 
 
 As a cloud, tha| has. exhausted its treasured waters upon 
 the thirsting Earth, fades from the vision, so Jesus Christ, 
 after ftjlfiHing his earthly mission, passed away from among 
 men, and entered withisi the belavfihly veil. 
 
 Has tbci wintry-time no tokens of coming Spring ? Amid 
 the snows, there stands the green C^Mi^ anid the flourishing 
 Ivy, to announce the approach of a more genial season. The 
 reign of Winter is not complete. So, amid all the adversities 
 of life — the curse, heavy upon all homes and landscapes^— 
 there are Messed pledges of immortality^-^fich foretastes of 
 unending blissfulness. ' i 
 
 I think of Heaven as the home of the heart. Oh, how the 
 heart needs a world for its expansion and solace? The 
 types of Heaven are all in the affections. Its Song^ its favors, 
 its peace, its ptirity, are dimly shadowed forth, in its feelings 
 and aspirations. 
 
 . GOD MUST DO THE WORK. 
 
 The hand of man is top weak to pluck any soul out of the 
 crowd pif the world, and set it among the number of believers. 
 Only, the fa,ther.of spirits hath absplute command, of spirits. 
 This powerful, this sanctifying spirit works sweetly, and yet 
 strongly; it can come into the, hearty whereas allpthpr.speak- 
 ers are forced to stand without. That still voice within, per- 
 suades more than all the loi^ crying without ; as he that is 
 within the, hjouge, though bespeak low, is better heard and 
 uaderstoo,d, than he tlia,t.shp,i,its witho,ut doorsi. ^ 
 
LETTER TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 , BY W. B. SPKAGUE, D, 0., 
 
 You. have lived, long enough, to knfjw that you are ^n a 
 world , pi" . trial. As, this- ^vpi^d. sjirap never intended to be 
 tile Christian's, rest,. but only the place in which he should 
 acquire his jeduca,tion for heavqnjiit is not strange that 
 afftiction in various forms should be inseparable from a 
 residence; in it. Hence, our condition hejre,! while it re-, 
 quires the virtue pf,^cQutp»tOi,ent oxx the one hand, is w?ell 
 adapti^d to c^^ejrishjif; ou tjhie Qthpr. ; ,,, 
 
 There, is ^ qualify .vvshif^h- o|te,^,pas,§!B^ iw the iWorld under 
 th-O; name of cpjatenJl^^^^ntj which i^ nothing more than an 
 indolent , acqjai^^ence in, wJjat we cannot avoid, or are 
 ijft^hljB ,to control, Aqd ^theire is goBftet|hing,:el^e,, which 
 assujjafis this name, which j^ the result of iSfilfTdisqipline, 
 witho^it; any reference to the principles, of thficgiospel. !Elut 
 Chri^ti^n, contentment differs radically from; both of these ; 
 it is tb,at calm state of the soul produced by tjie operation, 
 of the Holy Spirit, in ,'yvhich it cordially a^quiesqes in every 
 part of th,e divine dealings towards us, and; is ejUiabledto 
 say, in the hour of calamity, f Even so, Father, for; so it 
 seemed good in thy sight." , 
 
 I^et me call your a.ttention to some of the various con- 
 sLderation§ drawn from our presemt condition, whi^^.fare 
 fitted to kejep this spirit in exercise., , 
 
 The most superficial view of the world must convince 
 any one that it contains q, vast amount , of suffering. 
 Though the epHiditi*?^^ °^ mankind are greatly varied, they 
 are all more or less strongly marked bythe impressions of 
 wretchedness. If you look through all thfs^anks of society 
 you wijl tind among them all the elements of unha^piness ; 
 you will see sipkness exerting. its; palsying in^flue^ce on the 
 bed of (iown as well as on the couch of straw,; you w;ill 
 see, death stalking as unceremoniously into thg mansiD^. of 
 opulence) as into the cottage of want. Neither riches,, noi 
 honors, nor splendor, nor influence, can confjpr the sl^fidq^v 
 of a claim to an exemption, from, human misery. 
 
d6 LETTER TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 If you will apply this consideration as a means of pro- 
 moting Christian contentment, remember, amidst all your 
 afflictions, that there are many others whose circumstances 
 are probably more distressing than your own. Are you in 
 indigence ? There are many who have poverty, and sick- 
 ness, and bereavement, mingled in the same cup. Are you 
 deprived of health? There are multitudes who are not 
 only sick, but friendless, and forlorn, and destitute. Are 
 you bereaved of some beloved friend? There are those 
 upon whom the hand of Providence has fallen with still 
 more fearful pressure ; who, perhaps, have no friends left, 
 to join them in condolence for those who are departed. 
 Are you providentially confined to your dwelling, and un- 
 able to walk abroad to regale yourself in the sunshine of 
 heaven, or the verdure of spring ? How many are deprived 
 of their natural liberty by the hand of oppression, and com- 
 pelled to submit to the gloomy pressure of chains and 
 manacles, or to the darkness and loathsomeness of a 
 dungeon ? If you are tempted to repine under any of th< 
 dispensations of God's providence, recount the blessing! 
 which you enjoy, and rather ask yourself, "What shall ' 
 render unto the Lord, who so greatly distinguishes me from 
 many of my fellow sufferers ?" 
 
 A contemplation of the sufferings of Christ is also fitted 
 to promote Christian contentment. Of the extent of om 
 Redeemer's sufferings we are unable to form any adequate 
 idea. And yet he suffered not for his own sins. He was 
 wounded for oue transgressions ; he was bruised for oub 
 iniquities. And has Jesus endured so much, and shall we 
 shrink from the comparatively small amount of pain and 
 trial incident to our condition 1 Has he hung on the cross 
 to purchase our redemption, and shall we murmur at those 
 light afflictions which are designed to yield us a harvest of 
 glory? Remember that every feeling of complaint that 
 you cherish against the dispensations of heaven, has in it 
 the elements of ingratitude to Christ. You cannot cherish 
 such a spirit, while you think of the poverty to which he 
 submitted that you might become rich. 
 
LETTEK TO A DATOHTEB. 31 
 
 Our own unworthiness is another consideration that is 
 fitted to cherish a spirit of contentment. He who has any 
 just views of his character as a sinner, cannot but be 
 sensible that every blessing he experiences is the fruit of 
 sovereign grace. If his deserts were to be the standard 
 according to which the divine dealings towards him should 
 be regulated, he would not only suffer the loss of every 
 blessing, but be doomed to a fearful amount of positive evil. 
 How little then does it become a person in these circum- 
 stances to cherish a spirit of complaint ! How unnatural 
 that one who lives on mercy, who has forfeited every favor, 
 and deserves nothing but wrath, should be ready to find 
 fault with his gracious Benefactor if any one of the innu- 
 merable streams of his beneficence should, for a while, be 
 stopped ! If you are ever ready to complain in the day of 
 adversity, recount the blessings which you enjoy, remem- 
 ber that you are a sinner, and as such have forfeited every 
 mercy, and say whether the tone of ungrateful complaint 
 ought not to be changed into the language of resignation, 
 and even gratitude. Recollect, too, that the affiictions of 
 life are part of that discipline by which God prepares his 
 people for heaven. Perhaps there are no circumstances in 
 which the principle of piety gains strength more rapidly 
 than in the rough school of adversity. Why, then, should 
 we shrink from the endurance of trials which are destined 
 to work out for us an exceeding and eternal weight of 
 glory ? Why counteract the means which God uses with 
 us to make us meet for the more perfect enjoyment of, him- 
 self ? We are not required to court adversity, and are for- 
 bidden to rush heedlessly into it ; but when it is sent in the 
 course of providence, it is designed as a salutary and 
 merciful correction j and if we are impatient and restless, 
 instead of being contented and submissive, we not only 
 betray base ingratitude to God, t>ut criminal indifference to 
 our own interests. 
 
 Another consideration fitted to cherish the same spirit, is 
 the brevity of human life. Within this narrow period are 
 included all the sufferings to which the Christian is ever 
 subject. What though the withering hand of sickness may 
 
38 LETTER TO A DAUGHTER. 
 
 be laid upon him ; what though he may find poison infused 
 into the fountain of his most precious eartMy joys ; what 
 though woes may cluster upon woes, and fiothing appear 
 in prospect but the wreck of his fondest hopes ; the period 
 of suffering is hastening to its close ; the storm of adversity 
 may be violent, but it will be short, and it will be succeeded 
 by the calmness of everlasting rest; If then you are tempted 
 to compladn of any of the dispensations of heaven, remem- 
 ber that the scene of trial through which you are passing 
 is too short, and in one sense too unimportant, to warrant 
 a single mufcmur. If you are a disciple of Christ you are 
 too near the threshold of a world of rest, to bfe thus affected 
 -by any of the transient troubles of mortality. ■ 
 
 But the crowning consideration of all, which is adapted 
 to promote 'Christian oontentaient, and which indeedenters 
 essentially into it, is that every event is subject to the ooritrol 
 of an infinitely "wise^nd gracious Providence. What if we 
 are not able to see clearly the en»d of all God's ■delalings 
 with us ; is it not enough for us to know that all his pur- 
 poses, however veiled in darkness, are wise and inercifnl ? 
 If the l&ooght, that evety pain ahd trouble which yoil feel 
 is inffictfed upon you by a Father who knows all your 
 necessities, is tiot sdfflcient to hush the voice of complaint, 
 I know of no consideration that Would be likely to produce 
 that effect. 
 
 Among the positive adYantages to be derived from the 
 cultivation of Christian . contentment, I may mention that 
 it diminishes thte "pi-eseuvetof those evils which are unavoid- 
 able. STo one is so ill prepared to meet the trials of life as 
 he whose Blind has iiever been disciplined to endure therti 
 ■With fortitude and contentment. Without this tehviable 
 trait, the loftiest individual in- society, the man tt-ho is 
 favored I vi^ith the grfefetest br6p(irti6n 6f this means of enjoy- 
 ment, is liable, by the iflost ''ti-fflihg"eircumSta:noes, to be 
 rendered far less happy than the poorest beggar that Walks 
 the streets. On the othef hand,' with Christian content- 
 ment, the most overwhfelming evils are still supportable ; 
 and while the heart is throbbing under the severest strokes 
 
LETTER TO A DAUGHTER. 39 
 
 of Providence the countenance is often illumed by the smile 
 of peace and joy. Who has not beheld poverty so soften- 
 ed by contentment, that*it Seemed like an enviable portion ? 
 Who, I had almost saifl, Kasjibt vi^itnessed the triumph of this 
 heavenly virtue, when to tte inconveniences of poverty 
 were added the horrors. of death ? And if you have eyer 
 witnessed this delightful exhibition of Christian content- 
 ment in scenes so interesting,^ave you not felt that you 
 could almost consent to 'have all your connections with the 
 world broken, and lie down on that bed of death, if you 
 could breathe out your life in such a contented and holy 
 frame. ^ 
 
 Besides, this spirit contributes much to the happiness of 
 those with whom we are providentially associateiL 
 Hardly any thing more entirely unfits a person for socitil 
 life than an irritable and complaining temjjer. You cannot 
 be happy in the'company of a person who is always murmur- 
 ing if every thing does not. exactlycorrespond with his wishes. 
 And while such a; spirit carries unkappiness, into every cii'- 
 cle, a spirit of conlentmentj on the other hand, uniformly 
 operates to gain the contidence, to secure the affection, and 
 to promote .the happiness of those around us. 
 
 And, moreover, Christian coHtentment is litted.to extend 
 our means, of- doing good. To say nothing of the bad ift- 
 fluence which a ^iscon^ented-spirit must necessarily exert 
 by way of example, it is certain that nothing unfits one 
 more entirely than this for the , discharge of duty. On the 
 other hand, he who £as learned lb contract his wishes 
 within the sphere that Providence haS jnarked-oul, and who 
 can march with a, steady step. an,d a. contented soul through 
 the various ills of life, while his example cannot fail to be 
 delightfully attractive, is niost„ happily prepated for a reso- 
 lute and vigorous discharge of' duty. If, theor you. would 
 serve vour generation and your God with the greatest ac- 
 tivity and fidelity ; if jou would avoid the mostoncomfart- 
 able nmdrances 1o the discharge of your duty, and exert 
 the K«)st happy influence on all around you. I would say, 
 cultivaJLe a spirit of pious contentment. 
 
EVENING. 
 
 1. God of eve-ning and of mom-ing, Great source of all, 
 While our breasts with love are burning, Fiostrata vc £ilL 
 
 J L ■ ■ 
 
 S^ 
 
 '^ 
 
 X 
 
 m 
 
 I I 
 
 2. Object of our soul's devotion. Thee we a - ■ dore, 
 Fill OUT hearts with sweet emotion, This sacred hour. 
 
 
 ^E^^^^r 
 
 ! I ! rf 
 
 ^m 
 
 I ' r 
 
 T~'y~# 
 
 ? 
 
 "' — I ' :\ ' r 
 
 Now thy sacred throne addressing, And our follies all confessing, 
 
 , I > I J I I I I I 
 
 -41 J' S"'rj 'J J ~g~ 
 
 Jesus, master, thou art worthy, All the heavenly hosts adore thee. 
 
 tinf=t=f=i 
 
 e^£PS 
 
 ^ 
 
 I i 'I I ~i — r 
 
 5-i= 
 
 ,1111 I I I I 
 
 We en-treat a Fa - ther*s blessing. Lord hear our caU. 
 
 I I I 
 
 #W^J44Ji 
 
 iaints shall cast their crowns before thee, Now and evermore, 
 
 \ 
 
 ^M 
 
 15t- 
 
 ^ 
 
 i 
 
's?*^ 
 
 -. .#' 
 
 t \ k ""Ab >VW t^' '*' 
 
 ■«4C ^^*" 
 
 
 SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 THE SYRIAN GOAT. 
 
 Levit. xvi. 22. "And he shall let go the goat in the wil- 
 derness." — There are various names given to goats in the 
 Old Testament. A common name is ez, signifying strength ; 
 another is AZiiZEL, signifying the scape-goat ; a third is 
 sEERiM, " the shaggy or hairy ones." This last name is most 
 applicable to the Syrian goat, generally known to the an- 
 cient Jews, and employed in sacrifice. 
 
 The goat is a quadruped of the gregarious, or flock kind, 
 resembling the sheep in size ; its horns hollow, rather erect 
 and bending a little backward. It is covered with hair, 
 pale and dun in its colour, which in Eastern countries is 
 spnn into cloth. It was of cloth of this kind the ancient 
 coverings of the tabernacle were made, Goats are noted 
 for their long beard, which gives tliem an appearance ex- 
 
44 THE SYRIAN GOAT 
 
 ceedingly venerable. They feed on an immense variety of 
 herbs ; even poisonous herbs, which are destructive to 
 others, are wholesome to them. Their milk is considered 
 healthy and medicinal. They can run on sides of rocks, 
 and with the greatest ease can leap from one rock to 
 another. They feed on the tops of hills and among rugged 
 rocks, in preference to valleys and plains of the richest lux* 
 uriance. They find sufficient nourishment in heathy, bar- 
 ren, and uncultivated ground, and carefully avoid moist 
 places, marshy meadows, and rich pastures. 
 
 The Syrian goat may be regarded as an elegant variety 
 of the more common species. It is remarkable for its pen- 
 dulous ears, which are often one foot in length, Their hair 
 is remarkable f^pr its length, its fineness, and glossy appear- 
 ance. This species is exceedingly useful for the quantity 
 and excellence of their milk, being sweet and most agree- 
 able to the taste. This we find alluded to in Proverbs ; 
 " And thou shalt have goat's milk enough for thy food, the 
 food of thy household and the maintenance of thy maid- 
 ens." The hair of this species of goat has b«en long a con- 
 siderable article of trade and manufacture. European 
 nations have had agents employed for ages in Turkey, for 
 the purchase of the wool of these animals. The most con- 
 siderable manufacture of camlets fabricated with this wool 
 in Europe is carried on at Lille, and Amicus, in French 
 Flanders. 
 
 The most remarkable use of the goat in the Levitical 
 law, was oh the fast of atonement, when the one was sacri- 
 ficed, and the other conducted to the wilderness and let 
 loose, therefore called the scape-goat. The one represent- 
 mg the HUMAN nature of Christ which died, and the other 
 the DIVINE, by which he lived and conquered death. 
 
 Nothing can impair perfect friendship, because truth is 
 the only bond of it. 
 
FEMALE EDUCATION. 
 
 BY MRS. A. B. WHELPLEY. 
 
 Female Education is a subject, upon which much hajs 
 been written and various opinions advanced, concerning the 
 proper mode of conducting it, so that not much that is new 
 can be expected. Of its immense importance, it is unneces- 
 sary at this late period to speak, for it is almost universally 
 admitted. There is, however, one great advantage in con- 
 tinuing to write upon it; as it serves to keep the subject 
 before the mind. 
 
 It is an important truth, although little impressed upon 
 the minds of people in general, that the commencement of 
 education is not the period when a child begins to go to 
 school, but it is with the earliest dawn of reason and intelli- 
 gence in the nursery, either with the nurse or the mother. 
 
 The moral character, that most important part of the intel- 
 ligent nature, is obviously the first which comes under the 
 force and power of instruction by that most influential of all 
 means, viz., example. And can mothers who are fully sen- 
 sible of this truth, be contented to place their children under 
 the sole superintendence and instruction of a servant, scarcely 
 ever themselves looking after them, except to see how they 
 are improving in personal beauty, that qualify which from 
 their cradles is generally regarded as the main thing to be 
 cultivated and cherished ? How little do mothers who thus 
 neglect their children, consider the nature and powers of that 
 noble structure, the mind. It is a system as perfect in all 
 its parts as the physical structure, and the inflnenre of i 
 
46 
 
 FEMALE EDUCATION. 
 
 well or ill cultivated mind, will be felt long after the attrao 
 tions of personal beauty are forgotten. --^ . 
 
 The proper individual, the one whom nature evidently 
 appoints to train the opening mind and form it on the prin- 
 ciples of virtue, is the mother. It is her care to plant the 
 seeds of virtue and knowledge, watch their germination, and 
 as they come forth and bud, to weed and nourish, prop and 
 protect the growing plants. The foundations of the moral 
 character are laid in the earliest impressions. In after years 
 the child who has experienced all the benefits of a careful 
 and judicious training, from earliest infancy, will remembsr 
 with lively emotions of gratitude, and richly repay the care 
 and pains taken to improve the understanding and character. 
 How sweet amid the recollections of childhood will be that 
 of a mother's voice, connected with instructions and impres- 
 sions never to be forgotten ; and as imagination wanders far 
 back amid the mazes of the past, it will seem as though the 
 notes of some familiar evening hymn once more rose upon 
 the ear, so often heard in childhood's happy hours. 
 
 In order that mothers may be qualified to teach their chil- 
 dren, how necessary is a knowledge of the human mind. 
 The mother who feels the responsibility devolving upon her 
 of training an -immortal being, will not think that it costs too 
 much labor to spend a small portion of her time in those 
 studies which directly tend to the promotion of this object. 
 A knowledge of the mere outlines of Mor^I and Intellectual 
 Philosophy will teach her what judgment to form of the 
 nature and wants of the huinan mind, and of the various 
 characters and dispositions of her children ; how to act upon 
 and influence them, how to discipline and govern them; and 
 a spare hour, now and then, bestowed on these studies will 
 richly repay h^ in their beneficial results. 
 
 Would mothers consider that they are educating their 
 daughters to fill important stations in society, and exert an 
 influence, perhaps an extensive one in the world, that the 
 characters they are forming are destined to influence remote 
 generations, how different would, be the general plan from 
 
FEMALE EDUCATION. 4^ 
 
 what is. If they took a proper view of the matter, how 
 would they improve every opportunity to convey some -salu- 
 tary lesson, and early and late, labor to form regular and 
 systematic habits. What pains they would take to discipline 
 the mind, and store the memory with wholesome precepts, 
 and useful knowledge. But some mother may say, I have 
 never myself had these or any advantages of education ; my 
 own mind is not disciplined, or stored with knowledge, I 
 have never formed a taste for reading, or cultivated habits 
 of thought and reflection ; how then can I do these things 
 for my children. For the encouragement of such we give 
 the illustrious example of the mother of a distinguished 
 Bishop in the Episcopal Church of the United States. 
 
 The mother of Bishop W . was a woman of good 
 
 natural abilities, but had not enjoyed the advantages of a 
 thorough education. Thirty years ago female education 
 was but little thought of, and mental accomplishments and 
 scientific acquirements were but little expected ; or confined 
 
 to a particular class of society. Mrs. W . being very 
 
 desirous to educate her promising son, felt as though there 
 was a special call for personal efibrt, consequently she 
 applied herself to the work of preparation, and coinmenced 
 teaching him herself. First taking up a Latin Grammar, 
 she studied its rudiments, and keeping herself a lesson in 
 advance, carried him through it. She then commenced the 
 Greek Grammar and did the same, then she carried herself 
 and him through a succession of aiiihbrs in both languages. 
 She then took up the Hebrew and Mathematics, and contin- 
 ued this course until she had entirely fitted him for the The- 
 ological Seminary : at which he in due time, graduated with 
 high honor, and subsequently became a distinguished Pro- 
 fessor in it ; and now in the ripe ^'■ears of manhood, he shines 
 as a bright luminary in the Church of God, filling one of its 
 highest oflices, and standing like Samuel, in the Holy Sanc- 
 tuary, as it were, an offering from his mother. Long after- 
 wards she educated another son for the. ministry : but mark 
 the advantage she had gained when she commenced with 
 
48 FKM.\y,F, EDC'ATTnX. 
 
 the second one. She was now an educated woman, she had 
 not only educated her eldest son, but in so doing had 
 educated herself. Can ony woman after this bright example 
 excuse herself from cultivating her mind upon the plea of 
 want of early advantages ? And will any one attempt to 
 ridicule the idea of a mother preparing a son for the ministry? 
 Every one must acknowledge that where a mother was so 
 devoted in her affections, as thus to put forth all her energies 
 for the good of a child, it must be education worth having. 
 
 How many examples worthy of imitation, does history 
 present us of females distinguished for their learning, for the 
 cultivation and discipline of their minds. Let the contem- 
 plation of these illustrious characters be a lesson for mothers 
 of the present age, and an incentive to their ambition in 
 educating their daughters. Mothers, let the idea be ever 
 present to your minds, that in your daughters you are edu- 
 cating mothers, and that it falls to your lot not only to culti- 
 vate those attractive graces so beautiful in the sex, but to 
 awaken all the dormant energies of the mind, and put them 
 to their proper use; in this way you will transmit your 
 names with greater honor to posterity, than as though you 
 had reigned supreme in the circles of fashion, or had in- 
 herited your ten thousand a year. Beauty has no posthu- 
 mous fame ; it is only remembered as the flash of a meteor, 
 that struck the eye as it passed, while the influence of a cul- 
 tivated mind will extend beyond our remotest conceptions. 
 Teach then your daughters that they must not depend upon 
 their rank and stations to give them dignity, but by their 
 virtues, graces and intelligence, endeavor to qualify them- 
 selves to invest whatever stations they may occupy in life 
 with dignity, 
 
 Look at the women who have influenced the character 
 and destiny of nations by the power of commanding intel- 
 lects. Take a distinguished example from antiquity. Ze- 
 nobia, Q,ueen of Palmyra, who reigned in the third century, 
 was distinguished for h<M surpassing gotiiu? and HpRnty 
 Tlirt hist|Oriati Gihhnn says. ■'' Hei manly umJeisratitiiiit whs 
 
FEMALE EDUCATION. 49 
 
 Strengthened and adorned by study ; she was not ignorant 
 of the Latin tongue, but possessed in equal perfection the 
 Greek, the Syriac, and Egyptian languages. She had drawn 
 up for her own use an Epitome of Oriental History, and fa- 
 miliarly compared the beauties of Homer and Plato, under 
 the tuition of the sublime Longinus." The success of her 
 husband Odenathus, who rose from a private station to the 
 dominion of the east, was in a great measure ascribed to her ; 
 and her own administration after his death, was conducted 
 on plans of the wisest policy. Zenobia lived too in an age 
 when woman was scarcely considered anything mote than a 
 servant of man. 
 
 The Emperor Aurelian, in an original letter says of her. 
 " The Roman people speak with contempt of the war 1 am 
 waging with a woman, they are ignorant both of the charac- 
 ter and power of Zenobia." 
 
 When we read of such characters as Hypatia, the daugh- 
 ter of Theon, an Alexandrian who lived in the fourth cen- 
 tury, we cannot help asking the question Why we do not see 
 such women in these days. Hypatia gave early indications 
 of a superior intellect. Her thirst after knowledge became 
 almost unsatiable, and the whole of her days^ with part of 
 her nights, were spent in intense application. She went 
 through the whole circle of the Mathematics in a short time, 
 embracing Algebra, Geometry, Music, and Astronomy. She 
 then took up Metaphysics; and studied the doctrines of 
 Socrates, Plato, and Aristotle. After having exhausted all 
 the resources afforded her in her native city, she went to 
 Athens in pursuit of further knowledge, and attended the 
 schools of some of the most celebrated Philosophers. Upon 
 her return she taught publicly in the school where Plotinus 
 and his followers had taught, at the earnest solicitation of the 
 magistrates, who felt that her genius would shed lustre upon 
 her native city. Her labors were attended with great' suc- 
 cess, and her fame spread through all countries. She wrote 
 several works, but they were destroyed in the flames of the 
 Alexandrian library. 
 
50 FEMALE EDUCATION. 
 
 To descend to more modern times, Elizabeth Queen of 
 England, presents us with a distinguished example of a 
 mind naturally great, rising above the vicissitudes of fortune, 
 to which she was in early life subject. In the solitude and 
 confinement of a prison, as a resource from sorrow, she cul- 
 tivated that taste for study and literature, for which.she ever 
 had a fondness, and which led her. to become a patroness of 
 the sciences and liberal arts. After becoming dueen, her 
 example extended that era of learning among the women of 
 her age, which had before been begun. Her reign was the 
 most remarkable period in English History for its great men, 
 its poets, its statesmen and scholars. Learning was the 
 fashion, for it could scarcely be otherwise, when a sovereign 
 of whom they were so proud, and that sovereign a wo- 
 man, set the example. Women of rank were emulous to 
 follow her example, and men of course felt as though they 
 must keep in advance of women. Among the women who 
 rendered themselves eminent by their acquirements, and the 
 cultivation of their talents in that age, though at a somewhat 
 previous period to the reign of Elizabeth, were the daughters 
 of Sir Anthony Cooke. One of them was the mother of Sir 
 Francis Bacon, the great luminary of his age. Sir Anthony 
 had paid great attention to the education of his daughters. 
 Their classical attainments rendered them conspicuous even 
 among the women of that time. Katharine,: Lady Killigrew, 
 wrote Latin Hexameters. Mildred, the wife of'Lord Burleigh, 
 was said by Roger Ascham, to be the best Greek scholar 
 among the women of England, with the. exception of Lady 
 Jane Grey; Anne, the mother of Francis Bacon, was distin- 
 guished both as a Linguist and Theologian. 
 
 As an illustration of the mental power of woman when 
 thrown upon her own resources, we would mention the case 
 of Madaine Guipn, who was a close prisoner in the Bastile, 
 and other I^rench prisons about ten years. She employed 
 herself mostly in writing during the whole period. Debarred 
 from all communication with the world without, she resorted 
 for solace and enjoyment, to the ever living active powei 
 
FEMALE EDUCATION. yl 
 
 within, and she wrote her life, and several volumes of poems 
 besides other works. 
 
 The defect in the education of females at the present day, 
 is not that there is not a sufficient number of studies in their 
 course of instruction ; but they are either not such as are cal- 
 culated to make them think, or thinking is no part of the 
 duty required of them. It is not the amount that is studied 
 or read that improves the mind, it is the amount of thought 
 with which they are accompanied. But as things now are, 
 the young have not much encouragement to think even had 
 they the inclination, which as is well known, is not often 
 the case ; for the generality of fashionable mothers appreci- 
 ate the value of mental discipline so little, that should they 
 see their daughters 'becoming fond of study, and inclined to 
 close mental application, they would be frightened, and 
 think that they were becoming moping, melancholy, or per- 
 haps religious ; or that their health must be declining : and 
 they begin to look around for something to amuse them. 
 Their great fear is that the daughter is going to be unfitted 
 in some way to make a figure in society, and the tender 
 inother takes her at once from school, from books, and from 
 study, and introduces her into fashionable life. Her object 
 is gained. Sober thought is ended ; the relish for books is 
 gone ; and the mother is again at ease : for her only aim is, 
 that by superficial accomplishments and beauty, her daugh- 
 ter may make such a match, as shall enable her to shine in 
 the world in all the tinsel and glitter of outwaTd show, con- 
 sequently her whole attention is directed to the cultivation 
 of these all important qualifications. There is probably, 
 many a inother in the fashionable walks of society, who 
 would rather lay a daughter in her grave in infancy, than to 
 have her grow up without teauty, and without being accom- 
 plished in the art of pleading. 
 
 Our prayer and. God's mercy are like two buckets in a 
 well ; while the one ascends the other descends. 
 
POLITENESS. 
 
 BY MRS,. L . M . CHILD. 
 
 It is a graceful habit for children to say to each other 
 " Will you have the goodness" — and, "I thank you." 1 
 do not like to see prim, artificial children ; there are few 
 things I dislike so much as a miniature beau, or belle. 
 But the habit of good manners by no means implies affecta- 
 tion, or restraint. It is quite as easy to say, " Please give 
 me a piece of pie," as to say, " I wrant a piece of pie." 
 
 The idea that constant politeness would render social 
 life too stiff and restrained, springs from a false estimate 
 of politeness. True politeness is perfect ease and freedom. 
 It simply consists in treating others just as you love to be 
 treated yourself. A person who acts from this principle 
 will always he said to have " sweet pretty ways with her." 
 It is of some consequence that your daughter should know 
 how to enter and leave a room gracefully ; but it is of 
 vastly more consequence that she should be in the habit 
 of avoiding whatever is disgusting or offensive to others, 
 and of always preferring their pleasure to her own. If 
 she has the last, a very little intercourse with the world 
 will teach her the first. 
 
 I believe nothing tends to make people so awkward as 
 too much anxiety to please others. Nature is graceful ; 
 and affectation with all her art, can never produce any 
 thing half so pleasing. The very perfection of elegance 
 is to imitate nature as closely as possible ; and how much 
 better is it to have the reality than the imitation ! I shall 
 probably be reminded that the best and most unaffected peo- 
 ple are often constrained and awkward in company to 
 which they are unaccustomed. I answer, the reason is, they 
 do not act themselves ; they , are afraid they shall not dp 
 right, and that very fear makes them do wrong. Anxiety 
 about the opinion of others fetters the freedom of nature. 
 
POLITENESS. 531 
 
 At home, where they act from within themselves, they 
 woiild appear a thousand times better. All would appear 
 well, if they never tried to assume what they do not pos- 
 sess. Every one is respectable and pleasing so long as 
 he is perfectly natural. I will make no exception —nature 
 is ALWAYS graceful. The most secluded and the most ig- 
 norant have some charm about them, so long as they af- 
 fect nothing ; so long as they speak and act from the im- 
 pulse of their own honest hearts, without any anxiety 
 what others think of it. 
 
 Coarseness and vulgarity are the effect of education and 
 habit ; they cannot be charged upon nature. True polite- 
 ness may be cherished in the hovel as well as in the palace ; 
 and the most tattered drapery cannot conceal its winning 
 charms. 
 
 As far as consistent with your situation and duties, 
 early accustom your children to an intercourse with 
 strangers. I have seen young persons who were respect- 
 ful and polite at home, seized with a most painful and un- 
 becoming bashfulness as soon as a guest entered. To 
 avoid this evil, allow children to accompany you as often 
 as possible, when you make calls and social visits. Occa- 
 sional interviews with intelligent and cultivated individu- 
 als have a great influence on character and manners, par 
 ticularly.if parents evidently place a high value upon ac 
 quaintances of that description. I have known the destiny 
 of a whole family greatly changed for the better, by the 
 intercourse of one of its members with a person of supe- 
 rior advantages and correct principles. 
 
 The foregoing pithy remarks of Mrs. Child, cannot fail 
 to strike every reflecting person as just and highly impor- 
 tant, and we can but hope they will arrest the attention, 
 particularly of our youthful readers, and be of great ser- 
 vice to them. To sensible and well-bred persons, nothing 
 is more disgusting and annoying, than affectation in man- 
 ners. We mean pretty affected airs — mincing — lispingj~fre- 
 quent bowings and scrapings, tossings of the head an(rcon- 
 
54 - P0I.ITEXE3S. 
 
 tortions of the body, abundance of jestures, and shiowers of 
 compliments, with every variety of intonations of voice, and 
 ravishing looks. These often, if not always, evince a shal- 
 low brain and hollow heart, and display glaring defects in 
 education. They resemble more the antics of a monkey 
 than the dignified and graceful niovements of an intelligent 
 and refined creature. The full-blown dandy, and the dash- 
 ing fashionable belle, resemble more the ass in the lion's 
 skin.or the monkey in regimentals, than the well-bred, ac- 
 complished gentleman and lady. Such affectation as we 
 have characterised, is destructive of all true dignity of char- 
 acter and renders those who practice it, to the last degree, 
 ridiculous. The young, therefore, should studiously guard 
 against the least tendency to this error, and follow the 
 teachings of unsophisticated nature. 
 
 We affectionately exhort the young to shun the very 
 appearance of affectation. As you cannot add perfume 
 to the rose, -beauty to the bird of paradise, nor melody to 
 the song of the nightingale, so neither can you add 
 beauty or dignity to your, characters by such silly artifices. 
 See, then, that you do not depart from the simplicity and 
 beauty of nature. In manners take your models from na- 
 ture, not from the coquet, or the dancing-master. No 
 where have we seen such natural ease and dignity of 
 manners, as among those children of nature, the untutored 
 savages of the forest. The appeai-ance and manners of 
 their chiefs and head men have been the subject of uni- 
 versal admiration. Their whole carriage, erect posture, 
 and dignified gait, their unaffected tones of voice, easy 
 and graceful movements and majestic mein, transcend in 
 true dignity and beauty of character and manners the 
 artificial gentleman and the fantastic fop, as much as the 
 works of nature do the most ingenious contrivances of art. 
 Let, then, the ycuing study ease and simplicity of manners, 
 and they will not fail to be graceful and agreeable. 
 
ASCENT TO THE TOP OP ST. PETER'S AT ROME. 
 I 
 
 BTAKECENT TOITKIST. 
 
 You will stare when I tell you that a broad paved road 
 leads up to the top of St. Peter's Church ; not, perhaps 
 practicable for carriages, from its winding nature, but so 
 PYcellent a bridle road that there is a continual passage 
 of horses and mules upon it, which go up laden with stones 
 and lime ; and the ascent is so gentle, and the road so 
 good, that any body might ride up and down with perfect 
 safety. 
 
 I reached the robf at last, which seems like a city in itself. 
 Small houses, and ranges of work-shops for the laborers 
 employed in the never-ending repa;irs of the church, are 
 built here, and are lost upon this immense leaden plain, as 
 well as the eighteen cupolas of the side chapels of the 
 church, which are not distinguishable from below. 
 
 Though only comparatively* small, how dijinihutive do 
 they seem compared to that stupendous dome, the triumph- 
 of modern architecture, in which is fulfilled the proud 
 boast of Michael Angelo, that he would lift the vault of 
 the Pantheon, and hang it in the air ! It is exactly of the 
 same magnitude. Its beautiful proportions and finished 
 grandeur, towering into heaven, can be fully seen. 
 
 We then commenced the ascent of the great dome by a 
 succession of staircases, ingeniously contrived, and from 
 which passages led out both upon its internal and external 
 galleries. 
 
 One of the former, like the whispering gallery of St. 
 Paul's — as if to verify the proverb that walls have ears, — 
 carries round a sound inaudible to the nearest bystander, 
 clear and distinct to a listener on the opposite side of its 
 vast circumference. 
 
 We began to have some idea of the immense height we 
 had already gained. The mosaic figures of the saints and 
 apostles, emblazoned on the vaulted roof, were now so near 
 as to stare upon us in all their gigantic proportions, and 
 
5(5 ASCENT TO THE TOP OF ST. PETEr's AT ROME. 
 
 from the highest gallery we looked down in the fearful 
 depth of the church below upon the minute forms of the 
 human beings, who, like emmets, were creeping about in it. 
 
 In the course of our progress, we walked round the ex- 
 ternal cornice of the dome, which is so broad that, though 
 there is no fence round its edge, three or four persons might 
 walk abreast with perfect safety. 
 
 At last, by flights of very narrow stairs, and long bending 
 passiages, sloping inward to suit the inclination of the 
 rapidly narrowing curve, we reached the summit of that 
 astonishing dome, to which we had so often looked with 
 admiration from below ; and perched at a height above the 
 flight of the fowls of heaven, we enjoyed the far extended 
 and interesting prospect, over mountain, flood, and plain. 
 
 The beautiful amphitheatre of hills which encloses the 
 Campagna, stretching round the blue horizon on three sides ; 
 the pointed summit of the loftier Appenines behind which 
 alone were wreathed with snow — as if Winter had enthro- 
 ned himself there, looking sullenly down on the plains and 
 verdant hills not subject to his sway ; the Tiber, in its long 
 sinuous windings through the waste — like a snake coiled 
 up in the desert, betrayed by its glistening surface ; far 
 beyond it, the desolate spot where Ostia once stood, and 
 where the blue waters of thie Mediterranean were now 
 gleaming in the sunbeams ; Rome at our feet ; her church- 
 es, her palaces, her dark and distant ruins ; the rich ver- 
 dure and golden fruit of the orange gardens of her convents, 
 far beneath us, contrasting with the deep shade of their 
 mournful cypresses ; such as this — fanned with the pure 
 fresh-blowing gale, as mild and soft as the breath of sum- 
 mer, that delighted every sense, and canopied by that slear 
 blue sky of ethereal brightness and beauty, that words can 
 never paint — would surely awaken some admiration even 
 in the coldest heart ! 
 
 We enjoyed it in perfect security, the top of the dome 
 being surrounded by a railing, which is undiscernible from 
 below. We were at the base of the ball which surmounts 
 
> ASCENT TO THE TOP OF ST. PETEr's AT ROMS. 57 
 
 the dome, and forms its upper ornament, and certainly had 
 no wish to emulate the adventurous French lady, recorded 
 by Eustace, who climbed to the top of it ; but unfortunately 
 for our peace, we had in our party a naval officer, who 
 clambered up the serial-looking ladder that is fixed round it, 
 with as much ease as he would have run up the shrouds of 
 a man-of-war, and not satisfied with this exploit, contrived 
 by some extraordinary process, to hoist himself up the 
 smooth polished sides of the metallic cross, and actually 
 seated himself upon its horizontal bar ! 
 
 For his safety we entertained no fears. He had been 
 rocked on the giddy masts, and cradled in the storm ; but 
 we trembled to see his example followed by almost all the 
 gentlemen who were with us ; not that there was any thing 
 whatever to be gained or seen by it, but that they would not. 
 on any account be outdone ; and then there was the future 
 dear delight of boasting that they had stood on the top of 
 the ball of St. Eeter's-*— cheaply purchased at the risk of 
 breaking their necks. 
 
 Although the ball looks from below no larger than an 
 apple, it can contain in the inside about eighteen people ; 
 and we calculated that even more might be packed in it — 
 if they did not suffocate. 
 
 It is impossible to form any idea of the immensity of St. 
 Peter's, without going to the top. 
 
 The long winding paved road that ascends to the leads, 
 as if to the summit of a mountain ; the amazing extent of 
 roof ;* the vast scale on which every thing is constructed; 
 the endless height to which you afterward climb by stair- 
 cases and ascending passages to the top of the dome, from 
 which, as if from heaven you look down on the earth, 
 scarcely able to discern the human beings u^jon its surface ; 
 all this, indeed, may give you some idea of its stupendous 
 size, which, from below, you can never conceive. 
 
THE DAHLIA. 
 
 " Though sever'd from its native clime, 
 
 Where skies are ever bright and clear, 
 And nature's face is all sublime. 
 
 And beauty clothes the fragrant air. 
 
 The Dahlia will each glory wear, 
 With tints as bright and leaves as green," 
 As on its open plains are seen. 
 
 And when the harvest fields are bare. 
 She in the sun's autumnal "ray, 
 With blossoms decks the brow of day." 
 
 About ten j'ears before the close of the last century, this 
 favorite flower was sent from Mexico to Spain, and a few^ 
 specimens were procured, in the year of its importation to 
 that country, from Madrid, by the then Lady Bute, but 
 through some mismanagement the species was lost, until 
 Lady Holland obtained seed from the same city in 1804; 
 while in 1802, another species, Dahlia coccinea, had been 
 brought from Mexico through France ; neither the latter, 
 nor the former, Dahlia frustranea, seem however to have 
 attracted much attention amongst the floricultural world ; 
 and it was not until 1815, that it became an object of the 
 professed florist's care, when a supply was obtained from 
 France, where its cultivation had already been carried to 
 some extent ; since which period an indefinite number of 
 varieties has been procured by the persevering ingenuity 
 of the florist, and a monomania for this flower existed for 
 many years unsurpassed in inveteracy, save by the extra- 
 ordinary Tulipomania of the seventeenth century. This 
 has in some degree subsided, and the Dahlia is taking its 
 proper rank as a deservedly esteemed flower, blooming at 
 a season of the year when the number of flowering plants 
 in the open garden is very limited. 
 
WEIR'S GREAT PICTURE AT WASHINGTON. 
 
 BY REV. J. 'ii. DANFOKTH. 
 
 Among ,the beatitiful works of art, at the Capitol of oux 
 country, is the painting of the Embarcation of the Pilgrims, 
 by Weir. Among the mertiberS of this illustrious family 
 groupe are conspicuous th'e forms of Mr. and Mrs. Fuller, 
 a name well known amOng the- Puritans. The husband 
 and wife did not emigrate at the same time. They are re- 
 presented in the attitude of bidding' a mutual farewefl ; her 
 head reclining, in all the intensity of woman's , love, on the 
 shoulder of her husband. His own manly spirit seems to 
 struggle with emotion, artiid this their last interview in 
 their native land. What an archetype of future domestic 
 scenes, in aggressive, diffusive New-England ! Many fare- 
 wells have been said in her pious families, whence her sons 
 and daughters have gone' to pray, and weep, and; plead 
 with the djring heathen, in distant parts' of the world, and 
 amid the habitations of cruelty ; aiid many more are yet to 
 be Said, before the splendid predictions of the inspired vo- 
 lume can be fulfilled. But God will raise them up, touch 
 their hearts, and train them for this noble service. Instead 
 of the mothers shall be the daughtbrs. ... 
 
 In the foreground of .the pictures, ^.neel reverently two 
 forms, a man and yv9inan, ■vy:ho, during the prayer of Pas- 
 tor Robinson,, seem lost -in; the spirit of deyotion. They 
 represent Mr. and Mrs.- White, .a]nq|her i]ja,j:ne widely dif- 
 fused in our country. Mr. White di^d, in thr^e mpnths after 
 his arrival on the ,then dreary j^^rf s ; of Jf e.vir-England. 
 He was the father of the first- born J^^ew-England child — 
 Peregrine White. Peregrine denpting pilgrim, wasbestowedv 
 in the spirit of the ancient ll^ibrew, who would be certain 
 to attach one permanent thought to his child. ; Nothing 
 can be finer than thjs conception, of making the name & 
 4 
 
60 
 
 WElK'd GREAT PIOTUBE AT WASHINGTON. 
 
 MEMCRiAL. In this case it had a more expanded meaning', 
 for, indeed, they were all pilgrims and strangers, in a 
 strange land. Thi§ child, like Isaac the son of Abraham, 
 became himself a patriarch, and died at the goad old age 
 of 84, at Marshfield. This was in 1704 — in the last cen- 
 tury. We now number eighteen millions of people. Is it 
 not a family of unparalleled growth 1 • No glare of military 
 fame surrounds i the name of White. It has a truer glory, 
 of belonging to one who was among the peaceful founders 
 of a great republic. In a good old age, his " eye was not 
 dim, nor his natural force abated." 
 
 But among the most graceful and attractive figures in 
 this assemblage, are those of Edwakd Winslow and his 
 wife. They seem the creations of romance. They are a 
 young and recently wedded couple, apparently little fitted 
 for that arduous and perilous undertaking ; in which, how- 
 ever, they are resolved to participate, come what may. 
 What can wealth and beauty avail them, amid the storms 
 of the angry seas — ^the wearying length of a sea voyage, 
 as it then was — ^the thousand dangers that must surround 
 them — the certain sickness that will sweep through their 
 little circle ? And yet, there they stand, side by^ide. Be- 
 hold those bright and youthful countenances. Thomson 
 would have said : 
 
 " Her's the mild lustre of the blooming morn, 
 And his the radiance of the risen d^y." 
 
 'Can that delicate creature fulfil sucK a task ? Will not her 
 ■gentle spirit be crushed beneath the weight of coming ills ? 
 'Oh, the heart of woman ! Who hath sounded its depths ? 
 'How often has the failing heart of the desponding husband 
 'been revived and re-assured by the wife, whose constancy 
 (is like the perennial spring ; in whom hope never falters ; 
 in vilhose devoted bosom love never grows cold. How 
 often did those puritan mothers cheer the hearts of the 
 brave men, with whom their destiny was inseparably in- 
 termingled ! In looking at such a mother, one cannot but 
 think of the benediction pronounced on the lovelyRebekah, 
 
weir's great picture at WASnlNGTON. 61 
 
 the plighted bride of the son of Abraham, as she was about 
 to leave her native land, to be the wife of him who had so 
 long been the child of promise and of prayer. " And they 
 blessed Rebekah, and said unto her ; Thou art our sister 
 be thou the mother of thousands of millions ; and let thy 
 seed possess the gate of those who hate them." Twice did 
 the Speedwell spring aleak, and return to port, but they did 
 not abandon the enterprize ! They were a predestined 
 company. They had a high mission on earth. They were 
 to establish an empire beyond the Atlantic wave, beneath 
 the occidental sun ; whose restless Energies would never 
 cease till they had scaled the rocky mountains, and been 
 arrested by the waters of the Pacific. Aye, not the Pacific 
 shore has bounded the benevolent enterprize of New Eng- 
 land men and women ; for amid the far distant isles that 
 gem her bosom, they have planted the standard of the cross, 
 and regenerated multitudes rally around it. 
 
 The last figures to be noticed, are those of Captain Mile^ 
 Standish and his wife Rose, Here, side by side, are 
 strength and weakness, valor and beauty. Here is the sol- 
 dier of the colony and the soldier's bride. The lovely Rose 
 attracts all eyes and charms all hearts. Whatever in wo- 
 man is tender and beautiful — whatever is fitted to excite 
 the imagination, or awaken the sensibility, the painter has 
 seized, and transferred to the canvass. The small and de- 
 licate hand of Rose rests on the broad shoulder of Standish. 
 " A single star is at his side, and reigns 
 With him o'er half the solemn scene." 
 
 Pale as a lily — calm, too, as that flower, when not a ripple 
 disturbs its native lake — ^her light auburn hair combed 
 plainly over her forehead^ — she raises her beautiful and ex- 
 pressive eyes from the, scene around her to Him whom 
 they publicly owned — ^God-with-us. Let the eye that sur- 
 veys this picture bestow its last gaze on this splendid 
 creation of the poet — ^Rose Standish. I say creation, for 
 although it is the representative of a real original, the 
 painter, like the poet, must not disdain the aid of the 
 imagination, if he would give that completeness to his por- 
 
62 BURNING or A THEATRE. 
 
 traits, which they are susceptible of receiving. The effect 
 of the whole is noble* No superior production of art, eithei 
 in painting, sculpture, or architecture, adorns the Capitol. 
 To behold — to study it, is worth a journey to Washington, 
 from almost any point of the republic. 
 
 BURNING OP A THEATRE, AT. ST. PETERSBURGH. 
 THREE HUNDRED LIVES LOST ! . 
 
 The fire broke otft behind the scenes, and the director of 
 the theatre ordered the curtain- at the back of the stage to 
 be drawn up, that every one might be aware of the immi- 
 nence of the danger. The smoke and flames poured out 
 toward the body of the house. Laughter was suddenly 
 turned into pallid fear, and shrieks of horror burst from the 
 bosoms of thousands, who but now had. been • con^'tilsed 
 with mirth. Grasping what was dearest to tberti, altxushed 
 towards the outlets. 
 
 These were too few for the magnitude of the theatre, and 
 it was very slowly that the foremost made way for those 
 behind them. So much the more rapidly did the flames 
 communicate to the> resinous fir planks, and quickly ad- 
 vancing from scene to scene, they soon penetrated into the 
 body of the theatre* still swarming with people. As ill- 
 luck would have it, one of the large folding doors at the 
 entrance, which open.ed inward, had, in theconfusion,been 
 accidentaj[ly pushed to, and resisted all eflforts to open it. 
 Thus only half of the main entrance was available for 
 escape in this criti^jal moment,, and the retyeat of the au- 
 dience was, of course, proportionally delayed. 
 
 The police would not at first suff)sr private -individuals to 
 render assistance, that they might keep the conduct of the 
 business to themselves. A tradesman, nevertheless, con- 
 trived, with a spade, to breakdown a board on one side of 
 the theatre, and to drag sixty half-suffocated persons out 
 of this harlequin's hell through the aperturei, with imminent 
 
BURNING OF A THEATRE. 63 
 
 peril of his own life'. The Emperor Nicholas rewarded the 
 worthy man with an order, and, as he was 'poor, with a 
 pension of 2,000 rubles. 
 
 Meanwhile, the people in the street, as may be supposed, 
 became aware that the matter was no joke. The fearful 
 tidings soon spread through the city that Lehman's Theatre 
 was on fire, and that thousands of persons in it were likely 
 to perish. If is impossible to conceive the consternation 
 and despair that seized all Petersburgh. There was not a 
 family one or more of whose members might not be among 
 the wretched sufferers. When the Emperor, on the first 
 news of the fire, hastened from the Winter Palace to the 
 spot, women ran up to him and cried, " Save, save, save ! 
 My son is among them ! and my husband is there ! • My 
 brother is not out yet !" " Children," replied the Emperor, 
 '' I will save all I can." 
 
 When the fire was over, when the flames and life were 
 extinct, and all who were within lay in a burned and char- 
 red heap, the m,elanchply business of removing the dead 
 was commenced. The sight is said to have been beyond 
 all idea harrowing and appalling, when, on clearing away 
 the timbers which had fallen in, the mass; of bodies was 
 gradually discovered. ■ They were pulled out, one by one, 
 with hooks^' some were completely carbonized, others 
 roasted like chestnuts ; many had only the hair of the head 
 singed ; many with glazed eyes, burned hair, and charred 
 faces, had on their holyday clothes and decorations which 
 the flames had not, reached, on account of the close pres- 
 sure of the throng. 
 
 These presented a far more repulsive spectacle than 
 those which were entirely burned. In that parfl of the 
 building which the flames had spared, were found dense 
 masses of bodies still standing upright like ghosts or shades 
 from the nether world- A female was found with her head 
 hanging over the gallery, and holding' her hand and her 
 handkerchief before her face. A gentleman who witnessed 
 the operation of clearing away the bodies, told me that he 
 
64 THE CEUCIFIXION. 
 
 could not toHcb (ooi far tl;iree days, so frightful ■yvei-e the 
 images that liad incessantly haunted him afterward ; and a 
 lady, who had looked in from a distance, was so shocked 
 that she became delirious, and raved for several days, both 
 sleeping and waking. 
 
 The number of thp victims was subsequently stated offi- 
 cially to be' 300 ; but a person told me that he counted with 
 his own eyes 50 carts, each of which contained from 10 to 
 15 bodies. People who pretend to know from good an? 
 thority, represented the number as so large that I dare 
 not repeat it, lest others might think the amount tpoinipro- 
 bable. 
 
 Ah, who would like to go to his lasj; account frpm a 
 Theatre? 
 
 THE CRUCIFIXION. 
 
 I ask'd the heavens, " What foe to God had done 
 
 Thia unexampled deed ?" The heavens exclaim, 
 " 'Twas man, and we in horri^r snatch'd the sun 
 
 Prom such a spectacle of guilt and shame." 
 I aslt'd the sea ; the sea in fury boil'd. 
 
 And anpwer'd with his voice pf storm, " 'Twas man. 
 My waves in panic at his crime recoil'd, 
 
 Disclos'd the abyss, and from the centre ran.'' 
 I ask'd the earth ; the earth replied, ajfhapt, 
 
 " 'Twas man ; and such strange pangs niy bosom rent, 
 That still I groan and shudder at the past.'-' 
 
 To man — ^gay, smiling, thoughtless man, I went, 
 And ask'd hin? next. He turn'd a scornful eye, 
 
 ^hook his proud head, and deign'd me no reply. 
 
 Men are so employed about themselves, that they have 
 not leisure to distinguish and penetrate intq others ; which 
 is the cause why a great merit, joined to a great modesty 
 may be a long time before it is discovered. 
 
A VOICE PROM THE DEEP 
 
 BY MISS I. O. SHAW. 
 
 How noble a structure is this orb on which we dwell ! 
 How great the power and wisdom of Him, who from chaos 
 formed and shaped the whole ! 
 
 In contempla|ting the character of the Divine Being, his 
 wiatchless power and skill are the highest points that the 
 mind can reach. Thought cannot penetrate,,nor imagina- 
 tion, in her fairy flights, soar beyond it. None, save the 
 Omniscient, would ever have conceived a plan so mighty 
 and so wonderful in its nature. Go where we will, even 
 to the utmost range of earth's wide domain, we shall find 
 something that will speak to us of an Intelligent First 
 Cause, and tell us of the beauty grandeur and magnificence 
 therein displayed. 
 
 If we cast our eyes upon the cloud-capt Pyrennees, or 
 view the towering Alps, clad in their snowy mantle, do we 
 not find beauty and sublimity there portrayed ? Or where 
 can we look for more symmetry, fhaja is to be seen in that 
 system of systems, hung in space, beyond lihe regions of our 
 own ? The very air that we breathe abounds in the dis- 
 plays of his power and skill. This earth on which we 
 tread, bespeaks the wisdom and glory of its Divine Creator ; 
 and the whole universe 'is but one manifestation of his 
 greatness. 
 
 Should we extend our researches to the inmost recesses 
 of this habitable globe, or penetrate the deepest caverns of 
 the sea, there too are we met by proofs of his unerring 
 skill and matchless power. Yes, there is " a voice that 
 ECHOES EVEN FROM THE DEEP,"of the majgsty of that High and 
 Lofty One. It tells of treasures l;iid amidst the caves and 
 cells of the mighty deep— of glittering pearls, and shells 
 dyed with rainbow tints — of the^beauty of the polished Cy- 
 praea, and the violet rays of the Purpura. 
 
66 A TOlCE FKOM THE DEEP. 
 
 In thy depths, too, O Sea ! thou hast untold wealth. Many 
 a royal Argos hast thou rolled beneath thy foaming bil- 
 lows — sunk its spoil under thy crested surge, and hid, in 
 the profoundness of thy depths below, the burning gold of 
 Hindostan, and the starry gems of India. When the wind 
 sweeps over thy wrathful main, and thy waves beat high, 
 wild echoes float upon our ears of the battles thou hast 
 fought, the victories thou hast won, and the riches thou hast 
 gained. 
 
 " A VOICE FROM THE DEEp" tclls that thy course is onward, 
 and as the rolling main, day after day and yrar after j'ear 
 speeds its way, fnethinks it carries with it the sounds of 
 wail and woe, which were heard on that fatal day. ^vhen 
 whole empires and nations were hurled into thydf-op nbyss. 
 Yes, thy proud billows have rolled, and will still continue 
 to roll, till the end of time, over the wrecks of cities, gone 
 down in the strehgth and zenith'of their glory I Their tem- 
 ples of science, of honor and of fame, where music, poesy 
 and the arts were all combined in an unbroken sisterhpod, 
 are now the dwelling places of the inhabitants of the sea. 
 Their splendid palaces and courtly halls-; — the residence of 
 kings and princes, — the scenes of mirth and revelry, now 
 resound with the thunders of sea-gods, and the music of the 
 naiads. Their stony streets, once thronged with a mighty 
 populace, are now paved with the sands of the ocean ; 
 .whilst Neptune, seated in his chariot, rolls over thetti, at- 
 tended by his numerous train of tritons and mermaids of the 
 deep. Where verdant lawns pnce lay, and flowers of pe- 
 rennial bloom, the fairest that nature had it in her power 
 to bestow, once grew;, there the sea-weed floats, and the 
 coral reef now stands. And those sylvan streams, on 
 whose leafy batiks the poet of nature had often sought re- 
 pose, are swept away by the force of old ocean's waves ; 
 and as their peaceful "waters have mingled with the swell- 
 ing main, " a voice from the deep" seemed wafted back on 
 the wings of the wind, echoing in our ears the mournful 
 tale of desolation and woe.' 
 
A VOICK FROM THE DlfEP. 67 
 
 And thou too, O .Deep ! hast power. When the roar of thy 
 angry waves is heard, and the foam of thy dashing surge 
 beats high, npne save the Great 1 Am, can arrest thee in 
 thy course. : Compared, to thy might and power, what is. 
 that of an 41e;sander or a Cassar? and what the boasted 
 sway of kings, and empires, vvhen under thy control ? Man, 
 , though " lord of creation," and monarch of the earth, when 
 placed within thy domain, niust acknowledge to thee, the 
 superiority of thy power, and yield himself a sacrifice at 
 thy shrine. , ■ , 
 
 But still " A VOICE FROM THE SEA," the broad, the deep, the 
 bounding sea, is h^ard ; and it tells of the noble genius and 
 high-born intellect which thpu hast gained, as it were, by 
 the prowess of tliipe arms. Yes, and it speaks in mourn- 
 ful strains, of souls ,that burn^xii and brave, hearts that beat 
 high with hope, swept by thy mighty waves into a. watery 
 grave — and over whose bier no tears of sorrow were shed, 
 and no requiem sung, but thai; of the murmuring deep. It 
 speaks top, of those, jwho in t^e dawn pf youth, and man- 
 hood's prime, had left th^ fire-side circle, and all the 
 endearing ties of father, mother, sister,, wife and brother, 
 to seek , : • 
 
 "A home on the rolling deejp,"— 
 
 who,, ere the sun had sped its annual course, the sea had 
 numbered with its dead. Each wave that comes floating 
 upon the shore, brings with it sad and mournfill music — 
 music, that tells of lovely forms — of earth's fair ones, 
 crowned with beauty's flowers, and youth's bright gems ;^- 
 of those around M'hom. were clustered the fondest ties of 
 love and friendship, the sound of whose voice will never 
 again meet our ears, and whose laughing smile, our eyes 
 shall never again behold. Yes, the. music of the deep is 
 heard, chanting its mournful song over many a fair brow, 
 and brave-hearted youth ; and as wave after wave is wafted 
 on, until it has reached its bourne, it bears with it the echo 
 of that mournful sound, when the deep received its dead. 
 And methinks I hear in thy niurmuring voice, 0> Deep ! the 
 sounds of grief and woe — 
 
68 A VOICE FROM THE DEEP. 
 
 " For to thee, the love of woman hath gone down, 
 And dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head." 
 
 But the deep speaks, too, in other ways than thi-s. Ah 
 j'es ! it speaks to that mother's heart, whose only son is far 
 from home and friends, toiling upon the waves of the raging 
 sea ; and when the storm-cloud lowers — the moon grows 
 dim, and the stars are hid 'mid the blackness of the skv, 
 when the terrific splendours of the lightning's flash break its 
 gloom, and peal after peal of thunder rends the vaulted 
 sky — thcJn does that mothers cheek grow pale, and her 
 heart grow faint, as she listens to the wind's tempestuous 
 roar, and looks upon the foaming ocean, rolling its angry 
 billows mountain high — oh yes ! 'tis then the murmurs of 
 She deep speak to that mother's heart in tones that words 
 could ne'er have uttered or thought expressed. 
 
 And now another voice is heard echoing from the deep. 
 It speaks of sin ; and its first tale is that of war. It tells of 
 deeds of wickedness, 'of carnage, and of bloodshed, that chill 
 the heart with horror, and make the blood run cold. Of 
 crimes, as deep and dark as the midnight hour, when first 
 they were formed by warriors and their allies. Of scenes, 
 that burst upon that fearful night, and made the deep to 
 echo back again the sound of war. Yes, it was on that fa- 
 tal night, when the hearts of the true and the brave went 
 down, — when the moon shone in unclouded splendour — 
 when the sky was clear as the noon-day sun, and nought 
 was seen to disturb the smooth and tranquil sea, that the 
 sound of war was heard. The signal given' — vessels arm- 
 ed, they were ready for the conflict. The sound of guns 
 was heard — a burst of cannons rent the air, while from 
 their sides, there poured forth volleys of smoke and fire, 
 and shrouded in one dark sombre cloud, the vessels clashed ; 
 they struck ; and with sword in hand, each went forth to 
 fight against his foe ; for foes they were, full of deadly 
 hate. Unequal to the combat, they began to fall. But 
 " onward" was their motto ; and long and bravely did they 
 fight, like true-hearted soldiers, who fought for their coun- 
 
A VOICE FKOM THE DByEP. 69 
 
 try's weal, until the enemy gained his victory over them, 
 and gave to the silent deep the slaja and conquered. The 
 sea received the gift, but seemed regardless of the num- 
 bers added to its myriad dead. Alas ! the brave, the ho- 
 nest and the true went down on that sad night. The dark 
 blue sea has rolled and will continue to roll over them, but 
 still there is a voice that comes from the deep,' sounding in 
 our ears the tales of war, of the vanquished and the slain. 
 It echoes, too, a mournful voice of the pirate ship. Mourn- 
 ful did I say ? Ah yes ! for piracy has a sting that reaches 
 many a heart. It tells of deep-laid schemes and foul plots, 
 formed under thr canopy of night : for th(\y vvoold blush 
 beneath the light of day ; formed too in hidden cave.s and 
 under sheltering cliffs, where none they say can see. ■ Ah ! 
 mistaken mortal ! knowest thou not that there is One, 
 whose searching eye can pierce the most impervious rock, 
 and penetrate the deepest gloom ? Secret as thy thoughts 
 and dark designs may seem, yet they are known to Him 
 from whom nothing is hid. And though when on the bound- 
 less ocean, far from home and land, thy plans are laid to 
 take the life of thy fellow men, and rob them of their all ; 
 yes, even then. His eye is upon thee ; and as their bodies, 
 one by one, are consigned by thy cruel hand to a watery 
 grave, there is a voice comes up from the deep, which if it 
 does not speak to thee, it tells of deeds of crime and wick- 
 edness, that are left unpardoned by a jealous God. And 
 methinks thou canst but hear^ when he calls to thee, and 
 says, "What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's 
 blood crieth unto me from the deep.'' 
 
 And yet once more, " a voice from the deep" is heard, 
 that tells of sin. Its echo speaks like conscience to the 
 heart of guilty men, of long years of servitude, of darkness 
 and of pain. Yes, and it tells of those whom they dragged 
 from their former state of degradation and wretchedness, 
 only to incre9.se their misery ; of those who, torn from a 
 mother's fond embrace, were bound in iron chains, and 
 bade to leave their native shore for a foreign land ; who, 
 re they lived to reach their port of destination, were con- 
 
10 A VOICE FROM THE DEEP. 
 
 signed by the same cruel hands to the rolling deep. Alas ! 
 and how many, too, have met this fate. While few have 
 lived to I'each this happy land, by far a greater number 
 have found their grave in the deep blue sea. Yes, and 
 though the echoing deep may not now resound in the ears 
 of those who- have thus abused their fellow mortals, yet 
 loud, I fear, will be the voice of accusation at the judgment 
 day, that will come from those who perished on the ocean 
 wave. 
 
 This then is the " voice that combs from the deep." Il 
 tells us of the power and majesty of God ; of the weak- 
 ness and frailty of man. It tells us of wealth' and power 
 that are found beneath the briny wave ; and it echoes in 
 our ears the mournful tale of the great and good ; yea, and 
 of those too who never .knew the Saviour's name, and who 
 lie buried in the sea. 
 
 But more it tells us of itlie sin committed on the deep. 
 That watery element now resounds with the guilt of man. 
 Once as pure as the stresLm which flows by the Heavenly 
 Jerusalem,, its waters are now stained and polluted with 
 human guilt. No wonder then that a righteous God should 
 have suffered its waves to roll over a sinful earth, and de- 
 stroy from off its facC' that guilty race. No wonder that he 
 should sometimes invest the deep with power, and bid it 
 take ungrateful man under its pontrol. No wonder then, 1 
 say, that iTian and all his works should be engulfed in that 
 deep abyss — there to rest till the' archangel's, trump shall 
 sound, and God, the mighty Judge, shall call upon the sea 
 to yield its dead. Oh. yes! methinks that then "a voice 
 FROM THE deep" will echo loudoT still, and tell of things be- 
 fore unknown. , ; , 
 
A LAND, DARK WITH OYER^HADOWINiS WiiN'GS" 
 
 BY THE AUTHORESS OP " THE BRIBE OF GLENALA," ETC. 
 
 The shades of night had deepen'd o'er lyiount 01iy«t, 
 And th' cool eyening breeze came stealing from the 
 Syrian Sea, laden with incense, ft-om the Cyprian Isle. . 
 From his loixe ,tqwer, the dark Chaldean gazed upon tlie 
 Stars, as one by one theyshope a,bove the solemn brow 
 Of Mount Moriah — his sentinels keeping their silent 
 Vigils, o'er the sleeping Earth. ; There,, at the foot of 
 Olivet, and in the shadow of the, tomb of Zachariah, 
 A lonely pilgrim* sat and gazed upon the awful 
 Mount where, an. past ages, .Christ and, hjs ..disciples 
 Had wrought miracle,?, and Abraham, offered his first- 
 Born for sacrifice- Here, too, by the threshing Jloor of On 
 Stood the Destroying Angel of the Lohd, with glittering s^ 
 But, th' Almighty stay'd his hand ! and Uavid rais'd thereo 
 An altar to the Most High God'! Below, lay stretch'd the 
 Valley of Jehoshaphat ; and, in the, uncertain light, the firs 
 Faint outlino^of the mighty Temple rose,, amid the gloom. 
 Above him, tower'd the cedars of proud iLeb'non, throwing 
 Their giant shadows upon th' everlasting hills. 
 Serene as now, those stars shone o'er Jerusalem in all her 
 Glory, ere Israel sorrow'd in captivity, and hung her 
 Silent harps upon the Willows by strange Waters. > 
 The haughty princes of the line of,Judah, had turn'd them 
 From their God, and knelt to graven images, and in his 
 Righteous anger, they were exil'd unto Babylon the 
 Mighty. Sadly they wept beijide the proud Euphrates ; • 
 For, He had turned from them the shadow of bis glorious 
 Face, in anger. ' Brightiyias now, the stars shone o'er tlie 
 Ruin'dicolumns c^ the -Temple, ere its thrice hallovv'd 
 Walls lay low by ruthlesa hand ; and t^i.us they looked 
 Upon the Moslem, with, his flaming sword and Koran-^ 
 Fierce as the Assyrian, whose mighty slain heap'd' up 
 
 * Rev. Prof. Durbin. 'See his " Letters from the Holy ]. 
 flChron: ch. xxii. i - > 
 
72 RULES FOE CONVERSATION-. 
 
 The valleys, and turn'd the rushing streams to bloocl. 
 Then came the bold Crusader, brave soldier of the Cross ! 
 And there, where yon dim Palestine lies sleeping, met 
 The fierqe hosts of Richard and Saladin. All, now, is 
 Silent, where of old was heard the crash and clang of 
 Arms, and tramp of steeds amid the carnage. 
 And there, with Moslem dead, slept many a forni, whose 
 Heart had hop'd to still its beatings amid the shadows 
 Of its own loved land, with the soft tones of kindred 
 Near him ; but all in vain. Thus sadly mused the 
 Pilgrim ; and, as he raised his head, the fleecy clouds 
 Swept from the brow of Olivet ; and, lo ! the full orb'd 
 Moon arose in all her majesty, lighting the gloom amid 
 The orange-groves ; while in the distance, rose the mosqies 
 Of Omar and Sophie ; the moonbeams fell upon their 
 Minarets, with the same pure, holy light that bathed the 
 Shrines amid the valleys of his own bright land ; 
 And there, at eve, is heard the loud Mttezzin, calling 
 The faithful to their prayers. " Oh, Ggd ! that I might 
 Hear the music of Lhy Sklibath-bells go 'Up from 
 Every hill in this dark land of Moslem ! Thou the 
 Sole, true Allah ! ChkIst thy Prophet !" 
 
 The Pilgrim rose, and bent his steps unto the silent 
 City — hush'd as if it were the " City of the Dead " — 
 And, kneeling on his couch, he rais'J his voice 
 Unto the God of Christians, and calmly sank to rest. 
 Empires shall wax and wane, and yet those stars 
 ' Shall look serenely down o'er this fair earth, while 
 The dark wing of Time sweeps onward, 'till the 
 Dread flat of the Archangel's trump awakes the 
 Sleepers, and " time shall be no more !" 
 
 RULES FOR CONVERSATION. 
 
 It is highly necessary to avoid too much familiarity in 
 conversation. It is an old adage, "too much familiarity 
 breeds contempt ;" so he that familiarizes himself, jlre- 
 sr-ntly loses the superiority which his serious air and good 
 deportment gave him, and consequently his credit. The 
 more common human things are, the less they are esteem- 
 ed ; for communication discovers imperfection^ that pru- 
 
, RULES FOR CONVERSATION. 13 
 
 dent reserve concealed. We must not bq too familiar with 
 superiors, because of dangers ; nor with inferiors, by reason 
 of indecency ; and far less with mean people, whom igno- 
 rance fenders insolent — for being insensible of the honors 
 done them, they presume it is their due, 
 
 In your,:disGourse be caut^eus'what you speak, and to 
 whom you speak ; how.ypu speak, and when you speak ; 
 and what you speak, speak wisely, speak truly. A fool's 
 heart is- fn his tdngtte, but a wise man's tongue i« in his'heart. 
 
 Plutarcli'.adVfees to moderate and correct all base, un- 
 worthy, and hurtful passion^, that in all our conversations 
 we may be open-hearted, and sincere, and not seek to oTer- 
 reach or deceive others in any of our dealings. 
 
 I^et all your' conversation with men be sober and sin- 
 cere ; your devotion to God dutiful and decent ; let the one 
 be hearty and' not haughty ; let the other be humble, but 
 not homely. So live with men as if God saw you ; so pray 
 to God as if men heard you. 
 
 Nothing more engages the affections of men, than a 
 handsome address, and graceful conversation. 
 
 Our conversation should be such, that youth may therein 
 find improvement, women modesty, the aged respect, and 
 all men civility. 
 
 Tallcativeness is usually called a feminine vice, but it is 
 possible' to- ^ into masculine comFpany, where it will be as 
 hard to wedge in a wdrd as at a female gossiping. 
 
 Speak always- according to your conscience ; but let it be 
 done in terms ©if good nature, civility, and ^od manners. 
 
 IXscretioa 6f speech i» better than mere eloquence. 
 
 Growth in gtace manifests itself by a simplicity — that is, 
 a greater naturalness of character. There will be more 
 usefolness arid- less noise ; more tendesrness o£ conscience, 
 and less sciTipulosity ; there- will be move peace, more 
 humility; when the full corn is in the ear, it bends down 
 because it is full. 
 
A SKETCH. ^ 
 
 BY A. A. L. 
 
 She was about to die. The Jearful ravages of consump- 
 tion were nearly completed : the unearthly light irradiated 
 her eye ; but the dark shadow was around her footstep. 
 Every power of the intellect, and every feeling of the heart, 
 seemed to be intensely excited. Thp fruit is most beauti- 
 ful, and the flower most fragrant, just before they perish : 
 and so, her mind acquired unwonted energy and interest 
 on the eve of dissolution. Still, her religious experience 
 was not so clear as was desirable. The witness of the 
 Holy Spirit was not perfectly enjoyed. The vitality of re- 
 ligious feeling E^ppeared to be somewhat wanting. Through 
 long years, she had been faithful in the discharge of her 
 private and public duties. The spirit of self-denial, bene- 
 volence, patience, and charity, she cherished and exhibit- 
 ed. Amid all her devotion to the cross, she was yet among 
 the number of those disciples, who see through a glass 
 darkly. Her altar and home were on Mount Zion. True 
 to her principles, she struggled on, often walking in dark- 
 ness, but yet clinging to the unseen hand, and beseeoMig 
 the unseen Spirit tp support her. I could not believe, that 
 death would be permitted to effect his work, until the fears 
 of her heart had all been removed. I could not think, that 
 one so earnest and untiring would be suffered to leave the 
 world without the manifested presence of Jesus. The last 
 strife came on : the lingering beauty of her gentle spirit 
 was fast fading : the hand of the guardian angel had touch- 
 ed her, and his voice bade her ascend to the upper glory. 
 We drew near, and asked her of the prospects beyond the 
 grave. The fainting voice sweetly answered, " Safe at 
 
 LAST." 
 
•"M^mJI, 
 
SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 THE LEOPARD. 
 
 Isaiah, xi. 6. « The leopard shall lie down with the kid." — 
 The first mention made of the Leopard in the rfoly Scrip- 
 tures is in Song iv. 8., where Christ is thus represented as 
 addressing the Church, in language of ardent affection ; 
 " Come with me from Lebanon, my spouse, with me from 
 Lebanon ; Look from the top of Amana, from the top of 
 Shenir and Hermon, from the lions' dens, from the moun- 
 tains of leopards." 
 
 NiMRAH is the Hebrew name of the leopard, and signifies 
 spotted. It is chiefly found in Senegal in Africa. The up- 
 per part is beautifully spotted, the lower is streaked. What 
 a difference betwixt its outward beautiful appearance and 
 its inward ferocious dispositions ! It is smaller than the 
 tiger. There is great liveliness in its eyes, which are con 
 
18 THK LEOPAKD. 
 
 aally in motion. The feet are large ; the fore ones 
 .ng five toes, and the hind but four. It can draw bi 
 and push out its dreadful claws at pleasure. It has the 
 power of opening and closing the toes of its feet like the 
 human hand, and thus becomes dreadfully formidable o 
 the creatures which it attacks. It is peculiarly fierce an J 
 savage ; all animals, not even man excepted, it attacks in 
 discriminately, and it is rarely capable of being tamed. It 
 watches long and patiently for its prey, and will spring or 
 leap upon them from a considerable distance, so far as se- 
 venteen feet. 
 
 In Hosea, xiii. 7, God compares himself to a leopard. 
 " Therefore I will be unto them as a lion ; as a leopard by 
 the way will I observe them." It is in reference to his ene- 
 mies he resembles a leopard. Let them read and tremble ! 
 He waits with patience for the proper season of vengeance. 
 0, how fierce his indignation, when he breaks forth on 
 those who have trampled upon his authority and despised 
 his grace ! Wicked men are compared to leopards. - In 
 heart and life, they are spotted with corruption, which, like 
 the spots upon the leopard's skin, no human power can 
 wash out. Wicked men, too, like leopards, are fierce, and 
 no power short of divine can tame them. Thus speaks the 
 prophet ; " Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leo- 
 pard his spots ? then may ye also do good, who are accus- 
 tomed to do evil." Because of their craft, cruelty, and 
 ferocious rage ; because they besieged the cities of Judah, 
 Nebuchadnezzar and his army are compared to leopards. 
 Doubtless they were in view when the prophet said, 
 '■ Wherefore a lion out of the forest shall slay them, and a 
 wolf of the evening shall spoil them, a leopard shall watch 
 over their cities." The Grecian empire in all its military 
 greatness, with Alexander at its head, is compared to a leo- 
 pard with four wings and four heads ; " After this, I beheld, 
 and lo, another, like a leopard, which had upon the back 
 of it four wings of a fowl ; the beast had also four heads ; 
 and dominion was given to it." We see abundant reason 
 
MOTHERS MUST BE DECIDED. 79 
 
 for this figure, when we remember how much Alexander 
 was spotted with vices, and that in many of his battles he 
 came suddenly upon the enemy, who almost before they 
 were aware, found themselves his victims. 
 
 Tempters of old or young resemble leopards. They pa- 
 tiently wait for the most favourable opportunities, and, 
 alas, how successful they are, in many instances, in destroy- 
 ing their victims ! To the young I would say especially 
 *' Watch and pray !" 
 
 MOTHERS MUST BE DECIDED. 
 
 BY REV J. TODD. 
 
 It is 'not difficult to be decided, were this all ; but to be 
 decided and firm while the feelings and the voice are as 
 the notes of the lute, is difficult. Your child has no judge- 
 ment. Hundreds of times every week, and many times 
 every day, he must be denied, and have his wishes and his 
 will submit to yours. When he is well, you must, of ne- 
 cessity, be constantly .thwarting his inclinations, forbidding 
 him, or commanding him ; and when he is sick, you must 
 force him, and stand further than ever aloof from indulgLence. 
 Even when you feel that he is on the bed of death, you 
 must control him, govern him, command him, and see that 
 he obeys ! Your own decision, energy, and fismness, must 
 never waver for a moment in his presence. While a 
 mother's heart pleads for indulgence, you must have a re- 
 solution which will lead you to do your duty, even while 
 the heart bleeds, and the eyes weep. That noble mother 
 who held her child while its leg was amputated, and did 
 it with a firmness that he dared not resist, and with a 
 tenderness that made him feel that she did it for his good, 
 who does not admire ? These two qualities, decision and 
 mildness, are seldom found in man. He is either too sternj 
 
80 MOTHERS MUST BE DECIDED. 
 
 or too lenient. But the mother ! she can possess them both, 
 and have them both in exercise at the same moment. But 
 she must have the aid of heaven. She must seek it in 
 prayer, at the foot of the throne, and there she will find it. 
 I could point you to a son who cherishes the memory of 
 his mother as something inexpressibly dear and sacred. 
 She was a widow, and he her only son. When a young 
 man he said something, or did something in the presence 
 of his sister and a cousin, both young ladies, highly im- 
 proper. His mother told him of his fault, mildly and kind- 
 ly, and requested him to make ^n apology to the girls. 
 This he declined. She insisted upon it, and even laid her 
 commands. He refused. She next requested him to go 
 with her into his chamber in the third story. He complied. 
 She then very cooly took the key and told him she should 
 lock the door, and he would neither see her face, nor re- 
 ceive food, till he submitted. The next day she called at 
 the door of the pfisoher, " My son, are you ready to com- 
 ply with iny request 1" " No, mother." The second day, 
 the same qiiiestioh ^as agked and the same answer receiv- 
 ed. , The third day, she Went to the door, and said,. " James, 
 you think by holding but thus, yoiit mother w^ill yield, and 
 come to your terins ; but yoU do not know her. * I am irt 
 the path of duty, and I shall nbt yield till the timbers of 
 this house decay and fall, should I live so long !" TThat 
 evening he would have sent a message to his mother, but 
 had no messenger. Oh the fourth day, h'e promised to do 
 whatever she required. She opened the door, and her pale, 
 sickly-looking boy eihbraceci her with tears, asked her jpar- 
 don, and submitted to her requisitibh. He has since been 
 seen to shed tears of gratitude over that decision and 
 faithfulness, and to assert with the utmost confidence, that 
 it was this firmness in his widowed mother that saved him 
 from irrevocable ruin. 
 
THE WAY TO HAVE A GOOD MINISTER. 
 
 Pray for him. " Brethren," says the apostle, " pray for 
 ul /' And if wishes were audible, such you would find is 
 th<5 earnest, the almost agonizing wish of the heart of every 
 minister. Pray, then, for your minister. He needs your 
 prayers. His labors, responsibilities, anxieties, and per- 
 haps his trials, are great, and all for you. He is sent to 
 procla.im God's truth ; and he needs your prayers, that he 
 may do it successfully. With Paul he may say, " Pray for 
 us, that the words of the Lord may have free course and 
 be glorified," Besides, he prays for you ; yes, and for your 
 families and children, and often with deep feeling, and per- 
 haps with gushing tears, and therefore you should pray for 
 him. Pray for him, and you will love him. " Pray for 
 your enemy even," says an old proverb, " and you will soon 
 love him." Much more if you pray for your minister — youi 
 best friend — you will love him. You will hear him too 
 with interest, and hold him in high esteem, and be blessed 
 by his ministry. 
 
 Never speak of his faults. He stands to you in a most 
 sacred and tender relation, somewhat like that of the pa- 
 rent 'to the child, or the wife to the husband. And what 
 would you think of the husband or the child that should be 
 found speaking to others of the faults of his wife or parent ? 
 What would you think of his honor, his manliness, his obe- 
 dience to God ? From your inmost soul you would loathe 
 and despise him, and justly too. And so with you, if you 
 speak evil of your minister. Besides, God by his apostle 
 te-ils.you to "know them which labor among you, and are. 
 over j^ou in the Lord, and admonish you ; and to esteem 
 them very highly irf love for their works' sake." And all 
 this you can never do if you speak against them. 
 
 Delight to speak well op him. Not to himself, that is 
 needless, but to others. Every one has some good quali- 
 
82 THE WAT TO HAVE A GOOD MINISTER. 
 
 ties, and so has he. Of every one you can say something 
 good, and so you can of him. Do so, and it will lead others 
 to do the same. It will extend his influence for good. It 
 will aid to make him a blessing to yourself and to all about 
 you. 
 
 Support him liberally. "Let him that is taught in the 
 word, communicate unto him that tfacheth in all good 
 things." This is God's command, and those that disobey it 
 suffer. Many a church has cursed itself by being mean to 
 its minister. Let not this curse be yours. Pay your minis- 
 ter liberally and punctually. Thus his mind will be at 
 rest, free from anxiety, and entirely given to his appropri- 
 ate work — to laboring for your good. 
 
 Always meet him with kindness and AFFEcrioN. He is a 
 man, and will appreciate and prize your sympathies. So 
 far from his being above them, they will help to make him 
 happy ; and the want, the absence of them, will often send 
 him to his study vdth the heart-achcr— silent and uncom- 
 plaining it may be, but bleeding at the inmost soul. Would 
 you shrink from inflicting a pang like this ? Ever, then, 
 meet him with a welcome smile, with a kind, encouraging, 
 friendly word. It will warm his heart to a deep aflection 
 for yourself; will incite him to the greater effort for your 
 good, and -make him doubly willing to spend and be spent 
 for you. 
 
 Call upon him. Not too often, for thus you may interrupt 
 his studies, and waste his time ; but ,at proper seasons. 
 Some people never do this. They expect their minister to 
 call and see th^-.m, but never think of calling to see him. 
 Be not guilty of this neglect. Your minister, if a man of 
 refined and sensitive feeling, will keenly feel it. An occa- 
 sional and warm-hearted visit will cheer him, and aid him 
 not a little to be useful. And now and then, as you risit 
 him, take with you some little present, no matter for its 
 value, that is of little consequence ; but take it as a token 
 of your kind remembrance and regard. Such courtesies 
 
SELF-CULTCRE. 83 
 
 will bind him to you with strong affection ; and his aflec- 
 tion it is all-important for you to possess. 
 
 Ever be attentive to hts teachings. If it is his to teach, 
 it is yours to hear. Be then in your place every Sabbath — 
 at every service — at every prayer meeting. Thus you will 
 encourage his heart and strengthen his hands, and thus 
 only can you appreciate his many labors. And not only 
 hear, but what you hear apply to yourself. Obey it. He 
 will have " no greater joy than to see you walk in truth." 
 
 Keep a copy of these rules. Read them at least every 
 week, and often ask wherein you have sinned against them. 
 If you ar^e prone to break them, then read them every day, 
 as you go to your closet, and pray God by his Spirit to ena- 
 ble you to keep them. 
 
 Observe these rules, and though by nature your minister 
 may be far from what you would have him, still grace and 
 your kindness will make him a good one. Disregard them, 
 and though in fact you have an excellent minister, it will, 
 to a certainty, make him a poor one to you ! 
 
 SELF-CULTURE. 
 
 BY HERBERT. 
 
 The trite and homely adage, that "charity begins at 
 home," possesses a peculiar significancy when applied to 
 man, in reference to the culture of his own mind and heart. 
 To develop and perfect his own nature is the first, the ap- 
 propriate work of every intelligent being. It is a high and 
 fearful trust committed to every one, and for it he will be 
 held amenable. Nothing can supersede or free him from 
 it. It is due alike to his Maker, himself, and the world'; 
 and he neglects it at his own peril. In this land and age, 
 
84 SELF-CULTURE. 
 
 it opens alike to all a wide and delightful field; and he 
 that fails to enter it, has no true charity for himself — na 
 love for tbe mysterious and noble energies of hi6 being, 
 which lie slumbering within him, waiting to be called forth 
 in all their symmetry and beauty. 
 
 Man was made with susceptibilities for unlimited pro- 
 gress in knowledge and virtue. The external world, so 
 vast and beautiful, is spread out before him, mysteriously 
 adapted to their harmonious development. And this adapt- 
 ation of external nature to the mind, and the mind to it, is 
 as kind as it is mysterious ; since with the instinctive de- 
 sire for knowledge, and th'e widest and noblest range for 
 its exercise, it adds delight to its acquisition-^ever increas- 
 ing as the votary pi-esses up the ascent of improvement 
 and discovery, 'till, in rapture, he echoes the words which 
 fell from the lips of an ancient philosopher, " Higher, for- 
 ever higher." That there is, this nice adjustment of the 
 laws of matter to the properties of the human mind — the 
 outer to the inner world, the experience of the past fully 
 shows. 
 
 Now the structure and tendencies of the mind, together 
 with the vast sphere fitted up for its action, bespeak a wise 
 purpose in the Creator ; and that purpose was, doubtless, 
 the perfection and happiness of man. To fall in then with 
 this design, and strive by culture to meet it fully, is the 
 highest wisdom, as well as the imperative duty of every 
 one, it is justly due to his Maker, for so wise and noble 
 an arrangement for his good. It is due to himself, since it 
 is alone by the expansion and elevation of his mind that 
 any one can exhibit the real dignity of his nature — main- 
 tain his independence, and show himself a man ; amid the 
 rude jostlings of the world. Without this, he is often the 
 mere drudge of his fellow — ever liable to become the sub- 
 ject of oppression or the dupe of superstition. In proof of 
 this?, let the serf of Russia — the operative of England — the 
 pilgrim on his devious way to Mecca, testify. Besides this, 
 each one owes it to himself, since it is by studying himself— 
 
SELF-CTJLTUKE. 85 
 
 lisitening to the voice of truth, as it comes up winningly 
 from the depths of his own spirit — sounds out from the past, 
 or meets him from nature, that he learns the great purposes 
 of life, and his own high destiny. Moreover, it is due from 
 every one to the world. Man is so constituted and linked 
 with his fellow in the relations of life, that be is ever re- 
 ceiving or imparting an influence which will last forever; 
 an influence, too, for which he is resjjonsible. 
 
 Now, whoever would meet this obligation to the world, 
 must improve himself to the utmost, and then employ his 
 influence and power for the welfare of his race ; ever scat- 
 tering in his path the " charities that cheer, and soothe, 
 and bless.'' 
 
 To a cultivated mind, it is a noble privilege to walk 
 abroad in nature, drink in its- pure philosophy, and then 
 come and use it; in enlarging the bound'aries, and multiply- 
 ing the resources of human knowledge, and human happi- 
 ness. The process of self-improvement must indeed be 
 gradual, toilsome, and long ; but the result will be scre, 
 AND GLORIOUS. There is no short and easy path to the goal ; 
 no royal car runneth thither. True indeed, in this practi- 
 cal, steam-moving age, many who look merely at the foam 
 and ripple on the surface, instead' of the broad, deep cur- 
 rent of aflairs, vainly imagine that the time spent by the 
 scholar in the back-ground, burnishing his armour and 
 training himself to wield it in the noblest conflict, is all lost 
 to himself and the world. 'A few cherish the pleasing' illu- 
 sion, cease their toil, and study and haste to assume sta- 
 tions of influence and trust — to be the teachers and guides 
 of their race. But as oft as we see this, we involuntarily 
 think of the blind leading the blind, and we fear the result. 
 As well might one expect to reach a quiet havea who 
 loosens his frail bark from its moorings,- and pushes oS" on 
 the wide ocean, without chart or compass, and all unskilled 
 in navigation; as the scholar expect to turn back the 
 waves of error and delusion, and light up the pathway to 
 virtue and truth — the only haven of the soul, ere yet he has 
 
S6 EAELY RISING. 
 
 thoroughly developed and disciplined his mind, and trained 
 himself for the herculean task. Cultivated mind can im- 
 prove and raise the world. 
 
 EARLY RISING. 
 
 In one of the small tovirns of Germany, where the num- 
 ber of bee-hives which the inhabitants are allowed to keep 
 is regulated by law, this number, small as it was, was 
 found one season to be larger than the pasture could sup- 
 port. The hives of the old peasant, however, seemed to 
 be nothing worse off than usual, yet his were no nearer 
 than the others to the fields of the honey-blooming heather, 
 rosemary and thyme. His neighbors wondered ; but in- 
 stead of seeking to solve the mystery in the right spirit, 
 they indulged in vague surmises and whisperings. He 
 had bewitched their hives, or " made ' nae canny' bargain 
 with the evil one for his own." The old man bore all these 
 dark suspicions patiently till the honey-harvest came round ; 
 then, when he had stored away just double the quantity 
 that the rest had saved, he called his neighbors into his 
 garden, and said, " Had it not been for your want of charity, 
 I would have told you my se;cret before. This is the only 
 witchcraft I have used," and he pointed to the position 
 of his hives, inclined a little moi'e to the east, than that 
 generally adopted. By this movement the rays of the sun 
 Shone upon his hive an hour or two earlier, and his bees 
 were abroad lading themselves with treasures long before 
 those of his neighbors had roused themselves for the day. 
 
 This little history is given for the sake of its moral. Al- 
 ways if possible.'let your bedroom window face the east, and 
 do not keep out the beams of the fosy morning by blinds 
 and shutters. You will perhaps sleep the longer by so do- 
 ing, but you had far better be up with the dawn of the 
 
EARLY KISING. 87 
 
 morn. What if you can say, you have nothing to do ; rise 
 for pleasure. Go forth into the fields on horseback, or on 
 foot, and inhale the pure air. It will brace you up, liiake 
 your blood run livelier through your veins, and fit you to 
 bear with ease the toil and care of the day. 
 
 Nature appears far more beautiful early in the morning 
 than at any other time of the day. Rise that you may 
 know the pleasure of an early stroll over the hills, and 
 breathe the fresh, balmy air, and cast your eye over the 
 woodland and valley below, wet with dew and glittering 
 in the light of the newly-risen sun. But if you will not be 
 an early riser for pleasure, let interest induce you to be 
 such. You will filid one of these morning hours, which 
 you doze away, worth more than any three in the after 
 part of the day. You have had by sunrise, sleep sufficient 
 to satisfy the wants of nature ; more would serve only to 
 create the disagreeable sensations which arise from repletion. 
 Get up then, and you will feel yourself ready to prosecute 
 to advantage whatever you may wish to undertake. Would 
 you study ? Youi have a clear head, a cool-brain, and as 
 you will perceive, a marvelous facility at understanding 
 your author's meaning. Would you work ? The 'sleep you 
 have had has invigorated you — your bones and sinews, 
 which over night were weary with labor, are braced up 
 again. What ever you would do, be it even play, take an 
 early hour Xor it ; you will succeed better, feel more cheer- 
 ful and better natured through the day, and find yourself 
 ever increasing in liealth, wealth, and prosperity. 
 
 To hear the discourse of wise men, delights us, and their 
 company inspires us with noble and generous contempla- 
 tions. 
 
 Courteous behaviour and prudent communication, are 
 the most becoming ornaments to a young man ; with which 
 he may best be furnished by timely education, and the vir- 
 tuous example of his parents and governors. 
 
THE POET. 
 
 BT I. E. D. COMSTOCK. 
 
 The countenance of a great man ! — ^it is a wonderful thing 
 to look upon, But the physiognomy of a great and good 
 Poet ! — for this we have no term. The Poet is with, us in 
 the body, but his spirit is, away. He soars above the 
 world, but he is. ever watching its events with the keenest 
 interest and z^st ; and scrutinizes every object, gr«at and 
 small, as it appears, above the rnpral horizon; and he 
 seems often to see beyond it. Though a creature of im- 
 pulse and emotion, yet he looks down vrith a serene heart 
 upon the angry waves of life as they foam and dash below 
 him. 
 
 How few can sj'mpathize with him ; yet he sympathizes 
 with all. His intuitive heart feels at once the peculiar 
 sufferings of others^ and is happy in expedients to relieve 
 them ; and his blessing is bestowed in a way to touch the 
 heart of the depressed one, yet so as it shall not be receiv- 
 ed as a favor. But others .know not of ms grjefs, nor how 
 to give him consolation if they did. There are joys and 
 sorrows that bud and blossom ia this vale of tears alone 
 for him ; they are keen and refined. And there is one 
 fault which is pre-eminently his own ; it is 
 " The lovely fault of trusting all ;" 
 hut, it may safely be affirmed, that, 
 
 " The bitter sin of trusting none " 
 can never stain his breast. 
 
 What were the physical world without its majestic 
 streams, and tinkling rills ; or flowers that, " stooping o'er 
 the wilderness, talk of gentleness, and peace, and love ;" 
 the bird to carol in the sky ; the dew at morn, and the ze- 
 
THE alderman's rnNBEAL. 89 
 
 phyr at eve? and what the firmament if the stars were 
 absent ? He who makes answer, may also tell us what 
 were the world of letters and sentiment without the gentle 
 bard ? " The prose-rtis^n knows nothing of poetry, but 
 poetry knows miich of him ; nay, all that he knows not of 
 himself; and how much is that ! as well as all he does 
 know which is indeed little." 
 
 Who so noble, who so benignant, who so hurtible as the 
 true Poet ? It is for him to perform kindly deeds gently 
 and unobtrusively — like the falling of the dew. It is for him 
 to give birth to sentimfents iexpande'd and noble as the great 
 brow of an arch-dngel. Therie is a spirit within him. He 
 longs for the accoiriplishmeht of illustrious deeds. He 
 would have his name pronounced by posterity. He would ' 
 have it appear to genersitions to come, that his right hand 
 had wrought in the earth— for good, and not for evil. 
 
 That the foregoing remarks are applicable to the late 
 Poet Laureate we shall not here affirm. A selection from 
 his Poems is subjoined, which speaks for itself. 
 
 TBE ALDERMAN'S kjNERAt. 
 
 Stranger. Whom are they iishfering from the world, with all 
 This p'ageahtry and long pai-ade of death? 
 
 Townsman A long parade, indeed, sir,' and yet here 
 
 You see but half ; round yonder bend it reaches 
 A furlong further, carriage behind carriage. 
 
 Stranger. 'Tis but a mournful eight ; and yet the pomp .' 
 Tempts me to stand a gazer. 
 
 Towheman. " Yonder school-boy, . 
 
 Who plays the truant, says the proclamation 
 Of peace, was nothing to the show ; and even 
 The chairing of the members at election 
 Would not have been a finer sight than this ; 
 Only that red and green are prettier colors 
 Than all this mourning. There, sir, you behold 
 One cf this rfed-gown'd worthies of th^ city, 
 The envy and the boast of oui- exchange , 
 Ay, what was worth, last week, a good" half rnillion, 
 Screw'd down in yonder hearse ! 
 
90 
 
 THE ALDERMANa FUNERAL. 
 
 Stranger. Then he was born 
 
 Under a lucky planet, who to-day 
 Puts mourning on for his inheritance. 
 
 Townsman. When first I heard his death, that very wieh 
 Leap'd to my-lips ; but now the closing scene 
 Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts ; 
 And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave. 
 There will not be the weight of wealth Lke his 
 To sink me down. 
 
 Stranger. The camel and the needle- 
 
 Is that then in your mind ? 
 
 Townsman. Even so. The text 
 
 Is Gospel-wisdom. I would ride the camel,— 
 Yea, leap him, flying, through the needle's eve, 
 , , As easily as such a pamper'd soul 
 
 Could pass the narrow gate. 
 
 Stranger, Your pardon. Sir, 
 
 But sure this lack of Christian charity 
 Looks not like Christian truth. 
 
 Townsman. Your pardon too, Sir, 
 
 If, with this text before me, I should feel 
 
 In the preaching mood ! But for these barren fig trees. 
 
 With all their flourish and their lealSnessf 
 
 We have been told their destiny and use, 
 
 When the axe is laid unto the root, and they 
 
 Cumber the earth no longer. 
 
 Stranger. Was his wealth 
 
 Stored fraudfully — the spoil of orphans wrong'd, 
 And widows who had none to plead their right 1 
 
 Townsman. All honest, open, honorable gains. 
 
 Fair, legal interest, bonds and mortgages. 
 Ships to the East and West. 
 
 Stranger. Why judge you then 
 
 So hardly of the deadi 
 
 Townsman'. , ,., , For what he left 
 
 Undonq—rfor sins, not one of which is written 
 In the Tep Commandmente. He, I warrant him, 
 Believed no other Gods than those of the Creed ; 
 Bow'd to no idols, but his money-bags ; 
 Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house ; 
 Kept the Sabbath idle ; built a monument 
 
THE alderman's FUNERAL. 
 
 To honor his dead father ; did no murder ; 
 Never picli'd pocltets ; never bore false witness 
 And never, with that all-commanding wealth, 
 Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass ! 
 
 Stranger. You knew him, then, it seems 1 
 
 Townsman. As all men know 
 
 The virtues of your hundred-thousanders ; 
 They never hide their lights beneath a bushel 
 
 Stranger. Nay, nay, uncharitable Sir ! for often 
 
 Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen. 
 Freshening and giving life along its course. 
 
 Townsman. We track the streamlet by the brighter green 
 And livelier growth it gives — but as for this— 
 This was a pool all stagnant and impure ; 
 The rains of heaven engendered nothing in it 
 But slime and foul corruption. 
 
 Stkangek. Yet even these 
 
 Are reservoirs whence public charity 
 ^ Still keeps her channels full. 
 
 TowKsMAK. Now, Sir, you touch 
 
 Upon the point. This man of half a million 
 
 Had all these public virtues which you praise ; 
 
 But the poor man rung never at his door, 
 
 And the old beggar, at the public gate, 
 
 Who, all the summer lon^ stands hat in hand. 
 
 He knew how vain it was to lift an eye 
 
 To that hard face. Yet he was always found 
 
 Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, 
 
 Your benefactors in the newspapers. 
 
 His alms were money put to interest 
 
 In the other world — donations to keep open 
 
 A running charity accoant with Heaven — 
 
 Retaining fees against the Last Assizes, 
 
 When, for the trusted talents, strict account 
 
 Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-Lawyef 
 
 Plead his own cause as plaintiff. 
 
 Stranger. I must needs 
 
 Believe ^ou, Sir — ^these are your witnesses, 
 These mourners here, who from their carriages 
 Gape at the gaping crowd. A-good March wind 
 
 91 
 
93 
 
 THE ALDERMAN'S FCNERAL. 
 
 Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes 
 Some decent rheum ; the very hireling mute 
 Bears not a face more blank of all emotion 
 Than the old servant of the family ! 
 How can this man have lived, that thus his death 
 Cost not the soiling one vyhite handkerchief? 
 
 Townsman. Who should lament for him. Sir, in whose heart 
 Love had no place, nor natural charity "i 
 The parlor spaniel, when she heard his step, 
 Rose slovi^ly from the hearth, and stole aside 
 With creeping pace ; rfie never raised her eyes 
 To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head 
 Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine. 
 How could it be but thus 1 Arithmetic 
 Was l^ve gole science he was ever taught ; 
 The multiplication-tabJe was his Creed, 
 His Pater-noBter, and his Decalogue^ 
 When yet he was a boy, and should have breathed 
 The open air and sunshine of the fields. 
 To give his hlopd its natural spring and play, 
 He in a close and dusky counting-house 
 Smoke-dried, and sear'd, and shrivell'd up his heart, 
 So from the way in which he was train'd up 
 His feet departed not ; he toil'd and moil'd, 
 Poor muck- worm ! through his three score years and ten ; 
 And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him, 
 If that which served him for a soul were still 
 Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt. 
 
 Stbahgeb. Yet your next newspaper will blazon him 
 For industry and honorable wealth 
 A bright example. 
 
 TowwsMAN. Even half a million 
 
 Gets him no other praise. But come this way 
 
 Some twelve months hence, and you will find his virtues 
 
 Trimly set forth in lapidary lines. 
 
 Faith with her torch beside, and little Cupids 
 
 Dropping upon his urn their marble tears. 
 
 Opinion, and the desire of lasting fame, spurs on the in 
 genious mind, and makes the greatest difficulties delightful 
 
PROPER qOURSE OF STUDY. 
 
 J ' 
 
 BY HIST.OElbuS. 
 
 Reason and virtue are the noblest attributes of the mind, 
 ■ These importp,iit qualities exalt our nature and form the 
 separating links between men and beasts. To extettd, 
 strengthen, and perfect our, reasoning powers — to create, 
 cherish, and draw forth into action virtuous, dispositions, 
 is the grand object of education. 
 
 The cornTOencement^ofeducatiqnjs cpeval with l;he ear- 
 ; liestdawn of reaspn. . |^Q^sp^pji;i,er do, children begin, to form 
 and pronounce articulate, spunds, than .they are taught the 
 first elements of reading or the written language ; and they 
 are brought by low degrees to read, and, the. most sedu- 
 lous pains ar.e taken to give Jth,em fresh conceptions of the 
 powers of sounds. 
 
 After having learned the letters of the alphftbptj how to 
 combine them into syllables, how to form ^yprds and pro- 
 nounce' them properly, the next thipg is -to .t§aph them a 
 manner of reading whiqh will at once bfi, natural, easy, 
 clear, striking, iharmonipus atid. instructive. To read na- 
 turally is to read as we speak when uttpj-ing our own sen- 
 timents. To read easily is to avoid a certain awkw3,rd 
 stiffness of voice and manner pajiled rppnptpny. This fault 
 is extremely, common to young readers ; although it weak- 
 ens the force, o^, the most energetic style and rentiers the 
 most interesting subjects insipid and tiresome. Harmo- 
 nious reading is, to unite softness and gracefulness of voice 
 with sufficient strength, to render every sentiment power- 
 ful; to regard all; those little elevations and depressions, 
 cadences and acce.nts which serve tp give the performance 
 variety. In this way reading will not fail to be both i^- 
 PRBSsivE and instructive. 
 
94 PROPER COURSE OP STUDY. 
 
 By these rules a good judge of reading can always tfeli 
 whether the reader understands what he reads and enters 
 into the spirit 8f the subject. He will emphasize wit4i skill, 
 and close with graceful cadence ; he will utter every thing 
 in a striking, spirited, and elegant manner, which cannot 
 fail to please the hearer, if the subject is worthy of at- 
 tention. 
 
 In directing the attention of the young to a general 
 course of studies, we shall say no'thing at present of the 
 classics, but make a few remarks on more general topics 
 To such we would say, " Your minds and characters are 
 now forming ; every day adds something to their growth 
 and determination towards the final goal. You have be- 
 gun to, move in the orb of life, in which there is but one re- 
 volution. The lustre, magnitude and duration of that orb, 
 at present, is unknown. It will be influenced materially 
 by your conduct." 
 
 I will just hint at some subjects which may profitably 
 employ your thoughts. The first is Mathematics. Mathe- 
 matics is the science of numbers ; for which reason it is the 
 most perfect of all sciences. Its objects are clear and as- 
 certainable to perfect exactness. 
 
 Mechanics is the geometry of motion, by which all velo- 
 cities are compared by a mathematical standard, and the 
 tendency, power, ' resistance, and , termination of all forces 
 are investigated by a given rule. Physics is an investiga- 
 tion of the powers, properties, and qualities of natural 
 things, by the help of mathematical principles. This is the 
 sublime and noble field of Natural Philosophy. But here 
 we are often led beyond the limits of certainty, and are in 
 til e possession of no means, by reason of the weakness of 
 the human mind, to come at the reality of truth. 
 
 The systems of nature can only be superficially surveyed ; 
 they are deep, high, extended and sublime. Who can dis- 
 cover the secret of the ocean? Who the wonders of the 
 starry vault ? Who can investigate the laws of vegetation, 
 the economy of animated nature, or the first principles of a 
 
PROPER COURSE OP STUDY. 95 
 
 particle (^f matter? We call our treasures of knowledge 
 from the outworks of nature's mighty building. It is like 
 a painter, who, viewing- an image, traces a faint outline 
 and some accidental shades of complexion, fondly supposes 
 he has copied every thing material. 
 
 The student passes from Mathematics and Philosophy to 
 the higher and more obstruse spheres of investigation — 
 
 to EXAMINE THE NATURE OF THE HUMAN MIND. This wiU lead 
 
 him into the great department of Historv. There is 
 enough in the mind of man to engage our attention for life. 
 But we cannot stop here ; there are other intellectual na- 
 tures ; and above all, there is an Eternal, Independent 
 Cause. Of this we see intimations in every field of nature — 
 in every department of truth, and in every grade of im- 
 provement. With this our existence is to run parallel ; and 
 it is far beyond a doubt, that, as our existence is derived 
 from this cause, so we shall here find our ultimate end and 
 final termination. 
 
 While I would direct your minds in the noble pursuit of 
 knowledge, I would seek also to allure your afiiections to 
 the love of God. How shall I enforce this thought ? Will 
 you not be influenced by the fond and ardent hopes of your 
 parents for your improvement in every excellent attain- 
 ment. They wratch your progress with anxiety and the 
 tenderest concern. Gladly do they observe the least favor- 
 able appearance, and their hearts beat with secret joy 
 when they see you inclined to walk in the paths of wisdom. 
 And O, how do their hearts bleed to notice any unfavorable 
 symptoms — it draws a dark cloud over their declining 
 years. But this subject you will probably never fully un- 
 derstand and appreciate till you come to be placed in their 
 condition. Then, doubtless, you will begin to pay your 
 debt of gratitude. 
 
 As an inducement to be industrious and persevering, let 
 me point you to the elevated height, the exalted summit to 
 which your exertions tend. I say exertions — for you must 
 mount up from the vale of ignorance, and ascend the mount 
 
96 PROPER COURSE OP STUDY. 
 
 of knowledge, by powerful and persevering exertions. Look 
 back through the long vale of antiquity, and see how many 
 illustrious men have stood on these glorious pinnacles of 
 fame. See Homer,, Thales, Cicero^^/ Seneca, Quintillian, 
 Tacitus, Fenelon, Bacon, Locke, Newton and Addison, and 
 a host of others. They did not render themselves illus- 
 trious by the destruction of thousands of their fellow crea- 
 tures, biit by those virtues which alone deserve the name 
 of true glory. It is' fbryou to say whether you: will fol- 
 low their footsteps, imitate their example, and add to 
 - their number. , 
 
 Shall I not mention the inexpressible pleasure: youwill 
 enjoy in such a couTse. The greats mind, the mind stored 
 iwith k&owledge and replete with virtue, in its very plea- 
 sures and enjoyments, is an elevated mind. , It stands like 
 the sun in the firmament, unaffected by clouds, and storms, 
 and tempests; 
 
 May I not suggest to you further, thp,! high attainments 
 in knowledge are among the noblest ends of our mental 
 existence on earth; as it is conducive to the glory and hap- 
 piness of our nature. 
 
 Allow me to recommend to your attention a habit of 
 close thinking on every subject. Be as bold, as inquisitive, 
 as persevering, as studious, as indefatigable in your address 
 to truth, as you are modest; humble, condescending and dis- 
 creet in your deportment and general carriage to mankind. 
 Think closely on wliatever subject you attempt to investi- 
 gate. EndeavTobr to systematize your manner of thinking — 
 reason carefully-^distinguish between true and false con- 
 clusions. Employ your leisure in reading. Think on what 
 you read — systematize your thoughts — reduce them to me- 
 thod — communicate them to writing. Compare as much 
 as possible — and let nothing prevent you from reducing your 
 OWN REFLECTIONS TO COMPOSITION. Nothing will . strengthen 
 your talents for methodising like composing on all subjects. 
 By a little practice it will become pleasant and interesting 
 and may serve to allure you from dangerous and less pro- 
 fitable amusements. 
 
REV. JOHN NEWTON'S REMARKS: 
 
 IN FAMILIAE CONVERSATION. 
 
 We are surprised at the fall of a famous professor, but, 
 in the sight of God, he was gone before ; it is only we that 
 haye now first discovered it. " He that despiseth small 
 things, shall fall bylittle and little." 
 
 There are critical times of danger. After great services, 
 honors and consolations, we should stand upon our guard. 
 Noah, Lot, David, Solomon, fell in th6se circumstances. 
 Satan is a footpad: a footpad will not attarck a man in 
 going to the bank, but in rieturning with his pocket full of 
 money. 
 
 A christian is like a young nobleman, who, on going to 
 receive his estate, is at first enchanted witihi its prospects ; 
 this in a course of time may vyear ofi", but a sense of the 
 value of the esta,te grows daily. 
 
 Good men have need to take heed of building upon 
 groundless impressions. Mr, Whitfield had a son, who, he 
 imagined, was born to be a very extraoi-dinary man ; but 
 the son soon died, and the father was cured of his mistake. 
 
 I remember, in going to undertake the care of a congre- 
 gation, I was reading as I walked in a green lane, " Fear 
 not, Pa,ulj I have much people in. this city." But I soon af- 
 terward was disappointed in finding that Paul was hot 
 John, ajftd, that Corinth was not Warwick.' 
 
 Christ has. taken our nature into heaven to represent us; 
 and has left u^ on earth with his nature to Represent him. 
 
 Worldly men will be true to t^eir principles ; and if we 
 were as true to, ours, the visits between the two parties 
 would be short and seldom. 
 
 A christian in the. world is Jiks a man transacting his 
 afiairs in the rain. He will not suddenly Ipave his client 
 because it rains ; ba* the moment the business is, done, he 
 
OO EEV. JNO. NEWTON'S EEMAKKS. 
 
 is off: as it is said in the Acts, " Being let go, they went to 
 their own company." 
 
 God's word is certainly a restraint ; but it is such a re- 
 straint as the irons which prevent children from getting int© 
 the fire. 
 
 ' God deals with us as we do with our children ; he first 
 SPEAKS, then gives a gentle stroke, at last a blow. 
 
 The religion of a sinner stg-nds on two pillars, namely, 
 what Christ did for us in his .flesh, and , what he performs 
 in us by his Spirit, Most errors arise from an attempt to 
 separate these two. 
 
 jyian is not taught any thing to purpose, till God becomes 
 his teacher, aiid then the glare of the w;orld is put out, and 
 the value of the soul rises in full view. A man's present 
 sentiments may not be accurate, but we make too much of 
 sentiments. We pass a field with a few blades, we call it 
 a field of wheat ; but here is no wheat ;. no, not in p'erfec- 
 tion, but wheat, is sown, and. full ears may be expected.. 
 
 Contrivers of systems on the earth are like contrivers of 
 systems in the, heavens ; where the sun and moon keep the 
 same course in spite of the philosophers.. 
 
 I endeavour to walk through the world as a physician 
 goes through Bedlam : the patients make a noise, pester 
 him with impertinence, and hinder him in his business ; but 
 he does the best he can, and so gets through. 
 
 A man always in society is one always on the spend ; on 
 the other hand, a mere solitary is at his best but a candle 
 in an empty room. 
 
 If we were upon the watch for improvement, the com- 
 mon news of the day would furnish.it ; the falling of the 
 tower in Siloara, and the slaughter of the Galileans, were 
 the news of the day which our Lord improved. 
 
 The generality make out their righteousness by compar- 
 ing themselves with some others whom they think worse ; 
 thus a woman of the town, who was in the Lock Hospital, 
 was offended at a minister speaking to her as a sinner, 
 because she had never picked a pocket. 
 
THE SAFE ARRIVAL. 
 
 BY THE REV. H. B. HOOKER. 
 
 How could I stand and look on that broad expanse of 
 waters— on that gallant ship, and see the cloud of smoke, 
 and hear the booming gun, and give my own heart to the 
 gladness of that safe' return — how could I do it without ha- 
 ving my thoughts turn to eternity's great ocean, and the 
 safe arrival of a redeemed spirit in the haven of eternal 
 rest. The one most easily and naturally suggested the 
 other. 
 
 , Are there not in the heavenly world expectants of ar- 
 rivals from this ? Long had a large circle of relatives and 
 friends been turning their thoughts toward the homeward 
 bound ship. What a pleasant consummation of hope, 
 when the report of that gun told them that loved ones were 
 near ! And are not the ransomed of the Lord homeward- 
 bound as they " return and come to Zion ?" And are 
 there not loved ones, who" have gone before, waiting 
 for them upon the heavenly shores ? Have the celestial 
 inhabitants forgotten this world, so that they have not 
 thoughts of it, or expectations respecting being joined by 
 any of the beloved ones they left on earth ? Did not Paul's 
 converts, " his joy, and his crown, in the day of the Lord 
 Jesus," who reached Heaven before him, anticipate their 
 spiritual father's coming with gladness ? Have not pastors 
 and people, parents and children, severally rejoiced in the 
 prospect of welcoming to glory each other? If there is 
 joy in Heaven over a repenting sinner, there must also be 
 ihe joy of anticipating the safe arrival there. 
 
 And from what peril comes the safely arrived in Hea- 
 ven? I could not gaze on that ship, as she ploughed 
 peacefully through the calm waters of the Sound, witlioat 
 
100 THE SAFE AKEIVAL. 
 
 calling to mind the frowning skies she had elsewhere seen, 
 and the fierce winds and waves that had spent their fury 
 upon her. But now the .peril was over. She may drop her 
 anchor in peace and furl her sails in quietness. And the 
 safely arrived in Heaven — whence come they but from 
 scenes of danger ? In what jeopardy ha;d they been 
 through the snare of the fowler and the noisome pestilence 
 of sin ? How many angry waves roared around them, and 
 sought to swallow them up ? How often had fierce tempt- 
 ation assailed them, arid they were scarcely saved from to- 
 tal shipwreck ?' How closely had they often approached 
 the fatal breaker, and but just stieered clear of the sunken 
 rock ? Saved they were ; yet scarcely saved, such had 
 been their perils on life's stormy sea. 
 
 And JOYFUL ARE THE GREETINGS of the ncwly arrived in 
 Heavenl The long absent mariner is cheered as the dark 
 outline of his native coast appears, and the familiar head- 
 land and light-house remind him of his home ; is cheered 
 with the thoughtthat the glad welcomes of many lips and 
 many hearts shall soon be his. And how cordial the greet- 
 ings of the celestial inhabitants, ^hen the ransomed of the 
 Lord at last reach the heavenly shores ! With what looks 
 of love they gaze upon the new-comers to glory ! What 
 exulting sounds of welcome burst froni those countless mil- 
 lions of benevolent beings ! And above them all, and 
 sweeter than them all, the welcome of Him whose sovereign 
 grace has sustained the gift of eternal Ufe. What ra- 
 vishing music in his voice ! What fullness .of joy in his 
 presence ! 
 
 It is joy to the safely arrived in Heaven, that they 
 SHALL encounter THE STORMY SEA NO MORE. FarcwcU to low- 
 ering skies — to raging wind's and waves. Farewell to the 
 shoal and the breakers. To perils all, and hardships all, 
 farewell ! The heavenly home is gained- Tlie mariner 
 will go to sea no more. " Him that overcometh will 1 
 make a pillar in the temple of my God, and he shall go no 
 more out." 
 
T H E M: Y S 'f E R I d U S P E R S N A G E . 
 THE RIVAL CLA,SSMATES. 
 
 B¥ THE AMERICAN, -IN, LONDON. 
 
 » 
 
 The vernal skj)' tirorfe a lovely appe&rancei all nature was < 
 clad in hef gayest attire, the birds had collected in the 
 brancheSj and warbled their sweetest notes of prais'e to the 
 Creator, when Mellon, at hi&accustomed interval before sun- 
 set, had retired to a- virle-'elad arbbiir' adjoining his father's 
 summer-house, in the garden. Scarcely had he withdrawn 
 his thoughts from the rich and' v-ariegated landscape, and 
 opened his favoufite author! before his- attention was ar- 
 rested by a d^ep, startling sigh; followed by a shriek df a 
 female voice^^" help, help ! oh, help me !" was the cry, in 
 piercing accents. Mellon rush«dto the gate that led to the 
 public Mall, where his saw a female form, with phrensy de- 
 picted on her counfenane'e. She instantly pointed down the 
 public walk that fed into the' subut-lls of the city, and in a 
 broken and' trerriiilbus 1;ohe cried, "there's the robber." 
 Mellon- at the top of his' voice shouted to the gardener, to fly 
 for the riiffiari', and, with the celerity of a reindeer, he sca- 
 led the paling in his pursuit; but the robber soori disap^ 
 peared in the ■w^ilderness of London. In a few, moments 
 the gardener returned, bearing her robe, chrdnorneter, and 
 reticle, which tho' ruffian in the chase, had cast a^way. 
 The stranger was invited to the farriily munsion, when, 
 after many expressions of warmest tlianksgiving to Mel- 
 lon, for the timely aid which he had rendered her in an 
 hour of distress aiid peril, she was handed into a coach, 
 and sent to her lodgings in London. The next morning 
 a servant in livery appeared at the gate, and begged to see 
 
102 THE MYSTERIOUS PERSONAGE. 
 
 the young gentleman, who the last evening had befriended 
 the lady who was robbed — Mellon was called, and pre- 
 sented with a note, and was desired to return an answer. 
 The letter contained expressions of thanks to Mellon, and to 
 the Divine Benefactor, for the providential care that had 
 been manifested towards her, in an hour of alarm ; and 
 expressed a wish that she might not be denied the privi- 
 lege of seeing him before she left London ; as her father, a 
 clergyman of Edinburgh, would soon return, from his visit 
 to a provincial town, to Scotland^ In reply, Mellon return- 
 ed a note, assuring the lady that he would take the plea- 
 sure of calling at her lodgings the next morning. The 
 next day he fulfilled his pledge. The mysterious lady 
 humbly begged Mellon's pardon, for soliciting the un- 
 merited favour of a call from him, as a stranger ; she 
 trusted that the peculiar circumstances of the occasion 
 would constitute an apology. " To you sir," she said, with 
 much emphasis and emotion, " under God, I owe the pre- 
 servation pf my life ; heaven has made you my temporal 
 saviour ; had you not appeared at the gate, as you did, 
 my frighted spirit must have fled forever." She then said 
 that she held in Jier hand a miniature of her lamented bro- 
 ther, who fell in battle, while an officer, in his country's 
 cause, and whichj next to her own life, was the most "valu- 
 able treasure she possessed; and earnestly begged his 
 acceptance qf it, as a small token of her gratitude to the 
 Supreme Benefactor, for interposing a human arm for her 
 rescue, in a time of imminent alarm. Mellon took the minia- 
 ture — it was an exquisitely beautiful and costly piece of 
 workmanship ; its frame was solid gold, set with large and 
 variegated gems. Returning it to the lady, Mellon observed, 
 it would be impossible for him, from conscientious scruples, 
 to receive her proffered gift, as while it was invaluable to 
 her, it would be comparatively valueless to him ; besides, 
 he certainly needed no, memento, to keep iif lively recollec- 
 tion her signal peril and escape. She then presented him 
 with a costly jewel, a diamond ring entreating him not to 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PERSONAGE. 103 
 
 decline its acceptance, as the smallest mark of thanks she 
 possibly could show. Mellon replied he, must he allowed 
 to decline, and hoped she would not attribute his conduct 
 to any feeling of obstinacy; after the customary salu- 
 tations, he took his leave. Almost immediately on his 
 departure, servants in noblemen's livery were sent ai'ter 
 him, to entreat him to accept the diamond jewel — but Mel- 
 lon peremptorily declined receiving it. 
 
 Mellon returned and retired to his study, but the scenes of 
 the past day forbade his fixing his mind upon his books — the 
 day wore away and he retired to rest, but the same excit- 
 ing topics of his day dreams, occupied his night visions ; 
 he awoke from his slumbers as from a pleasurable trance. 
 The whole appearance of the mysterious lady was truly 
 extraordinary — ^her elegance of form and features, her 
 dignified and graceful manners, as well as her great com- 
 mand of language and costly habiliments, all betokened 
 high birth, and accomplishments of uncommon order. 
 
 Days passed away before the half-smitten Mellon could 
 dissipate from his thoughts the tragical scene, and the 
 image of this wonderful personage. Had not Mellon's 
 h^rt already been won by another, to whom he had plight- 
 ed his faith and hand ; so youthful and blooming, so beau- 
 tiful and accomplished, so graceful and winning in her de- 
 portment was she ; no doubt he would have been desirous 
 of becoming better acquainted with her ; but his heart was 
 fixed, and he'shrunk at the thought of having, his attention 
 drawn from her, who for years had been the single object 
 of his highest ambition. 
 
 Mellon had graduated at the University with the first 
 honours ; during his whole course, his friend. Clifton had 
 been a powerful competitor for that classic prize, which 
 Mellon, by dint of industry, labour, and indomitable perse- 
 verance, had won — and what was a far greater trial to 
 Clifton, Mellon had not only sought and obtained the prize 
 of honour at the Univei-sity, but had won the heart of a 
 
104 THE MYSTERIOUS PERSONAGE. 
 
 daughter of the Earl of * * *, upon whojiij unfortunately, 
 he had' fixed his affection. . 
 
 This double success ■\yhich his rival had obtained made 
 Clifton feel that all that could ni8,k!e life desirable was 
 now buried' in one common gravei. The deep melan- 
 choly and, cha/grin with which; Clifton's mind was de- 
 pressed; though he awarded to Mellon, as a profound 
 scholar and a firm friettd and gentleman, the highest meed 
 of praise, yet he fixed.his heart on, gaining the hand of fhe 
 Earl's daughter.by an attempt to prove Mellon treacherous 
 to her, or by taking his.life. Tosecureihis object, various 
 plans which, he. had formed, having proved' utterjy abor- 
 tive, Jie resolved on the .inglorious deed of taking Mellon's 
 life. He accordingly, with, a,. firm,, cool-blooded,, fiendlike 
 purpose, repaired- to Mellon's study, to shed his blood. The 
 night selected for, the deed, proved dark and lowering — 
 Clifton repaired to the spot, and h.3,d not been long in arjir 
 bush before Mellon, at his usual time of attending aneven^ 
 ing service, approached the place of peril. Clifton's heart, 
 hot with rage, grasped his , double-barrelled weapon of 
 death, which, at both locks, missed fire— the God who 
 shielded the three Worthies from the flame of the seven- 
 fold heated furnace, baffled the design of Clifton. Though 
 fell revenge, like a strong man armed, had taken full posr 
 session of Clifton's soul, he could not reflect on this attempt 
 upon t)i.e life of an innocent friend without stings and 
 throes of remorse, that shook his already wasted frame. 
 As, like Cain, he fled from the place which he purposed to 
 crimson with the life-blood of his fellow, to a distant glen, 
 where he might give vent to the throbs of passion that agi- 
 tated his breast ; the very stars that looked down from the 
 vault of heaven, seemed to him like angels' eyes, ''that 
 took cognizance of his foul deed ; the winds that whist- 
 led around him, but voices that proclaimed his crime ; 
 and every stirring leaf seemed but a precursor of the 
 avenger of blood. No pencil can desctibe the feelings of 
 this deluded rnan — feelings which weighed down his spirit, 
 
THE MYSTERIOUS PERSONAGE. 105 
 
 and which, like a cancer, preyed upon his heart. To calm 
 his perturbation he speedily left the kingdom, and spent 
 some time on the Continent ; but as well might he attempt 
 to fly from his shadow, by a change of place, as to throw 
 off the deep stains of guilt which were upon his soul. Not 
 long had he been in Paris, before his" feelings of revenge 
 revived, and like smothered volcanic flame, broke forth 
 with redoubled intensity. Oppressed with the feeling that 
 all on earth, desirable — that all his fond prospects of 
 happiness were forever at an end, he again formed the 
 settled purpose to make another desperate attempt upon 
 Mellon's life. . In this excited stdte of feelings, with the 
 spirit of an assassin and. suicide, he armed himself with a 
 blade, brace of pistols and pdison, and repaired to London. 
 'He ■selected the time to perform the fatal deed, when 
 Mellon was accustomed to unbend his mind from mental 
 labour, either to engage in exercise in his father's garden, 
 or retire to ah arbour, and read aloud for amusement. He 
 entered the gate v?ith a smile, and embraced Mellon with 
 ■greetings of friendship ; when, to his utter disappointment, 
 he met a mutual .friend and classmate of his and Mellon. 
 Such were the warm salutations of Mellon and hi* class- 
 mate on his arrival — so happy dids Mellon appear in view 
 of a life of usefulness and glory ; and more than all, such 
 were his marked sympathy for Clifton in his feeble state of 
 health, ofl'ering to leave his studies, and spend the season 
 with him in the isles of the Baltic, that he totally dis- 
 armed Clifton of that settled malice which he had long che- 
 rished. The next day Clifton returned to his father's house, 
 with inexpressible mortification for his fiend-rlike purposes, 
 and resolved to abandon all malevolence towards his unof- 
 fending friend. "Butthis resolution was ma;de too late ; dis- 
 ease had long prfeyed upon his frame and shattered his 
 nervous syslemj and death had marked him as his victim. 
 Not many weeks passed before he was seized with a vio- 
 lent disease, which in a few days brought him to the por- 
 
106 THE MYSTERIOUS PERSONAGE. 
 
 tals of the tomb. A council of physicians was called, who 
 pronounced his disease incurable. 
 
 On receiving this alarming intelligence, he dispatched 
 a messenger to his injured friend, begging hira to hasten 
 to his dying couch, if he would see him again in this 
 world. 
 
 Mellon, not knowing the perils- to which his life had 
 been exposed by the malice of Clifton, returned with the 
 messenger to the bed side of his friend. On his arrival 
 Clifton ordered the room instantly to be vacated, and a 
 guard to be placed at the door, with orders that no one 
 should enter. This done, he made a full and undisguised 
 disclosure of his settled malice, and the repeated attempts 
 he had made to shed his blood. He assured Mellon that he 
 had, at a vast sacrifice of gold and jewels, procured the 
 services of the brightest star of the London Theatres, " The 
 Mysterious Personage," to fain herself robbed, etc., as alrea- 
 dy related — thus to convince" the Earl's daughter, whom 
 Mellon had engaged to marry, that he was receiving pre- 
 sents from other ladies, and that his professed love to the 
 Earls daughter was insincere— that, by this means Clifton, 
 as a rival, might supplant Mellon. 
 
 With no ordinary emotion, Mellon listened to this tale of 
 wrong, from the dying lips of Clifton — this was a scene for 
 a painter. A long and touching silence ensued ! When 
 Clifton exclaimed, " Mellon, my injured friend ! my sins, 
 like frightful ghosts, stare me in the face — the agony of 
 my already crushed spirit is but a precursor of hell ! My 
 die is cast, my sun is just setting in a dreadful eclipse 1-^ 
 Pardon from Heaven I ask not, expect not — one boon only- 
 do I crave" — here his tongue faltered ; Mellon wiped from 
 his marble brow the cold damps of death — ^when Clifton 
 revived, and said in w. whisper — "I crave your forgive- 
 ness — though I /die in the rhorniilg of life, I have spent a 
 LONG life in unrestrained guilt and shame !" Mellon, with 
 a tenderness of spirit Ijiat cannot be imagined, said — 
 *• Dear Clifton, I freely forgive you !" and fell on his knees. 
 
MANNERS. lot 
 
 to ask the divine forgiveness and benediction for his 
 friend — when he arose all was over ; Clifton's spirit had 
 gone to the bar of the Judge 1 
 
 After the funeral solemnities were past, with a sorrow- 
 f\il heart Mellon returned liome ; admiring and adoring, 
 more than language can describe, that benignant Provi- 
 dence, which notices alike the falling sparrow and revolv- 
 ing world, and which had shielded him, from time to time, 
 from the tremendous peril to vvhich he had been exposedi 
 
 MANNERS. 
 
 Among the most valuable distinctions of manner are qui- 
 etness and decorum. Earnestness and decision should be 
 avoided, especially by the young; any thing like \'ehe- 
 mence of assertion or pressure of opinion indicates an 
 intolerance of the independent sentiments of your compan- 
 ion, and goes to disturb, that entire ease and freedom, of 
 which your society should in no wise deprive him. Com- 
 posure and ease should be most diligently sought by every 
 one who would acquire the character and impress of con- 
 dition. Easy manners are not only a mark of good breeding 
 as showing that one is accustomed to that style, and is " to 
 the manner born," but by their own influence, they cause 
 one to be liked ; for their effect is to put others at their 
 ease in your company, and in that way, make them feel 
 pleasure and consequent gratitude and affection. But ease 
 should never luxuriate into negligence, for that, by showing 
 contempt, is always insulting. Young men, very often, in 
 their attempts to seem easy, run to this extreme and be- 
 come disgusting. The most rational manners are those 
 which render people most comfortable and make the con- 
 duct of intercourse the least arduous. 
 
SYRACUSE. CM. 
 
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SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 HIPPOTAMUS, OR BEHEMOTH. 
 
 Job xl. 15. " Behold now Behemoth, which I have made." — 
 The name hippotamus signifies the river-horse. His head 
 is broad'; his muzzle enlarged; lips very thick ; from his 
 lower jaw four large pointpd teeth project; his tusks are 
 formidable; skin thick; legs very short ; four toes on his 
 feet invested with small hoofs ; and his tail short. The 
 description in the book of Job of behemoth exactly applies 
 to the hippotamus, making a little allowance for oriental 
 poetical imagery. 
 
 Animals of this kind inhabit the large and shady rivers 
 of Africa from the Niger to the Beng, near the Cape of 
 Good Hope ; they are found in the Nile, in that portion of 
 it which traverses Upper Egypt ; and also in the fens and 
 lakes of Ethiopia. They are timid and sluggish on land. 
 When pursued they betake themselves to the water, plunge 
 in, arid walk on the bottom, quite at" their ease, though 
 1 
 
114 THE PASCHAL LAMB. 
 
 often constrained to rise to the surface for breath. During 
 the night they leave the rivers, and feed on sugar canes 
 rushes, millet, rice, etc. Of these they consume great 
 quantities. This animal, when full grown, will weigh from 
 five to six thousand pounds, a great proportion of which 
 consists of fat, which is reckoned particularly delicious. 
 Such is the veneration in which he is held, that the Negroes 
 of Western Africa consider him a local deity. 
 
 THE PASCfiAL LAMB. 
 
 BY MRS. E. M. SHELDON. 
 
 Long and weary years had the Israelites passed in bon- 
 dage ; but He, whose over-ruling power had brought good 
 out of evil, in causing the wickedness of Joseph's brethren 
 to be the means of temporal salvation to his father's house, 
 was now preparing the means to release his chosen people 
 from the hand of their oppressors. Already had the Lord 
 sent various and dreadful plagues upon the land of Egypt, 
 even to darkness that could be felt, and still was the heart 
 of Pharaoh hardenvd Again the mandate of God went 
 forth. The last plague was about to descend upon the 
 devoted heads of the Egyptians. Silent preparations for 
 departure were made by those who had groaned in bitter- 
 ness of spirit under the cruelties of heartless task-masters ; 
 and visions of freedom inspired -their woe- worn hearts with 
 vigor. 
 
 The aged patriarch gazed upon his children, and with 
 up-raised hands blessed God, that though his bones might 
 lie in the wilderness, to tKem the promise was to be fulfil- 
 led — and the mother wept as she pressed her infant to her 
 bosom. Evening came. The setting sun glared fearfully, 
 and left, as if in wrath, the earth in darkness. As the last 
 rays gleamed on the low dwellings of the Israelites, the 
 
THE PASCHAL LAMB. 115 
 
 blood of the slaughtered lamb, the sign to the destroying 
 
 angel, sprinkled the lintel — blessed pledge of safety to the 
 
 inmates. Hastily, and with bitter herbs, the last repast 
 
 was eaten ; and while the Egyptians mourned over their 
 
 slain, Moses led forth the- numerous hosts of the Lord's 
 
 chosen. 
 
 * * *■##*■* * 
 
 Ages on ages passed. In that promised land a gorgeous 
 temple reared its front — emblem of the wealth and 
 greatness of the nation that had wrought as slaves in 
 EfYpt ; and yearly the inhabitants gathered to its portal 
 to eat the Passover, in glad. remembrance of the manner 
 in which they were freed from the house of bondage ; 
 while with an eye of faith they looked forward to the co- 
 ming of the Great Antitype, whose blood should be shed 
 for the remission of their sins. The seventy weeks, pro- 
 phesied by one of their seers, were accomplished, and they 
 looked with eager expectation for the coming of a Monarch, 
 clothed in all the splendor of the kings of the earth — one, 
 who with mighty armies, ehould subdue all nations. Vain 
 dreams ! Unworthy thoughts of the Majesty of heaven ! 
 
 The day of the feast drew nigh ; and He, whose birth 
 called forth the song of Glory to God in the Highest, frons 
 an angelic choir ; and to whom the wise men of the East 
 bowed in adoration — the "carpenter's son," the despised 
 " Nazarene," came up to Jerusalem to keep the Passover 
 with his disciples. The last supper — the agony in the gar- 
 den — the death on the cross ! — what language, except that 
 of Inspiration, can describe ? Then the vail of the temple 
 was rent in twain. No more was the lamb to be slain for 
 sacrifice, as a type of Him who would give himself an of- 
 fering for sin. Behold him on the cross ! He pours out his 
 blood for our sins — for without the shedding of blood there 
 is no remission. He bows his head and exclaims, " It is 
 FINISHED." Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the 
 sin of the world ! 
 
ADVICE TO HOUSEWIVES. 
 
 Use hard soap to wash your clothes, and soft to wash 
 your floors. Soft soap is so slippery that it wastes a good 
 deal in washing clothes, 
 
 Britannia ware should be first rubbed gently with a wool* 
 en cloth and sweet oil ; then washed in warm suds and 
 rubbed with soft leather and whiting. Thus treated, it 
 will retain its beauty to the last. 
 
 New iron should be very gradually heated at first, after 
 it lias become inured to the heat, it is not as likely to crack. 
 
 It is a good plan to put new earthen ware into cold 
 water, and let it heat gradually until it boils, then cool again. 
 Brown earthenware, particularly, may be toughened in this 
 way. A handful of rye or wheat bran thrown in while it 
 is boiling, will preserve the glazing, so that it will not be 
 destroyed by acid or salt. 
 
 Clean a brass kettle before usjng it for cooking, with salt 
 and vinegar. > 
 
 The oftener carpets are shaken the longer they will wear ; 
 the dirt that collects under them grinds out the threads. 
 
 If you wish to preserve fine teeth always clean them 
 thoroughly after you have eaten your last meal at night. 
 
 Do not wrap knives and forks in woolens. Wrap them 
 in good strong paper. Steel is injured by lying in woolens. 
 
 Suet keeps good all the year round, if chopped and pack- 
 ed down in a stone jar, covered with molasses. 
 
 Barley straw is the best for beds ; dry husks slit into 
 shreds are better than straw. 
 
 Brass andirons should be cleaned, done up in papers, and 
 put in a dry place during summer. 
 
 When molasses is used in cooking, it is a prodigious im- 
 provement to boil and skim it before you use it. It takes 
 out the unpleasant raw taste and makes it almost as good as 
 sugar. Where molasses is used much for cooking, it is 
 well to prepare one or two gaUons in this way at a time. 
 
COST OF GEMS AND DIADEMS. 
 QUEEN VICTORIA'S CROWN. 
 
 BY PHILO, 
 
 In the natural history of fossils, a common name for all 
 precious stones, of which there are two classes; the pellu- 
 cid, and semi-pellucid. • 
 
 The pellucid gems are compound bodies, extremely hard, 
 and of great lustre. The semi-pellucid gems are composed 
 of crystalline matter, slightly debased with earth. 
 
 The knowledge of gems depends on observing their 
 hardness and color. Their hardness is commonly allowed 
 to stand in the following order ; the diamond the hardest of 
 all ; then the ruby, sapphire, jacinth, emerald, amethyst, 
 garnet, carneol, chalcedony, onyx, jasper, atgate, porphyry, 
 and marble. This difference, however, frequently varies. 
 
 In point of color, the diamond is valued for its transpa- 
 rency ; the ruby, for its purple ; the sapphire, for its blue ; 
 the emerald, for its green ; the jacinth, for its orange ; the 
 amethyst-carneol, for its carnation ; the onyx, for its tawny ; 
 the jasper, agate,and porphyry, for their vermillion,. green, 
 and variegated tints ; and the garnet, for its transparent 
 red. 
 
 All th3se gems are sometimes found colored and spotted, 
 and sometimes limpid and colorless; in which case, they 
 are known from each other by degrees of hardness. 
 
 The semi-pellucid gems are frequently mentioned, on ac- 
 count of the 'figures, portraits, and emblems engraved on 
 them, in both ancient and modern times. 
 
 It is said that the largest diamond knowii in the world, 
 is now in possession oi the king of Portugal. 'It is in its 
 rough state, being the size of a pigeon's egg, and has befen 
 
118 COST OP GEMS AND DIADEMS. 
 
 valued at the enormous sum of fifty-seven millions of 
 pounds sterling, or $280,000,000, although it is the opinion 
 of many jewellers that it is a white topaz. 
 
 A. brief description of the crown jewels of Victoria, the 
 reigning queen of England, may, perhaps, here be interest- 
 ing. The crown itself weighs about three pounds, and is 
 composed of hoops of silver, enclosing a cap of blue velvet. 
 These hoops are studded with precious stones ; and upon 
 the crown is a ball, set also with precious stones, and sur- 
 mounted with brilliants in the form of a Maltese cross. 
 The rim is flowered with Maltese crosses and th.e fleurs- 
 de-lis. In the centre of the large Maltese cross is a splendid 
 sapphire, and in front is the immense ruby once worn by 
 Edward the Black Prince. Numerous other precious stones, 
 rubies, pearls, and emeralds, are intermingled with these 
 gems down to the rim, which is formed of ermine. The 
 following is its estimated value ; 
 
 Twenty daimonds round the circle, .l,500Zt each, • 30,0007. 
 
 Two large centre diamonds, 2,000/!. each, 4,000 
 
 Fifty-four smaller diamonds, placed at the angles of the former, 100 
 
 Four crosses, each composed of twenty- five diamonds, 12,000 
 
 Four large diamonds on the top of the crosses, 40,000 
 
 Eighteen diamonds contained in the fleur-de-lis, 10,000 
 
 Eighteen smaller diamonds, contained in the same, 2,000 
 
 Pearls, diamonds, &c., on the arches and crosses 10,000 
 
 Gne hundred and forty-one diamonds on the mound, 500 
 
 Twenty-six diamonds on the upper cross, 3,000 
 
 Two circles of pearls about the rim, 800 
 
 About $550,000 or 111,0002, 
 The Imperial Crown, which was made for the coronation 
 of George IV., is placed in the Tower of London, within a 
 bell glass, upon a stand, which is made to revolve, so that 
 the crown may be fully viewed. This exuberant speci- 
 men of rich jewellery is about fifteen inches in height, and 
 the arches, which rise almost to a point, instead of the 
 inelegant flatness of the former crown, are surmounted 
 wii h ;ui orb of brilliants, seven inches in circumference. 
 Upon this is placed a Maltese cross of brilliants, set 
 
THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH. 119 
 
 transparently, with three pearls at its extremities, of remark- 
 able size and beauty. The arches are wreathed and 
 fringed with diamonds. Four Maltese crosses, formed of 
 brilliants also, surround the crown, with four large dia- 
 mond flowers in their intervening spaces. In the centre of 
 the back cross, is the ancient ruby which wg,s worn at 
 Cressy and Agincourt by the Black Prince and Henry V. ; 
 whilst that of the front cross is adorned with an unique 
 sapphire of the purest azure, more than two inches long 
 and one inch broad. The ermine is surmounted with a 
 band of large diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies, 
 and immediately under these is a fillet of beautiful pearls. 
 The cap is of dark crimson velvet. The estimated worth 
 of the crown is 150,000^., and the expenses upon it, prepara- 
 tory to the coronation, amounted to about 50,000^. or 60,000Z. 
 over and above the addition of the inestimable sapphire. 
 Since the attempt made to sieze the crown by Blood, in 
 Charles the Second's reign, no one is sufiered to inspect 
 the Regalia, unaccompanied by a warder; and there is 
 likewise a «entinel stationed at the entrance. 
 
 "THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH." 
 
 By A. A. L. 
 
 I SAW a man, the slave of Avarice. The pursuit of gold 
 was the object of his thoughts, the desire of his heart, the 
 effort of his life. The magnificence of the firmament— the 
 loveliness of the landscape— the beauty of the morning and 
 the sereneness of the evening — were all lost upon him. If 
 Benevolence pleaded for the heathen, he looked upon her 
 earnest countenance, and marked her fiowing tears, with- 
 out emotion. If Philanthropy advocated the education of 
 the neglected and the protection of the outcast, he had 
 
120 THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH. 
 
 feeling. Wealth was his supreme idol. I beheld him re- 
 signed to its debasing sway. Age came on, but it brought 
 no wisdom. Affliction followed, but it taught no repent- 
 ance. Death approached, but it disturbed not his worldly 
 anxieties. I studied his character. I expostulated with 
 him. It w^is utterly in vain. The law of Providence was 
 already executed : the spirit was deadi The social virtues 
 had become extinct. The ashes of the grave covered his 
 heart. And I turned away and wept, to think, that even on 
 earth, human depravity should inflict on itself the dreadful 
 penalty announced in the words, " The wages op sin is 
 
 DEATH !" 
 
 I saw a man under the curse of Intemperance. Genius 
 had enriched his intellect with its choicest treasures, and 
 Learning had added its stores to them. Bacchus was his 
 only god. If Heathenism had constituted him one of many 
 deities, he had chosen him as his sole sovereign. He was 
 surrendered to the fearful habit of intoxication. I looked 
 on his downward course, and interposed to save him. The 
 eye of his spirit was glazed — the ear of his spirit was deaf — 
 the voice of his spirit was silent. I gave him a parting 
 sigh — for he was inwardly dead — and he stood among his 
 fellows, with the sentence fulfilled, — " The wages of ^in is 
 
 DEATH !" 
 
 I saw the scenes of Revelation pass before me. The 
 mysterious cross grew radiant in my vision, and the ex- 
 alted throne rose high above me. The world of light 
 invited my fancy and confirmed my faith. Then came the 
 world of perdition, I knew it did not belong to the original 
 creation. The sun had no splendors, and the stars no soft 
 lustre for it. I felt, that it had been created for a special 
 purpose. Man has no name for it ; God calls it Hell. I 
 heard sad voices speaking from its torments, and the bur- 
 den of its awful tones was, " The wages of sin is death !" 
 
 I gathered a lesson from these scenes : that lesson is— 
 Sin and death are one ! 
 
FIRMNESS REWARDED. 
 
 BY MISS M. J. WHEELER. 
 
 In the beautiful flourishing village of N , there resi- 
 ded, a few years ago, a family in affluent circumstanpes ; 
 
 it consisted of -Mr. and Mrs. M and their only child, 
 
 Ellen. Modest and winning in her manners, and amiable 
 in her disposition, Ellen was the idol of her parents, and, as 
 might be expected, no expense was spared to gratify her 
 wishes, and to promote her education. 
 
 When about fifteen years of age, she was sent to the city 
 of N. Y. to a boarding school, from which it was pre- 
 sumed she would return hometh^pride of her parents, and 
 the admiration of all her acquaintances. At the school, 
 however, to which she was sent, she not only gained such 
 knowledge as is " profitable to the life which now is," but 
 she also received that instruction, which, accompanied by 
 the Divine blessing, had the effect to turn off her thoughts 
 from following vanity, to the acquisition of the pearl of 
 great price. Her letters to her parents soon presented an 
 obvious change in her views and feelings. This unex- 
 pected discovery, was marked by her fond father with pain- 
 ful solicitude. To see his lovely daughter thus infatuated, 
 was to him an occasion of deep regret. And he resolved 
 to correct what he called " her erroneous notions." He 
 accordingly ordered her immediate return home, that, as 
 he said, "she might be cured of her melancholy." 
 
 She accordingly left, with reluctance, the place in which 
 she liad spent a happy and memorable year, §incerely re- 
 gretted by all her school associates, and followed by the 
 prayers, of many Christian hearts. 
 
 The troubled and anxious father, received his daughter 
 aflectionately, but he was heard to say, " Well, after all 
 
J 22 FIRMNESS EEWABDED. 
 
 the high hopes and expectations we have formed for our El- 
 len, it seems she is to be accomplished with nothing but re- 
 ligion ! But we will do what we can to counteract the 
 gloomy tendency of her mind." For this purpose he en-n 
 gaged the best masters in music and dancing, from the city, 
 to attend her. Parties were entertained, and fashionable 
 excursions made to divert her mind, and among other in- 
 ducements, her father offered her a splendid gold watch, 
 " if she would give up her religious notions." But she 
 modestly, but resolutely, refused his allurements, her heart 
 was not in them, and they afforded her no satisfaction. But 
 when the sabbath came, and in compliance ^tvith custom, 
 the family resorted to church, then the beaming eye of El 
 len, showed undissembled joy ; and returning from thence 
 she was all animation ii? pointing out such expressions of 
 the speaker, as particularly impressed her mind. "Oh," 
 
 she would say, " I think Mr. L preaches with more 
 
 zeal and affection than he used to, or else I can understand 
 
 better than I once did." " Oh, my child," said Mr. M , 
 
 as he dashed a tear from his eye, " you talk about things 
 which it is not expected that you should understand. It 
 will be time enough for you to think about a preparation 
 for death by and by, now is the time to enjoy yourself. We 
 'all MEAN WELL my dear, I think that's enough." Mr. and Mrs. 
 
 M found all their efforts unavailing to turn aside their 
 
 daughter from that path which she found to be one of plea- 
 santness, and peace, — her heart was fixed, and she became 
 deeply desirous that her parents should become partakers 
 of the same happiness that she enjoyed. Often in some 
 remote spot, the eye of Jehovah beheld the pious Ellen in 
 earnest supplication for the conversion of her deluded pa- 
 rents. She well knew how deeply their hearts were en- 
 thralled in the service of a vain, and transitory world, for- 
 getful of their obligations to their Creator, and careless of 
 futurity. But she hoped, and believed, that the time would 
 arrive, when they would become sensible of their danger- 
 ous condition, and turn from the error of their ways. Hap- 
 
THE STORY OF A HUNTER. 12S 
 
 pily for her, she had not long to encounter the tide of oppo- 
 sition. 
 
 She sometimes succeeded in persuading her parents to 
 accompany her to the house of prayer. Convictions of 
 truth sometimes assailed their hearts, and though they 
 strove hard to resist its. influence, they were often constrain- 
 ed to confess to each other, that all was not right in their 
 case. " We have formed various schemes of happiness for 
 
 our dear Ellen," said Mr. M -, " but they have been in 
 
 vain, and I cannpt understand how she can keep aloof from 
 those pleasures which young people in general so highly 
 prize." " My dear," replied Mrs. M " that our daugh- 
 ter is far happier than we can make her, by all the means 
 we possess, there can be no doubt. Let us look to the 
 source from whence she professes" to derive her enjoyment; 
 let us learn of our dear child ths way to be happy." These 
 conversations were always accompanied by that deep feel- 
 ing and interest which forebodes happ3' results, as is proved 
 in this case, for a short time only elapsed before both her 
 parents became happily converted, and this might truly be 
 called a pious, and happy family. Perfect harmony, and 
 union of sentiment, ajid feeling, bound their renovated 
 hearts together, as with a three-fold cord, which death it- 
 self can have no power to sever. 
 
 The lovely Ellen, is now the happy wife of a devoted 
 minister of the gospel. 
 
 THE STORY OF A HUNTER. 
 
 Tub following story comes to us from a friend who actu- 
 ally heard it related by a person, in the mariner herein de- 
 scribed ; 
 
 About thirty-five years ago, I moved into this country 
 which was then nearly a wilderness; no settlements hav- 
 ing been made excepting in a few places on the borders of 
 the lake. I arrived in the spring of the year, and commeiic- 
 
124 THE STORY OP A HUNTEB. 
 
 ed a clearing on the farm J now occupy. By Tail I had built 
 a good log house, and temporary stables for my cattle — had 
 put into the ground ten acres of wheat, and looked forward 
 to the ensuing year for the reward of my labors. My wife 
 and child were all my family ; neighbors there were none, 
 nearer than five or six miles : so that visiting or amuse- 
 ments were entirely out of the question. You may there- 
 fore suppose that on the approach of a long northern v\^in- 
 ter I had ample time to gratify my love for hunting, for 
 which I had a great fondness. Winter had set in early, 
 and all my cares vvere confined to keeping a sufficient stock 
 of wood on hand for fuel, which you may imagine was not 
 difficult when the trees stood at my door, — and taking care 
 of the few cattle of which I was then owner The fore 
 part of December, having finished my morning's work, I 
 took down my gun, and told my wife that I would, on m^ 
 return, please her with the sight of a fat deer. Deer are 
 now very plenty in this part of the country ; but they were 
 so much so, that there was little merit or difficulty in a- 
 chieving what I had promised. 
 
 I. took my departure about a north-west course from my 
 cabin, which led me direct into the forest. The snow was 
 about a foot deep, and the wind blowing hard frofa the 
 north, it drifted much in the openings ; yet this I thought 
 was in my favor, as the noise made among the trees by the 
 wind prevented the game from hearing my approach in 
 " still hunting." But I was mistaken in my calculations ; 
 for I had traveled five or six miles from home and had not 
 got a shot at a single deer, ihough I had seen numbers of 
 them, but they were always on the run, and at too great 
 a distance ; and all the traces which I saw showed that 
 they had scarcely walked during the day. I was then a 
 young hunter, but I have since learned that this animal is 
 always on the move and generally runs throughout winter 
 days ; probably from the apprehension of danger from 
 wolves which follow its scent through the snow. 
 
THE STORY OF A HUNTER. 125 
 
 At length I arrived at a large cedar swamp, on the edge 
 of which I was struck by the singular appearance of a 
 large stub, twenty-five or thirty feet high, with its bark off. 
 From its scathed surface, I had no doubt it was climbed by 
 raccoons or martins, which probably had also a den in it. 
 as from its appearance I judged it was hollow. The stub 
 at its base might have been seven or eight feet through ; 
 but eight or ten feet higher up, its size was much diminish- 
 ed, so that I could grasp sufficiently to ascend it, and ascer- 
 tain what was within. My gun and great- coat were de- 
 posited in a secure place, and being an expert climber, I 
 soon gained the top. As I anticipated, the stub was hollow, 
 the aperture being about two and a half feet in diameter. 
 The day, you will observe, was dark and cloudy, and look- 
 ing down the hollow, I fancied that 1 could see the bottom 
 at no great distance ; but having nothing to put in to as- 
 certain its depth, I concluded that I would try to touch the 
 " bottom with my feet. I therefore placed myself in the hole, 
 and lowered myself gradually, expecting every moment 
 that my foot would come in contact with some animal, or 
 the foot of the hollow ; but feeling nothing, I unthinkingly 
 continued letting myself down, until my head and hands, 
 and my whole person, were completely within the center 
 of the stub. 
 
 At this moment a sudden and strange fear came over 
 me ; I know not from what cause, for 1 am not naturally 
 timid — 'it seemed to affect me with a sense of suffocation 
 such as is experienced in dreams under the effect of night- 
 mare. Rendered desperate by rny feelings, I made a vio- 
 lent attempt to extricate myself, when the edges of the 
 wood to which I was holding treacherously gave way and 
 precipitated . me to the bottom of the hole, which I found 
 extended to a level with the ground. I cannot wholly ac- 
 count for it, but probably from the erect position in which 
 my body was necessarily kept so narrow a tube, and my 
 landing on my feet on a bed of moss, dried leaves, and other 
 soft substances, I sustained little or no injury from so great 
 
126 THE STORY OF A HUNTKE. 
 
 a fall ; nor were my clothes but little deranged in my de- 
 scent, owing, probably, to the smoothness of the surface 
 produced by the long and frequent passing of the animals 
 to and from their den — for a den I found it to be. 
 
 After recovering from my fright I had time to examine 
 the interior. All was dark ; and putting out my hands to 
 feel my way, they came in contact with the cold nose, and 
 then the fur, of some beast, which I immediately knew was 
 a half grown cub, or young bear. Continuing to examine, 
 I ascertained that there were three or four of those animals, 
 which, aroused by the noise made in my descent, came 
 around and smelt of me, uttering a mourning noise, taking 
 me at first, no doubt, for their dam ; but after a little ex- 
 amination, snuffing and snorting as if alarmed, they quiet- 
 ly betook themselves to their couch on the moss, and left 
 me to my own gloomy reflections. I knew they were too 
 young to do me any injury, but with that knowledge came 
 the dreadful certainty that the mother, whose premises I 
 had so heedlessly invaded, was quite a different personage, 
 and that my life would date but a short .period after she 
 arrived, as arrive she certainly would before many hours 
 could pass over my head. 
 
 The interior of the den grew more visible after my eyes 
 became accustomed to the darkness ; and aided by a little 
 light from the top, I discovered that the den was circular, 
 and on the ground was five or six feet in diameter, its cir- 
 cumference diminishing, at the height of seven or eight 
 feet, to a diameter of less than three, owing to the singular 
 formation of the trunk, as I have before remarked. All my 
 at; empts to reach the narrow part of the hollow, in the 
 hopes of working my way out, as a chimney sweep might 
 have done, were fruitless. My escape in this way, there- 
 fore, was impossible. To cut through the trunk a hole suf- 
 ficient to let out my body with a small pocket knife, the 
 only one I had, would have been the work of weeks and 
 even months, as from the examinations which I had made 
 of both the exterior and interior, I knew that it could not be 
 
THE STOEY OF ^ HUNTEK. 127 
 
 less than a foot thick. The knife was the only weapon 
 which I possessed, and a hug of my tremendous adversary 
 would deprive me of the power to use even so contempti- 
 ble an implement ; and even if I succeeded in killing the 
 bear — which was not to be expected — my case was equally 
 hopeless, for I should only exchange a sudden death for one, 
 if possiblf, even more horrid, a lingering one of famine and 
 thirst ; — for my tracks in the snow I knew were long since 
 covered by the drift, and there was no possibility of my 
 friends finding me, by searching in a wilderness of many 
 miles in circuit. 
 
 My situation was indeed hopeless, and desperate. As 
 the shades of evening were now fast approaching, I thought 
 of my cheerful honje ; my wife, seated by the fire with our 
 children in hfer arms, or preparing our evening meal, looking 
 out anxiously from time to time, expecting my return. 
 These and many more such thoughts rushed through my 
 'mind, and which way soever they were turned, you may 
 suppose that they were teeming with horror. At one time 
 I had nearly determined to wreak my feeling upon the cubs 
 by destroying them, but the v/anton and useless cruelty of 
 the act, as they could be of no service to me then, prevented 
 me. Yes, I would be merciful. Oh ! you know not how merci- 
 ful one is, when he feels that he himself would willingly be 
 an object of mercy from others. 
 
 Two hours had probably elapsed, and to me, two of the 
 longest that I ever experienced, when suddenly the little 
 light which had illuminated me from above was gone. 1 
 looked up; and could no longer see the sky. My ears, 
 which at the time were peculiarly sensitive, were assailed 
 with a low, growling noise, such as a bear makes on dis- 
 covering an enemy, and preparing for an attack. I thought 
 that my fate was at hand, as this was the mother descend- 
 ing to her cubs, having, by her acute organs of smell, dis- 
 covered that her den had been entered by some enemy. 
 From the time I had ascertained my true situation, I had 
 opened my knife and held it ready in hand for the encoun- 
 ter, come when it would. I now, therefore, braced myself 
 
I'iS THE STO|y OF A HUNTER. 
 
 for a death grapple with my terrible antagonist, feverishly 
 awaiting' her descent. 
 
 Bears always descend in the same manner as they as- 
 cend trees; that is, the head is always upward; conse- 
 quently, her most assailable, or, rather, least formidable 
 part was opposed to me. A thought quick as lightning 
 rushed through my mind, that escape was possible, and 
 that the be^r might be the means. . No time could be af- 
 forded, nor was necessary, for deliberation. 
 
 Just as she reached that part wher'e the hollow widened, 
 and where by a jump I could reach her, I made a desper- 
 ate spring and with both hands firmly caught hold of the 
 fur which covered her extremities, giving at the same time 
 a scream, which, in this close den, sounded a thousand 
 times louder than any human voice in the open air. The 
 bear, — and she was a powerful one, — taken by surprise^ 
 and unable to get at me, — frightened, too, at the hideous 
 and appalling noise which I made, scrambled for life up 
 the hollow. But my weight, I found, was an impediment 
 to her ; for when about half way up, I perceived that she 
 began to lag, and notwithstanding I continued to scream, 
 at length came to a dead stand, apparently not having 
 strength enough to proceed. Knowing that my life de- 
 pended on her going on, I instantly let go with the hand in 
 which I had my knife, driving it to the haft into her flesh, 
 SLTctd redoubling the.noise which I had already made. . Her 
 pain and fears gave her new strength, and by another ef- 
 fort she brought me once more to the light of day, at the 
 top of the stub ; nor did she stop there, to receive my thanks 
 for the benefit- which she had conferred on me, but hastily 
 descended tg the ground, and made her way with all speed 
 to the swamp. I sat for some time on the stub, out of 
 breath, and hardly crediting the reality of my escape. Af- 
 ter giving thanks to that Providence which had so wonder- 
 fully preserved me, I descended to the ground, found my 
 coat and gun where I had left them, and reached home, 
 after a fatiguing walk thi'ough the woods, about nine o'clock 
 in the evening. 
 
THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 
 
 BY MRS. E. A. COMSTOOK. 
 
 " 1 ha,ve seen the wicked in great power, and spreading 
 fiimself like a green bay tree, yet he passed away, and lo, 
 tie was not ; yea, I sought him, but he could not be found." 
 In the porch of a goodly stone mansion which overlook- 
 ed a spacious glebe, and substantial out-houses, stood John 
 &reen, their owner. The chilly wind played mid his long 
 gray locks that fell from under his fur cap, and his cunning 
 dark eyes peered through numerous mufflers. Unbending 
 Hs the pine tree beside him, and as green in the winter of 
 age, the old man defied the assaults of time, and grasped 
 life most lovingly. , The lantern in his hand swayed in the 
 blast, but there was no tremor of weakness in the grasp 
 that held it. It was a glorious night, and they who knew 
 him not might deem he stood there forgetful of - the wintry 
 chill, in joyous contemplation of a scene so fair : to look 
 upon the brilliant galaxy above, while every fibre thrilled 
 with adoration and love : to note the forest, clad in icy 
 mail, and glittering with fairy-like splendor beneath the 
 moon-beams : to listen to the rushing of a waterfall hawl 
 by, which, unfettered by the manacles of winter, leaped far 
 down into the snow-wreathed ravines. They erced wha 
 thought it. God spoke in vain through these his ministers. 
 The harmony of nature swept across his soul, but woke no 
 answering chord. The hymn of the freer^born cataract met 
 with no response. Shattered and mute in his breast lay "• the 
 harp of a thousand strings," placed there by divine love, 
 but trampled, neglected, and rended. He stood there be- 
 neath that arch of love, in the arrogance of prosperous un- 
 belief, with a heart full of malice towards one of the pur- 
 est of God's children. For fifty long years, he had been 
 amassing wealth, which gathered rapidly around him. 
 What need had he of other hope or stay in the world ? 
 
130 THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 
 
 Money was to him the only reality of life, all else was a 
 blank. Piety and virtue were a fable to him. Lite- 
 rature, taste, and genius, were but visionary dreams. 
 Nature had no poetry for him. In the forest, he saw 
 but cart-loads of timber; and in place of the glitter- 
 ing prisms, dollars and cents hung on every bough. The 
 cataract propelled his lucrative factory, and ground his 
 grain. The stars were pale beside the nightly-counted 
 heaps in his money-drawer. The moon shone far more 
 winningly, when a few months back, it lighted his teeming 
 harvest field. 
 
 This evening, however, his thoughts were concentrated. 
 His keen eye watched a smoke-wreath rising from the 
 foot of the hill on which his house stood. It came from 
 the lowly cot of widow Gray, and J. G. had vowed that 
 another eve should see it curling upwards no more. He 
 had an enormous wood-pile, and his eye flashed vrith sus- 
 picion as he watched the blue train's ascent. Striking the 
 floor angrily with his cane, the imperious man hamed 
 down the hill and knocked loudly at his tenant's door. 
 " Not budged yet ?" was his first salutation. 
 
 " I have had barely time to pack up a few necessaries," 
 replied the widow meekly, " and I have been remo\dng my 
 children to a warm shelter for the night." 
 
 " Yes," cried Biddy Moran, emerging from a dark corner, 
 " and a-sore task it has been to carry those little ones over 
 the frozen snow full two miles, to my cottage ; but, praised 
 be God, they are well cared for now. You have no chil- 
 dren, Squire, and it is well, for their father's sins would 
 curse them. Great and rich as you are, there is One great- 
 er. You are not so high He cannot reach you. The world 
 may bow to you, but there is one lone, feeble woman, who 
 dares to tell you that the widow's cry will be heard." 
 
 Cold and unflinching as a rock, J. G. received the reproof 
 of the indignant woman. Drawing his watch coolly from 
 his pocket, he bade them be quick, as the hoar would soon 
 -expire. No further spur than his presence was needed. 
 Casting a scornful look at their persecutor, Biddy passed 
 »out with an enormous load on her shoulders, followed by 
 
THE ELEVENTH HODH. 131 
 
 the death-struck widow, whose consumptive frame trem- 
 bled beneath the piercing night air. 
 
 J. G. locked the door with'^ the air of a conqueror, and, 
 without another look at the unfortunate widow, hastened 
 homeward; He paused again in the porch and smiled, for 
 the smoke-wreath curled upward no more. As he fastened 
 the hall door, the village clock struck eleven. 
 
 Poor and humble, Widow Gray seemed beneath the ma- 
 chinations of one so powerful and prosperous. Her hus- 
 band's father bad saved the life of J. G.'s elder brother. In 
 reward for his intrepidity, the grateful parents gave the little 
 farm so lately vacated to him and his descendants for life. 
 Under the excellent care of the Grays, it soon became a beau- 
 tiful and valuable spot. When the Squire succeeded to his 
 brother's possessions, he coveted this portion of the wide 
 demesne, and sighed as he counted the amount of rent lost 
 to him. As long as the son of his brother's preserver lived 
 he buried his regrets in his own bosom. No sooner had 
 his protecting arm fallen nerveless in the grasp of death, 
 than his invalid widow felt the weight of the covetous 
 hand that eventually banished her from the Eden so fondAy 
 cherished and well deserved. He had in vain endeavored! 
 to drive her off by a thousand petty persecutions. At 
 length a slight flaw in the writings gave a color of eight to 
 his proceedings. His might no one doubted. At seven in 
 the evening the widow was notified to depart before morn- 
 ing. J. G. wished the screen of night to conceal the suffer 
 ers from the sympathy of the villagers. 
 
 The long, wished for triumph had come. The key was 
 in his pocket, and on the morrow would be handed over to 
 one who would pay him ample rent. He sat down to his 
 desk with a sarcastic smile upon his lips. A mortgage lay 
 before him. He had a ruined man in his toils, and by that 
 midnight lamp he gloated over the villany that had evaded 
 the law, but stripped and crushed an early friend, the com- 
 panion of his boyhood. Who so bold as to accuse J. G. of 
 dishonesty? Where were the proofs? Did the injured 
 murmur? A suit for libel followed. So, hushed and re- 
 spectful, the crowd passed on, and did him homage. 
 
132 THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 
 
 The morning rose cloudless. The sun smiled cheerily 
 into the windows of Biddy Moran's cot, and its beams fell 
 caressingly on the dark locks of a young girl, who sat by a. 
 couch, holding the cold hand of her only parent. The wi- 
 dow had but left the Eden belpw to enter the gates of the 
 promised land. The dew of death w^as on her brow, and 
 her dying eyes Intentfy read the features of her child. At 
 that moment a carriage swept past the windows, and a 
 pang passed over the face of the girl. " Mary, dearest," 
 said the mother feebly, ," have you faith in God 1 Why does 
 yon equipage disturb you ?" " I pray for faith, mother," re- 
 plied, the girl ; " but is it not hard that he should prosper 
 thus, while we are bowed to the very dust ?" 
 
 " Do you remember, Mary, how Job endured to the end ? 
 Wait, dearest, patiently, hopefully, trustingly. God will 
 reveal himself. Let no revengeful thought enter your 
 heart. Would you exchange places with. J. G. ? Which, 
 think you, is the most blessed, this couch or yon diminisb- 
 iug carriage 1" 
 
 " No, oh no ! rather far would I lie helpless by your side 
 than share the splendor of our persecutor. Far more 
 blessed your hour of suffering, than his prosperity. I was 
 wrong, mother. , In my heart I called God unjust." 
 
 " It may be your lot, Mary, to live to see the smiting of 
 the roots of this ' green bay-tree.' Bring the Bible, love, 
 and read me the thirty-seventh psalm." 
 
 The girl obeyed her mother, and, as she read, the widow 
 frequently interrupted her, to impress the meaning and 
 consolation of the promises, deeply on her child's guileless 
 heart, 
 
 " Remember this day's lesson, Mary. An hour may come 
 when it ;\yill be forcibly brought before you, by its sad ful- 
 filmentj" 
 
 Exhausted by her long conversation, the invalid sank 
 fainting on her pillow, and her daughter's thoughts were 
 soon engrossed in those tendei^ offices which none can 
 wrench from the humble poor, or buy with earth's chattels. 
 With' her five loving children around her, that night the 
 
THE .ELEVENTH HOHK. 133 
 
 widow passed from mortality into eternal life. Happy, 
 unspeakably blessed, was her adieu to earth. Its joy- 
 oiisness effaced every doubt from the minds of her little 
 flock. 
 
 Where was J. G. during the parting hoiir ? In his office, 
 conning deeds and, mortgages. As he sat brooding over 
 them, the trampling of a horse attracted his attention, and 
 rising quickly, he opened the hall, door to salute the intru- 
 der. A young man advanced up the glebe hastily, and re- 
 spectfully doffing his hat, disclosed a countenance familiar 
 in its aspect to the old man, although it certainly was that 
 of a strainger. He received his guest with cautious civili- 
 ty, and ushering him into the office, awaited his errand. 
 With some embarrassment the youth pi'esented a letter, 
 which the Squire perused with a gradually lowering coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 " So," said he, returning the letter, " you are my sister's 
 only child. All the fine fortune my injudicious father be- 
 ^uieathed her has melted away, like last winter's snow, and 
 not a trace of it left. I early saw through your father, and 
 anticipated this wreck." 
 
 " Sir !" exclaimed the youth impetuously, " spare' my ho- 
 nored father. He is gone ; tread lightly on his grave. It 
 was no fault of his. Was it not by your advice that he 
 endorsed for your friend Sterling ? I know it was. You 
 have even now a hold on your friend's property. 
 
 " Boy,'' replied , the Squire, with a sardonic smile, " you 
 speak ignorantly. Sterling has no property, nor ever will 
 have. I cannot have a hold on what never existed. But 
 to this letter. Your mother asks me to continue your edu- 
 cation, broken up by the death of your father. Why, boy, 
 it would cost me hundreds to fit you for the bar. Think 
 not of it. Enter some merchant's service. Begin at the 
 bottom round of the ladder, and mount upwards. As for 
 your mother, if she is as expert with her needle now as in 
 her youth, she can render herself quite independent. There 
 is Mr. Aldrich, who wants a lad to run on errands"— 
 
 " Good evening, sir," interrupted the young man, vacat- 
 ing the room with great rapidity. 
 
134 THE ELEVENTH HODK. 
 
 " I shall not be troubled again very soon, I fancy, from 
 that quarter," soliloquized the old man, as he returned to 
 the desk, on which lay a bond extorted from Sterling, and 
 more than treble the amount of his sister's fortune. The 
 slice of his father's wealth, given to his sister, had long 
 since been returned to the residue now in the Squire's 
 pocket, by one of those Machiavelian manosuvres that ri- 
 valled the feats of the arch enemy himself. . 
 
 The bracing night breeze cooled the indignant fever in 
 the jroung man's cheek ; and when he alighted at the inn 
 door, the energy of anger had subsided into the despond- 
 ence of an ambitious, lofty spirit, fettered by poverty, and 
 wounded by malice. The kind-hearted landlady sighed, as 
 she marked his troubled eye and pallid cheek. She had 
 lately lost a son, of his age, and by the warmth of her sjTn- 
 pathy, soon gathered the cause of his depression. She con- 
 soled him, by happy auguries for the future ; and painted 
 the character of his uncle in true colors. She spoke of the 
 gentle Widow Gray, and the poor but generous Biddy Mo- 
 ran, who had succored a family in distress, although her 
 utmost industry procured but a few shillings a day. 
 
 Young Edgarton forgot his own disappointment in his 
 sympathy for the sufferers, and promised, on the morrow, 
 to attend the funeral of his uncle's injured tenant. 
 
 The cottage of Biddy Moran, on the ensuing day, was 
 filled with sympathizing hearts, which beat as warm and 
 true as though clad in costliest array, instead of the pro- 
 ducts of home industry and thrift. Edgarton's heart was 
 touched by the group of orphans who clung to their de- 
 parted parent's bier, as though its removal would rend anew 
 the holy ties so lately severed. The chastened brow of the 
 firstborn, who struggled with her grief, to support and 
 comfort the others, would have melted any heart but that 
 of J. G. 
 
 The last, heart-rending rite performed, the villagers se- 
 parated, in those solemn groups so generally formed on such 
 occasions. Edgarton lingered behind, to assist the bereaved 
 
THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 135 
 
 children over the uneven sod ; and, as he virhispered his- 
 sympathy to the mourners, the Clergyman grasped his, 
 arm gently, and inquired if he was related to the Squire. 
 With a blush he owned his 'affinity. 
 
 " I am rejoiced," said the good pastor, " to see the child 
 of my friend Edgartou. Your father and I were at the 
 same college. He was dear to me as my own brother. I 
 trust his son emulates his virtues." 
 
 The young man's cheek glowed, as he listened to this 
 well-deserved tribute to an honored father's memory. How 
 unlike the taunt so lately sent, like an arrow, through his 
 heart ! 
 
 " I thought," continued his friend, " that you must be his 
 son, from your resemblance to him. If you v/ill spend 
 some time with me, it would be highly pleasing to me, and 
 I trust not disagreeable to yourself." 
 
 Edgarton gratefully accepted the invitation, and they 
 were soon at the parsonage, which, overrun with clematis 
 and sweet-brier, seemed the abode of halcyon repose. Mrs. 
 Leslie and her daughters were patterns of hospitality, and 
 soon placed their guest at perfect ease. After supper, Mi 
 Leslie invited him into .his study, and showed him the las 
 letter received from his father. The youth perused i< 
 until, blinded by his tears, he was obliged to hear its con- 
 clusion from Mr. Leslie. It spoke freely of the embar- 
 rassments of the writer ; and was full of solicitude for his 
 " devoted Wife" and " noble boy ;" while it darkly hinted of 
 fraud and iniquity, in one who was sheltered iinder the arm 
 of law, bat open to the wrath of Divine Justice. 
 
 "You have, I doubt not, called on your uncle," said Mr. 
 Leslie. " I can imagine your reception. This affair of the 
 Grays is one of the blackest stains on his character. Such 
 base ingratitude, such treachery to an excellent brother's 
 memory 1 I spoke plainly to-day ; and, in my choice of a 
 text, was guided by the last lesson of an exemplary mother. 
 It was not till called to her death-bed, that I was aware of 
 her removal, from a home endeared to her by purest memo- 
 
136 THE ELEVENTH HOUK. 
 
 ries. Your uncle's cruel deed was quickly performed, and 
 in tlie secrecy of night, or I should have seen her pass my 
 door, which her shrinking diffidence prevented her enter 
 ing. Biddy Moran consents td my adopting Mary, whose 
 piety will have a beneficial effect upon my family." Her 
 two brothers I have provided for well. The younger girls 
 shall continue with Biddy, who deserves, and wishes it 
 Their schooling shall be well cared for. Now for your 
 self. I have no son ; will you permit me to act as youi 
 father ? With but little cost, 1 can gratify the wish of yoni 
 heart. I have a brother in Philadelphia, an upright, maa 
 and a successful counsellor. If agreeable to you, I will 
 write to him ; and if he returns a favorable answer, you 
 can inform your mother ; who, though she preferred your 
 father to myself, I highly respect. Good hight." 
 
 With mingled sensations, Edgarton followed the servaos 
 who lighted him to his room. The suffering of the preced 
 ing evening was forgotten ; and, as he reflected on the fu 
 neral sermon, he smiled at the indignation that had so late- 
 ly filled his heart. " Yes," said he, as he sank to sleep, it is— 
 well to trust in the Lord, unmindful of the wicked, who are 
 so soon cut down like grass, and are not." 
 
 Next day he found an addition to the family circle. 
 Mary had been welcomed to the arms of Mrs. Leslie, whose 
 chief earthly joy was in seconding. the benevolent schemes 
 of her husbandi 
 
 In a few days the student wrote of his success to his 
 mother, and in three weeks she accepted of Mr. Leslie's in- 
 vitation, and joined her son at the Parsonage ; and from 
 thence all three went up to Philadelphia ; where Mrs. Ed 
 garton hired part of a dwelling, that she might have her 
 son with her. 
 
 After many privations, heroically borne, and sweetened 
 by the sympathy of the Leslies, Mrs. Edgarton, with a 
 mother's fondness, witnessed the successful result of her 
 son's perseverance ; and folded him to her heart, as, flushed 
 with gratitude, he presented his diploma to her. Prom that 
 
THE ELEVENTH HOTJK. 13t 
 
 day he began slowly and surely to rise, spurred on by the 
 hope of repaying tenfold, if possible, the devotion of his, 
 mother. Mr. Leslie, true to his office of fatherly affection, 
 watched over and aided him in his ascent. , With the as- 
 sistance of his brother, the Counsellor, he succeeded in gain- 
 ing a competency, from the wreck of his friend's ,fortune, 
 for his widow. Several hopeless debts had been paid by 
 honest, but unfortunate debtors ; who remembered her 
 when prosperity smiled upon them. In four years, young 
 Edgarton and his friends felt that it would be safe for him 
 to unite his lot with Mary Gray's, to whom he had long 
 been attached. Squire G. read the announcement of their 
 union in the papers. It came upon him with stunning ef- 
 fect. The adversity of those he hated failed to touch his 
 heart, but their prosperity was gall in his cup. It had been 
 unpleasant enough to pass Biddy Moran's new house, which 
 lay half concealed in verdiire. Her reproof had never been 
 forgotten, although it seemed to take no hold of him at the 
 time. But, worse than all, one of the helpless children, 
 driven from a well- earned home by his cruelty, was united 
 to goodness and prosperity in the person of his nearest rela- 
 tive. J. G. felt this blow. He cowed when he read the 
 name of Widow Gray's eldest son in an advertisement of 
 co-partnership ; knowing, as he did, that the house was one 
 of the most respectable in Philadelphia, and one in which 
 the betrayed fr-iend of his youth, the unhappy Sterling, was 
 an accountant. The worms he had crushed seemed to 
 have become dragons in his path ; his power was weaken- 
 ing ; he could reach th«m not. The very trees seemed to 
 whisper, as he passed, " the Widow's cry was heard." But 
 there was indeed a dragon in his path — one long defied-r- 
 none other than Death. He sank beneath its blow; and 
 lay helplessi with strange visions floating before him, and 
 yet not wholly visions. The light moving form that flitted 
 about him was not the widow, but her eldest daughter ; 
 whose humanity had obeyed the call of the hysterical 
 housekeeper, and, with her husband; ministered to the bo- 
 
138 THE ELEVENTH HOUR. 
 
 dily wants of her injurer. His diseased mind was b»;yond 
 their aid. He was not mistaken, when he cried that Ei<idj? 
 Moran haunted him. She was indeed there, as a spirit of 
 beneficence, nursing his feeble frame. One being, whom 
 he had treated kindly from self-interest, his housekeeper,, 
 was wholly unable to do aught but sob with sorrow around 
 his couch. As his disease progressed, his delirium abated ; 
 and the sense of danger, and coming retribution followed. 
 The physician warned him to prepare — decay had already 
 fastened on his vitals. Prepare ? What ! sixty long years 
 of labor, and the work not yet begun ? The greatest task 
 of all, crowded in a span ! Prepare ? The agony of the 
 filmy eye ; the quivering of the muscles of the face i the 
 painful call for the man of God ; the terrified appeal to 
 Heaven, disdained until no other stay was left : these the 
 sad reply to the warning voice. Then, as the half dead ear 
 drank in the pastor's words, came the hard wrung cry, re- 
 store ! Poor wretch ! upon the brink of the cold, dark tide, 
 he paused, to restore the ill-gotten wealth he could not fer- 
 ry o'er that trackless stream. His glassy eyes looked 
 round upon the faces standing near. Each one appeared 
 avengeful spirit, demanding justice at the bar of God. His 
 defrauded nephew sat at his feet, gazing with horror- 
 stricken heart at the smitten sinner. The injured Sterling, 
 whose unregenerate soul had long upbraided Heaven, but 
 yielded now before the chastisement of his foe, bowed his 
 head to the appeal of the physician, and gave the pardon 
 so greedily craved by the dying man. Sweet Mary, it was 
 thine to support the feeble frame of thy mother's persecii- 
 tor, and to remember, oh, how forcibly, her dying prophecy ! 
 Thine to witness the scathing of " the green bay tree," 
 whose roots had usurped the earth, and grappled thy 
 hearthstone. With useless parchments before him, on 
 which he longed to make just restitution ; in chill despair, 
 as he felt life ebbing fast away, the words of his pastor fell 
 fewnter and fainter on his closing ear. Disturbed as his 
 spirit was by remorse and terror, which were strengthened 
 
THE ELEVENTH HOHB. 139 
 
 y the pitiful appeal of Biddy, who, with a phial in hei 
 hand, begged the doctor to make further effort to prolong 
 his time for preparation ; it was not strange, but awful, 
 (hat in his mind, earth and heaven contended for mastery. 
 A longing to restore to countless victims the cunningly ob- 
 .t^iined wealth that filled his chests, and a craving for those 
 eternal riches of which Mr. Leslie spoke, struggled in his 
 bosom, and hastened his dissolution. When the attorney 
 returned to the bed-side, with well-mended pen, his client 
 lay lifeless before him. With confused ideas of heavenly 
 mercy, and vague notions of Christ's great sacrifice, mingled 
 with doubt and terror, he had passed away, and was not. 
 He had given the world sixty years of devotion to its bless- 
 ings ; a few hours to God and redeeming love. 
 
 After a careful investigation of papers. Lawyer Edgarton 
 was enabled to make restitution to many, who were toiling 
 along, cheered by the smile of God, but deserted by those 
 who, like J. G., crowd the interests of the soul in an hour. 
 
 As Mary sat, with her brothers and sisters around her, 
 the day after the funeral, she opened a Bible th^t lay on the 
 table, in that njansion, once the Squire's, but now her hus- 
 band's, intending to close the day with a homily from its 
 pages. It was her mother's, and highly cherished on that 
 account. As she opened it, a paper fell from between the 
 leaves ; and, after glancing over it, she read aloud, to 
 hearts in which it sunk deeply, these words, traced by the 
 ijying hand of her mother : 
 
 * I have been young, and now am old ; yet have I not 
 seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." 
 
 Let us satisfy our own consciences, and trouble not our- 
 selves by looking for fame, If we deserve it, we shall at- 
 tain to it ; if we deserve it not, we cannot force it. The 
 praise bad actions obtain, dies soon away ; if good deeds 
 are at first unworthily received, they are afterwards more 
 pfopisrly appreciated 
 
THE RAVAGES OF DEATH. 
 
 BY THE EDfTOR. 
 
 " It is not all of life to live, 
 Nor all of death to die." 
 
 Death is the destiny, not the end of all. Reason, and reve- 
 lation tsach its solemnities. The glory of earth soon passes 
 away. Terrestrial glory is of short continuance, like the 
 beauty and fragrance of the summer's rose. 
 
 To win a name of renown is the ambition of many. By 
 talents, and genius, and illustrious deeds, some have 
 reaphed the pinnacle of glory. 
 
 The glory of the world is transitory as the breath of hu- 
 man approbation. Where are the heroes, the statesmen 
 the philosophers, the poets, the orators, the historians, an_ 
 the scholars of generations gone ? Where are the heroes 
 of France and pf Russia — where are Napoleon and Alex 
 ander, who, a few years ago, agitated the world 1 Where 
 are the revolutionists of modern atheism, scepticism and 
 infidelity ? Where are the great and good of the earth 
 that once blessed the world ? . Where are the statesmen 
 and heroes of the American revolution ? 
 
 In our country, death has made ravages in high places. 
 The minister has been removed from the pulpit ; the states- 
 man has been taken from the counsels of the nation ; the 
 advocate has gone from the bar ; and the physician has de- 
 parted fro^ the halls of medical science. 
 
 The judge, the counsellor, the skillful artificer, and the 
 eloquent orator, are removed. The urn of Harrison has, 
 in rapid succession, been followed by the urn of Jackson. 
 
 We live in a world of death. We walk upon the sepul- 
 chral ashes of the dead. The cemetery, with its monu 
 ments, inscriptions, and epitaphs, shows the ravages of 
 
THE RAVAGES OF DEATH. 141 
 
 Jeath. The places that now know us shall know us no 
 more forever. 
 
 Preparation for death is both the duty and the interest 
 af all, A new heart, faith in the testimony of the gospel, 
 and a life of piety and virtue, are the means of prepara- 
 tion for future glory. The path of religion is the way to 
 happiness. Moral excellence is true glory. . The gospel is 
 the last hope of the wretched. Its salvation is the prop of 
 the world. Let us arise to the contemplation of immortality. 
 Go on, Christian believer, in thy course for immortal glory. 
 The laurel of terrestrial glory; soon withers, but the crown 
 of glory that the heroes of the cross shall wear, fadeth not 
 away, and shall be given by the Chief Shepherd, at the 
 great day of decision, to all them that love his appearing. 
 
 The righteous shall be in evenlasting remembrance. 
 The memory of the just, is blessed. Their death may be 
 upon the mountain wave of the deep, or upon the sands of 
 Africa, or in the wilds of Asia, — their prospects are im- 
 mortal. 
 
 THE MENTAL CULTIVATION OF THE YOUNG-. 
 
 I<ROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 When the love of parents for their children is an emotion 
 so natural and powerful — when they so often and so wil- 
 lingly sacrifide their own happiness to the happiness of 
 their children, and, in a certain degree, live more for them 
 than for themselves — it is certainly a matter of wonder 
 that they attach no more importance to their education ; or, 
 that in respect to this, so many and momentous errors 
 should occur. The reason of this lies, without doubt, not 
 so much in the want of love and affection, as in the false 
 and imperfect idea which they conceive of education. This 
 duty is too often limited by parents, to the provision which 
 
142 THE MENTAL CULTIVATION OP THE TODNG. 
 
 they make for the comfort and maintenance of their chil- 
 dren ; and it is often supposed to be performed, when they 
 have taught them certain mechanical airts and sciences ; 
 or when they have laden their memories with a multitude 
 of words which, they cannot understand ; when tliey have 
 instructed them in the rules of exterior deportmetit and gen- 
 tility; when they have admonished them of the public 
 reproach and punishment which follow gross violations of 
 the laws of moral rectitude ; when they have fortified 
 them against their natural simplicity and sincerity, and 
 taught them reserve, dissimulation and flattery;- when 
 they have impressed them with a few and generally erro 
 neous ideas of the business, enjoyments and advantages of 
 social life ; and, finally, when they have, in some degree, 
 sought and succeeded to make them cunning and artful in 
 advancing their own interests, and nlanaging their property 
 and maintaining their rank in society. In. these respects, 
 inost parents labor- without intermission of solicitude or 
 calculation of expense, to promote what they call " the best 
 good of their children ;" and they do, indeed, thereby contri- 
 bute much to their well being. But is there not ground to 
 hope that they would efiiect this in a more useful way had 
 they more correct perceptions of what pertains to an edu- 
 cation ? In pursuing this Subject, I shall attempt to show 
 what is peculiarly requisite in the education of children, 
 and how it should be conducted. It consists principally in 
 the cultivation of the mind and heart of the young, and "in 
 the best way to conduct them to virtue and religion. I 
 shall now limit myself to the first of these, ahd chiefly con- 
 sider THE INTELLECTUAL EDUCATION OF CHILDREN, without Spe- 
 cial reference to religion and Christianity. 
 
 Perhaps the remarks which I propose to make upon this 
 subject, will seem dry and uninteresting to many. Per- 
 haps they may be considered as befitting the introduction to 
 a philosophical, rather than a Christian discourse. Yet I 
 shall hope that they will not prove tedious to the attentive 
 reader, who is more anxious to acc[uire useful information. 
 
THE MENTAL CDLTIVATION OF THE YOUNG. 143 
 
 than to enjoy a transient gratification. Chi/stian faith and 
 Christian virtue are the most faithful illustration of the best 
 use of our natural abilities ; all that advances and improves 
 the one, does the same to the other ; and surely, neither in- 
 fidelity nor vice would occasion such devastation and ruin 
 among men, if more pains w^ere taken, during their earliest 
 childhood and youth, in their intellectual and moral educa- 
 tion. But, without prolonging these remarks, let us pass 
 immediately to tlie point under consideration. 
 
 EDUCATION OF THE YOUNG. 
 
 The intellectual education op the young, or the cultiva- 
 tion of their understanding, is to impress them with right 
 views of things, and to accustom them to such a manner of 
 thinking and judging, as is in accordance with truth, and 
 by which they may become wise. Man is equally able to 
 bring under the cognizance and discrimination of his un- 
 derstanding, both the peculiar and individual productions 
 ot his own mind, and those diversified and extraneous sub- 
 jects of observation which come within the scope of his 
 mental or physical peTdeptions ; he can subject the nature 
 of these things to the decision of his judgment. He can 
 bring them together, or separate them from accidental 
 union ; and by comparing them with each other, may con- 
 ceive from them new ideas, which may thus be increased 
 by endless alternation. His nature is not so constructed, as 
 renders it necessary that he should contemplate those things 
 which he may learn, as they actually are ; or that in the 
 opinion which he may form of them, in the comparisons 
 which he may institute therewith, or in the harmony or dis- 
 cord which he may observe between them, he may not be 
 liable to error. He can contemplate all that surrounds 
 him, from many or from one side only ; he can consider it 
 greater, or less, better or worse, more useful or more hurt- 
 ful than it really is. He can combine things which have 
 no affinity to each other ; he can separate those that are 
 
144 THE MENTAL CULTIVATION OF THE T0UN6. 
 
 bound together in the ties of indissoluble union ; te ean 
 consider a thing as the effect or cause of another with 
 which it has not the least cpnneotion ; and the less that 
 he exercises his intellectual powers, or the more negligently 
 ■and carelessly he employs them, just so much more fre- 
 quently will he fall into these errors of thought, judgment 
 and resolution. . . 
 
 How much benefit, then, must be not receive, if, at the 
 time when he begins to exert his intellectual powers, he 
 should be so directed in their application, as to learn to 
 employ them in the best and most correct manner ! Such 
 an object is the design and aim of the intellectual educa- 
 tion of the young. They have need of a prudent and expe- 
 rienced guide on that road that leads to knowledge and 
 truth — one who shall not only warn them against all by- 
 paths, and bring them back therefrom as often as they 
 wander thither, but who shall also learn them to shun all 
 the inlets and mazes of error, and to pursue their aim with- 
 out turning to the right hand or the left. Their under- 
 standing must not only be brought into action and enriched 
 by many sciences, but it also must be so exercised, as that 
 by degrees they shall acquire a promptness and facility in 
 investigating and judging whatever they wish to learn, in 
 discriminating easily between truth and error, and in fol- 
 lowing the surest rules and the shortest way in such an in- 
 vestigation and judgment. , 
 
 But this cannot be so well accomplished by learning 
 them, or impressing upon- their memories those rules of 
 thinking, as by learning them to observe, on all occasions, 
 whether or wherein they have thought or judged correctly 
 or incorrectly ; — by socially conversing, calculating, inves- 
 tigating, doubting or deciding with, them upon some one of 
 their own former methods of thinking and deciding. 
 
 They may thus be learnt to become observing and atten- 
 tive to the progress of their own mind, and so become 
 acquainted with the principles and rules by which it ope- 
 f,at«s. 
 
SCRIPTURE NATURAL HISTORY. 
 
 • SYRIAN OX. 
 
 "The ox knoweth his owner, and the ass his master's 
 crib." Why is the ox called by a name which signifies to 
 search or seek ? This question will be answered by Isodonis, 
 as quoted by the learned Bochart. He says, " The love of 
 these animals, for their companions is very remarkable, for 
 those that have been yoke-fellows at the plough together, 
 SEARCH AFTER EACH OTHER, hcnce the hamc BACKE, to search, 
 and by frequent lowing testify their affections." We con- 
 sider the ox in our country as the emasculated male of homed 
 cattle. As far as I can learn, the bos-bubulus, or buffalo, 
 must be the Syrian ox. In general appearance, it very 
 much resembles the common ox. This animal has great 
 indications of strength in the thickness of its trunk, the 
 largeness of its linibs, and the prominence of its muscles. 
 Two domestic buffalos are able to draw as much as four 
 strong horses. The buffalo is originally a native of the 
 warmer parfe of Africa and India, while in Europe it is only 
 one of its naturalized quadrupeds. As early as the seventh 
 centurv. it was introduced into Itily. 
 
 
 
LIFE. 
 
 BY S. L. H. DOW. 
 
 " The One Supreme, 
 The all sustaining^ ever-present God. 
 Who dower'd the soul with immortality, 
 Gave also these delights to cheer on earth 
 Its fleeting passage.!' 
 
 How many pleasant things there are in life ! Yet some 
 have called it a gloomy journey to the grave — an existence 
 of sombre s-hadows. True, it is not all light, nor is it all 
 darkness. The lights and shadows are exquisitely blended, 
 and though a landscape is thought neither perfect nor 
 beautiful without a large proportion of dark and shadowy 
 touches, we will not think the picture of human life less 
 beautiful — we will rather kneel in gratitude — that light 
 predominates. The heart is too ready to magnify its own 
 trials, and refuse to look upon the thousand objects that 
 would bring it peace and joy. 
 
 "There's beauty ail around our paths, if but our watchful eyes 
 Can trace it 'midst familiar things, and through their lowly guise." 
 
 If man would lay his heart open to the gentle influences 
 of Nature, whose million voices proclaim the goodness 
 and wisdom of its Creator, they would distil upon it as 
 heavenly dew, nourishing the blossoms of purity and 
 delight. "Not a tree, a plant, a leaf, a blossom, but 
 contains a folio volume ; we may read, and read, and read 
 again, and still find something new, something to please, 
 something to instruct, even in the humble weed." 
 
 Creation is full of mystery and, beauty. The mountain 
 rearing its snow-capped summit ; the dusky forest standing 
 in bold relief; the thunde-ring torrent ; th^ billowy ocean, 
 fill the mind with emotions of sublimity. The gently 
 flowing stream ; the softly breathing zephyr ; the delicately 
 
LIFE. 149 
 
 tinted flower, bring to the mind a pleasurable feeling, a 
 sensation of beauty. Wonder ! that the Mighty Hand 
 that laid the foundations of the earth, and set the burning 
 stars in their courses, should paint the blossom that blushes 
 unseen, or vein the pearly shell that lies down — down in the 
 fathomless caves of ocean. And still greater marvel, 
 O, man ! that this same All-powerful Hand should guard, 
 cherish and bless thee from thy cradle to thy grave ; that 
 the God of Nature, the Supreme Architect of the Universe, 
 should stoop to compassionate thy miseries ; and when thy 
 feet were in the paths of destruction, and thy heart had 
 wBll-nigh forgotten its Creator, that the same voice that 
 said, " Let there be light, and there was light," should say 
 to THEE in tones of slighted love and winning tenderness, 
 " Why WILL ye depart from my ways ?" " Come urito me, 
 and I will give you rest;" 
 
 But aside from the lovely external objects that charm 
 the senses of man, how many gentle influences are thrown 
 about him ; what varied sources of happiness are open to 
 him. The pleasures of home and of the social circle are 
 his. A mother's holy love, a sister's cherishing affection, 
 clasp their tendrils about his heart. The voice of 
 friendship gladdens, the sympathy of friends cheers him. 
 Science discloses to his enraptured gaze hidden treasures 
 of wisdom. .The accumulated learning of ages is within 
 his grasp. 
 
 '■ Ah ! " some may say, " this is youth's golden dream ; its 
 sights are beauty to the eye, its sounds are music to the 
 ear. Let the fervor of j^uthful adn iration, and the 
 warmth of early love pass away ; let the friends whose 
 prBscnce made our sunshine fall around us as the withered 
 leaves of Autumn ; let anguish v;ring our hearts as we 
 stand by the grave of buried love ; let adversity's dark 
 wing o'er shadow our pathway, or the spir t bend 'neath its 
 weight of years and luiiimities, and all t* ings wiii appear 
 changed. Then will nature be clad in sackcloth, and all 
 beauty, and loveliness, and wisdom, become gloom and 
 
150 EARTH AND HEAVEN. 
 
 bitterness." Oh. man ! has not thine erring heart forgotten 
 to look from Nature up to Nature's God? When the 
 bright flowers bloomed about thee, and each bird-note was 
 a song of praise, did words of gratitude like these ever 
 burst from thy full heart? 
 
 " Blessed G!od of love ! 
 I thank thee lor these gifts, the precious links 
 Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn ! 
 I thank thee that the loveliness of earth 
 Higher than earth can raise me ! " 
 
 When youth, and hope, and friends, were thine ; when 
 fortune smiled, and all things wore the sunny hue of bliss, 
 didst thou adore in love and humility the Hand that blessed 
 thee, or didst thou forget thy Benefactor ? If the early 
 affections be laid as a sweet sacrifice upon the altar of 
 God, and in after years the heart still cleave with love and 
 faith to its Redeemer,, then, though fondest ties be broken, 
 and prosperity's light be quenched, nature will still speak 
 in gladdening, comforting tones to the wounded spirit ; the 
 witid vv^ll be tempered to the shorn lamb ; and the same 
 Infinite love and tenderness that watched over the helpless- 
 ness of infancy, and made glad the hours of youthful joy, 
 will pour balm into the smitten soul ; will gently lead the 
 steps that tremble with age ; will throw sunshine and 
 rejoicing over the dark valley of the shadow of death, and 
 will receive the freed spirit to a home where tears, and 
 sadness, and Separation, never enter. 
 
 FEMAiiE Institute. 
 
 EARTH AND HEAVEN. 
 
 " To twine the spring-tide wreath, 
 
 And mourn o'er autumn's hie/, 
 The hope to win, the joy to lose, » 
 
 This is our history here ; 
 To find the rose, whose bloom 
 
 Nor thorn, nor blight hath riven, 
 To meet, and never more to part, 
 
 Is not of earth, but Heaven." 
 
THE FCSCHIA. 151 
 
 THE FUSCHIA. 
 
 Thou graceful flower on graceful stem. 
 Of Flora's gifts a fav'rite gem ! 
 From trophic fields thou cam'st to cheer 
 The natiTes of a climate drear; 
 And, grateful for our fostering care. 
 Hast leamt the wintry Mast to bear. 
 
 This beautiful plant has not been known in this country 
 many 3-ears. All the species cultivated in this country are 
 natives of South America. It is placed by botanists in the 
 Natural Order Onagraceas, and in the eighth class Octandria, 
 and first order Monogynia, of the Linnsean System. 
 
 The light and graceful appearance of the Fuschia renders 
 it desirable in the flower garden as a mere shrub ; but when 
 ornamented with its pendant flowers of richest crimson dye, 
 tinged with purple or pale green, and sometimes shading into 
 a delicate cream color, with its cluster of golden stamens and 
 pistil it seems to us one of the most elegant and tastefiil of all 
 the wonted inhabitants of the parterre. To the lover of flowers 
 who delights to cultivate that Which he admires when in its 
 prime beauty, the Fuschia possesses other qualities which en- 
 hance its value— its free growth, the ease with which it is 
 propagated, and its general hardiness. 
 
 At the Boston Horticultural Exhibition the following anec- 
 dote was related by the itev. W.' Choules, on the authority of 
 Mr. Shepherd, the accomplished conservator of the Botanical 
 Gardens at Liverpool, respecting the irttrodftction of that 
 flowery shrub, the Fuschia, into the gr^n-houses of Europe. 
 
 Old Mr. Lee, a well known nurseryman and florist at 
 Greenwich, near London, aboilt fifty years ago, was one day 
 showing his variegated treasures to a person, who suddenly 
 turned and said, * Well, you have not in your whole collec- 
 tion so pretty a flower as one I saw to-day in a window at 
 Wapping " ' 
 
152 THE FUSCHIA. 
 
 Indeed, and what was this phoenix like ? " 
 
 "Why the plant was beautiful, and the flowers hung down 
 like tassels from the drooping branches; their color was the 
 deepest crimson, and in the centre a fold of rich purple." 
 
 Particular inquiries were made as to the exact whereabouts, 
 and Mr. Lee posted off to the place, where he discovered the 
 object of his pursuit, and immediately pronounced it a new 
 PLANT. He saw and admired it. 
 
 Entering the humble dwelling, he said, "My good woman, 
 this is a nice plant of yours^— I should like to buy it." 
 
 ",Ah, sir, I couldn't sell it for no money ; it was brought to 
 me from foreign parts by ray husband, who has gone .■'.way 
 again and I must keep it for his sake." 
 
 " But 1 must have it." 
 
 " No, sir ; I can't spare it." 
 
 " Here," emptying his pockets ; " here is gold, silver, and 
 copper," his stock amounting to more than eight guineas. 
 
 " Well-a-day, this is a power of money." 
 
 " 'Tis yours, and the plant is mine, my good woman. I'll 
 give you one of the first young ones I rear, to keep for your 
 husband's sak&; I will indeed." 
 
 The bargain was struck, a coach called, in which old Mr. 
 Lee and his apparently dearly purchased flower was deposi- 
 ted. On returning home, his first work was to strip off and 
 destroy every blossom and bud ; the plant was divided into 
 smair cuttings, which were forced into bark-beds and hot- 
 beds, and again Sub-divided. Every effort was employed to 
 multiply the plant. Mr. Lee became the delighted possessor 
 of three hundred Fuschias, all giving promise of fine blossoms. 
 The two which first expanded were placed in his window. 
 A lady came in.^ " Why Mr. Lee, my dear Mr. Lee, where 
 did you get this charming flower?" 
 
 "'Tis a new thing, my lady — pretty, is it not?" 
 
 "Pretty!- 'tis lovely; it's price?" 
 
 " A guinea, your ladyship ;" and one of the two plants that 
 evening stood in beauty on her ladyship's table in her bou 
 doir. 
 
THE HOME QP THK SOUL. 153 
 
 "My dear Charlotte, where did you get that elegan 
 flower?" 
 
 "Oh, 'tis a new thing; I saw it at old Mr. Lee's — pretty, 
 is it not?" 
 
 " Pretty ! "^tis beautiful ; what did it cost ? " 
 " Only a guinea, and there was another left." 
 The visiter's horses ^trotted off to the subui-b, and a thira 
 beauteous plant, graced the spot from whence the first had 
 been taken. The second guinea was paid, and the Fuschia 
 adorned another drawing room of fashion. This scene was 
 repeated as new calls were made, by persons attracted by the 
 beauty of the plant. Two plants, graceful and buirsting into 
 flower, were constantly seen on the same spot. He glad- 
 dened the faithful sailor's wife with the promised flower, and 
 before the season closed, nearly three hundred guineas jingled 
 in his purse, the produce of the single shrub from the win- 
 dow of Wapping, as reward of old Mr. Lee's taste, skill and 
 decision." 
 
 THE HOME OF. THE SOUL. 
 
 BY F. S. KEY. 
 
 Oh! ■where shall the soul find relief from its woes, 
 A shelter of safety, a home of repose ? 
 Can earth's highest summit or deepest hid Tale 
 Give a refuge no sorrow or sin can assail ? 
 
 No, no ! there's no home ! 
 
 There's no home on earth, the soul has no home ! 
 
 Shall it leave the low earth, and soar to the sky. 
 And seek for a rest in the mansions on high ? 
 In the bright realms of bliss shall^a dwelling be giv'n. 
 And th& soul find a home in the glory of Heaven ? 
 ' Yes, yes ! there's a home ! 
 There's a home in high Heaven, the soul has a home ! 
 
 Oh ! holy and sweet its rest shall be there ; I 
 
 Free for ever from sin, and sorrow, and care ; 
 And the loud hallelujahs of angels shall rise 
 To welcome the soul to its home in the skies ; 
 
 Home, home I home of the soul ! 
 
 The bosom of God is the home of the soul ! 
 
154 TOUCHING ANECDOTE. 
 
 TOUCHING ANECDOTE. 
 
 During the French Revolution Mademoiselle Sombi uil had 
 been eight days tvith her father in prison when the unhappy 
 massacres of September commenced. After many prisoners 
 had been mtirdered, and the sight of blood continually flow- 
 ing seemed only to increase the rage of the assassins, while 
 the wretchfed inmates of the prison endeavored to, hide them- 
 selves from the death that hovered over them, Mademoiselle 
 Sombruil rushed into the presence of the murderers who had 
 seized her father. " Barbarians P she cried, " hold your 
 hands, he is my father !" She threw herself at their feet. In 
 one moment she seized the hand which was lifted against 
 her father, and in the next she offered her own person to the 
 sword, so placing herself that the parent could not be struck 
 but through the body of his child. So much courage and 
 filial affection in so young a girl for a moment diverted the 
 attention of the assassins. She perceire J that they hesitated, 
 and seized on the favorable opportunity. While she entreated 
 for her father's life one of the monsters proposed the following 
 condition: "Drink," said he, "a glass of tlood and save your 
 father." She shuddered, and retreated some paces ; but filial 
 affection gained the ascendency, and she yielded to the horri- 
 ble condition. " Innocent or guilty," said one of those who 
 performed tlie office of judge, " It is unworthy of the people 
 to bathe their hands in. the blood of the old man, since fliey 
 must first destroy this virtuous girl." A cry of "pardon!" 
 was heard. The daughter, revived by this signal of safety, 
 threw herself into her father's trembling arms, which scarcely 
 had power to press her to his bosom, being overcome by such 
 powerful affection and so providential a dqjiverance. Even 
 the most outrageous assassins were unable to restrain their 
 tears ; and the father and daughter were triumphantly coh- 
 ducted to a place of comfort and safety. 
 
• 7TUMN'S FADING GLORY. 
 
 Bt ROSWELL RICE, JR. 
 
 WhE.i< w \ mst our eyes around on the works of na- 
 ture's Gi .i- .ien we behold the luminarj- of day giving 
 radiance ts *-,i' '^/orW; from whose light, vegetation springs 
 into existenv:^'" when We see hills and valleys, "rivers and 
 oceans, smiling «\\^h the luxuries of man — we lift our grate- 
 ful eyes to heaViU. in adoration to the great Original of all 
 these earthly gtbres. But again our eyes traverse the 
 same landscape, ai\.5 in quick flight survey the creation of 
 God ; and lo ! the so. ne is changed ; the glories of Autumn 
 are blasted by the' ii Dsts of Winter, and the general ap- 
 pearance of earth's ai nphitheati'e is inverted for the' gloom 
 of death ; and at the si ght we marvel that all these glories 
 are thus conquered by th6 fell tyrant, and behold in them 
 the likeness of,raan's mortality! Again we' lift up our eyes 
 to heaven and worship God'; for' by the sacred testimony 
 we believe, " Though man die's, yet shall he live again, for 
 death shall no longer have dominion over him." Thus 
 mankind survive Autumn's fading glory, and live when the 
 works of nature die. 
 
 But the powers of mental attraction draw us to ahcieAt 
 ruiiis and revolutions. We look for them among the de- 
 parted glories of former centuries ; and often treasure them 
 up as the choicest portion of our early attainments. It 
 were a feast to muS'e ourselves by walking over the deso- 
 lation of Thebes ; sarrouriding its pyramids, and inoUnting 
 to their summit. IT were worth days of tarrnoil to ehter 
 the city of Rock, the fortress of Edom, that we might obtain 
 a fragment from the cramblirig wreck of structures, Which 
 cost the toil of ages. We Would willingly spend dkyg and 
 months in exploring for some memento of Tadmlir in th6 
 
156 autumn's fading glory. 
 
 forest, or of Babylon, or of Nineveh, that great city 'of 
 three days journey," in which God's servant preached. But 
 we may read the death-knell of every earthly glory, and 
 those devotees who shared a part in raising the mighty 
 structures, which seemed to challenge the gnawing tooth 
 of time, by looking into the mirror of expiring nature, 
 spread out before us at this Autumnal season. 
 
 Let us ascend some lofty summit, survey the broad land- 
 scape, and behold the fading glories of the dying year. 
 See the beauties of that shroud now expanded before us in 
 all the splendor of golden hues — in all the grandeur of 
 sculpture, sketched and filled out by Him who transcends 
 the skill of the ablest artist. I see the garments of death 
 impending through every pathway of life. I see the rays 
 of light, as they fall from the king of day upon the dying 
 habiliments of nature, a»nd thoughts come pressing on at 
 the spectacle, such as I would cherish when the sun shall 
 have withdrawn his light, and this clod of mortality have 
 relinquished the spark that gives it life. It is no fiction 
 that excites my attention, as I survey nature's dying thea- 
 tre. It is no bubble that I grasp when I commune with 
 Autumn's final groans, as she expires in the agonies of 
 death. No, it is a solemn reality, that must soon thwart 
 the path of every man ; for " all flesh is grass, and all the 
 goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field." Awake 
 then, O my soul ! come out of the depths of apathy ! retire 
 from the busy crowds of life, and hold fellowship with God 
 through the works of nature, now exposed to the view of 
 dying millions. 
 
 Who can survey the fading glories of the season, and not 
 feel his own corruptioH? It is humbling to one elated with 
 high expectations and fond hopes, that the very leaf he 
 treads beneath his feet is emblematical of his own mor- 
 tality. 
 
 Pause, then, ye Alexanders, and meditate your own de- 
 parture — ye who would conquer nations and subdue king- 
 doms ; pause, ye mortals, who would ascend the summit of 
 
autumn's fading glory. 151 
 
 glory, or grasp the dross of time, that ye may be like some 
 ancient monarch — the fading leaf is under your feet — stoop 
 down, and with it hold communion. See through the em- 
 blem of that leaf, where the giant arm has been withered, 
 and become too weak to contend with children ; where 
 ambition, with a brow of adamant, and breast of savage 
 cruelty, has sought with importunity a few drops of water 
 to quench its thirst ; and where thoughtless gaiety, that 
 drives " wisdom out of life," cries out, with the dying queen, 
 " Millions of money for a moment of time !" Would you 
 estimate the number of those beings who have played in 
 this theatre of human action, and learn the end of their 
 fading glory ? Go count the leaves of the forest as they 
 fad* away, and tell the aggregate, when summed up in 
 one vast column, too great for human computation. 
 
 Such is the frailty of human life, when contemplated bj' 
 the records of truth, on this Autumnal occasion. Who 
 antong us will be spared another year ? and to whom does 
 dying nature speak, in the dark shade she now decks her- 
 self, to prepare to imitate her, clad in the funeral robes, 
 before another season shall roll around ? Cast your eyes 
 over this dying world, and see virhat vernal plants will sur- 
 vive the frosts of Winter ; what tree in the meridian of 
 life, and what of riper years 1 Had such a request been 
 made at the last Autumn, would you have selected those 
 who have been borne to the marble field during the yeai 
 that has past ? For whom, then, does dying nature hold 
 out her last warning, as she scatters the arrows of death 
 among the children of men ? Is it for the young man or 
 woman, or is it for the father or mother that watched over 
 their infancy ? Disregard the living preacher if you will ; 
 let the admonitions imparted from the sacred desk, gather- 
 ed from the book of nature, and I^rovidence, be forgotten ; 
 but hearken ye to the dying voice of Autumn, as She pleads 
 with you in all the pathos of kind devotion ; for the appear- 
 ance of her countenance calls up the liveliest emotions of 
 a soul that never gets weary, while contemplating her fad- 
 
TEMPTATIONS, 
 
 BY REV. J. M. M'aULEY. 
 
 Temptations surround us. They come in every formt 
 some are robed as virtues ; others, with unblushing front, 
 wear the attire of sin ; some, gently intimate and softly 
 suggest the advantages of slight deviations from rectitude ; 
 others, openly invite, or imperiously command, to the com- 
 mission of crime. The pleasure, the profit, the pursuits of 
 the world, are often such as cannot be sought, and the 
 garment kept unspotted. They are often such as to justify 
 the strong declaration of Johnson, that "men's ^ minds are 
 so divided between earth and heaven, that they pray for 
 the prosperity of guilt, and deprecate its punishment." And 
 what shall be said of those who, making a mock at sin 
 and sporting with all things sacred, put forth strenuous, 
 persevering, and sadly successful efibrts to surround them- 
 selves with moral desolations ? In every community, such 
 men are found : the influence of their example, their ex- 
 ertions, their institutions, and their publications, spreads 
 over our country, from the Atlantic's surge to the Pacific's 
 'ave. 
 
 THE BEAUTIFUL IN NATURE. 
 
 BY B. F. ROMAINE. 
 
 How the very spirit of a man of fine feeling and suscep- 
 tibilities loves the beautiful in nature ! To him, the murmur 
 of a streamlet, as it rolls through some lovely vale, is like 
 whispers from the spirit land, where the dear departed 
 
THE BEAUTIFUL IN NATURE. 161 
 
 breathe a life of eternal youth. He reclines on a moss 
 bank, under the shade of a weeping willow, its long hang- 
 ers form a golden canopy above him. The zephyr comes 
 and touches them ; they murmur — then all is still again. 
 There was something in that sound which calmed, and yet 
 amazed him. He was alone in the still wood, by the shore 
 of his native stream. Whence then that strain, which 
 seemed like melting echoes from the lips of the departed ? 
 Oh, there it is again, and as his eyes are raised to catch a 
 glimpse of his unseen visitant, the zephyr comes again — 
 and from the bosom of the weeper, go' forth notes of almost 
 unearthly music, so low and yet so distinct, so sad and yet 
 so soothing. It is but one of the voices with which nature 
 speaks. To the gross and sensual mind it is meaningless, 
 but to him it breathes the very soul of memory, tenderness, 
 and love. 
 
 Thus it is with the flowers that are strown so plentifully 
 along our pathway. Most tread upon them, and crush out 
 their sweet life, without one .thought of what they are, or 
 what they mean. To them, they have no beauty, and the 
 fragrance which they send up as $ welcome to man, passes 
 by them, and mingles with the upper air. Not so with the 
 man of feeling. His heart is pained at beholding the in- 
 sensibility of his fellows. They tread unrelentingly on the 
 flowers he loves. Coming often, he gathers them with great 
 care, for they recall the image of many a flower of female 
 loveliness, crushed in its clinging, confiding tenderness and 
 love, by some ruthless hand. He behold* them, and weeps 
 for fallen humanity. To him, every blossoming thing on 
 this wide earth, speaks of some corresponding human feel- 
 ing or passion. Their offices are almost as numberless as 
 the ofiices of thought. Thpy tell of hope, joy, peace, meek- 
 ness, confidence, and love; and of sorrow, weeping, and, 
 bitterness. They bloom for the early dead, and on the grass- 
 covered graves breathe their young lives away. They deck 
 the conqueror's bier — they crown the festivr hall — they cir- 
 cle the brow of beauty— they lie over the temple of the 
 
162 
 
 THE BEACTIFLX'IN NATORE. 
 
 heart, guarding its secret entrance. They do yet moroi 
 they— 
 
 -^ — have tales of the jayous vvood to tell i 
 
 to the lonely captive. And yet more, in the song of Eng- 
 land's poetess : 
 
 "Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer, 
 
 They are nature's offering, their place js there ! 
 
 They speak of hope, to the fainting heart, 
 
 With a voice of comfort they come and part, 
 
 They sleep in dust through the wintry hours. 
 
 They break forth in glory — bring flowers, bright flowers.." 
 
 Now as a man of fine feelings and susceptibilities loves the 
 beautiful in nature, so will he love the beautiful wherever 
 he finds it. There is a life-like power in language, which 
 when it clothes those tender thoughts awakened by nature's 
 scenery, often lends freshness to the original picture, and 
 breathes over the whole, immortality of feeling. , 
 
 Spring time. Summer, and Autumn pass, and Winter 
 comes on. The flowers are faded — the grass-crowned 
 mountains, valleys and jflains, are no longer robed in luxu- 
 rious green — the willow's branches bend naked and forsa- 
 ken, over the border of the ice-bound stream, from the 
 bosom of which, no waters send up their liquid music. All 
 nature has changed. 
 
 Where, then, will man find those mementoes which sleep 
 amid the frozen waters — the dry and faded leaves — the 
 absent zephyrs, and the departed flowers ? Where ! but in 
 the undying feelings to which they all gave life, traced in 
 living language, on>the printed page ? There, he may read 
 till his soul is filled. There, he may trace the sweet emo- 
 tions which he had on the eve of summer ; and, perhaps, 
 may trace there, the spring, summer and autumn of nature, 
 oreserved in miniature perfection, by the genius of man. 
 
THE LAST GLADIATOR. 
 
 BY MRS. S. T. MARTYN, N. Y. 
 
 " And so, my Marcus, thou hast ^een Rome — ^the magni- 
 ficent, eternal Rome. What hast thou to say of its won- 
 ders, that may interest a recluse like myself, into whose cell 
 Bo little of earth and its vanity finds entrance ?" 
 
 The youthful soldier thus addressed, stood carelessly 
 leaning against the rocky door-way of a spacious grotto, 
 while his casque and burnished arms were lying on the 
 couch from which he had just risen. His cloak was 
 thrown carelessly about a form remarkable for strength 
 and nsanly grace ; and his ingenuous countenance beamed 
 with animation as he turned to look at the speaker, who 
 had laid aside the calamus with which he had been tran- 
 scribing a part of the Holy Scriptures, while his guest 
 was enjoying the profound repose of youth and innocence. 
 The hermit, though the elder of the two, was still in early 
 njanhood, and his noble and intellectual features, if less 
 beautiful than those of the soldier, were far more interest- 
 ing, for they reflected every movement of the spark of divi- 
 nity within^ The habitual expression of his open face was 
 that of quiet cheerfulness, and it was stamped with that in- 
 genuous modesty which seems left by youth on the counte- 
 nances of some, in mature manhood, and preserved there 
 by the purity of that wisdom which is from above. He had 
 left the rude talkie at which he had been writing, and ap- 
 jwoaching the ybung soldier, waited his reply, and listened 
 with dejighted attention, while he spoke of Romte, the cus- 
 toms and manners of her people, of her churches and pa- 
 laces, her wonders of art, her aqueducts, baths, pictures 
 and statues. There was one statue, of a dying gladiator, 
 10 
 
164 THE LAST GLADIATOR. 
 
 which riveted the attention of the amiable recluse. His 
 full gaze was fixed on the eloquent spealter, and a deep 
 sigh heaved his manly breast. " Alas !" he exclaimed, 
 when his companion ceased speaking, " in what a fearful- 
 ly degraded state Rome once was ! What a vivid picture 
 does' your description of this statue bring before me, of the 
 manners of pagan Rome ! I can almost see before me the 
 breathing form of the wounded gladiator. What reason 
 have we to rejoice, my MaTcus, that a brighter day has at 
 length dawned on this benighted world, and that the gos- 
 pel of our blessed Lord has introduced such a different order 
 of things among these noble Romans !" 
 
 " But what wilt thou say, Antonius," replied the soldier, 
 '* when I tell thee, that these things may now be seen even 
 in Christian Rome ? I might indeed have described the 
 statue of the dying man to you, from the gladiators whom I 
 have so lately seen gasping, fainting and dying in the are- 
 na of the Coliseum. The same moon, my Antonius, that 
 poured its soft lustre into this quiet cell, where I found you 
 last night, seated in peaceful meditation ; that very moon 
 rose above the vast walls of the Coliseum, filled with count- 
 less myriads of gazers, and shone on the flashing swords 
 of the doomed gladiators, who were brought there to en- 
 counter each other in mortal combat, to suffer, and to die. 
 I saw — ^but how shall I describe to you the scene which 
 wrung my heart ? As the youthful combatant came forward 
 fo meet his antagonist, he suddenly stopped, stood as if trans- 
 fixed, the sword dropped from his nerveless hand, and as his 
 antagonist pressed upon him, he fled. An angry murmur 
 arose among the crowd; and the seeming coward was 
 doomed to instant death. He understood the upturned 
 thumbs of the audience, came forward with a calm step 
 and resolute look, and received the fatal stab without one 
 shudder ; buli, as he fell, one word escaped his lips: that 
 word was, brother ! The gl'adiator from whom he had 
 fled was indeed his only brother, from whom he had been 
 
THE LAST GLADIATOR. 165 
 
 long separated ; waile both had endured privation, capti- 
 vity and sufferings of various kinds, and whom he had thus 
 met for the first time after their sad parting, in deadly en- 
 counter. They had loved each other as we love, my Anto- 
 nius," continued the soldier, clasping the hands of the 
 hermit, who stood horror-struck, gazing in his face, " but 
 they were forced to meet as murderers. And who were the 
 men who thus broke the bonds of nature, and wrung hu- 
 man hearts with mortal anguish ? They were the professed 
 disciples of the compassionate Jesus, the Prince of Peace." 
 The hermit and his brother parted that night, but not 
 until they had knelt down together in the dear Redeemer's 
 name, and commended themselves to their heavenly Father's 
 care. After Marcus had departed, he turned once more to 
 look upon the quiet grotto and its kneeling inmate. He 
 still remained where he had received the last embrace of 
 his brother ; and, as the moonbeams fell on his calm brow 
 and earnest eyes, they disclosed also the tears that were 
 slowly trickling down his face. The soldier wept in sym- 
 pathy, for he knew it was for him those tears were flow- 
 ing ; and as he went forward through the wilderness, his 
 thoughts dwelt on the contrast which his own and his bro- 
 ther's life presented. The perfect calm of solitude — ^the 
 limpid fountain, with its graceful palms — and the peaceful 
 hermitage, were the possessions of the one — ^the stir of 
 busy life, the din of a camp, and the perils of the battle- 
 field, marked the lot of the other. How little he dreamed, 
 as he journeyed onward, that before the light of day had 
 gilded the mduntainffange before him, his brother had gone 
 forth to a busier world than that of the Syrian city to 
 which he was hastening. He little thought that even then, 
 the cell in the desert was left vacant, and that in after 
 years he should return to find it even more desolate than 
 the dreary wilderness around it ; that he had looked for the 
 last time on the placid countenance that was dearer to him 
 than aught on earth beside. 
 
166 THE LAST GLADUTOK. 
 
 It was a festival day in Rome, when a stranger stood by 
 the tomb of Cecilia Metella, on the celebrated Via Appia ; 
 and wherever he turned his eyes, the causeways were 
 thronged with people dressed in holiday garments, and 
 eveiy face lighted up with joy. The stranger was clad in 
 the coarse weeds of a wayfaring man ; but though no smile 
 sat upon his benevolent countenance, a deep spirit of glad- 
 ness pervaded his heart. His long pilgrimage was ended, 
 though the object of his mission was not yet accomplished. 
 Resting far a few moments on his staff, he inquired of a 
 gentle matron who stood near him, the occasion of the 
 general rejoicitig. From her he heard, that the Romans 
 were about to celebrate the famous victories, in which 
 Still cho, the general of the emperor Honorius, had defeated 
 and driven hack Alaric, the king of the Visigoths. The 
 emperor himself was in Rome, and had passed in triumph- 
 ant procession through the streets with his favorite and 
 successful general. She described the piety of the good 
 Honorius, who so often went to worship at the chiB^ehes, 
 and had distinguished the clergy with peculiar favor. The 
 pilgrim regarded her with grave attention, but apparently 
 with little interest, until she went on to speak of the public 
 games, the pageants of wild beasts, the dances of warriors, 
 and the combats of gladiators, when, to her astonishment, 
 the face of her auditor became radiant with animation, 
 and before she could fully reply to the questions which 
 poured from his lips, he was gone. 
 
 The vast Coliseum was crowded in every part, from the 
 podium, where the emperor was seated with his senators 
 and nobles, to the popularia, to which the common people 
 had free admission. A death-like silence prevailed : a si- 
 lence broken only by the ringing clash of sword meeting 
 sword, or the qtdck tread of the combatants. The gaze of 
 the assembled throng was riveted on two gladiators, whose 
 youth, vigor and dexterity rendered them objects of intense 
 interest to all. The combat was sustained with equal skill 
 
THE LAST GLADIATOR. 16T 
 
 on both sides, and the feelings of the spectators were 
 wrought up to their highest pitch, when there was a sud- 
 den interruption. A stranger, who was evidently no gla- 
 diator, yet a tall and powerful man, entered the arena, 
 and with strength and skill equal to their own, threw him- 
 self between the combatants. Utterly regardless of his 
 own safety, he strove and wrestled with them both, until he 
 stood master of the field, — ^his manly frame yet heaving 
 and his face flushed with ejcertion ; with the sword of one 
 of the combatants grasped in his hand, while the other had 
 been thrown to the farther end of the arena. Standing 
 ^ect, with a voice strong and clear as the tones of a trum- 
 pet, he called' on the emperor, as a Christian king, and 
 upon the Roman people, as a Christian people, to put an 
 end at once and forever to their bloody pastime. As the 
 eloquent appeal burst from his lips, his countenance and 
 frame seemed to dilate with glorious energy and beauty, 
 so that many who looked upon him, vainly supposed they 
 were gazing on an angel, sent from heaven to admonish 
 them. He bade them not disgrace their holy name and 
 calling, with the savage passions and customs of heathen- 
 ism, but to think on One, whose salutation, when he met his 
 disciples, was : " Peace be unto you ;" and whose parting 
 words were : " Peace I leave with you." He told them, he 
 had come from the desert, to a countless multitude of nomi- 
 nal Christians ; but he had looked in vain for peace, that 
 most precious legacy of Jesus, and for love which rejoiceth 
 not in iniquity, and, least of all, in such iniquity as theirs. 
 While he spoke, the mild and humane spirit of Honorius 
 was subdued and overcome. The just rebuke of the daunt- 
 less stranger penetrated the very depths of his heart, and 
 he looked on the myriads around him as a concourse of 
 evil spirits, who had been suddenly surprised in the midst 
 of their orgies by an angel of light. 
 
 The emperor rose, but at that moment a howl of rage 
 burst from the savage throng, whose sport had been thus 
 
168 THK LAST GLADIATOR. 
 
 interrupted* and the youthful hermit fell beneath a thower 
 of stones hurled at him by the audience. A profound si- 
 lenq,e ensued, while the murdered man lay motionless, and 
 apparently lifeless, on the arena. By the emperor's com- 
 mand, he was gently lifted from the ground, and the mo- 
 tion aw oke him to a bewildered consciousness. He entreat- 
 ed those who raised him, to support him for a little while. 
 In this posture, raising his trembling hands and languid 
 countenance, over which the blood was flowing from his 
 wounds, to heaven, he breathed forth a few faint words of 
 prayer : " Father, forgive them, for the sake of Him who 
 died on the cross for their sins. Send thy Holy Spirit into 
 their hearts, and teach them to love thee ; to love one an- 
 other." As he closed, almost fainting, he raised his eyes, 
 and beheld the countenance of the emperor beaming with 
 tender compassion. He lifted his drooping head, and ask- 
 ed to be carried to the feet of the good Honorius. The 
 kind voice of the emperor, who stood leaning over the pa- 
 rapet dividing the podium from the arena, roused the dying 
 man from the torpor that was stealing over everj faculty, 
 and raising his dim eyes, he fixed them on Honorius with 
 a glance at once so earnest and imploring, so full of deep 
 and solemn meaning, that it thrilled through every fibre 
 of his frame. The lips of Antonius moved, but he had lost 
 the power of speaking one articulate word. "I know, I 
 fully comprehend what jou would say," exclaimed the em- 
 peror, in a loud, clear voice, and addressing himself with 
 commanding dignity to the whole assembled multitude : 
 " Here, in the presence of this murdered saint, of this holy 
 and expiring martyr, I make my fixed and irrevocable de- 
 cree, and abolish forever the combats of gladiators, the 
 scourge and disgrace of Christian Rome." While he was 
 speaking, a radiant smile stole over the pale features of 
 Antonius, lighting them as with a sunbeam ; but it gradual- 
 ly faded away beneath the heavy shades of death ; for, with 
 that smile, his triumphant spirit had escaped from its tene- 
 
THE YOUl^G CAPTIVK. 169 
 
 ment of clay. The mission of the youthful recluse was. 
 accomplished ; the last gladiator had fallen on the arena 
 r>f the Coliseum. 
 
 THE YOUNG CAPTIVE.* 
 
 TRANSLATED BY F. H. RICOED. 
 
 The springing grain grows ripe, spared by the reaper's- blade. 
 And through summer the vine, of the press not afraid, 
 
 Drinlis the gifts of the morning sky. 
 And I, beauteous and young as Aurora's first light, 
 Though the present forebodes nought but sorrow and blight, 
 
 I wish not indeed yet to die. 
 
 With dry eyes let' the stoic bid welcome to death ; 
 
 I must weep and still hope. To the north's fearful breath 
 
 I bow, and again raise my head. 
 If days bitter will come, there'll be sweet ones, I trust ! 
 Where's the honey, alas ! that ne'er left a disgust? 
 
 What sea hath the storm always fled 1 
 
 In my breast, fruitful fancy forever hath lain ; 
 The dark walls of a prison hang o'er me in vain, 
 
 Hope's wings at my side ever stay ! 
 From the fowler's snare free, and up-soaring on high, 
 With more life and more joy in the fields of the sky, 
 
 The nightingale sings forth her lay ! 
 
 Must then death be my lot ? Oh, how calmly I sleep. 
 And how calm I awake ; nor do anguishes deep 
 
 My slumbers or watchings destroy. 
 With a smile every eye gives me welcome to-day, 
 And the hearts, in these places to sorrow a prey. 
 
 Receive at my presence new joy. 
 
 • Written by Chdnier daring his imprisonment. 
 
170 THE YOnNG CAPTIVE. 
 
 Ohi my journey is yet very far from its end ; 
 
 Of the elm-trees that o'er my path soft shadows send, 
 
 The first have I scarcely yet pass'd. 
 At the banquet^of life yet so slightly progress'd, 
 But an instant alone have my lips fondly press'd 
 
 The cup that's still full in my grasp. 
 
 I have seen only spring ; I would see harvest too ; 
 As the sun in his course all the seasons doth view. 
 
 So also I'd finish my year. 
 The garden's chief pride, on my tender twig borne, 
 I have witness'd as yet but the first light of morn, 
 
 That light I would see disappear. 
 
 Oh, death, thou can'st wait yet ! hence ! away from my sight ! 
 Go, console the poor spirits that shame and affright 
 
 And dismal despair will not fly ! 
 For me Pales, hath bowers the rivers along ; 
 Love too hath sweet kisses, the muses sweet song. 
 
 Oh, no, I do not wish to die ! 
 
 Thus — ^though sad and immured — ^my poor lyre awoke. 
 As I heard these complaints, in a voice sweetly spok(5> 
 
 These prayers of a young Captive maid. . 
 And off throwing the load' of my languishing days, 
 I twined the sweet accents in Song's witcbiag maze, 
 
 Sweet accents from lips soon to fade! 
 
 My dark prison's song, some gallant may inspire 
 To search these sad vaults, with the tender' desire 
 
 Of giving this maiden the light. 
 Grace sat on her brow, and adorned all her ways ; 
 Ah, like her too, he'll tremble to finish his "days, 
 
 Whod'er plucks this flower so bright 
 
 There is nothing more commendable in fulness of age 
 than fulness of knowledge and experience, and nothing 
 more honorable than to see ancient Christians very much 
 acquainted with the Ancient of days. 
 
FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 The relations of life lay the foundation of correspondent 
 obligations and duties. Those of our own 'kindred and 
 blood are allowed to be the most sacred and tender. Among 
 these, the Filial Relation holds an important rank. If 
 existence be a priceless gift, our obhgations to those wha 
 have been the instrumental cause of it, are surpassed by 
 none, but such as result from creative power and goodness. 
 The child is, as it were a part of the parent; the same 
 blood flows in his veins, and for a long time his condition is 
 one of absolute weakness and dependence. The microscopic 
 insect is not so helpless and dependent in the first stages of 
 his being. In those creatures, who, from the moment of 
 their birth are blessed with. the po',0-er of self-preservation, 
 the principle of affection is seen to be wholly wanting. In 
 other cases nature compensates for the want of ability by 
 implanting this principle in the bosom of the parent and 
 its offspring. Filial Affection is a dictate of iifittup. It is 
 natural for the child to love his early and constntit benefac- 
 tors, those whose hearts have ever been full of kifif'ness and 
 solicitude, and whose hands have ever boon .stretched ont 
 for his protection and support. 
 
 The fifth commandment is in unison with nature ; it is 
 but the embodiment of its dictates. It is remarkable that 
 this is the only commandment coupled with a promise, 
 doubtless to intimate that the faithful discharge of filial obli- 
 ligations is the most effectual means of securing the smiles 
 of a benignant Providence. It has been observed that dis- 
 obedient children generally come to an untimely end, or 
 meet^with such heavy disappointments and mislbrtunes, as 
 to make life itself a burden. How short was the guilty 
 career of Absolem ! how fearful and melancholy its termina- 
 tion. The conduct of those who break' such cords of love 
 is so unnatural and so base, that they have little else to 
 expect than the frowns of Heaven and the detestation of man- 
 
113 FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 kind. They have no reason to expect that they will receive 
 the common marks of civility from others, who have been 
 thus ungrateful to the authors of their being and their great- 
 est benefactors. 
 
 None have received benefits so great and nunierous, as 
 children have from their parents, many of which were be- 
 stowed without their knowledge, and many even contrary to 
 their wishes. Day and night, and amidst the numerous 
 and formidable dangers that beset the pathway of life, they 
 have been blessed with their watchful superintendence and 
 powerful protection. In the most defenceless and most 
 exposed period of life, when they had no knowledge or 
 experience to guide their steps, their eyes have never slum- 
 bered, their feet have never tired, their love has never grown 
 cold, and they never once stopped to enquire whether we 
 should ever have it in our power, or be disposed to repay 
 them for all their toil and care. Though it were more than 
 probable we might not live to return their kindness, they 
 have been as careful of our health and happiness as of their 
 own ; nay, more so. Late and early, in summers heat and 
 winters cold, in weariness and in watching, they have toiled 
 for us, sparing no pains and shunning no sacrifices, to pro- 
 mote our happiness, and render our future condition in the 
 world as respectable and comfortable as possible. 
 
 Who then can fully estimate the debt of gratitude children 
 owe to parents, for such unnumbered and unmerited favors, 
 such unfailing, disinterested kindness? — Low indeed must 
 those be sunk in the scale of humanity, and destitute of 
 every virtuous sentiment and feeling, who can repay such 
 kindness with ingratitude ! Who could respect or repose 
 confidence in such ingrates ? He who recklessly and habit- 
 tually violates the duty he owes to parents, will not hesitate 
 to break through all other obligations. He certainly will not 
 be held by bonds less sacred and strong. He who can break 
 fetters of brass, will not be held by fetters of straw. Tho 
 bosom in which Filial Affection is extinct will never glow 
 with true love or pure friendship. Filial Afi'ection is the stock 
 upon which love and friendship is engrafted ; or, rather it is 
 
FILIAL AFFECTION. 173 
 
 ,the soil in which they spring aad flourish. It is this which 
 first softens and educates the heart and renders it susceptible 
 to love and friendship. It is this which prepares the heart for 
 the implantation of every tender sentiment ; the heart which 
 is steeled against it is hardened to rock. The disobedient son 
 will never make a generous friend or a good husband. He 
 may olfer his hand, but he will not give his heart. He who 
 would abuse a devoted father, will betray a friend. He who 
 could slight and outrage a moiher's love, may look coldly on 
 a wife and see her die of grief, without a pang of remorse. 
 To such an one, neither the vow of friendship or marriage 
 has any sacredness, and woe be unto thoss who trust in him ! 
 Blighted hopes and broken hearts will be their miserable lot. 
 
 Before then a person is received to the fullest confidence 
 and admited to all ~the unreserved intimacies and endear- 
 ments of the most devoted friendship, it would be wise to 
 ask how he has snstained the Filial Relation. And, when 
 proposals are made for marriage, a fen\ale should satisfy 
 herself first on this point. Be it that his character in other 
 respects, is good ; The want of Filial Affection nullifies all 
 his preteftsions and vitiates all his boasted virtues. He may 
 not be safely trusted in a matter which pertains to the affec- 
 tions, and which involves the happiness of which true love is 
 the main ingredient. He is not a safe depository of that 
 priceless gem, a females heart. 
 
 These remarks are also applicable to daughters, but we 
 are happy to say, there is not in their case so much occasion 
 for them. Instances of Filial recreancy are less frequent 
 among daughters than sons. Indeed they are very rare. 
 Whether this is owing to constitutional differences, or to the 
 greater tenderness felt for them, and the more gentle -treat- 
 ment they receive, or, to the fact, that they are more domes- 
 ticated and shielded from evil influences, we cannot exactly 
 determine. In the plan of God's moral and providential 
 government there is a peculiar fitness and adaptation in every 
 arrangement. As females are designed for a peculiar sphere 
 of action and enjoyment, they are fitted, both by nature and 
 the circumstances in which they are placed for this sphere. 
 
174 FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 They seem formed for domestic, rather than for public 
 life, to Uve retired from the haunts of business and scenes 
 of turmoil and conflict, and rnake home a little paradise for 
 man, by making it the centre of attraction and the seat of 
 love. Woman was designed to be the beautiful counterpart 
 of man, to supply what was defectiva in him of gentleness 
 and grace, and to heighten the enjoyments of life by the irre- 
 sistable charms of her society and conversation. 
 
 One cannot fail to have observed the native gentleness 
 and sensibility of females, which is more and more developed 
 under- kind treatment, and which, when matured by proper 
 cultivation, renders them so lovely and attractive, and gives 
 them such all conquering power over our sex. The female 
 heart, like a delicate instrument, is strung with cords which 
 vibrates the softest, sweetest melody ; it is a sacred depository 
 where treasures of love are garnered up to be lavished with 
 a free and liberal hand. Nature and education may account 
 for the superior strength of affections in females. Hence 
 Filial Love takes deeper root in the hearts of daughters ; 
 and, in the progress of its development it acquires all the 
 force and potency of a fixed law and principle of action. 
 Hence the constancy and ardor of daughterly affection. 
 When sickness blanches the cheek and dims the eye of a 
 beloved parent, the daughter watches by the bedside, and 
 never leaves it until the bloom of health returns, or the fea- 
 tures are rigid in death. 
 
 We are happy to record the fact that instances of recre- 
 ancy in duty among daughters are exceedingly rare. But 
 still, there have not been wanting melancholy cases of it, 
 which may well excite our wonder and lead, the susceptible 
 mind of females to shrink with horror at the thought of so 
 unriatural a crime. The want of .Filial Affection in daugh- 
 ters, is less excusable and more unnatural, if possible, than 
 in sons. Parents feel .that they cannot always rely with un- 
 doubting confidence upon the stability and purity of a son's 
 affection. Not so with their daughters ; on their constancy 
 they place the most perfect reliance. Recreancy therefore in 
 them, causes a tremendous shock, and spreads desolation in 
 
FILIAL AFFECTION. ItS 
 
 all their paths. The afflicted parent exclaims in the bitterness 
 of his soul, had it been my son who has thus wounded me, 
 my grief had not been so poignant ; but it is my daughter, 
 on whose fidelity and affection I have securely relied. The 
 ill-treatment of a son is heart-breaking, that of a daughter, 
 fills the soul with the bitterness of death. 
 
 If these remarks should meet the eye of some daughter, 
 who, under the influence of an unsubdued temper, is daily 
 embittering the happiness of her parents, we trust she may 
 be led to reflect upon the sinfulness of her imfeminine con- 
 duct. Or, if they should be perused by some rash and 
 thoughtless young lady, who is declining in respect for her 
 parents, and pursuing a course calculated to destroy their 
 peace, we hope they may happily be the means of awaken- 
 ing in them a sense of obligation, and rekindling the dying 
 flame of Filial Affection- 
 Illustrious examples of Filial Affection are not wanting to 
 inspire the young with a laudable desire to excel in this 
 noble virtue. Titus Manlius, who had been treated with 
 great cruelty by his father, the Dictator, simply because he 
 had an impediment in his speech, when his father was im- 
 peached before the Roman people, armed himself with' a 
 dagger, and having obtained admittance to the bedchamber 
 of Pomponius the Tribune, threatened him with instant 
 death, if he would not bind himself by an oath which he 
 administered on the spot, that he would desist from the pro- 
 secution. The Tribtine, seeing the dagger glittering aloft, 
 toolc the oath, and the Roman people, struck with the noble 
 conduct of the youth, made him second Military Tribune. 
 The Son op Ckcesus, King of Lydia, who was born dumb, 
 which defect his father spared no expense to cure, to no efi'ect, 
 at the time Sardis was taken by the Persians, seeing his 
 father like to be slain by a soldier, unacquainted with the 
 King's person, made such an effort to speak, that he burst 
 the string of his tongue and cried out, " Soldier ! spare 
 THE LIFE OF Crcesus ! " Philip of Macedon, being, dan- 
 gerously wounded in an attempt to quell a disturbance, his 
 son Alexander, then only a youth of seventeen, rushed to his 
 
116 FILIAL AFFECTION. 
 
 assistance, covered him with his shield, and after Icilling 
 several of the mutineers, carried hipi off in safety. The 
 love Alexaader evinced for his mother Olympias, a woman 
 of a turbulent spirit, was most remarkable. Receiving a 
 letter from Antipator, bitterly inveighing against her, he 
 said, Poor man, he is not aware that one single tear of my 
 mother, will obliterate a thousand such letters. The illus- 
 trious SciPio Africanus, who had scarcely passed his 
 childhood, seeing his father wounded, and liable to be cut to 
 pieces in an engagement with Hannibal, regardless of his 
 safety, rushed into the hottest of the battle, and carried him 
 olf in triumph. In the midst of the applause which Epa- 
 minondas receiv^ed on account of an illustrious victory he 
 gained over the Spartans, at the battle of Leuctra, exclaimed, 
 " My greatest pleasure arises from the affectionate joy with 
 which the news of ray victory will inspire my dear father 
 and mother." A no less striking instance of Filial Affection 
 is presented in the last dying request of Nelson, the Hero of 
 'J^raffalgar. While yet the thunder of his cannon was deal- 
 ing destruction to his foes, and as the notes of victory fell on 
 his ear, he said, " Bury, me by my parents.'' ' 
 
 Our own Washington, has furnished" us with a noble 
 example of Filial Affection, worthy of all praise and imita- 
 tion. After his election to the Presidency, and previous to 
 entering on the duties of his office, he repaired to Fred- 
 ricksburgh, to take his leave of his mother. It was an affect- 
 ing S9ene. Washington observed the ravages of disease, and 
 tenderly addressed her, telling her he came to bid he^ an 
 affectionate farewell, ere he assumed the functions of his 
 office, and promising that as soon as his public duties would 
 permit, to hasten back to Virginia. His mother wept as she 
 said in tremulous tones, " My Son, you will see me no more. 
 But go, my Son, and fulfil .your high destinies, and may 
 Heaven's aad a mother's blessing be upon you." Locked 
 ill her arms, he leaned his head on her shoulder and wept. 
 Peerless Mother ! Noble Son ! Where on earth was there 
 e 7er seen such a Son, and such a Mother ? * 
 
THE MECHANIC DIVINB. l^t 
 
 THE MECHANIC DIVINE, 
 
 OE, INDUSTRY EEWARDED. 
 
 A proud Welch squire, took it into his head to l» very 
 angry with a poor Curate, who employed his leisure hours 
 in mending clocks and watches, and actually applied to Dr. 
 Shipley, Bishop of St. Asaph, with a formal complaint 
 against him, for impiously carrying on a trade. His lord- 
 sliip having heard the complaint, told the squire he might 
 depend upon it that the strctest justice should be done m 
 the case ; accordingly the mechanic divine was sent for a 
 few days after, when the bishop asked him — " How lie 
 dared to disgrace his diocese by becoming a mender of 
 clocks and watches?" The mao with all humility answered 
 " To satisfy the wants of a wife and ten children !" " That 
 won't do with me," rejoined the prelate ; " I'll inflict such a 
 punishment on you, as shaH make you leave off your pitiful 
 trade, I promise you ;" and immediately casing his secre- 
 tary, ordered him to make out a presentation for the aston- 
 ished Curate, to a living of at least one hundred and fifty 
 pounds, per annum. 
 
 Reflections. — It is not often that wc see virtue thus 
 rewarded in tms cold and selfish world, and men in power 
 ■stooping to confer honor on those who, in the deepest 
 poverty, submit tc the most self-denying labors, to maintain 
 a conscience void of ofl:ence towards God and man. Such 
 an instance of pure generosity and discriminating justice 
 as is here presented, reveals a redeeming trait in humar 
 nature, and furnishes a beautiful illustration of that noble 
 scripture maxim, "It is more blessed to give than to re- 
 ceive." Where ministers receive an incompetent salary, 
 how can they be expected to devote themselves wholly to 
 the ministry ? They must live. Some ministers who ars 
 poorly paid must work or suffer. While some clergymen 
 receive their thousands, others are left deplorably poor. — Ei« 
 
BLOOMFIELD, 7s & 6s, Pe/voliah. 
 
 Hastinub. 
 
 1. Re - raem-ber thy Cre - a - tor, While youth's fair spring is 
 
AN AFFECTING AND INSTRUCTIVE TALE. 
 
 RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE. • 
 
 FROJI THE GERMAN. 
 
 In a little village far removed from cities and high roads, 
 there dwelt a young Weaver, a devout and honest man, but 
 poor. His wife as good and kind hearted as himself, assisted 
 him faithfully at his trade^ from early morn till late in the 
 evening by spooling yarn, and still these good people had 
 oftentimes nothing to eat for weeks, except potatoes boiled 
 or roasted, with a little salt, but they were happy^ for they 
 were warmly attached to one another, and enjoyed peace of 
 mind. Heaven had bestowed upon them three promising- 
 children, whom they brought up with care, and instructed 
 in every thing good. All who visited these excellent people 
 were charmed with their cheerfulness and cordiality, and 
 many a one was satisfied to partake with them of their sim- 
 ple dish of potatoes in order to enjoy the edifying discourse 
 of the devout pair. 
 
 One pleasant summer evening, a well dressed man came 
 to the Weaver's cottage; he saluted the man and his wife 
 very pleasantly, and begged them not to take it ill that he 
 had disturbed them at so late an hour. "I am journeying on 
 foot to Weinsburg," he said, " I am unacquainted with the 
 road. Will you not' be so kind as to accompany me for a 
 short distance ? I can then find the way alone perhaps, and 
 I will reward you well for your trouble." . The Weaver 
 straightway sprang up from his stool, drew on his well worn 
 but neatly patched coat, and walked briskly onward before 
 the stranger to show him the way. 
 
 On the road they spoke of various matters, and the strangei 
 was very affable and pleasant. But at last when it had 
 giowh perfectly dark, the unknown stopped on a sudden, drew 
 11 
 
H-2 
 
 AN' AFFr.CTIN'G AXD INSTRUCTIVE TALE. 
 
 a whistle from his pocket, and blew upon it so shrilly that the 
 poor Weaver tremtiled and shuddered in every limb ; at the 
 same moment eight or ten frightful looking fellows came 
 from the adjacent thicket, approached the stranger, who ap- 
 peared to be their Captain, and consulted with him about 
 the robbery of a certain mill, which they purposed to break 
 into during the night. 
 
 The Captain hereupon presented the poor Weaver to them 
 as a comrade who had newly joined the band. "He was 
 somewhat timorous indeed," he said, "but he would soon 
 get over that." The unhappy man fell upon his knees, and 
 begged for mercy, but the Robber placing a pistol to his 
 breast, cried, "either go with us or die!" Two of 
 the men now took him between them, and dragged him on- 
 ward. About midnight- they reached the mill, succeeded in 
 breaking into it, having left the poor Weaver and another 
 one of the band to keep watch without. But the police had 
 got upon the track of the rogues ; the measure of their iniqui- 
 ties was now full ; the Captain, the Weaver and some others 
 were taken prisoners ; the rest escaped. 
 
 In the mean while the poor woman, the Weaver's wife, 
 began to feel anxious and alarmed; her husband did not 
 make his appearance during the night, and when morning 
 came and still he did not return, her anxiety became excess- 
 ive; the neighbors went out to seek after him, but they 
 tould neither see nor hear any thing of the unhappy man. 
 The poor woman was inconsolable, although she was yet 
 unacquainted with the dreadful tidings which were soon to 
 reach her ears. 
 
 It was not until evening that she heard of the robbery, 
 and that the Weaver had been present when the deed was 
 perpetrated, that he with the Captain of the Robbers and 
 others of the band had been arrested, and were now in pri- 
 son, to await their trial for life or death. The poor woman 
 could now no longer control herself. She placed her chil- 
 dren ill the charge of a neighbor, and ran with" all the speed 
 she could to thi; town where her husband was confined in 
 
AN AFFECTIN-S AMD I.VSIRUCTIVE TALE. 183 
 
 prison. She went first to the judge to whom she related 
 whut she knew of the business, and then fell at his feet, and 
 implored him to liberate her unhappy husband. But the 
 judge, although in his heart he pitied her condition, could 
 not help, her, as the affair must first be investigated in due 
 form by process of law ; he permitted her, however, to visit 
 her husband. 
 
 The scene which now followed is indescribable. The 
 poor people wrung their hands, raised them toward Heaven, 
 and called upon God the defender of innocence. The Wea- 
 ver then endeavored to console his poor wife, and begged 
 hor to keep firm in her confidence in God, who of a surety 
 would not forsake them in this dreadful need; for although 
 he had erred, perhaps, iu not choosing death rather than 
 accompany the Robbers, yet the Omniscient God knew that 
 he had avoided death only for the sake of his family, and 
 that his love for them alone had rendered him weak, in the 
 hope that God who knew his innocence, would rescue him 
 if he fell into danger. The good people then separated, 
 strengthened in their confidence and reliance upon their 
 Heavenly Father, and the woman returned again to her 
 children. She visited her husband often however, and at 
 every interview they confirmed each other in faith, and 
 offered up prayers. 
 
 But many robberies which had followed closely, one upon 
 another, had constrained the magistrates to give greater 
 severity to the laws, and in conformity therewith, the poor 
 Weaver had incurred the penalty of the gallows, as he had 
 been taken with the band. But the worst of all was this ; 
 the Captain had conspired with his comrades to bring the 
 Weaver to the gallows, cost what it might ; in pursuance of 
 this plan they had agreed together as to what each one 
 should testify with regard to him at the trial. The Captain 
 maintained that the Weaver had been engaged in several 
 robberies with them before, and then named the places, and 
 the evidence of the rest was in conformity with his. When 
 then the judge examined them all together, and the poor 
 
184 AN AFFECTING AND INSTRUCTIVE TALE. 
 
 Weaver protested his innocence, the Robbers were able to 
 give such an air of probability to their assertions, that no 
 doubt remained of their truth, nay, they even asked if he 
 had no fear of God before his eyes so to persist in his denial. 
 Thus one examination followed another, and the innocent 
 Weaver had no advocate but bitter tears. 
 
 The testimony was at last closed, and given in to the 
 criminal tribunal; the latter pronounced sentence that the 
 "Weaver should be hanged first, and then the others, after 
 they had witnessed the execution of their companion ; with 
 this difference however, that their bodies were to be brolten 
 on the wheel and quartered. After the prince had affixed 
 his signature to the sentence, it was made known to the pris 
 oners, who were informed that it would be carried into exe- 
 cution within three days. 
 
 The compassion of the yhole country was excited for the 
 Weaver, for every one thought him innocent. The Clergy- 
 man who had married him, often visited him, and found him, 
 as will readily be imagined, in a most disconsolate condition. 
 He endeavored to strengthen him by the consolations of reli- 
 gion, and prayed with him with great fervency, so that the 
 good man at last took courage, and resigned himself to the 
 will of God. His wife cried loudly to Heaven for rescue, and 
 on the day before the execution, she ran in haste with stream- 
 ing hair to the capitol, and desired to speak with the prince. 
 
 Now it chanced that at the prince's table at dinner, the 
 story of a poor man, the father of a family had been related, 
 who although innocent, had fallen a victim to the severity of 
 the laws. This gave those pj'esent occasion to speak of the 
 Weaver, for the affair was known at court, and the prince 
 was not without his doubts on the subject. The woman 
 was instantly admitted. Her amiable, honest countenance, 
 and her grief spoke with such forccy that tears came into the 
 princess' eyes, and she felt convinced of the man's innocence. 
 She immediately took the poor woman by the hand and led 
 her to the prince. 
 
 He also was moved to tears and said, " Good woman, 
 
AN AFFECTING AND INSTRUCTIVE TALE. 185 
 
 your husband's life shall be saved ; I will at once send some 
 one to cany an order to this effect to the^udge" It was 
 high time indeed, for it was now evening, and at nine o'clock 
 on the following morning, the Weaver was to be led to the 
 gallows. The courier had in the meanwhile, to ride thirty 
 miles. The prince then ordered refreshments to be placed 
 before the woman, who, when she had partaken of them, 
 hurried away with a heart filled with joy, uttering loud 
 thanksgivings to God. But she had scarcely run two leagues 
 when she could go no farther, and was obliged to rest for 
 some hours, so that she did not reach the town until ten 
 o'clock the following morning. 
 
 But the courier who had been dispatched to bear the par- 
 don to the Weaver, fell from his horse, and dislocated his 
 ankle, so that he was unable to continue his journey ; for- 
 tunately he was near a post house, which he reached with 
 difficulty, and there remained. He gave the letter of pardon 
 to the postmaster, who sent it on by a postillion. Its arrival 
 was in this way retarded for several hours. 
 
 The clock struck nine ; the knell of the criminals echoed 
 in slow and solemn sounds over the city ; first appeared the 
 officers of the police, then came the Weaver accompanied by 
 a clergyman, next the Captain of the band, with the remain- 
 mg prisoners, and last of all the -executioner and his assist- 
 ants. A great crowd of people fi-om the city and from the 
 surrounding country followed the procession, which escorted 
 by a company of armed soldiers, moved slowly toward the 
 scaffold. The weaver was silent ; his grief had neither tears 
 nor speech ; but many observed that the Robber Captain 
 watched him with great attention. The procession now 
 reached the gallows, and the Weaver was led up the steps. 
 At this instant a postillion came riding up at a gallop ; he 
 placed in the hands of the judge who was present a large 
 letter. The latter tore it open in haste, and exclaimed, 
 " pardon ! pardon for the Weaver ! " Shouts of joy now 
 arose from the crowd, and it was a long time before silence 
 could be obtained, 
 
186 AN AFFECTING AND INSTKUCTIVE TALE. 
 
 The Robber Captain now asked permission of the judge to 
 address the assembled crowd. After it had been granted 
 him, he mounted the scaffold, and waved with his hand to 
 oDtain silence. All listened in breathless stillness, and the 
 Robber exclaimed with a loud voice. "There is a God 
 AND HI'. IS JUST ! Once I did not believe this, and I rioted 
 in sin and crime. Things often happened during my wicked 
 career, however, from which I might have known that there 
 was a God who ruled this world. I wished to be assured of 
 this however, and 1 thought if I could bring a devout and in- 
 nocent man to my baud, and could compel hinl to participate 
 ill our crimes, that this Just God, if there was one indeed, 
 could not possibl}'' suffer this good and innocent man to 
 undergo a like punishment with ourselves. He could not 
 help but save him, and so it has actually proved, for the 
 Weaver is perfectly innocent, and is a pious and upright man. 
 I have made the trial with him, and God has rescued him. 
 Yes, truly ! there js a God and a just God !'' 
 
 He now prayed that he might be taken back to prison, de- 
 claring that he had some important confessions to make. 
 He would then, he said, submit willingly to- his fate, which 
 he had in truth, deserved. The Robber's request was granted ; 
 he and his companions were led back to prison again, and 
 placed in chains. 
 
 . During this while the bystanders encouraged the \Yeaver, 
 and provided him with refreshments ; and as he was making 
 his way out of the crowd, a number of young men approach- 
 ed him, raised him upon their shoulders, and carried him 
 into the town ; others collected money for him, so that he 
 received several hundred crowns. As they were bearing him 
 through the streets, his wife reached the town after her loil- 
 ■some journey ; she saw the gathering of the people, and 
 heard the cry " they are bringing the Weaver ! he has 
 received a pardon !" and at the same moment she beheld him 
 borne aloft on the shoulders of the young men, and heard 
 the joyful shouts of th^> crowd. "With sol)s i-A' deli^lii, she 
 followed the li-ain into iln^ inn. 
 
ETERNITY. 187 
 
 It is impossible to describe the meeting which ensued be- 
 tween the husband and wife. They were driven home in a 
 carriage for their hedvy afflictions had so weakened them 
 that they could not perform the journey on foot. The money 
 which the Weaver had obtained placed hlra above all want, 
 and God's blessing wont with him. 
 
 This event happened in the year 1788. 
 
 ETERNITY. 
 
 lixtract from an Unpublished Poem \ 
 
 BY HENRY VV. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 And yel thou hast not left thyself without 
 A witness ; all we hear, and feel, and see, 
 
 Witiiin us and around, forbid to doubt. 
 Vet speak so darkly and mysteriously 
 
 Of what we are and shall be evermore. 
 
 We doabt, and yet believe, and tremble and adore ! 
 
 Tiianks be to God !— the glorious day will come, 
 Wherein the soul shall see, and feel, and know ! 
 
 Earth — earth is not our everlasting home. 
 
 But through the shadows of this world belcw, 
 
 The spirit journeys onward to the sky, 
 
 A wayworn pilgrim of eternity. 
 
 Eternity ! no mortal e'er could break 
 
 Thy seal of mystery, save him alone 
 Who dwelt in Patmos, for his Saviour's sake, 
 
 And in his vision saw a great white throne ; 
 And him who sat thereon, before whose face 
 The earth and heaven fled, and found no place ! 
 
 Eternity ! O let the Dead again 
 
 Put on their mortal garments and return — 
 
 Give back ! give back thy daark and shadowy train. 
 Once more, that they may tell, in words that burn. 
 
 Thy fearful mysteries of good and ill — 
 
 A voice within us cries. Oh ! Peace ! be still. 
 
AMERICAN AUTUMN. 
 
 BY MRS. A. B. WHELPLEY, NEW-YORK. 
 
 Autumn, to me, is the most delightful season of the year. 
 I may, perhaps, be somewhat singular, in preferrmg it to 
 poetic Spring ; but in my view, it presents subjects for 
 poetry of a more sublime nature. We, indeed, associate 
 Spring with all that is beautiful, young and lovely; and as 
 it yearly returns to gladden our eyes, and rejoice our 
 hearts, we for the time feel as though the days of our early 
 youth were renewed. That elasticity of spirit, and those 
 bright cheering hopes for the futiire, which characterize 
 that period of life, seem to return once more, at this lovely 
 season ; as we gaze upon the bright azure above, and the 
 fresh young green of Nature's livery around. Alas ! for 
 those in whose hearts, chilled by misfortune, sorrow, or 
 misanthropy, perpetual Winter reigns ; and Spring brings 
 with it nothing to cheer the heart or elevate the soul. 
 
 But though images of the beautiful float before the fancy, 
 and zephyr lends the ideal wings, in Spring ; Summer's fer- 
 vid heat soon brings us down from our airy flight, and Au- 
 tumn opens upon us with pleasing charms. It brings with 
 it feelings, indeed, more sober and subdued than those pro- 
 duced by the opening year; but yet there is something ex- 
 hilarating in the contemplation of Nature, in her graver 
 and more matured beauty ; and, as the season advances 
 with all its varying charms, it excites that emotion of me- 
 lancholy which is naturally produced in the meditative 
 mind by the brightening, but declining beauties of Nature; 
 and which is so favorable to the sublime in thought and 
 feeling. There is a sweet repose about autunm suited tc 
 
AMERt.i.X AUTUMN. 189 
 
 , meditation ; and, as in maturer years we look back upon 
 the days of our early youth, and contrast the reality and 
 the cares of the present, with the airy visions of the morn- 
 i»g of life, we see how many bright hopes have faded ; how 
 masy opening buds of joy have been blasted ; how many 
 desires and schemes have been frustrated, without the at- 
 tainment of which we once thought the world and life itself 
 would have no charms. But when we have passed on, we 
 have gleaned many things upon the rugged path of life 
 which, although the anticipation of them had no place in, 
 our early dreams, yet have colored the present with a 
 beauty of their own. 
 
 So does Autumn appear to us, divested indeed of all the 
 charms of Spring, but now attired in its own native loveli- 
 ness, with a gorgeous livery peculiar to itself. 
 " There is a beautiful spirit breathing now, 
 Its mellow richness on the clustered trees, 
 And from a beaker full of richest dyes, 
 Pouring new glory on the Autumn woods ; 
 And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds." 
 
 How strikingly are we reminded of our mortality, in the 
 emblematic varying hue of nature, in the fading and fall- 
 ing leaf! How sweetly, and yet how sadly, Uo the voices 
 of the wind, like some almost forgotten strain of music, 
 strike upon the soul, waking the memories of joys long 
 past ; bringing before us forms of the beloved dead, with 
 the light of eyes now quenched, which once shone brightly 
 upon us ; and voices which once thrilled the loving heart 1 
 
 There is a sublimity in the whistling and roaring of the 
 wind, which involuntarily leads the thoughts to the contem- 
 plation of the All-wise Author of Nature. How gloriously 
 manifest is the majesty of God in his works ! 
 
 How brilliant is the Autumn of our own country ! It has 
 been much admired, and doubtless with justice, by foreign- 
 ers ; for what can present a more magnificent appearance 
 than our groves and forests at this season, decked in the 
 choicest and gayest robes of Nature. The most skilful 
 artist could never blend and lay on canvass such colors as 
 
1 on PEAYIXG AXD LIVING. 
 
 she then puts on : every tree, bush, and even leaf, clothed 
 ill a different hue, from dark green and brown to the light- 
 est shades of red and yellow ; and then with all this tran- 
 scendent beauty of earth, the sky, too, contributes to render 
 all nature perfectly enchanting. What, indeed, can be 
 more beautiful than a clear autumnal sunset, as the glorious 
 orb of day gradually sinks behind the distant hills, tipping 
 the highest trees with its golden hue, and edging the clouds 
 with every variety of color, at last disappears, leaving the 
 whole western horizon one unclouded blaze of golden light! 
 We can almost imagine that we have a glimpse of the glo- 
 ries of the eternal world. There is something truly sad 
 and mournful in the thought, that when nature appears in 
 her most entrancing beauty, it is only just before her most 
 frightful decay. There* is something in the idea of the fall- 
 ing leaf which seems to say, how transitory are all earthly 
 things, and how vain are all our earthly hopes ; which, al- 
 though thej'' smooth the thorny path of life, will be found, at 
 the close, to have been nothing more than a painted dream ! 
 
 PRAYING AND LIVING. 
 
 Ever labor to live suitably to thy prayers. It is to no 
 purpose to begin the day with God, and then spend it with 
 the devil ; to be a saint in the morning in thy closet, and 
 then a sinner all day in the world. Having prayed against 
 sin, be sure thou watch against it, avoiding the occasions 
 and temptations thereto ; for otherwise thou wilt fall be- 
 fore it. Having prayed for holiness of life, labor to live 
 holily. Having prayed for humility, labor to walk hum- 
 bly. Having prayed for sobriety and temperance, labor 
 to live soberly and temperately. Having prayed in the 
 Spirit, labor to walk in the Spirit. Ever bear in mind that 
 to pray for one thing and live for another, is a contradic- 
 tion and an impiety. The whole course of life should sa- 
 vour of thy prayers. He who hath all his religion in his 
 prayers hath no religion at all. 
 
ADDRESS TO THP: EVENING STAlt 
 
 BY THE REV. MR. CASSELS. 
 
 Sweet Star of Eve ! that far o'er hill and dale 
 Sparkiest as diamond on tho head of Night, 
 
 Thy twilight vigJs, kept with ray so pale, 
 I now invoke ! Attend thou gentle light. 
 
 What art thou 1 say — an empty ball of flame, 
 Fix'd in 'mid ether, by the hand of God ■! 
 
 Or some kind Spirit of a loftier name, 
 Guarding in love our earthly, frail abode 1 
 
 Thou art a sLster world — the home, perchance. 
 Of wisdom, thought, and strong intelligence ; 
 
 Philosophy's School, that in thy nightly dance. 
 Tbf works survey'st of God's omnipotence. 
 
 Bat art thou too the home of love ? On tlu'?. 
 As here, do wedded hearts in joy unite ? 
 
 And parents view, around their happy knee, 
 
 Sweet children grow — love's purest, best delight! 
 
 And hast thou. Star, upon thy peaceful breast, 
 One temple, holy to the name of God t 
 
 Do pious hearts oft find in Him their rest ; 
 Oft sing his praise, oft visit his abode ? 
 
 Hast thou the taint of sin 'i Did fed'ral deet' 
 Transmit the foul contagion to the race, 
 
 And sin imputed, corrupt' the holy seed 
 Which God had planted on thy shining fate ', 
 
 Knowest thou redemption ? Has th' blood of One 
 
 Beloved of God, been ever shed for thee ] 
 , Or is it Earth, our guilty Earth alone. 
 
 That God allows such wondrous grace to sot' ! 
 
 Hast thou wars, famines, wasting' oestiloncn ? 
 
 Do blood-stained warriors tread tny sky-buiil son « 
 And stern Death, in dark and gloomy silencu. 
 
 Tread down thy living as his rightful spoi.' ' 
 
1 92 TRUTH. 
 
 Do wiaows weep on thee, an I orphans roam 
 
 Unbless'd, thy dreary wasl^s 1 Hast thou the poor, 
 
 Tlie sick, the maimed, and those who find no home 
 But in the grave, where they shall weep no n'ore. 
 
 Sweet Star of Eve ! Oh give, oh give reply ; 
 
 Send forth some messenger, and tell to Earth, 
 A Sister World, thy state, and reasons why ; 
 
 Tell us thy history, God has told thy birth. 
 
 But no— there thou hangest, and wilt hang. 
 Peaceful and still, as when the hand of God 
 
 First fix'd thy crown, and Nature loudly sang 
 Man's blissful being, and his first abode. 
 
 Nations arise and fall — ^man raves, is still. 
 But thou, composed on high, beholdest axl ; ' 
 
 Nor sufferest a frown thy face to fill. 
 Nor sorrow's tear from thy bright eye to fall. 
 
 Shine on, thou gem of night — to me thou art 
 Of Hope the emblem ; that when our sun his BO^t 
 
 And life its evening draws around the heart, 
 Still shines, never, never, again to set. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 It may be a p'leasure to stand on the shore, and see ships 
 tossed upon the sea ; a pleasure to stand in the window of 
 a castle, and to see a battle, 'and the adventures therc-of 
 below; but no pleasure is comparable to the standing on 
 the vantage ground of truth — a hill not to be commanded, 
 and where the air is always clear and serene- -and (o .-(•<- 
 the errors, the wanderings, the mists, and tempnsts, in the. 
 vale below ; always that this prospect be wiin pity, and 
 not with swelling or pride. CeVtainly it is heaven upon 
 earth to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in Provi- 
 dence, and turn upon the poles of truth. 
 
THE INDIAN LOVER. 
 
 A TRUE TALE. 
 
 BY MRS. L. KINGMAN. 
 
 'TwAS a delightfal evening in September when I arrivea 
 
 at the little town of A ; the day had been very sultry, 
 
 and the almost boundless prairies which extended them- 
 selves before me durmg the day, their beauties either seared 
 by an untimely frost or burnt to blackness by the hunter or 
 Indian for the accommodation of self, had wearied my vision 
 and exhausted my spirits in a manner that I had almost sank 
 into a state of unconsciousness, when aroused by my com- 
 panion to view the picturesque scenery before me. We had 
 now began to descend the bluff of the Mississippi, and 
 although the plain which intervened between the river and 
 its bluff was six miles in its width, the noble river seemed 
 to lie at our feet in all its breadth and beautiful windings ; a 
 little sluice was seen to put out from the river and running 
 along like a truant child, until it had nearly reached the 
 steep we were descending, gently turned its course toward 
 its parent stream and disappeared. The little hamlet lying 
 on the bank of the sluice wore an air of comfort and plenty 
 seldom found in so newly settled a section of our country, 
 the houses were neatly built of brick, the cottages of logs, 
 but so completely enveloped in the vine of the honeysuckle 
 and trumpet-flower, as to puzzle the beholder as to their con- 
 struction, as well as giving them an air of comfort seldom 
 found in the western wilds ; it did indeed seem the work of 
 some fairy hand. The taste of the Atlantic States was con- 
 spicuous in their farms, their houses, and tneir gardens. On 
 our enquiry, we found as we anticipated, the place princi- 
 pally built and inhabited by New Englanders ; being in 
 
194 THE INDIAN LOVER. 
 
 search of health as well as happiness, and somewhat fatiguec 
 with travelling, I concluded to become an inhabitant of that 
 delightful village for a few weeks. I found its inhabitants a 
 truly happy people ; each eve as the day declined and the 
 breezes sprang up rendering the air inviting, we were wont 
 to assemble at some one of the houses and hear from the 
 first settlers, who in turn told tales of by-gone days, an ad- 
 venture of their early settlement, a love story, a Wolf hunt, 
 or a Panther's visit, our evening entertainment was con- 
 cluded by partaking of a collation of fruit, and of wine, for 
 that was before the good days of Washingtonianism, made 
 from the native grape of the country. A tale given by the 
 eldest of the settlers is indelibly impressed on my memory. 
 " I," said the old gentleman, " fourteen years since, left my 
 beloved New England, and emigrated to this place accom- 
 panied by my four brothers, each having families ; we 
 sought out this spot which now so much interests you. 
 Then was it nought but a vast wilderness, the sound of the 
 woodman's axe had never been heard, and as we presume, 
 the foot of the white man never before pressed the soil ; the 
 Indian was often our visitor, and the Bear and the Panther, 
 who had heretofore roamed undisturbed, would' often fre- 
 quent their accustomed walk, and pay us a visit. With a 
 few hours labor we collected logs and erected a camp in 
 which we placed our young families, the forest supplied us 
 with meats of the most delicious kind, and the Indian would 
 bring us corn and pumpkins from, the upper settlements. 
 
 " The Autumn yielded us abundant crops, and the ensuing 
 Winter was spent in much enjoyment. Spring again opened 
 to us in all its beauty, surpassing if possible the former. 
 We commenced building our houses which we now inhabit, 
 our young friends, our children seemed -more than ever to 
 enjoy their rambles o'er the gay lawn ; Mary and Eliza in 
 their walks were inseparable ; they were cousins, both at 
 the interesting age of eighteen, both beautiful, or, so our 
 village deemed them, Mary's form was of the most perfect 
 symmetry, tall, erect and commanding, her long tresses of 
 
THE INDIAN LOVER. 195 
 
 dark hBown hair, neatly braided and laid in folds over her 
 brow, contrasting vs^ith its snowy whiteness, adding much to 
 the beauty of her face. Eliza was much smaller than Mary, 
 and was considered more beautiful ; she was an only daugh- 
 ter and had been reared with much tenderness ; an air of 
 modest diffidence spread over her features, which rendered 
 her an object of interest to every beholder. As we were 
 engaged about our houses one day, we were alarmed by 
 seeing the young ladies running toward us followed by an 
 Indian. We immediately ran to meet them, when the 
 Indian prostrated himself at our feet begging us to give him 
 Mary to be his squaw. He stated, that he was a chief, or 
 rather the son of a chief, was big-man, owned dogs, coon- 
 skins, and all the et cetera of an Indian wigwam ; he per- 
 ceived his entreaties to be unavailing, and left us. When 
 the girls related their encounter with him, it appeared they 
 had gone into an adjacent prairie, to gather strawberries, 
 and feeling in a frolicksome mood, they had displaced their 
 combs, letting their long hair fall over their shoulders, and 
 in imitation of the Indian, painted their faces with the berries 
 they had gathered ; in this situation, they sought the bank 
 of the river, and unexpectedly came upon an encampment 
 of Indians. Eliza's natural fearfulness of character made 
 her immediately shrink from the gaze of the savage ; she 
 retired, but Mary stood fixed in astonishment, seemingly, 
 without power to move until the young chief, before men- 
 tioned, had gradually stolen nearer and nearer to her, when 
 he severed from her head one of the long braids, at the 
 same time entreating her to become his squaw. Aroused to 
 a sense of her perilous situation, she uttered one loud shriek 
 and fled ; the Indian followed, exclaiming, " pretty squaw, 
 white squaw, pretty hair ; she flew with the swiftness of a 
 Rein-deer, her remaining tresses floating on the breeze. 
 She soon gained her cousin who had nearly reached home ; 
 for many days did this young chief visit this settlement, 
 pleading in all the earnestness and artlessness of his native 
 character for the beauteous Mar}' Uj become his bride. 
 
196 THE HEART. 
 
 The tribe at length left our shores, but each successive 
 Spring for five years brought the Indian lover bearing some 
 little present to his beloved, and each time more earnestly 
 pressing his suit ; although not congenial with her feelings, 
 yet through fear, Mary was obliged to accept his pre- 
 sents" and • listen to his solicitation ; he believed the only 
 obstacle to their union, was her dislike to leave her parents 
 and her cousin Eliza. Spring again returned but brought 
 not the Indian suitor, it was the Spring of — 32 ; the tribe 
 to which he belonged had declared war against the whites, 
 several bloody skirmishes had ensued, the most remarkable 
 of which was the second battle of bad axe ; the Indians were 
 driven from the scene of action with much loss. Some of 
 our neigbors, while in the act of interring the dead, recog- 
 nized the well knowi| features of Mary's lover, his long 
 black glossy hair was tied on the top of his head, and unlike 
 the rest of his tribe was un-ornamented, save with the long 
 braid he had years before severed from the head of his 
 Mary. Mary is still with us, and often boasts of having an 
 offer, although not married, and that too, from one of the 
 royal family, the son and heir of king Black Hawk. 
 
 THE HEART. 
 
 The heart is a soil in which every ill weed will take root 
 and spread itself. The thorns of worldly care, and the 
 thistles of worldly vanity, will grow and flourish. As the 
 husbandman watches his land, so should the Christian search 
 ;ind examine his heart, that he may cast out of it all those 
 unprofitable weeds and roots of bitterness which will natu- 
 rally get possession of it. If this work is rightly performed, 
 the soil will be ready for the good seed of the word of God, 
 which will spring up and prosper under the influence of di- 
 vine grace, as the corn groweth by a blessing of rain and 
 sunshine from the Heaven above. 
 
THE SPIRIT EIVEB. 
 
 BY A. W. HOLSEN. 
 
 A river flows thro' a sunny land. 
 
 Its waters are pure and bright, 
 As they smoothly glide o'er the golden sand. 
 Or ripple across the ' coral strand,' 
 
 As sheen as a thing of light. 
 
 And fairy Isles like gems are laid. 
 
 Within its silvery zone. 
 With grot, and bower, and flow'ring glades 
 And woodlands too with tempting shade. 
 
 In wild profusion thrown. 
 
 And gaily now with shout and song, 
 
 A?d light sails fluttering wide, 
 i?hailo,ps and hg,rks, a myriad throng 
 Wirti living freight, are floating along 
 
 The breast of the crystal tide. 
 
 But little reck those mariners. 
 
 The perils of the way, 
 Of ro6ks and whirlpools, reefs and bars,— 
 18ut on they move, like princely cars 
 
 To festive pageantry. 
 
 lii^t, wanton zephyrs, flit along 
 
 Those Isles, with wooing breath ; 
 And pleasures train with siren song. 
 Are waiting there to lead that throng. 
 To misery and death. 
 
 They stop to roam o'er each fair Isle, 
 
 With Mirth and Revelry ; 
 And Wit and Beauty, Wealth and Wile, 
 With sparkling eye, and winning smile, 
 
 Stiiriure them from their way. — 
 
 12 ^ 
 
198 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 A tempest rages — ^tost and flirown. 
 
 Upon the rolling wave, 
 Those light frail vessels one by one. 
 With shout and scream and dying groan, 
 
 Sink to a wat'iy grave. — 
 
 That stream is life's bright sunny Me, 
 
 Those irail barks, hopes of joy. 
 And singingigaily on we glide. 
 But sorrow's tempest cannot bide. 
 And so we sink and die. 
 
 PASSING AWAY. 
 
 Brightly did the sun look down on Ocean's vast expanse, 
 on its sheet of boundless blue, and swiftly Jid a gallant 
 ship speed on its way. But soon clouds obscured the sun ; 
 darkness brooded over the sea, like a funeral pall; the 
 waves roared angrily, and lashed the sides of the vessel ; 
 and, as.it went down beneath the mighty waters, a wail, 
 loud and long, came up from the sinking crew. The roll- 
 ing billows, white with foam, gradually became calm, their 
 murmurs grew fainter and fainter, and, as the last low sound 
 fell upon the ear, it seemed to whisper, " passing away." 
 Far, far remote from the noise and din of the busy world, 
 in a quiet and secliided nook, stood a vine-clad cottage. A 
 silver stream ran murmuring near it ; trees, in all their 
 natural wildness and beauty, shaded it from the scorching 
 rays of the sun; the humble Violet, and blushing rose, 
 wafted their perfume around. It was indeed a fair and 
 lovely spot ; but storm-clouds rent the air, the deep thun- 
 der muttered in the distance, and the forked lightning 
 flashed fearfully about. One moment of dread calm, then 
 a loud crash, and the beauty of the scene had fled ; its 
 
^ PASSING AWAY. 199 
 
 loveliness had forever " passed away." 'Twas a calm 
 summer's morn. The sun arose with more than his 
 wonted splendor ; beautiful flowers were spread around in 
 the greatest profusion, and on each blade of grass, rivalling 
 the most brilliant diamonds, sparkled bright drops of dew. 
 But, ere the sun had reached his meridian, the flowers, 
 .parched by his beams, had drooped their heads, and died, 
 and the morning dew had '' passed away." ' 
 
 From a wild and lonely spot, thickly shaded with heavy 
 forest trees, issued a small streamlet. Gently o'er hill 
 and dale it pursued its course, now meandering through 
 green meadows, and anon forcing its way among rocks 
 and stones ; sometimes, almost hid from view, and again 
 bursting into sight, having gained, in its wanderings, addi- 
 tional size and strength. Yet still, as it glided along, whe- 
 ther in the dark shade of the forest, or brightly glittering 
 in the sun, whether calmly gurgling, gaily dancing, or 
 wildly dashing onward, it too seemed to murmur, " passing 
 awaIt." Alone, unwatched and unnursed, a delicate flower 
 raised its head, and opened its tiny petals to the light, dif- 
 fusing beauty and fragrance around. But, though fair, it 
 was also fragile. Crushed and broken, ^it soon fell to the 
 earth ; and, as it wafted abroad its last faint gush of perfume, 
 it seemed to breathe forth the words, " passing away." In a 
 shady dell, roamed a fair child, culling flowers from the 
 banks of the stream that rippled at her feet. Twining a 
 garland for her head, she bent over the clear waters, and, 
 as she there saw her youthful brow so gaily ornamented, 
 with a bounding step she hastened homeward ; but, ere 
 there, the flowers had withered and died ; and, while with 
 tearful eyes she gazed upon them, she received, thus early, 
 her first lesson of the vanity of all things earthly, that, like 
 flowers, they swiftly " pass away." The sun had set be- 
 hind the western hills, and twilight was gradually deepen- 
 ing into night, as a strain of music, low and sweet, fell 
 upon the ear. Louder and clearer came the notes, till at 
 length they burst forth into one rich, full peal ; then, grew 
 
200 
 
 GOLDEN SCKAPS. 
 
 fainter and fainter, weaker and weaker; but, as its last, 
 low tone died in the distance, it feebly murmured, " pass- 
 ing AWAY." In a dark and lonely room, sat an aged man. 
 His head was bereft of hair, save a few locks, which were 
 completely silvered' o'er. Life, with him, was ebbing fast ; 
 his course was nearly run. The threescore years and ten 
 allotted to man, he had more than numbered ; but, to him, 
 they had brought nothing only " vanity and vexation of 
 spirit ;'* and, as he silently gazed on a clock which stood 
 near, whose distinct and regular ticking told of the flight 
 of time, he felt that he too, like the moments, was swiftly 
 " PASSING AWAY." Thus is mutability stamped on all things ; 
 the fashipn of this world, and even the heavens and earth, 
 will finally " pass away ;" nothing is exempted ; wherever 
 we turn our eyes, we behold stamped, as in words of fire, 
 " PASSING AWAY ;" and on every sound that comes to our 
 ears> are borne the words, " passing away ! passing away ." 
 
 MARGARET. 
 
 G.OLDEN SCRAPS. 
 HABIT. 
 
 BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. 
 
 We all acknowledge the strength of habit. Its power 
 increases with time. In youth, it may seem to us like the 
 filmy line of the spider ; in age, like the fly, caught in its 
 toils, we struggle in vain. " Habit, if not resisted," says 
 St. Augustine, " becomes necessity." 
 
 The physical force of habit, is thus clearly illustrated by 
 Dr. Combe : " A tendency to resume the same mode of ac- 
 tion at stated times, is peculiarly the characteristic of the 
 nervous system ; and on this account, regularity is of great 
 consequence in exercising the moral and intellectual power. 
 
GOLDEN SCKAPS. 201 
 
 All nervous diseases have a marked tendency to observe 
 regular periods, and the natural inclination -to sleep at the 
 approacli of night, is another instance of the same fact. It 
 is this principle of our nature, which promotes the forma- 
 tion of vphat are called habits. If we repeat any kind of 
 mental effort every day at the same hour, we at last find 
 ourselves entering upon it, without premeditation, when the 
 time approaches." 
 
 THE ELDEST DAUGHTER. 
 
 The deportment of the older children of the family, is of 
 great importance to the younger. Theil- obedience, or 
 insubordination, operates throughout the whole circle. 
 Especially, is the station of the eldest daughter, one of emi- 
 nence. She drank the first draught of the mother's love. 
 She usually enjoys much of her counsel, and companioft- 
 ship. In her a|)sence she is the natural viceroy. Let the 
 mother take double pains to form her on a correct model ; 
 to make her amiable, diligent, domestic, pious ; trusting 
 that the image of those virtues, may leave impression on 
 the soft, waxen hearts of the younger ones, to whom she 
 may, in the providence of God, be called to fill the place 
 of a maternal guide. 
 
 DOMESTICS. 
 
 Children should be required to treat domestics with pro- 
 priety. Those, on whom the comfort of a family so essen- 
 tiailj'^ depends, are entitled to kindness and sympathy. The 
 theory, that industry and good conduct are worthy of re- 
 spect, in whatever rank they are found, cannot be too early 
 illustrated and- enforced on the members of a household. 
 
 GRATITUDE. 
 
 Be careful tp teach your children gratitude. Lead them 
 to acknowledge every favor that they receive, to speak of 
 their benefactors, and to remember them in their prayers. 
 Accustom them to distinguish with a marked regard, their 
 instructorSj-and those who have aided them in the attain- 
 
502 GOLDEN SCRAPS. 
 
 ment of goodness or piety. It is an interesting circutn- 
 stance in the life of Ann, Countess of Pembroke, who was 
 distinguished more than two centuries since, by her learn- 
 ing, her decision of character, the languages she acquired, 
 and the honors she enjoyed, that she erected a monument 
 to the memory of her tutor, and always spoke of him with 
 the most affectionate veneration, as her guide' in the rudi- 
 ments of knowledge. 
 
 FILIAL LOVE. 
 
 Filial love should be cherished. It has, especially, a 
 softening and ennobling effect on the masculine heart. It 
 has been remarked, that almost all illustrious men have 
 been distinguished by love for their mother. It is men- 
 tioned by Miss Pardoe, that a "beautiful feature in the 
 character of the Turks, is reverence for the mother. Their 
 wives may advise or reprimand, unheeded, but their mother 
 is an oracle, consulted, coftfided in, listened to with respect 
 and deference, honored to the latest hour, and remembered 
 with affection and regret even beyond the grave." " Wives 
 may die," say they, " and we can replace them ; children 
 perish, and others may be born to us ; but who shall restore 
 the mother, when she passes away, and is seen no more 1" 
 
 FILIAL GRATITUDE. 
 
 Gratitude is a principal ingredient in filial affection. It 
 oftdn reveals itself in a most striking manner, when parents 
 moulder in the dust. It induces obedience to their pre- 
 cepts, and tender love for their memory. A little boy was 
 once passing the ornamental garden of a rich man. He 
 was observed to look earnestly and wishfully at some 
 sprouts, that were germinating on the trunk of an old pop- 
 lar. On being asked what he wanted, he said, " My mother 
 loved flowers, and every green, living thing. She has been 
 dead two years, yet^ I have never planted one where she 
 sleeps. I often wish to. I was just thinking how pretty 
 one of these would look there." The gentleman kindly 
 
GOLDEN SCRAPS. 203 
 
 gave him a rose-bush, and the fresh wand of a weeping 
 willow. Then the poor little fellow lifted up his streaming 
 eyes, and gave thanks in a broken voice for himself, and 
 for his dear, dead mother. 
 
 DISCRIMINATION. 
 
 In developing the character of our children, let us ever 
 keep in view their distinct departments, sentient, social, 
 intellectual, accountable ; and give nutriment, and exercise, ' 
 to each. Let us make them industrious, as a means of hap- 
 piness, and a safeguard from temptation. The value of 
 time should be taught them, even of its smallest particles. 
 Sir Walter Scott, in enforcing the sentiment of Franklin, 
 that " time is money," has well added, " when we change 
 a guinea, the shillings escape, as things of small account ; 
 so when we break a day by idleness in the morning, the 
 rest of the hours lose their importance in our eyes." But 
 from the highest of all motives, that for our days', hours, 
 and moments, we must give an account to God, should we 
 warn our ch'Idren to improve their time, and dread to 
 waste it. 
 
 EXAMPLE. 
 
 Mothers, whatever you wish your children to become, 
 strive to exhibit in your own lives and conversation. Do 
 not send them into an unexplored country, without a guide. 
 Put yourselves at their head. Lead the way, like Moses, 
 through the wilderness to Pisgah. The most certain mode 
 for you to fix habits, is the silent ministry of example. 
 Thus impressed on the young mind, amid the genial atmos- 
 phere of a happy fire-side, they become incorporated with 
 established trains of thought, and with the elements of 
 being. They have their hand upon the soul, till, through 
 the grave and gate of death, it goes forth to the judgment. 
 
 Let the chain of second causes be ever so long, the first 
 link is always in God's hand. 
 
THE DEPARTING YEAR 
 
 BY A. B. W. 
 
 Fare thee well, departing year, 
 Swiftly steal thine hours away, 
 
 I fain would shed one parting tear 
 To thy last lingering ray ! 
 
 I hear the winter's wind rush by 
 
 With sad and plaintive tone, 
 It seems to chant the roundelay. 
 
 Of years now past and gone. 
 
 It scarce doth seem but yesterday, 
 Since in my childhood^s hour, 
 
 I laughed and sported care away 
 Within some fav'rlte bower ; 
 
 And twined the wreath of summer flower* 
 
 Upon my infant brow ; 
 How sweet did then their fragrance seem. 
 , But they are faded now. 
 
 Thus 'tis with thee, thou dying year ; 
 
 The roses now are dead 
 Which late ador^ied thy blushing spring 
 
 And round their fragrance shed. 
 
 But why regret departing years, 
 
 Which swift and onward fly ? 
 Oh ! let us up\li'ard fix our gaze 
 
 On things that never die. 
 
 immortal youth will there be ours, 
 
 And fadeless verdure bloom ; 
 And grief and parting be no more, 
 
 Beynnd the darksome tomb. 
 
 Farewell ! I hear the parting chime 
 
 Swell Qn the winter's gale. 
 My spirit spurns the bounds of timo ; 
 
 Departing year, farewell ! 
 
SIN AND FOLLY OP FRETTIIilG. 205 
 
 SIN AND FOLLY OF FRETTING. 
 
 The religion of Je'sus Christ i has for its great object the 
 et'ernal happiness of man. It is, however, proctically in- 
 fluential in the production .of true, although imperpbct, 
 happiness even in the present world. ■ In too many cases, we 
 confess, the religious spirit is tempered with much of the in- 
 firmity and sinfulness of our fallen humanity. It can seldom 
 be affirmed of our charity that it " is not easily provoked." 
 The mind even of the Christian is frequently fretted by the 
 repetition of small troubles and vexations. Such being the 
 case, it is important to consider the character and effects of 
 fretfulness: — i 
 
 r 
 
 It is a sin against God. — It is evil and only evil, and 
 that continually. David understood both human nature and 
 the law of God. He says, " Fret not thyself in anywise to do 
 evil." That is, never fret or scold, for it is always; a sin. If 
 you cannot speak without fretting and scolding, keep silence. 
 
 It destroys affection. — No one ever did, ever can, o 
 ever will love an habitual fretter, fault-finder, or scolder 
 Husbands,' wives, children, relatives and domestics, have no 
 affection for your peevish, fretful fault-finder. Few tears ara 
 shed over the graves of such. Persons of high moral prin 
 eiple may tolerate them — may bear with them— pbut the: 
 cannot love them any more than they can love'the sting oi 
 nettles, or the noise of mosquitoes. Many a man has been 
 driven to the' tavern, and to dissipation, by a peevish, fretful 
 wife. Many a wife has been made miserable by a peevish, 
 fretful husband. • A complaining fault-finder in a family is 
 like the. continual chafingof an inflamed sore. Woe to the 
 man, woman, or child, who is exposed to the influence of 
 such a temper in another ! Nine-tenths of all domestic trials 
 and unhappiness spring from this source. 
 
 It defeats the end op family government. — Grood 
 femily government is the blending authority with affection, so 
 as to secure respect and love. Indeed, this is the grand secret 
 
206 SIN AND FOLLY OF FRETTING. 
 
 of managing young persons. Now, your fretters may inspire 
 fear, but they always make two faults where they correct one. 
 Scolding a child, fretting at a child, sneering at a child, taunt- 
 ing a child, treating a child as though it had no feelings, 
 inspires dread and dislike, and fosters those very dispositions 
 from which many of the worst faults of childhood proceed. 
 
 It makes hypocrites. — As a ftetter neVer receives con- 
 fidence and aSection, so no one likes to tell them any thing 
 disagreeable, and thus procure for themselves a fretting. 
 How children alwaysconeeal as much as they can from such 
 persons. They cannot make up their minds to be frank and 
 open-hearted. So; husbands conceal from their wives, and 
 wives from their husbands. For a man may brave a lion, 
 but who likes to come in contact with nettles and mosquitoes ? 
 
 It destroys one's peace of mind. — The more one frets 
 the more one may, A fretter will always. have enough to 
 fret at ; specially if he , or she has the bninp of order ana 
 neatness largely developed. Something will always be out 
 of place. There will always he something wrong some- 
 where. Othersi will not eat right, look right, sit right, talk 
 right, act right ; i. e. will not do these things so as to please 
 them. And fretters are generally so selfish as to have no re 
 gard to any one's comfort but their own. 
 
 It ISA MARK OP a VULGAR, SELFISH DISPOSITION. Some 
 
 persons barve so much gall in their-dispositions, are so selfish, 
 that they seem to have no regard to the feelings of others. 
 All things must be done to please them. They make thei 
 husbands, wives, children, demesties, the conductors by which 
 their spleen and ill-nature are discharged. Woe to the chil- 
 dren who are exposed to such influences ! It makes them 
 callous and unfeeling, and when, they grow up they pursue 
 the same course with their own chi-ldTen, or those entrusted 
 to their management, and thus the race of fretters is perpetua- 
 -led. Any person who is in the habit of fretting, sneering, oi 
 taunting, a husband, wife, child, or domestic, shows either a 
 bad disposition, or else ill-breeding. For it is generally youi 
 ignorant, low-bred people that are guilty of such things. 
 
YOUTHFUL RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 O ! MIHI PR^TEBITOS REFEKAT SI JUPITER ANN09." 
 
 1 
 
 BY G. C. BRISTOL. 
 
 Sweet the thought of other days. 
 Scenes once loved to us revealing, 
 
 Sweet as music's melting lays, . 
 On the ear at twilight stealing. 
 
 When the bloom of youth is fled. 
 Passed its scenes of joy and gladness. 
 
 When the world to us is dead. 
 And our hearts are filled with sadness ; — 
 
 Then the thought of pleasures past. 
 Calling childhood's scenes hefore us 
 
 Hath a charm around us cast, 
 And its joys again brought o'er us. 
 
 Great enchantress. Memory, rise. 
 Drop thy magic curtain round me. 
 
 And before my raptured eyes, 
 Bring the spell which oft hath bound me. 
 
 Eapt in visions, on my sight, 
 Lo ! the scenes of youth are breaking. 
 
 Like the Sun's resplendent light. 
 From his orient slumbers waking. 
 
 Yes my home^l see thee now. 
 By those well known hills surrounded. 
 
 Hills, from whose romantic brow, 
 Echo oft her trump hath sounded. 
 
 There the sheltering hills between, 
 Spring, with rosy colored fingers. 
 
 Early spreads her robe of green. 
 And there long the summer lingers. 
 
208 ODE TERRITORIAL LUDTS. 
 
 ^ Sweet the stream that babhles by, 
 
 Through the verdant meadow straying; 
 
 ! how happy once was I ! 
 In its crystal waters playing. 
 
 Smiling was the verdant green, 
 Where at early eve I hasted, 
 
 All unconscious then, I ween, 
 Of the joys my boyhood tasted. 
 
 Loved companions of my plays. 
 Ye from whom I now am parted. 
 
 Think ye not of those hright days. 
 Days of hopes and joys departed .' 
 
 Strangers now, with careless feet, 
 Tread those consecrated places ; 
 
 Other playmates now shall meet, 
 Where we met, with smiling faces 
 
 OUR TERRITORIAL LIMITS. 
 This country has a frontier line of more than 10,000 miles. 
 We have a line of sea coast of nearly 4,000 miles, and a lake 
 coast of 1200 miles. One of our rivers is twice the size in 
 length of the Danube, the largest river iix Europe. The Ohio 
 is six hundred miles longer, than the Rhine, and the Hudson 
 has a navigation of 120 miles longer than the Thames. Vir- 
 ginia is one third longer thE|,n England. Ohio contains 8000 
 square miles more than Scotland ; from Maine to Ohio is far- 
 ther than from London to Constantinople, and so we might 
 go on and fill pages, enumerating distances, rivers, lakes, 
 capes and bays, with comparative estimates of size, power 
 and population. 
 
 " I have lived," said Drj Adam Clarke, "to know that the 
 great secret of human happiness is this : never suffer your 
 energies to stagnate. The old adage of 'too many irons in 
 the. fire,' conveys an untruth. You cannot have too many — 
 poker, tongues, and all — keep.them all going."