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 A 
 
 GIFT BOOK FOR ALL SEASONS. 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 
 PUBLISHED BY MARK H. NEWMAN & CO., 
 
 199 BROADWAY. 
 
LOAN STAC\^ 
 
 EDWARD O. JENKINS, PRINTER, 
 
 No. 114 Nassau street, N. Y. 
 

 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 Page 
 
 
 Page 
 
 A Short Paper on Procter, . . . . 
 
 3 
 
 Autobiography of a Sensitive Spirit, . 
 
 104 
 
 To the Genius of Poetry, 
 
 6 
 
 « To the Unknown God," 
 
 106 
 
 Money at Interest, 
 
 6 
 
 " A Thing of Beauty is a Joy forever," 
 
 107 
 
 The Dead Weight, 
 
 10 
 
 Original Anecdotes of General Washington 
 
 , 109 
 
 Hannah Adams, 
 
 11 
 
 A Summer Evening, .... 
 
 111 
 
 The City of Night 
 
 u 
 
 Motives, ....... 
 
 112 
 
 The Unforgotten, : . . . • 
 
 17 
 
 The Conquest of Peru, .... 
 
 115 
 
 Melville, the Pulpit Orator, . 
 
 18 
 
 Rev. N. S. S. Beman, D.D., 
 
 118 
 
 An Hour with Thomas P. Hunt, 
 
 . 22 
 
 A Green Old Age, 
 
 12S 
 
 The Old Scotch Couple, .... 
 
 26 
 
 The Vanity of Human Things, . 
 
 124 
 
 The Outlet of Lake George, 
 
 29 
 
 The White Lamb, 
 
 125 
 
 Professor Samuel F. B. Morse, 
 
 30 
 
 " My Peace I give unto you," . 
 
 127 
 
 A Funeral in the Country, 
 
 33 
 
 The Claims of Sacred Music, . 
 
 12S 
 
 Tennyson's Locksley Hall, 
 
 38 
 
 The Thousand Islands of the St. Lawrence 
 
 , 131 
 
 Associations, ..... 
 
 41 
 
 « Peace, Be Still," 
 
 132 
 
 Charles I. and Cromwell, 
 
 42 
 
 The Fear of Death, 
 
 133 
 
 Time the Healer, .... 
 
 46 
 
 The Feast of the Lord, .... 
 
 136 
 
 My Country Residences, 
 
 47 
 
 Let Us Love Each Other 
 
 13S 
 
 The River of Life, .... 
 
 51 
 
 Horseback Rambles, .... 
 
 139 
 
 The Design of Life, .... 
 
 52 
 
 Home, . . . 
 
 141 
 
 The Mother's Lament, 
 
 54 
 
 A Soliloquy 
 
 142 
 
 The Crystal Palace, .... 
 
 55 
 
 Sunset in Baffin's Bay, 
 
 144 
 
 True Greatness, 
 
 60 
 
 Guardian Angels, 
 
 144 
 
 The Puritans Judged by their Writings, 
 
 63 
 
 Robert Browning, .... 
 
 . 145 
 
 The Sisters of Bethany, 
 
 66 
 
 Earth's Oldest Son 
 
 147 
 
 "Westminster Abbey, .... 
 
 67 
 
 On the Death of a Dear Friend, 
 
 . 150 
 
 The "Wo-Prophet of Jerusalem, . 
 
 6S 
 
 The Presence of God, .... 
 
 150 
 
 Evening near a Great City, . 
 
 69 
 
 "I would not Live Al way," 
 
 , 153 
 
 More Precious than Rubies, 
 
 . 70 
 
 Personal Character of Dr. Chalmers, 
 
 156 
 
 The Treasures and Pleasures of Geology, 
 
 74 
 
 Some Great Work, .... 
 
 162 
 
 Rage for Unearned Wealth, 
 
 . 77 
 
 Apostrophe to Niagara, .... 
 
 167 
 
 The Fear of being an Old Maid, . 
 
 79 
 
 Gems of Modern English Poetry, 
 
 168 
 
 The Voice of the Sea, 
 
 . 81 
 
 They Fade, 
 
 171 
 
 Half-way People, 
 
 82 
 
 A Plea for Old Trees, 
 
 172 
 
 The Spirit-Land, .... 
 
 . 84 
 
 Spirit of Love, 
 
 173 
 
 The Right Side for the Bride, 
 
 85 
 
 Prejudices against Innovation, . 
 
 . 174 
 
 Tlie Minstrelsy of Nature, 
 
 . 87 
 
 Dignity, 
 
 177 
 
 The Christian Catacombs of Rome, 
 
 88 
 
 The Ideal : • 
 
 . 179 
 
 Submission to Providence, 
 
 . 98 
 
 The True Source of Happiness, 
 
 160 
 
 '■ And God said. Let there be Light," 
 
 94 
 
 Early Piety, 
 
 . 185 
 
 Dies lra3, 
 
 . 95 
 
 Farewell, ...... 
 
 187 
 
 Two Stories for the Fireside, . 
 
 96 
 
 Old English Sacred Poetry, 
 
 . 188 
 
 The Bible Class, .... 
 
 . 102 
 
 Whither Goest Thou? .... 
 
 190 
 
 Dr. Gutzkff, the Missionary, . 
 
 103 
 
 The Stranger's Grave, 
 
 . 191 
 
 r 
 
 ; 1 
 
 ^55 
 
 
 
IV 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 The Law of Thrift, 
 
 Youth, 
 
 Luther and his "Work, . 
 Earthly Sorrow, .... 
 
 A Wish, 
 
 " Speak Tenderly to the Erring," 
 
 The Family in Heaven, . 
 
 '' Rejoice in the Lord," 
 
 The Seven Wonders of the World, 
 
 Runga, 
 
 Tlie Past and the Future, 
 Romance of Every-Day Life, 
 
 Page 
 193 
 196 
 197 
 201 
 201 
 202 
 205 
 206 
 201 
 210 
 211 
 212 
 
 Stanzas, . . .... 
 
 The Martyrdom of Polycarp, . 
 
 Rosabel, 
 
 One of the Graces, .... 
 
 Bunker Hill and Calvary, 
 
 Man's Extremity, God's Opportunity, 
 
 The Press, 
 
 Early Life in the Country, . 
 The Use of Tears, .... 
 Louis Kossuth, . . . . . 
 Tiie Warrior and the Poet, . 
 The Christian's Death-Bed, 
 
 Page 
 212 
 217 
 220 
 221 
 226 
 227 
 229 
 230 
 234 
 235 
 241 
 242 
 
 Cmhlli0Jimettt0, 
 
 1. Kossuth. 
 
 2. Abdication of Mary, Queen of Scots. 
 
 3. Outlet of Lake George. 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 Professor Morse. 
 Family of Cromwell. 
 
 6. The Crystal Palace. 
 
 7. Mount Washington Falls. 
 
 8. Rev. S. H. Cox, D.D. 
 
 9. Ataliba and his Family. 
 
 10. Rev. George Potts, D.D. 
 
 11. St. Lawrence and tbe Thousand Islands. 
 
 12. Columbus propounding his Theory. 
 
 13. Rev. William B. Sprague, D.D. 
 
 14. Remorse of Charles IX. 
 
 15. Rev. Leonard Bacon, D.D. 
 
 16. Rev. S. H. Tyng, D.D. 
 
 JHiiBir, 
 
 The Song of the Zephyrs. 
 The Song of the Wood Nymphs. 
 The Song of the Robin. 
 I've a Home in the Yalley. 
 
 Sing to Me. 
 
 The Lily Bells. 
 
 Sing, Sing to Me. 
 
 Why do Summer Roses Fade 1 
 
-^ 
 
 jCDctJicntcti to i^Svs. Cnvolinc 5[®ilson. 
 
 WRITTEN AND COMPOSED BY ANNA BLACKWELL. 
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 With our pure breath soft blending ! 
 So we trip it, trip it lightly, 
 Rovers, joyous rovers we. 
 Flitting brightly, flitting brightly, 
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A SHORT PAPER ON PROCTER. 
 
 B T K 
 
 8 TODDARD. 
 
 Bryan "Waller Proctkr (Barry Cornwall) w.as 
 a schoolfellDW of Byron'.s at-Uarrow ; while the 
 young lord was enjoyin<jr himself, as a nobleman 
 and rich heir should do, tlie poor connnoner was 
 studying law, which nobody, tliat ever went 
 through it, ever tliought of calling enjoyment. 
 Byron had emerged from the obscurity of his 
 noble station, and was in the full blaze of popu- 
 larity, before Procter made his humble appear- 
 ance in the world of letters, a new candidate for 
 poetic honors. His first publication or volume of 
 " Dramatic Sketches" was favorably received by 
 the public, and kindly reviewed by most of the 
 critical reviews of the time. Lambe, Hazlett, 
 Southey and others had lately been calling at- 
 tention to the writers of the Elizabethan age, and 
 the people were begiiuiing to appreciate again 
 the pathos and sweetness of those glorious old 
 masters who looked deeper into the iiuman heart 
 than men had ever done before or are likely to 
 do again. Procter was their disciple and follower. 
 His "Sketches" were full of fine natural touches 
 and lines, whicli, like those of A pelles, bespeak tlie 
 hand of the master. The Edinburgh Review for 
 January, 1S20, speaking of his "Sicilian Story," 
 uses the following language : " His style is chiefly 
 moulded and his versification modulated on the 
 pattern of Shakspeare, and the other dramatists 
 of that glorious age, particularly Marlow, Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher, and Massinger. He lias also 
 copied son.-ething from Milton and Ben Jonson' 
 and the amorous cavaliers of the Usurpation, and 
 then passing disdainfully over all the intermediate 
 writers, has flung himself, fairly into the arms of 
 Lord fiyron, Coleridge, Wordsworth and Leigh 
 Hunt. * * ■* It is obvious that a man may 
 imitate Shakspeare and his great compeers, 
 without presuming to rival tlieir variety or uni. 
 versality. This is the case with Barry Cornwall. 
 He does not meddle with the thunders and light- 
 nings of the mighty poet: and still less with his 
 boundless humor and fresh springing merriment. 
 He has nothing to do with Falstaff" or Silence; and 
 does not venture himself into the lists with Mac- 
 beth, or Lear, or Othello. It is the tender, ihe 
 Bweet, the fanciful only that he ventures to copy ; 
 
 the girlish innocence and lovely sorrow of Juliet, 
 Imogen, I'erdetta or Viola — the encharr.ed soli- 
 tude of Prospero and his daugher — tlie etherial 
 loves and jealousies of Oberon and Titania, and 
 those other magical scenes all perfumed with 
 love and poetry, and breathing the spirit of a 
 celestial spring, which lie scattered in every part 
 of his writings. The genius of Fletcher is perhaps 
 more akin to his muse of imitation than tlie soar- 
 ing and "extravagant spirit" of Shakspeare; 
 and we think we can trace, in more places than 
 one, the impression which his fancy has received 
 from the patiint suffering and sweet desolation 
 of Aspasia in his "Maid's Tragedy." It is the 
 youthful Mdton only that he has presumed to 
 copy — the Milton of Lycidas, and Coinus, and 
 the Arcades, and the Seraphic Hymns, not the 
 lofty and austere Milton of the Paradise. From 
 Jonson, AVe think he has imitated some of those 
 exquisite songs and lyrical pieces wliich lie 
 buried in the rubbish of his masques, which con- 
 tinued to be the models for all such writings down 
 to the period of the Restoration. * * * There 
 is a great ileal of the diction of Wordsworth and 
 Coleridge, and some imitation of their beauties » 
 but we think the natural bent of his genius is 
 more hke that of Leigh Hunt than any other 
 author. He has the same play of f mcy. and the 
 same capacity of deep and delicate feeling, 
 tojrether with the same relish for the old Italian 
 poetry, and the plain and .-imple pathos of Dante 
 and Boccacio — we doubt, however, whether he 
 has equal force of original talent, or whether ho 
 could have written any thing s<i good, on ilie whole, 
 as tlie beautiful story of l-iimuii. But he has bet- 
 ter taste and better judgment — or what is perhaps 
 but saying the same thing, he has less aflectatioO 
 and far less conceit." This critique was doubt- 
 less from the pen of JetTrey, and in the main is 
 appreciative and just; though we can not help 
 demurring to the charge of Imitation so [xrtina. 
 ciously set forth in the indictment. For t>ur part, 
 we are aj t lo fancy that a man of Procter's genius 
 rather resembles certain authors in certain phases 
 of their character and writings, than that he del.be- 
 rately imitates them. The stigma of imilatioa 
 
A SHORT PAPER ON PROCTER, 
 
 13 easily and too often falsely stamped on meif of 
 kindred minds. " There is a mountain in Macedon, 
 and a mountain in Wales." There is, certainly, 
 great resemblance between Procter and Hunt, 
 but it is rather in subject than style : Hunt is 
 pleasant, careless, affected, and blip-shod ; one 
 can hardly trust hirn in serious passages, for fear 
 of smiling : his face is always on the smirk. 
 Procter is careful in his diffusion ; sweetly plea- 
 sant, serious and solemn in his delicate affectations, 
 and never, in the sense of Hunt, slip-shod. Hunt 
 has more exuberance and animal spirits ; Proc- 
 ter m.ore pathos and refined feeling. If Procter 
 could not have written " Rimini," Hunt could 
 not have written "The English Songs" of Procter. 
 Both are beautiful and unique in their way; and 
 the world is wide enough for them without jost- 
 ling. 
 
 Procter must have been a careful student of 
 old books in liis time; his language and style 
 betrays it ; above all, his little songs, which are 
 undeniably the finest of modern times, always ex- 
 cepting the best of Burns. One can hardly tell 
 one of his best songs from one of Shakspeare's, it 
 is so full of the very soul of poetry : passion and 
 lyrical feeling are interblended like scent and 
 color in the heart of a violet. Many of them are 
 running over with vague emotions, and delicate 
 sensibilities. Kings and queens, pages and 
 princesses, lads and lassies, all hearts and stations 
 find a fit utterance in his magical lines. Some- 
 times he is as clear as noonday ; sometimes as 
 shadowy and unsubstantial as a dream ; but al- 
 ways poetical and human. Now he will sing you 
 a drinking ditty that Sir John Suckling would 
 have delighted to father ; anon a love poem 
 worthy of Catullus, and as chaste as Paradise. 
 He writes in all moods, and under all inspirations : 
 and is probably, in his songs, the most dramatic 
 wiiter since Shakspeare. 
 
 Here is one of the first that we lay our hands 
 on. Of course you are all aware of the festivities 
 of olden times — tlie misletoe bough that was sus- 
 pended from the ceiling — and tiie custom of 
 kissing the maids beneatli it. Happy custom ! 
 not yet obsolete in the rural districts of England. 
 Read this little song, and guess who wrote it. No ! 
 it was not Shakspeare. 
 
 TUK MISI.ETOE. 
 
 Wlien winter nights grow long, 
 
 And winds without blow eold, 
 We sit in a ring roond llie warm wood fire. 
 
 And listen to stories old ! 
 And we try to look grave (as maids should be) 
 When the men bring in boughs of the Laurel-tree, 
 
 Oh, the Laurel, the evergreen tree, 
 
 The poets hate laurels,— and why not vie ? 
 
 How pleasant when night falls down, 
 
 And hides the wintry son, 
 To see them come in to the blazing fire, 
 
 And know that their work is done ; 
 Whilst many bring in, with a laugh or rhyme. 
 Green branches of Holly for Christmas time ! 
 
 Oh the Holly, the bright green Holly, 
 
 It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly I 
 
 Sometimes, (in our grave house 
 
 Observe, this happeneth not:) 
 But, at times, the evergreen laurel boughs. 
 
 And the holly are all forgot ! 
 And then ! what then ? why, the men laugh low. 
 And hang up a branch of — the Misletoe ! 
 
 Oh brave is the Laurel ! and brave is the Holly ! 
 
 But the JlUsUtoe banisheth melancholy ! 
 
 Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall knoui, 
 
 What is done under the Misletoe ! 
 
 Here is another, but of a very different cast ; 
 sombre and dark, and yet right jolly withal. The 
 subject is as old as life. It is Death and the rest 
 he brings. An attempt to embody and personify 
 the King of Terrors, the monarch of a greater 
 realm than ever Alexander wept for in his wild- 
 est moments. The subject is deep, awful, and 
 magnificent, not repulsive. A lesser poet would 
 have pictured a skeleton, skull, ribs , cross-bones 
 and all. Procter leaves that to the reader's im- 
 agination, and only gives the outline of a dusky 
 old king, pledging his subjects in the wine of 
 forgetfulness : 
 
 KING DEATH. 
 
 King Death was a rare old fellow I 
 
 He sat where no sun could shine, 
 And lifted his hand so yellow, 
 
 And poured out the coal black wine. 
 Hurrah ! for the coal black wine I 
 
 There came to him many a maiden. 
 
 Whose eyes had forgot to shine ; 
 And widows with grief o'erladen. 
 
 From a drnughl of his sleepy wine. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the coal black wine ! 
 
 The Schnlar left all his learning ; 
 
 The Poet his fancied woes ; 
 And the Beauty her bloom returning. 
 
 Like life to the fading lose. 
 
 Hurrah ! for the coal black wine ! 
 
 All came to the royal old f.-ilow, 
 
 Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine. 
 As he gave them his hand so yellow. 
 
 But pledged them in Death's black wine. 
 Hurrah— Hurrah ! 
 Hurrah! for the coal black wine ! 
 
 Here is something as sweet as the life of a 
 child, fresh, simple and touching. If you have 
 ever loved and lost a little wingless angel, whose 
 voice was more thai> words to you, I fancy yoti 
 will like it. How pretty it is ! Read it slowly, 
 and with due emphasis, as if you felt it, and you 
 will before you get through with it. 
 
TO THE GENIUS OF POETRY. 
 
 5 
 
 THE LITTLE VOICE. 
 
 Once there was .t little Voicp, 
 
 Merry as the month of May, 
 Tli:U dill cry '• Rejoice! Rejoice .'" 
 
 Now — tis How II away ! 
 
 Sweet it was, and very clear. 
 Chasing every tliou>;lit of pain, 
 
 Summer! sIliII I ever hear 
 Such a voice again ? 
 
 I have pondered all night long 
 Listening for as soft a sonnd ; 
 
 But so sweet and clear a song 
 Never have I found ! 
 
 I would give a mine of gold. 
 Could [ hear that little Voice. — 
 
 Could I, as inda)5 of old, 
 At a sound rejoice ! — 
 
 But perhaps one of tlie most remarkable traits 
 in Procter is the home feeling in many of his 
 poems. They seem to have been written in the 
 iniiUt of his f.imily, around the fireside of a win- 
 ter night. The " Song for .Adalaide" is one of 
 the most beautiful nursery lyrics in the world, 
 just such a song as a happy father would sing to 
 his wife. '■ The Prayer in Sickness'' and " the 
 Petition to Time" can hardly be read, without 
 loving the man; such poems prove conclusively 
 that the humblest emotions and feelings are poet- 
 ical in tiie hands of a true artist. Nothing is too 
 mean for the poet to glorify and exalt; but most 
 common things must be exalted, to be glorified 
 and made poetical. A dull Flemish exactness to 
 tlie mere outside trutli of objects is not, nor ever 
 can be, artistic. This was the great mistake of 
 Wordsworth in the beginning of his career, when 
 he wrote "Betty Foys" and "Peter Rells;" and it 
 would have killed him if he had not had genius 
 enough to retrieve himself in other respects : his 
 
 be.st poems are contradictions of his own theo- 
 ries — 
 
 A PETITION TO TIME. 
 
 Tovich US gently, Time 1 
 
 Let us glide adown thy stream 
 Gently — as we sometimes glide 
 
 Through a iiuict dream ! 
 Humble voyagers are we. 
 Husband, wife, and children three — 
 (One is lost, — an angel, Hod 
 To the azure overhead !) 
 
 Touch us gently, Time ! 
 
 We've not prond nor soaring wings: 
 Our ambition, our content 
 
 Lies in simple things. 
 Hnmhlo voyagers are we.. 
 O'er Life's dim unsounded sea 
 Seeking only some calm clime ; — 
 Touch US ffcntly, gentle Timel 
 
 AVe have not left ourselves room to copy any 
 of his lyrical poeme,^er se, which we hardly dare 
 believe the reader would think equal to those we 
 have quoted. A pure lyric, — like one or two of the 
 best of Shakspeare's, such as " Hark ! hark ! the 
 lark." " Tell me where is Fancy bred," and "Un- 
 der the Greenwood Tree," is rarely appreciated 
 by the mass' of poetical readers, not to say poets 
 themselves. It is considered too small and tri- 
 fling : but the trifle however is a diamond. The 
 same remark will apply to the best songs of 
 Burns ; and to one or two of the last poems of 
 Tennyson. "The Cradle Song," for instance, in 
 the new editions of the Princess." In conclu- 
 sion, let us reccommend all our readers who love 
 fine poetry (and who does not '() to read the 
 English songs and other small poems of Barry 
 Cornwall. 
 
 TO TIIE GENIUS OF POETRY, 
 
 Thonserapli voiced, bright child of heaven, 
 To whom the godlike power is given, 
 Life's misty path to hne with light. 
 And gem with start grief's curtain'd night ; 
 Unveiling to prophetic eye 
 The secret fount of haimony : 
 Thee I invoke. 
 
 Unseen, unheard ihou art hy those 
 
 In who^ dim souls no vision glows 
 
 Of something yet to be possest, 
 
 Tde dream of which makes mortals bleit; 
 
 And few will on thy pinions rise. 
 To grander, glorious beaming skieii. 
 Bright child of heaven. 
 
 BntT, thou angel-guide, with thee. 
 
 All railiant in thy purity, 
 
 Will leave the laden, earth-clad throng, 
 
 With all their ills, their strife, their wrong. 
 
 To tre.-id that starry spirit way, 
 
 Soal'teachingin its mystery, 
 
 Tboa child of heaven. 
 
MONEY AT INTEREST 
 
 BY MISS MUNEOE 
 
 " I SHALL he very happy — won't you ? — when 
 we have a little money laid by," said Philip Clay- 
 ton's pretty wife, as she poured out tea for him 
 in tlieir cheerful little parlor, through whose 
 open window stole the soft breath of summer, 
 laden with the fragrance of the sweet-briar that 
 fringed the grass-plot, and the honeysuckle that 
 draperied the rustic porch. 
 
 " I am very happy now," replied Clayton, 
 smiling, as he glanced from the fair face that 
 looked on him to the laughing boy who was romp- 
 ing with a spaniel on the grass. 
 
 " Well, and so am I," said Mrs. Clayton, smil- 
 ing also : it would have been strange if she was 
 not happy, with a husband who loved iier de- 
 votedly, and no sorrow or danger glooming on the 
 sunny horizon of her life. " But you know what 
 I mean — it will be a great comfort and satisfac- 
 tion when we are able to lay up something as a 
 provision for the future. And think what a plea- 
 sure it will be to find the interest coming in at 
 once to help us!" 
 
 " No, DO 1" laughed Clayton ; " to carry out the 
 thing properly we must not spend the interest, 
 but lay that up also to accumulate into a large 
 fortune by the time we are three or fourscore 
 years old. But come, Hetty, let us not concern 
 ourselves so much about a future that may never 
 come. If it does come, God will, I trust, enable 
 us to provide for it ; but the blessings of the 
 present are ours to enjoy and be thankful for. So 
 give me another cup, and then let me hear that 
 song you sung me yesterday; it has been echo- 
 ing in my ears all day ; and every line I wrote 
 seemed to be accommodating itself to the tune." 
 
 So the song was sung, and others followed, 
 drawing the child dancing in from his gambols to 
 hear the music, and the evening passed pleasant- 
 ly as it was wont to do, making Mrs. Clayton for- 
 get, in the happiness of the present, her anjfiety 
 for the future. 
 
 Years passed by, and found and left as great 
 and yet greater happiness at the little cottage — 
 for other childish voices made its walls resound 
 with merriment, and not one blessing had been 
 recalled, to leave a shadow on remembrance ; 
 
 and, moreover, the cherished wish of Henrietta 
 seemed on the point of being realized ; for the 
 first five hundred dollars were very nearly amass- 
 ed, by their care and frugality, out of Philip's 
 salary from the baniiing-house where he was a 
 clerk; and already liis over-anxious wife reckoned 
 the interest, as the small yet welcome addition to 
 their income which should enable the second five 
 hundred to be more quickly collected. 
 
 On the other side of the clear stream which 
 glided quietly through the village stood a house, 
 whose inmates had known far less of prosperity 
 than was the portion of the Claytons. Yet there 
 had come a briglitness over their prospects ; and 
 after many misfortunes, Richard Allen thought 
 that the clouds had passed at length, and the long 
 delayed sunshine was gleaming forth ; for a situa- 
 tion as clerk promised him not merely a compe- 
 tence, but the means of setting his son, a fine 
 boy of fifteen, forward in the world. He had 
 been but six months in his situation, and twice 
 that time in the neighborhood, where he was of 
 course but little known, though that little was 
 calculated to win respect ; and of all, Clayton 
 perhaps knew and liked him best. 
 
 One evening they were leaning over the bridge 
 that spanned the stream, watching Frank Allen 
 as he altered, and worked at, and launched, and 
 guided on its course, the little boat which Harry 
 Clayton — six years his junior — was unable 
 to make sail down the stream, and they 
 smiled to see how the child clapped his hands 
 with delight, and how pleased Frank was to aid 
 the ignorance and awkwardness of his little com- 
 panion. 
 
 "Strange," said Allen, "that as men we should 
 lose the feelings which seem inherent in us in 
 childhood and in boyhood. In those years our 
 first impulse is to help those who are weaker or 
 more inexperienced than ourselves. But as time 
 passes, those feelings die away and are forgotten; 
 and how seldom it is that we find men pleased 
 and eager to extend a helping hand to those who 
 are less fortunate than themselves ! How much 
 more frequently do they appear to exult in their 
 advantages all the more that others are without 
 
MONEY AT INTEREST. 
 
 them ! And if they do aid a feebler brother, is 
 it not usually done coldly and reluctantly, as an 
 acknowleiljcfd but disagreeable duty, instead of 
 with the pleasure and alacrity which character- 
 ized our boyliood's exertions to help those who 
 needed ?" 
 
 "There are exceptions," replied Clayton, "and 
 I would wish to think they are numerous." 
 
 " So would I," said Allen, "and they ought to 
 be numerous ; for surely every year of our lives 
 shows us more and more how dependent men are 
 on tlieir fellow-creatures, in some shape or an- 
 other: it seems designed to teach us mutual 
 kindness, charity, and forbearance ; but the lesson 
 is too often unheeded, and sometimes read back- 
 wards to serve a different end. But don't think 
 me a grumbler, or a misanthrope, because 1 say 
 this. I know there is much good in the world ; 
 but I cannot help saying that there might be, and 
 ought to be, much more." 
 
 " J suspect we need only look into our own 
 hearts U< own the truth of that," sai<l Clayton, 
 emiling. " But here comes Mrs. Allen, and I know 
 my good little housewife has been impatiently 
 waiting for us this hour past." 
 
 And so she had been ; for with all her prudence 
 and frugality, Mrs. Clayton was very proud of iier 
 cakes and her preserves, and the Aliens were at 
 all times among her most welcome guests. There 
 were but themselves this evening ; and long was 
 it remembered, and often in after days Henrietta 
 would tell how, when they were going away. 
 Mrs. ."Mien went back to kiss the children a se- 
 cond time as they slept, and how Mr. Allen said, 
 as he shook her hand, — 
 
 " What a very, very happy evening we have 
 passed !" 
 
 She and Philip stood at the door until their 
 friends crossed the little bridge homewards : they 
 watched the crescent moon sink behind the dis- 
 tant hills, and then, closing the door upon the 
 dimmer light wdiich gleamed in starry rays on 
 bough and stream, there soon was rest and silence 
 in the cottage, a8 everywhere around. 
 
 It might have been two hours after when the 
 loud barking of a dog awakened Clayton. His 
 first idea was that it was broad daylight, so bright 
 a light was shining through the window. But in 
 another moment he was conscious that the glow 
 was redder than that of the reddest morning. 
 And springing to the window, he saw flames 
 bursting from the Aliens' house. 
 
 Clayton hurried to the spot. A crowd was 
 beginning to gather around the house, but its in- 
 mates still slept. Efforts were made to arouse 
 them to a knowledge of their danger, wliich be- 
 came every instant more imminent, so rapidly 
 
 the flames spread and strengthened, and the door 
 was forced open at the same moment that a wild 
 shriek rose from within ; but suffocating smoke 
 rolled through the doorway, and flumes darlfd 
 their forked tongues round the staircase, and 
 nobody dared to enter. 
 
 Mrs. Allen was speedily seen at a window. 
 "A ladder! — a ladder!" was loudly called for 
 but there was none at hand; and while some ran 
 off to the nearest place to get one, the urdiappy 
 woman cast herself down upon the gravelled walk 
 to escape the fiery death she dreaded. She was 
 taken up insensible, and carried, to the cottage 
 which she had quitted in health and happiness so 
 few hours previously. In another minute Allen- 
 who had gone to arouse his son, came with him 
 to another window. The ladder had arrived, and 
 was quickly planted at it, and he was observed 
 desiring Frank to descend. 
 
 " Allen ! Allen ! save yourself; your wife has 
 escaped ! ' cried Clayton. 
 
 The last words never reached the ear they 
 were addressed to ; but were lost in Allen's an- 
 swering cry of "No, no !— my wife, my wife!' 
 as he disappeared to seek the partner of his 
 many years' wanderings and misfortunes. 
 
 " Allen ! Allen I" was echoed in twenty voices 
 to call him back. But a crash followed— some 
 part of the flooring had fallen in, and he was 
 never seen again. 
 
 Wildly the flames rose and fell, despite the 
 quantities of water from the stream whicli had 
 been so lavisldy cast upon them, flickering, and 
 dancing, and soaring up towards the sky, whose 
 stars were now invisible; and casting abroad, 
 red radiance on the crowd, the wide, smooth mea- 
 dows and the waters of the quiet stream. Frank 
 Alien sat on the grass, gazing on the liery mass 
 which blazed, and hissed, and crackled, above the 
 form he had so loved and honored Just old enough 
 to feel to its full extent the anguish of that moment 
 without the capability of endurance which added 
 years might have imparted, he watched the re- 
 morseless flames with an inten-ity of grief which 
 forbade all attempts at consolation, ami resisted 
 every endeavor to withdraw him from the spot. 
 
 The night passed, the fire began to die out, and 
 the rising sun found a heap of smouldering ruins 
 where he had left a happy dwelling; whde beneatii 
 them lay what had then been a living and breath- 
 ing form, in full health, and all the strength and 
 energy of manliood's prime. Then Clayton led away 
 tlie sorrowin"' boy to his own home, where for the 
 first time ho learned that his mother, whom he had 
 thi)Ught safe and well, was suffering greatly — it 
 soon proved dying — beneath the same nxif ; and 
 the dawn of another day found Frank Allen 
 
MONEY AT INTEREST. 
 
 nlone — an orphan and destitute, without a rela- 
 tive or a friend from whom he had u right to 
 elaim protection or assistance. 
 
 But this thought did not at first come to grieve 
 him, for all C(nisideratious of self were lost in 
 deep and overwhelming sorrow ; and he alone 
 was Ciireless of his future lot, while the whole 
 villnge was busy talking over it, and wondering 
 wluit it would be. There had been some doubt, 
 too, about the funeral, when it was known that 
 the Aliens left nothing ; but Clayton set that at 
 rest at once by charging himself with the ex- 
 penses ; and when that day was over, Frank 
 Allen's fate was the undivided subject of conver- 
 Bation. 
 
 It was a long walk which Philip Clayton took 
 that night. \V hen he returned, he found Frank 
 Allen still watching the heap of ruins with which 
 he thought all the happiness of his life had fallen 
 for ever. And even so Clayton mused ; his own 
 Harry, yet younger and more helpless, might have 
 mourned over the desolation of his home, and 
 been cast upon the coldness and the charity of 
 strangers. But his mind had been made up fully 
 during that long and solitary walk, though indeed 
 the purpose had been gathering there stronger 
 and stronger all the while. 
 
 Yet he feared to tell his gentle, loving Hen- 
 rietta, for he knew that though she had tended 
 Mrs. Allen as though she had been a sister, and 
 wept with Frank, and strove to soothe and com- 
 fort his grief with all a woman's tenderness and 
 softness, still money was too dear to her to be 
 easily parted with, even for the sake of one whom 
 she pitied and sympathized with so deeply. But 
 I'hilip was resolved ; and though on hearing that 
 he was going to pay two hundred and fifty dol- 
 lars as an apprentice-fee for Frank, to secure for 
 him proper instruction in the line for which his 
 father destined him, his wife shed more tears 
 than words of his had ever caused her to shed 
 before, and reproached him bitterly with throw- 
 ing away the mouey they had so slowly gather- 
 ed, he still was firm ; for the memory of Allen's 
 words came as a hitter reproach to human nature, 
 in which he could not bear to share. 
 
 " You ought to think of your children !" said 
 Henrietta, pre.'^sing the youngest to her bosom, as 
 if to guard it from some evil which his father's 
 act was drawing down upon it. 
 
 " I do think of my children," replied Philip, 
 ■with much emotion, as he took the other little 
 one in his arms, and glanced out at the field 
 opposite, where Harry was vainly striving to 
 draw Frank from his sorrowful contemplation of 
 the sad dark spot before them. " I do think of 
 my children ; and that, if there were nothing else, 
 
 would bid me act as I am doing. For I think, 
 Hetty, that one of our beloved ones might have 
 been left desolate as Frank has been. And I 
 think also, Hetty, that we know not how much 
 they may yet be dependent on the kindness and 
 bounty of others. And this thought alone would 
 make me do to Frank as I would should be done 
 unto my own children." 
 
 " But this will only make them poorer, and 
 more likely to be so dependent," urged Mrs. Clay- 
 ton, in a tone of feebler remonstrance. 
 
 " Oh, Hetty," said her husband, " I wonder thafc 
 with so much of love there can be such devotion 
 to Mammon in that kind little heart I Do you 
 forget that poverty and riches depend on a might- 
 ier will than ours T' 
 
 " Then I suppose it must be so," sighed Hen- 
 rietta. " But it must be a long while yet before 
 we can have any money out at interest." 
 
 Clayton did not answer ; but he had learned to 
 know this was indeed a bitter disappointment. 
 However, the letters were written, inquiries were 
 made, and by using every exertion he got Frank 
 most advantageously situated in a mercantile 
 house, in the East India trade. 
 
 Five or six months aftei", Clayton received a 
 letter by some encountered vessel, full of the 
 outpourings of a young heart's gratitude ; and a 
 year after there came another, but it was the last 
 In. another year Clayton wrote to the owners, 
 when he heard that the ship had been chartered 
 and employed in going from one part of India to 
 another, and had not returned, but that no acci- 
 dent to Frank Allen hail been reported. So a3 
 his own letters to Frank remained unanswered, 
 Clayton supposed that his young charge had 
 grown weary of gratitude. Yet, though Hen- 
 rietta sometimes drily intimated that it was an 
 unmerited return for all his kindness, Philip 
 never regretted the part which he had acted, for 
 he wanted not gratitude and thanks, but merely 
 the consciousness of doing right, and the approval 
 of his own heart. This was pleasanter to him 
 than the gratification of her darling wish — the 
 having money at interest, which had been at last 
 attained — was to his pretty, gentle, and amiable, 
 but anxious and calculating wife. 
 
 How quickly years glide away, and how soon 
 people are forgotten when they are no longer 
 seen ! It took little time for a Frank to pass from 
 everyone's remembrance but the Claytons'. And 
 then Clayton moved to a distant city, where a 
 higher salary was given him by another bank, 
 and he and his were soon forgotten. 
 
 The fleeting years were pleasant to the Clay- 
 tons. Their children grew up fair and promising. 
 Already Harry was in a solicitor's office ; the 
 
MONEY AT INTEREST. 
 
 younger boy, William, was to be a medical man, 
 and the little Violet was as lovely and modest 
 as her name-flower. And Henrietta ha<l another 
 happiness— they had laid by many hundreds 
 now ; and it was not merely the usual interest 
 that was received for them, for Clayton had been 
 admitted to a share in the concern, and the sum 
 that he invested returned him a per centage far 
 larger than that given to depositors. 
 
 But sunshine cannot last for ever The first 
 cloud was a change in Clayton's health. A 
 severe illness, followed by a stroke of paralysis, 
 left him with his powers of mind unimpaired, 
 but so infirm as to preclude all hope of future ex- 
 ertion. Then what comfort it was that they had 
 so well guarded against an evil day. And what 
 a satisfaction that Clayton had obtained the 
 shares in the stock, now that he could do nothing 
 to make an income; and the mere interest of 
 their savings would have been very little for their 
 support. But within a couple of years the bank 
 broke, and all was lost, the shares which had 
 seemed such a blessing only serving to make 
 ruin more complete; for he was involved in the 
 liabilities, and the policy of insurance, which had 
 always rendered his mind easy on his wife's 
 account, was taken from theui. 
 
 Still there were their sons — Harry, two-and- 
 twenty, and William, seventeen — who were eager 
 to exert themselves for their parents and sister. 
 The younger's prospects of course were altered ; 
 but a situation in the custom bouse was obtained, 
 enabling him to be at once an assistance to the 
 family. And Harry was in high hopes that he 
 should get into practice as an attorney, for which 
 he was now qualified. He appeared to be doing 
 so for a few months ; but he shortly after met 
 with a severe fall, which inflicted a spinal injury, 
 with which he might linger on for years, but only 
 to grieve over the thought of being a burthen to 
 those lie hoped to have supported. 
 
 William's small salary was now their only re- 
 source. To add to it, Violet went out as a teacher, 
 though her youth made her reward but trifling. 
 So passed another year, and still Harry, at near- 
 ly four-and-tweiity, lay a dead weight on the strug- 
 gling efforts of his young brother and sister, 
 without a hope of recovery or — he would often 
 have said, but for fear of grieving those who 
 loved him — even a hope of death. Clayton re- 
 tained much of his former cheerfulness, and strove 
 to sup[)ort the spirits and courage of his son under 
 this painful trial ; while for liis sake also the fond 
 mother checked her own repinings, and strove to 
 give to their humble dwelling the comfort and 
 the home-look which it formerly wore. 
 
 One day the captaia of a ship at the custom- 
 
 house quay came into the Long-room, as it was 
 called, where William was writing. The captain 
 was transacting some business concerning his ship 
 and while thus engaged, the clurk he was speak- 
 ing to asked Clayton by name for a paper that 
 was required. 
 
 "Clayton!" repeated the captain. "It is a 
 long time since I heard that name, though I know 
 and like it well. I hope you won't think it 
 curiosity, if I ask your father's name ?" 
 
 " It is Philip Clayton," replied the youth. 
 
 " It must be the same — and you are William 1" 
 exclaimed the sailor, grasping his hand. " Tell 
 me only that all are well." 
 
 A shade came over William's face. 
 
 " My father is not in good health, and my 
 brother is ill," he answered, sadly. 
 
 The joyful look of the sailor was dimmed also. 
 
 "You will take me to see them," he said 
 "I have often longed for an opportunity; and 
 hoped if ever this hour arrived, I should find no 
 sorrow with those I have always remembered as 
 being so happy." 
 
 In half an hour William's duties were over, 
 and they left the custom-house together. Young 
 Clayton did not ask his companion's name, nor 
 did the sailor tell it ; though before their walk 
 was ended, his anxiety to know all about his old 
 friends had gleaned almost their entire history 
 from William's ingenuousness. Yet, though some- 
 what prepared, it was a shock when Mr. Clayton 
 stood before him, weak and tremulous, stricken 
 with age before his time ; and he saw Harry, the 
 once merry and light-hearted, lying powerless 
 and moveless on a couch, with the light of youth 
 fading from his eye, and its spirit dying out of 
 his bosom. 
 
 " An old friend ?" repeated Clayton inquiringly 
 as he gazed intently on the face of his visitor. 
 
 " Yes ; an obliged and deeply indebted one, 
 and a grateful one too, l\Ir. Clayton," replied the 
 sailor. " Have you quite forgotten Frank Allen, 
 who owes everything to your kindness ?" 
 
 " A feeling came over me at the first that it 
 could be no other," said Clayton, giving him a cor- 
 dial welcome, which was warmly echoed round. 
 
 An hour swept away all the clouds which ap- 
 peared to hang over Frank's conduct to his old 
 friends ; for he had often written, but receiving 
 no answer, had fiincied that Clayton never wished 
 to hear from him ; and when, years after, he re- 
 turned to the village, he learned that they had 
 left it and could gain no further tidings. His 
 own fortunes had been prosperous during the fif- 
 teen years which had elapsed since Philip Clayton 
 acted so kind a part to him — for talent and dili- 
 gence had won him the favor of all he served and 
 
10 
 
 THE DEAD WEIGHT. 
 
 sailed with ; and so he had risen until, two years 
 before, he obtained the command of a ship. 
 
 " And now I will not call it chance that brought 
 me to this port." he s^aid ; "it was some higher 
 influence guided me here, and told me at once 
 ■when I heard tlie name to-day that one of my old 
 friends was near me — though it certainly was 
 not William that 1 thought of seeing." 
 
 "Ah, you would think of me," observed Harry, 
 •with a mournful smile, "But my father and 
 mother have but one son to work for them." 
 
 " No, Harry," replied Allen, crossing over to 
 the friend of his boyhood and taking his hand ; 
 " they shall have two sons to work for them ; and 
 in good time I trust (hat you may join us as the 
 third. But all I have I owe to your father's ge- 
 nerosity — he acted towards me as a father ; and 
 deeply grieved shall 1 be if he will not allow me 
 to be as a son to him. Surely, surely, Mr. Clay- 
 ton," he continued earnestly, " you will not re- 
 fuse to the boy whom you protected — whom 
 your bounty placed in the way of winning far 
 more than a competency — you will not refuse to 
 him the power of proving his gratitude for all 
 that you have done for him ! To be a son to you 
 and Mrs. jClayton, and a brother to your children 
 — this is all I wish, and it would indeed be to me 
 a happiness." 
 
 It was the truest gratitude that prompted the 
 desire, and bade him exert all his eloquence to 
 win, as he did at length, the privilege of devot- 
 ing himself as a son to the protector of his boy- 
 hood. For Henry especially, his heart was 
 grieved ; to see him, young and gifted, wearing 
 away the spring-time of his life in suffering and 
 sorrow, pained him deeply ; and he earnestly 
 sought other and better advice upon his case than 
 the Claytons' means had enabled them to com- 
 mand. At length a hope was given that a partial 
 recovery at least might be attained. 
 
 With this hope, and the blessings of his early 
 
 friends, Frank Allen, at the end of some weeks, 
 went on his voyage, happy in the consciousness 
 that he left lighter hearts than he had found. 
 And when, months after, he returned, there were 
 brigiit smiles to greet him back, and something 
 of the old light beginning to beam in Harry's 
 eye, for the dreary period of hopelessness was 
 past, and he had the prospect that in another 
 year he might once more tread the green turf, 
 and look upon the sparkling streams; and, above 
 all, essay again to support himself, at least, in- 
 stead of remaining in the helpless and child-like 
 dependence which had so weighed upon his spirit _ 
 
 The prospect was not deceptive, and before 
 Frank left them next, its promise was in part 
 fulfilled, and young Clayton was able to move 
 about, with assistance. 
 
 " Philip," said Mrs. Clayton to her husband, as 
 they watched from the window Harry leaning on 
 the arm of the friend to whose aid his recovery 
 was so greatly owing, since it had involved ex- 
 penses which they themselves could not have met. 
 " Philip, your two hundred and fifty were put out 
 to far better interest than all the other monej- we 
 ever saved ; the rest is gone, but this remains to 
 bless us. Little thought I when I so opposed you, 
 how rich a return your generosity would receive !" 
 
 " Nor I either," answered Clayton; "I never 
 thought of nor sought return. But it has come to 
 cheer us in the hour it was most needed ; and 
 now, as I look on those two, how it brings back 
 that last evening when Allen and I stood watch- 
 ing our boys; now, as then, his was tiie helper of 
 mine ; and I could almost think the very smiles 
 of old, with all boyhood's cloudless joy, was on 
 their faces." 
 
 He guessed not yet the cause of those smiles, 
 nor that Frank had just told Harry how his own 
 deep, true love had won that of Violet, and that 
 ere long he hoped to claim by right the titles of 
 son and brother in the family of his adoption. 
 
 THE DEAD WEIGHT. 
 
 I watch'd a liule bird one day, 
 
 In a new plongliM eartlily soil, 
 Seeking liaril in the npturnM clay 
 On some hapless insect or worm to prey ; 
 And she labor'd with diligence fast away, 
 
 Till a victim rewarded her toil. 
 
 The bird was delicate, small and weak, 
 
 And the worm could not drag on high. 
 For, though firmly gras|)'d in her tiny beak. 
 She wiBh'd with tho burden her nest to seek. 
 
 Though her wings with the flatt'ring I thought would 
 break — 
 Thus loaded she could not fly. 
 
 And I said, " Oh ! man, it is thus with thee. 
 
 When seeking to soar above, 
 If thou tliink'st thou canst ever uplifted be 
 With thy burden of sin and infirmity; 
 But loose thy grasp ere thou tricst to flee. 
 
 And no more impair'd thy flight shall be. 
 
HANNAH ADAMS. 
 
 B T MRS, 
 
 DOUBLEDAT, 
 
 " Notliini; lovelier can be fonnJ 
 In woman, than to study household good, 
 And good works in her luisliand to promote." 
 
 Tn an age in which tlie " rigltts of woman" have 
 been insisted upon more earnestly, discussed 
 more loudly, and pressed more fervently than at 
 any former period, this delineation of the homely 
 and humble duties of the sex may be justly sup- 
 posed to be received with little favor. 
 
 The ladies who contend for the pulpit and the 
 platform in their native land, and who cross the 
 Atlantic to urge before an assembled world their 
 right to mingle in the stormy debate, and to 
 make the spacious hall reecho with their shrill 
 yeas and nays, cannot be thought to have much 
 more reverence for the great epic poet than they 
 have already expressed for the apostle to the 
 Gentiles ; and if the one was misled by his "Jew- 
 ish prejudices," the other may well be imagined 
 to have been fettered by the contracted spirit of 
 the age in which he lived. While we select the 
 above for our motto, we must ourselves confess 
 that we not altogether either admire or approve 
 of the character of the first mother, as drawn by 
 the immortal poet. And we will dare to avow, 
 that in our minds there has ever been a lurking 
 suspicion, that a very consciousness of the strong 
 dissimilarity between her own character and that 
 of Milton's heroine must have been present to the 
 mind of Hannah More, even while writing her 
 beautiful eulogy upon it; not that we would ac- 
 cuse Miss More of insincerity, but because we 
 know it to be one of the traits of human nature to 
 be unwilling to be thought to be blind to a kind 
 of excellence which we may yet be very conscious 
 of not professing. 
 
 And Hannah More — the single lady, naturally 
 firm, energetic and independent, caressed Viy bish- 
 ops, lords, and statesmen, might find it easy to 
 commend and to recommend the quiet submission, 
 the humble deference, the lowly obedience of the 
 wife 
 
 Hut after having said thus much, we will say 
 that we do most sincerely subscribe to the truth of 
 this doctrine taught by our poet. It is woman's 
 highest praise, 
 
 " To study household good, 
 And good works in her husband to promote." 
 
 And we would reiterate the often repeated as- 
 sertion — home is the sphere of woman — the do- 
 mestic circle the place where her influence is most 
 naturally, most properly, and most efficiently ex- 
 erted. Nor do we view the region as too con- 
 tracted to forbid either the expansion or the cul- 
 tivation of the highest powers of mind or of heart 
 with which she may have been endowed. The 
 influence of woman is silent and quiet, vet per- 
 vading and affecting every interest of society. It 
 is like the dews of night, unseen, but not un felt — 
 either pure and healthful, reviving, refreshing and 
 invigorating all nature, or a noxious miasma dif- 
 fusing around contagion and death. 
 
 The mother moulds the character of the future 
 divine, legislator, or statesman. 1 he wife inspires, 
 encourages, and supports her husband ; and the 
 sister, the refined, intelligent, virtuous sister, is the 
 best safeguard for the purity and the happiness of 
 the brother, and tlie friend. Let woman look at 
 the mighty power intrusted to her ; the power of 
 moving all the secret springs of human action ; of 
 moulding all the elements of society ; let her rea- 
 lize her respon-ibilities, and feel all the weight of 
 the obligations already resting upon her, and she 
 will not ask a wider field, she will not seek a 
 more commanding station. 
 
 The influence of the mother is a more common 
 theme, but it is not probably greater than that of 
 the wife. It is difterent, it is more direct and ap- 
 parent ; it has more the aspect of authority ; it is 
 often avowed and acknowledged, yet it is not, as 
 we think, so subtle, so all pervading. Shrouded 
 by the privacy of domestic life, the influence of 
 woman upon public aff^urs can seldom be directly 
 traced ; yet while our national history bears upon 
 its pages the name of him who sold, betrayed, 
 and well nigh ruined his country, those more con- 
 versant with the annals of the day will remember 
 that he was probably impelled to these deeds of in- 
 famy and ruin, by a wish the more readily to 
 meet the demands which the pride, folly and ex- 
 travagance of his wife made upon his purse. 
 
 In what a bright contrast to this modern Tar- 
 
12 
 
 HANNAH ADAMS. 
 
 peia, stands the venerable matron whose letters 
 have been laid before the world. We rejoice in 
 the publication of these letters. We feel that the 
 family have thus added to the many obligations 
 of respect and gratitude already imposed upon 
 their country. They give us the portrait of an 
 American matron, during the most interesting 
 period of our national existence ; and present a 
 picture well worthy of being copied by the coun- 
 trywomen of Mrs. Adams in the present day. 
 We consider the work the more valuable, that the 
 character there developed, although superior, is 
 not uncommon. All the excellences of Mrs. 
 Adams are attainable, and that too, by women 
 in the ordinary ranks of life. The times in which 
 she lived were such as tried tiie soul ; but the 
 sphere in which she moved during most of her life, 
 was that in which the ordinary duties of women 
 are to be found. She made it her great business 
 
 "To study household good, 
 ^ndgoed works in Iter hushand to promote.^' 
 
 "The heart of the husband did safely tru^t in 
 her, so tiiat he had no fear of spoil ;" and by her 
 prudent and judicious management of their fami- 
 ly, she left him at liberty to devote himself to the 
 service of his country. While the wife evidently 
 felt the absence of the husband and companion, 
 yet she cheerfully submitted to all the cares and 
 trials consequent upon their separation. She ne- 
 ver yielded to murmuring, fretfulness, or discon- 
 tent. She found her happiness in the performance 
 of her duty ; and although living in a period of 
 great apprehension and alarm, and knowing tliat 
 all the interests dear to her were at stake, she yet 
 indulged in no feminine weakness, no gloomy 
 forebodings, no dark anticipations. She main- 
 tained a spirit of cheerfulness, hope, and confi- 
 dence, admirably calculated to sustain both her- 
 self and her husband during the trying scenes 
 through which they were called to pass. 
 
 These letters are the more interesting from 
 commencing at an early age, and thus enabling 
 us to mark the early development, the maturing 
 and the ripening of the character. From the gay 
 girl, who, in the exuberance of her youtliful spirits, 
 delighted to tease, while she yet sympathised 
 with her sedate, and, as we fancy, somewhat stern 
 lover, to the young wife and mother, thinking an 
 absence of a few days too long ; then the matron 
 of middle life, yielding her husband at the call of 
 her country, sustaining all the multiplied cares 
 which thus devolved upon her, and diligently pro- 
 moting all the interests of her family during his 
 absence; then the wife of the American represen- 
 tative, standing in the presence of royalty, 
 neither dismayed by the power, nor dazzled by 
 the pomp which surrounded her; her returning 
 
 to her native land, and taking the highest station 
 in it, gracefully dispensing the hospitalities re- 
 quired from her station, yet not forgetting the 
 domestic habits of her early life; again quietly 
 returning to private life, and cheerfully resuming 
 her early habits and employments, with her 
 skimming-dish in her hand, visiting the dairy at 
 five in the morning. We delighted to follow her 
 through all the changes of her eventful life. We 
 love to contemplate her as a woman, fulfilling all 
 the duties other sex, and more, we wish to con- 
 sider her as a fair representative of the women of 
 her country. We love to think of her as an 
 American woman ; as one of the many who con- 
 tributed largely to tlie prosperity of their country, 
 not by haranguing her senate, or leading her ar- 
 mies ; but by the quiet, unostentatious perform- 
 ance of the humble and laborious duties which 
 devolved upon them, during the absence of their 
 husbands from their lonely and often scattered 
 homes. 
 
 We would hold the domestic character of Mrs . 
 Adams before the countrywomen of the present 
 day, and would be allowed to ask those who are 
 now preparing to enter upon the busy scenes of 
 life, if they are cultivating the tastes, the habits, 
 the principles which will make them thus useful, 
 thus honored. The station in which Mrs. Adams 
 was placed, made her virtues the more conspi- 
 cuous ; but it did not endow her with them. 
 They were the product of a secluded, domestic, 
 religious education — an education which regulated 
 the temper, cultivated the affections, and dis- 
 ciplined the mind. 
 
 She enjoyed no uncommon advantages. She 
 was not able even to avail herself of those pre- 
 sented by the fashionable (we wonder if there 
 were such a word in the vocabulary of our pil- 
 grim ancestors ?) schools of the day. Her edu- 
 cation was wholly domestic. To a mind consti- 
 tuted like hers, this could be no disadvantage — 
 she had too much natural activity to sutler her 
 mental powers to stagnate; and she learned to 
 study, not from a spirit of vanity or emulation, 
 but from a love of knowledge, and a desire to in- 
 form herself Reading probably became the 
 amusement of her leisure hours: and this habit, 
 early formed, continued through life. Her letter.t 
 certainly show tliat she had a thorough acquaint- 
 ance with the English poet?, and with many of 
 the best English writers — a knowledge more 
 common formerly than now, when women de- 
 pended more upon their private application to 
 study, and a judicious course of reading, as to 
 the means of education, than upon the modern 
 aids, which are so abundantly supplied. The 
 New England habits of domestic industry; tha 
 
HANNAH ADAMS. 
 
 13 
 
 lengthened evening devoted to reading; the cheer- 
 ful fireside, and even the old-fashioned accessory 
 of the ever-pvesent knitting work, were all ad- 
 mirably calculated to form women of reflecting 
 minds, industrious habits, and religious principle \ 
 and the work of education, the education of the 
 whole woman, the fitting her to sustain all the 
 responsibilities, and to discharge all the duties of 
 wife and mother, daughter and sister, was com- 
 menced, and at an early period daily and imper- 
 ceptibly continued and carried on, even while the 
 subject was never discussed, the word not used, 
 and perhaps while the parents were regretting 
 their inability to bestow it. Many families being 
 well brought up, who were yet never supposed to 
 have been educated, parents not realizing that to 
 bring up a child in the way he should go, to fit it 
 to discharge well the duties of this life, and more, 
 so to inculcate the great principles of truth as to 
 lead to tlie establishment of a well grounded 
 hope fur the life to come, was the best education 
 which could be given. We think it no small evil 
 attendant upon the modern system of female edu- 
 cation, so generally pursued in our country, that 
 the constant excitement of a public school unfits 
 a young lady to return to the quiet, sober duties 
 of domestic life, or to enjoy the seclusion of the 
 family circle. A young lady, after having passed 
 through the course of one of our modern estab- 
 lishments for femalo education, either leaves it, if 
 she be a girl of active, inquisitive, and aspiring 
 mind, with her constitution enfeebled, and her 
 nervous system shattered, from too great mental 
 stimulus ; or after having passed through the 
 round of modern accomplishments, she considers 
 her education completed when the last term 
 closes, and throws aside her books, and her 
 studies, as she does the restraints of the school 
 room and governess ; while she who, with fewer 
 means of instruction at command, fewer of the 
 appliances of education, as Miss More calls them, 
 if the desire for knowledge be awakened, and the 
 pleasure to be derived from the exercise of the 
 mental powers once enjoyed, becomes in a great 
 measure self-taught, will make self-improvement 
 the business of her life. 
 
 Her progress may be comparatively slow, but 
 it will be sure. She will not be a prodigy at 
 sixteen, but she will be a judicious, well-informed 
 woman at thirty-five. It was this domestic edu- 
 cation, this self-culture, this thorough <liscipline 
 of the whole character, which fitted Mrs. Adams 
 to discharge the various duties which at the dif- 
 ferent periods of her life devolved upon her, with 
 
 so much honor to herself, and with so much bene- 
 fit to her family In all the relations of life she 
 appears in a light which commands our respect 
 and admiration. As a wife, while all the letters 
 to her husband are marked by the independent 
 thought, and good sense, which distinguished her, 
 they yet breathe a delightful spirit of conjugal 
 deference and respect, not always manifested by 
 women of superior minds towards those whom 
 they may yet have promised to " honor and obey.'' 
 Mrs. Adams certainly obeyed the apostolic pre- 
 cept, and reverenced her husband; and happy 
 the wife where the character of the husband ren- 
 ders a cheerful obedience so easy. Her letters 
 to her sons are always admirable, and show how 
 anxiously she desired, and how unwearying and 
 self-denying were her endeavors, to promote their 
 best interests. We find her watching over her 
 aged parents with tender afiection ; kindly com- 
 municative to her sisters, amusing and instructing 
 her nieces, and pr'jdently advising after she had 
 ceased to direct her daughter, and delighting her 
 last days with her grandson. 
 
 The letter to Mr. Adams, dated February 8tb, 
 1797, upon his election to the Presidential chair, 
 we consider as a most admirable production. It 
 breathes a spirit worthy of a daughter of the Pu- 
 ritans — a spirit which we could wish had more 
 entirely animated every epistle which she wrote. 
 While we regret to feel obliged to say, that these 
 letters contain some expressions which we con- 
 sider as objectionable — some sentiments which 
 we cannot approve — yet we would desire to be 
 allowed to recommend both the letters and the 
 character of the venerable authoress to the con- 
 sideration of her fair countiywomen. 
 
 They may there learn what qualities are most 
 necessary to render the women of our o\\ n land 
 useful, liappy, and respected. 
 
 In conclusion, let us pay, that while there is 
 attached to the name of Mrs. Adams the high 
 honor of being the wife of one President, and the 
 mother of another, we trust that her name is des- 
 tined to descend to future ages, with yot brighter 
 radiance, as the mother of one of the earliest 
 American philanthropists, who liad caused his 
 indignant voice to be heard in the hall of Con 
 gress, and of one who stood, in his old age,* be- 
 fore the judicial tribunal of his country, there to 
 plead the cause of injured and outraged human- 
 itv, for those who had nothing to commend them 
 but their woes and their wrongs — and the woes 
 and wrongs of their bleeding and oppressed race. 
 
 * Aftar baring tilled the highest oflice in his land. 
 
THE CIT 
 
 BY METTA VICTORIA FULLER. 
 
 A shepherd sang on the mountain-top, as he sat 
 by a cool spring and guarded his flock. Tall ce- , 
 dars waved above him, and vines festooned the 
 trees. Annin was the name of this shepherd; j 
 and he was fair and noble of form. Wild daring I 
 sparkled in liis proud eye, and sometimes wreathed 
 his lip as roses wreath a bower; his motions were 
 full of grace, and his dark curls floated on the 
 breeze. His forehead was like that of a young 
 prince — lofty, with somewhat of hauglitiness; 
 and there was a regal grace in his expression 
 that was beautiful. 
 
 Annin lovedatlear young shepherdess with all 
 that was left of his passionate heart after what 
 he had given to ambition For in t!ie wilds of 
 the hills, beneath the eternal stars, hopes that 
 surely seemed a mockery, they were so bright, 
 thrilled his puUes to fire, and haunted his 
 sleep with visions of enduring fame. Brooding 
 over this ambition, and mingling it with charms 
 of his Edre, Annin lost himself in reverie, and 
 when he started to his feet at last, the sun had 
 nearly set, and his flock were lost from sight. 
 ' Bounding over the hills, he struck into a craggy 
 defile, and far below him, leaping and scrambling 
 from rock to jagged rock, he beheld the sheep of 
 his master. The wa^' looked fearful — looked im- 
 passible — yet nothing could daunt the bravery of 
 the young sheplierd. Apparently a dark ravine, 
 filled perhaps by a hidden river, lay before him. 
 Down, after the flying flock, he sprang; rugged 
 rocks were clambered over, chasms leaped, preci- 
 pices slid; down, down, down the dangerous way 
 he bounded like a torrent! 
 
 The air giev/ dim, he had descended so far. 
 Looking up, he could see the red glow of sunset 
 upon the overhanging trees. Down a few more 
 leaps, and he stood on a broad plain, walled in 
 on every side by pathless rocks and hills. A 
 stream flowed tlirough the centre with undulating 
 curves, and the ground was level and fair. This 
 was all he could see in the faint light falling 
 from the sky far overhead; it was too dark to 
 give a hope of his reaching the hill-top that 
 night, and it was doubtfid if he ever could scale 
 those awfal cliffs ; — hunger might waste him, 
 
 lions might devour him ! And was tliis the end 
 of his ambition?— to perish in this fearful soli- 
 tude ? He flung himself with a despairing heart 
 by the riverside; where, overcome with weari- 
 ness, he fell asleep and dreamed of Edre. 
 
 The bright sun of morning dimly illuminated 
 the lonely valley, and awoke the young shepherd 
 from his long sleep. The beams that fell on his 
 face fell aho on the clear river flowing by him. 
 A gleam — a sparkle — a gleam ! Why did Annis 
 start and quiver? Why did his eye fla^^h with 
 that strange delight? His hand is buried in the 
 clear stream, and withdrawn — behold ! it is full 
 of precious jewels — jewels flashing ant! quivering 
 in his clasp, mixed with golden sand. 
 
 tHe started to his feet and sent up from his 
 beautiful lips a shout of joy, and wonder, and tri- 
 umph. With excited steps he paced to and fro 
 the soft green bank of the river'. Pale flowers 
 drooped upon its brim, and pale fishes swam in 
 its glittering waves. He pressed his flushed 
 forehead with his hands, and tried to still the 
 loud beating of his bosom, as thought after 
 thought of wealth, and power, and grandeur, 
 rushed over him. 
 
 Tiie flock he came to serve grazed quietly a 
 little distance away ; they were nothing now to 
 him. Witli lumps of shining gold and splendid 
 stones he filled his liumble garments, and slowly, 
 retarded by their weight, he retraced his danger- 
 ous pathway. 
 
 No ravenous hearts were in the dim valley of 
 magnificence; but while the shepherd had slept, 
 the glittering eyes of the serpent had guarded 
 him ; and when he awoke, they had watched him 
 with their intense and terrible smile of exulta- 
 tion 
 
 In safety Annis stood again upon tlie mountain- 
 top. A darker fire was in his eye, a richer flush 
 upon his lip, a more imperial pride upon his 
 brow. He looked tlie personification of inspired 
 ambition. Like his might have been the form 
 of Lucifer, before he was cast from heaven. 
 Again the shout burst from his eager heart, ring- 
 ing like wild music over the luxuriant hills, — 
 " Ho ! a God and a King 1 Ho 1 a God and a 
 
THE CITY OF NIGHT, 
 
 15 
 
 King !" And the tall mountains took up the echo 
 and repeated, " Ho ! a God and a King." 
 
 Not long after this, a band of men were led by 
 the sliepherd into his secret kingdom, and this 
 band were sworn to be faithful to the young 
 aspirant. He hud them in his power, for lie 
 alone could lead them through tlie mountain pass ; 
 and when once n the hidden vale, he might have 
 left them to perish for want of food, if they had 
 dared to rebel against his authority. 
 
 Strange rumors flew over the surrounding na- 
 tions of a beautiful God who had come down 
 from heaven into a valley amid tiie mountains, 
 and that he had filled it with riches and splendor ; 
 and that whoever worshipped and obeyed him 
 were made wealthier and grsmder than King 
 Solomon. Soon the retinue of tlie self-constituted 
 God and King swelled to ten thousand, and his 
 new country was filled with people. 
 
 Suddenly, as the moon rises in the midnight 
 sky, a magnificent city arose in the centre of the 
 valley. And because the sun never shone fully 
 upon it, for the air was dim forever there, it was 
 called the City of Night. Marble, and granite, 
 and emerald, was hewn from the mountain cav- 
 erns — silver, and gold, and precious stones, gath- 
 ered from the river-bed. Temples, and towers, 
 and palaces, reared their gorgeous forms, glitter- 
 ing in the twilight atmosphere. Indescribable 
 splendor filled the vale. Many thousands from 
 other lands came to the mountain-top to behold 
 the magnificent pinnacle of the chief temple 
 dedicated to the King, rising like a fountain of 
 gems even above the hills themselves, yet up- 
 approachable to all but the inhabitants dwelling 
 below. With its beautiful turret, sparkling and 
 beaming in the rays of the sun, whose glory it 
 seemed to mock, this temple rose up to tell to 
 other nations the splendor of this wonderful peo- 
 ple, whose God lived and dwelt with them, and 
 brought riches from the skies to reward his wor- 
 shippers for their faith and devotion. 
 
 Truly this City of Night was like a dream in 
 its gorgeousness. Iluntlreds of thousands of 
 lamps burnt every night within its walls, for with 
 its inhabitants night was turned into day, and tlie 
 dav into hours of repose. Arches of pure em- 
 erald spanned the marble paved streets; fo\m- 
 tains of unique shape sent rainbow sprays to glit- 
 ter in the rich lamp light. Hundreds of beautiful 
 little temjdes richly decorated stood here and 
 there; and upon the silver shrines within, pale 
 blossoms and clusters of food were offered by fair 
 devotees to Annin. Entranci g mu>ic floated 
 upon the air, and voluptuously beautiful young 
 creatures wreathed their shining arms in dances 
 of enchanting grace, circling, and singing, and 
 
 gliding through the illuminated streets, their 
 white feet glancing over the smooth pavements, 
 and their fa.r limbs waving and undulating to 
 the sound of the ravishing melody. The fairest 
 of earth were these young daughters of the niys- 
 tic city. Tiie courts, the palaces, the streets, the 
 temples, were radiant with their lovely forms. 
 Bright eyes flashed everywhere, and soft cheeks 
 burned, and sweet lips smiled, and loose hair 
 floated. The garments of these young maidens 
 were embroidered witli gems; their delicate 
 ankles and round arms were circled with shining 
 gems; their long tresses glittered with costly or- 
 naments. Flashing girdles bound their silken 
 robes. 
 
 Wo ! to the young shepherdess on the hills 
 round about if the eye of a son of the valley 
 rested upon her beauty. Wo to her then, if she 
 loved her parents and her home, for from that 
 time the city of glory was her abidnig-place, and 
 her will was the will of the king. Yet many 
 were intoxicated with the splendor of their fate, 
 and loved the proud and fascinating young An- 
 nin. Wo to the vineyards and the flocks upon 
 the mountains, for the children of the valley 
 ravished them, till the jeweled goblets of the 
 palaces overflowed with wine, and the golden 
 dishes with dainty meats. 
 
 Edre, the first love of the ruler, was queen 
 over all the beautiful maidens of her people. 
 She walked in purple apparel, and a circlet burn- 
 ing with rare diamonds bound her fair brows. 
 Edre was fit to be a queen. A simple nobleness 
 graced every movement, and a caltn majesty sat 
 on her graceful form. She had large, slow moving 
 eyes, passionless, and deep, and pure, like an an- 
 gel's eyes. She would have seemed angelic more 
 than woraanlj', had it not been for the sweet 
 witchery that played round her mouth. 
 
 It was not strange that the passionate and 
 gifted shepherd should have loved just such a 
 maiden before his ambition had been polluted by 
 prosperity. All his poetic drean s seemed em- 
 bodied in the purity of her calm radiance, and 
 the power of his ardent nature never reached to 
 the bottom of the deep fountains of her almost 
 sinless soul. 
 
 The more that luxury and revelry abounded 
 in the valley, the more did the fair queen seem 
 to grow in majesty and beauty. A melancholy 
 lustre shone through her loveliness like the efful- 
 gence of a star. She drank no wine at the ban- 
 quet, and looked not upon the bewildering dances, 
 nor offered incense upon the shrine of tlieir God, 
 even though she were his bride. The love that 
 was once only hers was divided amid a thousand 
 unholy women, and she withdrew her affections, 
 
16 
 
 THE CITY OF KIGHT. 
 
 and buried them in the depths of her spotless 
 bosom. Her calm eyes read daily the writing 
 of vice and voluptuousness over the forehead 
 once glowing with the inspiration of genius, and 
 the winning sweetness of her lips at times quiv- 
 ered with sudden change to sorrow. 
 
 Vice w^rapped like a mantle the inhabitants of 
 the valley. No where upon the earth since the 
 desolation of Sodom and Gommorah had there 
 been such evil workings as filled the City of 
 Night, so much the more as it was splendid was 
 it wicked; luxury, clothed in scarlet and gold, 
 took the black form of sin to its bosom, and all 
 deceitful cunnings and fearful devices of evil was 
 their offspring. 
 
 Year by year the wickedness increased — pol- 
 lutions touched beauty with decay, and filled 
 the streets with suffering and disease. 
 
 Year by year the solemn glory of the Queen's 
 presence grew more radient : — she shone from 
 out that war of evil passions like a beautiful star 
 through a storm. She faded not, nor withered, 
 nor seemed to grow old. She was seldom seen, 
 but she was the marvel and the adored of all. 
 The waves of sin rolled back from her and 
 harmed her not. Lonely in her magnificent pal- 
 ace she passed her days. 
 
 The time for the desolation of the valley of 
 Annin drew nigh. The Tempter had nearly fin- 
 ished the work of his night upon the children of 
 the City of Night. The light of jewels and of 
 wine-cups had been steeped in the fascinations 
 of his power, and had poisoned the hearts that 
 wore and the lips that drank them. He lay 
 curled in a cavern of the mountains awaiting the 
 perfection of his triumph. 
 
 There was a night of festal offering in the 
 bright city, the doors of the Temple were thrown 
 open, and the one who had took upon himself the 
 assumption of divinity sat in regal pomp upon 
 a magnificent throne, sacred to him as his sanc- 
 tum sanctorum. At his feet lay two dogs with 
 serpent heads, the bodies of solid silver, and the 
 lieads of rubies set in gold, M-ith eyes of diamonds 
 flashing and glowing. Tiiese dogs guarded the 
 sacred chair upon which he now sat. Before the 
 throne an immense vessel of gold, with a wreath 
 of amethysts around the brim, was upheld in the 
 paws of an ebony tiger; this basin received the 
 offerings of the people. 
 
 The monarch was apparelled in scarlet with 
 blue facings, and a girdle of sapphires in the form 
 of a serpent. His crown, too, was a wreathing 
 serpent, with its burning eyes shining on the front 
 of his brow. A sun sparkled on his breast, and 
 his robe was wrought with stars, intimating that 
 the heavens were subject to hi? power. 
 
 The eagle flash in the eye of Annin had 
 changed to the red glow of unholiness — his pale 
 face was now strangely and repulsively beautiful, 
 with the red spot upon either hollow cheek, and 
 the bright, mild smile upon his lips, the black 
 ringlets clustered around his bare throat. 
 
 A feast was spread without the temple — but 
 before any dared quaff the crimson wine, or taste 
 the glowing fruit, their offering must be placed 
 upon the shrine before the God. 
 
 Throng after throng danced down tlie glittering 
 temple, bright with a thousand lamps, and laid 
 their gifts in the golden basin. These mostly 
 were of the largest gems set in giant devices, as 
 ornaments for the king to wear or bestow upon 
 his concubines. The first cup of wine was always 
 to be given to the ebony tiger, and then the God 
 descended and rninglcd with his worshippers. 
 
 This night, while all were gathered to wit- 
 ness the ablution of the wine, suddenh'-, gliding 
 with slow gracefulness through the middle of the 
 gorgeous temple, appeared their beautiful Queen. 
 With a calm step she mounted the sacred 
 throne, and stood by the side of her Lord. 
 
 A suppressed murmur of wonder and anger ran 
 through the people at this audacious act. They 
 expected to behold the fair woman withered to 
 ashes before their eyes, for daring to place foot 
 within the holy precincts of the throne. The 
 monarch remained speechless. She turned her 
 face towards the people, and, standing by the side 
 of her husband, looked upon them a moment in 
 silence. 
 
 Every knee bent to the floor, so powerful was 
 the influence of her face — that face inspired with 
 holiness and radient with a calm glow — that face, 
 beautiful with ineft'ible fairness, and heavenly in 
 its transparent spirituality. 
 
 She spoke, and they listened in mute attention, 
 as music falls from the golden lyres of heaven, 
 the words ran from her lips, filling the air of the 
 Temple with a sound, soft as the fall of a silver 
 fountain, yet terrible as the breath of lions on the 
 denunciations of the spirit of wrath. 
 
 She revealed to them the existence of one 
 great and Almighty God — slie threatened them 
 with the punishment of their idolatry — siie plead- 
 ed with them to throw aside their evil worl:s, and 
 live forever in the smile of the eternal. 
 
 Their hearts shrank and shuddered witli the 
 terror of her inspired words, and leaped at the 
 sweet persuasions of lier tongue. 
 
 She ceased : — silence hung over the children of 
 Annin. 
 
 The God of the people rose to his feet, and 
 pointed fiercely to the calm form of the prophetic 
 queen. 
 
THE UNFORGOTTEN, 
 
 i": 
 
 Wrath and defiance burned in his eyes, as he 
 chanted, — 
 
 "She has profaned my holy altar;— let her be 
 given to the flames." 
 
 The crowd took up the cry, and rushed to the 
 foot of the throne. 
 
 Edre folded her arms nuekly over her bosom, 
 and lifted her face upward with a soft smile. 
 
 And even as they reached out to seize her gar- 
 ments, a pair of golden wings spread from her 
 white shoulders, and she floated upward — upward 
 before their dazzled eyes, till she shone like a 
 star in the doom of the lofty Temple and disap- 
 peared. 
 
 The dove had fled from the children of Annin 
 — and there was none left to save the city. 
 
 Even while they gazed after the up-soaring 
 Angel, the foundations of the building were 
 shook beneath them, they rushed from the tem- 
 ple. There was red light over one of the hilh — 
 the mountains groaned and quaked. There was 
 a mighty rush for the narrow and difficult path- 
 way. Beautiful women, with gay dresses and 
 tinkling ornaments — Musicians with their instru- 
 ments cast firm — the boasted God in Lis strange 
 apparel,— all— all rushed fearfully towards escape I 
 
 'S, But the trembling of the hills had thrown a 
 huge rock over the only path — there was no es 
 cape — none ! 
 
 The ground quivered beneath tl.eir frightened 
 feet, as hastily they fled back to the centre of the 
 valley. 
 
 " Ha ! ha !" chuckled the serpent from his cav- 
 ern. 
 
 They grouped near the temple — it leaned to 
 ward them as if to mock their trust in it. 
 
 Again their eyes were fixed upon the burning 
 mountain, flames darted from its summit — stones 
 shot into the air. Thunder rolled from hill to 
 hill — a sound ! from the mouth of the hill comes 
 pouring down an overwhelming fierj' flood upon 
 the valley below ! One shriek — and the children 
 of Annin shriek no more — it has covered them ! 
 The Temple reels, and with its sparkling turret 
 falls groaning into the burning flood; — palaces^ 
 arches, fountains, towers, — where are they ^ 
 Where is the valley of jewels— the fair city of 
 Night I The red lava has no tongue to teU. 
 
 They cast away the holy dove from the bosom 
 of their faith — and when it fled from their uuho- 
 liness — what was there left to tell of their mag- 
 nificence ? 
 
 THE UNFOHGOTTEN. 
 
 Unforgotten, deathless story, 
 Memories sad, and strange, and vast, 
 
 Through the present's pride and glory. 
 Call ns backward to the past. _j 
 
 With a calm and chaslen'd sorrow. 
 
 Through its shadows let us tread, 
 And warning or e.xaniple borrow 
 
 From the records of the dead. 
 Through the horn of crowded cities, 
 
 On the midnight's solemn breath, 
 Cometh forms and voices to us 
 
 From the solitude of death. 
 
 Come the changed and the changeless, 
 With their mild, pale faces there. 
 
 Still as when we gazed upon them 
 In the lone heart's first despair: 
 
 Forms, whose hallow'd presence gladden'd, 
 Like the sunbeams' cheering rays. 
 
 And wijose parting shadows sadden'd 
 Many a mourner's after da>s. 
 
 Breasts, whose peaceful precincts cherish'd 
 
 Feelings of the holiest birth — 
 Gentle streams, whose waters nonrish'd 
 
 The ocean tide of love on earth ; 
 
 Souls unshrinking, valiant, fearless. 
 
 Ever foremost in the strife, 
 Bearing onward, dauntless, tearless, 
 
 Through the battle- |>ath8 of life; 
 
 Men, whose deeds in song and «lcry 
 
 Earth shall slill recount with pride, 
 Who, for country, freedom, glory, 
 
 Nobly triumph'd, proudly died. 
 And the wise, the good, the learn'd. 
 
 They, of wisdom's sacred lore. 
 Who through Heaven's light discern'd 
 
 Truths unknown to man before ; 
 And some whose sweet, though hapless doty, 
 
 In their path through life along, 
 Was 10 pour o'er all its beauty 
 
 Burning themes of love and song : 
 And they the dear ones, father, mother, 
 
 Ilufband, brother, sister, wife, 
 Trusted friend, or faithful lover, 
 
 All that link'd the chain of life : 
 
 Glory, science, song, and bcanty, 
 
 Memones deepest love that claim. 
 Weeping earth with sacred duty 
 
 Shall enshrine each hallow'd name. 
 Let ns learn this lesson holy. 
 
 That each blighted hope and love 
 Is to make us meek and lowly, 
 
 Fitting for a home above. 
 Such is life to day, to morrow, 
 
 Through the scenes of good or ill, 
 Through the tides of joy or sorrow, 
 
 Some are unforgottea still. 
 
MELVILL, THE PULPIT ORATOR. 
 
 BT A RETURNED TRAVELER. 
 
 The faithful preaching of the Gospel, is the 
 first element of national greatness. It is so for 
 every reatfn. Indeed, there is no crmparifon 
 bet'ween it and anything else. It surpass es, out- 
 weighs, rises alove everything besides. It is 
 Christ's ordained agency for the accomplishment 
 of his benign purposes. Understood thus, it 
 challenges all competiticn. Its right is divine, 
 its charter from the skies. An evangelical pulpit 
 is the glory of any land ; and England will rise 
 or fall — her material power, her enormous wealth, 
 her martial skill, and her philosophical treasures 
 notwithstanding — in the ratio of her love to, dis- 
 regard of, an evangelical pulpit. It is the centre 
 of light, liberty, patriotism, benevolence, morality, 
 and truth. It affords scope for the loftiest flights 
 of sanctified imagination, for the deepest research- 
 es of thought, for the warmest gushings of zeal, 
 for the richest outpourings of feeling, for the am- 
 plest range of literature, and for the noblest bursts 
 of eloquence. Every characteristic of matter, 
 every attribute of mind, and every oracle of re- 
 velation come to it, as so many tiibutary streams 
 to that great river of life which bears men upon 
 its crystal bosom to the shores of the happy land. 
 Sun, moon, and stars — the earth, the atmosphere, 
 and the ocean — spring and autumn, srramer and 
 winter, day and night, cold and heat — serve it for 
 similitude, parable, and illustration ; the conscience 
 of every man seconds its ajipeals, and the induc- 
 tions of reason accord with its conclusions; the 
 church of the living God, to which it teaclies 
 knowledge, wisdom, and spiritual understandirg, 
 is the great training school for the employments 
 of eternity ; and the principalities and powers in 
 heavenly places, leam from that church fresh les- 
 sons regarding the manifold wisdom of God ! If 
 these things be so, we ask why poetry should 
 glorify the warrior, and overlook tl:e preacher ? 
 And why literature should immortalise the sen- 
 ate and tlie bar, whilst it passes by the pulpit, as 
 unworthy of its notice? 
 
 Henry Melvill is, in the strict sense of that 
 term, a preacher of the Gospel. Some men mis- 
 take their profession. This is no very uncommon 
 tiling among clergymen of all denominations. 
 
 We have heard nonsense, inanities, and sometimes 
 intolerably stupid things uttered by men in the 
 pulpit. But the influence of their iffice failed to 
 atone for the want of a commodity which clergy- 
 men need as much as laymen — common sense. 
 That which pains us, under these circumstances, 
 is, that the sceptical or irreligious hearer traces 
 this stupidity to the Gospel itself, and concludes 
 that the New Testament must be a very dull book, 
 seeing that those who are understood to make it 
 their daily study make such a sorry exhibition 
 in the pulpit. That all preachers should be ora- 
 tors, or eloquent men, in the technical sense, is 
 not necessary, not even desirable ; but surely it 
 is necessary that every minister should know 
 what he is about. Our first impression on hearing 
 and seeing Mr. Melvill, after he had uttered two 
 or three sentences, was one of intense satisfaction, 
 from the simple thought — he understands his 
 work, he is in his place, he believes, and therefore 
 speaks, and, if we mistake not, he will give a 
 reason for the hope that is in him, whilst, withal, 
 from the unaffected modesty of his demeanor, we 
 expect that he will give that reason with meek- 
 ness and fear. There is no pomposity, no glitter, 
 none of that offensive "look-at-me" idea which 
 naturally belongs only to weak men, but which 
 sometimes, perhaps unconsciously, creeps upon 
 truly able men who have acquired some degree 
 of popularity. Mr. Melvill is very popular, perhaps 
 as much so as any clergyman in England, but he 
 does not seem to be aware of it. This is true 
 greatness. He seems to be aware of but one 
 thing, one all-absorbing thought, that he is de- 
 livering the message of God to men, and that he 
 must deliver his own soul at the same time from 
 the guilt of concealing any part of that message. 
 "VVe cannot resist the impression that he reverent- 
 ly realises the presence of his great Master, and 
 speaks of him as in his hearing. The deep solem- 
 nity and breathless attention of the congregation 
 prove that they feel this. Every eye is fixed 
 upon the preacher, and every ear is open to hear 
 great truths about God, and Christ, and the human 
 soul, and eternity. Every part of the building is 
 full, (remember it is not the day of rest, btit eleven 
 
MELVILL, THE PULPIT ORATOR. 
 
 19 
 
 o'clock on Tuesday morning, in the very heart of 
 busy London,) and many are standing, yet there is 
 no sign of weariness : all are ]>rofoundly, eagerly 
 attentive, as the preacher proceeds throiigli a para- 
 graph, increasing in rnjiidity of utterance and 
 Tolume of voice as he aj)proaches its close, "vvhen 
 he seems to be rushing along the narrow way to 
 heaven, and carrying all his hearers with him. 
 It is not the fascination of his eye (though that 
 glows and sparkles with light, and, in earlier life, 
 must have been uncommonly brilliant) that binds 
 the people thug, for he reads every word of his 
 sermons, and consequently it is but at intervals 
 that lie glances across the congregation. Kor do 
 we think it is his eloquence, though that is of no 
 common order. It is what he says, ratlier than 
 how he says it, that entrances the people. His 
 eloquence is certainly a great advantage to him ; 
 but it is the thing uttered, at least if we may 
 judge from our own experience, that so deeply 
 interests the people. He nndtrstavds the mean- 
 ing of his text — the grand secret of successful 
 preaching, so far as human agency is concerned 
 — and he gives his hearers to understand it too, 
 by using clear, forcible, and appropriate language. 
 The following passages, from a sermon we had 
 the privilege of hearing, will'illustrate our mean- 
 ing, and afford specimens both of Mr. Melvill's 
 theology and logic. The text was Zechariah xii. 
 10 : "And I will pour upon the house of David, 
 and upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit 
 of grace and of supplications : and they shall 
 look upon me whom they have pierced, and they 
 shall mourn for him, as one mourneth for his 
 only son, and shall be in bitterness for liini, as 
 one that is in bitterness for his first-born." His 
 "plan" was simple and natural: first, he consid- 
 ered what the prediction exhibits as yet to hap- 
 pen to the Jews ; and then, in what way, and in 
 what degree, it may be acconunodated individu- 
 ally to ourselves. Without expressing our opin- 
 ion of the exact truth of his positions and reason- 
 ings, the clear and manly style of the argument, 
 and the brilliancy of illustration thrown upon it 
 by his ardent imagination, are so characteristic of 
 his general manner withal, so finely adapted to 
 the pulpit efiect, that I will venture to reproduce 
 some of the remarkable passages of the sermon. 
 He then proceeded thus : — 
 
 "Now there is," said he," no subject presented 
 to \i3 in the unfidfillcd jn'ophecics of Scripture 
 that is more adajitcd to the taking hold on the 
 mind, and engaging all its earnestness, than that 
 of the restoration of the Jews to the land of tlieir 
 fathers. Ever since the Romans came down in 
 their fury upon Jerusalem — the ministers of the 
 vengeance of God, who had beea provoked to 
 
 cast off the once favored people — the earth has 
 been strewn with the fragments of the Tribes ; 
 and persecution has proved unable to extermi- 
 nate them, and kindness as unable to blend thciu 
 with the rest of human kind. There has never 
 been the least approach to a polity or government 
 of their own ; so that at no time liave they as- 
 sumed such an ajipcarance as should suggest the 
 probability of liicir combining under one head, 
 or gathering into one land. Scattered over the 
 habitable globe, strangers even where they have 
 made themselves homes, and aliens where they 
 have long had a dwelling ; having been presen- 
 ted to the world under an aspect fitted to excite 
 its eittentiiin and draw its wonder, their very dis- 
 persion has stood as an argument against the 
 likelihood of their restoration ; and their separa- 
 tion from every other people has put difficulties 
 in the way of any such gathering of strength as 
 a great movement would appear to demand. 
 And yet, there has been such evident miracle in 
 the distinction which has been kept up between 
 the Jews and the rest of our race, that, even had 
 prophecy been silent, we might almost have 
 thought that a people so sejiarated were reserved 
 for some signal occurrence, for the distinction 
 cannot be accounted for iipon any natural prin- 
 ciples. Had not God interposed, and both erect- 
 ed and upheld the barrier, it is utterly insup- 
 poseable but that all their ancient peculiarities 
 would have long ago departed ; so that the Jews 
 would have retained none of their original char- 
 acteristics. And though it may have been one 
 reason for this continued miracle, that there 
 might be a standing witness to tlie truths of 
 Christianity — a witness which should supersede 
 all necessity for a fresh demonstraticju of its au- 
 thority — we may justly say that this would hard- 
 ly suffice to ex})lain the plienomenon. This does 
 but place the Jews on a level with such cities as 
 Babylon, or Tyre, from whose ruins perpetually 
 issues a voice which attests the inspiration of 
 Scripture; and we might fairly conclude, that 
 more was projiosed by the continued dispei'sion 
 of a pco])le, tiian by the lasting desolation of ji 
 town. However this may be, prophecy is most 
 explicit on the great and wonderful fact, that the 
 Jews, notwithstanding their disjiersion over all 
 the districts of the earth, are to be collected 
 together at a season appointed of God, and re- 
 settled in the Canaan wliidi has been so long 
 trodden down by the Gentiles. The attempt to 
 give a purely spiritual interpretation to a pre- 
 diction bearing upon this fact, will always,, aa we 
 think, fail to afford satisfoction, and that, too, 
 upon tlie simple princij)le, that tho dispersion 
 and restoration of the Jews are continually spoken 
 
20 
 
 MELVILL, THE PULPIT ORATOR. 
 
 of by the prophets in the same breath — being 
 mentioned in one sentence, or occurring as parts 
 of one message from God. And thei-e cannot be 
 any justice in giving a figurative interpretation 
 to one notice in a projihecy, when we know that 
 a literal belongs to the preceding. If the Jews had 
 been only figuratively scattered, I could believe 
 that they would be only figuratively restored. 
 But whilst I know that they have been literary 
 scattered, and whilst I find that the scattering 
 and the restoration are announced in the same 
 prophecy, I must conclude that the Jews are to 
 be literally reinstated in the possession of Canaan 
 — that, not in any spiritual sense, but according 
 to the plain meaning of the words, " they shall 
 be gathered from among the nations whither they 
 have gone, and brought again to their own land." 
 And it is at the time of this restoration, or, rather, 
 after it shall have been completed, that our text 
 will be accomplished, for the preceding parts of 
 the prophecy relate to a struggling in Judea and 
 Jerusalem, as though the Jews were wrestling 
 for their own, and the banded powers were set 
 upon their ejection. The representation is that 
 of a mighty conflict between the Jews and other 
 nations. The Jews having gained a footing, the 
 powers of other nations had leagued for their 
 destruction; and the conflict is terminated 
 through the direct interjsosition of God. So that 
 we should wish you particularly to observe, that 
 the prophecy or prediction of our text is not to 
 take effect until the Jews are restored to the 
 possession of their land. The course of events, 
 as here traced out by prophecy, is, that restoration 
 to Judea is to precede their conversion to Chris- 
 tianity. And thus it would seem they are still 
 to be Jews, and not Christians, when they shall 
 pour into Judea, to rebuild the prostrate Jerusa- 
 lem. You are to remember that, for centuries 
 past, these people have not only rejected the reli- 
 gion of Jesus, but they have been also unobser- 
 vant of the religion of Moses. According to that 
 remarkable prediction of Rosea, they have abode 
 without a shrine, without an image, without an 
 ephod, and without a temple. Though they 
 have spurned from them Cliristianity, they have 
 not been idolaters : for tiiey have abode without 
 any image and without a temple. Neither have 
 they strictly been Jews; for they have abode 
 •without a sacrifice, and without an ephod. In- 
 deed, they have not had the power, supposing 
 them to have had the will, to adhere strictly to 
 the religion of Moses; for the religion of Moses | 
 was in the largest sense local, and its rites could 
 be performed nowhere but at Jerusalem ; and to 
 be banished from that city, was to be placed un- 
 der an incapacity of obeying the law. And this 
 
 does not so much exculpate their apostacy from 
 Moses as aggravate their rejection of Christ, for 
 they ought long ago to have learned, from the 
 continued impossibility of being true Jews, that 
 God had introduced another dispensation, to 
 Avhich it behoved them reverently to conform. 
 Hence, the Jews have to be brought to repentance 
 towards God, before they can be brought to faith 
 towards the Lord Jesus Christ. They are to be 
 made to see and feel that God is displeased with 
 them ; and this sight and feeling miist bring 
 them, in lowly contrition, to supplicate forgive- 
 ness. In the book of Leviticus, this is exactly 
 what is held as preliminary to their being gather- 
 ed home from their dispei sion among the Gentiles. 
 " If they shall confess their iniquities, and the 
 iniquities of their fathers, with their trespass 
 which they trespassed against me, and that also 
 they have walked contrary imto me : and that I 
 also have walked contrary unto them, and have 
 brought them into the land of their enemies ; if, 
 then, their uncircimicised hearts be humbled, and 
 they then accept of the punishment of their ini- 
 quity, then will I remember my covenant with 
 Jacob, and my covenant with Isaac, and also my 
 covenant with Abraham will I remember, and I 
 will remember the land." LTpon their humbling 
 themselves before God, who has been chastening 
 them without producing contrition, they are to 
 be received with ftivor, and restored to Judea. 
 We know this prophecy is almost silent as to the 
 process through which the scattered tribes shall 
 be gathered from all lands — whether through 
 some open, miraculous interference, or through 
 some silent, secret influence, inclining the exiles 
 to seek Judea ; biit we know that again its val- 
 leys shall swarm with the children of its original 
 possessors ; and we are assured that when the 
 Jews shall have been restored and resettled, 
 there will come up a great array of enemies anx- 
 ious to dispossess, if not to exterminate them. 
 Then will be the struggle of which we have al- 
 ready spoken, which is so vividly sketched in the 
 prophecies of Zechariah. For a time shall the 
 adversaries prosper, and shall seem about to ac- 
 complish their iniquitous purposes; but then, 
 choosing, as is his wont, the moment of exigence, 
 shall God miraculously interfere, scatter their 
 enemies, and be a shield to Jerusalem. 
 
 " This, as itwould seem, is to be the time for the 
 manifestation of Christ. Let us not be tempted to 
 describe the circumstances of tlie manifestation- 
 Enough for us to know that the Jews shall own 
 that Redeemer whom their fathers crucified, and 
 themselves had despised. We know they will 
 weep tears of contrition — that the mourning 
 which is described by the prophet will be aa 
 
MELYILL, THE PULPIT ORATOR. 
 
 21 
 
 though there were ' sackcloth over the land, aud 
 every family retiring within itself to weep and 
 lament.' They shall charge themselves with all 
 the guilt of their ancestors, arraigning themselves 
 as his murderers, and bewailing that their own 
 bands should have slain the Lord of life. Oh ! 
 come that glorious season when they who have 
 been Clirist's kinsmen after the flesh, shall be his 
 disciples and his worshippers ! Their exile has 
 been long! their intidclity has been stern ! Oh ! 
 for their repentance! oh! for their conversion! 
 There may be already the harbingers of tlie event, 
 which all who love the Lord must ardently long 
 for. Who shall say there is no movement 
 amongst the Jews, as though tliey could not re- 
 main in their banishment, but were stirred to the 
 uniting, at all hazards, to rebuild Jerusalem ? 
 Whether or not we can see signs of the nearness 
 of the event, sooner or later shall this creation be 
 gladdened by its occurrence ; for he who could 
 say, ' Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my 
 word shall not pass away' — even he hath declar- 
 ed, ' I will pour upon the house of David, and 
 upon the inhabitants of Jerusalem, the spirit of 
 grace and of supplications : and they shall look 
 upon me whom they have pierced.'" 
 
 Prom the second part of the discourse, we 
 quote a few remarkable sentences : — " I am sure 
 that if I could take you where, extended on the 
 ground, lay the yet bleeding form of one of your 
 fellow-men, whom assassins had just rifled of 
 life ; and if I could show you that something you 
 had said or done had caused the foul murder, so 
 that the assassins had been virtually your agents, 
 or instruments, you would be ready to sink into 
 the earth in the agony of your remorse aud self- 
 condemnation ; you would regard yourself with 
 actual loathing and abhorrence ; you would flee 
 from the scene as if pursued by a fury ; and you 
 would imagine all nature \ip in arms to take ven- 
 geance on your crime. And though it is not this 
 wild and fierce anguish that we wish to excite in 
 you, through the spectacle of a bleeding Redeemer, 
 we cannot think that you feel as you ought till 
 you feel that you have slain him — till you mourn 
 for him according!}- as your victim, in being vour 
 Deliverer. We take you, therefore, to Calvary, 
 where the cross has been erected, and Jesus of 
 Jfazareth fastened to it as a sacrifice ; and we 
 want you, while you put away from you all the 
 spectacle of the thorns and soldiers, to stand there 
 alone with the dying Redeemer. Does the reply 
 of Nathan, 'niou art tlie man,* come home to 
 each of you, as the question is proposed, ' Who 
 hath done this deed, on which the sun dares not 
 look?' It ought to do so; you do not know 
 yourselves till you knowyourselveethe murdcrci"3 
 
 of Christ. You are to feel as though put upon 
 trial as actors in the doleful tragedy ; and so 
 moved as to pronounce against yourselves the 
 verdity. Guilty ! guilty !— a verdict echoed from, 
 all creation, animate and inanimate 1 And though 
 the fact of being thus convicted of murder may 
 not, as in the former supposed case, send you 
 aghast and terrified from the scene, it cannot fail 
 to till you with sorrow and remorse. In seeing 
 and confessing your crime, you will also see and 
 confess your deliverance, and you will remain to 
 weep and adore, where you have learned the foul 
 deed you have wrought. You may look upon 
 Christ coldly and carelessly so long as you regard 
 his crucifixion merely as an historical fact, and 
 the Jews and Romans as alone his executioners ; 
 but when you are brought to feel your own share 
 in the crucifixion, you will then thoroughly know 
 that your pardon was possible ; the heart will be 
 melted ; and you will shed tears for the sins for 
 which the Redeemer shed blood. And this is in 
 precise agreement with the proj)heey before u?. 
 Only allow it to come to pass that you look on 
 him whom youhave pierced — not ■whom the Jews, 
 not whom the Romans, but whom you yourselves 
 have pierced ; and it must also come to pass that, 
 in the words of our text, you will ' mourn for liim 
 as one mourneth for an only son, and be in bit- 
 terness for him as one that is in bitterness for his 
 first-born. 
 
 Mr. Melvill's gesture is remarkable. His hands 
 are occupied with his manuscript, but his head 
 does duty for them. He bends it to the desk, right 
 and left alternately, with a rapidity increased 
 with the force of his thoughts, as if discharging 
 his ideas among the congregation. . We have 
 alread}' mentioned his eloquence. To hear him 
 read the magnificent " Te Deum," is worth a jour- 
 ney of miles. The following grand passage, es^ 
 pecially, he utters with thrilling cff"cct : — 
 
 '•"We praiise thee. God: we acknowledge thee to be the Lord, 
 AU the earth doth worship thee, the Father everlasting. 
 To thee all angels cry aloud : the heavens, and all the 
 
 powers therein. 
 To thee cherubim and seraphim continually do cry, 
 Holy, holy, holy. Lord God of Sabaoth ; 
 Heaven and earth are full of ihe majesty of thy glory. 
 The glorious company of the apostles praise thee : 
 The goodly fellowship of tlie prophets praise thee : 
 The noble army of martyrs praise thee : 
 The holy church throughout all the world doth acknow- 
 ledge thee, 
 The father of an infinite majesty ; 
 Thine honorable, true, and only Son ; 
 Also the Holy Ghost, the Comforter. 
 Thou art the King of Glory, Christ.'" 
 
 Hark ! how the last quoted lines ring through the 
 church, while every head is bent — let us hope, 
 with real reverence and love — as if meeting 
 
22 
 
 AN HOITR WTTTI THOMAS P. HUNT. 
 
 the grand choir of heaven with its marvellous 
 utterance, " "Wortliy is the Lamb that was slain !" 
 But the service is over. What a change ! We 
 . are opposite the Bank of England, amidst the 
 rush, the throng, the pressure, the voice of the 
 multitudes, every one looking, for his gain from 
 his quarter. Everything is earthl}^ The con- 
 trast is violent. We feel as if fallen, as if forcibly 
 
 driven out of paradise, to grub for the bread that 
 perisheth among the mold and filth of a polluted 
 world ; yet, after a moment's reflection, we realise 
 the value of those divine truths to which we have 
 been listening, feel their sustaining power, and 
 their animatingjinfluence, and are persuaded that 
 an evengelieal ministry is the first element of 
 national greatness. 
 
 AN HOUR WITH THOMAS P. HUNT. 
 
 BY KEV. JOSEPH 
 
 T T T L E 
 
 TuE lives of some really great men are often 
 as unruffled in their flow as a river. Their occu- 
 pations, or the times in which they live, are bar- 
 ren of incident. Other men, inferior in station, 
 and not distinguished by the attentions of the rich 
 and great, pass lives which arc as broken as the 
 mountain torrent. By disposition, choice, and 
 position, they are continually bearing part in 
 some thrilling incidents, in which all the qualities 
 of heart and mind, sucli as bravery, self-posses, 
 sion, wit, sarcasm, knowledge of human nature, 
 come into exercise. A truly great man may 
 govern a kingdom, and yet Ids life be so barren 
 of incident, as to be as insipid to the general reader 
 as a ciiapter in Whately's Logic, whilst tlie life 
 of another man, in no wise his superior, will be 
 read v%'it]i avidity. It was the fine remark of Sir 
 Thomas Lawrence, tliat could a convention of all 
 the great men in tlie world be called, by acclama- 
 tion Sir Isaac Newton would be elected its Presi- 
 dent. And yet the biography of I^ewton has not 
 been devoureii witli half the relish witli whicli 
 Barrow's Bible in Spain, or hisGipsey, Priest, and 
 Scholar were received. Between the men there 
 can be no comparison, and yet the inferior com- 
 mands the popular interest, because of liis thrill- 
 ing incidents. 
 
 Rev. Tiiomas P. Hunt has never pretended, nor 
 has his admirers claimed it, that he is the greatest 
 man, or even tlie greatest lecturer on Temper- 
 ance, the world has yet produced. He has never 
 been afflicted witli an infirmity common to many 
 of Ills fellow craftsmen, especially those of very 
 moderate abilities, that no good ever was done 
 in the cause of Temperance until he put his 
 shoulder to the wheel, and nothing will be done 
 
 after he is gone. His friends are quite cer- 
 tain tiiat he is a man of no ordinary mind- They 
 have no reason to doubt his courage, nor his 
 kindness, and those who fall under liis lash, have 
 as little reason to doubt his severity. But in 
 private, with his friends, it is difficult to conceive 
 how anyone could be more entertaining, and that 
 not merely as a fine declaimer of personal anec- 
 dotes, but a ripe, discriminating thinker, with the 
 rare faculty of expressing his thoughts with the 
 utmost simplicity, and yet so brilliantly, that tliey 
 fasten themselves on the memory like the nail 
 driven in a sure place. 
 
 Not long since, at the table of a friend, he re- 
 peated some anecdotes, the most of which be- 
 longed to a dependent series, all bearing on one 
 point, which was the expediency and reward of 
 keejiing tlie Sabbath. Some years since he made 
 a visit to the South. He had reached Wheeling 
 on the Ohio river, and, with his usual directness, 
 asked of the steamboat captain, if he would reach 
 Cincinnati before tlie Sabbath ; for, says Mr.Hunt, 
 " I have made a resolution that for no reason not 
 good for the judgment day will I travel on the 
 Sabbath " 
 
 '• We shall be in Cincinnati by Friday night,'' 
 said tlie Captain, and witli that assurance Mr. H. 
 paid his passage money. 
 
 But the ice was running, and the boat was hin- 
 dered, so that they were obliged to tie her to the 
 shore for a day. The hands being idle, Mr. H. 
 obtained permission to address them several 
 times. His shrewd, amusing, and in general 
 solemn appeals, so won upon those brawny boat- 
 men that every one of them signed the pledge, 
 and he even induced the barkeeper to shut up his 
 
AN HOUR WITH THOMAS P. HUNT. 
 
 23 
 
 shop, with a promise never again to engage in 
 such " a dirty business.'' 
 
 By tliis time Mr. H. had become a pet with 
 the boatmen and officers, and as it began to be 
 evident that Cincinnati could not be reached by 
 the Sabbath, he reminded the Captain of his 
 promise. This led to a discussion, in whicii Mr. 
 H., the Captain, and a minister of the Cumber- 
 land Presbyterian order engaged. The Captain 
 entreated him to stay on board ; for, said he, " I 
 will stop every unnecessary work, and employ 
 the fewest number of hands possible, and we will 
 assemble as often as you please for preacliing." 
 
 Mr. H. replied by asking, " How could 1 preach 
 to you sinners, and yet be in open violation of 
 one of God's plainest commands, and you all the 
 time knowing it ?" 
 
 The Cumberland Presbyterian said, "We have 
 paid our passage money, and Providence liaving 
 kept U3 back, it is plainly the will of Providence 
 that we should go on." 
 
 " No sir," replied Mr. H. " my doctrine is dif- 
 ferent from that. If Providence holds us back, I 
 think we should obey Providence by submitting, 
 and not by actual disobedience. With you, Sir, 
 it seems to be a matter of dollars, but I have 
 been taught that dollars are not eo safe a stand- 
 ard for the regulation of duty &b principled 
 
 No arguments could change Mr. H.'s determi- 
 nation As a last effort the Captain came to him 
 privately, and said, " If you will stay on board, we 
 will tie up as long as we can and yet get the 
 boat to Cincinnati in time to take her place in 
 the line, and you shall have all tlie access you 
 wish to the hands, officers, and passengers." 
 
 " No, Captain, I can't do it ; besides, as you seem 
 so anxious to have preaching on board, you will 
 have one preacher with you at any rate. Em- 
 ploy him to-morrow." 
 
 " Employ him, the (u^ing a severe 
 
 epithet) to preach, when he, a preacher, acts and 
 talks as if he didn't know there is a Sunday ! 
 No, sir, he doesn't preach on my boat?" 
 
 The Captain now offered to refund Mr. H.'s pas- 
 sage monev, but he refused it with tlie remark, " 1 
 will not take it of you, lest, after this discussion, 
 you conclude tliat I am governed by dollars, and 
 not by principle." 
 
 He was landed at Ripley, and a gentlemanly 
 man, with whom he had formed no acquaintance, 
 butwlio had closely watched the Sabbath keeping 
 discussion, also landed at that town. He now 
 addressed Mr. Hunt, "Shall I order your baggage 
 to one of the best liotels in the place ? As you 
 are not acquainted here, with your permission I 
 will do it." 
 
 The gentleman then conducted him to a distant 
 
 part of the town, to an elegant mansion, which he 
 of couse concluded must be a private boarding 
 house, and was not undeceived until, after the 
 first service, he accompanied Mr. Rankin, the 
 Presbyterian minister, home, who asked him at 
 what hotel he stopped. Mr. H. told him, " he did 
 not know the name of it, but I believe the gentle- 
 man you saw me with keeps it !" 
 
 Mr. Rankin could not restrain his laughter at 
 this, as he saw the whole tiling. The gentleman 
 was one uf the wealthiest men in town, and had 
 taken Mr. Hunt to his own residence. 
 
 The ne.xt Saturday night found Mr. Hunt 
 landed on a miserable wharf-boat at Memphis, 
 but the Captain unsolicited had refunded a part 
 of his money. On Sabbath morning a gentleman 
 inquired at the wharf-boat "if there was not a 
 minister there ?" He was told " there was a man 
 there who kept himself close enough for a minis- 
 ter." 'ihis resulted in Mr. H.'s supplying the 
 pulpit of the Presbyterian minister, who was sick, 
 and a llber.il payment fur the services, which the 
 good people delicately called " money to pay his 
 passage." " So that," said Mr. Hunt, " I was paid 
 double passage money for keeping the Sabbath." 
 .'-'everal days of that week were spent in Vicks- 
 burgli, wliich town was thrown into the greatest 
 excitement, by the tremendous attacks made on 
 " the liquor sellers," by the most fearless cham- 
 pion of Temperance in Christendom. They 
 threatened to mob him ; but Mr. H. went straight 
 to their head-quarters, and, with a fearless front 
 and a merry laugh, told them, "you had better 
 think of mobbing me ! You have become noted 
 in Vicksburgh for hanging the gamblers, and if 
 you don't toe the track pretty straight, Til have 
 you all swung up 1" Tliere was so much genuine 
 wit in his words, and so much Virginia chivalry, 
 that he disarmed the most of them. Some few 
 retained their rage, but Mr. H. now had enough 
 defenders from personal violence. 
 
 .\s soon as Mr. H. had left Vicksburgh, the 
 drunken editor of one of their papers inserted an 
 affidavit, signed and sworn to by two men, de- 
 claring that they had heard him say, on board 
 the boat between Memphis and Vicksburgh, 
 " that his principal business at the south was to 
 stir up insurrections among the slaves. 
 
 On Saturday he reached Grand Gulph,by land, 
 and, according to his resolution, tarried over the 
 Sabbath, altliough several boats passed there that 
 night and on Sunday. Somewhat to his chagrin, 
 two or three days passed before a boat came 
 alontr bound f.ir New Orleans. It was during one 
 of theso days that he was down at the river, 
 when a fine, athletic man passed by, and Mr. H. 
 ! accosted him, " Is not your name A ?" " Ye£> 
 
24 
 
 AN HOUR WITH THOMAS P. HUNT. 
 
 sir, that is my name, why do you ask that ques- 
 tion ?" " Because you are the very image of my 
 
 old classmate A , and my dearest friend in 
 
 the Old Dominion." " What," said tlie young 
 man, striding up to him, "you are not Thomas P. 
 Hunt, my father's friend, are you ?" " Yes, I am 
 
 the friend of A , in Virginia." 
 
 " If you are," saitl A. witli an energy that 
 startled Mr. H., '• I will kill him." " Wliat do you 
 mean ?" "I mean if you are my father's friend, 
 I'll kill the scoundrel." It was sometime be- 
 fore Mr. H.'s new acquaiotance could calm him- 
 self sufficiently to tell him about tlie affidavit 
 which the Vicksburgh editor had published, and 
 which had led him not to inquire anytliing about 
 the stranger, whose name he had learned to be 
 Hunt. "Now that I tind you are my father's 
 friend Hunt," said A., " I know the scoundrel has 
 published a base fabrication, and I'll kill him 
 for it." 
 
 To every argument which Mr. H. could address 
 to him, recommending a mild course, A.'s only 
 answer was, " I'll kill the scoundrel for lying about 
 my father's friend." 
 
 In his turn, A. now advised Mr. Hunt not to 
 proceed to New Orleans, for said he, this scur- 
 rilous fabrication has gone before you, and for 
 you to go now is at the risk of Ife." To this Mr. 
 H. replied that he would risk it, and that he 
 would go at any rate. And so they parted, and 
 we shall presently hear of A. again. j 
 
 On reaching New Orleans, Mr. H. sent an ad- i 
 vertisemeut for a lecture on Teaiperance to the 
 "Picayune," and Mr. Kendall, the editor, sent a 
 messenger requesting Mr. Hunt wou!d come to 
 his office immediately. On reacliing the office, 
 Mr. Kendall called his attention to the Vicks- 
 burgh affidavit, and said, "Mr. Hunt, it will not 
 do for you to lecture in New Orleans, for it will 
 be attended with a riot." 
 
 "Well, let the riot come," was the reply. "I 
 am willing to risk it." 
 
 "But we can't publish your advertisement, Mr. 
 Hunt, when we know that with such a firebrand 
 as this affidavit, the rumsellers in New Orleans 
 can get up an excitement whicli must end in 
 blood." 
 
 "Mr. Kendall, I am willing to risk even that 
 affidavit, because it bears on its face its own 
 falsehood." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that," replied Kendall. 
 "Only just think what it states," said Mr. 
 Hunt, " that I said publicly on a Mississippi 
 steamboat, tliat my principal business at the south 
 was to stir up insurrections anjong the slaves ! 
 Who doesn't know, that if I had intimated such 
 a thing, even by the darkest hint, that I would 
 
 have been thrown over-board, by the slave owners 
 on that boat ?" 
 
 " I confess," said Kendall, "I now see it must 
 be a falsehood, and if we can make others think 
 
 so " 
 
 At this moment the junior editor, who had been 
 looking over some papers just brought in, burst 
 into a loud laugh, exclaiming, " You may publish 
 Mr. Hunt's advertisement safely now, for here is 
 a complete refutation of the affidavit." He then 
 read from one of the Vicksburgh papers, an 
 account, which stated that Mr. A. of Grand Gulph 
 j had written a most severe letter to the editor who 
 published the affidavit, applying to him the most 
 opprobrious epithets in the English language, 
 and telling the editor if he did not challenge him 
 to fight a duel, he would come up to Vicksburgh, 
 and publicly kick the life out of him as he would 
 a mad-dog. 
 
 The account proceeded to say that the editor 
 wrote to A. that he could not come down to 
 Grand Gulph, but if he (A.) would come up to 
 Vicksburgh, he would challenge him. A. hurried 
 up and the duel was arranged, but to the editor's 
 horror, (he was an old duelist, and a prime shot 
 with the pistol,) A. chose as the weapons, double- 
 barrelled guns loaded with slugs and buckshot. 
 The editor tried to back out, but A. told him, 
 " No, sir, we meet with these weapons. I am not 
 on equal terms with you with the pistol, but I 
 can use a double barrelled gun so well, that at 
 six paces I know I can kill you, no matter what 
 happens to me." 
 
 The bully's knees trembled, and he began to 
 beg ; but A, insisted more sharply than ever, 
 that he must fight or be kicked ignominiously, 
 or else confess, in the presence of witnesses, that 
 the affidavit was a sheer, malicious fabrication, 
 and then publish the confession in his own j^aper. 
 So completely had the bold A obtained the mas- 
 tery over him, that the man, who had killed 
 several in single combat, accepted the hard con- 
 dition, and actually complied with it. 
 
 It is needless to say that Mr. Kendall forthwith 
 inserted Mr. Hunt's advertisement, as well as the 
 
 account of A.'s 
 
 meetmg 
 
 with the Vicksbursh 
 
 libeller, and he lectured several times with great 
 popularity, and without opposition. 
 
 Said Mr. Hunt, "Had I taken the boat on 
 Saturday night or Sunday, nothing would have 
 soved me from a riot, in wliich I might have lost 
 my life. My staying in Grand Gulph over Sun- 
 day, and in consequence, being detained several 
 days after that, was just the means which Provi. 
 dence used in refuting, in so strange a way, the 
 falsehood which the liquor sellers had started 
 agaiast me." f^ 
 
AN HOUR WITU THOMAS T. HUKT, 
 
 25 
 
 There is another fine anecdote of this rensark- 
 able man, wliiuh I tliink has never been pub- 
 lished. It occurred some years since, whilst Mr. 
 Hunt was lecturing in Philadelphia. He spoke 
 in all parts of the city, in churches, halls, and at 
 every place of concourse where he coidd get an 
 opportunity. Crowds listened to him, and, as in 
 all cases of high excitement, two parties were 
 formed. One party sympathized with the bold 
 lecturer, on the real rights of women and chil- 
 dren, as affected by rum ; the other were of the 
 kind, who, feeling that their craft was in danger, 
 shouted long and loud, " Great is Diana of the 
 Ephesians !" At last the excitement attained such 
 a height, that a notice appeared in one of the 
 daily papers, calling " for a meeting of the friends 
 of equal rights, and the enemies of priestcraft, at 
 F 's Hotel." 
 
 Mr. Hunt went immediately to a man exten- 
 sively engaged in the liquor business, who, whilst 
 he was one of the warmest advocates of the equal 
 rights and anti-priestcraft meeting, was person- 
 ally unacquainted with the very man whose 
 Bcorching words had raised the storm, and whom 
 they intended to put down by the meeting. 
 
 "I have called on you this morning, sir," said 
 Mr. H. to the rumseller, " to ask you if this call 
 for a meeting of the friends of equal rights, and 
 the enemies of priestcraft, is given in good faith ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, of course it is in good faith," was the 
 answer. 
 
 "Then I will attend the meeting, for I do not 
 wish to be outdone by any friend of equal rights, 
 or any enemy of priestcraft. I am both, and I 
 will thank you to say to the originators of the 
 meeting that I will be there, ily name is Thomas 
 P. Hunt. Good morning, sir." 
 
 TTithout farther ceremony he walked off, leav- 
 ing the poor man in a sad state of anger and 
 trepidation. The imwelcome news was circu- 
 lated through the circles most interested, and 
 produced vioh nt explosions of anger. Some of 
 them said if "the old hunchback" came they 
 would kill him, or they would tar and feather 
 him, or they would have vengeance on him in 
 some way. They managed to get these threats 
 to Mr. H.'s ear, in order to intinndate him, but 
 he only laughed at their threats, and said ho 
 would go to the meeting at all hazards. 
 
 At the hour of meeting he stood on the thres- 
 hold of F.'s Hotel, and was met by Mrs. F., who 
 entreated him not to go in, for he would be 
 killed. Then the landlord himself came out, and 
 begged him to desist from going in, " because,'' 
 said he, " the men are in a rage, and some act of 
 violence will be committed, whicl^ill not only 
 
 injure you, but me also, because done in my 
 house." 
 
 "I shall go in, sir," was all the reply he could 
 get, and go in he did. Mr. H. says the manifes- 
 tations of rage which met him when he appeared 
 e.xceeded anything he ever heard or saw. With- 
 out noticing it, he took his seat in the modera- 
 tor's chair. To carry out the arrangement he 
 hired one of the best stenographers in the city to 
 be present, giving him some instructions how to 
 demean himself In a few minutes an old gray- 
 headed-rumseller was called to the cliair, and a 
 resolution passed, "that all persons not friendly 
 to the objects of the meeting leave the room." 
 
 On the strength of this several jiersons were 
 turned out without ceremony, and they attempted 
 the same thing with Mr. H.; but he said, " Xo, 
 gentlemen, I will not leave the room. I have a 
 right here. You have called a meeting of the 
 friends of equal rights, and the enemies of jtriest- 
 craft. There is no greater friend of equal rights, 
 and no greater enemy of priestcraft in this city 
 than I am. Besides, one of your princijial men 
 assured rae this morning that this cull was made 
 in good faith. I am here by my own right, and 
 will not leave the room unless you carry me out 
 dead." There are but few more resolute men 
 than the man who made that reply. 
 
 The whole assembly was in an uproar, and 
 voUies of oaths and threats were fired at the 
 diminutive man who had dared to brave the 
 lion in his den. To all this Mr. II. said, " You 
 talk of violence ; if you should lay your finger on 
 me, I will have your rum -holes torn down over 
 your heads !" 
 
 "How would you do that, old man?" scorn- 
 fully asked a man who figured ^prominently in 
 the scene. 
 
 "How? If I coidd not get any other help' 
 the fish-women would do it at a sign from me. 
 The people, especially the poor people of I'liila- 
 delphia, are beginning to conclude that some 
 gentlemen of your cloth are ripe for a taste of 
 hemp, and if you do not carry yourselves erect, 
 you will get it ?"' 
 
 Tiie long and short of it is, that he braved 
 them out, and completely cowed them, and then 
 arose to make a motion to the effect, "That as this 
 is a meeting of the friends of equal rights, and 
 the enemies of priestcraft, we do challenge the 
 friends of Temperance to meet us in the Chinese 
 Buildings, publicly to discuss the relative bear- 
 ings of Temperance and liquor-selling, on equal 
 rights and trvie religion!" 
 
 " And for my part," said the mover, " I will 
 pledge the Temperance community to meet you 
 
26 
 
 THE OLD SCOTCH COUPLE. 
 
 "^vlien, and where you will, and to discuss this 
 subject as long as you will. The Temperance 
 coninnuiity will pay half of all expenses; or, if 
 this meeting will only pass this motion, I will 
 engage that you need not pay a cent of the ex- 
 penses !" 
 
 He tlien occupied the floor some three quarters 
 of an hour, in a speech replete with wit, and 
 sarcasm, and invective ; and, in spite of occasional 
 
 interruptions, compelled his unwilling auditory 
 to hear him through. 
 
 The stenographer, by some adriot move, saved 
 himself from being turned out, and the next 
 morning the meeting was reported at length in 
 the papers, to the no small merriment of thou- 
 sands, and the concealed chagrin of those who 
 had been so completely beaten with their own 
 weapons, and on their own ground. 
 
 THE OLD SCOTCH COUPLE. 
 
 BY R D T H B 
 
 It was for many years my duty and privilege 
 to make one of a nimiber of individuals who 
 visited monthly throTigh our little village, leaving 
 at each house one of those little messages of truth, 
 a tract. Amid the many discouragements and 
 trials attending this humble labor, there wei-e 
 still some things cheering and encouraging to the 
 heart. While to some our visits were matters of 
 perfect indifference, and to others an unwelcome 
 interruption, there were some few places where 
 our entrance was hailed with delight. The dim 
 eye brightened, and the feeble arm was stretched 
 out to welcome us, and we went forth from those 
 houses encoui-aged and strengthened for the work 
 before us. 
 
 That part of the vijlage which formed my 
 " district " was a street of straggling houses, each 
 with its little court-yard and flower garden ; 
 these were not the dwellings of the very poor, 
 but of those just above that class, those who 
 were too proud to subsist on charity, and just 
 managed to live by the labor of their own hands. 
 As I walked through this little by-street last 
 summei', and noticed the pretty flowers, and the 
 climbing vines by each cottage door, I thought to 
 myself, how contagious and how elevating is the 
 love of the cultivation of flowers. I remember 
 when I was a child being sent of an errand 
 thi-ough this vei'y street; and as I picked my 
 way along through the mud, I saw no beautiful 
 flowers and pretty court-yards, with their fresh 
 green grass; no vigorous shrubbery or luxuriant 
 climbers. What had brought about the change ? 
 
 Wliy, a few years ago one of the cottages was 
 purchased by a stranger; he was a mason by trade, 
 a poor man, no better off than his neighbors ; 
 
 but he did not think that for that reason he need 
 forever live in the midst of mud and filth, and 
 have no bright beautiful things about him. K"o ; 
 John Wilkes believed in making the most of the 
 good things which even he in his poverty might 
 enjoy. And soon the old cottage appeared in anew 
 white dress, and looked so pretty with its neat cali- 
 co window curtains, that the people about thought 
 the Wilkes's must be getting proud, and begin- 
 ning to feel better than their neighbors. And 
 in the spring, when they saw the grass springing 
 up, and the pretty borders, in John Wilkes' gar- 
 den, and the bright crocuses and daisies showing 
 their heads, they were sure he was proud, and 
 felt better than his neighbors. Not a bit of it ; 
 as they found out when walking by his garden, 
 (they were not obliged to pick their way in front 
 of John Wilkes's cottage, for he had laid boards 
 along and made a dry clean walk,) they stopped 
 to chat with Mary Wilkes, over the fence. 
 
 " Well, Miss Wilkes, what beautiful posies you 
 
 have got, to be sure : for my part, I can't see 
 
 how you 've growed 'em so quick. Jest look at 
 
 my mud-hole, I know I couldn't make such po- 
 
 _ sies grow there, if I tried all ray life." 
 
 " O yes, indeed, you could, Mrs. Moss, if you 
 tried only one season. Wliy, don't you remem- 
 ber .what kind of a place this was last spring, 
 when we took it?" 
 
 " Yes, yes, I do, and how you 've done it all ; 
 and you 've five children, and you take in tailor- 
 in'. Well, things will always grow for some 
 folks !" 
 
 " And things will always grow for other folks, 
 Mrs. Moss. Now, just ask your man to put an 
 hour's work on your yard every morning, before 
 
THE OLD SCOTCH COUPLE. 
 
 21 
 
 it i3 time to go to his work, as my man does : and 
 then you rise yourself an hour earlier, and spend 
 that hour iti your garden, and T will give you all 
 the flower seeds you will plant, and see what a 
 different place youi-s will be next year." 
 
 "I'll do it, Miss Wilkes." And as it was with Mrs. 
 Moss, so it was with all, or nearly all her neigh- 
 bors. And as their places improved year by year, 
 just so they grew in self-respect, and real eleva- 
 tion of character ; as they themselves expressed 
 it, " they felt more like folks." And as the ex- 
 ternal appearance of their little places improved, 
 so did the interior of their cottages improve in 
 neatness and order ; and their children look nicer, 
 and are taught to behave as it becomes the chil- 
 dren to behave who live in ivhite-waKhed cottages, 
 with Jloioers before the door. Ah, Clay street, 
 (it was not named after Henry Clay, dear reader, 
 but took its name from its own clay soil,) Clay 
 street is a different place from what it was when 
 I was a child. 
 
 But I did not sit down to tell you about Mary 
 "Wilkes or Mrs. Moss, though they are both very 
 good friends of mine, but to conduct you, if you 
 will go with me, dear reader, to a small and hum- 
 ble dwelling, standing beyond and apart from 
 the rest, on the side of a hill, at whose foot runs 
 a clear little stream. We will cross this little 
 foot-bridge, enter the gate, and pass through this 
 row of shrubbery up to the door of the cottage. 
 Part of this cottage was occupied by an old 
 Scotch couple, and I have never entered their 
 door that the words of the sweet old Scotch 
 song, "John Anderson, my Jo John," did not 
 come to my mind. They were, indeed, going 
 hand in hand down the hill of life, after wand- 
 ering over its thorny and rugged paths for 
 many weary years. But though the way had 
 been rougli, and the Lord had led them by "a 
 way which they knew not," yet these dear old 
 people, so near the grave, loved to sing of his 
 loving kindness and tender mercy. 
 
 But let us open the door, and enter the cottage. 
 How neat and cheerful it looks ; the clean and 
 nicely sanded floor, the cheerful blaze, the little 
 strip of rag-carpet by the side of the fire, wliere 
 the old people always sit^ the little stand, with 
 the large old family Bible on it^ and lastly, but 
 most important of all, the dear old people them- 
 selves, always in their places, side by side ; old 
 Janet, with her knitting, and her husband read- 
 ing to her from the Bible, or some other good 
 book. They had always belonged to the same 
 humble rank of life in which I found them, and 
 yet the old gentleman's cheerful, hospitable, court- 
 ly welcome, as he rises and extends both hands 
 to greet us, would grace a much nobler dwelling. 
 
 There was none of that feeling of pride about 
 these people which I so often met with in their 
 neighbors, and which led them to think that I 
 considered it a great condescension to visit them, 
 and a matter of charity to leave them the tract. 
 There was no resenting of any offers of aid, in 
 the way of little comforts or delicacies in time of 
 sickness, with the words I so often heard, " You 
 may send it round if you choose, but I guess we 
 could aff"ord to get it ourselves." No, these dear 
 old people were cordial, kind, and frank, ready 
 to receive a favor in the spirit in which it was 
 offered, and more ready to offer kindness, when 
 in their power to do so, than to receive it. 
 
 Many an hour of pleasant intercourse have I en- 
 joyed with these charming old people, and I always 
 felt that "it was good to be there." Thanks for 
 mercies past were ever on their lips, and cheerful 
 hope for the future beamed from their wrinkled 
 faces. And though their sailor son was lost be- 
 neath the wave, and their only daughter, their 
 darling Jessie, had died in the first year of her 
 marriage, and, with her " baby on her breast," 
 had been laid in the cold ground; aye, and 
 though their oldest son, their hope and pride, and 
 he whom they fondly trusted would be the stay 
 and support of their old age, and close tlieir eyeS 
 in death, had disappointed their fond hopes, and 
 thou"'h living was worse than dead to them, these 
 aged servants of God would still say, from their 
 hearts, "The Lord is just and right," "He doeth 
 all things well." 
 
 The love of these dear old people for each 
 other was truly beautiful to see ; one of them 
 was never seen without the other; they sat to- 
 gether in the house, and thougli they did not 
 often walk together by the way, yet they very 
 rarely failed to go to the house of God in compa- 
 ny; the old man supporting his tottering footsteps 
 with his cane, and his old wife loaning on his 
 arm. I often looked at them at such times with 
 a feeling of sadness, thinking of the utter deso- 
 lation of the solitary mourner, when "one should 
 be taken and the other left." 
 
 And my fears were soon realized. I was sit- 
 tino' reading one summer Sunday afternoon, tlic 
 services of the day being over, when a little girl 
 rang at the door, and wanted to know if the 
 lady would ple:ise come down an<l see old Mrs. 
 Angus, for they thought she was dying. Much 
 shocked, I hastily prepared to accompany the 
 little messenger, questioning her on the way as 
 to the cause of the old lady's illness. All I could 
 learn was, that she had been taken ill in the 
 nifht, had been growing worse all day, and the 
 doctor, who had just been there, said that she 
 could not live more than an hour or two. 
 
28 
 
 THE OLD SCOTCH COUPLE. 
 
 As I approached the house, I found, as I had 
 expected, that it was filled with people. Among 
 those of a higher rank, the room of the sick and 
 dying is a sacred place. A few chosen friends 
 are admitted, one by one, and that as a very great 
 favor. But among those in the humbler ranks of 
 society, in villages like ours, it is a matter o' 
 course, that where there is extreme illness, and 
 especially when the hour of death draws near, 
 all the friends and neighbors, and often those 
 who belong to neither of these classes, throng to 
 the house, and crowd the room of the sufferer, 
 sometimes almost to suffocation. Particularly is 
 this the case on Sunday, when these people have 
 nothing else to do. 
 
 Seeing the sitting-room quite full, and per- 
 ceiving that the bed-room where the old lady 
 was lying was still more so, I drew back hesi- 
 tating about entering ; but one of the women see- 
 me, came out and said, " Oh, do go in ma'am, 
 she has been wishing so that you would come." 
 As I went in, I said something aboiit the suffo- 
 cating atmosphere of the room, and asked whether 
 it would not be better if those of the friends who 
 would be of no use should retire ; but no one 
 seemed inelined to move. 
 
 The poor old man sat by the bed side, his hand 
 clasped in that of his dying wife, and his head 
 leaning upon it. I missed his hospitable wel- 
 come, for he did not raise his head on my ap- 
 proach. Grief had mastered every other feeling. 
 But the old lady turned towards me, and such a 
 smile of heavenly peace beamed from her lovely 
 countenance as I had never before seen, and 
 never since but once. She pressed my hand, but 
 said nothing at first. Some of her neighbors and 
 friends sat around the bed, and with a freedom 
 repulsive to more refined natures, remarked upon 
 the approaching end of her who was dying. 
 " Another saint almost got home!" sighed one. 
 "A mother in Israel is falling!" groaned another. 
 The old lady echoed the words, " almost home," 
 and then turning towards the old man she said, 
 in a low and feeble voice, " Canna ye yet say, 
 the will o' the Lord be done, Andrew?" "I'm 
 tryin' to, Janet ; I'm tru'm' to, dear old wife ; but 
 what sail I do wi'out ye ?" 
 
 " Put your trust in the Lord, Andrew, and He 
 will sustain ye." 
 
 After lying silent for a short time she suddenly 
 said, " Raise me up, friends, raise me up, and let 
 me look upon the setting sun and the green 
 earth for the last time." The burying-ground 
 on the hill side was in sight of her window. We 
 raised her \\\\ and long and earnestly she gazed, 
 and then she said, — 
 
 " Raise your head, Andrew ; raise your heaJ, 
 
 old husband ; see how the sun streams across the 
 very spot where this poor body will lie. You 
 can look upon it from this very window." 
 " I shall na' look upon it long, Janet." 
 " No, Andrew, it will na' be long before we lie 
 side by side ; it will na' be long before we shall 
 meet in our Father's home. Dry your tears, then, 
 Andrew, and fix the eye of faith upon that 
 heavenly home, where I shall really be ; and, 
 friends, I charge you all to meet me there." 
 
 As I was talking in a low voice with old Janet, 
 and repeating in her ear some precious promises 
 calculated to sustain the dying saint, one of her 
 Methodist friends suddenly struck up a hymn, in 
 which several voices immediately joined. Their 
 voices blended sweetly ; and altogether, under the 
 circumstances, the impression was affecting and 
 solemn, as they all joined in the chorus, " Going 
 home to glory !" In the midst of the singing, the 
 old lady fell into what appeared to be a gentle 
 sleep, and feeling that I could be of no further 
 use, I kissed her forehead and slipped quietly from 
 the house. At the door I was stopped by the 
 woman of the house, who had her apron at her 
 eyes. " Oh dear, ma'am," said she, " to think 
 that I shall never again hear their dear old voices, 
 as they sang their morning and evening hymn, 
 when they prayed and read the Bible together." 
 
 Tiie next morning I heard that old Janet had 
 never wakened from the apparent slumber into 
 which she had fallen while I was there. Her spirit 
 had most probably " gone home to glory," even 
 while those about her were singing the words. 
 
 I did not go to the house of old Andrew again 
 till I went to the funeral. Being early, I was 
 standing gazing upon the coffined form of my old 
 friend, when I heard a step, and looking round, 
 I found the old man standing beside me. He 
 seemed unconscious of my presence, but stood 
 with his eyes riveted on the face of his dead 
 wife. Soon the big drops began to roll down his 
 cheeks and fiiU on the sanded floor ; then he 
 leaned over her, and parting her gray hair on her 
 forehead, and smoothing it with his hand, he said^ 
 over and over again, in a tone of inexpressible 
 tenderness, "Dear Janet; sweet auld wife; dear, 
 dear Janet I" 
 
 I saw the old man again, his white locks flow- 
 ing about in the wind, leaning on the arm of a 
 middle aged man, whom I had never before seen. 
 It was the procUyal son returned to his father's 
 house, repentant and reformed, only to help lay 
 the ashes of liis mother in the dust. He bad re- 
 turned a reformed man, and with the means to 
 make his parents comfortable : to settle down 
 with them, and to atone to them as far as he could 
 do Lo for the years of gi'ief he had caused them. 
 

 *-^fe./^ 
 
THE OUTLET OF LAKE GEORGE;. 
 
 SEE PLATE. 
 
 The artist's choice is admirable ! Could any 
 man, however deeply his soul might be imbued 
 ■with taste and love for the poetry of nature, 
 make a better selection from among all the lovely 
 spots the beautiful earth affords? Let him 
 take the romantic purlieus of Switzerland — let 
 him sail over the Loire, (as superb a stream as 
 any in the world excepting our own Hudson,) — 
 let him journey over both Hemispheres, and he 
 will not find a spot better calcidated to make a 
 picture. It is romance itself — the very essence of 
 natural beauty — the concentration of the creed 
 and liturgy of natm-e's God. Any one, with a 
 soul above the merely-mechanical attributes of 
 social life, could become cither a poet or a painter 
 by residing upon such a spot as this. If not, 
 there is no inspiration in landscape. 
 
 Lake George lies a little south and west of Lake 
 Champlain, its outlet being about four miles from 
 the head of its larger companion. It was dis- 
 covered in July, 1669, (nearly two centuries ago,) 
 by Samuel D. Champlain, about eleven years be- 
 fore the sturdy and conscience-strengthened Puri- 
 tans placed their toil-worn feet from the May- 
 flower upon the rock at Plymouth. The discover- 
 er named it Lake St. Sacrament or Holy Lake, 
 because of the purity of its waters and the appa- 
 rently mysterious character of its origin. It has 
 no inlets, its sources being entirely «7s own springs. 
 It is famous for having been the scene of the first 
 battle ever fouglit upon this continent with the 
 aid of gunpowder. This was fought (exactly 
 where our plate was drawn) by Mr. Champlain, 
 the discoverer, against the Indians, on the 29th 
 of July, in the year 1669. In this battle he 
 killed, with his own blunderbuss, three Iroquois 
 chiefs. The contest was disputed by whites, im- 
 der the command of Champlain, and by the Al- 
 gonquin tribe of red men, led and directed by 
 the Iroquois. 
 
 Lake George is, or ought to be, noted for being 
 the spot in the immeliate vicinity of which Abcr- 
 crombie fought his memorable battle against the 
 French in 1758 — pursuing the fight from the mar- 
 gin of the outlet to Fort Ticondcroga, where the 
 
 outlet enters Lake Champlain. Abercrombie, as 
 is well known to the student of domestic history^ 
 attacked the fort, and did not rclire from pursu- 
 ing his assaults thereupon until compelled by the 
 loss of twenty hundred men. 
 
 At its head is, at the present time, the town of 
 Caldwell, where is situated " The Lake House,'' 
 the most superior hotel situated at the most fash- 
 ionable and most delicious watering place in the 
 United States. The " Lake House" is kept by 
 Hon. J. F. Sherrill ; it was of late enlarged and 
 improved to meet the increasing visitations of 
 the public, and is now a summer resort that has 
 no equal in this country. It commands a splen- 
 did view of the point where x\.bercrombie em- 
 barked 16,000 men, (July 4, 1*758,) — of French 
 Mountain, and of the relics of Fort William Hen- 
 ry and Fort George. 
 
 It will be recollected that the first-mentioned 
 of these forts is endowed witli a melancholy in- 
 terest, as having formed the scene of the never- 
 forgotten surrender and shocking butchery of 
 the English by the French and Indians under the 
 infamous General Montcalm, in 1717 — an event 
 vividly and ably commemorated in Cooper's "Last 
 of the Mohicans." 
 
 These are not the only thrilling associations, 
 either of the past or the j)rescnt time, belonging 
 to this place. To learn and enjoy them the rea- 
 der must visit Lake George ; and if he does not 
 pronounce it one of the sublimest spots upon the 
 globe's surface, and commend us for our taste in 
 selecting it for the subject of our illustralion, we 
 will frankly confess that cither he or ourself is — 
 egregiously mistaken. 
 
 Of Lake George we can properly say, supposing 
 that to be nature in its most attractive form. 
 
 >^To him who in tlie love of nalnre holds 
 
 romninnion with her visihie forin?, she speaks 
 A v.irious lan;;ii:)!;c : for hi^ gayer hours 
 She has a voioe of glailne^?, ami a smile 
 And elnijiience of heanty, and fhe slidfS 
 Into his darker nnusin?<i, willi a mild 
 Anil healing sym|iathy, thatsteals away 
 Their «har|>ne«s ere he is aware." — Bryant. 
 
PKOFESSOR SAMUEL F. B. MORSE. 
 
 INVENTOR OF THE TELEGRAPH — WITH A PORTRAIT. 
 
 Morse'3 M.ognetic Telegraph far outstrips rail- 
 roads, steamboats, and all those other modern in- 
 ventions and improvements which are so rapidly 
 and effectually revolutionizing business, society, 
 and the entire order of the things that were. Its 
 advantages to business men are incalculable. A 
 Baltimore or Buffalo merchant, or any large 
 operator, has an application for $10,000 worth 
 of goods, which he has on hand, excepting one 
 quality or variety of one kind, the want of which 
 Avill prevent the sale. At four o'clock he des- 
 patches a telegraphic order to New York for the 
 wanted items, and in an hour they are on their 
 
 -n-ay of which he is informed in fifteen minutes 
 
 and they are in Baltimore the next morning; 
 
 whereas it would have taken three or four days 
 to have obtained them by letter, which is longer 
 than his customer can wait. Nor can he know 
 whether the New York merchant can or has sup- 
 plied him till return of mail, perhaps ten times 
 as many hours as it is minutes by telegraph. It 
 will probably completely revolutionize existing 
 modes of doing business; for when telegraphic 
 lines become extended, and its transmitting pow- 
 ers vastly improved, as they doubtless will be, 
 Western, Southern, Northern— all business men, 
 instead of leaving their business and going to dis- 
 tant cities, will order by telegraph what, and as, 
 they want. 
 
 Or a person dies, some of whose very near 
 friends live at a distance. A letter will not 
 reach them in season for them to arrive before 
 dect)n4)03ition compels the burial, and even then 
 it may lay in the post-office for days, whereas the 
 teleo-raph will enable those many hundi-eds of 
 miles off to be present; and thus of innumerable 
 cases like these. Its prospective advantages, and 
 the number of useful ends wliich it will yet be 
 made to subserve, exceed all computation. 
 
 But it is in the world of mind proper that it 
 is destined to effect by far the greatest revolution, 
 arid achieve its highest good : coupled with pho- 
 nography, it will place any important speech, 
 delivered in any part of our vast nation, in 
 tlie hands of the entire country while it 
 is being delivered. Thn^ phonogi-aphy now re. 
 
 ports a speech verbatim, and, by having several 
 sets of wires — especially after the telegraph has 
 been still furtlier improved* — it can be trans- 
 mitted in takes, as the printers parcel off matter 
 wanted immediately, and sent throughout the 
 land, there to be set up, and the first part prin- 
 ted and circulated before the last part is delivered ! 
 As, when Fulton first navigated the Hudson by 
 steam, none conceived it possible that this new 
 motive power, great as it was considered, could 
 ever be made to accomplish a thousandth part of 
 what it has already done — and it is yet in its 
 merest infancy — so we can form no conception 
 of the wonders the telegraph is destined, in the 
 lapse of ages, to accomplish. See what it has al- 
 ready done in connection with the press. See 
 how many new papers it has given birth to all 
 along its lines, every one of which go forth to 
 rouse and develop mind. In short, it has liter- 
 ally electrified the civilized world. And if it 
 achieves all tliis in the green tree, what will it 
 do in tlie dry ? Time alone can answer. 
 
 The claim of Prof. Morse to the real original 
 invention of the magnetic Telegraph has been 
 disputed, but never disproved. But whether the 
 abstract conception of the idea is first due to 
 him or not, it is evident that the practical reali- 
 zation of it in the form which now so wonderful- 
 ly subserves the convenience and interest of men, 
 is tlie result of liis genius and perseverance. His 
 machine was the fii'st one used in this country, 
 and beyond all question, it was due to his energy 
 that the experimental lines were erected, whose 
 sticcess led to the adoption of all others. Prof. 
 Morse is distinguished not only for his inventive 
 skill, but for many other traits of genius, eitherof 
 which alone would make him distinguished. An 
 artist of high powers and attainments, his repu- 
 tation is scarcely second to that of any American. 
 He, is also, a scholar, a gentleman, and a Christian, 
 adorning the reputation of his genius by many of 
 the most agreeable and useful characteristics of 
 private life. 
 
 * One of its recent improvements uses letters, as in prin- 
 ting, and otiiers will be aiUed s^ time rolls on. 
 
PROF. SAMUEL F. B. MORSE, 
 Inventor of the Magnetic Telagraph. 
 
Cniiu \)tn, nunc Ijrre niiii huiclL 
 
 SONG OF WOOD NYMPHS. 
 
 POETRY BV BARRY CORNWALL. 
 Allegretto Q,ua8l Andaute. 
 
 MUSIC BY O. H. CURTIS. 
 
 
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A FUNERAL IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 BY REV. 
 
 J . 
 
 BLAKE, 
 
 D , D. 
 
 The extinctioQ of human life causes a kind of 
 paralysis in all within a sphere to be affected by 
 it ; and a funeral, especially in the country, is 
 more powerful in calling forth human sympathy 
 than any other event. This is natural ; we might 
 expect it ; and it is confirmed by experience and 
 observation. How could it be otherwise ! For 
 the strong love of life with which man is endow- 
 ed ; the tender affection that binds him to his 
 kindred, and to objects around him ; the agency 
 that he may have had in the business of society ; 
 and, especially, the changes in his own family, in 
 the body politic, and in the sphere of the produc- 
 tive elements of the community, render his de- 
 mise, particularly if he has been distinguished in 
 his generation, an occurrence of overpowering 
 influence. For a season, at least, there will be a 
 general and a solemn pause, both in labor and 
 pleasure ; for a season, at least, the deep foun- 
 tains of the soul will be completely broken up ; 
 and for a season, the machineiy, mental and 
 physical, of which he was a part, seems to stop 
 its revolutions, if not to roll its ponderous wheels 
 backward. This is a component of the philosophy 
 into which everything spiritual,or physical, of the 
 great kingdoms of the world, is resolved. It is 
 not strange, therefore, that from the time of the 
 first recorded annals of human mortality, funeral 
 solemnities should liave been characterized by de- 
 monstrations of individual and public grief. A 
 full liistory of such solemnities would form a de- 
 partment in our literature of the most absorbing 
 interest. 
 
 "With funeral solemnities in our own families 
 we are all familiar. And wlio has not witness- 
 ed them, surrounded by conventional pomp and 
 magnificence, in the high places of our own be- 
 loved realm ? Who has not read of them in other 
 realms — in ancient as well as in modern times ? 
 The noble obsequies of llarcellus by a patriotic 
 people, have been a theme, in all succeeding ages, 
 of admiration and eulogy. But even these do not 
 compare with those of the venerable founder of 
 the Jewi-^h nation, the splendor of which is with- 
 out a parallel in history. His remains were fol- 
 
 ' lowed to the place of their interment, nearly two 
 hundred miles in a distant country, not only by 
 his son Joseph and his brethren and all his father's 
 household, but by all the servants of Pharoah ; 
 the elders of his house and all the elders of 
 Egypt conducting the most solemn lamentations, 
 being an itinerant national multitude, resembling 
 in its progress a mighty river or flood. If to this 
 any counterpart can be found, it is in those na- 
 tional demonstrations of honor and homage which 
 have been shown to some of the venerated fathers 
 of our own republic, when their remains have 
 been followed from city to city, and state to state, 
 by the most illustrious of their compeers and by 
 crowds of deeply-stricken citizen?. And what 
 pomp and splendor were exhibited when the re- 
 mains of a renowned Gallic chieftain were 
 brought from the sea girt isle, where for years 
 they had slumbered, to be deposited in the land 
 he once called his own ! 
 
 And in less imposing exhibitions of the kind, 
 there has often been witnessed a solemnity and 
 a moral sublimity found under no other circum- 
 stances. That heart must indeed be hard as 
 marble, and those affections cold as polar ice, 
 which receive no impression and evince no emo- 
 tion, when, amidst the darknessof night and the 
 liowlings of the ocean, the culd and lifeless body of 
 the mariner, or of the female hectic on a voyage 
 for health, is, in the language of the Church 
 Burial Service, committed to the deep. Not less 
 impressive is the burial, by torch light, of the 
 slain of an army under a flag of truce or voluntary 
 suspension of dire conflict: the dealh-hke silence 
 being interrupted only by the clear vcicc of the 
 chaplain, the funeral dirge of tlie band, or the 
 
 well-timed minute discharge of tlie can:ion. 
 
 That 
 
 of the British General Fraser, as described by 
 Madame Riedesel, prior to tlie surrender of Bur- 
 goyne, is full of thrilling inttrest. 
 
 Our present purpose, however, is to depict the 
 mute eloquence of funeral solemnities in rural 
 life, where there is no pomp — no extraneous cir- 
 cumstances to impress the mind. The first funeral 
 ■we ever attended, was when at the age of eight 
 
84 
 
 A FUNERAL IN THE COUNTRY, 
 
 years; ainl the whole scene and the impressions 
 we received, are as fresh and vivid, as though it 
 ■were yesterday, though more than half a century 
 since. It was of a lady a little past the me- 
 ridian of life, and belonging to the best class of 
 society in a new country with a sparse popula- 
 tion. Our own home was three miles distant ; 
 but that was no obstacle to a pedestrian atten- 
 dance. Seemingly, the members of every family 
 in the town, young and old, male and female, 
 were there. It was in the busy season of May, 
 but the farmers had all left their work. All 
 joined to mingle their sympathies with those of 
 the afflicted, and to share in the moral instruction 
 furnished by the event. Such was the respect 
 then paid in a new settlement to a deceased fel- 
 low mortal, although to most present she had 
 been personally but little known ; and such was 
 the readiness of all to receive the instruction fur- 
 nished in a scene there so unusual. Such an 
 awakened sensibility to the grief of others, and 
 to the admonitions of religion to be themselves 
 also ready, presents a feature in society, if old 
 fashioned, truly lovely. It gives character to 
 those who possess it, infinitely better than all the 
 affected indifference and levity in relation to such 
 subjects, now-a-days of no rare occurrence. Now, 
 with one sex, it is too often looked upon as un- 
 manly at least, to give such heed to these ad- 
 monitions of Providence , and, even in the other 
 sex, it too often appears that there is more regard 
 to the popular conventional exhibitions of what 
 is practiced in fashionable life, than to the indul" 
 gence of genuine grief, or the religious culture of 
 their own hearts. 
 
 The population of the whole town, as it were 
 we have already remarked, was there ; not only 
 filling the entire house, Avhich was large, but 
 more were collected about the house, than were 
 in it. The lower parts of the windows were all 
 blocked up by human forms — so were the door- 
 ways and the avenues to them. A profound 
 silence pervaded the whole mass. Not a whisper 
 was heard. Every look was downcast, and the 
 pulsations of every bosom denoted sorrow. The 
 funeral services consisted of prayers, a sermon, 
 and singing Dr. Watt's hymn — " Hark from the 
 tomb, a doleful sound !" producing in us a thrill- 
 ing awe that will never be forgotten, and from 
 the appearance of the crowd each one felt himself 
 a brother or of kindred consanguinity. 
 
 To this succeeded the removal of the corpse, on 
 the shoulders of the pall-bearers, to the grave, 
 some distance off, in a corner of the orchard. First 
 followed the afflicted husband, a portly, gentle- 
 manly-looking farmer, pensive and sad, but with- 
 
 out visible emotion — probably the more oppress- 
 ed, because his sorrow had no vent in tears. Next 
 to hira, in the train, were the two oldest children, 
 a son and a daughter, advanced nearly to adult 
 stature ; then a still younger sister, leading by 
 the hand, a little brother of our own age — say 
 eight years. The more distant relatives and the 
 attendants upon the occasion voluntarily joined 
 in a dense and long procession. With what sad- 
 ness it moved forward ! So absorbed were all in 
 deep thought, that nature seemed as if hushed 
 to unwonted stillness and responsive emotion ; 
 and it required little effort of the imagination to 
 see the heavens spreading over the whole group 
 a mantle befitting the occasion. It was a clear 
 bright day with spring's genial influences, so that 
 within and without all was harmony. 
 
 At length the grave was reached, and the cofiin 
 was lowered into it ! To us, the scene being an 
 entirely new one, as well as to the stricken 
 family, this was seemingly more than could be 
 sustained. The little fellow named sobbed aloud, 
 trembled like an aspen leaf, and apparently, had 
 it not been for his sister, who held him by the 
 hand, would have fallen or leaped into the grave 
 upon his pulseless mother ! VVe wept too, and 
 almost lost the locomotive power to withdraw 
 from the spot and return to our own home. Such 
 was the impression on us that we ever afterwards 
 cherished for this boy a warm affection. The 
 affection became reciprocal, and then led to 
 personal friendship and great intimacy that con- 
 tinued fifty-two or fifty-three years, when he fol- 
 lowed his mother to the bourne whence no one 
 returns. Were we near his final resting place, 
 we should not fail to make a pilgrimage to it, 
 both to indulge in those natural impulses which 
 bind kindred hearts in one bond of affectionate 
 union, and to revive and invigorate those moral 
 impressions received by us on the occasion des- 
 cribed. This narrative of the incident here given 
 has no connection with our main design. It is 
 given simply to corroborate by our own expe- 
 rience the influence of a funeral in the country. 
 We believe that incident did materially and per- 
 manently change the tone of our social charac- 
 ter. 
 
 Our intended memoir is yet to be rehearsed. 
 The prominent facts are not unlike those in hun- 
 dreds of country funerals, denotir>g the respect 
 that is manifested in a rural population for the 
 memory of a deceased member of it, as well as 
 friendship for surviving relatives. Among all 
 the endearing amiabilities of which we are capa- 
 ble, we know of no one besides so precious. The 
 idea of seeing a whole community make a delib 
 
A FUNERAL IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 60 
 
 erate pause when one of their number becomes 
 sick or dies — or suspend their own labors or plea- 
 sures in order to administer to the needy or af- 
 flicted, shows that our common brotherhood is 
 duly recognized by them ; and that there is, in 
 man, a spirit of conimuuion and fellowship, as 
 if we were all the children of the same heavenly 
 Father. Even the tolling of the church bells, at 
 a country funeral, makes an impression on a pass- 
 ing traveler, or the people generally, of more 
 deep seriousness than an ordinary dissertation or 
 sermon on human mortality. 
 
 Sometime about the middle of October, 1839, 
 ■we had occasion to make a journey through one 
 of the best agricultural districts in New Eng- 
 land, and to stop a few days at a place, for con- 
 venience, we shall call Beemantown. "We ar- 
 rived at the neat village hoteljust as the harvest 
 moon was presenting to view her full-orbed disc, 
 in its wonted beauty at that season of the year. 
 The surrounding country denoted a tinift and 
 good taste that usually attend well educated la- 
 bor applied to agriculture. In the village were 
 several stores, a Gothic church, a capacious aca- 
 demical edifice, and sundry mechanical estab- 
 lishments; all was neatness and simplicity; and 
 nothing was to be seen or heard indicating idle- 
 ness, poverty, or a lack of good morals. The 
 loveliness of an evening during the season of the 
 harvest moon, especially in rural situations, is too 
 well known to require description, for it has long 
 been the subject of poetic delineation and eulogy. 
 After supper, we took a short walk, to witness 
 the good order and tranquillity with which we 
 were then surrounded ; and never had we before 
 experienced from a serene sky, a mellowed at- 
 mosphere, and an unbroken quietude, such a 
 mental charm — delightfully in contrast with the 
 emotions arising from the bustle and excitement 
 of the city. We felt as one might be supposed 
 to have felt in Paradise, or in a land of undefiled 
 spiritual existences. Of course we returned to our 
 lodging-place well prepared for sleep. Soon were 
 ■we lost in gentle slumbers. Never to us was 
 sleep more sweet. The little fatigue of the day's 
 journey and the indescribable effect of metereo- 
 logical and local influences, caused our slumbers 
 to be like those of a healthful infant, without 
 sighing or convulsive throbs or any change of 
 features. 
 
 Thus we probably slept two hours. Then the 
 loud striking of the village clock announced the 
 Lour of midnight, and we awoke to behold the 
 silvery light of the moon rendering every object 
 about us as distinct as if in the light of day. 
 When nature is thus wrapped in silence, one sud- 
 denly aroused in this manner from his slumbers 
 
 imagines himself a un't in the broad expanse ; 
 yet his solitude causes no shrinking from exist- 
 ence — no terror from imagined danger ; but his 
 breath, like fragrant and gently undulating in- 
 cense, rises to the great Spirit that shelters and 
 upholds him. When in a kind of waking revc ry, 
 the death-toned sound of the village church bell 
 was heard, it fell upon us, as might be supposed, 
 like the voice of the archangel, when announcing 
 the end of time, will fall upon the living world ; 
 and before its waning cadence was entirely gone, 
 or its echo from the distant hills came back to us, 
 a second one, if possible still more impressively, 
 fell upon us ; — then a third, and a fourth, till we 
 counted fifty-two, at intervals of about twenty 
 seconds between each ; — then a pause of a few 
 minutes, wliich was succeeded by still another 
 one, if possible yet louder than those befo e, — 
 when all again was dead silence; andwti seemed, 
 as it were, lost and alone, although, it might be, 
 hundreds in the village felt as we did. 
 
 Had we not known the usage of former limes 
 in the country, thus to toll the church bell, com- 
 mencing as near as possible upon the last breath 
 whenever one dies — the number of strokes being 
 the number of years in the age of the deceased 
 afterwards a single stroke, as in this case, signi- 
 fying a male, and if two strokes, a female — the 
 above, to us, would have been a mystery ; but 
 knowing it, we were apprized that a fellow mor- 
 tal, a brother, of the age of fifty-two years, had 
 at tliis still hour of midnight ceased to exist — 
 bidding a last adieu to the pains and sorrows 
 and disappointments, as well as to friends and 
 relatives and the once-budding hopes and joys in 
 life's panorama. The reader need not be told 
 that our thoughts became pensive and sad, and 
 for the remainder of the night we knew not sleep. 
 Had it not been so, we might rightly have been 
 judged void of those amiable sensibilities which 
 belong to our nature. Far be it from us to be 
 ashamed of them. If the result of weakness we 
 rejoice in it. And it is a matter of course, that 
 on the return of morning we inquiied for whom 
 had been made these demonstrations of reverence 
 and respect. The following narrative is the re- 
 ply to our inquiry : — 
 
 In the year 1802, a youth, whose name we shall 
 call Charles Beeman, left the homestead of his fa- 
 ther, and took a clerkship in the city of New York. 
 The father was of the tiiird generation who had 
 tenanted the same mansion and cultivated the 
 same farm, thus rendered dear to the family by 
 a thousand cherished associations. The house 
 was indeed ancient, but from its age, its stateli- 
 ness, and the lofty elms in front of it, was truly 
 
36 
 
 A FUNERAL IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 venerable. The farm, too, was large and pro- 
 ductive ; and the income of it, under a prudent 
 expenditure, had placed the propiietor in digni- 
 fied independence and comfort. The family con- 
 sisted of the parents and three children — two sons 
 and a daughter. Cliarles was the eldest of the 
 three, and unfortunately had imbibed the idea 
 that the mercantile life was less severely taxed 
 with toil, was more respectable, and, what was 
 more in his imagination, was the only way to 
 affluence. Accordingly he resolved to forsake the 
 residence of his ancestors, and to seek fortune in 
 the city. The resolution might have denoted 
 what is usually looked upon as superior talents 
 and enterprize ; but the sequel will show that 
 the determination of the younger brother, who re- 
 mained with his parents, was attended with far 
 better results. 
 
 The memoir of Charles Beeman, with non-es- 
 sential variations, is that of thousands of young 
 men, who, under similar circumstances, leave the 
 countiy and repair to the city. From his career 
 thousands may learn wisdom. He thought agri- 
 culture a dull and irksome occupation, and that 
 it was beneath the dignity of one of his imagined 
 talents to spend his life in laying up thirty or 
 forty thousand dollars, as his father had done, 
 when he might become a merchant, and obtain 
 five times that amount. He looked at the rich 
 apparel and furniture and equipage of mer- 
 chants, and at the display of merchandize and 
 cash and stocks in the city ; and was completely 
 bewildered with the fascinating picture. Of course, 
 away he went, spent six years as a clerk in one 
 of the most respectable houses in that commer- 
 cial emporium. The daughter of Squire Bee- 
 man, as the father of Charles was generally de- 
 nominated, soon married a young man of j^roper- 
 ty, talents and character, and lives only a few 
 miles distant; and Jame?, the other son, with 
 less brilliancy but more soundness than liis bro- 
 ther, remained on the homestead, married, and 
 became one of the most respectable farmers of 
 his state. He also was several times elected to 
 the Senate of his state; and might have been 
 sent to Congress, but preferred remaining at 
 home. He and his father so labored and man- 
 aged that, when Charles was ready to engage in 
 business on his own account, he received, as his 
 portion of the paternal estate, ten thousand dol- 
 lars. At length the parents of James died, and 
 he, of the fourth generation, with a family of chil- 
 dren of which a prince might be proud, was left 
 n sole possession of the Beeman homestead. As 
 might be inferred, he was as independent as 
 though he had possessed a million of dollars ; and 
 it would be difficult to imagine anything not 
 
 within his reach that would have added to bis 
 enjoyment or his reputation. 
 
 Charles Beeman commenced his career as a 
 merchant under the most favorable auspices. His 
 character was pure, his talents were quite re- 
 spectable, and he had a cash capital of ten thou- 
 sand dollars, witli unlimited facilities from his 
 mercantile acquaintance. For twenty years his 
 course was most prosperous. Everything, seem- 
 ingly, on which he placed his hand turned to 
 gold. He became the president of a large bank- 
 ing establishment. On the land and on the wa- 
 ter he gave employment to hundreds of persons. 
 He married, and. as usual under such circum- 
 stances, had a splendid family establishment. 
 His charities, too, were on the most liberal scale. 
 His annual expenses could not have been less 
 than eight or ten thousand dollars. His children, 
 three sons and two daughters, as a matter of 
 course, grew up with the most expensive habits 
 for dress and amusements, without acquiring the 
 habit of doing anything, or having the least re- 
 ference to the means for a living. The conse- 
 quence was, two of the sons became dissipated 
 and diseased, and early sunk into the grave. The 
 other son was amiable, and not immoral, but 
 without efficiency for business. The two daugh- 
 ters married young merchants, who, after a few 
 years, were unfortunate, and involved their fa- 
 tlier-in-law in heavy responsibilities. By the aid 
 of friends both were provided with foreign agen- 
 cies. The broken-hearted daughters were, in a 
 few years, relieved by death from poverty and 
 mortification. Their days were few: their sua 
 rose in beauty and brilliancy, but was soon over- 
 cast, and went down in the darkness of night. 
 Their early hopes of happiness budded in great 
 profusion, but a blighting mildew caused them all 
 to wither and die without fruit. Their fond mo- 
 ther soon joined them in the world of spirits. 
 
 The affairs of Charles Beeman were hastening 
 to a perilous crisis. As usual, misfortunes come 
 not singly. His own family expenses had been 
 enormous. Sundry ordinary business losses, 
 which, at former periods, would scarcely have 
 been thought of, but now, in connection with an 
 accumulation of disasters, became insupportable. 
 There was no other alternative — bankruptcy was 
 the unavoidable result. His carriage and horses 
 were first sold ; then his furniture and house, and 
 he took lodgings in a hotel. His business being 
 completely broken up, he retired from his office 
 in the bank. The only alleviating circumstance 
 in all this revulsion was that his feeble surviving 
 son was furnished with the office of porter and 
 messenger in the same institution, on a salary 
 just sufficient to give him a decent living. What 
 
A FUNERAL IN THE COUNTRY 
 
 37 
 
 a desolation for one who, a few years previous, 
 had estimated his wealth by hundreds of thou- 
 sands of dollars, and had prided himself, at least, 
 with beautiful daughters, who, with their mother, 
 were the center of attraction in every sphere of 
 fashionable life 1 If there is anything to break 
 down the spirit of a man, it is this. To such an 
 one, the light of day and the blackness of mid- 
 night are much alike. An unvarying paralysis 
 settles down upon the soul. His energies are 
 completely prostrated ! 
 
 For a few years the friends of Charles Beeman 
 attempted to inspire him with vigor to engage in 
 mercantile brokerage, but it was to no purpose. 
 He seemed to feel no motive for making the ef- 
 fort. No one now depended on him for subsis- 
 tence, and to him the world had completely 
 ceased to offer any charms. His faint spirit 
 seemed to yearn after some untried and unknown 
 panacea for a curative of his malady. The op- 
 portunity was soon discovered. Disease, which, 
 like a ravenous beast lying in ambush to dis- 
 cover the weakest position of the destined victim, 
 soon seized upon our life-wearied, broken-down 
 merchant. It would be difficult to tell whether 
 a consciousness of the fact gave him joy or sor- 
 row. He had, seemingly, but little remaining 
 susceptibility for either. The world to him had 
 become a dismal blank; and, as soon as rendered 
 morally certain that his days were nearly num- 
 bered, he acceded to the pressing invitation of his 
 brother James, to return to Beemantown, and be- 
 come one of his family at the old !>omestead_ 
 He did so ; and a few trunks contained his ward- 
 robe, and every vestige of his once large estate. 
 He was there treated with the utmost kindness. 
 Mrs. James Beeman and her lovely daughters 
 were like angels of mercy; but they were never 
 able to raise a smile on his pale, emaciated fea- 
 tures; and in three months, ten days, and nine 
 hours, the solemn tones of tlie churcli bell, at the 
 still hour of midnight, as we before stated, an- 
 nounced to the people of the village and town- 
 ship that he had gone to the land of his fathers. 
 There is one leaf more in the memoir of Charles 
 Beeman. 
 
 Becoming greatly interested in the narrative, 
 of which the above i'S a mere abstract, we re- 
 solved to attend his funeral, which was to be the 
 second day afterward. During the interval there 
 was a chastened sensation, which we had never 
 before witnessed, for the death of an individual 
 in private life. It, however, was a sensation of 
 that calm and unobtrusive character, which is 
 manifest only in a general and deep tran uillity 
 of spirit, and in the slow measured pulsations of 
 labor and business. It was a sensation springing 
 
 from the deep recesses of the heart, and receiving 
 no type from popular impulse or conventional 
 power. 
 
 The day for tlie funeral arrived. It was one 
 of peculiar loveliness, so well known at that sea- 
 son of the year. Tliere was not a cloud to be 
 seen, and seemingly not a breath of wind was 
 felt. Nature was in harmony with the mellowed 
 and subdued passions visible on every counte- 
 nance. For some time previous to the hour ap- 
 pointed for tlic funeral obsequies, tlie people 
 from the remote parts of the town began to as- 
 semble. There was a general suspension of la- 
 bor and of business. Little groups were constant- 
 ly arriving, and the village green was soon dot- 
 ted over in every part. The church was filled to 
 overflowing. Its ponderous bell announced the 
 hour of two o'clock in a loud sepulchral cadence- 
 The bell, a mile north of the village, in a few sec- 
 onds gave a similar response ; then, at a corres- 
 ponding interval of time, echoing among the sur- 
 rounding hills, was heard the other church bell of 
 the towa; thus the three, in regular alternations, 
 uttered their mournful thrilling notes, till the 
 corpse, and the procession of mourning relatives 
 and friends, with slow and solemn steps, mea- 
 sured the distance from the Beeman homestead 
 to the house of prayer. Such a spectacle must 
 be seen in order to be fully appreciated. One 
 might as well impart to the marble statue or 
 the canvas, the varying hues and the breathing 
 of the living human form, as to give sufficient 
 delineations of it with ink and paper. 
 
 There was not, indeed, in the procession, a 
 deeply afflicted widow, bowed down in sorrow 
 for the loved one of her youth. There was not, 
 indeed, a cluster of orphan children, convulsed 
 with anguish for the loss of their only guide 
 and support, a fond father. Tiiey were in mercy 
 saved from this heart-rending hour, in being called 
 away before him. But still, there was no want 
 of sincere mourners. All present knew the sad 
 history of his life ; most of them had been fami- 
 liar with liis visage ; all were impressed deeply, 
 and saw in that history a memento of the vanity 
 of the world's brightest jewels. There was no 
 boisterous lamentation; there were no passion- 
 ate outpourings of stricken hearts ; but the wide- 
 spread, unstudied silence, the downcast demean- 
 or, throughout this sad living mass, with here and 
 there a silent tear, made demonstration that, in 
 the human bosom, there is a chord that vibrates 
 to another's wo. Here was an irresistible admo- 
 nition not to make haste in striving to become 
 rich ; not to despise those frugal bounties wliich 
 reward the cultivator of the soil; and especially, 
 i] not with unguarded pace to press amid tempta- 
 
38 
 
 TENNYSON'S LOCKESLEY HALL, 
 
 tions and perils, the consummation of which, not 
 uaoften, is in the cliill diirkness of the grave 1 
 
 We have read many essays and heard many 
 homilies on the vanity of this world's glory, the 
 folly of priile and pompous exhibitions in social 
 life, and especially the canker which fixes itself 
 upon the heart of those who despise the charms 
 of rural pleasure for the dehisive splendors of 
 the city ; but the history of Charles Beeman 
 made an impression upon us without a parallel. 
 These few days in his native village made the 
 country seem more lovely to us, and the city 
 more fraught with perils and mental agonies than 
 ever before imagined. Oh, that we had a pen to 
 delineate all the incidents, and a pencil to place 
 duly on canvas all the lights and the shadows 
 
 blended into each other, in his memoir from the 
 cradle to the grave ! Oh, that hundreds of others, 
 known to us, could have been present to witness 
 what we witnessed, and to have received that im- 
 pressive culture we received, and which, we ap- 
 prehend, will never be effaced from our recollec- 
 tion ! And if the unnumbered young men in our 
 country, now impatient of the toils and the mod- 
 erate but sure gains to be expected upon their 
 native hills and valleys, had witnessed it, there 
 would not be such a perpetual rush to embark in 
 adventures, and to grasp at objects presenting 
 themselves to the inexperienced visual powers, — 
 in magnitude surpassing the reality, as did the 
 men first seen by St. Paul, after the scales had 
 fallen from his eyes — " like trees walking !" 
 
 TENNYSON'S LOCKESLEY HALL. 
 
 " LocKESLEY Hall" is a poem of great compass, 
 and singular ingenuity and suggestiveness. Its 
 central thought has not, perhaps, the breadth and 
 comprehension of the idea of beauty and purity 
 around wiiich "Wordsworth's grand " Ode on Im- 
 mortality" groups itself; nor of the sublimer 
 ideas of duty, sin, atonement, and restoration, 
 which pervade the " Ancient Mariner" of Cole- 
 ridge. It is set on a lower keynote, and ap- 
 peals, therefore, to wider sympathies. Its key- 
 note is the universal passion of love. The open- 
 ing bars march triumphantly in the major strain ; 
 but, unfortunately, they soon encounter an abom-' 
 inable discord. " Cousin Amy" proves false. We 
 have then the old story of the course of true love 
 never running smooth — the old wail over a uni- 
 versal eclipse of nature — the fine frenzy of a dis- 
 appointed lover, who vows that he would have 
 been an exception to all liusbands, and liave loved 
 the fickle fair one " as never wife was loved !" 
 His lamentations and reproaches in this valley 
 of humiliation are quite distressing. But, ere we 
 proceed farther, let us look for a moment at the 
 cause of his sorrow. A poet in love should be 
 worth looking at. 
 
 He was a model man. To a nature originally 
 noble and heroic, he had added the culture of 
 varied human learning. The present was warm 
 and lovely, and served as a pedestal from wliich 
 he laid his hand and heart on the past and the 
 future. Passively recipient of the ceaseless in- 
 
 flux of beauty, he was at the same time manfully 
 active in the assimilating process of thought and 
 meditation. To be, was to be blessed; but the 
 bliss was not enough. Nature was a loving mo- 
 ther, and he reposed lovingly on her bosom. 
 Time, as revealed in history, was awfully sub- 
 lime ; as adumbrated in propliecy and hope, it 
 was radiant with unutterable glory. He was 
 filled with the vision of the universe, and drew 
 enjoyment from all parts of it. But its infinite 
 impersonality was too much, or not enough, for 
 him. He longed for a concentration of its worth 
 and loveliness — for an incarnation after his own 
 image and likeness ; and in Cousin Amy he 
 found, for a moment, the gentle and fairer half 
 of his dissevered dual nature. 
 
 Here, then, for the many millionth time, the 
 vigilance of the guardian angels was eluded, and 
 another son of Adam walked with his Eve in the 
 bowers of Paradise. He had shared in the gene- 
 ral expulsion, but the misfortune lay lightly upon 
 him. He found the outside world not such a bad 
 world, after all ; and passed his early days in 
 " nourishing a youth sublime." But now came 
 the fruit season ; at all events, it was the very 
 eve of harvest. He had awakened to the reality 
 and bliss of life, which, till now, had been an un- 
 substantial though pleasant dream. Vast but 
 vague impersonalities took shape and form, and 
 ministered to him — Amy being the conjuror at 
 whose bidding they came : 
 
TENNYSON'S LOCKESLEY HALL. 
 
 89 
 
 " Love took up tlie glass of life, and tnrn'il it in his glowing 
 
 hands, 
 Every moment hghlly shaken ran itself in golden Bands. 
 Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords 
 
 with might, 
 Smote the chord of self, which, trembling, jjass'd in music 
 
 out of sight." 
 
 Here, thsn, -was the culminating point beyond 
 ■which the projectile force of youthful enthusiasm 
 and hope could not carry him. Here was the 
 completeness of himself, in the gentle being who 
 confessed a mutual love. If he should ever rise 
 higher, it must needs be by a previous descent, 
 more or less, and by virtue of another set of pro- 
 jectile forces. He was caught in the mystical en- 
 tanglements of another will than his own ; and 
 should Amy prove true, or should A\c prove false, 
 in either case, it must be a trial to him. In the 
 former case, though permitted to plight their 
 vows in Eden, the vigilant guardians would soon 
 find them out, and peremptorily serve tliem witli 
 notice to quit. They miglit woo and vow in 
 Eden; but they must not lead their wedded life 
 there. They must go out into the wilderness, and 
 their glowing love must be tested by the tilling 
 of the ground. Our poetdover protests that his 
 would have stood it nobly, better thin any other 
 son of Adam's! But it was not put to the trial. 
 Ere the cherubim thought fit to interfere, Amy 
 turned out to be another Eve, and her falsehood 
 has favored us with the Paradise Lost of " Lockes- 
 ley Hall." 
 
 An ingenious critic has surmised that Tenny- 
 son, in this poem, utters his own experience, 
 from the impassioned vehemence with which he 
 upbraids Amy for her fickle love. The sympa- 
 thetic nature of the true poet suflaciently ac- 
 counts for this; but the surmise is a higl» com- 
 pliment, and the vehemence is certainly very like 
 reality. " Is it well," he asks — 
 
 '■ Is it well to wish tliee happy ? — having known mo to de- 
 
 chne 
 On a range of lower feelings, and a narrbwer heart than 
 
 mine ? 
 Yet it shall be. Thou shalt lower to his level day by day, 
 AVhat is line within thee growing coarse to syiiipalliize with 
 
 clay !" 
 
 He indulges in this strain for some time, and 
 then tries hard to think well of Amy. But it 
 won't do 1 — 
 
 " Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she 
 
 bore ? 
 No ! she never loved me truly ; love is love for evermore. 
 Comfort ? Comfort scorn 'd of devils 1 This is truth the poet 
 
 sings. 
 That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier 
 
 things " 
 
 This is pretty strong. Turning to Amy — 
 
 "Drug thy memories," he says. Then her hus- 
 band is hit off at a stroke — " Like a dog, lie 
 hunts in dreams!" Looking down the black, 
 blank future, a rival is descried in Amy's little 
 child, and the mother is seen schooling down its 
 feelings — " they were dangerous guides, the feel- 
 ings " He can stand it no longer, and turns from 
 her with the bitter curse — "Perish in thy seLf- 
 contempt!" 
 
 But there was no use in lamentations and re- 
 proaches. Mere talk won't do ; and something 
 else must be attempted. It was a decided case 
 of shipwreck ; but castaway mariners have been 
 known to construct rafts, and, by favor of the ele- 
 ments and their own valor, to get wafted again 
 into the fair trade-winds. Something must be 
 done ; 
 
 " I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair." 
 
 But where was a field ? where an opening ? Ev- 
 ery gate was thronged witli suitors. There was 
 a rush and crush of men ; and tiie jingling of the 
 guinea was the music to which tliey led their 
 mad dance. All was eclipse and dislocation ; but 
 gleams shot athwart the darkness now and then, 
 giving momentary glimpses of the mountain-tops 
 of a land of hope. But how to get to it ? 
 
 " Can I hut re live in sadness? I will turn ihatearlier page — 
 Hide me from my deep emotion, oh, thou wondrous mother 
 age!" 
 
 We like this, especially the reversion to the 
 " earlier page;" and if our love-sick poet would 
 but set himself, with heart of grace, to fight the 
 world again, we should predict well of his next 
 trial. He prays again — 
 
 " Make me feel the wild pulsation that T felt before the 
 
 strife. 
 When 1 heard my days before me, and the tumult of my 
 
 hie : 
 Yearning for the large e.xcitement that the coining years 
 
 would yield, 
 I Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father'' 
 
 field" — 
 
 1 And away to great Babylon, in among the crush, 
 ; and competition, and excitement of multitudes of 
 1 men : — 
 
 ] " Men my brotliers ! men the workers ! ever reaping some- 
 1 thing new, 
 
 ] That which tlic^y have done but earnest of the things that 
 ]| they shall do. 
 
 For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, 
 'i Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would 
 ' be. 
 
 1 ....... 
 
 i Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle flags 
 
 I were I'url'd 
 
 In the parliament of men, the federation of the world." 
 
 I' 
 
 II This was his vision ere the fire tempest swept 
 ,i over him. He prays that it may come again ; 
 
40 
 
 TENNYSON'S LOCKESLEY HALL. 
 
 and it does come, but with a shadow. The times 
 are out of joint, and Amy has done it alll But 
 faith has not yet left him. He cannot see clear- 
 ly—Amy has blinded him by excess of light- 
 but he believes : — 
 
 let I doubt not tlirongh tlie ages one increasing purpose 
 runs, 
 And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the 
 suns." 
 
 A noble faith ! No doubt, the battle of life 
 wdl, to the aggregate army, finally issue in vic- 
 tory. Every captain and every private who falls 
 in the trenches serves to fill up a gap, and sur- 
 vivors march easier and fight better from the van- 
 tage ground of their dead comrades. The mil- 
 lennium will come; and the great unity of hu- 
 manity, as if it had sufiered no loss in the con- 
 flict, will march in and take possession. But, 
 alas ! 
 
 '• What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful 
 joys, 
 
 Though the deep heart of existence beats forever like a 
 boy's ? 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and we linger on 
 the shore, 
 
 And the individual withers, and the world is more and 
 more. 
 
 Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers,, and he bears a la- 
 den breast, 
 
 Full of sad experience moving t'ward the stillness of liis 
 rest I" 
 
 We cannot de.epair of our poet-lover, knowing 
 that there is such faith within him. But while 
 these shadows (indeed, they are very grim reali- 
 ties) are upon him, we should not be surprised if 
 they bred some wild fancy. Accordingly, after 
 turning once more to Amy the lost— professing 
 to be ashamed of himself for having loved so lii^ht 
 a thing — and descanting on the feminine nature 
 in general, which, as compared with man's, is 
 (man being judge) like moonliglit to sunlight, like 
 water to wine, he declares that lie will retreat far 
 into the " shining Orient," and there wed a savage 
 woman, and rear a wild strong race. How will 
 Amy take that ! But no ; her old lover won't lay 
 such revenge upon her. Tiiere is a touch of 
 fierceness in the revulsion with which he turns 
 from his imaginary eastern bride; but we over- 
 look that, in consideration of the sublimity of a 
 passage whose poetry is equalled only by its 
 truly compreliensive and philosophical estimate 
 of western civilization ! — 
 
 "Fool! Again the dream, the fancy! But I know my 
 words are wild ; 
 But I count the grey barbarian lower than the Christian 
 child. 
 
 I to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious 
 
 gai ns — 
 Like a beast, with lower pleasures— like a beast, with 
 
 lower pains ! 
 
 Mated with a squalid savage, what to me were sun or 
 
 clime ? 
 I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time ! 
 I that rather held it better men should perish one by one, 
 Than that earth should stand at gaze, like Joshua's moon 
 
 in Ajalon." 
 
 So, then, the word is onward. It is the lesson 
 of his losses and disappointments. Let us hear 
 him once more : 
 
 " Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward, let 
 
 us range. 
 Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves 
 
 of change ; 
 Through the shadow of the globe, we sweep into the 
 
 younger day ; 
 Better fifty years of Europe, than a cycle of Cathay !" 
 
 We have another prayer to " mother age" for 
 the early vision, or for the clear eye that saw it ; 
 and the answer is gracious : — 
 
 " ! I see the orescent promise of my spirit hath not set, 
 Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy 
 yet !" 
 
 Farewell now to " Lockesley Hall," and on to 
 the younger day ! 
 
 Enough, we trust, has been given of this splen- 
 did poem to induce readers who do not know it 
 to make themselves acquainted with it in the 
 poet's own pages. We do not hold it up as of the 
 first order ; but it has a unity and completeness, 
 and strictly conforms to the orthodox standard, 
 which requires a beginning, a middle, and an end . 
 It is delivered as a soliloquy. The poet, with 
 some companions, visits Lockesley Hall, tiie scenes 
 of his early days ; and begging them to leave him 
 alone awhile in the cool morning, he travels in 
 spirit through the lights and shadows of tiie past — 
 storming, criticizing, philosophizing, resolving, re- 
 tracting, and closing, as we have seen, a sadder 
 and a wiser man. All morning days are fair and 
 tranquil, and his were so pre-eminently. Few of 
 us probably remember an out-and-out cloudy day 
 in our first seven years. And then, with the light 
 of the sun, moon, and stars, was mingled a "licht 
 that never was on sea or shore" — a light from the 
 fountain-heads of inspiration and history, and 
 from the shores of old romance. Many of us can 
 sympathize with these reminiscences : — 
 
 "Here, about the beach I waiider'd, nourishing a youth 
 sublime, 
 
 'V\'"ith the fairy tales of science, and the long results of 
 time ; 
 
 When the centuries behind me, like a fruitful land re- 
 posed ; 
 
 "When I clung to all the present, for the promise that it 
 closed : 
 
 When I dipt into the future, far as human eye could 
 see — 
 
 Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that 
 would be." 
 
ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 41 
 
 Natural and intellectual beauty rose with the 
 poet's birth, grew with his growth, soared into 
 the empyrean with the sun of his life, and cul- 
 minated in conjunction with the warmer beauty 
 of young Jove. Amy's love painted the lily and 
 gilded the sunbeams. But in proportion to this 
 height and splendor, were the fall and the 
 eclipse. This brings us to the middle passage, 
 which is full of blackness, and thunders, and tem- 
 pest. From this point, the action of the poem 
 struggles upwards. Longing, lingering looks are 
 cast behind ; but we are in the presence of one 
 who will not be mastered by elements and cir- 
 cumstances, but will master them in the end, and 
 compel them to do him suit and service. He 
 had been deeply wounded, and the scars will 
 ever remain ; but he will pluck wisdom from sor- 
 row, and final victory from temporary defeat. 
 
 Our readers will find out the passages of strik- 
 ing force and beauty for themselves, and we need 
 not point them to such as 
 
 " I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time ;" 
 
 Or 
 
 " But I deem the grey barbarian lotrer than the Christian 
 child." 
 
 These and there are many such) strike the 
 key-note of whole epics ; they open the flood- 
 gates of thought ; they throw a halo over the im- 
 mensity of history, and the narrower boundaries 
 of our present civilization. We have rarely met 
 with lines which struck deeper chords of melan- 
 choly than those beginning — 
 
 '• What is that to hiia that reaps not," &c. 
 The idea portrayed in those lurid yet burning 
 words must often have forced itself on the obser- 
 vant and reflective mind. There are mighty 
 agencies at work for the amelioration of the hu- 
 man race — agencies divine in their origin, and 
 worked onwards by the best wisdom and strength 
 of man; but, while radiant with promise, they 
 are barren of immediate fruit ; and while faith 
 descries a rich harvest under the furrows of the 
 new-ploughed field, and in the blades and leaves 
 which appear above the ground and on the trees ; 
 what is that to the myriads who are even now- 
 dying of hunger ? 
 " "What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful 
 
 joys, 
 Though the great heart of existence beats for ever like a. 
 
 boy's ?'' 
 The whole poem, indeed, is studded with gems 
 of thought, which throw a light into the far and 
 wide region of things. It is " most musical, most 
 melancholy" throughout, till within a few stanzas 
 of the close, and then we have the bright shin- 
 ing after the rain : — 
 
 " ! I .see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set, 
 - Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy 
 
 yet :■' 
 It is some twenty years since these lines were first 
 published; and that they were literally true then, 
 and are true still, was abundantly manifested, a 
 few months ago, in tlie publication, by their au- 
 thor, of the poem, "in Memoriam," which the 
 critics have received with an unanimous chorus 
 of praise. 
 
 ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 Behold llie valley in the moonlight sleeping, 
 
 How sootliini; is its pastor.il repose — 
 A goodly scene for eyes bedlmmed with weeping. 
 Ere wearied eyelids on the pillow close. 
 She said, " I know the land is very fair; 
 But ah, ray childhood's footfall never boanded there!'* 
 
 Behold the ancient woods in golden glory, 
 
 Peek ye their solitary mystic glade«. 
 List to the shining river's babbling story. 
 By flowery banks or bowering orchard shades. 
 She sai<l, " Not there I heard the pleading words. 
 More thrilling far than song of sweetest woodland birds !" 
 
 Behold the ivied tower and mouldering walls. 
 
 From whence the voice of |)rai?e ascends on high, 
 An<I chiming bells, whose welcome influence falls 
 On pilgrim hearts like music from the sky. 
 She said, 'Thrice hallowed be the house of prayer ; 
 Bnl no beloved dust lies consecrated there ! 
 
 Behold the radiant stars are gazing down 
 
 In myriads on the shrouded world beneath, 
 While we. lamenting misspent moments flown, 
 May ponder mysteries of life and death. 
 She said, " The dove sought rest — no rest it found : 
 The ark is still our home, though billows surge around ! " 
 
CHARLES I. AND CROMWELL. 
 
 BT REV, JOSEPH P. THOMPSON 
 
 BEE PLATE, 
 
 Charles I. and Oliver Cromwell, names inse- 
 parably associated in history, and each in a diffe- 
 rent mode receiving distinction from the other ! 
 Various as are the contrasts in wliich they have 
 been presented by historians of opposite schools, 
 there is yet another to be drawn from materials 
 recently brouglit to light, and in accordance with 
 the modern standard of greatness. The one has 
 been regarded as a tyrant, and the other as a 
 scourge, appointed of God for his overthrow ; and 
 again, the first has been represented as an amia- 
 able, though misguided prince, and the second as 
 a usurper, climbing to the summit of power, by 
 treachery and blood. The one has been denoun- 
 ced for his duplicity, and the other extolled for 
 his integrity ; and again, the former has been 
 canonized as a saint, and the latter stigmatized as 
 an arch-hypocrite. The one has been held up as 
 the oppressor of God's people, and the other ^s 
 their champion : and again, Charles appears as a 
 martyr, and Cromwell as an enthusiast. Never 
 . did men wear such diversified characters, nor 
 come into such endless contrast with themselves, 
 and with each other. The contrast suggested by 
 the plates before us, differs from any enumerated 
 above, but is warranted by all reliable history. 
 Charles and Cromwell are tvjo different types of 
 royalty ; the one represents hereditary royalty, 
 the royalty of form and tradition; the other, the 
 royalty of a true manhood. Eacli was a monarch 
 in his way ; the one became conspicuous as a 
 king contending for the prerogatives of a royalty, 
 the other was made no less conspicuous, as a man 
 contending for the rights of m an. 
 
 Cromwell appears in an historical, or rather a 
 fictitious compgsition ; — for the scene, of which 
 the artist has so finely conceived, is probably 
 without any foundation in fact. Here is an in- 
 teresting group, the family of Oliver, from his 
 aged mother to his youngest son, interceding for 
 the life of Charles. But if anything can be made 
 certain in Cromwell's history, it is that he did not 
 originally contemplate the extinction of the royal 
 
 line, and that he sought to avert the tragic end 
 of the king when the safety of the state seemed 
 to demand the sacrifice. Before Charles was ar- 
 raigned by parliament for high treason, Cromwell 
 was accused by the radicals of liaving connived at 
 his escape from the kingdom. " It was evident," 
 says Ludlow, " that the king had escaped (from 
 Hampton Court) by Cromwell's advice." Crom- 
 well found it to be necessary to the peace and 
 safety of the commonwealth, that Charles, whom 
 he had desired to see established in legitimate 
 and constitutional authority, should be removed 
 from the throne ; but at this time he would have 
 been content with the flight or banishment of the 
 king. He put down the "levelers" in the army, 
 as being themselves guilty of high treason. He 
 ordered Whalley, when he had the king in his 
 custody, to protect him from all violence and in- 
 sult. He did not take the lead in the impeach- 
 ment of Charles, and he signed his death-warrant 
 with reluctance, from a stern, though, perhaps, 
 mistaken conviction of its necessity. We know 
 not how much influence his family may have had 
 in inclining him to that lenient course which he so 
 long favored, but it seems rather to have been 
 his own preference from the first. It was not till 
 Cromwell had lost all confidence in Charles — 
 until he was satisfied the king, who, "either 
 would sign no convention, or whom no treaty and 
 no signature could bind," that he consented to the 
 dreadful expedient of removing him by the axe 
 of the executioner. Even Clarendon, the royalist, 
 declares that " Cromwell was not so far a man of 
 blood as to follow Machiavel's method, which 
 prescribes, upon a total alteration of government 
 as a thing absolutely necessary, to cut off all the 
 heads of those, and extirpate their families, who 
 are friends to the old one. It was confidently 
 reported, that in the council of ofiicers, it was 
 more than once proposed that there might be a 
 general massacre of all the royal party, as the 
 only expedient to secure the government, but 
 that Cromwell never would consent to it." 
 
'.'TT£D Ef^l—- — 
 
 fv .T.aARTAIN 
 
 ^m.mm^of'w.mmmtvL ijpjifEiscoiEiDaM'SroR.THt ilgfiEof €IK]M(ilii§ \. 
 
CHARLES I. AND CROMWELL, 
 
 43 
 
 Thi:5 accords with what we learn of Cromwell's 
 character from other sources.* Terrible as he was 
 in battle, when duty summoned him to the field, 
 be was ever tender and compassionate towards 
 individual suffering ; a stern, yet a merciful man. 
 The intercession of the family of Cromwell for the 
 life of Charles, however pleasing as a picture, 
 must be regarded as a fiction. The piece is more 
 creditable to the artist's knowledge of painting 
 than of history. It will be serviceable to us 
 merely on account of the portraits of Cromwell. 
 "We have no means of ascertaining what authority 
 the artist has followed. There is not the same 
 uniformity in the portraits of Cromwell as in those 
 of Charles. The best were executed by Walker; 
 those by Cooper are good also, — prints of which 
 may be seen in various collections. The profile 
 likeness, originally in the possession of the Duke 
 of Devonshire, is contained in Birch's '• Collection 
 of Illustrious Heads,' engraved by Iloubraker 
 and Virtue. It seems to have been taken late in 
 the life of the Protector, and its features are 
 coarse and homely enough. The full face of 
 Oliver, by Ciioper, may be seen in Rapin's His- 
 tory ; and the famous portrait in military cos- 
 tume, by Walker, adorns Kiissell'.-i Cromwell, and 
 is issued by the Harpers, in their "Family Li- 
 brary." The features of the last two haimonize 
 well in the main with each other, and with Oliver 
 in the print before us. We have the same mas- 
 sive head — the same broad and capacious fore- 
 head — the same hard, thoughtful, care-worn, 
 countenance — the same flowing hair — the same 
 prominent, unclassic nose, and the same wart 
 bristling under the lower lip. Our print conveys 
 a little more mildness and benignity of expression, 
 as was befitting the supposed occasion. 
 
 Charles was a fit representative of hereditary 
 royalty: comely in person, and graceful in his 
 manners ; of respectable mental capacity and at- 
 tainments — correct in his deportment, free from 
 the vices that disgraced his father's court; chaste 
 and temperate — neither given to jirofaneness 
 and obsceneness in speech, nor to licentiousness 
 in conduct ; upright in his dealings with individu- 
 als ; sedate, studious, and even devout ; of the 
 best blood in the three kingdoms, and in the 
 prime of manhood, he came to the throne, seem- 
 ingly prepared to eiiuble and adorn it. But lie 
 was infatuated with royalty. Prerogative was 
 his idol. The king was, in his eyes, the very 
 chief of men. Everytiiing must give place to the 
 wishes of the crown. This led to tiiose successive 
 usurpations upon the rights of the people, which 
 at length aroused the spirit of the whole nation, 
 
 * History of the Rebellion. Book it. 
 
 brought even the sacredness of royalty itself to 
 bow at the footstool of justice. At first tlie Com- 
 mons, disposed to grant him a fair trial, voted 
 him liberal subsidies. But they foon discovered, 
 that instead of being recognized by the court ds 
 the only power competent to levy supplies, they 
 were made use of as a mere expedient fur tliat 
 end. The king's demands grew more and more 
 unreasonable; the non-compliance of the Com- 
 mcns was regarded as contumacy, and the never- 
 failing prerogative was opposed to every remon- 
 strance. Then came the schism between the 
 king and Parliament, the violent interference 
 with the privileges of the latter, the unlawful im- 
 position of taxes, the revival of the " forest laws," 
 the resumption of crown grants in Ireland and 
 elsewhere, the levying of tines in London city, and 
 the confiscation of landed estates, "tonnage and 
 poundage," and "ship money," and the long cata- 
 logue of grievances under which a too jiaticnt 
 people groaned without redress. And all thi.i 
 because, as even Hume allows, the king enter- 
 tained too "lofty ideas of monarchal power," and 
 would att'ect a "stately style." Peligion, too, 
 must be under the control of the king; and the 
 Star Chamber and the High Commission must be 
 instituted, and firesides must be invaded, and 
 England filled with spies, and made one vast 
 whispering gallery, that the king may be assured 
 that even his secret onlers are punctiliously ob- 
 served. The king must be supreme — must be 
 all. 
 
 Charles clung to his prerogative in every 
 change of fortune. It was his one idea. It 
 made him perfidious in his treaties with the Par- 
 liament. He must not only be a king, but a 
 king after his own ideal. 
 
 lie carried his prerogative with him into his 
 confinement. On his flight from Hampton Court, 
 he writes to Parliament that, so soon as they re- 
 turn to a just temper, he will "break through 
 this cloud of retirement, and show [himself] 
 ready to be Pater Patrire!" When allowed a 
 temporary release, the Parliament, before being 
 purged by Colonel Pride, having concluded an 
 armistice with him, he returned to Windsor, as 
 much of the king as ever. "He was delighted to 
 re-enter one of his own palaces, and be served 
 with all tlie etiquette of court. He dined in pub- 
 lic, in tiie hall of state, under a canopy; the 
 chamberlain, esquire-carver, master of the cere- 
 monies, and cup-bearer, waite<l upon him in the 
 accustomed manner; the cup was presented to 
 him kneeling, and all the ceremonial of kingly 
 state was preserved." Charles maintained what 
 little he could of this "kingly state," in the verj' 
 last scene^j of his tragic life. When the High 
 
44 
 
 CHARLES I. AND CR0M3VELL. 
 
 Court of Justice has been constituted, which is to 
 try him for high treason, " the king is thrice 
 brought to tlie bi^.r; refuses to plead, comports 
 himself -with kingly dignity, -with royal haughti- 
 ness, strong in his divine right; smiles contempt- 
 uously ; ' looks with an austere countenance ;' — 
 does not seem, till the verj" last, to have fairly be- 
 lieved that they would dare to sentence him." 
 
 Charles stood forth as the champion of heredi- 
 tary royalty. From tirst to last he was a king- 
 A king in tiie robes of state, and with the crown 
 of the Stuarts upon his head, a king in the bat- 
 tle and in the rout, a king in the custody of Ham- 
 mond and in the confinement of Hurst Castle, in 
 the Isle of Wight, a king as he lays his liead upon 
 the block. Prerogative with him could never 
 die ; bleeding and headless he was still the 
 phantom of royalty. 
 
 In Cromwell we find no trace of hereditary 
 royalty. He was maternally descended from the 
 house of Stuart, but his nearest approach to roy- 
 alty in childhood was ^yhe^ he was about four 
 years old ; — King James coming from the north 
 to take possession of the English crown, stopped 
 for two days at Binchinbrook House, the " state- 
 ly mansion" of Oliver's uncle, on the left bank of 
 the Ouse. Did little Oliver then romp and 
 wrestle with young prince Charles ? so the old 
 legends say. If so, we will warrant that Oliver 
 came oif victorious. But Oliver had a true roy- 
 alty in him, which m-ust one day appear at the 
 liead of England, at the head of mankind. He 
 was early educated to manliness. No pomp nor 
 luxury did he witness in his father's house, but he 
 did witness there the industry, frugality, and 
 thrift of a plain country gentleman, and the 
 sincere and humble piety of a genuine though not 
 an humble Puritan. Evenhis good uncle Oliver, 
 now a knight, grew less courtly as he grew older 
 and poorer. Brought up chiefly upon his father's 
 farm, Oliver v>'as nevertheless entered at Cam- 
 bridge at seventeen ; whence he was recalled the 
 next year by the death of his father, to act as the 
 head of the bereaved family. 
 
 Having pic'^cd up a lifJe knowledge of law 
 at Lonilon, I.e Fettled down at twenty-one, a 
 married man, and soon became asinceie Christian. 
 He leads a quiet life, interests himself principal- 
 ly in the affairs of the neighborhood, especially :n 
 its religious aflfairs, till at about the age of thirtj^ 
 his neighbors sent him to parliament, the third 
 parliament of Charles. Here matters had al- 
 ready reached a crisis ; the remonstrance against 
 the Duke of Buckingham, and the " Petition of 
 Rights," were among the doings of this parliament. 
 The House resolved itselfintoa Committee of Re- 
 ligion. The member for Huntingdon was interest- 
 
 ed in the state of religion ; and when that matter 
 was introduced, he had something to say. He was 
 found upon the side of Christian liberty and of 
 spiritual religion. Referring to the " flat Popery," 
 preached with the approbation of certain bishops, 
 he asked, " If these are the steps to church pre- 
 ferment, icliat are we to expect P They who 
 listened so respectfully to the modest young 
 speaker, had frequent occasion to rememberthat 
 significant inquiry. Through that plain country 
 suit, those dingy, old-fashioned ruffles, that hard 
 favored countenance, and that harsh voice, they 
 discerned the look, the tone, the bearing, the ' 
 spirit, of the man of England's destiny. Thus, 
 ^n his first public act, the sympathies of Cromwell 
 were manifested in behalf of the rights of con- 
 science, and then they were enlisted for life. As a 
 member of Parliament, as a Captain of Dragoons, 
 as a Lieutenant-General, as Commander-in-Chief, 
 and as Protector, he speaks, he acts, he fights, 
 for the rights of men, their rights of conscience 
 first, their civil rights next. He is the embodi- 
 ment of the great principle of constitutional li- 
 berty, whicl) principle came in his time into col- 
 lision with hereditary royalty. One of his first 
 acts as a military man, was to protect those who 
 were "likely to sufi'er for their consciences." 
 "This," said he, " is a quarrelsome age, and the 
 anger seems to me to be 'the worse, where the 
 ground is diff"erence of appearance ; wliich to 
 curse, to hurt men in their houses, persons, or es- 
 tates will not be found an apt remedy" (Letter 
 V). Again, in his report of the storming of Bristol, 
 he adds a few paragraphs of a religious nature, in 
 which he says, " In tilings of the mind %ve look 
 for no compulsion, hut that of light and reason" 
 (Letter XV). Still further, in the paper address- 
 ed by the army to the city of London, 1G47, he 
 says, " We could wish that every gocid citizen 
 and every man who walks peaceably in blameless 
 conversation, and is lieneficial to the common- 
 wealth, might have liberty and encouragement, 
 this being according to the true policy of all states, 
 and even to justice itself." Such were the princi- 
 ples which Cromwell espoused. He was the 
 champion of liberty and truth. As such, he stood 
 forth at the head of the age. Weil might Milton 
 invoke him, saying: — 
 
 " Help us to sa%'e free conscience from tlie paw 
 Oriiireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw." 
 
 But is he not an usurper ? So the loyalists have 
 said, and history has perpetuated the charge. In 
 a caricature of his refusal of the crown, he is re- 
 presented asTyrannus, being crowned with vipers 
 by Perfidy and Cruelty. But read his life, as it 
 appears in his own letters and speeches, and you 
 will see that no ofiice did he hold from Captain 
 
CHARLES I. AND CROMWELL. 
 
 45 
 
 of Dragoons to Lord Protector, ^hich was not 
 forced upon him, without his seeking, by tiie so- 
 licitation of his friends, or by the necessity of the 
 times. He struggled for constitutional liberty, 
 first under a king, next without a king. The 
 people were not fully ripe for it. Circumstances 
 threw him into a false position. He had no well 
 digested plan of government to substitute for the 
 fallen monarchy, because he had not anticipated 
 the overthrow of monarchy ; but he suited himself 
 to the exigency when it came, and at length 
 seized the helm to save the ship from being 
 stranded. But he used power with moderation, 
 and never abandoned liis first principles. See 
 how faithfully he harangues his own parliament 
 upon religious liberty. He would not have an 
 exclusive state religion ; but would infuse Chris- 
 tianity as a spiritual, vitalizing principle, into the 
 State. He respected the consciences of all men. 
 He aimed to make it the glory of his administra- 
 tion, " to avoid tyrannous imposition, either upon 
 men as men, or Christians as Christians." Such 
 was Cromwell. He borrows no distinction from 
 office ; a crown would not have exalted him ; no 
 title, neither "His Highness," nor the "Lord 
 Protector," so well becomes him as " the man 
 Oliver." 
 
 The distinction which we have drawn between 
 Charles and Crotnwell, may be traced in the char- 
 acter of those whom they selected as their coun- 
 sellors and associates. In the beginning of his 
 reign, Charles was under the lead of the Duke of 
 Buckingham, an unprincipled courtier, who well 
 understood the weak point of Charles's character, 
 and knew how to exalt him by flattery. Nor was 
 Strafford a whit behind him in burning incense 
 to royalty. In matters of religion, Laud, with 
 whom a surplice, a cross, a genuflexion, were 
 essential, had absolute control. 
 
 Cromwell drew around him, in Church and 
 State, as noble a band of men as ever adorned any 
 age. Sir Matthew Hale, whose maxims of economy 
 and religion are worthy to be the vade meciim of 
 every youth, then dignified the highest seat of 
 justice. In the oflice of State we find John Mil- 
 ton, that same Milton who comforted himself un- 
 der th« loss of sight with the reflection, that he 
 was deprived of it by writing laboriously in de- 
 fence of liberty. The army, which Cromwell 
 would have to consist of godly men, — as the only 
 men who could do battle for English liberty, that 
 praying, fasting, psalm-singing army, enjoyed the 
 ministrations of Baxter; and the Protector made 
 choice of John Howe to be his private chaplain ; 
 a selection creditable at once to his discernment 
 and his piety. Struck with the appearance of 
 Howe, then a humble but godly preacher at Tor- 
 
 rington, who chanced one Sabbath to be present 
 at Whitehall Cliapel, Cromwell insisted that he 
 should preach in his hearing. This done nothing 
 could satisfy Cromwell but the stated ministra- 
 tions of Howe. Think of a "hypocrite" select- 
 ing such a chaplain ! The men whom Cromwell 
 had about him, were not courtiers nor flatterers ; 
 they were the fast friends of liberty and truth, 
 and the character of Cromwell is reflected in 
 them. 
 
 It is a matter of unavailing regret, that Howe, 
 having preserved "large memorials of the mate- 
 rial passages of his own life and of the times 
 wherein he lived," which men " stitched together 
 in a multitude of small volumes," should, upon 
 his death bed, have extorted a promise to destroy 
 them all. Had these been preserved, what ma- 
 terials we should have had for a life of Crom- 
 well! 
 
 Such were Charles and Cromwell in their asso- 
 ciates. But it is in their inner life that our con- 
 trast appears most luminous. Charles is extolled 
 by his apologists as a saint and martyr. He was 
 not destitute of the religious sentiment, but it in- 
 clined liiui rather to frivolous and superstitious 
 observances, than to intelligent and spiritual 
 worship. He even had a zeal for religion in its 
 externals. He was, in some respects, better fitted 
 for "a ceremonial bishop than for a reigning 
 king." Keligiou v. ith him was very much an 
 accompaniment and a support of of royalty, and 
 on that account he was evidently fascinate. I with 
 Popery. And yet, to serve a purpose, he could 
 be a devout Presbyterian. Cromwell was a man 
 of deep religious experience. Religion, with him. 
 was no accidental thing ; no form nor ceremony ; 
 it was the life of his soul, and the soul of his life. 
 Even his traducers have been puzzled to account 
 for the vein of piety which runs through the 
 whole course of his public acts, and which is so 
 conspicuoiis in his private character, 'i'hey have 
 resorted to the supposition that he was a hypo- 
 crite, a supposition as complimentary to their sa- 
 gacity as to their knowledge of Christian experi- 
 ence. How could hypocrisy have sustained itself 
 through so long a period in such changing circum- 
 stances ? Even Satan, in the garb of an angel of 
 light, conld not have escaped detection in Crom- 
 well's place. And could the strong men of Eng- 
 land, her sober, praying, thinking men, have been 
 so long and so thoroughly duped? The true 
 standpoint from Avhich to view the character of 
 Cromwell, is not without but within him. His 
 religion was not the religion of a gentleman, but 
 of the man; not of the court, but of the heart. 
 We must enter into the depths of his religious ex- 
 perience. His private correspondence isas rich 
 
46 
 
 TIME THE HEALER. 
 
 in nutriment to the believing spirit, as is the 
 diary of Payson vr of Idwards. His was a 
 deep, earnest, thorough piety — from the period 
 of his first evangelical experience he was "a 
 Chrisiian man, not on Sundays t-nly, but on all 
 days, in all places, and in all circumstances." 
 This is the key-note of his character. And here- 
 in do we find the secret of his greatness. He 
 lived the life of God ; from his high place of pow- 
 er, he aimed to give religious liberty and the 
 word of God, not only to England but all man- 
 kind. 
 
 The religion of Cromwell rendered him noble in 
 death. It was fitting that the great spirit which 
 bad directed the storms of civil revolution, should 
 be ushered out of the world in a war of the ele- 
 ments, on the anniversary of its own mightiest 
 achievements; but how much more sublime the 
 view of that spirit thus breathing itself away in 
 prayer : — 
 
 "Lord, tiiough I am a miserable and wretched 
 creature, I am in covenant with Thee through 
 grace, and I may, I will come to Thee for Thy 
 people. Thou hast made me, tliough very un- 
 worthy, a mere histrument to do them some good, 
 and thee service; and many of them have set too 
 higli a value upon me, tliough others wish, and 
 would be glad of my death: and, however Thou 
 dispose of me, continue and go on, and do good 
 for them. Pardon thy foolish people ! Forgive 
 their sins and do not forsake them, but love and 
 ble.ssthem. Give them consistency of judgment, 
 one heart, antl mutual love ; and go on to deliver 
 them, and with the work of reformation; and make 
 the name of Ciirist glorious in the world. Teach 
 those who look too much on thy instruments, to de- 
 pend more upon thyself. Pardon such as desire to 
 trample upon the dust a poor worm, for they are 
 thy people too; and pardon the fully of this short 
 prayer, and give me rest for Jesus Christ's sake ; 
 to whom, with Thee and Thy holy spirit, be all 
 honor and glory, now and forever. Amen." 
 
 There is a strange apparition midway in Eng- 
 
 lish history. We trace back the line of her so- 
 vereigns for two hundred years, and are arrested 
 by a massive and mysterious being, who wears 
 no crown, but who is a veritable king. We trace 
 the line downward from the Norman Conquest 
 and are arrested by the same colossal form, 
 wearing the impress of royalty, without its title 
 or its robes. Bold, massive, severe, it towers 
 above the rank of monarchs in a dignity of its, 
 own. It is as if the stream of royalty, flowing 
 uninteruptedly for ages, were suddenly lost in a 
 subterranean abyss, or turned aside by a bold, 
 huge mountain, to emerge again, ruffled and dis- 
 colored, in the vale below. It is as if a torrent of 
 fire had swept through a verdant embankment, 
 leaving a huge, black, scarred chasm to mark its 
 course. Wliat means this chasm, this breach, 
 this apparition ? \Vhy is it that Cromwell thus 
 breaks in upon the line of royalty, with no fore- 
 runner ; and departs, leaving no successor ? It is 
 because God would give the world a conspicuous 
 example of the dignity that is in virtue, in char- 
 acter, in man. The age did not appreciate him, 
 nor have other ages. That strange figure has 
 been blackened and begrimed with dust and filth, 
 yet there it has stood unshaken, and there it yet 
 shall stand. 
 
 God has kept the character of Cromwell for 
 an age in which tlie royalty there is in man 
 should be duly honored. Koyalty in England 
 has been a different thing since his day, from what 
 it was before. Men's noses and ears are worlh 
 something too, in England now. There he stands 
 to frown upon usurpation, to keep the man ever 
 above the king, to guard the consciences and the 
 liberties of England. Shall this man have a sta- 
 tue ? Shall that stern, rough visage, in bronze 
 or marble, look down upon us from a pedestal in 
 the royal park ? That question is not to be de- 
 cided Ly a vote of the British Parliament, but by 
 the greatful acclamations of two nations, speak- 
 ing tlie language of Milton, and honoring the re- 
 ligion of Baxter and of Howe. 
 
 TIME THE HEALER. 
 
 So I liear them say, 
 And well I know that he iiiny wake again 
 The niirry Viol li)f the li^lillv liartn'il, 
 And HL'p[t III Lethe the weak memories 
 Orcommoii woe. l!ut ah ! for Iho-e who lose 
 The heari'> chief jewi'l, can he ^tay the tide 
 Thai in its wiecking arrogance dotii still 
 Lash the waste shore ! 
 
 Awhile we may forget, 
 And 'mid the shells and grass flowers on the beach 
 l.iill the deep wound, lint hark ! there comes s surge 
 Leaving us (prostrate. 'Neath its surf we lie 
 Powerless and faint, then crawling forth, essay 
 To do as others do. 
 
 It comes again ! 
 Thathlack. uncrusted, melamholy wave ; 
 So, tell ine mil ihal Time liath power to (iHell 
 A desolating grief. Ills opMte ilraught 
 May serve to stupefy, hui can ye ^llun 
 The (lire reaction of the spasmed nerve. 
 When Tliouglit, in his lone cell, or solemn Night 
 Qiiicken the grief pang 1 
 
 'J'lius 'twill ever he, 
 Despite their lame philosophy, who call 
 Time the l'hy>ieian, and lay hare their souls 
 'J"o Ins [locir lialin (hops. Thus 'twill ever be, 
 Till he delivercth to Llernity 
 Life's linish'dvial with the death's head seal'd, 
 For the great .ludge's £y«. L. H. S, 
 
MY COUNTRY RESIDENCES. 
 
 B T K 
 
 STODDARD 
 
 I HAVE often thought that I should like to 
 describe several couutrj villages, endeared to me 
 by a thousand boyish recollections, but hitherto 
 I have put it off to some more remote and happy 
 period. I am just in trim for it no-\v, having 
 been a rustic for a week. I have a day or two 
 to spare, and a nice room to scribble in, so I shall 
 proceed to brighten up my early reminiscences. 
 The country ai'oimd me will be the best spell in 
 the world, to conjure up the past. 
 
 I have just laid down my Tennyson, so choice 
 and pastoral in his descriptions, and sit carelessly 
 by the window, looking out on the manifold 
 leafyness and greenness of nature. My window 
 opens on a lawn, sloping off gradually from a row 
 of currant bushes, and the honeysuckles and 
 morning glories that clamber up the south side 
 of the cottage, to a little plot which the good 
 folks call an orchard. It is a little plot indeed, 
 for it docs not contain over twenty trees ; but I 
 must do those the justice to say, that tliey are 
 decidedly superb. Last summer the peaches 
 were the theme and envy of the villagers for at 
 least five miles around; a nine days' wonder in 
 the country. I never saw or tasted anything 
 half so delicious, always excepting the blue misted 
 plums and apricots, which grew at the lower end 
 of the orchard, (I wish they were ripe nowl) 
 The strawberries that grew by the side of the 
 wall, melted in my mouth, like wine drops trick- 
 ling from the brim of Hebe's goblet ! — Straw- 
 berries and cream ! the remembrance of it makes 
 me a little melancholy. What a surgy, wavelike 
 noise, the willow makes, chafing the low eaves, 
 half covered with green moss : — 
 
 " The linden like a lover stanils, 
 And taps against my window pane I" — 
 
 About a stone's throw from the house, at the 
 lower corner of the orchard, the children are 
 busy picking (and of course eating) cherries. I 
 see them from the window, standing uneasily on 
 the cross branches, rocking and swaying about, 
 picking the dead-ripe, black-hearted wild cher- 
 ries. If there is any one fruit ilearer to me than 
 the peach, it is the cherry ; the tall, many- 
 boughcd, heavily-loaded wild cherry, bending 
 with its fullness of fruit — 
 
 Certainly Tom ! You might be sure of it ! 
 Bring us a couple of bunches ! Glorious Bany 
 Cornwall ! I wish you could see this bunch 
 
 which Tom ha? just brought me. Thankee Tom ! 
 another if you please 1 As 1 was saying, Barry, 
 it would make your eyes sparkle, and your 
 mouth water, mi boy. 
 
 You a-sk lue wliat Barry Cornwall has got to 
 do with cherries ? and elierries with my country 
 residences? 
 
 One question at a time, if you please. I'll tell 
 you about Barry first, and then lead you gently 
 to the other affairs: only be patient ; I must get 
 at everything in a roundabout way. Barry 
 Cornwall, you must know, has written a pleasant 
 little lyric about the wild cherry tree. Of course 
 you have read it Xo 1 my dear sir, or madam, 
 or miss, as the case maybe, I fear your education 
 has Iieen shockingly neglected. I'll oblige you 
 with the poem in question : — 
 
 THE WILD f'HKRRY TRKK. 
 Oil ! there never wns yet ?o fair a lliinu, 
 r.y racing river, or ImUbling spring, 
 Nothing that ever so gaily grew 
 T'p from the gronnil, when the skies were hlue, 
 Nothing so brave, nothing so free, 
 As thon, my wild, wilrl Cherry tree I 
 
 Jove ! how it danced in the gusty breeze t 
 Jove ! how it frolicked among the trees ! 
 Pashing the pride of the pnphir down. 
 Stripping the lliorn of his hoary crown ; 
 Oak or ash, what matter to thee ? 
 'Twas the same to my wild, wild Clierry tree! 
 
 Never at rest, like one that's yonng, 
 Abroad to the world its arms it flung, 
 Shaking its bright and crowned head, 
 Whilst I stole up for its berries red ; 
 Beautiful berries ! beautiful tree! 
 UnrraTi! for the wild, wild Cherry tree! 
 
 Hack I fly to the days gone by. 
 An{| see thy branches against the sky ; 
 I see on the grass thy blossoms shed, 
 I see (nay I taste !) thy berries red. 
 And shont like a tempest, wild and free; 
 llnirah ! for the wild, wild Cherry tree! 
 
 " Hurrah for the wild, wild Cherry Tree !" Dear 
 Barry! I shall never eat a black-heart without 
 thinking of you — never ! I know you feci obliged 
 to me for copyi-g this little song. That's right, 
 oidy iay you like it, and sometime Til write you 
 another critique on Barry's poetry. Meantime 
 lot me get on with this ; to do whioh, as I purposed. 
 I must finish describing the scenery around me 
 now. Beyond the orchard, and the boys shout- 
 
48 
 
 MY COUNTRY RESIDENCES. 
 
 ing on the black railed fences, I can see a long 
 level of green meadow lands, with their tall 
 grasses bowing in the ever-restless wind ; here 
 and there a wheat field, surging in many-colored 
 waves, light and dark, seems to roll onwai-d, till 
 its course is broken by the stone wall, which juts 
 above its farther edge like a stout dyke. A field 
 of wheat with the wind on it, is a poetical sight ; 
 very pastoral, and, let me add, very useful. 
 ■'Think of tlils when ye're smoking tibaecy." 
 Here and there a little brook, half dry, but glit- 
 tering to the last, runs along the pastures, and the 
 cattle go there, very often this hot weather, to 
 drink ; — 
 
 " The steer forgels to graze, 
 AnJ wliere the heilperow cuts the pathway, stands 
 Leaning his horns into the neighbor field, 
 And lowing to his fellows." 
 
 The landscape to the north is rimmed and 
 crowned by a little wood; they would call it a 
 forest in Europe, but we (we are a great people !) 
 we, that think nothing of the ten thousand miles 
 of western forest land, trackless, and uninhabited, 
 save by wild bears, and a few scattered tribes of 
 Indians, nearly as wild ; we are so nice in our 
 expressions, that we call it a clump of trees! 
 Sherwood Forest, Ardennes, and the Hartz forest, 
 would hardly be a decentish hunting ground in 
 America. 
 
 "What a beautiful sight a forest is! I have 
 i-jaever read anything that ever gave me the 
 slightest idea of what I see now : nothing de- 
 scriptive, that ever touched the subject. The 
 ■mimdicB of description might be there, but the 
 feeling, the sentiment that it left upon the mind, 
 was absent. Feelings are hard to put in words. 
 Tennyson and Keats are the finest poets of senti- 
 ment in the language : " The Ode to Melancholy," 
 " Ode to a Nightingale," and "Autumn," by the 
 latter — "The Gardener's Daughter," ,"Enone," 
 "Morte DArthur," "The Talking Oak,'" "Go- 
 diva," "The Day Dream," and, in fact, nine tenths 
 of the former, are perfect studies for the young 
 student, and impassioned lover of choice, fine, 
 sensuous poetry (Header ! you are in for a cri- 
 tique on Keats and Tennyson, when I get time to 
 write it). But talking of woods, reminds me 
 that I tried to describe one myself the other day. 
 You must know I am writing a long poem, the 
 scene of which — but I won't tell you another 
 word about it, — here's my wood : — 
 
 •' Fast rooted in the depth of fallen leaves, 
 Dark stemmed, and many-limbed, the wood nprears 
 The melancholy twilight of its boughs. 
 Impervioas at noonday to the stiii, 
 Unpierceable at night by keenest moons, 
 
 And all the baffled stars that love the s|]Ot, 
 
 Bathed in eternal twilights, counterchanged 
 
 With plots of light and darkness, everywhere 
 
 Streaky with various verdure, many leaved ; 
 
 Drilled in heaps that feed the vigorous soil 
 
 And all its blooms, the embalmed yellow leaves 
 
 Rloalder with rich moist smells : and where the roots 
 
 Uppushing, shoulder offtlie scanty earth, 
 
 A sea of violets grow in softest moss, 
 
 Forever green : the all surrounding trunks, 
 
 Pdvery, or green, or black with jagged barks, 
 
 Are overgrown with mosses grey and dun ; 
 
 And half the limbs are tagged with dripping beards." 
 
 Some of my earliest recollections are of wood- 
 land scenery ; but the earliest of all (and this 
 leads me back to my starting point) is of a little 
 cottage, on the banks of a river, or rather arm of 
 the sea, on the eastern coast of Massachusetts. 
 Hingham, to my way of thinking, is one of the 
 prettiest towns in the whole State ; and it bids 
 I fair to become celebrated (it is already-, in geo- 
 graphical matters, famous for salt codfish and 
 woodea ware). I have no doubt that when I 
 come to die, and be buried in it (a thing, by the 
 Avay, I don't intend to hasten), it will become 
 very famous. The late Frances S. Osgood spent 
 her girlhood there, but that was before my time 
 or rather before I was large enough to have recol- 
 lected her. Gilmore Simms wrote his "Ata- 
 lantes" there, and I had the honor to be brought 
 lip there ; so you see the place is decidedly 
 " some." 
 
 The cottage that I remember so well, stands on 
 the edge of a slope, with its front to the road 
 (ci'.rriages run within three or four feet of the door) 
 and its back to the river; the sea must have 
 flowed, in old limes, up its arm, where the cot- 
 tage now stands. The country aroumi the village 
 is full of hills, and the road that runs down to 
 the cove, seems to me but an embankment on 
 the side of one ; the right side of it is banked, or 
 rather dyked up with a stone Avail, about fifteen 
 feet high ; below this, for about twenty feet, 
 level to the edge of the river, runs a little tract 
 of arable ground, which some of the neighbors 
 have turned into gardens. There is a little gar- 
 den to the south of the cottage (I think it is the 
 south, but I must confess my ignorance of every 
 cai'dinal — saving the cardinal virtues) ; the north 
 is bounded by a carpenter's shop ; the front of 
 the cottage juts on the road, and stands about ten 
 feet high. The back, down the slope, facing the 
 river, is at least thirty feet high. It is a very 
 odd looking and grotesque aftiair, and seems to 
 have been built at difierent times, either when a 
 new crotchet in architecture got into the head of 
 the original owner, or an increase of family (for 
 they do, "increase and multiply" there in accord- 
 
MY COUNTRY HESID ENCES. " 
 
 49 
 
 ance with the divine commfind), rendered an en- 
 largement of the premises indispensable. 
 
 I -would cheerfully give ten years of my com- 
 ing life, to live there as in the old tinie, a child 
 again — but it cannot be : — the fountain of Eternal 
 Youth, that the old Spaniard souglit so long after, 
 has not been found yet ; it only exists in the Eden 
 of memory ! 
 
 Heigho ! I lay in my cradle, and slept sound- 
 ly in tliat old cottage, — angels watched over ray 
 slumbers there, and I heard in my dreams the 
 music of the world I had just left ; a toy was a 
 sceptre to me, and an orange was the only world 
 I ever wept for ! I wore petticoats there, and 
 there I donned my first pair of trowsers. I re- 
 member the last circumstance well ; as it is al- 
 ways an epoch in juvenile histories ; a transition, 
 as it were, from the grub to the butterfly state : 
 my early pants Avere nankeens : I am afraid now 
 that they were rather too yellow to look well ; 
 but what of that, nankeens were fashionable (and 
 so cheap!) I thought them golden ! My age of 
 gold (pants) had just begun. I love to see a 
 youngster with a new suit — he struts so much 
 like a man, so heroic, as it were, and seems to 
 say, "See me, oh Earth 1 admire me, oh Hea- 
 ven!" He is not a whit more ridiculous — 
 though we all laugh at him — than most chil- 
 dren of a larger growth;" not indeed that a 
 new suit can always turn their heads, but some- 
 thing very little better often does — wine, wo- 
 man, or money ! Don't laugh at boys, if you 
 please ! 
 
 " The child is father of the man." 
 
 I waa a great reader in my early life; I must 
 have been taught the alphabet before I was four 
 years of age. I am very sorry that I can't de- 
 scribe the fine old school mistress, that (never) 
 taught me. If you are at all anxious to see one 
 finely described, read Shenstone's, I know of 
 notliing better. I am writing only facts, and 
 facts compel me to admit that my mother taught 
 me my ab, abs. The earliest book that I have 
 any distinct recollection of is "Watts' Hymns," — 
 I tliink tliat shadowed out my love of verses, 
 which was to come, — only I hated Dr. Watts, 
 and his hymns, abominably : I had to learn one 
 very often ; but I had my revenge, — I used to 
 scratch the cover of the book. After the hymns 
 of the Reverend Isaac Watts, LL.D., I was 
 charmed with those little penny books which the 
 blessed old Malilon Day, of Pearl street, New 
 York, (a Friend indeed !) used to get out, for the 
 edification «f juveniles. (This was twenty years 
 ago). The history of Cock Robin, — Mother 
 Goose, with that famous ditty, commencing, — 
 
 " Hey ding a diddle. 
 Tlie cat's in the fiddle"— 
 
 Aladdin, or the Wonderful Lamp, and Robinson 
 Crusoe, formed the extent of my early reading. 
 A few years later introduced me to the "goodly 
 tinker" the right worshipful John Bunyan,andhis 
 Pilgrim's Progress. Everybody has praised Bun- 
 yan ; but I always found him severely pious, and 
 trembled accordingly. That immense bundle of 
 sin, on ])0or Pilgrim's back (a load for any pack- 
 herse) — the Slough of Despond, — the flaming 
 mountain, — the lions at the gate of the palace 
 Beautiful, (was it the palace Beautiful ?) — Apol- 
 yon, Pope, and Pagan, — and all its horrors, fright- 
 ened me so much then, that I have never read it 
 since. I admit its wonderful invention, but laugh 
 now at all its terrors. 
 
 The window of my room opened on the yard 
 and the long garden to the southward ; every 
 inch of ground in that little yard has been 
 pattered over many a time by my infant feet ; 
 I used to play in it — generally alone — building 
 wooden houses, or sailing chips on the edge of 
 the river. I remember one winter seeing the 
 boys with their sleds, coasting down the bills 
 on the opposite side of the water, which was 
 then frozen over, hard enough to skate on, — and 
 once (it must have been the next spring) my 
 grandfather and I sailed over on a cake of ice: 
 that was a feat for me, for I was always a deli- 
 cate boy. 
 
 The road made a curve a little below the 
 house, and ran down to tlie cove ; I was never 
 weary of wandering there when I was large 
 enough to go alone; the stores seemed to me 
 antediluvian, — the very Methusalah of ;ill build- 
 ings, — rough, black-boarded stores, stained with 
 the weathers of a century, at least. I used to 
 mark one ship, painted over the door of a count- 
 ing-house, — it was the miniature, if you will al- 
 low me the expression, of the good brig Royal 
 Arch, which sailed for Sweden, and never re- 
 turned again. It was no great wonder that I 
 used to look at it,— the original, and a little salt 
 water, made me fatherless. There was an old 
 elm above us, which shaded half the road: I saw 
 it last summer, and grew poetical. I know you 
 would like to see what I wrote,— so here it is:— 
 
 Tin; OLD ELM. 
 
 Where the bank of the river slopes away, 
 And the road runs down to Hingham bay— 
 (A sheet of glass in the sunny ray,) 
 
 The Old Elm stands, 
 
 With its giant limbs. 
 Waving their leaves in the ocean breeze. 
 The pomp and pride of the village trees. 
 
50 
 
 MY COUKTRY RESIDENCES. 
 
 The trunk of the lofty Elm is dark, 
 And vast in girth, -with a wrinkled bark 
 Dappled ■with moss : the morning lark 
 And the swallow build 
 Their nests in the boughs ; 
 And the young birds peep at the azure sky, 
 Rocked in their leafy cradles high. 
 
 Tvro hundred Summers and Winters hoar — 
 Two hundred years, and it may be more, 
 Ere the Mayflower brought the Pilgrims o'er, 
 
 A sapling small. 
 
 It stood i' th' heart 
 Of the Indian wood, and slowly grew 
 In the sun, the rain, and the falling dew I 
 
 The white men came, and the Indians pass'd, 
 Like withering leaves on an Autumn blast ; 
 The glorious forest was felled at last, 
 
 And house by house 
 
 The village arose ; 
 The fields were cleared — the road was made, 
 But the Elm was spared for its mighty shade. 
 
 The village children, year by year, 
 The little lads and the lassies dear. 
 Idle their leisure moments here ; — 
 
 You can see their swing 
 
 On the lowest branch, 
 And the tangled twine and the fluttering kites, 
 Lost in the limbs by scampering wights. 
 
 In the sunny Spring and the frosty Fall, 
 When the school-boys round are playing ball. 
 They run to the edge (»' th' garden wall, 
 
 (Where the peach-tree stands. 
 
 And the currants grow), 
 And breathless, sly, with a shout of glee, 
 Back to their base, the glorious Tree ! 
 
 And truants climb in the emerald spray, 
 Up to the top where the swallows lay, 
 Filching their eggs from day to day. 
 
 They wave their caps 
 
 At the screaming birds. 
 And drop from the breaking limbs around, 
 Scratched and bruised on the stony ground 1 
 
 When the earth is bright with the noontide beam, 
 And the cattle stand in the neighboring stream. 
 The wagoner, urging his loaded team 
 
 In a cloud of dust 
 
 To the market-down, 
 Turns from the road — an hour delayed — 
 And rests his steed in the grateful shade. 
 
 Summer fades with its bloom and sheen, 
 Sober Autumn invests the scene ; 
 The old Elm doffs its robe of green. 
 
 And stands in state, 
 
 Like a herald proud. 
 Shedding the leaves from his giant palms, 
 Plenty's bountiful, lavish alms 1 — 
 
 Alas! I am like the fading tree, 
 I scatter my foliage fast and free. 
 Illuminate leaves of Poesy ! 
 
 A bountiful alms 
 
 Of golden thought. 
 Which the feet of men and the careless blast 
 Trample and sweep to the wasted Past ! 
 
 I have but little more to remember of Hing- 
 bam, save the bridge by the mill-dam, where 1 
 used to stand, and watch the long seaweeds 
 drifting outward, and the old graveyard on the 
 hill, — to my way of thinking, that is a love of a 
 burying-ground. It is a clump of little hills and 
 slopes, where the dead sleep with the sunshine on 
 their mounds ; grave after grave rises around, some 
 with white, recently-raised head-stones ; some 
 bricked around with old stones, flat on top ; their 
 half-effaced letters, crests, and round-cheeked 
 cherubim, covered with the mosses of a century. 
 
 If I remember rightly, one is dated "Anno 
 Domini 1668." There are a great many ancient 
 Taults there, — but every one of them was wept 
 over in its time, and held the once warm heart 
 of man, or woman. Fathers, mothers, and child- 
 ren, have shed tears like dew, in this graveyard. 
 and passed away, wept in turn, by a later 
 generation. Life seems to me but a great pil- 
 grimage through the earth ; from the gates of 
 Time, at one end, to the gates of Eternity at the 
 other. Thousands upon thousands are marching 
 onward, and have been marching onward for ages, 
 whither they know not, only onward. Ten 
 thousand drop off from the great caravan, daily 
 and hourly ; thousands stop for a moment to be- 
 wail them, as they lie in the sand, but soon pass 
 onward, and are lost. ■ The mass of mankind 
 have no conception that the dreadful shadow of 
 death broods over them — but so it is ; a shadow 
 tracks every one of us; whether we run or walk, 
 it is always at our heels ; when we lift the wine 
 cup to our lips, its smile grows pallid ; when we 
 love, it mocks us with a feeling of our mortality 
 and comes over the soul like a thunder cloud ; 
 when we lie down to sleep, it hangs over our 
 rest ; but when we sleep on our turfy couches, 
 like those iu this little graveyard, pillowed on 
 rich, moist, earth, the shadow tracks us no more. 
 It was but the shadow of our souls ; when our 
 souls have passed into the land of Light, the 
 Shadow will melt to its original nothingness ! 
 
 " For my single self," I want no better place 
 to sleep in, than Hingham graveyard. The 
 earliest morning dew would. 'hake over my grave 
 its long twinkle of silver light ; the ^un would 
 kiss the hill with his golden lips ; the Moon look 
 down from her limitless wandering in the eternal 
 blue, as tenderly as ei'er she looked on two young 
 lovers, and far more steadfast, for then her wax- 
 ing and waning could never make me wax and 
 wane, or my warm heart grow cold. I often 
 think of the revelation the ghost of Lorenzo 
 makes in " Isabella, or the Pot of Basil." Pray 
 who is Isabella ? Sir, get your Keats and see ! — 
 also inquire who Baccaccio was, for I am deter- 
 
THE RIVER OF LIF^. 
 
 51 
 
 mined not to tell you a syllable of tbe matter. ^ 
 The murdered Lorenzo comes back to Isa- 
 bella, — 
 
 " In I lie drowsy gloom, 
 Tlie dall of mUnight, at her couch's foot." 
 
 After telling her hoflr 
 
 " The sheepfoM (ileal. 
 Comes from beyond the river to his bed," 
 
 he exclaims — 
 
 '* I am a shadow noir, alas! alas! — 
 
 Upnn the skirts of hurmn nature dwelling. 
 
 Alone ; I chant alone the holtj mass, 
 
 fVhile little sounds of life are round me knelling ; 
 
 And glossy bfes at noon do fieldward pass. 
 And many a chnpel bell the hour is telling ; 
 
 Paining me through. These sounds grow strange to vte^ 
 
 And thou art distitU in kumaititij !' ' 
 
 The feeling that tlie bees and bells give one, 
 at noon, is wonderfully soft and slumberous : lie 
 on a slope and try it. I liope when I have to en- 
 dure the c^peration of being buried (may I live a 
 ulitiusand years in this beautiful world !) I shall 
 
 have one or two friends, who will do me the favor 
 to find me a nice, quiet spot, like this sweet little 
 graveyard. 
 
 Lounging in this little graveyard, on a holiday 
 last summer, I wrote the verses below, with 
 which I will end this paper, and my reminiscences 
 of Hingham. 
 
 The joyous towu before me lies, 
 
 Its colta-ft'S embowered in l)loom ; 
 The solemn burylngground hfliind. 
 
 Its sepulchres in cypress gloom ! 
 
 The bells before me ring aloud, 
 
 A p;«an for the live and bold; 
 The bells behind are tolling slow, 
 
 A requiem for the dead ami cold ! 
 
 The crowds before me tramp away, 
 And shout until the Heavens are stirred ; 
 
 The crovifds behind me never tiiove, 
 And never breathe, a single word ! 
 
 A thousand troubled souls before; 
 
 Behind, not even one that grieves ; 
 The blight of wo that wastes the wheat, 
 Cau never touch llie garnered sheaves ! 
 
 THE RIYEU OF LIFE 
 
 B Y 
 
 HITCHING S. 
 
 On through time there rolls a liver, 
 
 Fed with thought's eternal dew 
 Rolls forever, resting never, 
 
 Toward the perfect and the true : 
 Barriers broken, checks defeated, 
 
 Dartness scattered, lets down burled, 
 Trmh and freedom, firinlier seated, 
 
 Mark its progress through the world. 
 
 Trace it to its source ; it rose in 
 
 Darkness of abysmal night, 
 Shades of error round it elo<ing, 
 
 Pervious to no purer light ; 
 Shallow then, tiut deepening ever. 
 
 From the glooins it burst its way ; 
 First a streamlet, then a river — 
 
 From the darkness to the day. 
 
 Wave by wave for aye inere.asing. 
 
 Still victorious, still sublime. 
 With an impulse ne%'er ceasing, 
 
 O'er the rocks and shoals of time : 
 Toward the vanward hurrying onward, 
 
 From the old unto the new — 
 Rolls it ever, ie*ling never. 
 
 Toward tbe perfect and the true. 
 
 Woe to them that, iJly rearing 
 
 Old obstructions in its track. 
 Taught by »ll (he past no fearing, 
 
 Fain would turn its current back! 
 They but tempt their own undoing ; 
 
 Like a giant in its wrath, 
 O'er their baniers, rent to ruin, 
 
 It will tliurvi'ier on ts path. 
 
 For it rolls resistless -nn ward. 
 
 Deepening, widening, on its way ; 
 Pressing strone'ier toward the vanwaid, 
 
 Stronglier toward the perfect day — 
 Lit with light from heaven, and aided 
 
 By the earnest hearts and true — 
 By the soul to God that made it. 
 
 Struggling on from old to new. 
 
 Sigh not, then, for the departed- 
 It hath passed and gone foraye ; 
 
 But, with impulse nobler hearted. 
 For the Future clear the way. 
 
 Help to flow this mighty river. 
 Fed with thought's eternal dew, 
 
 Till it merge at last for ever. 
 In the perfect and tiie true. 
 
THE DESIGN OF LIFE, 
 
 The design of Life ! — alas, that it should be 
 so little thought of ! The very words seem to 
 awaken a new idea, to open up a new vista, to 
 surprise us in a manner by their unfamiliarity, 
 contrasted with their manifest nearness to our in- 
 terests, duty and destiny. They fall like a re- 
 proach upon our worldliness from an upper sphere, 
 calling us back from the outward and the earthly, 
 and reminding us that there is something better 
 and worthier than these. It will be well if such 
 shall be the practical result of our present medi- 
 tation : such is its aim. We would disown for a 
 time the accidental and the passing — those tran- 
 sient peculiraities which constitute the mere 
 drapery of our being — that we may the more 
 clearly and the more calmly contemplate the 
 great and the universal, and that, by thus looking 
 at ourselves and our fellows in the light of those 
 higher and wider relations which have their roots 
 in the soul, and which pass into the infinite, we 
 may take the likeliest course for reconciling our- 
 selves to ourselves, to one another, and to the 
 world without, while we shall, by the very fact 
 of dwelling upon them, be strengthening and sus- 
 taining all that is most gloriously distinctive of 
 humanity in man. 
 
 What is our life ? says an inspired wiiter : " It 
 is even a vapor Ihat appeareth for a little time, 
 and then vanisheth away." And yet this Yapor 
 life has for its trophies all that is great and im- 
 posing in the world — temples, and cities, and 
 palaces, and kingdoms — all that is useful in 
 science, all that is profound in philosophy, all that 
 is soothing in literature, all that is great and beau- 
 tiful in art ; and all these have been fostered un- 
 der its wing, and are tlie footprints which it has 
 left on the sands of time. Nay, but this vapor- 
 life is laden with eternity ; this meteor flash, 
 every time that it is kindled, lights an immortal 
 spirit to heaven or to hell : it fi.\es destiny, it 
 determines a course of endless progression up- 
 wards among the stars, or of endless sinking and 
 diverLcence into a deeper gloom than brooded 
 over the primal chaos. So that the trial of Solo- 
 mon was no solitary case. Life holds the balance 
 to every man : the good that is passing and per- 
 ishable in the one scale, the wisdom which is all- 
 embracing and imperishable in the other, and 
 death steps in only as the ratifier of the choice, 
 
 while eternity is the endless unfolding of the 
 fruit. 
 
 What shall we say then ? Was the apostle in 
 jest? Was he seeking to depreciate this great 
 seed-time of our existence ? Nay, verily ; but 
 rather he would rebuke the presumption and the 
 folly which, by refusing to connect it with the 
 eternity beyond, makes it the palace of the body 
 indeed, but the prison of the soul, destined to 
 open at a moment, they think, not into the far- 
 sounding depths of ruin and despair. 
 
 We can perceive a threefold purpose and aim 
 of human life. First, we can perceive that man 
 has much to do with regard to himself He is 
 not the ideal being which some represent him- 
 There is guilt on his conscience, dimness in his 
 eye, and weakness, rather wickedness, at his heart. 
 He discovers the ruins of a fair creation, but no- 
 thing more : " the gold is become dim," the tem- 
 ple is dismantled, and strange visitants within it 
 now haunt its shrine ; the mark is upon him, and 
 his conscience might speak out somewhat in the 
 manner of Cain — "It shall come to pass, that 
 wheresoever the doomsman of justice shall find 
 me, he shall kill me." The first aim of his life, 
 then, has to do with himself — how to b^ rid of 
 this inward accuser, how to erase those guilt- 
 stains which " plague him so," how to find as- 
 surance of reconciliation to his God, that he may 
 hold up his head in the universe, and listen to His 
 voice speaking to him peace from his awful 
 throne. This must be his first and his earliest 
 aim, and in vain f<ir this are his own sacrifices or 
 gifts. " The world, by its wisdom, knew not 
 God." Superstition may slay its thousands of 
 victims, idolatry may invoke its thousands of 
 gods, science may advance its thousand appliances, 
 and self-righteousness may "wash itself never so 
 clean," the groans of humanity are still as deep, 
 its wounds as wide as ever they were. The curse 
 is human, but the cure is divine ; and thefirst aim 
 of our life must be fulfilled at the cross. 
 
 But this is no more than the beginning of the 
 work. He has his foot upon the rock now, which 
 alone can be trusted. He is now within the scope 
 of the great central attraction, and in contact 
 with all that is destructive of evil, and most in- 
 fluential for good. Cleaving to that, he must 
 reach forward and upward, strengthening his heart 
 
THE DESIGN OF LIFE. 
 
 53 
 
 in all holy aflections, opening his mind to tlie 
 fullness of truth, guarding his passions with a 
 stern and uncompromising denial, and building 
 himself up into the likeness of Him whose tem- 
 ple he is. He is safe in his highest aspirations 
 here ; he has entered into the only legitimate 
 sphere for a boundless ambition ; and, with Christ 
 for his pattern, perfection for his aiai, and heaven 
 for his crown, he must gird himself for the battle 
 in all the lowliness of dependence, but witli the 
 energy of despair, as knowing well that the work 
 is great, that 
 
 " The heavens are steep, and hell is deep. 
 And the gates of life are hard to -win." 
 
 This must be the first great aim of our life — 
 individual emancipation from the guilt and the 
 tyranny of evil. Nothing can be a substitute for 
 this: it is the necessary condition of all other 
 great and generous aims. We should be found 
 but silly builders without it ; for, says an apostle, 
 "Let every man prove his own work, and so shall 
 he have rejoicing in himself alone, and not in 
 another." 
 
 Looking at man, then, in this isolated aspect, 
 we say, that one great design of his life is to 
 wrestle, and rise, to be moving heavenwards ever 
 —converting all things around him into the 
 means of his advancement, even his very pas- 
 sions and infirmities into the pedestal of his fame 
 and the ladder of his glory. 
 
 But then, after all, he is not an isolated being: 
 he is part of a system wide as the universe, he 
 stands in important relation to all his fellows, he 
 cannot disdain even the weakest and poorest 
 among them, but in selfishness and sin ; and here 
 looks forth another great design of his life. He 
 was formed to love, and there is no religion with- 
 out it. There is more than a beautiful sentiment 
 in these words of the poet ; — 
 
 " He prayelli hest who loveth best, 
 All thing's botli yreat and small, 
 For the dear God that loveth us, 
 ll: made and loveth all." 
 
 If our blessed Redeemer has done no more for 
 the world than to bequeatli it his lessons of love, 
 he would have been its greatest benefactor still. 
 There is no such enemy to its progress as selfish- 
 ness, and tiiere is no demon so hard to exorcise : 
 it forges the manacles for tlie slave, it mingles 
 the cup for the drunkard, it casts up its gains 
 amid the ruins it has made, and, while a brother 
 is bleeding and nigh unto death, it stalks nimbly 
 past on the other side. Thanks to our Redeemer 
 for his every condemnation of this — that, both by 
 his lips and by his life, he put the brand of 
 Heaven's displeasure en the selfish, and extin- 
 
 guished the voice of that impious creed — "Am I 
 my brother's keeper V 
 
 But we must not forget that love is a practical 
 thing. Its proper language is not words, but 
 deeds ; it has pagans for the prosperous, indeed, 
 and pity for the fallen; but it has also food for 
 the hungry, raiment for the naked, and refuge for 
 the homeless and the outcast. " It knows to 
 have compassion on the ignorant, and on them 
 that are out of the way." Its celestial footprints 
 may be traced, not, perhaps, to the house of feast- 
 ing and wassail, but to the dusky dwelling of the 
 mourner, to the edge of the sepulchre where the 
 tear drop glistens in its eye, to the cell of the cul- 
 prit, where the words of wisdom fall from its lips, 
 and to the uttermost limits of this sin-trodden 
 earth, where it makes the glad tidings of salva- 
 tion to ring. Like a jjliaros-light, it girds the 
 whole horizon of wo, and the heart beats lighter 
 in its presence, and the eye looks less sorrowful 
 at its approach. Nor does it want scope for its 
 wing in a world like this, for the do.solate and 
 the fallen are everywhere, the ignorant and the 
 fearful, the hungry and the homeless ; nor en- 
 couragement in its work, for " it is more blessed 
 to give than to receive." It is the high usury of 
 heaven: "he that soweth bountifully, shall reap 
 also bountifully;" and, althoughitmaj^ sometimes 
 meet with ingratitude and repulse, it is, uever- 
 theless, the great strengthener of the soul, and 
 the brightener of its way. 
 
 Let us see, then, that we include this in the de- 
 sio'ii of our own life, that we learn to love, not in 
 word only, but in deed and in truth, that we 
 look forth with affection on the great brotherhood 
 of man, and aim at their uplifting, together with 
 our own, to heaven and to truth. This will be 
 living, indeed — living anticipatory of heaven — 
 living a-ssiiuilative to God ; "for God is love ; 
 and he that dwelleth in love, dwelleth in God, 
 and God in Him." 
 Tliere is one other point on which it is necessary 
 to touch, and it is all-important : it is the zone 
 of the others, it holds them together. Without 
 it, man woidd be as a world without a star. He 
 is foruiod to wrestle and to love, but he is also 
 formed to worship. The moon passes round the 
 earth, but both earth and moon pass around the 
 sun ; so brother here luust minister to brother, 
 but all must minister to God. Nor can they be 
 sustained in their relations to each other, than as 
 they adhere to their orbits in relation to Ilim, 
 
 Worshi[), then, not in its cold and formal, but 
 in its deep and spiritual meaning, is the great and 
 paramount law of the universe. It is the sym- 
 phony of the stars — the united voice of flxith and 
 love and gratitude aud wonder, iu the presence 
 
54 
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 
 
 of the Eternal ; it is the all embracing and all- 
 sustaining mystery of our being — its goal and its 
 glory ; it is wings to the moral creature in his 
 contemplation of the Infinite ; it is the upward 
 attraction which loosens the cords of sense, and 
 makes the earth as a spring-board to the young 
 spirit, in its bound towards the Ideal and the 
 Shadowless ; it is written far down in the depths 
 of our nature, and we have been aiming at it 
 evei- — alas, how blindly ! — till at length the true 
 light shone, and the true notes were sounded, 
 over the heights of Bethlehem. Even as it is, we 
 are but feeble and faltering scholars ; our eye is 
 still dim, and our heart still weak ; we are " pro- 
 selytes of the gate" — worshippers, if at all, of the i 
 outermost circle. But we are here to learn, and 
 our instructors are many — the heavens and the 
 earth, in all their sublime and beautiful forms — 
 tlie sun, and the stars, and tlie flowers, and the 
 
 trees, and the waving corn — the voices of the 
 good and the gifted, now singing at the fountain, 
 but whose echoes linger among us still — the voice 
 of the Word, "which shall not pass away," made 
 vital in Him who labored on the highways, and 
 who died npon the cross — the visions it depicts, 
 the hopes it inspires, the prospects it unfolds — 
 and, over and above all, the far echoing music of 
 heaven itself — 
 
 " That undisturbed song of pure concsnt, 
 Aye sung before tlie sapphire colorM throne 
 To him that sits thereon." 
 
 We are here to learn, ;ind these are our teach- 
 ers. Let us listen to their voice — let us answer 
 to their beckonings — let us catch up the melody 
 of their song, and . 
 
 "Keep in tune with heaven, till God ere long 
 To His celestial concert us unite, 
 To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light." 
 
 THE MOTHER'S LAMENT 
 
 FROM A MANUSCRIPT POEM. 
 
 BY THE LATE BET 
 
 WALTER COLTON 
 
 OP THE U 
 
 N A V T 
 
 Wy child, my sweet one ! speak to me 
 It is thy mother calls to thee ; 
 She who felt too deeply blessed. 
 When thy iip^ to hers were pressed, 
 When thy little arms were flung 
 Round this neck, where thou hast clung, 
 Caressing and caressed. 
 
 Thy infant step was light as air. 
 
 As 'mid the garden flowers 
 1 watched thee, glancing here and there, 
 
 Between the April showers. 
 Thy cherub cheek was sweetly flushed, 
 
 Thy locks the free breeze stirred, 
 As, through the vines, thy light form rushed 
 
 To reach the new fledged bird. 
 
 I saw thee, in my raptured dreams, 
 
 Clad in the strength of youth ; 
 Thy path resplendent with the beams 
 
 Of honor, love and truth. 
 I thought, should he, whose noble worth 
 
 Thy brow the promise bt-ars. 
 Be summoned from our humble hearth, 
 
 How soft would flow thy cares I 
 How soft to her, whose lonely breast 
 
 Would then such solace need ; 
 Ilow sweet 'twonid be, 1 thought, to rest 
 
 On such a gentle reed. 
 
 Ah, little thought I then , my child I 
 
 That thy quick, balmy breath. 
 And pulses running warm and wild. 
 
 Would now be chilled in death I 
 In death ? Oh no I that sable seal 
 
 Disease can never set, 
 Where lip and brow so much reveal 
 
 Of life that lingers yet. 
 
 I still shall feel that gushing joy. 
 
 Which thrills a mother's breast 
 Whene'er she clasps her bright eyed boy 
 
 From out his cradled rest. 
 Come, meet thy moiher's warm embrace, 
 
 Return her fervid kiss, 
 And press thy sweet cheek to her face, 
 
 "My first born bud of bliss !" 
 
 Alas, my child ! thy cheek is cold. 
 
 And yet thy forehead gleams as fair 
 As when those flaxen ringlets rolled 
 
 In life and gladness there. 
 But then thy lips are deadly pale — 
 
 1'hat were of rose red hue ; 
 And thy long lashes, like a vail, 
 
 Fall o'er those eyes of blue ! 
 Still round thy lip, where mine delays, 
 A smile in tender sweetness stays — 
 The imaged transport of the .soul. 
 Escaping from its brief control, 
 Yet leaving, as it passed away, 
 This smile of rapture on the clay, 
 To tell us, in this trace of bliss. 
 There breathes a brighter world than this. 
 
 I feel reproved that thus I strove — 
 The errings of a mother's love — 
 
 To keep thee here, when only given 
 To glance a gladness round our hearth, 
 And, all untouched by stain of earth, 
 
 Fly back again to heaven 
 'Twere wrong in me, had I the power, 
 To win thee back the briefest hour ; 
 For guilt and grief are all unknown. 
 Where thy seraphic soul hath flown. 
 Be mine the task, through faith and prayer. 
 And Christ's dear love, to meet thee there. 
 

 ^^ 
 
 :^: 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 ^ 
 
 •^ 
 
 
THE CHRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 (SEE PLATE.) 
 
 When-, after ilie lapse of ages, the younj,' stu- 
 dent of history, perusing the annals of his coun- 
 try, •'■lances at this memorable period of the 
 nineteenth century, he will learn with astonish- 
 ment and reverence what the resources, the inge- 
 nuity, and the perseverance of his ancestors ac- 
 complished even in those days of remote antiqui- 
 ' ty ; he will learn that, upon the suggestion of a 
 well-intentioned and amiable prince, at the bid- 
 ding of an enterprising and determined people, 
 animated by feelings of honest enthusiasm and of 
 magnificent rivalry, the creative armies of the 
 nation dauntlessly challenged all the empires of 
 the earth to a bloodless contest, in which victory 
 would confer wealth and honor, though defeat 
 would he unattended either by discomfiture or 
 ruin. 
 
 He will not be slow to perceive that, with one 
 universal acclamation, one glad shout of generous 
 eagerness, the friendly defiance was accepted, 
 and the war of industry commenced From that 
 hour new energy appeared to have been infused 
 into the mines, the laboratories, the forges, the 
 looms, and the workshops of the world. In the 
 most inaccessible quarters of Thibet and the wild 
 regions of Oregon, as well as in Canada, the Bra- 
 zds, Arabia, Russia, and China, a spirit of indomi- 
 table determination was. everywhere evoked, 
 and the denizens of each realm, far distant as 
 well as those of the contiguous Euroj)pan States, 
 pledgeil themselves to engage unconditionally in 
 an honorable strife, where there was no foe to be 
 vanquished, no adverse principle to be over- 
 thrown. 
 
 All having resolved to despatcli their several 
 detachments to tlie encounter, it next became 
 matter of paramount importance to select an ap- 
 propriate battle field. 
 
 \'arious localities were proposed, an infinite 
 variety of regulations suggested, together with a 
 multitude of restrictions to be enforced. After 
 many an animated discussion, much long and 
 eager debate, those to whom the deliberation 
 upon these momentous preliminaries was intrust- 
 ed announced the place of tourney anil the order 
 of the lists. 
 
 No existing edifice in those days was there in 
 
 England calculated to contain even a small pro- 
 portion of the combatants, or of the innumerable 
 spectators who would flock to the gorgeous arena. 
 It became, therefore, primarily necessary that a 
 structure calculated to shield all from the incle- 
 mencies of a northern summer should be devised 
 and erected. Premiums were oflered for the best 
 design, and, in a short time, no less than 240 
 were profiFered. One hundred and eighty of these 
 were rejected, while from the remaining sixty it 
 was considered that useful suggestions could be 
 drawn. For, in consequence of the low state of 
 architectural knowledge, it was not to be sup- 
 posed that any one professor of the constructive 
 art should possess the skill required to plan so 
 gigantic and unprecedented a work. 
 
 The Committee previously nominated, and 
 composed of the three greatest engineers and the 
 three ablest architects then to be found in the do- 
 minions of the Queen of England, availing them- 
 selves of the hints severally contained in the 
 threescore plans before them, proceeded to remo" 
 del and combine all that they deemed valuable 
 in each, in order to devise one as nearly faultless 
 as the materials at their disposal and their own 
 attainments enabled them to produce. 
 
 Suffice it to observe that the result, though un- 
 satisfactory, denoted great deliberation and care. 
 The combined skill of the nation recommended 
 thit in an open place, then termed the Park of 
 Hyde, between tiie row denominated Rotten, and 
 a road leading to the suburb of Kensington, in 
 the diocese of the newly-created Bishop of West- 
 minster, a building should be raised, compounded 
 with solidity of stone, mortar, and brick. It 
 was to have been formed in three separate di- 
 visions, connected with side branches, the roof 
 supported by iron columnar water-pipes, and 
 having in its center a dome, larger than any ever 
 yet seen beneath the vault of lieaven. The la- 
 teral walls were to have been low ; but eight ve- 
 nerable elm trees growing upon the selected area 
 were to be permitted to remain under the cupola, 
 in respect to a strong popular prejudice assigning 
 particular virtues to these aged vegetables, and 
 in compliance with the wbim of a great mob- 
 orator of that period, of t^e name of Sibthorp, 
 
66 
 
 THE CHRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 ■whom the Government were obliged to conciliate. 
 Simultaneously with the publication of the 
 intentions of the Committee, a storm of disap- 
 probation tbrougliout tlie length and breadth of 
 the land, was observed to be gathering. At 
 length it burst, and the fulminant of Printing- 
 liouse-square was not slow in illuminating the 
 dark horizon with the coruscations of its impo- 
 tent disregarded ire. Imitated by the still fee- 
 bler exponents of j)ublic opinion, innumerable 
 were the invectives and incessant the denuncia- 
 tions hurled at the heads of the originators of the 
 great project. The diurnal and weekly press of 
 that era, indeed, maybe referred to with interest 
 by those who imagined that those organs of power 
 really possess the omnipotence so frequently as- 
 cribed to them. The dire prophecies with which 
 they teemed, the miseries they predicted, the 
 rueful consequences they announced, never existed 
 but in the occiputs of the timid and imaginative 
 writers who penned them ; it would, therefore, be 
 still more idle to cite them here. London, how- 
 ever, for a time was startled from its dingy pro- 
 priety. Aristocratic Marylebone, stately West- 
 minster, and heterogeneous Piralico abounded in 
 meetings only remarkable for the unanimity with 
 which they stigmatized, as pernicious and des- 
 tructive, the very undertaking they afterwards 
 hailed witli the most unqualified acclamaiion as 
 a welcome boon. 
 
 Wisely disregarding the unmeaning censure or 
 the needless laudation of the worlil, the Royal 
 Commissioners complacently proceeded to givea 
 corporeal existence to the combined emanations 
 of so many brains whose services had been taxed 
 in their behalf At this particular juncture, when 
 the final edict had gone forth that was to give 
 active employment for months to numberless 
 brickyards, quarries, and limekilns, a brief com- 
 inunication was made to the Executive, the work 
 was suddenly stayed, and the hopes thus raised 
 were in a moment and for ever frustrated. The 
 communication in question proceeded from one 
 Joseph Paxton, gardener to Dr. Cavendish, the 
 then Duke of Devonshire. It appeared that the 
 said Joseph Paxton had, for a long series of years, 
 been practically engaged in the formation of ha- 
 bitations of iron and glass for tropical plaits. 
 His ferrovitreous experience, therefore, enabled 
 him, with comparatively little deliberation, to 
 furnish working-plans and specifications, superior 
 in every respect to the combination already 
 agreed upon. It was consequently determined 
 that iron, glass and deal, alone, should be the 
 component materials of the temporary edifice in- 
 tended to encase specimens of almost every na- 
 tural and artificial production of the globe. 
 
 In a period of time, incredibly brief, there ac- 
 cordingly arose in air, a stupendous monument of 
 human ingenuity, perseverance, and skill. Light, 
 translucent, symmetrical, and substantial, har- 
 monious in proportion, elegant in design — it 
 challenged and defied alike the criticism of the 
 astounded world. 
 
 Never before had anything resembling it been 
 beheld, either in material, form, or extent. Co- 
 vering an expanse of eighteen acres, and compris- 
 ing some six-and-twenty miles of gallery, it ap- 
 peared at first impossible that it should ever be 
 adequately filled. 
 
 Yet the efforts of the ingenious contriver to 
 combine every requisite did not terminate with 
 the mere delineation of the external shell. The no- 
 velty and magnitude of the task imposed new 
 and arduous duties on the projector. Machines, 
 for instance, were introduced to abridge the enor- 
 mity of the manual labor requisite to produce ; nd 
 to paint two hundred and five miles of sash-bar; 
 other mechanical appliances sawed, planed, mor- 
 ticed, drilled, turned and glazed, but still moie 
 than two thousand artificers of all denominations 
 were actively, though silently, engaged over 
 every portion of the wide expanse. 
 
 The building consisted of a nave 64 fpet high 
 and 72 feet in width, with a series of side aisles, 
 six 24 feet, and twj 4S feet wide, of the respec- 
 tive heights of 23 and 43 feet ; the whole spread- 
 ing to 436 feet, the entire length being 1,S51 feet. 
 In the center of this long line of frontage, a tran- 
 sept 100 feet high, 408 feet long, and 12 feet 
 wide, was seen. The whole was supported upon 
 1,060 hollow columns, serving at the same time 
 as conduits for rain water. 9u0,000 feet of glass, 
 weighing 400 tons, were employed to glaze the 
 various sashes ; the total cubic contents they 
 spanned being 33,000,000 feet. 
 
 Every contingency that prudence could foresee 
 was provided against. The drainage, ventilation, 
 means for moderating the intensity of the light, 
 were duly attended to. The flooring was laid 
 with interstices between each plank, allowing the 
 dust and water used in cleansing them, to pass 
 through and disappear. It is needless to enter 
 here into all the minuter details of construction ; 
 suffice it, therefore, to institute a brief compari- 
 son on some points, between the great glass hive 
 of the Exhibition, and an edifice of which most 
 of .our readers have some cognizance. The main 
 avenue already described, was in width nearly 
 double that of the nave of St. Paul's, and in 
 length more than four times as great. Thirty- 
 five years were spent in raising the cathedral; the 
 building in Hyde Park sprang into existence in 
 less than half as many weeks ! The walls of the 
 
THE CHRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 51 
 
 former pile ^vere fouiteen feet thick ; those of the 
 latter eight inches. Notwithstanding the rapidi- 
 ty of construction, so accurate was the workman- 
 ship, and so careful the supervision, that not a 
 single crooked or faulty line was discoverable in 
 the whole. 
 
 "When the labors of those whose thews and 
 sinews reared the giant fabric had ceased, a new 
 and unexpected cause of dissension arose. Various 
 schemes for its internal and external decuration 
 were handed in. Some were forimjiarting to the 
 whole of the interior an uniform liue of palish 
 ocre, while they maintained that the outer sur- 
 face should either be clothed in that shade of 
 brilliant green peculiarly reverenced by the pious 
 Mussulman, or else in the more sombre and less 
 attractive dun that gives such delight to the eye 
 of the enraptured Quaker. 
 
 On mature deliberation, it was determined not 
 to favor the predilections of either sect, lest of- 
 fence should have been unintentionally given to 
 other and equally estimable denominations of 
 religionists. After long and vehement debate, 
 and when all, or nearly all, that could have been 
 said or written upon the subject, had been reite- 
 rated ad nauseam, the ruling committee j)laced 
 the matter in the hands of Mr. Owen Jones, a 
 gentleman whose vocation, studies and pursuits 
 eminently qualified him for the duty assigned 
 to him. He at once determined upon the course 
 he intended to adopt ; and if unfettered by ab- 
 surd restrictions and ignorant suggestions, better 
 still would it have been for the success of his un- 
 dertaking. As it was, the course he pursued 
 ■was a safe one, because the rules that guided 
 him were theoretically true, and from the earliest 
 antiquity had been followed with signal suc- 
 cess. 
 
 The thousand and odd columns within, together 
 with all the infinite reticulation and tracery they 
 upheld, were painted, where near the spectator, 
 in cool, pleasing, and unobtrusive colors, so dis- 
 posed that, as the masses accumulated in the 
 interminable vistas receding from the eye, the 
 effect at a distance was to produce a grey neutral 
 tone harmonizing with all the gorgeous profusion 
 of glowing colors below and around. Circum- 
 stances already briefly alluded to reduced the 
 period allowed for preparation to a very limited 
 space. As the labors of the Commissioners and 
 the exertions of contractors became daily more 
 onerous and overwhelming, so proportionably 
 became the demands of the artizan more impor- 
 tunate, and his demeanor more independent. 
 Here, as in the generality of similar case«, self- 
 interest prompted a course of action that justice 
 or honesty could hardly have approved. For- 
 
 tunately for those more immediately concerned, 
 as bands of discontended operatives struck and 
 dispersed, others, in abundance, M'ere found ready 
 to supply their place, so that never even for an 
 hour were the works suspended inconsequence of 
 the misconduct of the workmen. At length, about 
 the end of March, 1851, the undertaking com- 
 menced in the previous September was rapidly 
 approaching completion. All the main diffi- 
 culties seemed to have been overcome. It was 
 announced oilicially that the world would be ad- 
 mitted to its own museum on the morning of the 
 1st of May. Exhibitors labored day and night to 
 terminate their preliminary arrangements. The 
 moustachioed cabinetmaker of Paris, the bearded 
 carpenter of Vienna, and the still more hirsute 
 moutjik from Petersburg, probably for the first 
 time in the annals of history, were to be seen 
 toiling side by side, beneath the same glazed can- 
 opy, each anxious to be foremost in the zeal and 
 alacrity they displayed. About this time, how- 
 ever, new troubles and annoyances presented 
 themselves to the minds of the harassed and 
 over-worked Commissioners, It was found that, 
 busy and rife as were the human o[)eratives, 
 above, below, and around, they were excelled in 
 numbers and pertinacity by legions of rats and 
 flights of sparrows, apparently strongly impressed 
 with the conviction that the crystal vault was 
 intended for their special comfort and delectation. 
 To get rid of these troublesome and unexpected 
 guests was no light nor easy task ; and while 
 operations for their discomfiture and expulsion 
 were being j)lanned and executed, fresh grievances 
 appeared. Ere the first external coat of paint 
 could be applied, or the panes of glass acci- 
 dentally broken could be repaired, a London 
 spring had set in with more than ordinary sever- 
 ity. For several weeks, almost without inter- 
 mission, a leaden sky voided torrents of sooty 
 rain on the new roof, as if to test to the uttermost 
 its powers of resistance and the resources of its 
 designer. Its frailty, from a variety of trivial 
 causes, was soon rendered too apparent; but this 
 mishap ceased in a great measure witli the dis- 
 covery of its origin. The greatest damage from 
 the influx of water had been occasioned in one 
 quarter by the malicious and dastardly act of a 
 laborer, who had wilfully stopped up one of the 
 rain-water drains, and thus flooded a considerable 
 extent of the building below. 
 
 As the interval allowed for the termination of 
 all the preparatory proceedings drew fast to a 
 close, the numbers and activity of all engaged 
 were proportionately augmented. At one period 
 in April, indeed, there could not have been less 
 than from nine to ten thousand men assiduously 
 
THE CHRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 engaged. Poised upon the light scaffolding aloft, 
 hundreds of painters were noiselessly yet actively 
 clotliing alike tiie perpendicular and the horizon- 
 tal frame-work of tiie biiildiiig in a varied and 
 cheerful garb. Towards tiie eastern extremity, 
 stupendous pieces of mechanism, cast-iron beams, 
 bright polished rods and wlieels, and globes of 
 burnished brass, drawn by many horses, were 
 borne along on wagons and trucks to the resting- 
 place prepared for them, where deep broad beds 
 of concrete awaited their ponderous approach. 
 By similar agencies, hydraulic presses of unex- 
 ampled magnitude, pumps upon novel principles 
 and of marvelous proportions, brewing machines, 
 organs, coUossal statues, enormous bells, monster 
 telescopes, locoaioti veengines of matchless speed, 
 were in process of conveyance from point to point, 
 amid the shouts of men, the din of hammers, ant! 
 the clangor of metal. Yet, from the midst of 
 all this clamor, bustle, and chaos, here and there 
 magnificence and beauty were bursting their cere- 
 ments and emerging into light. Towering forms 
 were daily seen to peer with majestic compos- 
 ure upon the turmoil below, as if proud of their 
 own existence and of the imposing circumstance 
 and character of their appearance. At length 
 the preparatory labor began to diminish, the 
 task assigned to each individu:d committee or 
 sub committee was accomplished — in some cases 
 indifferently, in others happily and sitisfactorily- 
 Such might be the history of the great event 
 in language such as he may employ whose duty 
 it may be to comment upon it after the long 
 lapse of centuries. 
 
 Let us now hasten back on the lapse of centu- 
 ries, and in-pect the result with the eyes of men 
 of our own day. 
 
 The long and anxiously anticipated 1st of May 
 has arrived! A vast cortege, composed of well- 
 appointed and costly equipages, has suddenly 
 supplanted the unwieldly chain of wagons, trucks 
 and carts that, for weeks past, have all but ren- 
 dered impassable the avenues and roads leading 
 to the Park. Tens of thousands of spectators, 
 eager to witness the cavalcade, converge in dusky 
 lines athwart the green plain and along the gravel- 
 roads. Entering, with tlie privileged and aristo- 
 cratic, as the portals are opened on the above 
 momentous day at the central southern gateway, 
 our readers will, in imagination, behold before 
 them a lofty fountain, 
 
 " Cliasing the sultriness of the day, 
 As, springing high, the silvery dew 
 In whuls fantastically Hew, 
 And Hung luxurious coolness round 
 The air, and freshness o'er the ground." 
 
 They may now turn either to the right, and in- 
 
 spect the gorgeous contributions of India, or to the 
 more quaint, curious, but not less ingenious devi- 
 ces from the Celestial Empire, lavishly displayed 
 upon the left. Among the former are included 
 magnificent shawls from Cashmir, Persip, and 
 Nepaul, brilliant in colour, intricate in design, 
 yet with every tint so harmoniously arrangeel 
 and artistically contrasted that they may well 
 long be dwelt upon with admiration and wonder. 
 Here, too, are specimens of goldsmiths' work 
 that would put to shame, for lightness and deli- 
 cacy of execution, any of the vaunted jewelry of 
 Europe — gems that must excite the astonishment 
 and cupidity of many beholders. 
 
 From China the textile tissues of silk, the em- 
 broidery, the elaborate and exquisite caa-viogs in 
 ivory, in wood, and in coral, the natural and arti- 
 ficial productions in infinite variety, have been 
 liberally supplied. 
 
 Further on, we pause for a while before the 
 shelves and walls adorned with the productions 
 of Greece and the Levant ; and it must certainly 
 be admitted that the subjects of the Sultan, 
 though in some respects avowedly far behind the 
 rest of the world, are in other manufactures in- 
 finitely beyond them. Italy, Spain and Portu- 
 gal demand no mean share of our attention, next 
 arrested by Belgium as we pass by the precincts 
 of the southern to those of the north em States 
 Flanders, as Tristram Shandy terms it, "the 
 old prize-fighting stage " of Europe, at first sight 
 seems to have presented articles that speak more 
 of the doings of war tlian of commerce and peace ; 
 but her contributions and those of the northern 
 continent of Europe are altogether eclipsed by 
 the magnificence, richness, and variety of our 
 neighbors the French. 
 
 The most beautiful porcelain of Sevres, the 
 costliest tapestry of the Gobelins, the most mar- 
 velous carpets from the looms of Aubusson, 
 Parisian cabinet-work, marqueterie, bronzes, and 
 bijouterie, together with the velvets and silks of 
 Lyons, unsurpassed in the world, are crowded 
 here. Even the very fittings on which these 
 treasures are displayed themselves merit more 
 than a passing glance ere we proceed to criticise 
 the more solid productions of Holland. Con" 
 spicuous among these we find a silvery-toned 
 chime of bells, candelabra, vases, goblets remark- 
 able for the taste with which they have been 
 moulded and adorned; though in this hasty tour 
 we must leave the minute consideration of them 
 to enter the suite of spacious rooms fitted up 
 with furniture from Vienna ; sideboards, tables 
 bookcases, fauteuils covered with a profusion of 
 carving, so exquisitely wrought that it may be 
 questioned whether Grinling Gibbon himself be 
 
THE CHRYSTAL PALACE. 
 
 not here excelled — trophies of ponderous arms, 
 foliage ?o light that it seems almost to float upon 
 the air, heaps of autumnal fruit, bouquets of sum- 
 mer flowers, only needing their appropriate color 
 to deceive the most practiced eje. 
 
 But stay. In close proximity to the vast octa- 
 gonal hall inclosing the emblems of the industry 
 of the ZoUverein, her Majesty and the illustrious 
 group in attendance upon her are offering the 
 mute though eloquent tribute of their admiration 
 to a collossal lion of bronze, a mighty smanation 
 from the genius and foundry of Munich. Never 
 before was the truculent quadrupedal monarch 
 represented so truthfully as here. Beneath the 
 dusky hide, the giant bones here and there pro- 
 trude, clothed though they be in other parts with 
 a due proportion of brazen muscle and metallic 
 sinew. The creature's head alone is a study. 
 The half-furtive, half-ferocious expression of the 
 eye and lip — the dauntless brow, with the shaggy 
 mass of mane enveloping the cranium — the tre- 
 mendous development of chest — the firm protru- 
 sion of the mighty limbs — impart to the whole 
 statue an air of reality and I'fe that has rarely- 
 been approached before. 
 
 In immediate contiguity to this formidable 
 monster is the representation of a young lady 
 whose position not even the most courageous can 
 envy. Evidently not de-ep'.y indebted to the mil- 
 liner for her costume, or the saddler for her ac- 
 coutrements, and mounted, en cavalier, upon a 
 fiery steed, the dauntless damsel is preparing — 
 not witii a light whip to remove a fly from his 
 arched neck, but — with comparative composure 
 and determination, to transfix a tiger of no ordi- 
 nary magnitude, whose intentions to breakfast 
 upon her honpe's shoulder are sufficiently appa- 
 rent It has never been our fate to witness a 
 similar incident; it might therefore savor of pre- 
 sumption to criticise too minutely the daring 
 effort either of the sculptor or of the dark eques- 
 trian. Most of our fidr readers and riders, how- 
 ever determined their disposition or great the 
 affection for their favorite, would, we opine, be 
 inclined to abandon him to his fate if thus as- 
 sailed, rather than enter upon so unequal a con- 
 test. 
 
 Russia has had assigned to her an extent of 
 space proportionate to her territorial immensity 
 and the perfurmances of her sons indicate, on 
 their part, indomitable peiseverance, patience 
 and ingenuity. Democratic America, in unnatural 
 proximity to the possessions of the Czar, engages 
 the beholder more from the utilitarian character 
 than from the extraordinary beauty and taste 
 displayed in her supplies, although she scarcely 
 occupies her original superficial allotment. 
 
 It is stated that the Swiss have evinced the 
 greatest amount of mechanical ingenuity and 
 manual dexterity. There is a pen-holder from 
 Geneva, of no more than ordinary dimensions, 
 yet containing within its minute tubular concavity 
 a train of watchwork, wound up by a little stud at 
 the side, and showing not only the exact minute 
 and hour, but the day of the week and month. 
 A still more complicated piece of machinery is 
 that contained in a musical-box in which an en- 
 tire military band, admirably modelled and 
 characterised by the most life like movements, 
 are seen performing numerous recent and difficult 
 specimens of modern music. A golden pocket- 
 book, adorned with exquisite miniature-paintings 
 and landscapes, incloses, within a very narrow 
 compass, a chronometer and a secret receptacle 
 either for a treasured portrait or a cherished lock. 
 The varieties, however, from the several Cantons 
 are exceedingly numerous, and each beautiful of 
 its kind. Many days might profitably be passed 
 in studying these Helvetic works alone. 
 
 In the British portion of the edifice, are to be 
 seen statues of every dimension; fountains even 
 more imposing than those in Trafalgar square ; 
 models upon a grand scale of various public un- 
 dertakings; an achromatic telescope elaborately 
 mounted, with object glass twelve inches in di- 
 ameter ; an enormous dome cast in iron at Cole- 
 brook Dale ; endless varieties of silken tissue of 
 every hue and texture ; dazzling arrays of the 
 cutlery of Shefiield, from the heavy dragoon's 
 trenchant-blade to the schoolboy's pocket-knife ; 
 a pair of resplendent shears, more than a cubit in 
 length, with the bows and shank richly orna- 
 mented with a diversity of graceful patterns, all 
 wrought out of the cold metal by the file alone, 
 the blades being also elaborately chased by the 
 graver's hand. The steam-engines, marine, buco- 
 lic, stationary and portable, the lathes, hydraulic- 
 presse.s, gas-generators, brewing machines, pumps, 
 and agricultural implements, from their number 
 and diversity, and the space that even a brief 
 notice of them would occupy, we are compelled 
 to pass without comment. 
 
 This great event will mark a new era in the 
 history of mankind. One of the most immediate 
 and probable of its eff'ects is the cementation of 
 the bonds of peace. In former times, ur in an- 
 other country, this remarkable demonstration 
 could hardly have occurred. The ordinary diffi- 
 culties and charges of traveling constituted of 
 themselves, till lately, an insuperable impedi- 
 ment. The innumerable and impolitic restric- 
 tions, insecurity of property, and instability of 
 government, would amount almost to a prohibi- 
 tion elsewhere even now. It will also be inter- 
 
60 
 
 TRUE GREATNESS, 
 
 esting, in a philosophic point of view, to note the 
 consequences upon the different ranks and de- 
 nominations of men. The assemblage will be 
 motely enough; their opinions, tenets, views, 
 feelings, religions as varied as their complexions 
 
 and physiognomies, and characters. It will be 
 hard, itideed, if some important end does not 
 spring from the temporary yet peaceful collision 
 into which they will be brought. 
 
 TRUE GREATNESS. 
 
 True greatness is the offspring of real goodness. 
 No man can be truly great without being really 
 good Tiie one is inseparably connected with the 
 other. As the moon is to the sun, so is greatness 
 to goodness ; each receives light and beauty from 
 t he other. That which is usually called greatness 
 we think lightly of, because it is only an empty 
 sound. It is generally associated with those 
 good, but mis used words, power, glory, and, 
 wealth. Princes, heroes, and capitalists, are its 
 representatives ; and the mean, the idle, and the 
 sordid, are its worshipers-. We do not deny that 
 many belonging to these classes have possessed 
 those elements of greatness which are beginning 
 to be recognized and appreciated by society; but 
 we may safely say, that tlie greater part of them 
 have been strangers to them. How many who 
 have sat on thrones, commanded armies, and 
 possessed millions of money, have embodied in 
 • themselves every feature of vice and wickedness! 
 Their deeds oppressed humanity, and their names 
 are a blot on the page of history. Grecian, Ro- 
 man, and even English history abounds witli in- 
 stances of the so-called great, wiiose lives were 
 marked by the foulest crimes, and the filthiest 
 conduct. They were a personification of evil, 
 patterns of folly, vice, and crime ; and their me- 
 mories will be loathed by the latest pos- 
 .terity. 
 
 The standard by which men have usually been 
 measured and pronounced great, is a false one, 
 and we rejoice that it is rapidly coming into dis- 
 use. Men are beginning to be valued by their 
 
 mental and moral worth. The riches of the mind 
 and the wealth of the heart are the principal 
 elements in that greatness which we desire to see 
 universal. The peasant in his cottage may 
 possess more of true greatness than the monarch 
 in his palace. Genius may inspire his mind, and 
 virtue inflame his heart ; nobility may be impress- 
 ed on his brow, and beauty beam in his eye ; the 
 voice of praise may sound in his ear, and the pen 
 of the historian record his works of faith, and la- 
 bor of love ; whilst his princely neighbor, whose 
 only boast is of power, wealth and ancestry, is a 
 plague-spot in creation. He can truly say, " I 
 am creation's heir ; the world — the world is mine !" 
 This is not an imaginary picture ; it is exempli- 
 fied in the lives of many of our countrymen. It 
 !j;ives us peculiar pleasure to have to state, that 
 there is also a large class of the noble and weal- 
 thy who are embodying in their lives the true 
 and genuine principle of greatness. They value 
 power and wealth only in proportion as it gives 
 them the means of ministering to the happiness 
 of the poor and the miserable. Royalty and no- 
 bility have condescended to associate with the 
 peasant and the mechanic, and to patronize the 
 humble efforts of the poor sons of Genius. These 
 are delightful signs of the times, and they cannot 
 be over estimated ; class-distinctions, titles and 
 wealth, are all becoming insignificant, even in the 
 eyes of those who are honored with them — in 
 comparison with the noble dignity and excellence 
 of religious virtue and intellect. 
 
Clje Inng nf tjir llaliiii. 
 
 WRITTEN IJV J. K. CARPKNTER. 
 
 COMPOSKD BY UKOUUK LIN'LEY. 
 
 
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 The swallow in spring, builds his nest in the eaves, 
 
 But faithless his friendship, ere winter he leaves ; 
 
 I'm true to my home, wheresoe'er it may be. 
 
 Then may not earth's proud ones take pattern bj' me ? 
 
 I build not my nest on the tree-top or wall, 
 
 For the higher ambition, the lower tlic fall ; 
 
 In winter and summer I'm always the same, 
 
 Not so with some bright-feathered birds I could name. 
 
 And thus sings the Eobin, the bird of the poor, 
 
 As he earols his song by the cottager's door. 
 
 Then should wc not cherish the bird of our youth, 
 If not for his beauty, still more for his tnith ; 
 For his lessons of meekness and constancy blend 
 With feelings still dearer of home and content. 
 Then spurn not the humble : the Robin may teach 
 A moral to minds that no sermon can reach ; 
 They bid us to cling, while hope points from above, 
 To the scenes of our youth, and the friends that we love 
 Oh ! long may the Robin, the bird of the poor, 
 Still carol his song by the cottager's door! 
 
THE PURITANS JUDGED BY THEIR WRITINGS. 
 
 BT PROF. PORTER, TALE 
 
 O L L E O E 
 
 As history is ordinarily written, it is too often 
 a laudatory declamation, setting forth the objects 
 of its praise in high-sounding periods, and 
 blackening the opposing party by as unqualified 
 a condemnation. As -we pass from the perusal 
 of the recorder for one party to tlie advocate of 
 the other, we are embarrassed by our alternating 
 confidence and distrust. Too often do we leave 
 the question at issue entirely undecided, and 
 perhaps adopt the principle never afterwards to 
 give credit to any historian, wliatsoever be his 
 theme. It is true, the skillful student of the past 
 can penetrate successfully through this over-lying 
 mass of embarrassing materials, and can bring up 
 from beneath the whole the simple truth. His 
 practised eye can detect the stroke of the paint- 
 er's pencil by which this beauty is heightened 
 and that defect is concealed. He can distinguish 
 between the extravagance of the desperate and 
 determined adulator, and the warm-hearted fer- 
 vor of the honest chronicler. Where testimony is 
 contradictory, and strenuous and artful attempts 
 are made to illuminate that which is dark, and 
 to darken the bright, he may satisfy himself that 
 he has indeed settled down upon the truth. 
 
 But the great mass of reading men, even of 
 men well-informed, are not practised students of 
 historic records. They have neither the requisite 
 interest in the points at issue, nor have they the 
 opportunities, the time or the patience, which are 
 required for an independent weighing of oppos- 
 ing evidence. However honest may be their 
 intentions, and however sincere their desire to 
 know the simple truth, they are left almost en- 
 tirely at the disposal of partisan liistorians and 
 of partisan reviewers. 
 
 Tliat historian who would gain a victory for 
 truth by means which a noble mind need not 
 scorn to employ, and a victory also which will be 
 an enduring triumph, should present to his 
 readers the men of past days, as they were when 
 they lived, and suflfer them to vindicate their own 
 fame, and achieve their own victories over all 
 those men who are honest enough to love the 
 truth. 
 To apply these principles to the liistory of that 
 
 greatest strife of modern times, which shook all 
 England, we need not refer to Neal and Calamy 
 on the one side, ami compare them with Claren- 
 don and South on the other ; — but opening the 
 writing's of the men who figured at the head of 
 the contending parties, we fearlessly place Hooker 
 and Cartwright, the one against the other. Let 
 us set Milton and Baxter and Howe over against 
 Hall and Taylor and South. We would not ask 
 to record from the testimony of any of these men 
 a single historic fact, but we would gather from 
 the truths for which each contended, and the 
 spirit which breathes in their writings, our final 
 estimate of the claims of either to our highest 
 regard. From themselves would we learn, which 
 of the tvco had more of the truth in their under- 
 standings and more of its spirit in their hearts, 
 and also which of the two parties deserve most 
 liighly the esteem of the present generation. 
 
 Let the characteristic merits and excellencies 
 of each be compared, as they are here displayed, 
 and let the claims of each to our highest favor be 
 fairly adjusted. The best men on each side pos- 
 sessed their characteristic and peculiar excel- 
 lencies, and they were attached to their own 
 views, for v%-hat they deemed to be sutficient 
 reasons and sound principles. These excellen- 
 cies of character, these aims and principles, may 
 and ought to be weighed in the balance against 
 each other. It can be decided, which be of 
 higher worth, the steadAist uprightness with 
 wliich the one sought for the simple truth, and 
 planted themselves firmly upon whatever they 
 deemed to be an enduring principle, or the stead- 
 fast aim of the other, to bring matters of doctrine 
 and discipline only so near the truth as might 
 " stand with godly and christian wisdom ;'' — which 
 bespeaks the nobler mind, to believe that such 
 •wisdom was to be exemplified by yielding to the 
 inflexible decree of the occupant of the throne, or 
 to cherish the strong confidence, that truth, by 
 her innate energy, and witli aid from heaven, 
 could, if boldly supported, force her way in face 
 of the arbitrary Henry, the splendid but despotic 
 Elizabeth, and the vain-glorious James. It can 
 be decided -who are most to be honored for this 
 
64 
 
 THE PURITANS JUDGED BY THEIR WRITINGS. 
 
 same "godly and christian ■wisdom," the men 
 who against sight and hope committed their 
 cause to Him who reigns in righteousness, and 
 whose throne is girt about with truth, or they 
 who deemed it the part of wise men to yieLl to 
 the strong current of temporal authority, and to 
 give place for a time to "spiritual wickedness in 
 high places." 
 
 The wisdom of the Puritan leaders, in their 
 practical judgments, of what they miglit yield, 
 wiih a B.ife and even an enlightened conscience, 
 is a point, in regard to which their opponents 
 find it easiest to claim the preeminence for them- 
 selves. The impression is widely diffused, that 
 they were certainly deluded men, even if we 
 allow them to have been honest. With the 
 homage of unfeigned admiration, have we read 
 the address of the celebrated Hooker to the non- 
 conformists of his day, contained in the Preface to 
 his work upon Ecclesiastical Polity. We have 
 asked ourselves again and again (with quite as 
 much honest reverence for Hooker's wisdom and 
 worth, as those who feel bound in conscience to 
 become Episcopalians because Hooker and Tay- 
 lor were great men), — Can it be that the man 
 who, in these few pages, has given us such an 
 amount of practical wisdom, condensed as it is in 
 the most forcible maxims, could have erred in his 
 judgment as to which course was that demanded 
 by christian wisdom? We have easily answered 
 the question of our own asking, by laying out of 
 view the high and philosophic eloquence of the 
 advocate, and looking at Hooker's argument. 
 Side by side with his powerful sophistry — we 
 call it sophistry, as it is the application of the 
 wisest maxims to false hypotheses — we have 
 placed the brief and simple argument of some 
 quaint Puritan divine, and have felt that the 
 latter, though of a homelier, was yet of a wiser 
 mind. Hooker is not the first nor the last instance 
 of a man of scholastic habits and much abstract 
 wi.=dom, who has yet been greatly in fault in his 
 judgment of practical questions. " I must ac- 
 i;nowledge," says Colerigde, "with some hesita- 
 tion, that I think Hooker has been a little over- 
 credited for his judgment." 
 
 We find it not at all difiicult to decide who 
 displayed tlie firmest heroism. They certainly 
 will bear off the palm, whose sinews were as 
 steel, and whose hearts were as iron in the con- 
 tests with those who, though bold for the monarch 
 whom tliey honored and the church they loved, 
 yet becau^e they relied on aid that was seen, 
 could neither write nor battle as they did who 
 had no reliance but in their own good cause and 
 unseen God. 
 
 In lof;inessof im.igiiKitien, tl;ey stand r.irpasjed 
 
 by none, and in the highest flights of enthusiastic 
 ardor, — flights in which some indeed soared so 
 high as to break the very pinions on which they 
 were borne upward. What though Butler has 
 attempted to present to the world the fervid 
 workings of their ardent enthusiasm as the rank 
 and fermenting mass of crazed and Quixotic 
 fancies? What if Scott, though aiming to be 
 more fair, has yet failed to be moved as a poet 
 should have been, by the high ardor of their 
 fervid spirit and the solemn fixedness of that faith 
 which torture and death only provoked to a more 
 steadfast sternness ? We venture still to assert, 
 that no class of men deserve more to be admired 
 for the noble ideality of their aims and the sublime 
 entlmsiasm of their disinterested souls, than the 
 non-conforming divines and warriors of the seven- 
 teeth century. Their boldness and their ardor 
 led them into excess, but into such excess as can 
 be charged to great natures alone. Its fire is the 
 very stuff of which poetry is made, and imper- 
 sonated as it was in the verse and the more 
 poetic prose of Milton, it challenges a parallel to 
 itself in the history of the word. What if our 
 " amateur divines," and fastidious critics, blush 
 for their Puritan parentage and descent, because 
 they did not dwell in the haunts of the Muses 
 and sip at the shallow springs which flow from 
 the fountains of Helicon ? We tell them what 
 they ought to have felt for themselves, that the 
 Puritans did not write, because they acted, poems. 
 Shame on the men, who are not " strongly at- 
 tracted by the moral purity and greatness, and 
 that sanctity of civil and religious duty, with 
 which the tyranny of Charles the First was 
 struggled against." 
 
 "Nor shall the eternal roll of praise reject 
 Those unconforming ; whom one rigorous day 
 Drives from their Cures, a voluntary prey 
 To poverty and grief, and disrespect. 
 And some to want — as if by tempest wrecked 
 On a wild coast ; how destitute 1 did they 
 Feel not that conscience never can betray, 
 That peace of mind is virtue's sure effect ? 
 Their altars they forego, their homes ; they quit 
 Fields which they love, and paths they daily trod, 
 And cast the future upon Providence ; 
 As men the dictate of whose inward sense 
 Outweighs the world j whom self-deceiving wit 
 Lures not from what they deem the cause of God." 
 
 We wish also that with respect to the faults 
 of the two parties, a comparison might be insti- 
 tuted, and that the question might be decided 
 whether the party opposed to the Puritans were 
 not as deeply tinctured with those very faults 
 which are charged to the Puritans alone, and for 
 which they are so generally cast out to reproach. 
 Were they excessively scrupulous ? Did they 
 
THE PURITANS JUDGED BY THEIR WRITINGS, 
 
 65 
 
 attach an undue importance to matters of trivial 
 consequence ? Doubtless they did. But let it be 
 remembered, that the times were times of ex- 
 cessive scrupulosity, and that the two opposing 
 parties in politics and religion ought alike to 
 receive tliis cliargc from those men of the present | 
 da}' who seem to understand the motives and | 
 conduct of neither. They were scrupulous for the 
 same reason that the courtier is so nice in mat- I 
 ters of etiquette, and the duellist so precise in | 
 applying the law of honor, because they deemed j 
 it of importance to uphold or withstand great 
 principles even in things which otlierwise had 
 been but trifles indeed. The Puritans are laughed 
 at for their scruples about the square cap and the 
 surplice. It is forgotten, that they did not 
 regard the cap and the surplice as in themselves 
 of consequence, but in the times in which they 
 lived, and knowing well the influence of sucli 
 things over the people, they refused them, as 
 relics of popery ; and it is for no man to condemn 
 them, who cannot go back into those times, and 
 understand whether they were trifles then or not. 
 When conformity was pressed upon them, on 
 their allegiance to their sovereign and the rulers 
 of the church, they resisted upon another princi- 
 ple, which concerned no less a matter than the 
 freedom which should be claimed b}' a man and 
 a Christian. They scrupled about "the habits" 
 as Hampden did about the ship money, and upon 
 the same principles which roused the spirit of 
 our fathers against the stamp act. Let it be 
 allowed, that they were too scrupulous in with- 
 holding conformity in regard to trifles. Elizabeth 
 and Whitgift were equally so in enforcing con- 
 formity in matters so trivial, with this difference, 
 that if the queen, witli the arch-bishop, led tlie 
 way by making such terrible deinonstraticns of 
 lier over nice fancy, it was hardly to be expected 
 but that her subjects should be strenuous even in 
 small matters, to assert to themselves the liberty 
 wherewith Christ liad made them free. 
 
 But the Puritans were certainly more narrow- 
 minded tlian the defenders of the church. So far 
 from this, — as these men appear to us in their 
 writings, they were possessed of a larger liberal- 
 ity in tlieir views, and a loftier elevation in their 
 sentiments, than were their opponents. Both, it 
 is true, erred in a too narrow and forced inter- 
 pretatii^n of the Scriptures, especially in relation 
 to the points at issue in their controversy. The 
 Puritans may in this respect have erred more 
 frequently and more fantastically than the writers 
 of the other party. But we count it the error of 
 the nobler sort, to interpret the prophets and the 
 apostles a little too strictly, than first to exalt 
 the fathers to an authority almost divine, and 
 
 then to subject them to a constrained interpreta- 
 tion. An inherent vitiosity in the principles of 
 the defenders of the church, and a tame cringing 
 to usurped authority, under the fair aspect of the 
 reverence and honor due to God's vicegerents, 
 could not but be seen in the contracting influence 
 whicli it exerted over the noblest minds. No 
 dignity or beauty of style, no general elevation 
 of philosophic eloquence, can secure even the 
 noblest men who defended the church against the 
 non-conformists, from the charge of being essen- 
 tially narrow in their principles and illiberal in 
 their feelings towards those who differed from 
 them. This give.? a dark shade to the otherwise 
 luminous pages of the noble Hooker. This gives 
 to the wonderful Taylor the appearance of doting 
 superstition, in what he says of the fathers and 
 the church, which the golden tissue of his length- 
 ened periods and the sweet music of his heavenly 
 aspirations can never wipe away. Who can con- 
 trast the fervent affection and the deep reverence 
 with which some of the non conformist writers 
 speak of their dear mother the church of England, 
 and the general respectwith which her character 
 and fame is treated by them all, with the excom- 
 municatory fury with which the gentle Taylor 
 always speaks of the non conformists, and the 
 biting sarcasm with which they are transfixed 
 by the witty South, and not decide at once who 
 possess-ed the nobler and more liberal souls ? 
 
 We are not careful to assert the claims of the 
 Puritans to the highest literary merit. As we 
 have already intimated, they had a higher calling 
 than that of merely literary cultivation. They 
 furnished the materials for literature in their own 
 fervid souls and in the stern conflicts which they 
 sustained. They could not stay to mould and 
 make them permanent, by polished care, and 
 elaborate w()rkman>hip. And yet to their claims 
 to literary merit, but recently, the greatest injus- 
 tice has been done by the body of English critics. 
 We admit that a greater number of writers of an 
 inferior grade, belonging to the Puritan party, 
 have survived till the present time, than can be 
 named upon the other side. Writers of every 
 (aade were probably ten or a hundred fold more 
 numerous from among the Puritans than from 
 among their opponents in the excitements of the 
 p.issing contests .Many of them are homely and 
 fantastical enough, in point of language and of 
 thought, and so doubtless, with a few splendid 
 exceptions, were the mass of the devotional and 
 controversial writers upon the opposite side. 
 
 There are also splendid names in literature 
 from among the Puritans. There is Milton, and 
 Vane, and Andrew Marvel, and Baxter, and 
 Bates, and Bunyan, and Howe. There may be 
 
66 
 
 THE SISTERS OF BETHANY. 
 
 those who profess to be critical in matters of this 
 nature, who are so entranced with the substantial 
 strength of the judicious Hooker, that they can 
 find no merit in the surpassing sublimity of the 
 noble Howe. There may be others who, while 
 they delight in the brilliant acuteness of the witty 
 South, have no high meed of praise to render to 
 the fiery directness and the unrivalled simplicity 
 
 of one Richard Baxter, or who wander with 
 delight through the endless mazes of Taylor's 
 accumulated richness, but who have neither eye 
 nor ear nor soul, to be moved by the surprising 
 imagery of Bunyan. There may be such critics. 
 We wish them sounder principles and a more 
 catholic taste. 
 
 THE SISTERS OF BETHANY. 
 
 BY MARGARET JUNKIN 
 
 The fervid summer day drew near its close, 
 And on the eastern slopes of Olivet 
 Cool shadov/s deepened, while the sunshine lay 
 Still bright upon its summit. Faint and slow. 
 With weary step and garments travel-stained, 
 Trod Jesus, followed by his lowly train, 
 The streets of olive-shaded Bethany. 
 
 He had been often there. "When all the day, 
 
 From the first gleam of morning on the heights 
 
 Of Mount Moriah, till the western hills 
 
 Were dim with twilight, he had stood and taught 
 
 Within the temple-porches, — he would go. 
 
 When all had left him for their homes, and seek 
 
 Rest for his homeless head in Bethany. 
 
 And when returned from far Gennesaret, 
 
 Or through the Gallilean villages 
 
 That had received him not, — most sorrowful 
 
 And sad of brow, — how often had he there 
 
 Experienced such welcome as revived 
 
 His sinking spirit, quick to every touch 
 
 Of sympathetic love ! For never yet 
 
 Breathed there humanities so exquisite, 
 
 Or sympathies so yearning, or a depth 
 
 Of tenderness so fathomless, as throbbed 
 
 Within the Saviour's perfect, human soul ! 
 
 And, most remembered visit — he had come 
 In answer to the sisters' sweet appeal, 
 And at the sepulchre of Lazarus 
 Their tears had flowed together. Holy tears ! 
 The strongest cement that hath ever joined 
 Heart unto heart in sacred union, such 
 As fiei-y trials fail to disunite. 
 
 Or freezing circumstance of time and change 
 In vain would snap, — or oversweeping waves 
 Of intervening anguish ebb and leave 
 Indissoluble still, — are the sweet tears 
 Shed with us in our sorrows ! And if dear 
 Had been the Saviour's friendship to their souls 
 In their calm happiness, how more intense 
 Their sense of his affection when they saw 
 Him weeping for them ! Not such touching proof 
 Was the high exercise of Godhead's power, 
 That bade their brother from the grave come 
 
 forth. 
 And turned their grief to sudden ecstacy, 
 As these few, blessed tears. 
 
 And now, once more, 
 Christ and the twelve seek rest at Bethany. 
 Never had Martha opened yet her door 
 To him so joyfully ; for Lazarus, 
 Who, when he last had come, lay a swathed 
 
 corpse. 
 Was now the first to greet him, with a smile 
 So angel-like on his adoring lips. 
 That to the sister's fond belief he seemed 
 Too holy for the old, fixmiliar love 
 They lavished once upon him. 
 
 Martha flew 
 To testify her eager gratitude 
 By busy ministrations to the worn 
 And weai'ied Saviour. She was not content 
 Only to lave his brow and bathe his feet. 
 And bring reviving wine and simple food. 
 As Mary did, and then like Mary sit 
 
WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 61 
 
 Absorbed, — unwilling that an earthly care 
 
 Should rob her of instruction so divine ; 
 
 But with a nature lesser spiritualized, 
 
 And with mistaken yet most earnest zeal, 
 
 She sought to gratify with sick repast 
 
 His outward sense whose meat and drink it was 
 
 To do his Father's will. 
 
 With restless hand 
 And rapid step and a flushed countenance, 
 She urged the preparations, — passing oft 
 In her quick movements to and fro, where sat 
 The loving Mary with her radiant face, 
 In its meek reverence so beautiful. 
 Lifted to Jesus, and her lips apart 
 In rapt attention, and her sweet, soft eyes, 
 Softer and sweeter for their haze of tears. 
 
 Chafed by her self-imposed and burdening care, 
 And by the mute reproach of Mary's brow, 
 So calmly earnest, — and the confident thought, 
 That only thus could honor due be shown 
 To such a guest, — she broke with sudden heat 
 
 Upon his teachings :— " Master, car'st thou not 
 My sister leaveth me to serve alone ? 
 Bid her that she do help me!" 
 
 The rude word 
 Startled the listening Mary from her trance ; 
 The raised lids fell, and the light veil of mist 
 That dimmed the azure eyes, became a shower 
 Of falling tears.— And had she then indeed. 
 While her own soul had fed on angels' food. 
 Been too unmindful of the Master's need? 
 But when she heard his meekly milk rebuke — 
 His "il/ar</<a—J/rt?V/f a"— breathed in tones of 
 
 such 
 Impressive iteration, — when she felt 
 His hand laid gently on her low-bowed head 
 And caught his dear approval,— "Mary hath 
 Chosen that better part whicli never shall 
 Be taken from her,"— all her doubts removed ; 
 Her tears grew bright beneath the bursting flood 
 Of full, soid-sunlight, and the promise stood, 
 A rainbow in the heaven of her eye ! 
 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY 
 
 BY EEV. HENRY M. FIELD 
 
 I LOVE to spend the hour of twilight among 
 tombs. The interval between day and night is 
 like the period of transition between life and 
 death. Our thoughts glide insensibly from one 
 into the other. 
 
 The shadows of evening deepen as we enter 
 under the arches of the old Abbey of Westmin- 
 ster. Now I am among the dead. My own 
 footfall on the pavements startles me like a 
 sound from tlie sepulchre. I steal along the 
 aisles with a cautious step, lest I should wake 
 the sleepers underneath. Here are England's 
 dead. Here lie Kings and Queens, all silent in 
 their royal House of Death, with their hands 
 folded on their breasts. What tales of history 
 come back, as I pause before the tombs, and 
 hear the guide say, " Elizabeth !" "Mary, Queen 
 of Scots." What are they all now ? Dust, dust, 
 that would be offensive to the sense, but for the 
 crumbling stone which covers them. 
 
 The coronetless race of dukes, and earls and 
 knights, that are entombed here, I pass by- 
 But now come different names, — Isaac Newton 
 and John Milton. Tiie tombstones of Fox and Pitt 
 and Sheridan are imbedded in the pavement of the 
 church, so that we literally walk over tlie graves 
 of these men whose renown once filled the earth. 
 The epitaphs are generally in a strain of fulsome 
 eulogy. But there are a few which are simple and 
 beautiful:—" rare Ben Johnson."* " Warren 
 Hastings— J/cns aqua in arduis." The monument 
 ofShakspeare is a statue of the poet, resting 
 his head on his right liand, and pointing with his 
 left to a scroll, which bears his own lines : — 
 
 " The cloiid-capt lower, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself. 
 Yea, all which it inherits, shall di.ssolve, 
 And like the baseless fabric of a vision, 
 Leave not a wreck behind." 
 
 *J^'otts of a Late Traveler. 
 
THE WO-PROPHET OF JERUSALEM 
 
 A SACRED SKETCH. 
 
 BY METTA VICTORIA FULLER 
 
 " A VOICE from the east, a voice from the west, 
 a voice from the four winds, a voice against 
 Jerusalem and the holy house, a voice against 
 the bridegrooms and the brides, and a voice 
 against the whole people." 
 
 Through all the lanes of Jerusalem, by day 
 and by night, unceasingly, went out that wild and 
 fearful denunciation. With an awful and pro- 
 phetic sound it struck upon the hearts of the in- 
 habitants. Peace and prosperity reigned through- 
 out the city ; yet did that terrible cry ring 
 through its extent — ring, ring, ring, at every gate, 
 in every narrow street, from every side — even as 
 in the bright afternoon the dark shadow prognos- 
 ticates the coming of night ! 
 
 The denunciator was a man singular of aspect 
 and of tone. His uncovered hair was long and 
 stiff and black, streaked with white, hanging in 
 disorder over his broad pale brows, shaggy and 
 lowering. His eyes were dark and sunken, and 
 so unnaturally bright and so wildly melancholy 
 that none met their glance without a shudder; 
 his cheeks were sallow and hollow ; his form was 
 short and gaunt. Ever and ever for months and 
 years his deep, unearthly voice rang out, filled 
 with that terrible burden. 
 
 He went not into any house — he spoke not to 
 any living creature. They took him and cruelly 
 scourged him — they lashed him till the white 
 bones gleamed out from the bloody flesh ! — he 
 had but one reply to their torture of the whip — 
 
 " Wo — wo to Jerusalem !" 
 
 Some gave food to the fanatic ; and his burning 
 eyes filled them with terror as they did so ; but 
 he gave them no thanks — he took the meat from 
 their extended hands and turned from them, 
 screaming with his wild lips — 
 " Wo — wo to Jerusalem !" 
 Some beat him and stoned him and spit upon 
 him — but he gave back no reproaches ; still the 
 same mournful, thrilling, unearthly cry of — 
 '• Wo — wo to Jerusalem !" 
 And v\'hile he still uttered his melancholy pro- 
 phecy, the wo did indeed come upon the holy 
 
 city. Even while they scoffed at him and bruised 
 him, their hearts were made to quake and trem- 
 ble beneath the gleam of the fiery sword burning 
 in the heavens above — to shudder at the red eyes 
 of the comet looking down upon their doom — to 
 turn faint-hearted at the silent opening of the 
 great gate of the Temple. 
 
 Ay ! the desolation and the wo came upon 
 them ! — in horrors and terrors it came upon them. 
 The air was wild with the moans and groans, 
 the shrieks and the wailing of sufferers — it was 
 dark and polluted with the effluvia of festering 
 corses — sharp with the rattle and clash of arms- 
 It was a desolation such as never before came 
 upon a city — a wo so long protracted and so full 
 of agonies ! Famished men strove to lift their 
 swords, and failing for want of strength, fell upon 
 them and died ; and the last sound in their ears 
 was — 
 
 " Wo — wo — wo !" 
 
 Rising above the howl of ravenous dogs, that 
 startling cry would reach the ear of the hapless 
 maiden perishing for want of food, and as her 
 dim eyes closed in death, that sound would re- 
 call her wandering soul to a thought of the hap- 
 piness and the pride that was hers when first 
 that lament chilled her blood, as she leaned her 
 young hand on the bosom of a lover now rotting 
 by the city walls. In the silent midnight, with 
 the windows darkened to conceal to those with- 
 out the light in the beautiful apartment, a mother 
 would take the dagger, all the gems in the handle 
 of which would not buy her a meal, and without 
 a quiver of the shrunken hand, once so delicate 
 and soft, plunge it in the throat of the infant 
 wailing in her arms. Then, as she laid the flesh 
 of her own flesh on the golden dish and tore it 
 with her maddened teeth, the scream of the man 
 filled with this divine fury smote upon her reck- 
 less ear — 
 
 " Wo — wo to Jerusalem !" 
 
 And after the warning voice was stilled, the 
 desolation went on towards the completion. It 
 came upon the daughters of Jerusalem and upon 
 
EVENING NEAR A GREAT CITY. 
 
 69 
 
 her sons — it came upon the streets and the 
 palaces and the gardens — it came upon the 
 Temple ! 
 
 It came upon the Temple ! and ah ! what a 
 ruin -was that — wl.at a wo was that ! What a 
 mighty affliction! What a scene was that when 
 the Temple was destroyed! Fire-surging, shud- 
 dering waves of fire, rolling and seething — up, 
 around, above, about, over, the magnificent build- 
 ing ! Fire over the cloisters— around the pil- 
 lars — over the glittering golden front — within the 
 sanctuary — above the tiles ! — fire !' fire ! — red, 
 angry, darting, fierce, irresistible fire ! — tongues 
 of fire licking up the shining melted gold — hands 
 of fire tearing down the polished marble — 
 streams of fire flowing over the roof — tigers of 
 fire springing up to the pinnacle ! — a hill of fire — 
 an ocean of fire — an ocean of fire and blood ! 
 
 What a clamor was that! what a lamenta- 
 tion — what a tumult — what a dire distress — 
 ■what an overthrow ! 
 
 That was indeed the madness of tumult. 
 Where ever before upon earth mingled such a 
 sea of sounds ? The shouts of the Roman myri- 
 ads — the wailing, the shrieking of the despairing 
 populace — the sharp groans of the wounded — the 
 awful curses of anger — the terrible outcry of all 
 passions — the moans of all suffering — the clangor 
 of arms — the crash of falling walls — the fearful 
 shrieks of the hundreds perishing in the flames ! — 
 all these sounds, and innumerably many more, 
 mingled and blent with the one awful, surging, 
 
 maddening roar of the conflagration ! The 
 mountains near about echoed back the loud con- 
 fusion of sounds, like deep, denouncing thunders ! 
 The air was rent to pieces ! up, up from the 
 fated city rolled the wild clamor to the skies, 
 groaning to the God of Heaven its burden of — 
 
 Wo ! wo ! wo to Jerusalem ! 
 
 The forebodings which shadowed the solemn 
 minds of the prophets had become reality ; the 
 destiny of the holy city, foretold and forefelt. 
 was fulfilled. When Christ mourned for Jerusa- 
 lem, there was a mournful radiance over all its 
 streets and palaces, a glitter over all its foun- 
 tains, the beautiful dome was hovering in a golden 
 cloud about it, ready to swoop from its crimson 
 and purple-pillared resting-place, to dwell for 
 ever in the holy city and the temple. But none 
 of the million hearts below yearned for it or 
 beckoned it down from its high abode of sunset 
 magnificence, and it flew away forever from that 
 spot, through the falling of the twilight gloom. 
 It flew away for ever, and went to the lonely 
 mountains, the dark caverns, the fearful arenas, 
 the torturing stakes, the damp prisons where 
 Christians suffered and triumphed. It sweetened 
 the rays stealing up from secret caves ; it beauti- 
 fied each solemn meeting of the faithful with its 
 radiance. Its rich song gladdened men's hearts 
 to rapture as they knelt in prayer — soothed the 
 widow's sorrow and the maiden's tears, and led 
 a persecuted band to glory. Beautiful and bles- 
 sed dome ! 
 
 EVENING NEAR A GREAT CITY. 
 
 In a sweet sommer's eve, when the snn was declining, 
 I stray'd forlli alone through the grass-cover'd fields; 
 
 Thonih my spirit was sad, yet it felt nofepinincr ; 
 'Twas only the mosing which solitnde yields. 
 
 Overcome by the spell that was breathing through natare, 
 
 I calmly sat down t' inhale its repo'^e ; 
 At my side grew an oak-of magnificent statnre. 
 
 And round me there bloom'd the wild thorn and the rose. 
 
 What a picture of peace in the qniet feeding cattle ! 
 
 How soft and snhdned is the song of the lark ! 
 Scarce a word can he heard of the boys' wearied prattle, 
 
 As homeward they wend ere the falling of dark. 
 
 Rut far (iffto ihe east, with its smokp-clouil o'erhanging, 
 The city has stretcli'd, as if silent in death ; 
 
 Surely there is a lesson that needs no haranguing — 
 It weighs on the sool till it stifles the breath . 
 
 There the thousands of men from all countries assemble. 
 To toil for a jiittance, to grasp after gain : 
 
 Life is urged to a speed that may well make us tremble — 
 The hotbed of passion, and sorrow, and pain. 
 
 Ah I 'tis easy for those who are villaloilied magnates 
 To talk of the beauty and wealth of the town ; 
 
 But 'tis there (he deep ce«spi)ol of misery sta^'nates. 
 And all the worst seeils of corruption are grown. 
 
 If we knew the sad tale of the spirits who languish . 
 
 While toiling Mkc slaves in yon close huddled cells. 
 It would wring from the heart an expression of anguish — 
 
 Great towns are a curse ; they are prisons and hells. 
 
 Lord ! have mercy on man ; he is wretchedly dying ; 
 
 Send light from above ; let him breathe ihy free grace : 
 Christian, run to the bed where thy brother is lying, 
 
 What joy might he feel io thy loving embrace ! 
 
MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES 
 
 BY MRS. M 
 
 DOUBLEDAT, 
 
 As I glanced over the paper of the day, my 
 eye fell upon the paragraph, " Died, deeply re- 
 gretted, Mrs. , the wife of the Honorable 
 
 Death happeneth to all ; and the announcement 
 of the death of one numbered among our dearer 
 friends seldom stirs the deeper fountains of feel- 
 ing. Strange and sorrowful is it, too, to find that 
 the ties of friendship are so slight, that we feel so 
 little when the rude hand of death disperses 
 them. A passing sigh, a transient sadness, is the 
 costliest tribute paid to those who have been 
 truly loved, to whom our souls Avere once bound ; 
 and the burst of a deeper feeling would bring the 
 charge of a sickly sentiment, or of an ostenta- 
 tious display, to which a plain, practical business 
 man would not be apt to expose liirnself. 
 
 Why, then, did such a deep emotion oppress 
 and almost overpower me as I read the announce- 
 ment above — the slight notice of the passing 
 away of one scr.rcely known for the last twenty 
 years — of one who had never recognized any other 
 relation than that of a passing acquaintanceship 
 between us? Yet well might I ponder an event 
 which recalled the memory of her who had ex- 
 erted, albeit however unconsciously, an influence 
 all-powerful upon my character and upon my 
 destiny. Did she, who had now passed away 
 from earth, ever suspect how much she had been 
 to rae ? Could she have known what hours of 
 bitter agony, what months of conflict and suflir- 
 ing, what years of toil and trial she had inflicted 
 upon me? 
 
 Did she ever imagine how many were the 
 obligations she had laid upon me? Could she 
 estimate the deep debt of gratitude I owed one, 
 whose influence had raised me above the gross- 
 ness of sense, the pursuits of the mere worldling, 
 or, perchance, from a deeper degradation, into 
 the purer atmosphere of refinement, of taste, of 
 intellectual enjoyment, until I attained the higher 
 elevation of the Christian hope and faith ? 
 
 No; she who had now entered another sphere, 
 surely, while she sojourned here, had never known 
 that her influence had moulded my character and 
 decided my destiny. Slie had never, in all rea- 
 
 son, dreamed that she influenced my lot for weal or 
 wo. How could she have even imagined all she 
 had been to me, all she had wrought for me? 
 Her orbit had crossed my path ; but her sphere 
 was distinct, apart, separate from mine. Her 
 love had blessed another man ; she had shed the 
 light of her virtue around his dwelling ; her 
 children had been taken to Ijis arms. Not mine 
 had been the privilege of witnessing the constant 
 flow of all the graces in her daily life — not mine 
 the sad blessedness of ministering to her in her 
 hours of languor, of disease, of decay, of support- 
 ing her in the last parting agony. 
 
 By all the presumption of common usage, by 
 all the meaning of common observation, I had no 
 rights, no claims — I was nothing to her ; and she, 
 what was she to me? what was her death to 
 me — to me, to whom she had been dead for these 
 twenty years? It did not affect me personally; 
 if it darkened my hours, it cast no shadow over 
 my dwelling ; it did not affect my business, my 
 prospects ; it did not change the employments of 
 an hour. It was only one of the many voices, faint, 
 unheeded, proclaiming the great law. Death hath 
 passed upon all, for all have sinned. And yet I 
 had an interest in her; and there were tlie ties 
 which bound me to her — strong though invisible ; 
 and of the many who wept and bewailed her, I, 
 perhaps, loved her most of all. Yet my obliga- 
 tions to her arose not from what she was to me, 
 but from what she was in herself; and I must 
 say what I was, before I can tell all that she be- 
 came to me, and what she made me. 
 
 I had never known the refinements, the luxu- 
 ries of life ; and to attain an education, and a legal 
 profession, I had foregone its necessaries. I was 
 finishing my law course in tlie office of Judge 
 S , a man of high standing and legal attain- 
 ment. I recall mj'self as I then was, with a 
 strong will, an energetic purpose, a full conscious- 
 ness of mental power, a proud self-reliance, and 
 a determination to force myself to that favorable 
 spot upon the strand of fortune wliere the tide 
 sliould be sure to find me, and taking me up, 
 lead me onward to fame, and wealth, and honor. 
 Those who, having passed their earlier days in 
 
"MORE PRECIOUS TIIAX RUBIES, 
 
 •71 
 
 bonJage, and penury, and ignorance, after placed 
 in circumstances favorable to their intellectual 
 progress, often make a rapid improvement. 
 Many such there are. Strong-minded, able men 
 they become; but, perhaps, at their first outset 
 in their new life, they are as remarkable for their 
 self-conceit as for their progress : their knowledge 
 does not seem to be woven into the warp and 
 woof of their minds ; it ratlier seems to hang 
 about them, than to be incorporated into or to be 
 a part of them ; there is an incongruity in the 
 whole character, and thus it was with me. I 
 was ill at ease, not at home even with myself — 
 proud, boisterous fond of disputation, contempt- 
 uous of all those whom 1 fancied deemed them- 
 selves my superiors ; yet timid, shy, bashful, 
 trembling, before those I despised. 
 
 Painfullj- conscious of my ignorance of the con- 
 ventionalities of polished life, I dreaded the 
 drawing-room, and eagerly escaped the proflered 
 civilities which would draw me within its pre- 
 cincts. 
 
 It was, therefore, an accident which first 
 brought me within the family circle of Judge 
 
 S . Once brought under the influence of Mrs. 
 
 S , it was not possible to escape the charm and 
 
 fascination of her manner. I had never before 
 met a woman so highly polished. I have never 
 since known many who have equalled her in 
 grace, dignity, and amenity of manners. To 
 much knowledge of the world she united a fine 
 and cultivated mind ; and that perfect good 
 breeding which made all at ease around her, was 
 the result of a long intercourse with the polished 
 and refined, united to a tact which enabled her to 
 penetrate, by intuition, the tastes and characters, 
 to atlapt herself to those she addressed ; while 
 the purest benevolence, guided by high principle, 
 led her to seek to promote their happiness. 
 
 I am surely voluntarily laying open the wounds 
 long since healed; yet I find the spot tender; it 
 shrinks from the touch ; and 1 am dwelling upon 
 the virtues of the mother the longer, that I dread 
 to recall all the attractions of the daughter. 
 
 When I first met Bessie S , I saw only a 
 
 fine, pale, delicate girl, gentle and retiring. I 
 had heard much of her beauty, and the first im- 
 pression disappointed mo. I thouglit her defi- 
 cient in animation, and lacking in energ}-. I pre- 
 ferred more bloom; atid in the exceeding sim- 
 plicity of her dress I missed the gay colors 
 I deemed so appropriate and becoming to youth 
 and beauty. Gradually I was awakened to the 
 full perception of her loveliness, for she was ex- 
 ceedingl}- lovely. It was not the rich glow 
 which Iiealtli, rude and high, gives. Her beauty 
 did not make you think of tlie rich, spicy fra- 
 
 grance of the pink ; neither was it the sweet, 
 dewy breath of the rose. 
 
 She was beautifiil~but she was even more 
 elegant than beautiful — the highest charms of 
 refinement were imparted to the rarest style of 
 female loveliness. She was as tall, as queenly, 
 as pure, as polished, as the white lily ; and her 
 tastes and character were all in accordance with 
 her style of manner and of beauty. Even her 
 dress indicated the prevailing tone of her mind, 
 and her chosen colors were all subdued, delicate 
 — the faintest rose, the pale straw — while the 
 rich dark braids of her magnificent hair contrasted 
 with her pure pale brow, and the long dark lashes 
 veiled her deep blue eyes. 
 
 She had been educated as well as accompdish- 
 ed. Her mind had been stimulated, and her pow- 
 ers cultivated. She loved to read, altliough she 
 played and played well ; and she could converse 
 as well as sing — and over all was the surpassing 
 charm of the highest feminine grace and refine- 
 ment. I found that I loved her ! A deeper feel- 
 ing than that which arose from my conscious de- 
 ficiencies sent the blood to my cheeks, and stilled 
 the pulsations of my heart. 
 
 Gradually I had been becoming more at ease 
 in the mother's parlor, her fiither's society, and 
 less so in the daughter's presence. I had never 
 been so happy. I was in a pleasant dream, and 
 she was still with me — a softer atmosphere en- 
 veloped me, and life lay in brighter colors before 
 me. A light word or little jest awoke me. I 
 knew that I loved her, and I knew that she did 
 not love me. And could she ever love me? Not 
 as I then was — but as I might be ; and I did what 
 few men have ever done — I sat down to an esti- 
 mate of myself, my prospects, my character, and 
 the probability of winning the heart and of 
 securing the hand of the woman I chose. 
 
 I knew my capacity. I neither underrated nor 
 overrated my powers and my attainments, and I 
 knew that before me there lay every prospect of 
 the attainment of wealth and honor. I had re- 
 ceived such tokens of the good- will of the goddess 
 of fortune, fickle as she may be called, that I be- 
 lieved that I might rely, if I did not presume, upon 
 them ; and 1 knew that I could soon offer Miss 
 
 all the elegancies to which she had been 
 
 accustomed. Would she marry me ? Could she 
 ever so like as to gladly accept me ? I did not 
 in any hour ever imagine that she could love me 
 as I loved her. Such a deep, absorbing passion 
 would be a violence — a variance to the gentle, 
 quiet propriety of her nature. But could she like 
 me so much as to f)refer me to all others — to be 
 happy with me, and make the happiness of my 
 life? 
 
72 
 
 "MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES." 
 
 Hooked at myself— I had despised and neglect- 
 ed all the minor proprieties of life, regarding all 
 attention to dress and appearances as only worthy 
 of the coxcomb; loosely and slovenly dressed — 
 lips and teeth stained by the use of the national 
 weed — clothes ill-chosen, ill-made, ill-fitting — 
 with dull and dusty boot, and browned and un- 
 gloved hand ; and I smiled at the incongruity, as 
 I thought, of such an apparition claiming the 
 
 elegant Bessie S , and of right drawing her 
 
 small French-gloved hand under his arm. I felt 
 that I must be a different man, before I sought 
 her hand. I know better now than I did then, 
 how much the discordance of habit and feelins, 
 in the minor points, affects the happiness of do- 
 mestic life — how deeply the want of that refine- 
 ment is felt, which is only appreciated by those 
 who possess it. But I then knew that I was de- 
 ficient in taste, in refinement, in general culti- 
 vation. I knew that I was awkward, uncouth ; 
 that I had neither the air nor bearing of a gentle- 
 man. I Iiad gloried in this deficiency; now I 
 regretted it. 
 
 I did not fear to argue before any judge, to ad- 
 dress any jury, to harangue any crowd; but I 
 was nervous, uneasy, timid, blundering, in the 
 drawing-room and at the dinner-table. I knev/ 
 that I needed the cultivation of general and of 
 good society. I knew that there could be no sud- 
 den metamorpho.sis; a dancing-master might 
 make me a fop — he could not transform me into 
 a gentleman. 
 
 I had shunned society, haughtily repelling the 
 civilities of the aristocrats around me. I had 
 condemned many of its usages as inconsistent 
 with the great law of equality. I had argued 
 loud and fiercely for the abolition of all distinc- 
 tions, save those of mind; because I argued that 
 all crime resulted from ignorance. I did not 
 intend to be recreant to my principles, but I as- 
 suredly changed my habits — I sought the circles 
 I had shunned. 
 
 My passion had awakened feelings, and brought 
 me more into unison with the world of taste and 
 imagination. It had imparted to me a new sense 
 of beauty, and I soon found an increasing pleasure 
 and a higher enjoyment in the cultivation of these 
 tastes and faculties, which I at first sought only as 
 assimilating to Miss S . 
 
 And I did improve. I was conscious of a 
 change. I knew that I was a different man. I 
 knew that new sources of pleasure, new fields of 
 enjoyment, opened to me. I thought there was 
 
 more of unison between myself and Miss S . 
 
 I read her favorite authors, and ventured to 
 recommend mine to her. I spent many pleasant 
 hours with the mother and the daughter. I could 
 
 not leave my business, but it soon after drew me 
 to large cities, and I gladly accepted any oppor- 
 tunity of mingling in society, and of profiting by 
 a general intercourse with those who give the 
 tone to manners. 
 
 I had all a lover's fears ; but I specially, too, 
 had a lover's hopes. Her very position, her high 
 respectability, her own dignity and sense of pro- 
 priety, prevented her from having many danglers ; 
 and, as admired as she was, I yet had no cause 
 for definite fears or personal jealousy. Still, I 
 did not venture to propose — not yet. Her evi- 
 dent unconsciousness of my passion disheartened 
 me — intimidated me — and mv reason told me it 
 would be unwise to make a declaration which 
 might destroy all my hopes ; while I was striv- 
 ing each day to become more acceptable to her. 
 Was she utterly unconscious of all my devoted- 
 ness, of all my deep, absorbing passion ? She 
 seemed so courteous, gentle, dignified — always 
 just what a lady should be — T almost cursed, at 
 times, that gentle reserve with which she en- 
 trenched herself, and which formed a magic 
 circle, repelling each vain intruder. Yet I would 
 not that she should have departed from it. I 
 worshiped her as a goddess enshrined. Had she 
 come down from her altar to listen to me, the 
 loss of reverence might have diminished the love. 
 There was much reverence mingled with my 
 love — there always is in a first passion. At this 
 period I lived two lives — one a dreary life of sen- 
 timent, of romantic passion, of feeling, of imagin- 
 ation; the other a life true and real, of hard 
 study, unremitted toil, of the eager pursuit of 
 wealth, of honor, of profit. But the coloring of 
 the one state fell upon the other ; and the hours 
 of business, dingy and dusty, were tinged with 
 hues of the rose — the sun-light of hope and fancy. 
 
 She married another. She had never refused 
 me : I had never presumed to offer myself. The 
 shock was great ; my very reason reeled and tot- 
 tered under it. There were times when my feel- 
 ings seemed paralyzed, and all peace of thought 
 lost. Then I suffered as I hope few others have 
 done ; but tlie very certainty which brought 
 despair, enforced a desperate calmness. Time 
 brought its alleviation. The previous discipline 
 to which I had subjected myself aided me now. 
 I felt that all motive for exertion was taken from 
 me. Immersed in business, I forced myself to 
 meet all its claims. I found, too, a benefit re- 
 sulting from the years of toil and probation to 
 which I had subjected myself, although the great 
 ultimate object had filled. I had acquired pa- 
 tience, self-control ; and I now subdued and hushed 
 feelings which once would have maddened me. 
 
 1 he storm past : if my fairest hope was blight- 
 
"MORE PRECIOUS THAN RUBIES." 
 
 73 
 
 ed, it had not uprooted all else. I had acquired 
 tastes, feelings, and habits, which Avere still 
 sources of enjoyment. For awhile I sought soci- 
 ety, and flew from myself; but I had associated 
 too much with one highly cultivated and truly 
 refined, to turn to the low, the coarse, and the 
 mere trifling. The tastes which I had sought to 
 develope, that I might assimilate to her, I now 
 cherished, tiuit 1 might find in them a compen- 
 sation for her loss. It was not until many years 
 after that I was aware of the great and abiding 
 influence she had exerted over me. 
 
 And it was then, as I was led to think of the 
 influence which one child of clay — imperfect, fal- 
 lible — can exert over another ; of the effort which 
 I had made to assimilate to one who sought no 
 assimilation, that I was led to feel the beauty of 
 that character, spotless and perfect, presented for 
 our model, and the tenderness of the Son of God, 
 who ever presents the love which he hath borne 
 to his people, as among tlie highest motives by 
 which they are urged to imitate his character. 
 In an hour of solitary musing, my eye fell upon 
 the exhortation of the apostle : 
 
 " Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, 
 whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things 
 are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever 
 things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good 
 report ; if there be any virtue, if there be any 
 promise ; think on these things," 
 
 I was struck with tliis enumeration of the 
 graces of the Christian. I felt that in all my 
 efforts for moral attainment I had been guided 
 by no higher motive than a desire for the love 
 of one like myself — unholy and imperfect. Then 
 came upon my soul the higlier obligation resting 
 upon those wlio are required to be perfect even 
 as God is perfect ; who are to make Christ their 
 model of character, their example for life; and I 
 learned that 1 was not to live for myself, my own 
 pleasure or gratification, but for Him who, having 
 once died, ever liveth to intercede for liis people. 
 Many years passed before I married. I did not 
 
 soon forget Bessie S . I met her frequently 
 
 the first year of her married life. I saw her a 
 happy wife — a motlier, with children as lovely 
 as herself. I saw her as health declined, and 
 beauty faded, still fair, but pale and care-worn, 
 
 and, I thought, somewhat sad. My deep passion 
 was softened to a tender commiserating regard 
 —to the pity which we ever feel for the decay of 
 the beautiful. In n)y deepest hour of trial, I 
 keenly felt bitterness towards her. I had never 
 asked her love. I charged her with no cajirice or 
 deceit. If the conscious instinct of the woman 
 had shown her her power, she liad shrunk from 
 any display ; she had avoided all triumph. Had 
 she really intended me an injury, she still liadbut 
 wrought me good : my love had purified and 
 refined m^-^ character — my disajipointment iiad 
 strengthened and elevated it. 
 
 I did not marry until I could meet her who had 
 first stirred the deep pulses of my heart witliout 
 one tremor ! —until I could offer her whom I now 
 wooed a heart which was all her own. 
 
 As I roused me from my long musing, aud 
 glanced at the fair woman whom I call wife, I 
 thought she, too, might forgive my earlier pas- 
 sion. The very qualities which awoke my first 
 perceptions of female excellence, guided me in my 
 after choice. The refinement, purity, and prin- 
 ciple I loved in Bessie S., I still sought and 
 found in my wife ; while the remembrance of all 
 that I, had suff'ered from an unrequited aff'ection 
 deepened ray tenderness for her whose blushes 
 betrayed the love which I sought to win, before 
 I asked it. 
 
 Then, as I rose from my chair and kissed the 
 fair, smooth brow of my wife, I exclaimed, '• Who 
 shall find a virtuous woman? Her price is far 
 above rubies." 
 
 Yes, still is her influence felt. Whether she 
 return or repel his love, the character of the 
 woman who awakens that love in the heart of a 
 man still affects that of the lover, for good or for 
 evil, for weal or for wo, for time and for eternity. 
 A man's hopes may be crushed, his afl'ection 
 rejected; but the very consciousness that he has 
 loved one well worthy of a man's true love, is at 
 once ennobling and exalting. He can bear the 
 disappointment, in the high feeling that he has 
 thus rendered a true homage to excellence and 
 to virtue ; while he who loves an unworthy, or 
 vain, or trifling woman, either sinks to the level 
 of the chobun, or wearies his life with a vain effort 
 to elevate her. 
 
THE TKEASIIRES AND PLEASUUES OF GEOLOGY.* 
 
 BY WILLIAM OLAND BOURNE 
 
 The brilliant discoveries ■which have rendered 
 the last half century so remarkable a period in 
 the world's history, are not only valuable as ele- 
 ments of social progress, but as sources of the most 
 exalted pleasure. Chemistry, which had for hun- 
 dreds of years been rudely cradled in the 
 mysterious processes of the alchemist, to- 
 ward the close of the last century began to 
 assume a higher character than that of a 
 miracle-working gold seeker, and the relations 
 of various substances, and the laws which 
 govern them, came to be investigated with 
 the eye of a new philosophy and the incentive of 
 a truer principle. Watt and Black, Lavoisier 
 and Gay Lussac, Hales, Franklin, and Priestley, 
 and their contemporaries, in their several depart- 
 ments, developed laws unknown to science, and 
 left for their successors the bases, and, in some 
 cases, the perfected platforms upon which they 
 could labor with still greater success. Lord Ba- 
 con observes that the discoveries and inventions 
 of the alchemists " are well represented in the 
 fable of the old man who left an estate to his 
 children, buried, as he said, in his vineyard, 
 which, therefore, they fell to dig and search for 
 with great diligence ; whereby, though they found 
 no gold in substance, yet they received an abun- 
 dant vintage for their labor. So assuredly has 
 the search and stir to make gold produced a great 
 number of fruitful experiments." 
 
 Geology, of the economic sciences the last 
 which enlisted the earnest attention of learned 
 inquirers, has perhaps suffered for the want of 
 some such stimulus. Had the search for gold 
 been made in the sands of the streams, or the 
 fissures of the rocks, or the depths of ravines, no 
 matter how impracticably stubborn in refusing to 
 yield the auriferous prize, or had the search been 
 made with a philosophical spirit in those regions 
 where gold finds its proper repositories, Geology 
 would not have waited until the close of the 
 
 * The Old Red Sandstone ; or. New Walks in an Old 
 Field. By HughMiller. Boston : Gould & Lincoln, 1851, 
 cloth, 12 mo, pp. 260. The Foot-Prints of the Creator ; or, 
 The Asterolepis of Stromness. By Hugh Miller, author of 
 " The Old Red Sandstone." Boston : Gould, Kendall & 
 Lincoln , 1850, cloth, 12 mo, pp . 337. 
 
 eighteenth century for its first distinct recognition 
 among the sciences, or for its superior claims as 
 a practical science of the highest value. Had 
 even the fruitless and disastrous searches for coal, 
 in regions where coal cannot be obtained except 
 by reaching a possible carboniferous antipode, 
 been made with a philosophical eye, facts might 
 have been accumulated of an important charac- 
 ter, as a substratum, at least, upon which the 
 richer alluvium of the expanding stream might 
 have been deposited. But no such aids and no 
 such influences took their sponsorial places at the 
 altar of geological science. 
 
 Toward the close of the last century, Werner 
 in Saxony, and Hutton in Scotland, seized the 
 trifling materials which had been slowly drifted 
 along, and the Saxon Professor, with a partial 
 field of observation in his own district, boldly 
 and eloquently uttered his doctrines of the earth , 
 and gave the first great impetus to inquiry into 
 the physical structure of the globe. Hutton, re- 
 siding in another district of a very marked char- 
 acter, perfectly irreconcilable with the general- 
 izing theories of the Wernerian school, founded 
 upon the fields of his own observation an op- 
 posing system — Werner advocating the Neptun- 
 ian or aqueous, and Hutton the Vulcanian or 
 igneous theory. Other philosophers entered the 
 field, and the discussions arising from these specu- 
 lations required, in a province which is eminent- 
 ly one of actual observation, the discovery of 
 facts, which, to apply the words of Bacon, " they 
 fell to dig and search for with great diligence; 
 and so assuredly the search and stir to make 
 [theories] produced a great number of fruitful 
 experiments." 
 
 At the present time Geology enlists the pro- 
 foundest study of some of the master minds of 
 the age. It is but as yesterday that Cuvier de- 
 ciphered the hieroglyphs of the Paris basin, and 
 would have read as rapidly and accurately the 
 "Foot-Prints" in the Old Red Sandstone of 
 Stromness, or Cromarty, or Balruddery. aa 
 Champollion wlien he deciphered the history of 
 an Egyptian Apis or prince in the iconography 
 and paleography of a subterranean hecatomb. 
 Today, an Agassiz takes the shattered frag- 
 
THE TREASURES AND PLEASURES OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 15 
 
 ments of a fossil from the Old Red Sandstone, 
 and assigns them their place in the scale of or- 
 ganisms, almost as readily as he would the tibia 
 or the femur of a skeleton of one of the existing 
 species of animal;^. Buckland, Murchison, Lyell, 
 Bake-well, Silliman, and many others, are wit- 
 nesses of the treasures not less than the exalted 
 pleasures of Geology. 
 
 Observers and students in this field are becom- 
 ing more numerous, and were their number mul- 
 tiplied a hundredfold, they would bo too few. 
 The exploration of this country is as yet but just 
 begun, while British America, Spanish and South- 
 ern America have been scarcely touched. Even 
 in England and Scotland there is yet room for ex- 
 tended and laborious, and to be well repaid re- 
 tearch. Partial explorations have been made in 
 Europe, while Africa, Asia, and New Holland are 
 yet fields comparatively unknown to the geolo- 
 gist. The treasures which the next twenty-five 
 years will reveal will but partially exhaust the 
 amount of pleasure to be enjoyed by the practi- 
 cal explorer and student. 
 
 PoUok has beautifully said : 
 
 "Abundant, and diversified above 
 All number, were the sources of delight ; 
 As infinite as were the lips that drank ; 
 And to the pure, all innocent and pure ; 
 The simplest still to wisest men the best. 
 One made acquaintanceship with plants and flo-wers, 
 And happy grc%v in telling all their names. 
 One classed the quadrupeds ; a third the fowls; 
 Another found in minerals !iis joy. 
 And I have seen a man, a worthy man, 
 In happy mood conversing with a fly ; 
 And as he through his glass, made by himself, 
 Beheld its wondrous eye and plumage fine, 
 From leaping scarce he kept for perfect joy." 
 
 The geologist, as he trudges along with his 
 basket, his hammers, and chisels, cracking the 
 nf)dule or breaking off the angles of a stone lodged 
 in the fence of some busy farmer, may appear to 
 be engaged in a strange and unmeaning employ- 
 ment. But such an accidental blow may reveal 
 to the eye a new organism, unmonographed in the 
 arcliives of science, and unknown to our present 
 existences. That specimen may be a key to a 
 new class of facts — may supply a link in creation, 
 or may, with its stony tonijue, still speak, after 
 the lapse of an unknown period, of the infinite 
 mind of the Creator. Just so near as we humbly 
 and reverently approach the Divine presence, 
 with the confidence and the eye of faith, so clearer 
 do we read His perfections, and His goodness, 
 whether in the starry radiance of the azure sky, 
 the dealings of Providence in his moral govern- 
 ment, or whether we descend to the remotest 
 periods of the past of our earth, and from under 
 
 the superimposed and luminous folios of a thou- 
 sand generations of extinct sentient beings, carve 
 out with hammer and chisel the still distinct and 
 instructive lessons gleamed from the "Foot- 
 Prints" of the Moray or Cromarty Friths. 
 
 We know that infidelity, driven from its seat 
 wliich it had usurped among the stars, like Luci- 
 fer cast down from heaven, has souglit to lodge 
 itself in the chair of the Geologist. But as the 
 pretended philosophy of a progressive develop- 
 ment from an electrized atom of mud turns over 
 its stony volumes, and finds that it is confronted 
 with the undeniable pastexistence of beings 
 of a high development, from which, as Jlr. Miller 
 observes, a "theory of degradation' may with 
 equal plausibility be framed, it will find that its 
 lodgment is but a temporary season for possible 
 repentance before it is consigned to that " central 
 fire" of which it is its own witness : in the words 
 of Pollok :— 
 
 " Perplexed exceedingly why shells were found 
 Upon the mountain tops; but wondering not 
 "Why shells more found at all — more wondrous still I'' 
 
 " Geology , of all the sciences." says Miller, (Old 
 Red Sandstone, p. 31,) "addresses itself most 
 powerfully to the imagination, and hence one 
 main cause of the interest which it excites. Ere 
 setting ourselves minutely to examine the peculi- 
 arities of these creatures, it would be perhaps 
 well that the reader should attempt realizing the 
 place of their existence, and relatively the iimc — 
 not, of course, with regard to dates and eras, for 
 the geologist has none to reckon by, but with re- 
 spect to formations. They were the denizens of 
 the same portions of tlie globe which we ourselves 
 inhabit, regarded not as a tract of country, but as 
 a piece of ocean, crossed by the same geographi- 
 cal lines of latitude and longitude. Their present 
 place of sepulture in some localities, had there 
 been no denudation, would have been raised high 
 over the tops of our loftiest hills — at least a hun- 
 dred feet over the conglomerates which form the 
 summit of Morvheim, and more than a thousand 
 feet over the snow-capped Ben Wyvis. Geology 
 has still greater wonders. I have seen belemnites 
 of the Oolite — comparatively a modern formation 
 — which had been dug out of the sides of the 
 Himalaya Mountains, seventeen thousand feet 
 over the level of the sea. But let us strive to 
 carry our minds back, not to the place of sepul- 
 ture of these creatures, high in the rocks — though 
 that I shall afterwards attempt minutely to de- 
 scribe — but to the place in which they lived long 
 eie the saurian [lizard] fishes of Burdie House had 
 begun to exist, or the corallines of tlie mountain 
 limestone had spread out their multitudinous 
 
THE TREASURES AND PLEASURES OF GEOLOGY. 
 
 arms in a sea gradually shallowing, and out of 
 wbicli the land had already partially emerged." 
 
 ^Yhile Geology inspires in this eminent degree 
 the "pleasures of imagination," men who have 
 been " perplexed exceedingly," with some of the 
 facts of the science, have made incontinent drafts 
 upon imagination, in order to fill out the blanks 
 in their theoretical systems. The development of 
 man from a monad to a bullfrog, and from the 
 bull-frog to the monkey, and from the monkey to 
 the man, through the several links of the ascend- 
 ing scale, may be a pretty theory for a mind that 
 can be content to trace back its origin to such a 
 parentage ; but sure it is to our apprehension, that 
 tlie lion's mane has been well shaken from the 
 successor of one species, by the author of the two 
 volumes which suggest these passing thoughts. 
 
 Of these works, and of the author and his per- 
 sonal narrative, much might be said, but it is not 
 our design to "review," in the short compass of a 
 magazine article, so fruitful and bold a theme as 
 that presented by Mr. r»liller, the proper discus- 
 sion of which would require a technicality unwel- 
 come to the general reader. But to the author 
 too much of praise cannot be given, for the great 
 value of his discoveries- in the geological lield^ 
 nor of admiration fur the contribution he has 
 made to tlie department of theologies. The 
 purity and elegance of style, and the beauty and 
 felicity of illustration, have commanded the high 
 encomiums of Sir David Brewster and of Profes- 
 sor Agassiz, not less than of the best thinkers and 
 critics of this country and of Europe ; and these 
 two works will survive as among the most re- 
 markable contributions to natural science of the 
 present fruitful period. 
 
 The personal history of the author is the first, 
 and an instructive chapter in the " Old Red 
 Sandstone. ' Mr. Miller was the son of a sea- 
 faring man, who was lost at sea when Hugh was 
 five years of age ; and when old enough to earn his 
 subsistence, he was sent to work in a stone quarry. 
 Year after year he toiled at this laborious occu- 
 pation; but, with a habit of observation, and that 
 superiority of spirit, which leads the true man to 
 make even the humblest occupation the oppor- 
 tunity for intellectual improvement and noble 
 enjoyment, he turned his attention to the fossils 
 and curious markings in the sandstone it was his 
 fortune to dig, and upon which he has now en- 
 graved his own name not less lastingly than 
 have the Asterolcpis or the Ptericthys Milleri,oi 
 the formation which he has so truthfully brought 
 to light. Having no guide, no instructor, and no 
 books, he says, "I had to grope my way as I best 
 might, and find out all its wonders for myself. 
 But so slow was the process, and so much was I 
 
 a seeker in the dark, that the facts contained in 
 these few sentences were the patient gatherings 
 of years." The records of science scarce show 
 another example of such perseverance on the part 
 of a mere lad, in exploring an entire new field, 
 under such circumstances. After ten years ex- 
 plorations, he discovered a fact unknown to 
 science, that this sandstone " was richly fossili- 
 ferous ; and ten more passed before he could as- 
 sign them their exact place in the scale. His 
 labors have been well repaid, and the patient, 
 persevering, observing boy of the stone quarry, 
 is now known not less honorably as one of the 
 most accurate of scientific writers and the most 
 eminent geologists of the day, than he is for his 
 acute and convincing reasoning, and his masterly 
 advocacy of the truth, not only of the Mosaic 
 record, but of the Gospel. Look up, O toiling 
 laborers ! and learn that you may achieve if you 
 will! 
 
 We cannot close our notice of this rich addition 
 to the literature of science and theology, better 
 than by quoting the words of our author, in the 
 conclusion of Chapter V. of the " Old Red Sand- 
 stone." 
 
 " We cannot catechise our stony ichthyolites as 
 the necromantic lady of the Arabian Nights did 
 the colored fish of the lake which had once been 
 a city, when she touched their dead bodies with 
 her wand, and they straightway raised their 
 heads and replied to her queries. We would have 
 many a question to ask them if we could — ques- 
 tions never to be solved. But even the contem- 
 plation of their remains is a powerful stimulant 
 to thought. The wonders of Geology exercise 
 every faculty of the mind — reason, memory, 
 imagination ; and though we cannot put our fos- 
 sils to the question, it is something to be so 
 aroused as to be made to put questions to one's self. 
 1 have referred to the consistency of style which 
 attained among these ancient fishes — the unity of 
 character which marked every scale, plate, and 
 fin of every various family, and which distin- 
 guished it from the rest ; and who can doubt that 
 the same shades of variety existed in their habits 
 and their instincts ? We speak of the infinity of 
 Deity — of his inexhaustible variety of mind; but 
 we speak of it until the idea becomes a piece of 
 mere common-place in our mouths. It is well to 
 be brought to feel, if not to conceive of it — to be 
 made to know that we ourselves are barren- 
 minded, and that in Him " all fullness dwelleth." 
 Succeeding creations, each with its myriads of 
 existences, do not expand Him. He never repeats 
 Himself. The curtain drops, at his command, over 
 one scene of existence full of wisdom and beauty ; 
 it rises again, and all is glorious, wise, and beau- 
 
RAGE FOR UNEARNED WEALTH, 
 
 11 
 
 tiful as before ; and all is new. "Who can sum 
 up the amount of wisdom whose record He has 
 written in the rocks — wisdom exhibited in the 
 succeeding creations of earth, ere man was, but 
 which was exhibited surely not in vain ? May we 
 not say with Milton: — 
 
 "Think not, though men were none, 
 That heaven could want spectators, God want praise ; 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walked the earth, 
 And these with ceaseless praise his works beheld." 
 
 It is well to return on the record, and to read 
 in its unequivocal characters the lessons which it 
 was intended to teach. Infidelity has often mis- 
 interpreted its meaning, but not the less on that 
 account has it been inscribed for purposes alike 
 wise and benevolent. Is it noihing to be taught, 
 with a demonstrative evidence which the meta- 
 physician cannot supply, that races are not eter- 
 nal — that every family had its beginning, and that 
 whole creations have come to an end V' 
 
 RAGE FOR UNEARNED WEALTH 
 
 FROM THE WASTE-DRAWER OF A CLERGYMAN, 
 
 The desire of obtaining wealth by a single stroke, 
 with little or no exertion beyond the effort of 
 asking the ideal goddess Fortune to give it, is so 
 prevalent among the great bulk of mankind, that 
 it may be termed perfectly natural. But to in- 
 dulge in what is perfectly natural may also be to 
 indulge in what is as perfectly foolish, and, there- 
 fore, in this, as in the thousand other cases in 
 which men blindly mistake their wishes for their 
 wants, the realization of the desire, startling as 
 the assertion may seem, proves nothing else but 
 a curse in the majority of instances. Unearned 
 wealth rarely confers the happiness men imagine 
 it must necessarily do ; its gathering together 
 has called ft-rth no energies of mind or of body, 
 and its spending affords as little corresponding 
 pleasure. Frequently does it induce in its foolishly 
 envied possessor a most offensive pride, a hard 
 heart, a squandering hand, a cankering indolence, 
 a miserably eifete life, in which mental and phy- 
 sical gifts are degradingly prostrated. An in- 
 dividual may indeed say — and frequently does 
 — that were /«• blessed with a bountiful gift of 
 unearned wealth, he would dedicate his whole life 
 to do good with it; he would cause it to minister 
 not merely to his own gratification, but make it a 
 dispenser of liappiness to the brotherhood of man. 
 Alas ! the experience of the world testifies to the 
 fallacy of this genial theory, for the reality is, 
 that nothing is more common than that the man 
 who, when poor, and living on the scanty earnings 
 of his industry, was noted for being a cheerful 
 benefactor of his race, so far as his very limited 
 means allowed him, and who was ever kind and 
 
 6 
 
 warm-heaited, experiences, as soon as the curse 
 of unearned wealth has fallen upon him, a woful 
 change indeed. He becomes, as it were, by the 
 magic stroke of a malevolent enchanter's wand, 
 intensely selfish, stony-hearted, deaf to all claims 
 on his benevolence, and even on his justice, and 
 of course, in a corresponding ratio, grows supreme- 
 ly unhappy. The reason is, the man's nature 
 has undergone a complete and fearful change : a 
 moral leprosy of the most deadly nature has in- 
 fected" his very soul. Analogous to this, is the 
 well-known fact, that unfeigned, devoted patriots 
 have very frequently proved cruel tyrants, when 
 once possessed of unlimited power themselves. 
 
 SeUloin doe.s) tbe acquirer of unearned monpy 
 spend it properly ; rarely does he afterwards 
 achieve deeds worth recording. Weariedly does 
 he drag through his allotted length of days, be- 
 grudged by many, scorned by some, pitied by the 
 tolerant, despised (peihaps) by himself. Oh ! 
 dark and fearful is the curse of unearned money, 
 yet few there be who will believe this, and those 
 few are for the most part the very beings who 
 have experienced it. They know but too well 
 how preferable was the time when they jingled 
 the few hardly earned shillings in their pockets, 
 and dined with infinite relish on a crust of bread 
 and cheese under a hedge, to that in which they 
 joylessly sat down to a splendid banquet under 
 the gorgeous roof of their own palatial residence, 
 bought with unearned money ! Sweet is it to 
 earn money by the sweat of brow and brain, and 
 a happy privilege is it to spend the same in a 
 worthy way ; but bitter is unearned money after 
 
78 
 
 RAGE FOR UNEARNED WEALTH. 
 
 the intoxication of its first possession has passed 
 away ; pleasiireless is its expenditure, and mephi- 
 tic and paralyzing the influence it exerts. 
 
 When once the feverish, corroding passion of 
 obtaining unearned wealth has won a powerful 
 ascendancy, the subject is ready to embrace with 
 uncalculating ardor the wildest and most absurd 
 schemes which temptingly hold forth hopes of 
 speedy aggrandizement. In fact, the more im- 
 ])racticable they are on the very face of them, the 
 more evident their reckless perversion of truth^ 
 the grosser their dazzling lies, and the more pal- 
 pable the veil under which they seek to liide their 
 real object (that of fleecing the weak dupes who 
 invest their little capital in them) — ?o much the 
 more eagerly, blindly, madly, do people seem to 
 support them! — Any well-devised speculation, 
 promising speedy, or, in other words, unearned 
 riches, is pretty sure to "take." No matter how 
 often the transparent bubble has burst ; how 
 711 any thousands of wretches have been reduced 
 through it from happiness and comfortable cir- 
 cumstances to the depths of misery and despair; 
 how frequent soever the warnings given of the 
 ;ilmost invariable result of yielding to the influ- 
 ence of the greedy whirpool — all is vain for pre- 
 venting a constant succession of fresh victims, 
 each as confident and full of baseless hope as the 
 predecessor whose disappointment has so lately 
 gleamed as a beacon-light, seen, but unregarded. 
 Surely it must indeed be true that 
 
 '• The pleasure is as great 
 Of being cheated, as to cheat 1'" 
 
 Of all speculations of this description, those 
 entitled lotteries are the oldest, and still perhaps 
 the most popular. Even at this day, many 
 young men, who once had well regulated minds, 
 who never would have dreamed of any wild or 
 reprehensible scheme of unearned aggrandize- 
 ment, had not the alluring poison of lottery pros- 
 ])ectuses been insidiously poured upon them, prove 
 none the less thoughtless, none the less eager to 
 embrace the propositions of the needy adventurers 
 across the seas, none the less extravagantly hope- 
 ful against hope itself, and, finally, none the less 
 do they experience the disastrous consequences 
 invariably attendant on embarkation in such 
 schemes. Every purchaser of a ticket is sure he 
 shall vin a wondrous prize — he demonstrates 
 that assumed certainty to his own perfect satis- 
 faction by abstruse calculations of singular inge- 
 nuity and foresight ; and he will count the feith- 
 fal friend who exposes to him the reality in 
 prospect, as an uncharitable enemy. The number 
 of giddy fools who thus annually rush into the 
 fowler's snare is far more than the public may be 
 
 prepared to believe. Yet speak to the dupes 
 themselves, and what credit do they give your 
 warning voice ? You are a malevolent being — a 
 cloud before their sun ! Unearned wealth is al- 
 ready within their reach, and you -would prevent 
 them grasping it ! Tlie prizes blazoned forth in 
 capitals upon paper alone fill their imagination, to 
 the exclusion of every other object, and to the 
 complete annihilation of the most obvious prompt- 
 ings of common sense. 
 
 The present El Dorado is California. The 
 excitement concerning it is subdued, perhaps, in 
 tone, but undiminished in reality. During the 
 past two years, thousands and tens of thousands 
 of adventurers, in haste to get rich, have left 
 their little certainties in different lands, for the 
 gigantic uncertainties of California. Many, of 
 whom much better might have been expected, 
 have done this, stimulated by '^the marvelous 
 stories which unknown and unresponsible news- 
 paper correspondents have sent of the doings at 
 the " diggings." How many thousands are at 
 this moment on their way from our own shores, 
 it is impossible to estimate. But we know that 
 all, as they go, enthusiastically sing — 
 
 '• So now the Golden Age is come, 
 The Golden Country lies before us : 
 
 We leave the plough, we quit the loom, 
 And merrily we sing in chorus — 
 "The Golden Country lies before us."' 
 
 Great numbers inevitably perish, through the 
 fearful dangers of sea and land, ere the Golden 
 Country is reached ; and, when there, the survi- 
 vors discover that no man can possibly stand a 
 regular day's work at gold-seeking, unless he 
 possesses herculean strength, and has been train- 
 ed to manual labor. They find that they must 
 constantly work in the stream — their lower limbs 
 and arms perished with the intensely cold water, 
 ■whilst their backs are blistered -with the sun. 
 They find that the three grand necessaries of life 
 — food, clothes, and shelter — are Utopian impos- 
 sibilities at the " diggings." They find tliat mor- 
 tal diseases are rife from the swamps, and that 
 rattle-snakes are far more plentiful than penny- 
 loaves. They find that subtle Indians are con- 
 tinually making raids in industrious search of 
 white men's scalps. They find that their own 
 comrades plunder them, in preference to working 
 themselves. They find that th.eir very nature is 
 changed ; and that, like Ishmael, their hand is 
 against every man, and every man's hand is 
 against them. They find that if, by dint of in- 
 cessant toil and extraordinary success, they have 
 scraped together a bagful of the precious ore, 
 they must pillow their heads upon it at night, and 
 doze, rather than sleep, -with a bowie knife be- 
 
THE FEAR OF BEING AN OLD MAID. 
 
 "79 
 
 fween their teeth, and a " revolver" in each hand, 
 lest their throats should be mysteriously divided. 
 They find that they are perishing for lack of food, 
 and would exchange a handful of gold for a crust 
 of bread. Then it is that they sing again; but 
 Now they chant — 
 
 "Amid red rock and desert sand, 
 The Golden Country lies before lis. 
 
 Famine and hunger hand in-hand, 
 
 Behind us death, the Judgment o'er us — 
 The Golden Country gleams before us." 
 
 not the old song 
 
 The best lottery is the sphere of life in which 
 Providence has placed us, and in which we have 
 only to deposit steady industry and cheerful faith, 
 and may rest certain of drawing ultimately an 
 honorable well-earned prize. The true El Dorado 
 is our own land ; the only profitable "diggings'' 
 the fields of our infancy ; the only jewel of hap- 
 piness lieih not imbedded in tropical streams, 
 but in our own breasts, and its setting is not gold 
 but contentment. 
 
 THE FEAR OF BEING AN OLD MAID. 
 
 3T URS. S. B. HALL. 
 
 When I was a little girl, I was a fat, merry 
 jolly dumpling, as liappy as the day was long. 
 Everybody pinched my red cheeks, and I wad- 
 dled about with my doll in my plump arms, find- 
 ing fun in everything, and fully believing that 
 my doll was as sensible as myself; and perhaps 
 she was, almost. But, though I had a natural 
 antipathy to a spelling-book, and no fondness for 
 spending a long summer's afternoon in poking a 
 needle in and out of a bit of calico ; though I 
 considered patchwork all foolishness, and gussets 
 as utter superfluities; though I was called a sim- 
 pleton for asking my mother why she cut cloth 
 up and then sewed it together again, still, I was 
 fond of picking up ideas after my own fashion 
 When the wise people around me supposed I 
 was thinking of nothing but my play, my two 
 little ears were open to every word spoken in my 
 hearing. And many was the word impressed on 
 my memory, which tlie speaker forgot next mo- 
 ment. The talk around me was my real educa- 
 tion, as it is of all children, send tliem to what 
 school you may. 
 
 When I was ten years old, I had one sister 
 aged fifteen, and another seventeen ; and, as usual 
 with girls of that age, they hail a set of cronies, 
 some very like and some quite unlike them in 
 character. One afternoon, as I was tending my 
 doll Ophelia, who was sick in bed, I heard a 
 brisk discussion among these girls, which, I may 
 almost say, decided my fate for life. 
 
 The iir.it words that cauglit niv attention came 
 
 from an animated, romantic girl of sixteen, scold- 
 ing because the heroine of a novel she had just 
 read was left unmarried at the end of the story ! 
 What surprise was expressed at this catastrophe ! 
 what indignation ! 
 
 One of my si.~ters did not seem to symi)atliize 
 with this burst of disapprobation, and then came 
 the pithy question, " What, would you be wil- 
 ling to die an old maid ?" Mary said very quietly, 
 " Yes ;" and sister Ellen added, " So would I !" 
 
 Then such looks of amazement and mcredulity. 
 " You can't mean what you say," cried one. " If 
 I did not know you ton well to think you a hyp- 
 ocrite, — " said another. " Why, it was meant 
 that all women should be married !" exclaimed 
 a third. "Then why are they not all married?" 
 asked Mary, with her usual simplicity. 
 
 Eager and hot grew the controversy, and I lost 
 not a word, while Ophelia lay flat on her back, 
 her stiff kid arms sticking out, and her croup 
 quite forgotten. Then first did I take notice of 
 that terrible combination of monosyllables, " Old 
 Maid." In how many diflferent tones of contempt, 
 dread, and deprecation, did I hear it uttered by 
 those juvenile voices ! What anecdotes came 
 forth about the cross old maids, and fidgetty old 
 maids, and ugly, and dressy, and learned, and 
 pious, and flirting, and mischief making old maids. 
 Never did a bevy of regular fifty-year-old spini- 
 sters utter so much scandal in one afternoon as 
 was poured forth by these blooming young crea- 
 tures. Two or three friends of my mother, whom 
 
80 
 
 THE FEAR OF BEING AN OLD MAID. 
 
 I had always cherished iu my innocent affections, 
 because they talked so pleasantly and were so 
 kind to me, now appeared like new personages. 
 ' Jliss Z. was so ugly, she never could have had 
 au offer !" " Miss Y. dressed so shabbily, and wore 
 green spectacles, to look literary." And "Miss 
 X.was forever talking about Sunday-school and 
 society meetings," and so on. 
 
 You may be sure that the next time these la- 
 dies came to our house, I scanned very closely 
 the face of Miss Z., a face that I had always 
 loved before ; but now I saw that it was exceed- 
 ingly plain. I looked hard &l Miss Y.'s drab- 
 colored bonnet and shawl, perceived that they 
 were old-fashioned and ordinary, and that her 
 green spectacles looked pedantic. Then Miss X., 
 beside whom I had always squeezed in upon the 
 sofa, encouraged by her kindly smile and de- 
 lighted with her conversation — how uninteresting 
 she had become ! They were old maids ! 
 
 It must be observed that my sisters — right 
 good, sensible, domestic girls they were — had no 
 part in this bewilderment of my young ideas. 
 They were in the minority; sol took it for granted 
 they were in the wrong. Besides, what children 
 are ever as much influenced by what is uttered in 
 the familiar voices of their own family, as by 
 •words of comparative strangers ? Take care of 
 wl:at you say at a friend's house, with the young 
 folks catching up every random sentiment you 
 drop. Many a judicious mother's morning ex- 
 hortation has been blown to the moon by some 
 light dinner guest, who did not after all mean to 
 give his real opinion, or whose opinion was not 
 worth having. 
 
 And now, I assure you, my education went on 
 rapidly. It is perfectly marvelous, in how many 
 ways, and by what different sorts of people, a 
 young girl is taught that it is a terrible thing to 
 be an old maid. Fools never show their folly 
 more than in their hackneyed jests upon this 
 topic ; but what shall we say of the wise folks, 
 who sin almost as often in the same way ? What 
 shall we say of the refinement of him who is gen- 
 tlemanly in thought and expression on all subjects 
 but this ? — of the humauity and chivalry of him 
 who assails the defenceless? — of the justice of 
 liim who taxes a class with the faults of individu- 
 als, and wounds with that meanest of weapons, — 
 a sneer '. — or of the Christianity of him who in- 
 directly censures and ridicules one of thearrange- 
 aicnts of Providence ? 
 
 I learned my lesson thoroughly, for it came to 
 me in some shape every week. I read it in every 
 nrivel and newspaper, and heard it from every 
 lip. The very men wlio spoke trutli and sense on 
 the subject, sometimes neutralized it by an idle 
 
 jest in some moment of levity, and the jest drove 
 out the truth from my young heart. At eighteen 
 I lived only for the ignoble purpose — I cannot 
 bear to say — of getting married ; but what 
 could have been the ruling wish of one who had 
 been taught by society to dread celibacy worse 
 than death ? I dare say I betrayed it every- 
 where. I dare say I was duly laughed at. 
 
 At last, quaking on the verge of six-and- twen- 
 ty, I had an offer — a most absurd one. I was 
 six years older than my lover, had ten times as 
 much sense probably, except on one point. I 
 knew that he was " rather wild," as the gentle 
 phrase goes. In short, I neither loved nor re- 
 spected him; but I was willing to marry him, 
 because then I should be Mrs. Somebody, and 
 should not be an old maid. 
 
 My parents said " No," positively. Of course 
 I thought them unreasonable and cruel, and made 
 myself very miserable. Still, it was something 
 to have had " an offer" of any kind, and my lips 
 were not hermetically sealed. I had several con- 
 fidants, who took care that all my acquaintance 
 should know the comfortable fact that I had re- 
 fused Mr. S. 
 
 I went on with increasing uneasiness a few 
 years longer, not seeking how to be useful or trying 
 to find out for what good purpose I was made. 
 Neither was I looking for a companion who could 
 sympatliize with my better aspirations andelevate 
 my whole character, for I had no right views of 
 marriage. I waseimjDly gazing about in anxious 
 suspense upon every unmarried man of my ac- 
 quaintance, for one who would lift me out of that 
 dismal Valley of Humiliation into which I felt 
 myself descending. Had I met Apollyon him- 
 self there, with the question on his lips, I believe 
 I should have said " Yes." 
 
 At thirty-six I wore more pink ribands than 
 ever, was seen everywhere that a respectable 
 woman could go, wondered why girls went into 
 company so young, found that I was growing 
 sharp-faced and sharp-spoken, and was becoming 
 old-maidish in the worse sense of the word, be- 
 cause 1 was becoming an old maid against my 
 will. I forgot that voluntary celibacy never af- 
 fects the temper. 
 
 My sisters, be it remembered, were older than 
 I. They too were single. But they had lived 
 more domestic lives than I,had read fewer works 
 of fiction, had been cultivating their own na- 
 tures, and seeking to make everybody around 
 them happy. x\nd everybody reverenced them, 
 and loved to look upon their open pleasant coun- 
 tenances — I mean everybody worth pleasing — 
 and tliey were very happy. 
 
 At last our good parents died, and left each 
 
THE VOICE OF THE SEA, 
 
 81 
 
 of U3 a little indepenJence. Within a year I 
 was married. 
 
 I was married for my money. That was ten 
 years ago, and they have been ten years of pur- 
 gatory. 
 
 I have had bad luck as a wife, for my liusband 
 and I have scarcely one taste in common. He 
 wishes to live in the country, which I hate. I like 
 the thermometer at 75 deg., which he hates. He 
 likes to liave the children brought up at liomo 
 instead of school, which I hate. I like music, 
 and want to go to concerts, which he hates. He 
 likes roast pork, which I hate, and I like minced 
 veal, which he hates. There is but one thing 
 which we both like, and that is what we cannot 
 both have, though we are always trying for it, — 
 the last word. 
 
 I have had bad luck as a mother, for two such 
 huge, selfish, passionate, unmanageable boys nev- 
 er tormented a feeble woman since boys began 
 I wish I had called them both Cain. At this 
 moment they have just quarreled over their 
 marbles. Mortimer has torn off Orville's collar, 
 and Orville has applied his coltlike heel to Mor- 
 timer's ribs ; while the baby Zenobia, in my lap, 
 
 who never sleep3 more than a half an hour at a 
 time, and cries all the time she is awake, has 
 been roused by their din to scream in chorus. 
 
 I have had bad luck as a housekeeper, for I 
 never kept even a chambermaid more than three 
 weeks And as to cooks, I look back bewildered 
 on the long phantasmagora of faces flitting storm- 
 ily through my kitchen, as a mariner remembers 
 a rapid succession of thunderbolts and hurricanes 
 in the Gulf of Mexico. My new chambermaid 
 boimced out of the room yesterday, flirting her 
 duster and muttering, " Real old maid, after all !" 
 just because I showed her a table on which I 
 could write " slut," with my finger, in the dust. 
 I never see ray plump, happy sisters, and then 
 
 glance in the mirror at my own cadaverous, long 
 
 doleful visage, without wishing myself an old 
 
 maid. I do it every day of ray life. 
 
 Yet half of ray sex marry as I did ; — not for 
 
 love, but fear !— for fear of dying old maids. 
 They have their reward. And they whose idle 
 
 tongues create this mischievous fear, and thus 
 
 make so much domestic misery, have their re 
 
 sponsibility. 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE SEA 
 
 BY I . C R A 13 
 
 What are the bright waves saying, 
 
 As they dance along the sand, 
 Wirh a mnrmiir like minaled voices 
 
 Breaslied from a far off strand 1 
 Woo they the passing l)reezes. 
 
 That o'er tliem softly stray ? 
 Witli their murmurins;, lulling mnsic, 
 
 What do the bright waves say 1 
 
 They tell of the sea girt islands. 
 
 Like gems on its heaving breast. 
 Where the flow of the rippling waters 
 
 Soothes the waking wind to rest — 
 Of the waves when solftly creeping 
 
 O'er sands of dazzling white. 
 Where pearls are unheeded glistening, 
 
 In the cold and calm moonlight. 
 
 What are the billows saying. 
 
 As they foam, and rush, and roar. 
 With a sound like the bnisting thunder, 
 
 To dash on the rocky shore ? 
 Chide they the tempest howling, 
 
 As they rock beneath its sway ? 
 With their harsh and thund'ring voices, 
 
 What do the billows say 1 
 
 They speak of the storm-worn barrier:, — 
 
 Of the dark and dismal caves, 
 Where the lond waves meet the echoes, 
 
 And the wild wind wilder raves — 
 Of the hurricane madly sweeping 
 
 O'er ocean swelling dark, 
 And striking down with liis rushing >ving 
 
 The pride of the struggling bark, 
 
 Of its thousand voices, mocking 
 
 And drowning the words of i)rayer — 
 While they mingle the shriek of ang'iiah 
 
 With the curse of wild despair. 
 But it speaks of Him, who selteth 
 
 To the mijlity deep its bound. 
 And who, with a zone of waters, 
 
 Hath girdled the earth around. 
 
 Go, when the tempest swelleth. 
 
 When the billows rush and roar ; 
 Bid them >ield to thee, their monarch, 
 
 Then bow, and His might adore. 
 They speak in their calm, quiet beauty, 
 
 Of Him whom the waves obey'd— 
 Whose voice hnsh'd the winds to silence. 
 
 When trembling disciples pray'd. 
 
HALF-WAY PEOPLE. 
 
 BT FRANCES BROWN, 
 
 It is an old proverb, that " extremes are dan- 
 gerous." Every village schoolboy can at least 
 repeat, that " all overlies are vice ;" and from 
 one generation to another men have commended 
 the virtue of moderation. Doubtless all this is the 
 language of experience ; the world has had many 
 warnings against ultras, written in strange char- 
 acters and hard to be forgotten. History has 
 prolonged, ages have renewed them, with much 
 cost but little profit to the nations, and tradition 
 has compressed their memories into those old 
 saws and maxims that form the short-hand phi- 
 losophy of the people. No marvel that the 
 via media was so earnestly recommended to the 
 attention of mankind, by most of their numerous 
 instructors, many an age since and before the 
 Latin sages named it. If there be little to be 
 learned or hoped for, it has also less of peril and 
 endurance than those far-leading paths that wind 
 away through shine and shadow to goals which 
 travelers little dream of on their entrance. 
 
 Many pass their days in this path of security, 
 but few there be that find it for themselves; 
 some are born to it; nature weighs the compo- 
 nents of their characters like a conscientious 
 shopkeeper, determined to give neither too little 
 nor too much, and turns them out of the scales 
 nice weight for the world, and no more. They 
 never do anything extraordinary, but live and die 
 respectable people in their station, and are for 
 the most part tolerably prosperous. Others are 
 fenced in by their fortunes, that rise like a wall 
 on either hand to keep their doings moderate, 
 till they learn to hope and wish and think, in 
 moderation too. There are some that choose the 
 middle path for action, from a dread of the perils 
 they might meet beyond in slippery places, to 
 which their dreams go out continually, and they 
 would follow them if tliey could but venture. 
 These are men of untried plans and schemes, 
 who give suggestions to more daring minds, but 
 .are never remarkable, and rarely satisfied. Fear 
 is the ballast of such barks ; a mighty comptrol- 
 ler, and one to which society owes both grudge 
 and gratitude ; but there are lives over which it 
 exercises a more ungracious influence. In every 
 age and land, among all ranks, how many varieties 
 
 of character may there be found whose failures in 
 the concerns of this world, and some that stretch 
 into the next, are traceable to the cowardly habit 
 of going only half-way. Farther on there is in 
 variably a lion in one shape or other, some bar- 
 rier they cannot pass, some step too wide for 
 them to take, be it ever so requisite; and before 
 that always paltry and often imaginary danger, 
 their own interests, honor, or duty, and frequent- 
 the harvest of other lives, are abandoned. 
 
 Reader, if your stars have ever been so un- 
 friendly as to connect you in any fasliion with a 
 character of this description, the pleasures of 
 memory are not likely to consist in a recurrence 
 to the subject; but hoping better things, it may 
 be instructive to study the motions of half-way 
 goers in general. Public and private history 
 abounds with them, and they always cut a shabby 
 figure, though appearance is their standing 
 idol. 
 
 A half-way friend is the most brittle reed that 
 ever humanity leaned on ; other friendships may 
 be broken by quarrels, estranged by absence, or 
 weighed in the balance of adversity and found 
 wanting, but his remains a perpetual deficiency. 
 Give him your confidence, and expect his in re- 
 turn, there will be something he won't believe, 
 and something he will keep back, though ten 
 chances to one but that point is necessary to the 
 proper understanding of the whole ; depend upon 
 him for an obligation, and it may be forthcoming, 
 but at some difficulty, half-way in the business, 
 hh services will make a final pause, and neither 
 persuasion nor necessity will ever induce them to 
 advance farther. In danger or dispute he takes 
 just half your part, thereby at once embroiling 
 himself, and giving advantage to the enemy. In 
 defence of his friend he goes far enough for listen- 
 ers to say, " what efforts at whitewa.ihing !" but 
 suppresses the acquitting evidence, on account of 
 some paltry self-committal which it might in- 
 volve. 
 
 There is a ludicrous instance of this kind of 
 friendship recorded of Sir Richard Steele, the 
 celebrated colleague of Addison, in Tattler and 
 Spectator times. He had shown much friendship 
 to the unhappy Savage, the poet, but after a 
 
HALF-WAY PEOPLE. 
 
 8B 
 
 variety of services, and some duration of intimacy, 
 it at length stuck fast, some say, on the point of 
 introducing liim to the Secretary of State, with 
 whom Steele was on friendly terms ; others, on 
 that of obliging him with a trifling loan; but 
 certain it is, that the refusal so fiir exaspera- 
 ted tliai luckless poet— whose nature, par- 
 taking; somewhat of his name, was still more 
 vulgarzied by the lower vices of civilization — 
 that he pursued him round and round his own 
 apartment with a drawn sword ; such weapons 
 being assigned to gentlemen by"" the barbarism of 
 the reigning fashion : and the consequences might 
 have been tr\gical, had not the cries of Sir Rich- 
 ard brought all within hearing to his rescue. The 
 conduct of Charles the First towards the Earl of 
 Strafford is a fatal example of half-part-taking 
 friendships. It is said to have caused the last 
 regret of that ill-starred and worse guided mon- I 
 arch. Yet how many royal friends have acted 
 exactly similar ! 
 
 Among the trials consequent on the insurrection 
 of Robert Emmet, in 1803, was that of a Dublin 
 gentleman, the only witness against whom was a 
 common informer, unfortunately corrobborated by 
 strong circumstantial evidence. His intimate 
 friend, a Quaker merchant, appeared in his favor ; 
 but, to the surprise of all who heard him, though 
 evidently most anxious to do all in his power for 
 the prisoner, his testimony was so wavering 
 and defective, that the jury refused to credit it, 
 and his friend was convicted. Many years after, 
 when the near approach of death gave things, 
 perhaps on both sides of the grave, a truer aspect, 
 the merchant revealed a fact that had long hung 
 on his conscience and memory, namely, that there 
 were at the period of the trial letters in his pos- 
 session, which, if read in court, must have excul- 
 pated the accused ; but as they would also have 
 unfolded his unsuccessful courtship of a lady, in 
 the language of his sect, belonging to the vain 
 world, neither his vanity nor his religious reputa- 
 tion would permit him to disclose them. 
 
 Let all ladies who have hearts to lose or break 
 — and there are different opinions regarding their 
 numbers — beware of half-way lovers. If there 
 be no hindrance in the case, no obstacle to be 
 surmounted, no years to wait or toil through ; 
 but funds, kindred, and the world's approbation 
 all convenient, their affections may rise to the 
 easy standard, and appear perfect, after the fash- 
 ion of untried things ; but few courses are so 
 clear, and any impediment is sufficient to bar 
 their progress. Swains of this pattern never ad- 
 vance beyond their own ea.se, interest or vanity, 
 (in some one of the last mentioned they are al- 
 ways particularly strong.) and there lies their ne 
 
 phis ultra. The moralist cannot mark their do- 
 ings with the black brand of vice ; but, justly 
 considereil, they are scarce le.-=s degrading in their 
 selfish security, which pauses at no sacrifice but 
 its own 
 
 Swift could address some of his best verses, and 
 most of his confidential letters, to Stella, whom 
 he called the consolation of his life, when her days 
 were numbered ; but because the world considered 
 that the aiimired dean should find a higher matcl', 
 he offered up the woman's years piecemeal to its 
 opinion, and the world pronounced a just verdict 
 on his cringing vanity, by deserting his latter days, 
 and stigmatizing his memory. Well was the 
 censure merited ! Poems and French letters 
 about love and destiny \\ ere written to Vanessa 
 also, but never an intimation of his private mar- 
 riage with her rival, the public and gentlemanly 
 acknowledgment of which would have saved his 
 biography some sad and shameful pages ; but 
 that single step to the right was not taken, and 
 the consequences, as well as the odes and epistles, 
 remain on record, to make posterity regret that 
 affection should have been so far misplaced, and 
 genius so miserably employed. There are and 
 have been Swifts, possessed of neither the talents 
 nor the celebrity that failed to make the Dean 
 respectable, but never a whit less paltry in their 
 doings. The world's bondmen ! The serfs of 
 circumstances, whose inclinations shrink from op- 
 position, and tremble to miss advantage, without 
 resolution enough to strive boldly with the one 
 or make barter with the other. 
 
 Lord Chesterfield's behavior to Dr. Johnson 
 was a curious sample of the half-way friend. The 
 plan of Johnson's Dictionary was presented to his 
 lordship, and received with his wonted grace ; but 
 he quietly allowed the author to strive through 
 seven years of labor and difficulties, till his work 
 was on the eve of publication, and had been 
 spoken of at court. Then the master of etiquette 
 awoke, and published no less than two articles in 
 The World — then at the head of periodical litera- 
 tm'e — filled with his and the age's compliments 
 to the great lexicographer. " After making great 
 professions, he had for many years taken no no- 
 tice of me ; but when my Dictionary was coming 
 out, he fell a scribbling in T/ic World about it,' 
 was the characteristic observation of Johnson ; ami 
 one passage in the letter he addressed to Lord 
 Chesterfiehl on the subject is worthy to outlast 
 all the nobleman's epistles of small advice. " The 
 notice which you have been pleased to take of 
 my talents, had it been early, had been kind ; but 
 it has been delayed till I am indifferent, and can- 
 pot enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and cannot im- 
 part it ; till I am known, and do not want it." 
 
84 
 
 THE SPIRIT LAND. 
 
 There are half-way enemies, too, — creatures 
 ■who keep the grudge, and show it under every 
 possible pretext; generally preferring times of 
 calamity for that purpose, but never daring to 
 come to open opposition, on account of something 
 that might be said or lost. Such an enemy was 
 the mother of Christian the Seventh of Denmark, 
 to his unlucky English queen, Matilda, when, af- 
 ter a long course of petty annoyance and surveil- 
 lance of her daughter-in law — neither the wisest 
 
 nor most fortunate of ladies — she hurried to her 
 son's chamber in tears, at the conclusion of a 
 royal ball, and told him it was his painful but 
 imperative duty, for the honor of the Danish 
 crown, to sign a warrant for the queen's imme- 
 diate arrest. That warrant was put in force before 
 the last of the festive lights were extinguished in 
 the palace. Swords have hung by hairs, ay, 
 and descended, in more kingly mansions than that 
 of Dionysius. 
 
 THE SPIKIT LAND. 
 
 BY SAKAH E 
 
 ANNAN 
 
 where is the Spirit Land ? 
 I hear of that land, I dream of that land, 
 Of the beautiful ones — the shining band — 
 
 That bask in His glory there — 
 Of the blood-washed throng in their robes of 
 
 white. 
 With beautiful harps, and their crowns of light, 
 Glittering with jewels rare. 
 
 where is the Spirit Land ? 
 The nightless land, where flowers never die. 
 But eternally bloom 'neath a sunless sky. 
 
 And drink of the crystal stream — 
 The river that flows fr(>m the great white throne 
 Of God, and the Lamb that sitteth thereon ; 
 
 Fi'om where rays of glory beam. 
 
 A loved one is in that land. 
 " My daughter, I go to the Spirit Land ; 
 The valley is dark, but a winged band 
 
 Is waiting to bear me home. 
 An angel is near — 'tis ray youngest born — 
 The night is dark, but it soon will be morn — 
 
 Jesus — Saviour — I come." 
 
 " Dear mother, where is that land ?" 
 She answered me not — and I thought that now. 
 As I lay back a curl from her marble brow, 
 
 She peacefully, sweetly slept. 
 I kissed her cheek — 'twas as cold as the breath 
 Of winter's king — then I knew 'twas death. 
 
 And I laid me down and wept. 
 
 Then, where is the Spirit Land ? 
 Oh, I long and long to follow her there — 
 To the land more bright, and the sky more fair, 
 
 And join in the angel choir, 
 'Mong the heaven-born ones as they float around ; 
 While the arches again and again resound 
 
 With notes of the angel lyre. 
 
 where is the Spirit Land ? 
 Would that angel wings were given to me. 
 Then I, in robes of immortality. 
 
 Would fly to the happy land. 
 But I know that when death's cold waves roll 
 
 o'er, 
 I'll be borne to that Land, that happy shore, 
 By a bright and shining band. 
 
REV SAMUEI- H. COX, D. D. 
 
THE RIGHT SIDE FOR THE BRIDE 
 
 (WITH A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR.) 
 
 BT SAMUEL HANSON COX, D.D. 
 
 In the ceremony of marriage, how should the 
 parties stand, as rehited to each other. Ought 
 the bride to occupy the right side of the groom, 
 or the left ? 
 
 This question, though confessedly not of the 
 • most important class, is still considerable. What- 
 ever is -worth doing at all, is worth doing well, 
 says the proverb ; and" a higher authority pub- 
 lishes the universal canon, Let all things be done 
 decently and in order. Indeed, some clerical 
 scholars, and in theology chieftains, err sometimes, 
 by that studied contempt for little things, which 
 is the result of no wisdom, and which may be- 
 come itself great, by the evils it occasions. If 
 there be a right, in reference to the question, it 
 may argue no part of our wit or our virtue to be 
 superior to its investigation and observance. 
 
 Marriage is an ordinance of God. It was made 
 for the first man and the first woman. Its origin 
 was paradise. It is neither a human, nor a civil, 
 nor a modern institution, simply and alone. Its 
 jurisdiction is over all the species ; its duration, 
 all time ; its due honor, the welfare and the cri- 
 terion of society. 
 
 But to the question. — Our position is, that 
 the bride ought, in all cases of honorable mar- 
 riage, to stand, by his promotive act, on the right 
 side of her husband, in the ceremonial scene of 
 their nuptials. 
 
 Arguments for the left side we have never 
 seen. Those that would sometimes claim or 
 seem to be such, are the following 
 
 1. " The left side is nearer the heart ?" If this 
 nonsense were worth refuting, we could say, he 
 is nearer her heart when she stands at his right 
 side ; and if this consideration does not neutral- 
 ize the plea, making it as broad as it is long, it 
 does more — since it is so important that he should 
 have the first place of all creatures in her aflfec- 
 tions. But the adage is only nonsense. 
 
 2. " He can reach her better on the left V This 
 objection is practically nothing, or rather it is 
 positively false. It is not natural or forward to 
 put the right hand toward the left, as it is to ex- 
 
 tend it in the rectitude of its own direction. This, 
 too, is scenically better. He does, and appears 
 to do, all the reaching. He takes her hand, and 
 he holds it; and this is symmetrically seen, 
 and ever prominent, in the spectacle. Experience 
 demonstates the case, the nature, ami even the 
 elegance, with which a well-bred person, in the 
 action of his marriage vows, before God, can take 
 the hand of his loved lady, in a way of the most 
 delicate and refined propriety, as it regards her 
 sufferance, and retain it indicatively, till the so- 
 lemnity is consummated. 
 
 3. " He is her head." Is he ? And therefore 
 he ought to be meanly jealous of his rights, and 
 prompt to remind her and others of them, in the 
 very solemnization of their glad espousals; and 
 therefore he should degrade iier from the glory 
 of a wife's dignity, by consigning her to the left 
 side of him ! — and therefore it is worthy of his 
 magnanimity, on the superb occasion, to eclipse 
 his lovely bride, and put her into a state of occul- 
 tation, that himself may be conspicuous as the 
 head of a icoman and the lustrous orb of the pic- 
 ture ! The left side is the wrong side. 
 
 4. "But it is usage." Not always. Custom 
 varies all over the world. Opinions vary, as led 
 by caprice, mistaken fashion, taste, ignorance, in- 
 difference, irreligion, or — no one can tell what. 
 
 5. " But Victoria stood on the left of Prince Al- 
 bert !" Did she? Well! there may be many 
 a right thing which the Queen of England never 
 did, and never knew, and never considered. 
 
 One consideration there is, which, with us, is 
 both paramount and conclusive. We will state 
 it somewhat at large. Let queens and princes 
 clear the way for it. It is the grand honor o 
 marriage, the best and richest illustration both o 
 its nature and its dignity, that the parlies in the 
 scene are, in the Holy Scriptures, beautifully 
 viewed as the types of Christ and the church 
 He that hath the bride is the bridtgrooin. The 
 churcli is called the bride, the Lamb's vnfc. The 
 parallel obtain-; throughout the inspired volume. 
 It is now an allusion, now a metaphor, now an 
 
86 
 
 THE RIGHT SIDE FOR THE BRIDE. 
 
 allegory, always a comparison. In Ephesians 5 : 
 22 — 33, it is extensively treated. It is implied 
 in the scenery of eternal judgment, ^latt 25 : 31 
 — i6, collated with 1 — 13, and 22 : 1—14. Rev. 
 19 : 7—9. The Book of Canticles, could it only 
 be translated perfectly, would appear to be a 
 poetical epithalamium, referring ultimately to 
 the Lord of glory and the church of his love in 
 their eternal espousals ; itself incomparably ap- 
 propriate, rich, instructive, and delightful. 
 
 But how marked, in the picturesque of every 
 6cene, is the position of the bride ! The right 
 hand is auspicious, as the place of honor, of pro- 
 motion, of conspicuity, and of delight. And she 
 is stationed, in glory and attraction pre-eminent, 
 on his right hand — the moral centre of the scene, 
 the radiation of his similitude, the reflection of 
 his glory. And is his dignity lessened, or his 
 lieadship obscured, as the consequence ? Is his 
 majesty impaired, or his worship, or the honor of 
 his name, or the love of his subjects ? Does his 
 bride abuse his favor, or usurp his prerogatives ? 
 We can see nothing but propriety and order and 
 loveliness, in such a substantial pageant of celes- 
 tial grandeur and significance. 
 
 "Where marriage is duly honored, the sex is 
 duly honored. Where woman is duly honored, 
 human nature is duly honored ; that is, man is 
 elevated, society is improved, virtue is illustrious, 
 and religion predominates. 
 
 The forty-fifth Psalm is a song of loves, com- 
 posed, it is thought, on occasion of the marriage 
 of Solomon with an Egyptian princess. But 
 a greater than Solomon, or than the daughter of 
 Pharaoh, is there. It refers not obscurely to the 
 second Adam, and the Eve of his eternal compan- 
 ionship, in the paradise of God ; to them as the 
 worthy and the eternal archetypes of the mar- 
 ried relation. The theme is rapturous, and in- 
 spires the poetry of the devout Psalmist. My 
 heart, he says, is inditing a good matter. I speak 
 of the things which I have made touching the king. 
 My tongue is the pen of a ready writer. Tlieu the 
 marriage is descriptively solemnized. The king in 
 bis glory appears not alone, but his incomparable 
 consort with him. And her position is defined in 
 the scene ; it is said, with emphasis and poetry, 
 in the graphic picture — On his right hand did 
 stand the queen, in gold of Ophir. She could not 
 mistake her place in the group of glory. 
 
 The right hand, with all the oriental nations 
 was the place also of good omens, and the symbol 
 of prosperity. Of this — to omit many others — 
 we have an example in the book of Luke, 1:11. 
 The father of the holy harbinger of Christ was 
 officiating in the sanctuary of the temple as the 
 priest of God, when there appeared to him an 
 
 angel of the Lord, standing on the right side of 
 the altar of incense. If his mission had been to de- 
 nounce the judgments of God, instead of herald- 
 ing his mercy and salvation, he would have appear- 
 ed on the left side of the altar. Zacharias therefore 
 offended against the typical significance of the 
 scene in his unbelieving fear, and was rebuked by 
 the heavenly messenger. I am Gabriel, that 
 stand in the presence of God, and am sent to speak 
 to thee, and to show thee these glad tidings. And he 
 sentented him to he dumb till they were accom- 
 plished. 
 
 The scene of marriage is one of joy and glad- 
 ness, as well as of solemnity and worship. Hence 
 all sinister or left-handed associations should be 
 withdi'awn from it ; and those of dexti'ous and 
 happy implication should alone replace them. 
 And every way we argue, as the bridegroom is 
 the head and the master of the occasion, that his 
 bride should be by him promoted to the place of 
 honor, of prosjjcrous indication and happy asso- 
 ciations — unless he, is ashamed of her, or jealous 
 for his headship particularly, or forgetful of the 
 grand symbolic import of marriage, or careless 
 of all elegant and religious proprieties, or inca- 
 pable of sentiment and moral beauty, or, finally, 
 one of those democratic or autocratic simpletons, 
 who will do wrong in order to show their own 
 independence, and " do some things as well as oth- 
 ers," or be " as free as some folks." 
 
 Other arguments, of a subordinate character, 
 might be easily adduced. With respect to polite- 
 ness and fashion, however, we have something to 
 say. These will often govern the world when all 
 nobler authorities are powerless. In a far second- 
 ary place, we suppose them only corroborative, 
 however, of our position here ; that is, in their 
 proper or their best elements of influence. 
 
 For four hundred years after — and, indeed even 
 earlier than — the Norman Conquest, and in their 
 consequences to this day, the urbanity and the 
 court manners of Europe were regulated, direct- 
 ly or indirectly, by the spirit and the laws of 
 chivalry. It is but lately, indeed, that it has 
 generally — nor yet totally — ceased to be fashion- 
 able for a well-bred gentleman to wear a sword, 
 as a part of his ornamental dress for a drawing- 
 room, a royal levee, or other social occasions of 
 display. But who ever dreamed of the incon- 
 gruity, not to say the indignity, standing or w.alk- 
 ing with a lady, to place her and his sword to- 
 gether on the left side? When, however, she is 
 positioned in the living tableau, where she ought 
 to. be, on his right, and his sword on the left, 
 they are both comparatively safe and at ease, se- 
 cure from accidents and awkwardnesses of a 
 peculiar but ineffable description. Should he 
 
THE MINSTEELST OF NATURE. 
 
 87 
 
 also have occasion to draw the gleaming weapon, 
 it acts or flames in front of the lady, to lier innox- 
 ious, as the armor of her jjroper champion, for 
 sallies of defensive or ofTensive demonstration, at 
 once her avenger and her shield. Gentlemen of 
 the army and the navy wear swords profession- 
 ally ; and to all these, the propriety of the sword 
 on one side, the lady on the other, and the man 
 of fidelity and honor between them, is quite ob- 
 vious, altliough "the age chivalry is gone." 
 
 "When a lady stands or walks with her lord on 
 his right, lior left hand properly supports lier 
 dependence, while her right is at ease and free for 
 motion, gesture, and action of any sort ; while his 
 right arm sustains the grateful incumbent in a 
 way of facile preference and nature. 
 
 Again, in all the world the usage of sentiment 
 
 has made the dexter side preferable for honor, 
 politeness, and address. Our native language 
 attests its superiority. It is the right side ; and 
 rectitude in idea alone could have suggested the 
 epithet, now universal in our Aglo-Saxon tongue, 
 as well as indelible, " express, and admirable." 
 |i The other is the left — because we pretermit or 
 I leave it ; implying inferiority, dereliction, obli- 
 ; vion : more suited to one left, neglected or for- 
 gotten, sine ape, than to the state of a chosen bride 
 in the scenery of her espousals, by the side of 
 her beloved, in the crisis of her joys, and while 
 honorably typifying the glorious church of 
 Christ as she shall be presented to himself, with 
 the gratulation of angelic witnesses, in the heaven 
 of heavens. 
 
 THE MINSTRELSY OF NATURE. 
 
 The minstrelsy of nature's ever heard : i 
 
 In the moist bosom of the quickening Spring, I 
 "When snow-drops burst, and th' awakening bird. 
 
 From winter's torjjor on rejoicing wing 
 Mounts heavenward singing ; in the liquid gush 
 
 Of crystal fountains bubbling from the side 
 Of some green hill ; in the tempestuous rush 
 
 Of solemn night-winds eddying far and wide ; 
 Through the sombre forests and through alleys 
 
 green. 
 Where the green lizard leaps or feeds imseen. 
 
 The minstrelsy of nature, — it is known 
 
 In mellow summer, where the rills rejoice 
 Amid the woodland — and the turtle's tone 
 
 Its music mingles with the bulbul's voice ; 
 By the quick rustling of the forest leaves, 
 
 And fall of early blossoms — by the swing 
 Of populous branches when the tempests rave. 
 
 Dishevelling their tints ; and by the spring 
 And finny leap of fish iu the cool wave, 
 And echo, answering from her inland cave. 
 
 The minstrelsy of nature, — it is found. 
 
 And heard in Autumn where the woodlands 
 shed 
 Their venerable foliage on the ground, 
 
 Like the thin grey locks off some old man's 
 head ; 
 By the road-side, and by the river's bank, 
 
 Where the red robin sings, and swallows fly 
 Across the water-brooks ; where nettles rank 
 
 Are fading in the sunbeams, and where lie 
 The moth, and grasshopper ; 'tis heard, and flings 
 A sense of gladness o'er all earthly things. 
 
 The minstrelsy of nature — it is brought 
 
 Bv winter to our hearths ; and in the deep 
 And stilly midnight, when our eyes have sought 
 
 A refuge from all care, and balmy sleep 
 Locks in forgetfulness our weary eyes, 
 
 It comes upon the wreck-presaging storm. 
 And shakes our homesteads ; and along the skies 
 
 Peals in deep thunder, making heaven's cheek 
 warm 
 And flushed with lightning ; and the pelting hail, 
 Hurl'd earthward, reels like chaff beneath the 
 flail. 
 
 There is no part of God's vast universe 
 
 t^ntenanted, and therefore no part free 
 Of harmony ; the very stars reheai*se 
 
 Their Maker's glory, and rejoice to be 
 His oracles : herb, blossom, wood and dell. 
 
 Rocks, rivers, mountains, ocean, and the dim 
 Interminable mther, chant and swell. 
 
 And blend their myriad tones into one hymn 
 And tone of homage, heard for evermore. 
 Ascending without pause from sea and shore. 
 
 And from the human heart, the fount and tlirone. 
 
 And temple of God's worship, oft a sigh, 
 A deep low murmur, like a captive's moan. 
 
 In sorrow will arise, and to the sky 
 Appeal for what the cold world may not know ; 
 
 Its name is prayer, and wlien it is sincere. 
 In gloom or gladness, joyfulness or wo. 
 When speaking through the lip or through the 
 
 tear, 
 Whatever shapes it takes, it has a spell 
 To exalt or to subdue, where'er we dwell. 
 
THE CHRISTIAN CATACOMBS OF ROME. 
 
 BY A RETURNED TRAVELER. 
 
 Christianity is the same from the beginning to 
 the end. The oracles of our heavenly Father, 
 as spoken by the mouth of the anointed Saviour, 
 have still the same voice which they bore before 
 the cross was set up on Calvary. The divine 
 principles which reveal the will of the omnipo- 
 tent and immaculate God, and which are pre- 
 served in his word, know no change nor shadow 
 of turning ; but the visible Christian church, 
 since its foundation until to-day, has assumed 
 many diverse forms, according to circumstances 
 and the conviction of its members. At first she 
 was lowly in form, humble, peaceful, and meek, 
 seeking the secluded mountain-side and the quiet 
 waters by which to worship. From poverty did 
 God's anointed Son come forth, and he preached 
 salvation to the poor. Poor and humble were 
 the Galilean fishermen who ' spread abroad the 
 glorious gospel of love ; and it was the poor and 
 needy that first heard and received the glad 
 tidings witli joy. As time rolled on, however, and 
 the rich and powerful attached themselves to 
 Christianity, the stately cathedral displaced the 
 humble cell, and a splendid ritual became the 
 service of the the visible church. No city in the 
 woi'ld is more fruitful of historical associations 
 than Rome ; and no part of her history is more 
 instructive or interesting than that of the Chris- 
 tian church. Lilce her polytheism, which emana- 
 ted from the subterranean temple of Census, the i 
 Roman church arose from the dark and gloomy 
 catacombs ; and as the former saw its crowning 
 glories in the temple of Jupiter Olympus, so did 
 the latter behold her greatness in the St Peter's of 
 Buonarotti. There is no more instructive em- 
 ployment for the reflection of man, than to observe 
 the development of any system, even from that 
 of a grain of seed to that of a grand leading idea ; 
 the spirit and nature of man and the ways of Pro- 
 vidence are illustrated in both. 
 
 The great increase which took place in the 
 magnificence of ancient Rome, during the latter 
 times of the republic, naturally led to the forma- 
 tion of quarries in the immediate neighborhood. 
 In this respect, the city of the Cajsars resembles 
 many others, as Paris, Naples, Syracuse, and 
 Alexandria, all more or less surrounded or under- 
 
 mined by tortuous excavations. The size and 
 shape of these differ according to the firmness of 
 the substratum : at Naples they are large and 
 lofty, but at Rome, from the crumbling nature of 
 the soil, narrow and low. These subterranean 
 works attracted general notice during the time 
 of Augustus, when their extent rendered them 
 dangerous. They first obtained celebrity as the 
 scene of the domestic tragedy referred to by 
 Cicero in his oration for Cluentius. The riches 
 of Asinius, a yoiing Roman citizen, had excited 
 the avarice of Oppianicus, who employed an 
 accomplice to personate Asinius, and to execute 
 a will in his name. The pretended Asinius hav- 
 ing bequeathed tlie property to Oppianicus, and 
 obtained the signatures of some strangers, the 
 true Asinius was inveigled to the gardens of the 
 Esquiline, and precipitated into one of the sand- 
 pits. It was in these caverns that Nero was ad- 
 vised to conceal himself, when terrified by the 
 sentence of an enraged senate ; on which occasion 
 he made answer to his freedman Phaon, that he 
 would not go under ground while living. The 
 sand obtained from the Esquiline pits was used 
 for making cement ; it was recommended for 
 this purpose by the the architect Vitruvius, as 
 preferable to all other. 
 
 The custom of digging sand from these crypts 
 or galleries being established, the whole subsoil 
 on one side of Rome was in course of time per- 
 forated by a network of excavations, spreading 
 ultimately to a distance of fifteen miles. In the 
 mean time the original quarries, exhausted of 
 their stores, were appropriated to other uses. 
 We must bear in mind that at this date — that is, 
 about the close of the Republic— the Romans 
 were accustomed to hirn their dead, excepting a 
 few families of distinction, who prefered Inu-ying 
 them, and the lowest orders of the people, who 
 were not able to procure the honors of a funeral 
 pile. Certain classes of persons, as those who 
 had made away with themselves, or had perished 
 by the hand of the law, were forbidden to receive 
 the rites of incremation. The prohibition was 
 also extended to such as had been struck by 
 lightning; a circimistance seized upon by Ter- 
 tullian, as illustrative of the Christian's salvation 
 
THE CHRISTIAN CATACOMBS OF ROME. 
 
 89 
 
 from hell, " He who has been touched by heaven- 
 ly fire is safe from being consumed by any other 
 flame." For these persons the pits left by the 
 sand-diggei-s on the Esquiline hill afibrded a con- 
 venient burial-place ; and their bodies were 
 thrown in to putrefy, much to the annoyance of 
 the inliabitiuits of that part of Rome. 
 
 It was probably to the sand-diggers on the 
 Esquiline hill, and to the poor men who had been 
 employed in scooping out the cavernous cata- 
 combs, that the gospel was first preached at Rome ; 
 and it was likely, from their knowledge of its 
 tortuosities, that the pei-secuted of the faith were 
 made acquainted with this city of refuge. For 
 many years did the faithful find a precarious re- 
 fuge under ground, from the persecutions of which 
 the malignity of the heathen mob or the malice 
 of the heatlion rulers subjected them ; and for 
 many generations did they lay the bodies of their 
 dead in this subterranean dwelling-place of the 
 living. 
 
 The fact th|it the catacombs were employed as 
 a refuge from persecution, rests upon good evi- 
 dence, notwithstanding objections founded upon 
 the narrowness of the passages, the difficulty of 
 supporting life, and the risk of discovery incur- 
 red by seeking concealment in an asylum so well 
 known to the Pagans. They have been an object 
 of great interest to the Chi'istian traveler for many 
 years, and aboimd with momiments and memo- 
 rials of the faith and virtues of the early disciples 
 of Christ. They have been also the scene of the 
 actual martyrdom of some noble witnesses to the 
 truth. Xystus, Bishop of Rome, together with 
 Quartus, one of his clergy, suffered below ground 
 in the time of Cyprian. Stephen, al.'-o Bishop of 
 Rome, was traced by heathen soldiers to his sub- 
 terranean chapel : on the conclusion of divine 
 sei'vice, he was thrust back into his episcopal 
 chair, and beheaded. The letters of Christians 
 then living refer to such scenes with a simplicity 
 that dispels all idea of exaggeration : while their 
 expectation of sliaring the same fate affords a 
 vivid picture of those dreadful times. 
 
 An authentic history of Stephen during his 
 long residence in the catacombs, would be sur- 
 passed in interest by few narratives in the ecclesi- 
 astical archives. Some incidents have been hand- 
 ed down to us. From time to time he was con- 
 sulted by his clergy, who.resorted to him for 
 advice and exhortation. On one occasion, a lay- 
 man named Hippolytus, himself a refugee, sought 
 the bishop's cell, to receive instruction regarding 
 a circumstance that preyed upon his mind. Pauli- 
 na, his heathen sL'ter, together with her huband 
 Adrian, were in the habit of sending provisions 
 by their two children to Hippolytus and his 
 
 companions. The unconverted state of these re- 
 lations by whom his bodily life was supported, 
 weighed heavily upon him, and bv the advice of 
 Stephen a plan was laid for detaining the chil- 
 dren, so that the parents were forced to seek 
 them in the cavern. Every ai-gument Avas used 
 by Stephen and Hippolytus to induce their bene- 
 factors to embrace the faith, and, though for the 
 time ineffectual, the desired end was at length 
 aooomplished. Tradition adds that they all suffered 
 martyrdom, and were buried in the catacombs. 
 
 A visit in former years to these touching scenes 
 of ancient piety and faith, left an impression of the 
 grandeur of our religion, which neither the pomp 
 of cathedrals, nor the array of the priesthood that 
 now occupy Rome, ever conveyed Walking 
 through the long corridors, the walls are seen 
 covred with inscriptions, some plain and striking, 
 but mostly obscure or effaced. These inscriptions 
 are of singular interest to the antiquarian and to 
 the historiographer, and are of no mean impor- 
 tance in the discussion of the form of the early 
 churches. They show us in rude but uumistake- 
 able characers the meek and humble spirit of the 
 primitive Christians during trial, and in their 
 conflicts with power; and they gradually appear 
 as monuments of the progressive epochs of the 
 church at Rome. The early Christians had 
 toleration under several of the Roman empe- 
 rors; for, notwithstanding the many charges 
 that were brought against them by the Pagan 
 writer?, they were never yet accusedof any- 
 thing more serious than of worshiping Christ, 
 and of warring against the idolatry of the poly- 
 theists Between the Pagans and Christians 
 there was an uncompromising difierence, which 
 the advocates of Christianity did not shrink, in 
 the face of the greatest terroi-s, from exposing. 
 Carrying in their hand the life they valued so 
 cheaply, the martyrs lavishly exchanged it for 
 the treasures of eternal glory ; but besides this, 
 in itself an abundant recompense, they bought 
 over the hearts of men. With such a price they 
 seduced the world into imitation of tlieir virtues : 
 the same violence that took heaven by force, pre- 
 vailed over earth and vanquished hell. Nothing 
 could have been devised better adapted to dis- 
 play the power of the new faith, than submitting 
 its professors to martyrdom : not proof against 
 the generous enthusiasm of his victim, the execu- 
 tioner often caught the flame ; gazed upon the 
 dangerous spectacle of the power of true religion, 
 till his heart burned within him ; and, fiiirly 
 overwhelmed by the trial of faith and hope, has- 
 tened to undergo the death which his hands had 
 inflicted on anotlior. It was perJiaps the frequent 
 experience of this which led many of the Pagan 
 
90 
 
 THE CIIPtlSTIAN CATACOMBS OF ROME. 
 
 officers to avoid capital punishment, and to em- 
 ploy the more efficacious method of Lribes and 
 cntreatie?. 
 
 Among the earliest sufferers in Rome after the 
 completion of the inspired canon, was Ignatius, 
 \vho was devoured by beasts in the Coliseum, 
 A D. 107. Of his martyrdom we have a short 
 narrative, expressed in language sufficiently in- 
 elegant and obscure to stamp it as the work of 
 uneducated persons ; and professing to be the 
 production of the martyr's personal friends. In 
 addition to these "Acts," we have the epistles of 
 Ignatius written to seven churches while on his 
 way to Rome ; in this respect he imitated his 
 apostolic friend, who had departed this life a few 
 years earlier. These epistles have happily come 
 down to us uncorrupted. From these "acts"' 
 and epistles we learn all that is known of the 
 last days of Ignatius. While the Emperor Tra- 
 jan was passingjthrough Antioch, on his way to 
 Armenia, he observed that a portion of his sub- 
 jects rendered him imperfect homage, so that the 
 lustre of his recent victories seemed to suffer 
 some diminution. His indignation being roused, 
 he issued an edict commanding the Christians to 
 sacrifice to the gods, under pain of instant death. 
 Ignatius, fearing for the church over which he was 
 bishop, presented himself before Trajan, and 
 after a short conversation too well known to need 
 repetition, was sentenced to death. He was 
 placed under the care of soldiers, to be conducted 
 to Rome ; during the journey he contrived to 
 visit Polycarp, his fellow-disciple in the school of 
 St. John. He also wrote to the church of Rome, 
 requesting them to make no attempt to save his 
 life. 
 
 Among the most elaborately finished pro- 
 ductions of Ambrose, is the story of Theodora, a 
 young woman of remarkable beauty, who had 
 attracted the notice of the governor of Antioch. 
 Vainly was she urged to renounce Christianity . 
 threats of torture failed to shake her constancy ; 
 and when finally told that she must either sacri- 
 fice, or be publicly disgraced, she calmly an- 
 swered, " The will alone is what God regards." 
 Being at length condemned by the reluctant 
 governor, she was led to the place of confine- 
 ment, where she offered up a prayer for deliver- 
 ance. A forocious-looking soldier forcing his 
 way through the crowd, immediately entered 
 the cell: " Shut your ears," exclaims Ambrose 
 at this juncture, " Christ's faithful witness suf- 
 fers; nay, but listen once more, for deliverance 
 is at hand." That wolf's clothing disguises a 
 sheep; the man of arms is a soldier of the cross, 
 bent on saving his fellow-believer at the cost of 
 his own life. He quiets her apprehensions, and 
 proposes to exchange dresses with her, so thBt 
 
 she may pass out in his stead. " Take the dress 
 wliich hides your sex, and give me that which 
 makes me a martyr; believe that for Christ's 
 sake you wear this heathen habit. Be this," he 
 continues, putting upon her his armor, '• be this 
 your breast-plate of righteousness, this your 
 shield of faith, and this your helmet of salvation. 
 But, above all, as you go out, hide your face, and 
 let no thought of my fate cause you to turn your 
 head ; if tempted to look back, remember Lot's 
 wife." Theodora escaped in safety, leaving the 
 generous Didymus within. The next who entered 
 discovered the change of the prisoner ; but, unable 
 to explain the mystery, attributed it to a miracle. 
 The circumstance was soon reported to the govern- 
 or.and Didymus sentenced to execution. Eut Theo- 
 dora, hearing of his apprehension, ran to the 
 place of punishment, and hastened to dispute 
 with him the crown of martyrdom. "I will not 
 be guilty of your death," she exclaimed : " I con- 
 sented that you should preserve my honor, but 
 not my life. If you deprive me of the crown of 
 martyrdom, you will have deceived me." Two 
 contended, both triumphed : the crown was not 
 divided, but conferred on each. 
 
 The fame of the catacombs as a repository of 
 martyrs' ashes early spread throughout Christen- 
 dom, and attracted to Rome many admirers of 
 relics. Among these was Aurelius Clemens Pru- 
 dentius, a native of Saragossa, who, about A.D. 880, 
 traveled from Spain to Rome, for the express 
 purpose of visiting the catacombs ; and whose en- 
 thusiasm, kindled by the countless sepulchres of 
 the martyr church, found expression in a collec- 
 tion of hymns, entitled " Peristaphanon," or, "Con- 
 cerning the CrowTis." He was the first writer 
 who attempted to reduce to a pleasing form the 
 incidents of martyrdom. The history of the 
 ancient bishops of Rome is intimately connected 
 with that of the catacombs, in which not a few 
 were martyred, and all, till the middle of the 
 fifth century, were buried. From the time of 
 Leo I., who in 462 was interred in the vestibule 
 of the sacristy of St. Peter's, we may date the 
 decline of tlie subterranean cemetries. During 
 the troubles whicli followed, the knowledge of 
 tlieir entrances was lost, and only a few short 
 passages of easy access remained open, which 
 were still embellished with the ornaments sug- 
 gested by a debased taste. The earliest accusa- 
 tions brought against the Christians were leveled 
 principally at their obstinate adherence to their 
 religion, and refusal to sacrifice to idols. Pliny 
 described them as meeting together to worship 
 Christ, to sing hymns, and to partake of a social 
 meal ; their morals were represented as pure, 
 their opinions as simply opposed to the religion 
 of the state. 
 
5'Dt n %Hmt ill tlit 0nllnj. 
 
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SUBMISSION TO PROVIDENCE, 
 
 BY REV, JACOB ABBOTT 
 
 We little realize ho^v few of the circumstances of 
 life on ■which our welfare and happiness depend are 
 within our control. Man's heart deviseth his way, 
 but the Lord directeth his steps. We should be 
 willing now to submit to this direction. Be active> 
 energetic, patient, persevering, and circumspect in 
 all your plans and efforts. Leave nothing undone 
 which it is in your power to do, to insure success. 
 But when you have done all, calmly and quietly 
 leave the event in his hands who most certainly 
 will decide, whether you have the heart to ac- 
 quiesce in his decision or not. Allow yourself to 
 feel no solicitude and no anxiety. Li circumstan- 
 ces of danger, or where you imagine there is dau- 
 ser, remember that restlessness and anxious con- 
 cern are insubmission. You are upon the water in a 
 dark and stormy night, — and you harass yourself 
 and those around you by the indulgence and ex- 
 pression of your fears. You watch the skies, — 
 you make ceaseless and utterly useless inquiries, 
 — you listen to the moaning of the wind, and 
 ■wish you had not embarked, — and in a word you 
 allo^w your soul to work itself uito a commotion 
 which forms, witliin, the image and counterpart 
 of the sea of surges which is roaring without, 
 around you. Is this the spirit of submission ? Is 
 this a readiness to acquiesce in the Divine will 
 concerning you ? Can a Christian who has given 
 himself to the Lord, to be disposed of soul and 
 body, for time and for eternity by him, can a 
 Christian thus allow his heart to rebel against 
 the mighty hand that is over him, and call him- 
 self a Christian still ? 
 
 Whenever anything occurs in the dealings of 
 Divine Providence, whether it be losses, dangers, 
 or difficuliies, we must say to the rising feeling 
 within, Hush, be still. We must calm the anx- 
 iety, dismiss the care, and throw the whole soul 
 into an attitude of ([uiet repose, by bringing home 
 fully to our minds the reflection that the j)ressure 
 which we feel is the pressure of the mighty hand 
 from above, against which it is most vain as well 
 as wicked to struggle. 
 
 So in case of any impending calamity or dan- 
 ger, the hand may exert itself to avert it, but the 
 heart must be still. A reverse of fortune is in- 
 
 volving you in difficulties and embarrassments 
 which hedge you up, day by day, more and more 
 closely, and from whicli there is every day less 
 and less hope of extrication. Or death is coming 
 to sunder some of the dearest ties which entwine 
 your heart : all efforts to relieve and save are 
 vain, and you see the sufferer, whom you love, 
 pming slowly away and sinking gradually and 
 hopelessly towards the grave. In either of these 
 cases you are not indeed to relax your exertions. 
 What little lays in your power, you must faith- 
 fully do. But the activity of your movement 
 without must not have a counterpart in restless- 
 ness and inquietness of spirit within. Here all 
 must be calm, peaceful, resigned. We must feel 
 that such questions are to be decided by a different 
 voice from ours. This willingness tojeave the re- 
 sponsibility where it properly belongs, will take 
 off from your soul one half its burden, and make 
 the other half easily borne. 
 
 Some persons say that such a doctrine as this 
 is very easy to preach but very hard to practise ; 
 but this is a mistake. It is easy and delightful 
 to practise. It is the contrary is hard. It is the 
 spirit of insubmision and resistance which is hard. 
 It is the kicking against the pricks wliich is hard. 
 Whoever learns the lesson of submission to the 
 will of God learns the secret of comfort and happi- 
 ness. He enjoys everything good more, and suf- 
 fers everything evil less, than another. In hct, 
 there is a kind of pleasure in receiving a cup of 
 trial and sorrow from the hand of one whom you 
 love and adore, wiien you come thoroughly to feel 
 that he has the right to do with you just as he 
 pleases, and that he will only please to do what 
 is right. Many souls in this frame cf mind have 
 welcomed disappointment and sorrow. They open 
 their doors to trouble, and bid it come in, since it is 
 seut from God. 
 
 Tiie celebrated words of Kirk White are not 
 mere poetry ; they express feelings to which 
 many hearts can respond : 
 
 " Come, Disappointtnent, come ! 
 
 Not in thy terrors clad ; ' 
 Come in thy meekest, saddest giiise ; 
 Thy chastening rod but terrifies 
 
H 
 
 SUBMISSION TO PROVIDENCE. 
 
 The restless and tlie bad : 
 But I recline 
 Beneath thy shrine, 
 And round my brow, resign'd, thy peaceful cypress twine 
 
 Though Fancy flies away 
 Before thy hollow tread, 
 Yet IMeditaticn, in her cell, 
 Hears, with faint eye, the lingering knell, 
 That tells her hopes are dead ; 
 And though the tear 
 By chance appear, 
 Yet she can smile, and say. My all was not laid here. 
 
 Come, Disappointment, ccme ! 
 
 Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, 
 Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiren, 
 For thou severe wert sent from heaven 
 To wean me from the world : 
 To turn my eye 
 From vanity, 
 
 And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die 
 
 « # # » * * 
 
 Come, Disappointment, come ! 
 
 Thou art not stern to me ; 
 Sad Monitress ! I own thy sway, 
 A votary sad in early day, 
 I bend my knee to thee. 
 From sun to sun 
 My race will run, 
 I only bow, and say. My God, thy will be done ! 
 
 This submissiou, however, which makes us wil- 
 ling to receive calmly and patiently whatever 
 Divine Providence sends, does not prevent our 
 feeling it. Some persons seem to confound re- 
 signation with insensibility, or at least they ima- 
 gine that great grief shows want of resignation. 
 But I suppose that resignation, after all, does not 
 tend so much to diminish the depth as to change 
 the character of sorrow. When we lose a friend, 
 for example, by death or some unhappy aliena- 
 tion, we maj feel the loss more or less, according 
 to the circumstances of the case, without being 
 resigned to it at all. On the other hand, there 
 may be the most entire and happy acquiescence 
 in the Divine will, under the pressure of a sorrow 
 which entirely overwhelms the soul. We must 
 not, therefore, infer, when we see a wife over- 
 whelmed with grief at the loss of a husband, or 
 a mother for a son, — we must must not infer from 
 the depth of tlie sufierer's anguish that she is not 
 
 resigned. She may be perfectly so. Resignation 
 does not turn grief into gladness. It does not 
 weaken sensibility, or stop tears. It takes away 
 the repining, the restlessness, and the bitterness 
 of grief, — but leaves the melting tenderness of 
 the soul the same as before. Resignation does 
 not destroy suffering, — it makes us willing to 
 bear suffering. It takes away resistance to sor- 
 row from the mind, not the sorrow itself. But in 
 doing so it changes the whole character of the 
 sorrow, not by diminishing its intensity, but by 
 destroying its sting. It remains as great as be- 
 fore, but it ceases to be suffering. 
 
 Let us all acquiesce cordially and happily in 
 the control of the mighty hand which is over us. 
 That hand, most certainly is over us, and struggle 
 as much as we may, we can never resist its power. 
 We are now where we are, and what we are, not 
 because ten years ago we planned and designed 
 it, but because God has brought us on to our pre- 
 sent position, in a way we knew not of And 
 where and what we shall be ten years hence, de- 
 pends upon God's designs for us, not upon our 
 own schemes and plans for ourselves. He will 
 decide whether we are soon to be swallowed up 
 in the vortices of sorrow and death which are 
 whirling around us, or whether we shall float on 
 a little longer. A thousand years hence we 
 shall be where and what he pleases, — enjoying 
 such means of happiness as he may prepare for 
 us, or suffering the pains which his righteous re- 
 tribution may provide for spirits which cannot 
 bear his gentle sway. Let us learn soon the 
 lesson, " Thy will be dune." He who can say 
 this always, everywhere, and under all circum- 
 stances, is safe and happy, let what will befall 
 him. His soul is enveloped in a protection which 
 no sharp arrow can pierce. He cannot be hurt ; 
 he cannot be wounded. His experience in life 
 will admit of one change, — irom joijful happiness 
 in ffhid hours, to sad happiness in sorrow and 
 tears. Whatever the change is, it will be peace 
 and happiness still. Let us all learn then to say, 
 '•Thy will be done." 
 
 AND GOD SAID LET THERE BE LIGHT 
 
 " Let there be light" I Swift as the wings of thought, 
 Forth rushed the angels at Jehovah's voice, 
 To bid the earth, the sea, the stars rejoice. 
 And gild creation o'er ; — yet light was'not : — 
 Not in the caves of earth, and the dark sea, 
 
 Heaving, its billows groaned " 'tis not in me." 
 Where, Light, thy dwelling? — Lo 1 the golden doors 
 Of Heaven are opened : Darkness, turn and flee '. 
 Back, angels, speed thy to thy celestial shores ; 
 See, from the throne of God the stream of glory pours ■ 
 
DIES IRAE 
 
 RENDERED INTO ENGLISH VERSE. 
 
 BY REY. OLIVER A. TAYLOR 
 
 The celebrated Latin hymn, beginning with 
 Dies Ira, is known to all scholars. My object, in 
 the following version of it, has been, in connec- 
 tion with the spirit, to retain, as far as possible, 
 the exact rhythm of the original, so that both 
 the one anj the other could be sung to the 
 same tune. Of course, like all poetry trans- 
 ferred from one language into another, it must be 
 regarded as an imitation rather than a translation. 
 
 It was my primary intention also to give a 
 critical Iiistory of the hymn itself; and I early 
 began to make collections for tliis purpose, but 
 since the Rev. Dr. Williams has gone so far 
 into it, (though a volume might be written in con- 
 tinuance of the same,) I have concluded to omit 
 it. It may be simply remarked, that it is suppos- 
 ed to have been written by Thomas de Celano, a 
 Minorite monk, and anative of Italy, about A. D. 
 12.jO. Many versions have been made of it, into 
 almost all languages. Of those in English, several 
 may be seen in Williams's work. The last version 
 into English that has met my eye, and probably 
 the most successful one, preserving, like my own, 
 the double rhyme, and beginning with, " Day sliall 
 dawn that has no morn," was first published in 
 the Newark Advertiser, and is said to have been 
 made by Dr. Abraham Coles, of that city. My 
 own version, here published, was made several 
 years since, and before I had seen any rendering 
 of it into English verse, preserving the exact 
 features of the original. In the first stanza, I 
 have preferred to drop the heathen idea that 
 the Sybils were capable of truly prophesying. 
 Those who wisih to retain it. may read the second 
 line, "Sybils sung, and David's lyre." There are 
 several various readings of parts of the hymn, of 
 which no notice is taken ; and one of the first 
 stanza, dropping the idea respecting the Sybils 
 and introducing that of the standard of the cross 
 waving in triumph over the world, as the Saviour 
 comes to judgment. This last may be expressed 
 with a tolerable degree of exactness, thus : — 
 
 " Lo the day, that day of ire, , . 
 
 Burning with devouring fire, 
 Waves the banner of Messiah." i 
 
 The cloiing stanza of the hymn, as will be seen 
 is peculiar. In the original, tlie two closing lines 
 are made to contain a prayer for the dead, thus :— 
 
 "Pie Jesu Domine, 
 Dona eis requiem." 
 
 I have so far varied from it as to have nothing 
 shocking to the feelings of a Protestant Christian. 
 Indeed, this is the only place in which there comes 
 out anything peculiar to the Roman form of Chris- 
 tianity. All the rest of the hymn is of the purest 
 doctrinal character, and has faith in Christ for 
 its fundamental principle ; thus showing that 
 even in the dark ages there were those who had 
 the light of life in great, if not in all, its purity. 
 Those who wish to enter more at large into the 
 subject of this hymn, may consult " Anthologie 
 christliclier Gesange aus der alten und mittlern 
 Zeit, von August Jacob Rambach, 3 Bds. Altonoe 
 in Leipzig, ISlY," vol. 1, p. 32 seq. ; and especial- 
 ly. Dr. William R. Williams's Misc., 2d ed., 
 N. Y., 1850, p. 78." 
 
 DIES IRAE. 
 
 Lo, the day ! that day of ire, 
 Sung by Zion's hallowed lyre, 
 Burning virith devouring fire ! 
 
 ! the terrors vast arising, " 
 Of the Judge all scrutinizing, ' 
 On a cloud the world surprising. 
 
 Hear the trumpet loudly swelling. 
 Through earth's dark scpulchual dwelling, 
 Man before the throne compelling. 
 
 Death aghast, and wide creation , 
 See the dead of every nation, 
 Rise in Judgment-expectation. 
 
 Forth is brought the Book of Ages, 
 Flashing direly with presages. 
 All things blazoned on its pages ! 
 
 Jesus on his throne of wonder, 
 
 Every veil is rent asunder, 
 
 Hound him rolling vengeful thunder. 
 
 Ah me ! shrink those, righteous being ! 
 Heaven and earth prepare for fleeing I 
 Can I bear the eye all-seeing 1 
 
96 
 
 TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Yet, enthroned in sapphire-blazes, 
 Awful King, thy grace amazes, 
 Save me for its endless praises ! 
 
 By thee once, in death extended, 
 Was a ruined world befriended I 
 On thee hang my hopes suspended. 
 
 For me thou didst bless the manger, 
 Bear the cross and brave its danger ; 
 1 remember still the stranger I 
 
 Let compassion, kindly yearning, 
 The demands of justice spurning. 
 Blot the leaves against me burning ' 
 
 Hear the pleas thy suppliant urges, 
 Trembling on destruction's verges — 
 'Neath him rolling fierj' surges. 
 
 Must I from thy face be driven, 
 When vile Mary was forgiven, 
 And the thief xssured of Heaven ? 
 
 Justly may thy vengeance lower ; 
 Yet in mercy show thy power, 
 Let not endless flames devour I 
 
 In the last adjudication, 
 Grant my guilty soul a station 
 With the children of salvation. 
 
 From thy joys celestial never. 
 With the vile, my spirit sever. 
 In thy wrath to burn forever. 
 
 Joined with myriads now before thee, 
 Would thy guilty worm adore thee, 
 Hear his trembling voice implore thee ! 
 
 Day of grief and wo surprising, 
 When to judgment all are rising, 
 Then, — in mercy veiled, each feature, — 
 Spare, spare the guilty creature ; 
 With thee, Lord and Saviour blessed I 
 Let him find eternal rest. 
 
 Ambn. 
 
 TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRESIDE 
 
 B Y 
 
 STODDARD, 
 
 It was a cold winter night : the snow had been 
 foiling since daybreak, and the valley in which 
 we dwell, was knee-deep. Throughout the day, 
 we saw the white flakes sifted down upon the 
 woods and fields : the bushes, at first so stiff and 
 erect, began to droop and bend ; the outstretched 
 arms of the pines were loaded down ; and in one 
 place, where the wind seemed to have chosen its 
 highway in passing through the valley, the snow 
 was drifted over the fences and the stone walls. 
 Now and then a sleigh dashed by, with its bells 
 jingling sharply and merrily, and one or two foot 
 dassengers, plodded down the road, but for the 
 most part the villagers, like sensible people, kept 
 in-doors. 
 
 We sat around our great fireplace, and the 
 hickory logs on the hearth burned, and simmered, 
 and puffed out their sappy steam, like a minature 
 train of cars filled with salamanders. Year after 
 year we draw our chairs around that hospitable 
 hearth, and hope too for years to come. Somehow 
 or other, on winter nights one always feels kindly 
 and charitably disposed. He feels that all men 
 re his brethren, and all women his sisters; and 
 
 certainly this last fact, cannot but make the 
 most cynical rejoice. When the fire blazes, and 
 the sparks cmckle up the chimney, we think of 
 the thousands in towns and cities, sitting around 
 their own firesides, in social friendship and mirth : 
 nor only those within doors, but we sympathize 
 deeply with those without. We see in thought, 
 the solitary night passenger toiling wearily along 
 the highway, stamping his feet, and beating his 
 arras to keep himself warm : the roads are almost 
 impassable with snow, and the bleak wind blows 
 over the common, until he is nearly frozen : he 
 passes by old barns where the cattle ar? warmly 
 housed : the farmer is there with his lantern : 
 cattage windows by the roadside are ruddy and 
 bright, and a long streak of light streams out in- 
 to the darkness : how clieerful and happy they 
 must be within ! — if he was only at home now ! — 
 but he will be soon: he turns up the well- 
 known pathway ; a light is held to the window, 
 and in a moment wife and children are in his 
 arms I — There is nothing like a winter night, for 
 kindness and charity : If you ever want a favor 
 done, and cannot catch your man after dinners 
 
TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 take him by his fireside when the nights are dark 
 and cold. He can refuse you nothing then. 
 
 But to return to ourselves : Uncle Tim sat in 
 his old arm cliair holding little Bess in his lap. — 
 Reader, I wish you had the honor of Uncle Tim's 
 acquaintance. I know you would like him. 
 Everybody does. He is, I should guess, about 
 sixty-five, and a hale, hearty old bachelor. His 
 hair, what there is left of it, is white as snow, 
 and his head is bald on top, like the fine old 
 gentleman's on the stage, who always insists on 
 paying everybody's debts. Portly, for he is ac- 
 customed to good dinners, — healthy, for he is 
 accustomed to exercise,— jolly, for he is fond of 
 mirth, and always kind-hearted, he is the pride 
 of the village, and the god father of half tlie little 
 urchins in it. When he dies (this is in confidence) 
 I shall come in fur something handsome. My 
 post obits are as good as gold Bess, his favorite, 
 and our youngest, is a merry little maid of four 
 or five; such a one as Coleridge thought of, when 
 he wrote about j 
 
 " A fairy thing with red round cheeks." i 
 
 Kate and Ruth, a pair of beautiful girls, about 
 sixteen and eighteen years of age, sat on Uncle 
 Tim's left hand, knitting mittens for the coming 
 charity fair ; mother next, and I brought up the 
 end of the wing in the corner. Bess held a little 
 sea shell in her hand, which she had been play- 
 ing with for the last half hour, teasing Uncle Tim 
 the while to tell her a story, which he promised 
 to do by-and-by. Taking the shell from the child, 
 who by this time had grown tired of it, and was 
 playing with a china lamb, her new year's pre- 
 sent, I examined it minutely. It was hard, dark, 
 and scaly on the outside, with knobs, and jagged 
 horns like the crooked legs of an immense spider, 
 but its portal was more beautiful than the rose 
 tin's of a summer morning. I held it to n.y ear, 
 and it murmured sadly and solemnly like a dis- 
 tant sea. I thought of what it had encountered 
 in the depths of ocean ;— of the world of waters 
 rolling over it, dark and green, flecked with white 
 sailed ships ; — of great monsters swimming 
 around and above it ; — of leagues of drifting sea 
 weeds, and forests of coral with long white arras i 
 — of old armaments gone to wreck, with cargoes 
 of rich merchandise ; — and of the tempest which 
 tore it from its hold of the rocks, and washed it 
 up on the sand. Perhaps it had been picked up, by 
 a cabin boy, on his first voyage, as a present for 
 his old mother, who prayed for his welfare, night 
 and morning, with tears. Perhaps by some old 
 "salt," for the children of his old sweetheart, 
 who married a landsman, after the tidings came 
 that he was lost in his China trip. Perhaps, — 
 but there was no end to my speculations, until I 
 
 was startled by a shout from Uncle Tim : " Wha^ 
 ails the boy? Is he trying to be poetical, of 
 dreaming with his eyes open ? Dick, you villain, 
 whats the matter with you?"' 
 
 "Nothing," said I: "I was only thinking of 
 Savage Landor's fine lines on a sea shell. Do 
 you remember them. Uncle '(" 
 
 " Can't say I do. Dick : suppose you repeat 
 them for the. benefit of the company." 
 
 " Listen. 
 
 " But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue 
 Witliin, and they that lustre have imbibed 
 From the Sun's palace porch, where, when unyoked. 
 His chariot wheel stands midway in the wave. 
 Shake one, and it awakens — then apply 
 Its polished lip to your attentive ear, 
 And it remembers its angnst abodes, 
 And murmurs, as the ocean murmurs there,"' 
 
 '•Not bad, Dick," said my uncle," not^bad 
 
 though you mouth it too much. I have often' 
 
 liL-teued to the murmurs of tlie sea shell myself. 
 
 I but never thought of accounting for them in that 
 
 j wny ; but since you have started it, let me follow 
 
 with another quotation." 
 i " Certainly," answered I, " but you had better 
 ij send for the book ; your memory is leaving you 
 |i very fast: you have already forgotten to give 
 ';i me that check for fifty dollars, whic'.i you pro- 
 mised me only yesterday." 
 
 « Never mind the fifty now ; this passage i-; 
 worth a thousand. You may find it ia " The 
 Excursion," if I am not mistaken : 
 
 " I have seen 
 A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract 
 Of inland ground, applying to his ear 
 The convolutions of a smooth lipped shell, 
 To which, in silence hushed, his very soul 
 Listened intensely, and his countenance soon 
 Brightened with joy, for, murmuring from within 
 "Were head sonorous cadences, whereby. 
 To his belief, the monitor expressed 
 Mysterious union with iis native sea,— 
 Even such ashell the Universe itself 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things— 
 Of ebb and flow, and ever during power, 
 And central peace subsisting at ihe heart 
 Of endless agitation." 
 
 " By the by, Dick," continued my uncle, after we 
 had expressed our admiration of this noble pass- 
 a.fe— " what did you ever do with the fairy poem 
 that you began some five or six years ago? I re- 
 member that you were much elated with it at 
 the time, thougli I told you you would never 
 finish it, if you lived to be seventy : Was I right ?" 
 "Certainly," answered I again, thinking of the 
 check mentioned above : " Of course you were 
 right : you always are: I did not fimsh it, and 
 
98 
 
 TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 what 13 still better, never intend to. Tliere ia not, 
 to my knowledge, a line of it in existence. — A 
 fairy poem after " The Midsummer Night's 
 Dream," and " The Culprit Fay," not to mention 
 Tom Hood's " Plea for the Midsummer Fairies," ! 
 It would be absurd to think of it. But I'll tell 
 you what, I'll turn it into a story, and tell it this 
 evening if you like. It isn't eight o'clock yet." 
 
 "Oh do tell U5 a story," said Eess kissing me : 
 " Do tell us a story," said Ruth, and so said all. 
 
 " Thank you," said I. — And after one or two 
 deprecatory hems, I began : — 
 
 A FAIRY STOET ABOUT SE.\ SHELLS. 
 
 " It is generally the custom of story tellers, to 
 give some account — too often a very long one — 
 of the ancestors of their hero and heroine ; and 
 frequently their valets and chambermaids are 
 traced back to roots of their genealogi.\al trees, in 
 a way that would do credit to the oldest heralds; 
 but as my hero and heroine are fairies, and as I 
 really know nothing of their relatives, never hav- 
 ing seen one in all my life, I must beg to decline 
 so doing — Indeed I am fearful that I could hardly 
 prove to the satisfaction of the skeptical, that 
 fairies ever existed at all ; but as I am not talk- 
 ing at present to such uncomfortable people, but 
 on the contrary to a ring of devout believers, I 
 will not moot that point, but take it for granted, 
 as many wiser folks have done before me, and get 
 on to the beginning of my story, which I shall not 
 reach at this rate, by the dog-days. Thus then 
 for a beginning. — Once upon a time, — no matter 
 when, a few paltry ages are of no great conse- 
 quence, but — once upon a time there was a great 
 deal of trouble in fairy land, caused, as you have 
 all rightly surmised, by a lady. — And why not 
 pray ? Why should not the fairies, if they like 
 get into difficulties with the fair sex ? They 
 might hunt up, if they felt so inclined, a thousand 
 precedents for their folly, among the wisest and 
 greatest personages in history, sacred and profane. 
 Did not — to begin at the beginning — did not our 
 blessed old grandmother Eve lose us the entail of 
 Paradise by an over-fondness for apples, or pears ? 
 ■which, I believe, has never been satisfactorily 
 settled. Did not t)ie Sons of God see the daugh- 
 ters of men that they were fair? Did not the 
 daughters of Noah teach him how to drink wine ? 
 (What a verdant old gentleman he must have 
 been, to be sure ; not a bit like Uncle Tim !) Did 
 not Samson lose his long locks, upon which he 
 prided himself, by going to sleep in the lap of 
 l^lilah, who, I make no doubt, was a very nice 
 young lady ? Did not King David love, and 
 King Solomon adore their seven hundred and 
 some odd charmers ? Did not iVIark Antonv, and 
 
 even the cold-blooded Caesar confess, the personal 
 attractions of Cleopatra — 
 
 " The laughing Queen who canght the world's great 
 hands ?"' 
 
 and lastly, to come to modern times, witliin our 
 own recollection, did not Uncle Tim, being a hale 
 old bachelor of sixty-five, pay very marked at- 
 tentions to a young lady, (who wasn't a niece,) at 
 a fashionable watering place : not to mention, — 
 but I won't pursue this subject any farther, for 
 you must all be satisfied by this time, that the 
 fairies had no reason to be ashamed of their pre- 
 deliction for the fair. If they had had any, in 
 I this instance, however, it would have availed 
 them nothing ; for the lady in question, not only 
 relied upon her personal beauty, which was amaz- 
 ing, not to say overwhelming, but upon certain 
 philtres which she was in the habit of adminis- 
 tering to them in wine. Nor did she stop here ; 
 but as soon as she grew tired of their company 
 and had new offers, — and she was as successful, 
 and capricious as most beauties, (our dear Kate 
 for instance !) than she changed them into any- 
 thing that she had a mind to, animate, or inani- 
 mate. — Indeed she was a great Sorceress ; say 
 some Circe, the Grecian witch herself, others one 
 of the Sirens ; but as both Circe, and the Sirens, 
 were of the usual height and she only the minia- 
 ture of a woman, I am inclined to doubt it, espe- 
 cially as I never knew any lady willing to lower 
 herself in the eyes of gentlemen, which the fairies 
 undoubtedly were. At any rate, as I said before, 
 she was a great Enchantress, and Fairy-Land was 
 half depopulated by her means. I have forgotten 
 to mention that, among other attractions, she was 
 very fond of the sea. Indeed she was hardly 
 everoutof it, while the fairies, until she bewitched 
 them, were hardly ever in it ; " It may be a joke," 
 said they, " and we have no doubt it is ; but we 
 are dry jokers," and dry they certainly were, if 
 the flasks of wine, which they drained for her, 
 were to be taken into consideration. 
 
 It was her custom to float up and down the 
 smooth bays and horns of water, which skirted 
 the edge of the Kingdom of Oberon ; sometimes 
 by day in the sunshine ; sometimes by night under 
 the mystical moon ; singing melodious and en- 
 chanted songs, which seemed to imprison the rea- 
 son of all who listened to them. Ulysses himself, 
 had he been there, could not have refused to fol. 
 low her. She not only sung her victims into her 
 clutches, metaphorically speaking, but beckoned 
 them on with hands whiter than snow-flakes, and 
 sometimes sent little galleys filled with nymphs 
 to bear them into her presence ; once there, her 
 manner changed, and she greeted them with an 
 
TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 99 
 
 air of maiden reserve, -winch, united with her 
 surpassing beauty, bo enamored them that they 
 ■were -willing to die for her, as most of them did 
 at last. She then waved her wand, and her 
 barge, into which they had entered, sank slowly 
 through the parting waves, while the nymphs sang 
 until they reached the bottom of the sea. Once 
 there, they gave themselves up to a life of dissipa- 
 tion, of which those above knew nothing: some- 
 times, when she felt sure of her victim, she per- 
 mitted him to visit his old friends on terra firm a, 
 and he spread glorious tidings of the fine hfe 
 they led below. People who have been bit never 
 like to confess it. To be sure there was some 
 talk of perdition in the sequel ; but she ruined 
 them in such a queenly way, that everybody 
 was anxious to embrace an opportunity of being 
 ruined, ilost of the fairies thought of nothing 
 else. I am sorry to say I know one or two mor- 
 tals in the the same predicament. As there are 
 always two or more parties to every bargain, 
 this course of things was sure to displease 
 somebod}-. In this instance the formidable some- 
 body consisted of all the ladies in fairy-land ; for 
 I did not deem it necessary to tell you that the 
 gentlemen alone were fascinated by the Siren. 
 Ladies never charm each other. If you doubt 
 the truth of this axiom, ask your mistress her 
 opinion of your pretty cousin, to whom she is 
 (barely) civil, at your repeated desire. " If things 
 go on at this rate, what are we to do for lovers ?" 
 was the natural inquiry of the forsaken fair ones- 
 " She pretty forsooth ! well, there is no account- 
 ing for tastes : — but that minx, and vixen, (they 
 were lo.=ing their tempers,) that witch, that ugly 
 old hag, (they had had lost their tempers,) is 
 turning the heads of half the world. What shall 
 we do ? what shall we do f This was the cry 
 all day long, and at night, among other ladies 
 similarly engaged. Queen Titania, — to whom I 
 do not mean to introduce you — put the same ques- 
 tion to King Obcron, as she gave him a lecture ( 
 behind the curtains of their tent in the white 
 lily. 
 
 It was discovered, when the returns of the 
 census came to be taken, that tlie male population 
 of fairy-land had diminished more than half, 
 while there w.as a superabundance of the female, 
 most of whom were unmarried ; and not being 
 willing to allow the gentlemen to commit bigamy, 
 and not being able to get them upon any other 
 terms, they must irrevocably become old maids 
 a thing not to be thought of for a moment. What 
 to do, nobody knew ; but one night, which you all 
 know is day among the fairies. King Oberon and 
 Puck resolved to see what they could accomplish. 
 As they designed their expedition to be kept a 
 
 ' secret, they set out from cnurt in the disguise and 
 train of a troop of mountebanks and conjurors, 
 who had been delighting that part of the country 
 for some time, and left it after the manager and 
 one or two of his principal "stars" had pocketed 
 a large amount in the way of complimentary 
 benefits. They were disguised as clowns : Puck 
 chalked his face with the leaves of a daisy, and 
 King Oberon with a lily, always a royal flower, 
 and stained it with the juice of a whortleberry. 
 Their caps were made of inverted morning-glories, 
 and bells of silver dew jingled at the corners of 
 their lappets. A pair of merrier Tom Fools were 
 never seen, not even at Astley's in its best days. 
 They both bore in their bosoms a migic herb, 
 lately discovered, the least leaf of which, it was 
 said, dropped into wine, was sufficient to over- 
 power a giant. By this they hoped to overcome 
 the Siren, and release their subjects, the betwitch- 
 0(1 and imprisoned fairies. As they had started 
 from court at early twilight, they reached their 
 place of destination as the moon was rising. 
 With strict injunctions of secrecy, they bade their 
 companions adieu, and turning a back summer- 
 set from their wagons, left them on the borders 
 of the sea. It was a clear and beautiful night in 
 June ; such a night as novelists describe when they 
 picture lovers walking in old manorial parks, pour- 
 ing out the springtide of their affections, as they 
 always do, in novels. The moon had lifted her 
 horns above the threshold of the horizon, and a 
 line of light ran from a point beneath her silver 
 feet, and, widening to the feet of the fairies, made 
 a pathway fit for the angels. The stars were 
 out in the deep blue sky in clusters, and as clear 
 and bright as if the atmosphere had been full of 
 frost. The land wind blew out to sea, laden with 
 odors from a forest of magnolia; the sea wind 
 came over the land softly and freshly, like a bene- 
 diction; and all the while the white lips of the 
 surf kissed the grey old rocks, and murmured its 
 eternal aflection and loveliness. As they stood 
 upon the beach, entranced by the beauty of the 
 scene, a simple strain of melody came floating 
 over the waves. It was so soft and low at first, 
 that it seemed but the creation of fancy, — the 
 voices of their thoughts wedded to the music of 
 dreams. 
 
 The singers drew near the shore, riding from 
 wave to wave in a bark no bigger tlian the shell 
 of a nautilus. It was by no means, however, like 
 the nautilus in shape, but was modeled after the 
 old Roman galley, with a high prow and stern. 
 Its outside was painted sea-green, its inside was 
 silvered over with streaks of purple and pearl. 
 A row of oars rose and fell on either side, and the 
 water trickled down their broad blades like dew. 
 
100 
 
 TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 Its mast was a little reed, and the sail the silken 
 leaf of some sea-plant ; and where a figure should 
 have been carved on the prow, a single pearl was 
 inlaid, and glittered like a star. Oberon recog- 
 nized in the rowers many of his subjects, who had 
 been led away by enchantment ; but tliey were 
 too fallen to recognize him in turn : the life of a 
 galley slave was more noble in their eyes than 
 that of a king. Upon a golden deck, at the stern, 
 in the midst of her nymphs, the Queen reclined, 
 and waved her scarf to the gentlemen on shore. 
 A more fascinating lady was hardly ever beheld ; 
 a smaller certainly never. You may imagine 
 her size, when I tell you that the boat in which 
 she sat, with her suite of nymphs and at least 
 twenty rowers, was no bigger than this shell 
 which I hold in my hand. She lolled upon a 
 couch of sea flowers, while two of her nymphs 
 were busy braiding her hair. Her robe was silver 
 and emerald, woven of mist with a woof of moon- 
 beams, and a girdle of pearls encircled her waist. 
 Her features were surpassingly beautiful and 
 languishing ; but if I were to talk an hour, I could 
 not do them justice, so I must leave them to your 
 fertile imaginations ; and while you are about 
 it, you may as well have the goodness to suppose 
 that she has reached the shore, and lavished her 
 blandishments on Puck and Oberon, who have en- 
 tered the galley, with the understanding that 
 they are to see her home after a short sail, al. 
 ways in these matters a stereotyped arrange- 
 ment. This done, the rowers plied their oars 
 with measured strokes, and the nymphs began 
 their suspended songs, while the dolphins, never 
 so charmed since the days of Arion, came up to 
 the surface, and followed in their wake. On, 
 and on they went ; now lifted high on the crest 
 of a wave, now sinking low in its hollow ; rising 
 and falling on the heavy -plunging billows ; some- 
 times the moon passed behind a rack of clouds, and 
 they drifted blindly in the dark ; but when she 
 emerged, the sea was lighted around them, and 
 they sailed merrily on, followed by the listening 
 dolphins. About a league from the shore, they 
 found themselves in a vast whirlpool, which hol- 
 lowed dt-wn to a point its centre, like an immense 
 tunnel. It was one of the many portals to the world 
 of Ocean, and through it they descended into 
 the Siren's realm. She waved her wand when 
 they reached its centre, and they slowly sank : 
 the stormy waters parted around them for a 
 moment, and closed above their heads. Though 
 it was night, and somewhat cloudy, the sea was 
 not dark, as one would have supposed, but rather 
 resembled an agitated atmosphere of emerald. 
 Its surface was whitened with foam, and the 
 
 moonlight fell around them like a shower of sil- 
 ver rain. They saw the smallest star above, and 
 the roots of the continents below. Sometimes 
 they found tliemselves entangled in rising islands 
 of seaweed, which threatened to bear them to 
 the surface ; but at a sign from the Queen, the 
 rowers leaped out upon its matted floor, and, lift- 
 ing the boat upon their shoulders, bore it to an 
 opening, through whicli they sank again Some- 
 times a great monster floating above them, dark- 
 ened the sea for leagues ; and gleaming fish 
 swam past, rubbing their sharp fins against the 
 sides of the galley. 
 
 At last they reached the firm and solid land, 
 and set out for the bower of the Siren. They 
 had not gone far before they came to a mighty 
 hollow, where the ancient Gods of the sea lay in 
 the ruins of their majesty and dominion. There 
 sat Neptune, with his long beard grown to his lap, 
 and his three-forked trident shattered in his hands- 
 Beside him, in the midst of the Nereiades and 
 uncrowned Naiades, Am phi trite, with a bosom 
 of sea-foam, motionless as a statue. Old Triton 
 clasped his horn to his heart, and the River Gods 
 were pillowed on their broken urns. With a few ■ 
 reflections on departed greatness, which I will 
 not trouble you by repeating, the train passed on. 
 The bottom of the sea stretched around them, 
 with its hills and hollows covered with long grass, 
 and gleaming with precious stones. Over these 
 they passed, and through forests of sea-plants, 
 whose long lank arms waved out on the varying 
 currents ; and over wastes of sand where shells 
 were lying in thousands; and down steep rocks, 
 and precipices, and over lawns of moss. Oberon 
 and the Queen walked at the head of the train, 
 and Pack, like an accomplished courtier, followed 
 in their rear. 
 
 They reached the Siren's bower. It was 
 covered with purple and rainbow blooms, and 
 loaded down with precious fruit. Its floor was 
 paved with silver sands, and studded with rose- 
 tinted shells beautiful to behold ; and the moon 
 beams filled its alcoves, and touched its shades 
 with the light of dreams. 
 
 Bidding them welcome, the Queen led them to 
 a couch of moss, and clapped her hands, at which 
 two slaves approaclied with salvers of fruit. 
 While they were refreshing themselves after their 
 nighfs adventure, another band of nymphs,— 
 (that which accompanied them having departed) 
 —entered the bower and began a strange and 
 mystical dance, fc'o light of foot were they, they 
 semed to be floating in the air; and when they 
 touched the mosses they were unbent, and the 
 sands took no print from their flying feet. Some 
 
TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRESIDE. 
 
 101 
 
 formed themselves into a ring, and whirled around 
 until tlie eye grew giddy with watching their 
 mazy movements ; and others danced apart in 
 groups of twos and threes, with languishing eyes 
 and floating arms. By and by, another party en- 
 tered, and a more grotesque set of fellows were 
 never beheld, not even at Venice in Carniva' 
 time, when all the world are playing the fool- 
 One could not tell whether they were what they 
 seemed, or maskers. Here a crab turned a 
 summerset with an eel ; there a long legged 
 beetle waltzed with an oyster; grotesque fish, 
 with their freckled skins full of unsightly knobs 
 and horns, linked their fins, and promenaded 
 round, while turtles gravely jolted about on stilts ; 
 nor were monsters wanting, — men with heads of 
 fish, and fish with heads of men, and some com. 
 pounded of both, with an intermixture of weeds 
 and shells. Oberon laughed heartily at their 
 pranks, though he knew tliat they were all his 
 own subjects, bewitched by the lady to whom he 
 was paying his compliments, as sincere as most 
 compliments no doubt ; and Puck, not to lose his 
 character of Fool, jumped from his couch, and be- 
 gan to caper in their midst. Taking one by tlie fin 
 and another by the horn, he went through a series 
 of evolutions that would have turned the brains 
 (?) and made the fortune of all the dancing mas- 
 ters in Christendom. One moment he changed 
 himself into a crab, the next into a fish, and anon 
 into the Harlequin that he was at first. Nor did 
 their merriment cease even here ; at a given sig- 
 nal a band of singers and musicians entered, and 
 ranged themselves before the King, as the chorus 
 singers do at the Opera. Their instruments were 
 all made of shells : some played upon wide 
 mouthed trumpets and horns ; some on kettle 
 drums whose heads were made of bleached sea 
 plants ; and some on cymbals splintered from the 
 inside of the pearl oyster: their songs were 
 beautiful, but as everybody who reads poetry 
 has read a thousand similar, I shall not repeat them 
 here. I may mention however in passing, that 
 one of the singers tried to excuse himself on the 
 score of a cold (the primo basso, 1 fancy), and 
 another on account of the orchestra not playing 
 in tune ; both of which excuses were voted down 
 as being familiar for ages. 
 
 Some time had passed away in these amuse- 
 ments, with others too numerous to mention ; till 
 at last tiie Siren begged the honor of taking a 
 glass of wine with the gentlemen, previous to re- 
 tiring for the night. Of course they could not re- 
 fuse, as this was an opportunity that they had 
 long desired. Now they could test the virtue of 
 their magic herbs, and, if they were what they 
 had beer represented by the simpler who gather- 
 
 ed them, release the transformed fairies. One of 
 the slaves who served them witli fruit (it was 
 my Lord Fern Seed, the ex-prime minister of 
 Oberon) entered with a golden salver, containing 
 a flask of wine and tliree glasses. As he was 
 about to hand it to the Queen, whose eyes spark- 
 led in anticipation of another triumph. Puck dart" 
 ed from his couch, and, kneeling at her feet- 
 besought permission to serve her Highness, and 
 his royal master, assuring her that the office of 
 cupbearer was one to which he had been long ac- 
 customed, promising at the same time to show 
 her a feat in legerdemain, to which those he had 
 performed in the dance were not worthy of com- 
 parison. "With the best grace that she could as- 
 sume at 60 short a notice, she consented, and dis- 
 missed my Lord Fern Seed, who took himself off 
 to the wine cellar, and soon forgot the slight she 
 had put upon him, by finishing his interrupted 
 game of cribbage with Pea Plant, his former valet. 
 Puck, who had not been among the conjurors for 
 nothing, doffed his cap, and springing into the air, 
 contrived to descend into the mouth of the flask- 
 where he powdered his herbs in the twinkling of 
 an eye, and mixed them with the wine, which 
 was harmless itself, as all good wine is. In an- 
 other moment he was out, and at her feet, with the 
 salver in his hand, dancing a hornpipe of his own 
 invention. He made no doubt that her Highness 
 was convinced in her own mind that he had really 
 descended into the flask ; but it was a mistake, 
 easily understood by tliose who were conversant 
 with the science of optical delusion. He himself, 
 before he understood the trick, lost five hundred 
 soumarkees by it, from which he had not yet 
 fully recovered, unless he considered the pleasure 
 H gave him to have deceived one of her Highness's 
 known penetration : that was beyond all calcula- 
 tion. Then he filled a couple of glasses, and 
 gave one to the t^iren, and the other to King 
 Oberon. They arose, pledged healths with many 
 compliments, and drained their glasses. The 
 King however drained his in a different way from 
 the lady; for while siie was drinking hers, he 
 threw his over his shoulder, and snatched her wand. 
 The effects of the herb were in a moment apparent. 
 She fell back upon her couch in a deadly stupor, 
 scowling at the successful mountebank. All was 
 confusion and dismay on the part of the nymphs, 
 wlio would have fled, but that the King, waving 
 the wand, rooted tliem to the ground. They shed 
 many pitiful tears, and promised to amend their 
 course of life for the future, but all in vain. Oberon 
 was inexorable. Puck meantime, who had been 
 searching in all the nooks and corners, found the 
 Siren's book of enchantment, and learned the 
 only charm that could release the imprisoned 
 
102 
 
 THE BIBLE CLASS. 
 
 fairies. Taking the wand from King Oberon, 
 who pressed him affectionately to his lieart, he 
 pronounced it, touching the monsters around, and 
 in a moment they resumed their natural shapes. 
 The crabs, eels, beetles, toads, and other strange 
 things which amused the Siren in the dance, were 
 the flower of all Fairy Land, and now they crowd- 
 ed around their rightful sovereign, eager to kiss 
 his hand, and atone for their folly. What to do 
 with the Siren and her nymphs no one knew, 
 till King, who had been turning over the enchant- 
 ed leaves, came upon a passage which warned 
 them to beware of the sea shells. If once con- 
 fined therein by the King of the Fairies, i-elease 
 was hopeless. How they wept at this intelli- 
 gence; — how the fairies collected thousands of 
 ehells and imprisoned them ; — how the King 
 and his rejoicing subjects, a countless number, 
 arose from the sea, and came to land; — how 
 they met an army in search of them ; — how the 
 gentlemen begged the pardon of their old sweet- 
 hearts, who never thought of discarding them for 
 their sins; — how queen Titania fainted in the 
 arms of her attendants at the recital of her lieges' 
 late peril ; — how much more, which you can 
 imagine came to pass, I will inform you ,but I am 
 too dry at present to do so: but before I finish I 
 
 must beg you all not to doubt my story, as you 
 can convince yourselves of the truth of a part of 
 it by holding this shell to your ears : when you 
 will hear one of the nymphs, or it may be the Siren 
 herself, wailing in its depths. Mother, will you 
 have the kindness to pass the shell that way, and 
 Uncle Tim, will you have the kindness to pass 
 the Madeira this; upon my honor I never was 
 so dry in all my life." 
 
 " Dick," said my Uncle Tim, as I concluded, 
 " you have made your story so long, that I have 
 hardly time to tell mine ; at any rate I must 
 shorten it somewhat, as Bess is beginning to grow 
 sleepy. Tour story has one great fault ; there 
 is no conversation in it; how do you account for 
 it?" 
 
 " Why," said I, " I was afraid I could hardly 
 do it justice in that respect. You know everybody 
 now-a-days, must use a sprinkling not to say a 
 shower of boarding school French in their conver- 
 sation ; not having this requisite myself, and not 
 supposing I could do without it, I banished dia- 
 logue in toto ; but suppose you tell us your story 
 and try your hand at an autograph." 
 
 " We'll wait till another time at least," said my 
 uncle. 
 
 TPIE BIBLE CLASS 
 
 BT MKS. ELIZA MEECEIN BARRY, 
 
 (On viewing a Daguerreotyped Bible Class, con- 
 sisting of a group of twelve young ladies, between 
 the ages of thirteen and sixteen, all of whom are 
 professors of religion, and intimately connected.) 
 
 'Tis with strange feelings that I gaze 
 
 Upon this pictured shrine .' 
 And feel 'tis well prophetic power 
 
 Cannot each fate divine. 
 
 Fair girls ! not mine to raise the veil 
 Whose folds, in kindness, shroud 
 
 The joy, the grief of future years — 
 The sunshine and the cloud ! 
 
 All now with girlhood's hopes are bright ; 
 
 No baleful cloud hath spread 
 Its dark'ning shadow o'er the path, 
 
 These youthful feet must tread ! 
 
 Yet not e'en Hope to flatter each 
 
 With skies all brilliance dares ; 
 For woman's lot is suffering, 
 
 And woman's lot is theirs ! 
 
 My heart is sad— but still one ray 
 Of brightness gilds the gloom ; 
 
 'Tis from the Sun of Rightousness, 
 And lights beyond the tomb ! 
 
 Each gentle heart in this sweet group 
 The Saviour's friendship knows. 
 
 And when deceived and wounded here, 
 In Hira may find repose. 
 
 'Tis best I 'tis best ! I know 'tis best, 
 
 That woman's tendril clasp 
 Should be unturned from earthly trust, 
 
 By adverse fortune's grasp- 
 Then Saviour ! let these youthful ones 
 
 Enough of Marah know, 
 To keep them near the Living Fount, 
 
 Whence healing waters flow. 
 
 So though their currents in Life's stream 
 With severing flow may glide. 
 
 They'll blend again, and Heaven's calm sea 
 Find them still side by side. 
 
DR. GUTZLAFF, THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 CiiARLKS GuTZLAFF, the famous missionary in 
 China, is a short, stout man, with a deep red face, 
 a large mouth, sleepy eyes, pointed inv/ard and 
 do-wDward like those of a Chinaman, vehement 
 gesticulations, and a voice more loud than melo- 
 dious. He has acquired, in his features and ex- 
 pression, something like the expression of the 
 people among whom he lives. His whole man- 
 ners, also, as well as his face, indicate the genu- 
 ine son of Jao and Chun, so that the Chinese, 
 when they encounter him in the street, salute him 
 as their countryman. 
 
 Charles GutzlafF was born in 1S0.3, at Pyritz, a 
 village of Pomerania. His zeal as an apostle was 
 first manifested some fifteen ye^irs ago. He mar- 
 ried an Englishwoman, who was animated with 
 the same aspiration as himself, and who accom- 
 panied him on his voyages as a missionary. His 
 extensive acquaintance with the Chinese and 
 kindred languages, even then, made a deep im- 
 pression on Robert Morrison, the founder of the 
 Evangelical Mission in China, whom he joined in 
 1 Sol, at Macao, and caused his acquaintance to 
 be much sought by the merchants. In 1832 and 
 1833, he was employed as an interpreter on board 
 ships engaged in smuggling opium, but turned 
 this occupation, which in itself was not of a very 
 saintly character, to his religious ends, by the dis- 
 semination of tracts and Bibles. A missionary 
 journey to Japan, which he undertook in 1837, 
 was without any result. After Morrison's death, 
 Gutzlaff was appointed Chinese Secretary to the 
 British Consulate at Canton, and, in 1840, founded 
 a Christian Union of Chinese for the propagation 
 of the Gospel among their countrymen. His pre- 
 sent journey through Europe has a similar pur- 
 pose — the foundation of missionary societies for 
 the spread of Christianity in China. 
 
 His literary labors have had an almost incredi- 
 ble extent and variety. He himself gives the fol- 
 lowing enumeration of his writings: — " In Dutch 
 I have written, a "History of our Mission, and of 
 Distinguished Missionaries," and an "Appeal for 
 Support of the Missionary Work ;" in German, 
 " Sketches of the Minor Prophets ;" in Latin, the 
 " Life of our Saviour;" in English, " Sketches of 
 Chinese History," " China Opened," •' Life of Kan- 
 ghe," together with a great number of articles on 
 the " Religion, History, Philosophy, Literature, 
 and Laws of the Chinese ;" in Siamese, a " Trans- 
 lation of the New Testament," with the Psalms, 
 and an " English-Siamese Dictionary,"' " English 
 
 Cambodian Dictionary," and " Engli?h-Lao3 Die 
 tionary." These works I left to my successors to 
 finish, but, with the exception of the " Siamese 
 Dictionary,'' they have added nothing to them. In 
 Cochin-Chinese, a " Complete Dictionary, Cochin- 
 Chinese-English, and Englisli-Cochin-Chinese ;" 
 this work is not yet printed. In Chinese, forty 
 tracts, along with three editions of the "Life of 
 our Saviour," a " Translation of the New Testa- 
 ment," the third edition of which I have carried 
 through the press. Of the " Translations of the 
 Old Testament," the Prophets, and the two first 
 books of Moses, f.re completed. In this language 
 I have also written the " Chinese Scientific 
 Monthly Review," a "History of England," a 
 " History of the Jews," a " Universal History and 
 Geography," on "Commerce," a " Short Account 
 of the British Empire and its fnhabitants," as well 
 as a number of smaller articles. In Japanese, a 
 "Translation of the New Testament," and of the 
 first book of Moses, two tracts, and several sci- 
 entific pamphlets. The only paper to which I 
 now send communications is the " Hong Kong 
 Gazette," the whole Chinese department of which 
 I have undertaken. Till the year 1842, I wrote 
 for the "Chinese Archives." 
 
 So vast a surface as the?e writings cover, re- 
 quires a surprising facility of mind, and an inde- 
 fatigable perseverance. When you see the man 
 engaged in his missionary toils, you understand 
 the whole at once. He arrives in a city, and 
 hastens to the church which is prepared for his 
 reception. After preaching for an hour with the 
 greatest energy, he takes up his collection, and is 
 gone. He speaks with such rapidity that it is 
 hardly possible to follow him. Such rapidity is 
 not favorable to excellence in the work. Of all 
 his writings, only one work is known to me, that 
 published in I^Iunich, in 1847, under the title of 
 " GutzlafT's History of the Chinese Empire, from 
 the Earliest Times to the Peace of Nankin." In 
 our imperfect acquaintance with Chinese History, 
 this compendium is not without value, but it dis- 
 plays no critical power, and is a mere external 
 compilation, and poorly written. From it we 
 learn as good as nothing of the peculiar customs 
 and state of mental culture of the country. The 
 whole resembles a Christian history of the world 
 written in the eighteentli century, beginning with 
 Adam and Eve, and leaving the Greeks and Ro- 
 mans out altogether, because they were without 
 a Divine revelation. 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SENSITIVE SPIRIT. 
 
 My earliest recollections are of a enug, modest- 
 looking cottage, far away in the country, whose 
 shady garden was full of the sweet breath of roses, 
 and honeysuckle, and many other flowers. This 
 house and this garden were, to my tiny appre- 
 hension, the sum and substance of all delight ; 
 and, truly, never was a scene more calculated to 
 strike on the young soul in its bud of being, and 
 to touch those mysterious chords yet unjarred by 
 the world's rough hand. My father was an bum- 
 ble and unpretending country pastor, void of am- 
 bition, except as he could train the soul for hea- 
 ven. Alike removed from envying the powerful 
 or scorning the poor, he, with calm dignity of 
 mien and tenderness of heart, pursued the duties 
 of his sacred calling. It seems so far back, that 
 I can scarcely say whether it be a recollection of 
 this life or a dream of some other ; but there we 
 sit, on the evening of a summer's day, in our 
 shady alcove, my father reading aloud, my mo- 
 ther at her work, little Edward and myself at 
 their feet. We little ones are playing with some 
 wild flowers, and form these into a variety of de- 
 vices. Suddenly I break off, and look up in my 
 father's face. He is not reading now. His eyes 
 are resting on some object in the distance. His 
 face wears a strange expression — a kind of faded, 
 unearthly look. I did not know what this was 
 then — I know it now. I am fascinated by this 
 shadow on the beloved face, till I feel a strange 
 pang at my heart, the first that has ever visited it. 
 My father at last looks down, kindly pats my 
 curly head, and says, " Why, how quiet we all 
 are !" Upon this, I look at my mother, and see 
 that her blue eyes are full of tears. She hurries 
 into the house; my father follows ; and I, finding 
 my little brother fast asleep on his flowers, bury 
 my face in my hands, and burst into a passion of 
 weeping. I cannot tell why I wept, but a sha- 
 dow had come into my gay, young heart ; and, 
 clasping little Edward in my arms, at last I 
 sobbed myself to sleep also. 
 
 Yet another evening, and we sit in our humble 
 parlor. We youngsters have had a merry day 
 of it, for some little friends have been taking tea 
 with us. The spirit of our exuberant glee has not 
 yet died away, but we are quiet now, for it is the 
 hour of prayer. Sally, our sole domestic, with 
 lier red arms, and red, good-humored fixce, tries 
 to look demurely at us — which, in truth, she can- 
 not accomplish — and, by various telegraphic nods 
 
 and shakes of the head, secures our good behavior 
 My mother plays on the piano, and we sing a 
 hymn. We all join, in our way, Sally's rough 
 voice setting off my mother's wonderfully. I 
 wonder if the angels in heaven sing as sweetly as 
 she. I believe, in my small mind, that my fath- 
 er thinks so, for sometimes he does not sing, but 
 listens to her, and looks at her, in a kind of rapt, 
 admiring way. The hymn over, we listen to a 
 portion of the holy book — God's book — for that 
 is the name by which we know it. Then my 
 father prays, and we pray, in our simple manner, 
 to the great Father above the blue sky. Tlie re- 
 ligion of our dear home is neither morose nor 
 sullen. All pleasant, simple delights are ours. 
 Our merry laugh is not chidden, and we are 
 early taught to minister to others. Thus it fol- 
 lows that we, unasked, give our weekly pence to 
 the poor little boy whose father died last week, 
 of whose desolate condition, and that of his mo- 
 ther, we hear our parents speak. We know very 
 well, though none ever told us, that these same 
 dear parents are ministering angels to the afflicted 
 and distressed. 
 
 We do sometimes wonder where the money 
 comes from that helps the poor; for when I, seiz- 
 ed with an envious fit, ask why I cannot have gay 
 apparel, like one of my little friends — why I must 
 wear an old frock while she displays a new one 
 — my father shakes his head, and says, " My dear 
 Mary, I cannot afford finery for my children." 
 Then a light breaks upon me, and I know that 
 father is careful, and mother is careful, and that 
 we must be careful too, that we may give to the 
 poor. And now, after the lapse of some months, 
 I observe again the old look on my father's face. 
 He has a short cough, and seems tired with doing 
 very little. His deep, dark eyes have a strange 
 shadow about them, and there is a peculiar ten- 
 derness in his whole manner. Somehow, we 
 children are more silent than we used to be. We 
 do not feel so much inclined to be noisy and bois- 
 terous as heretofore. Days and weeks pass on 
 The shadow deepens on the beloved face. We 
 are now told that our father is very ill, and urged 
 to be quiet. In these days, we do much as we 
 like— wander about the field at the back of our 
 house, and through the shady garden, but the 
 spirit of gladness has left our young hearte, and 
 we go hither and thither with a strange weight 
 resting on ue. Fatigued, we sit beneath the aged 
 
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SENSITIVE SPIRIT, 
 
 105 
 
 elm. The happy birds sing in its branches. Far ] 
 oflf, the cattle are lowing in the meadows, and 
 sheep bleating on the hillside. The busy hum of 
 haymakers comes to us, but it does not make us 
 merry as once it did. 
 
 Then come times of deeper gloom. We all 
 tread on tiptoe. We just step within our father's 
 room. His breath is very short and quick, and 
 his eyes are bright— oh, how bright ! He places 
 his hand upon our heads, and, in trembling ac- 
 cents, commits us to our Heavenly Father. We 
 hear him say he is tired, and will sleep. All is 
 hushed. He closes his eyes. We watch long to 
 see him wake, but he is now a pure seraph in the 
 presence of his God ; and, through life's pilgrim- 
 age, he is henceforth to be to those who love 
 him a memory, a dream of other days, and yet a 
 burning and shining light, whose rays penetrate 
 not the less because they are mild and benign. 
 
 For some time after this event all seems a 
 blank. There is a sale at our house. Our cher- 
 ished things are going to be taken from us. 
 Then I understand that we are poor. My mother 
 has a little, but not enough for our support : so 
 she is fain to accept an offer that has been made 
 her by a distant relative, who keeps a boarding- 
 school for young ladies in a distant country. My 
 motlier is to assist in the school. She does not 
 much like the scheme. She is telling all to a 
 sympathizing friend. She speaks rather in a 
 shuddering way of her relative, whom she de- 
 scribes as overbearing and tyrannical. Hence- 
 forth 1 look on this lady as a kind of dragon, and 
 my state of mind towards her is not such as to 
 insure her regard. I cannot now speak of the 
 tokens of affection we receive from our loving 
 friends. Now the children call with nosegays of 
 wild flowers. Now my little brother has a rab- 
 bit given him ; I a canary. Now cakes and 
 sweetmeats are thrust into our hands from hum- 
 ble donors, wilh tears and blessings. Now my 
 mother receives anonymous gifts, from a fifty 
 dollar bill down to a pair of knitted stockings to 
 travel in, accompanied by an ill-spelt, ill-written 
 blessing and prayer, " that the Almiglity will set 
 his two eyes on the purty lady and her children, 
 and make his honor's bed in Heaven, although he 
 did not worshyp the blessed Vargin." My mother 
 smiles through her tears, for she knows this is 
 from old Judy, our Catholic neighbor, whom, in a 
 tit of illness, she befriended, long ago. And so, 
 after much loving leave-taking, we depart, and 
 at length reach our destinatiou. 
 
 And now we take a timid survey of our new 
 abode. It is a gaunt brick building, large and 
 stately, with " Miss 's School for Young La- 
 dies" inscribed on a brass plate on the door. I 
 
 hold my mother's hand, and feel that it trembles, 
 as we are ushered into a stark, staring room> 
 which, at this cool season of the year, is without 
 fire. The door opens, and our relative appears- 
 She imprints a fashionable kiss on my mother's 
 pale cheek, and notices our presence by the 
 words, "Fine children, but very countryfied, my 
 dear cousin." We have tea in a small parlor, 
 where is a fire, but I observe that my mother 
 cannot eat ; and, little Edward bursting into a fit 
 of crying, with the words, " I do not like this 
 house — I want to go home," we are all dissolved 
 
 together, at which Miss frowns mentally, 
 
 ejaculating, " No spirit, no energy — a bad begin- 
 ning, truly." I wonder, in my simple soul, wliat 
 this energy means, of which my mother has been 
 said to be deficient. It cannot be that she has 
 done wrong in letting those tears flow, which have 
 filled her eyes so often during the day, for I have 
 often seen people weep at our house in the olden 
 time, when they have been relating their troubles, 
 when my father's gentle eye would grow more 
 kind, his voice more soft. He would then speak 
 another language, which now I know to be the 
 language of promise, breathed by the great Eter- 
 nal himself into the ear of his suffering ones. 
 
 I pass over some weeks, during which my 
 mother has been duly installed into her ofHce of 
 teacher — rising early, to give lessons before break- 
 fast ; afterwards walking out with the young peo- 
 ple ; then teaching all through the livelong day, 
 till evening brings some repose. She always 
 puts us to bed herself, and this is not a very hur- 
 ried operation, for we clasp her round the neck, 
 call her "dear mamma," and tell her how much 
 we love her. She will then listen to our simple 
 devotions, and tear herself away. Then we hear 
 her in a room adjoining, pouring forth her soul in 
 song. She sings the old lay?, but there is an- 
 other tone mingling with them— one that affects 
 the listener lo tears ; for, stealing out of bed and 
 opening the door, I have met other listeners, 
 wliose gay, young faces showed that those sad- 
 dened melodies had touched some mysterious 
 cliord, awaking it to sadness and tears. 
 
 My mother was greatly beloved by tlie young 
 people. I soon found out that this fact was any- 
 thing but pleasing in the eyes of the lady supe- 
 rior, who could not imagine how a person so de- 
 void of energy, as she termed it, could possess so 
 much influence. Nevertheless, this best of all 
 influence — the influence of aff'ection — was pos- 
 sessed in no common degree. With what zest 
 and pleasure was every little office rendered— 
 with what sweetmeats were we feasted — what 
 bouquets were placed on my mother's table — what 
 numerous presents of needle-work were made her 
 
106 
 
 'TO THE UNKNOWN GOD." 
 
 — how her wishes were anticipated — I know well. 
 I know, too, how much my dear parent suffered in 
 this house — how unequal her strength was to her 
 labors — how the incessant small tyranny to which 
 elie was subjected ate out all the life of her spirit. 
 Still she never complained ; but I could hear her 
 sometimes, in the silence of the night, weeping 
 bitterly, and calling on her beloved dead, who, 
 when en earth, had never allowed one shadow to 
 cross her path which he could avert. 
 
 Thus four years were passed, during which my 
 brother died. This second blow pierced me to 
 tlie heart, but, strange to say, mamma bore it 
 calmly. I wondered at her, till I noticed how 
 very thin she had become — how very trembling 
 and frightened with every little thing — and how 
 attentive the young people were to her wishes. 
 Then the old agony came over my heart, and I 
 knew all. 
 
 About this time, a gentleman who had known 
 and loved my father, dying, left my mother a 
 legacy of five hundred dollars. This sum enabled 
 her to take a house near our old home, and here, 
 some two months after our return, she died, in 
 the full assurance of faith. Our faithful old Sally 
 was now married to an honest farmer, and from 
 this good creature we received much kind atten- 
 tion. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I pass over some years, in which I experienced 
 
 all the trials of a shabby-genteel life at a large 
 school, where I was placed by the kindness of a 
 distant friend. After trials and vicissitudes of no 
 ordinary kind, 1 found myself, by the death of a 
 distant relative, whose name I had never heard, 
 entitled to what might be esteemed a large for- 
 tune. "Wit hthis wealth, which to my young ima- 
 gination seemed boundless, I retired to my na- 
 tive village, in the quiet shades to enjoy the 
 peace for which I had long sighed. 
 
 A stranger hand writes that Mary resided 
 
 for some time in the retreat she had chosen, the 
 idolized of the poor, the friend of the afHicted, 
 more like an angel than aught belonging to this 
 lower sphere, yet showing that she was of the 
 earth, by the look of tender melancholy which 
 haunted her cheek, and said how hurely, "early 
 griefs a lengthened shadow fling." She died in 
 her youthful bloom, and the bitter sobs and la- 
 mentations of the poor testified to her worth. 
 Her money still remains for them in perpetuity, 
 but the meek, dove-like eyes are darkened, and 
 gone the voice whose music made many glad- 
 So have we seen a stream suddenly dried up 
 whose presence was only known by the verdure 
 on its margin, scarcely known, scarcely cared for, 
 except by the humble floweret, but, when gone 
 its absence was deplored by the sterility where 
 once were bloom and freshness. 
 
 *'T0 THE Ui^ KNOWN GOD." 
 
 B T 
 
 D . STRONG 
 
 Thou dread Almighty Power, 
 
 Who wrap'st Thyself in mystery, 
 
 And work'st unseen in every flower, 
 Unveil Thyself to me '. 
 
 I see Thee in the morning dew, 
 
 I hear Thee in the evening wind, 
 
 Thy glory in the cloud I view. 
 And in the storm sublime, 
 
 I feel Thee at the solemn hour. 
 
 When stars their vigils keep — 
 
 When the Moon's soft twilight power 
 Rests on a world asleep. 
 
 The lurid flash of winged light 
 
 Writes Thy dread name on high 
 
 The cloud's deep voice proclaims Thy might, - 
 Thy presence fills the sky. 
 
 The forest's deep and darkling shade 
 
 Is all instinct with Thee, 
 And every bright and sunny glade 
 
 Proclaims Thy mystery. 
 
 Where'er I am, whate'er behold, 
 
 I feel Thy wond'rous power ; 
 Thine unknown influence 'round my soul 
 
 Is present every hour. 
 
 Thou dread Almighty cause ! 
 
 My spirit sighs for Thee ; 
 Unfold Thy deep mysterious laws, 
 
 Reveal Thyself to me ! 
 
*' A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOR EVER." 
 
 Beautv ! what can be said of it? what is it? 
 I look around, to see some object specially beau- 
 tiful, on which to expend my panegyrics. There 
 is the deep fatliomless azure above me ; there is 
 the sea, the wild, open, careering ocean ; there is 
 that bright clear eye which ever lights my soli- 
 tude ; there is a fair girl, a beautiful boy ; there 
 are the stars looking down from heaven ; there is 
 beauty in the human countenance, beauty in looks, 
 beauty in thoughts, beauty in action?. "What 
 shall I say ? I am bewildered ; beauty over- 
 whelms me. I am dumb, who would emulate 
 the oratory of an archangel. I am lost in the 
 magnitude of my theme — in its supernal gran- 
 deur its surpassing loveliness, its overwhelming 
 import. 
 
 Beauty is the spirit of nature peering faintly 
 througli the inspissated gloom of sin. Beauty is 
 the shadow of God. Beauty is truth, a consisten- 
 cy between man and his maker. Beauty is the 
 soul striving to make itself visible. Beauty is 
 love's object always. Beauty is a nectar which 
 intoxicates the soul. Beauty is the paradise of 
 all time. Beauty is a congealed dream of heaven. 
 Beauty is nature's memory of Eden. Beauty is 
 the sculptured phantasm of innocence. Beauty 
 is Fichte's " divine idea" dimly explaining itself. 
 Beauty is an engraven word of God. Beauty is 
 man's voucher of immortality. Beauty is visible 
 music. Beauty, understood aright, is an idiosyn- 
 crasy of virtue. Beauty is tlie true meaning of 
 poetry. But after all nothing is said ; and a 
 tiiinker, a sensitive mind, will extract more from 
 the simple word itself than can be embodied in a 
 hundred varnis^lied phrases. 
 
 In all natural things can be discovered some 
 faint trace of beauty. The Greeks called the 
 word cosmos (the beautiful). There is beauty in 
 the stars, pearls round the tiara of midnight ; the 
 stars, mysterious heaven-ligiits to serve the spi- 
 rit's flight to paradise. Beauty sleeps on the 
 calm dreary bosom of the ocean, or lives in the 
 dance of its wild waves. It is fabled that Venus 
 was born of the froth of the sea. The highest 
 voice ever heard on this earth said withal, " Con- 
 sider the lilies of the field, they toil not, neither 
 do they spin ; yet Solomon in all his glory was 
 not arrayed like one of these." A glance that 
 into the deepest deep of beauty. The lilies of 
 the field, dressed finer than earthly princes, 
 
 8 
 
 springing up tiiere iu the humble furrow-field ; a 
 beautiful eye looking out on you from tlie great 
 inner sea of beauty ! How could the rude earth 
 make these, if her essence, rugged as she looks 
 and is, were not inwardly beauty. Tliere is beau- 
 ty in a faded leaf or a pebble ; in the song of the 
 waterfall, or the whispering zephyr ; beauty 
 everj'where. 
 
 Beauty is a tleep, unfatliomabe trutli ; it lies 
 deeper than the eye can penetrate after it. Beau- 
 ty is the deejiest thing this cai th can boast of, the 
 most profound, the most mysterious. If men can- 
 not comprehend its deep si^jnificance, its sweet, 
 musical voice, its almost eternal meaning, yet 
 will be found many that will sit enchained by 
 that inarticulate stream of melod}' wliich ever 
 flows from a thing of beauty. Beauty, its per- 
 ception, its feeling, to bathe and revel in beauty 
 is the most complete human delight of wliich 
 man is capable ; and though some have been 
 mnrred in this pure faculty of enjoyment, by 
 rough contact with a host of unhandsome beings 
 and circumstances, yet sometimes a ray of beauty 
 will pierce to their benighted heart, and send a 
 thrill of joy through tlieir whole being. The 
 man will sometimes catch a faint glimpse of that 
 divinity, and then again be lost in the vortex of 
 utilitarianism. 
 
 Besides animal beauty, there is an immaterial, 
 intellectual and moral beauty, which will often 
 entrance. We find it in actions, circumstances, 
 and expressions. " Leonidas and his three hun- 
 dred martyrs consume one day in dying, and the 
 sun and moon come each and look at them 
 once in the steep defile of Thermopylae ; Arnold 
 Winkelreid, in the high Alps, under the shadow 
 of an avalanche, gathers in liis side a sheaf of 
 Austrian spears, to break the line for his com- 
 rades ;"* Rousseau breathes out his soul whilo 
 gazing in calm contemplation on the glorj' of the 
 sun ; the dying words of Mirab(;au were, ".Sprin- 
 kle me with perfumes, crown me with flowers, 
 tliat I may thus enter upon eternal sleep." The 
 epitaph of Keats, who lies buried beside the form 
 of the wild, youthful, misjudged Shelly, in the 
 beautiful Protestant cemetery outside the walls 
 of ancient Rome, is according to his desire — 
 " Here lies one whose name was writ in water ;" 
 of Dante, " Hie claudor Dantcs patriis exlorris 
 
 •Emerson. 
 
lOS 
 
 A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOR EVER, 
 
 uborisy But to liip fairly into the beauties of 
 expression, poetry would prove ;i vain attempt 
 now. 
 
 Many and varied are tlie attempts which have 
 been made to philosophize upon beauty; but, for 
 the most part, unsatisfactory and conflicting theo- 
 ries only have resulted. Alison and Jeffreys 
 thought they had explained all by saying that 
 beauty resides only in a man's mind, is, in fact, 
 nothing at all but a sentiment ; so that a thing is 
 beautiful or not, just as it is thought to be so. 
 But there is a beauty in form independent of every 
 man's conceits and fancies. I can imagine a form 
 wliich would captivate the whole world by its 
 tr;in-cendant beauty. The A^enus de Medicis, and 
 some other of the productions of ancient sculp- 
 tors, may be talsen as approaches to this. There 
 are countenances to be met with in the world 
 even now, which no man living would dare to 
 call other than beautiful. Tliere are things and 
 situations in this world of ours, which the most 
 obtuse and crotchety of us could not forbear term- 
 ing beautifid. Numerous objections strike me on 
 first entering upon this theory; and, after all, 
 only one ingredient or constituent of beauty is ex- 
 plained by it. It is well worthy of investigation, 
 however, as recognizing some fixed principle by 
 which our appreciations of the beautiful are gov- 
 erned. 
 
 There is something singularly fine and poetic, 
 and also suggestive of much truth, in the ancient 
 philosophy of beauty. It taught " tliat the soul 
 of man embodied here on earth, went roaming 
 -up and down in quest of that other world of its 
 own out of which it came into this ; but was soon 
 stupefied by the light of the natural sun, and una- 
 ble to see any other objects but those of this 
 v.'orld, which are but shadows of real things. 
 Therefore the Deity sends the glory of youth be- 
 fore the soul, that it may avail itself of the beau- 
 tiful bodies as aids to its recollection of the ce- 
 lestial good and fair." A somewhat similar idea 
 is thus beautifully expressed by Tupper : — 
 
 Verily the fancy may be false, yet it hath met me in my 
 musings, 
 
 (As expounding the pleasantness of pleasure, yet noways 
 extenuating license), 
 
 That even those yearnings after beauty in wayward wan- 
 ton youth, 
 
 When, guileless of ulterior ends, it craveth but to look upon 
 the lovely, 
 
 !~eem like struggles of the soul, dimly remembering pre- 
 existence, 
 
 And feeling in its blindness for a long-lost God, to satisfy 
 its longing. 
 
 The love of beauty is an instinct implanted in 
 the soul. It craveth " but to look upon the love- 
 ly." They in whom this earnest love of the 
 beautiful has been cultivated and developed, will 
 
 find in beauty more than a toy to be played with 
 It seems something more than mere tinsel and 
 overcast ornament. It is the developed thought 
 of God. It bears the impress of the Deity. 
 Beauty is true nature — what nature would liave 
 been altogether, had not sin marred it, "Beauty 
 should be the dowry of every man and woman as 
 invariably as sensation ; but it is rare." Why ? 
 Because Vvhat God had created the devil has mu- 
 tilated. Beauty, in its universal sense, and ap- 
 plied not merely to things material, but to deeds 
 and thoughts, is the connecting link between man 
 and his Maker ; it is that which typifies Ilis su- 
 preme beauty and loveliness who created the 
 earth once in purity. 
 
 xVU the most refined pleasures and enjoyments 
 of human life may be summed up in these words, 
 which are significant of ideas the grandest and 
 most profound, yet withal the most undefinable 
 and least understood in the vocabulary of hu- 
 manity, — Truth, Beauty, and Love. These tJiree 
 we find singularly related and linked together ; 
 Love is the most beautiful of the affections, and 
 the most truthful, truest to nature — it is never re- 
 pented of Beauty is everywhere loveable ; love 
 is essentially beautiful. Beauty cannot exist with- 
 out truth: no truth but is beautiful. Beauty then 
 is Truth, or rather its attribute ; and in this is com- 
 prehended our philosophy of the beautiful. If it 
 were not for the beauty of the creature, what 
 true relationships could be found to its Creator ? 
 But in so far as it is beautiful mentally as well as 
 physically, it truly and genuinely answers the 
 purpose of its being. That which is beautiful 
 agrees with the thought of God — God creates 
 beauty only. Beauty is the shadow of God — 
 anything that is not beautiful is a base counter- 
 feit engrafted on that once fair creation by sin 
 and Satan. Beauty is truth, for it is the sole 
 manifestation of the God of truth. The just, the 
 ri<>-ht, the good, is the beautiful ; that is a fine re- 
 mark of Emerson, that beauty ever steals in like 
 air, and envelopes noble actions. There is an ob- 
 servation of Coleridge, too, which bears upon this 
 point, carrying out the idea even to beauty of ex- 
 pression. It is, that whenever you find a sen- 
 tence musically worded, of true rhythm and melo- 
 dy in the words, there is something deep and 
 good in the meaning, too. Let us cultivate the 
 beautiful, therefore, in its widest sense, and the 
 love of it, that we may answer the end of life. To 
 conclude in the words of one of the most earnest 
 lovers of beauty : — 
 
 For love and beauty and delight 
 There is no death nor change ; their might 
 Exceeds our organs, which endure 
 ]N'o light, being themselves obscure. 
 
ORIGINAL ANECDOTES OF GENERAL WASHINGTON. 
 
 BY K E V. J . 
 
 T C T T L ■£ 
 
 Among the many tra(lltion3 of Morris County, 
 (N". J.) are found some anecdotes worthy of pre- 
 servation. Everything ilhistrating the character 
 and habits of General Wasliington, especially his 
 religious habits, is sought with avidity. The 
 writer of this article supposes that the following 
 fine anecdotes of Washington and his lady are 
 published novr for tiie first time. Hearing some 
 intimations of such a tradition, much time and 
 labor Were devoted to authenticate and locate 
 the incident in which Washington himself figures. 
 From two sources, perfectly reliable, the writer 
 learned tliat Wasliington was fond of singing 
 AVatts' Psalms, aud that one Psalm — not specify- 
 ing it — was a favorite with him. From a highly 
 intelligent lady the more distinct information 
 was gained, that an old lady, formerly a resident 
 of Columbia, Jlorris County, was accustonied to 
 relate this anecdote substanially as here given. 
 It is incredible that a tradition so definite in its 
 substance and localities, should have been manu- 
 factured. It wears, to say the least, a very 
 plausible and truthful countenance. 
 
 A few miles west of Newark, is to be seen a 
 fine range of high hills. From one particular 
 spot, about one mile from the village of Spring- 
 field, is to be obtained one of the most charming 
 views in our State. Tiie eye wanders over neat 
 villages and ric!i valleys, taking in the towns of 
 Flizabethtown and Ambo}', the cities of Newark 
 aud New York. Tiie Passaic and Ilackensack 
 rivers, the Newark and New York bays, and the 
 Xarrows are so visible, that, witli aid of a glass,, 
 \i small boat may be seen at any point. 
 
 It is said tluit during the Revolutionary War a 
 sentinel was usual]}'- stationed on this rock, espe- 
 cially while tiie army lay at Morristown. 
 
 Tiie time when this anecdote occurred, isfi.ved 
 by tradition, as connected with the last battle of 
 Springfield, in 1780. Tlie American cause wore 
 a most unpromising aspect. The harvest was at 
 liand, and the militiamen were constantly draw- 
 ing off to gather in their grain, leaving tlie force 
 of Washington inadequate to the emergency. 
 There was a powder mill at Monistown, and the 
 
 enemy, under tlie supposition that there were 
 large stores there, were making repeated attempts 
 to roach that place. The loss of this place and 
 the stores would not be measured by their value 
 in money, so much as the effect it would have to 
 dispirit our countiymen. The venerable relicts 
 of those times still bear witness to the panic 
 which was beginning to seize on the minds of 
 all classes. Some, discouraged by a protracted 
 and distressing war, reproached Washington ; 
 some felt that the struggle was a hopeless one; 
 and some, perliaps, were meditating a plan of 
 reconciliation witli the enemy. Tlie currency 
 was almost wortliless; in one case a cow valued 
 at thirty dollars, being barely sufficient to pur- 
 chase a quart of wine, and in another, the price 
 of a farm, taken in continental money, sunk to 
 some ten doUars in silver. It was a dark day 
 in the Jerseys. 
 
 At this time Washington spent much time at 
 iiorristown, and then, as ever, exhibited perfoet 
 calmness. There v.as something unearthly in the 
 bearing of the man, something scarcely allied to 
 the common infirmities of mankind. Whatever 
 were their hopes and fears, tlie citizens and 
 soldiers of this country admired him. To road 
 the histories which have been written of Wash- 
 ington, we should suppose that because he was ;i 
 great, a brave, a self-reliant and self-sustaining 
 man, he was able to i)ursue a course so truly 
 magnanimous in lliose perilous days. 
 
 The anecdote of W.asliington's being found fve- 
 quently in pra^'er, is related by liis chaplain, and 
 is associated with Valley Forge ; but this anecdote 
 here related throws a most amiable liglit over his 
 character, and shows him to have been a man of 
 like passions and sympathies witli ourselves. It 
 pi'oves that his calm and noble bearing was tlie 
 offspring, not of mere human wisdom aud brave- 
 ry, but of reliance on God. 
 
 Tradition states that Washington frequently 
 rode to the place west of Sjiringfield, already 
 described, for the purpose of reconnoitring the 
 country below, and watching the movements of 
 the encniy. About llic time tlie last battle at 
 
110 ORIGINAL ANECDOTES OF GENEEAL WASHINGTON 
 
 Springfield Tv^as fought, one morning he rode 
 -with some of his staff officers to this place, and 
 after reconnoitring, he was observed to go to a 
 retired place not far distant. He was tliere seen 
 to kneel in a most reverent attitude, and to con- 
 tinue for some time in prayer. After rising from 
 liis knees, he seated himself on a rock, and seemed 
 lost in thought. His whole appearance indicated 
 the troubled feelings which were agitating him. 
 At last he was heard to sing or repeat — tradition 
 says he sung — the whole of the one hundred and 
 s(!Cond Psalm, second part, common metre, Watts' 
 vei-sion. They are so appropriate to his condi- 
 tion and feeling, that had Watts been his bosom 
 companion, he could not have better suited words 
 to the occasion. Lest .some may fail to recur to 
 their Hymn Books, I will copy the Psalm entire. 
 
 1. Hear me, God, nor hide thy face, 
 
 But answer lest I die ; 
 Hast thou not built a throne of grace, 
 To hear when sinners cry ? 
 
 2. My days are wasted like the smoke 
 
 Dissolving in the air ; 
 My strength is dried ; my heart is broke, 
 And sinking in despair. 
 
 3. My spirits flag like withering grass 
 
 Burnt with excessive heat ; 
 In secret groans my minutes pass, 
 And I forget to cat. 
 
 4. As on some lonely building's top 
 
 The sparrow tells her moan ; 
 Far from the tents of joy and hDpe 
 1 sit and grieve alone. 
 
 5. My sonl is like a wilderness. 
 
 Where beasts of midnight how} ; 
 Where the sad raven finds her place, 
 And where the screaming owl. 
 
 6. Dark dismal thoiJghts and boding fears 
 
 Dwell in my troubled breast ; 
 While sharp reproaches wound mine earj; 
 Nor give my spirits rest. 
 
 7. My cup is mingled with my woes, 
 
 And tears are my 'epast ; 
 My daily bread like ashes grows 
 Unpleasant to my tasie. 
 
 8. Sense can afford no real joy 
 
 To souls who feel thy frown ; 
 Lord, 'twas thy hand advanced me high. 
 Thy hand hath cast me down. 
 
 9. My locks like withering leaves appear, 
 
 And life's declining light 
 Grows faint as evening shadows are. 
 That vani.sh into night. 
 
 10. But thou for ever art the same 
 my eternal God I 
 Ages to come shall know thy name. ' ^ 
 And spread thy works abroad. 
 
 11. Thou wilt arise and show thy face. 
 
 Nor will my Lord delay 
 Beyond the appointed hour of grace, 
 That long expected day. 
 
 12. He hears his saint.-, he knows their cry, 
 
 And by mysterious ways 
 Redeems the prisoners doomed to die. 
 And fills their tongues with praise. 
 
 By recurring to the history of the revolution, 
 it will be found, that in 1780, Cornwallis was 
 victorious at the South, and the treason of Arnold 
 was laying its diabolical plans at the north. 
 Taking these facts into account, the anecdote here 
 recorded is one of the finest in the history of our 
 own Washington. Let our children learn this 
 Psalm, which was sung by the Father of his 
 country in the hour of her darkest peril, and 
 ever remember that at that hour, it was not 
 human bravery whicli sustained him, but that 
 his support and courage were drawn then, as at 
 other times, from God. 
 
 ANECDOTE OF LADY WASHINGTON. 
 
 In conversing not long since with an aged lady 
 of Morris County, I obtained an anecdote con- 
 cerning Lady Washington, so entertaining and 
 admirable, that it will form a good supjdement 
 to that about her noble husband. 
 
 There was residing in Mori'is County a Mrs- 
 Troupe, the widow of a lialf-pay Britisli captain. 
 She was a frequent visitor at the house of a Mrs. 
 T., and on one of these occasions, befoi'e she had 
 passed the usual compliments, she exclaimed, 
 " Well, what do you think, Mrs. T. ? I have been 
 to see Lady Washington !" 
 
 " Have you indeed !" said her friend. " Then 
 tell nie all about how you found her ladyship, 
 how she appeared, and what she said." 
 
 " Well, I will honestly tell you," replied Mrs- 
 Troupe, " that I never was so ashamed in all the 
 
 days of my life. You see, Madame , and 
 
 Madame , and Madame — - — — , and my- 
 self thought we would visit Lady Washington, 
 and as she was said to be so grand a lady, we 
 thought we must put on our best bibs and bands. 
 So we dressed ourselves in our most elegant 
 ruffles and silks, and so were introduced to her 
 ladyship. And don't you think we found her 
 knitting, and with a speckled (check) apron on ! 
 She received us very graciously and easily, but 
 after the compliments were over, she resumed 
 her knitting. There we were without a stitch of 
 work, and setting in state, but General Washing- 
 ton's lady, with her own hands, was knitting 
 stockings for her husband and hei-self. 
 
A SUMMER EVENING. 
 
 Ill 
 
 " And that was not all. In the course of the 
 afternoon Bhe took occasion to say, in a manner 
 that we could not be offended at, that at this time 
 it was very important that American ladies 
 should be patterns of industry to their country- 
 women, because the separation from the mother 
 country will dry up the sources whence many of 
 our comforts have been derived. We must be- 
 come independent, by our determination to do 
 without what we cannot make for ourselves. 
 Whilst our husbands and brothers are examples 
 of patriotism, we must be patterns of industry." 
 
 According to Mrs. Troupe's story, Lady Wash- 
 ington gave her visitors some excellent advice, 
 the meanwhile adding force to her words by her 
 actions. In all this she proved herself more 
 worthy to occupy her distinguished position, than 
 she could have done by all the graceful and ele- 
 gant accomplishments even of Josephine. In the 
 relations she occupied, her knitting work and 
 check apron were queenly ornaments, and we 
 may be proud to know that such a woman as 
 Martha Washington set such an admirable exam- 
 ple to her countrywomen ! 
 
 A SUMMER EVENING 
 
 The winds are wKispering with the waters, 
 
 There is a soul of melody abroad ; 
 The moon, -with the fair stars her daughters. 
 
 Ts joining in the gladsome laud. 
 Their murmured music softly swells 
 
 In spreading circles all around, 
 And merrily ring the village bells. 
 
 Filling the valley with waves of sound. 
 
 The hills are fused into the sky — 
 
 Each hill a fading cloudland seems ; 
 IIow quietly the daises lie 
 
 On Nature's bosom— full of dreams ? 
 A voice is heard among the trees, 
 
 Like passion's whisper— low and deep ; 
 .^.nd in the long wild fields the breeze 
 
 Breathes softly as a child asleep : 
 The holy queen of even throws 
 
 A silver glory on the sod ; 
 And all the universe o'erflows 
 
 With the deep tenderness of God. 
 
 Shall there be none to bless thee ? oh, blessed summer 
 even ! 
 Shall there be none to blees thee ? that givest to our 
 sight 
 Earth walking in the borrowed robes of heaven, 
 Clothing her hills and valleys with delight. 
 Yea, there are those shall bless thee well, 
 
 Wherever they wander — through field or lane, 
 By the bourne side, or down the dell. 
 Or ankle deep in the wavy grain ; 
 Wherever they wander, sweet night of June, 
 With warm hands clasped and wild hearts beating - 
 
 Beating softly to one sweet tune, 
 
 Shall they not give thee gladsome greeting? 
 
 A deeper beauty such sliall view 
 On thy fair face, than others ken, 
 
 Love can create all things anew, 
 And give back Paradise to men. 
 
 Oh, blessed summer night 1 — would that my blessing 
 Could glad thee as the moonlight or the dew, 
 
 But only those fresh hearts in splendor dressing 
 All things — can give th« glory that they view. 
 
 Psalms to thy beauty — could I ever make them ? 
 
 Blessings would change to curses whilst I spake them ; 
 The flowers of song would wither as they grew : 
 
 Only that joy of fesling and expression. 
 
 Becomes the dowry and the sweet possession 
 Of the unselfish, beautiful, and true. 
 
 God give them joy of thee, oh, blessed night I 
 
 God give them joy of thee, that through the years 
 A thousand sorrows quench not thy delight ; 
 
 As rainbows seen through storms, as smiles through 
 tears. 
 Thy memory welling freshly up may be 
 
 Perennial in their hearts ; then though no more 
 Thou canst have power to charm or comfort me. 
 
 Though drowning thy s-.veet songs, I hear the roar 
 Of mighty-voiced waters saying, "nevermore !" 
 And the whitherless wandering of the wayward sea 
 
 Drifts me away— yet courage, 0, my soul ! 
 Seek out a larger sphere wherem to think, 
 In self-destroying consonance, and sink 
 
 The sorrowing unit in the joyful whole. 
 
MOTIVES 
 
 TiiERK can be but one infallible Judge of mo- 
 tiveF. Kone but its Maker can see into the se- 
 cret springs, and clearly comprehend the motions, 
 of the mind. Nevertheless, the "will for the 
 deed " is an old understanding among mankind, 
 in virtue of that inward life, whose v.oild and 
 workings they know to extend so far beyond the 
 visible. It is, indeed, the privilege, and, in some 
 ecnse, a necessity, of human reason, to inquire 
 after, at least, obvious motives, since the smallest 
 acquaintance with character or history cannot be 
 formed without taking them into account. Thus, 
 in the biographies of notable men, in the liistories 
 of nations, and in the gossip which constitutes the 
 current history of most neighborhoods, and is re- 
 lished alike by the denizens of court and hamlet, 
 nobody is satisfied with knowing merely what 
 was done, for the demand invariably follows of 
 "VVhy they did do it? That query is often neces- 
 sary to legal, and always to moral, justice. It 
 must be, so to speak, a most mechanical and sur- 
 face life, whose daily doings the beholder can 
 fully explain, independent of any reference to in- 
 ward feelings, unuttered memories, or concealed 
 liopes. How many deeds and whole courses of 
 action, chameleon-like, utterly change their com- 
 plexions, according to the light of attributed mo- 
 tives 1 Through that medium, the patriot of 
 one party becomes the heartless and designing 
 knave of another ; and the fanatical revolutionists 
 of their own generation turn to fearless reformers 
 with the next. Many an act, on the details of 
 which most historians are agreed, is held up by 
 one to the world's praise, and by anotlier to uni- 
 versal censure. Henri Quatre, says the first, con- 
 formed to Catholicism rather than continue a civil 
 war in his kingdom ; while a second remarks of 
 the same monarch, that he sacrificed his faith for 
 a crown. When Frederick William of Prussia 
 ■was just at the hottest of that persecution of his 
 celebrated son, for which, together with his love 
 of tall soldiers, he is best known to the world, 
 the grand dispute amongst his favorite guards at 
 Potsdam was, whether the kicks, cufl's, und im- 
 prisonments, which the old king bestowed so libe- 
 rally on his heir apparent, were intended to pre- 
 vent young Fritz turning an infidel, or arose from 
 his father's fears that he might be a greater man 
 than himself! On no subject are mankind more 
 apt to differ, probably because there are ftw on 
 
 which observation affords so much inferential, 
 and so little direct evidence. 
 
 Approaching the innermost circles of private 
 life, we find that the views entertained of motives 
 exercise a still greater influence in determining 
 our estimation of kindred, friends, or lovers. 
 
 There is a strange difference of opinion existing 
 at times between the principals and tiie specta- 
 tors of these particular affairs. Few, it has been 
 said, can penetrate the motives of others in mat- 
 ters regarding themselves. Yet most people are 
 wonderfully sharp-sighted where their neighbors 
 are concerned ; and the world— as every one of us 
 is apt to call that fraction of society in which we 
 live, and move, and have our associations — though 
 generally not over-charitable, is rarely wrong in 
 its conclusions. 
 
 There have been friendships that owed their 
 growth solely to showers of flattery, and bitter 
 enmities have spontaneously sprung up in the soil 
 of envy. It was said of Goldsmith, that he could 
 never hear a brother poet, or, indeed, any citizen 
 of the world of letters, praised, without entertain- 
 ing a temporary aversion to that individual; and 
 a similar effect was always produced by tlie 
 smallest sign of increasing literary consequence. 
 
 A report that M had been taken particular 
 
 notice of by such a nobleman of those patronizing 
 times, or that his works had been admired in 
 some segment of the fashionable circle, was suffi- 
 cient to make the author of the 'Deserted Vil- 
 lage " find all manner of faults with him and his, 
 till time, or his habitual good nature, wiped the 
 circumstance out of Goldsmith's remembrance. 
 
 It was asserted of both the elder and younger 
 Scaliger, that they never applauded any scholar 
 with all their might, but one who was manifestly 
 inferior to themselves ; and of Madame de Main- 
 tenon, that she never honored any one with her 
 special friendship, who was not, in some consider- 
 able point, beneath her. There is still a large 
 class of characters, in all whose attachments a 
 something to despise seems the indispensable in- 
 gredient. The perpetual triumph of being always 
 " king of the company" has a binding attraction 
 for such minds. It confers a kind of dictatorship 
 to have the advantage of one's friends. Nothing 
 else can explain the amount of patronage and be. 
 friendin-i' generally lavished on tlie most worth- 
 less members of families or societies, and the 
 
MOTIVES. 
 
 lis 
 
 half-grudge, half surveillance, which, under the 
 covert of mere niouth-lionor, often surrounds great 
 or successful abilities. 
 
 A strange motive to enmity is illustrated in the 
 life of General Loudoun, one of the Scotch Jacob- 
 ites, who, on the defeat of his party, entered the 
 Austrian service, and rose to the rank of field- 
 marshal in the wars of JIaria Tlieresa. He had 
 takt-n tlic town of Seidlitz from the Prussians. It 
 was a great stroke in favor of the empress queen, 
 and miglit have been rewarded witii a coronet, 
 but, in his haste to semi lier majesty tlie intelli- 
 gence, Loudoun tran-iiuitted it through her hus- 
 band, the Empeior i''runcis, wlio Iiad a private 
 interest in the matter, havinj^ long carried on a 
 speculation of his own, in victualling not only his 
 wife's troops, but those of her Prussian enemy. 
 King Maria, as slie was styled by her Hungarian 
 subjects, had also some special reasons for allow- 
 ing liim to liave neitliur liand nor voice in her 
 concerns — a fact which the marshal iiad never 
 learned, or forgotten ; and her majesty was so in- 
 dignant at receiving the news through such a 
 channel, that, though she struck a medal to com- 
 memorate the taking of Seidlitz, Loudoun was 
 rewarded only with her peculiar aversion tiirough- 
 out the remaining seventeen years of her reign, 
 for which the good wishes of that imperial specu- 
 lator in forage and flour afforded but poor conso- 
 lation. 
 
 Matrimony Avould seem to be the result of the 
 greatest variety of motives. Goethe said he 
 married to attain popular respectability. John 
 Wilkes, when suing his wife, who chanced to 
 have been an heiress, for the remains of her pro- 
 perty, declared that he had wedded at twenty- 
 two, solely to please his friends ; and Wycherly 
 the poet, in his very last days, worshipped and 
 endowed with all his worldly good-, as the Eng- 
 lish service hath it, a girl whom poverty had 
 made unscrupulous, in order to be revenged on 
 his relations. 
 
 Princes of old were in the habit of marrying to 
 cement treaties, which were generally broken as 
 soon after as possible; and simple citizens are 
 still addicted to the same method of amending 
 their fortunes and families. There was an origi- 
 nal motive to double blessedness set forth in the 
 advice of a veteran English sportsman. His niece 
 was the heiress of broad lands, which happened 
 to adjoin an estate belonging to a younger brother 
 of the turf; and the senior gentleman, when di- 
 lating to her ou the exploits they had performed 
 together by wood and wold, wound up with the 
 following sage counsel : — " Maria, take my advice, 
 and marry young Beechwood, and you'll see this 
 county hunted in style." 
 
 i| The numbers who, by their own account, have 
 ■wedded to benefit society, in one shape or an- 
 other, would furnish a stiong argument against 
 th(! accredited selfishness of mankind, could they 
 only be believed. The general good of their 
 country was the standing excuse of classic times, 
 and philosophers have occasionally reproduced it 
 in our own. Most people seem to think some 
 apology necessary, but none are so ingenious in 
 sliowing cause why they should enter the holy 
 state, as those with whom it is the second experi- 
 ment, '1 lie pleas of tliH widowed for ca.sting off 
 their weeds are generally prudent, and often sin- 
 gularly commendable. Domestic policy or pa- 
 rental affection supply the greater part of them : 
 and tlie want of protectors and stepmothers felt 
 by families of all sizes is truly marvellous, con- 
 sidering the usual consequences of their instal- 
 ment. 
 
 The Russians have a story of a widow who was 
 inconsolable for her loss, till the spirit of her de- 
 parted husband appeared, with a request that she 
 should marry without delay. But a Catholic 
 peasant in the south of Ireland once pleaded a 
 still higher motive for his second wedding. The 
 bride was of a '■ Prodestand " family, and Pat 
 averred that he "nivcr would hive put a ring on 
 a woman's finger after his darlint Rose, if it hadn't 
 been to save the soule of that crayther." 
 
 It is to be admired, as the speakers of old Eng- 
 lish would say, for what noble things men will 
 give themselves credit in the way of motives, and 
 how little resemblance their actions bear to them. 
 Doings far more unlikely than those of the widow- 
 ed peasant have, according to the actors, origina- 
 ted from the purest motives. Montaigne was 
 accustomed to tell of a servant belonging to the 
 Archbishop of Paris, who, being detected in pri- 
 vately selling his master's best wine, insisted 
 that it was done out of pure love to his grace, lest 
 the sight of so large a stock in his cellar might 
 tempt him to drink more than was commendable 
 for a bishop. 
 
 A guardian care of their neighbors' well being, 
 somewhat similar, is declared by all the disturb- 
 ers of our daily paths. Tale-bearers andretnark- 
 ers of every variety have the best interests of 
 their friends at heart : and what troublesome 
 things some people can do from a sense of duty, 
 is a matter of universal experience. Great pub- 
 lic criminal.-, tyrants, and persecutors in old times, 
 and the abusers of power in all ages, have, espe- 
 cially in the fall of their autliority, laid claim to 
 most exalted motives. Patriotism, philanthropy, 
 and religion itself, have been quoted as their in- 
 spirers. The ill famed Judge Jettries said his ju- 
 dicial crimes were perpetrated to maintain the 
 
114 
 
 MOTIVES. 
 
 majesty of the law. Eobespierre affirmed that 
 lie had lived in defence of virtue and his country. 
 But perhaps the most charitable interpretation 
 that ever man gave to the motives of another, is 
 to be found in the funeral sermon of Frederick, 
 Prince of Wales, and father of George III. The 
 preacher, after several judicious remarks on the 
 virtues of the royal deceased, concludes, " That in 
 the extreme to -which these were carried, they 
 appeared like vices ; for so great was his genero- 
 sity, that he ruined half the tradesmen in Lon- 
 don ; and so extraordinary his condescension, that 
 he kept all sorts of bad company." 
 
 Divines and philosophers have had strong con- 
 troversies concerning motives. Some have main- 
 t^iined that the ultimate end or intention was 
 sufficient to condemn oi* justify any act. Others 
 have employed their wisdom to prove tliat actions 
 and their consequences were alone to be con- 
 sidered, without reference to end or motive ; and, 
 between these two extremes, the common sense 
 of mankind has generally steered. A great dis- 
 jnite on this subject is said to have engaged the 
 learned of Alexandria, about the accession of the 
 emperor Julian, whom, says a biographer, "some 
 of his subjects named the Apostate, and some the 
 Philosopher." The controversy occupied not 
 only the Christian Platonists, for whose numbers 
 that city was so celebrated, but a;lso the remnants 
 of the Pagan wisdom, then shining its last under 
 favor of the new emperor. Yet neither Chris- 
 tiana nor Pagans could entirely agree with each 
 other, and such a division of opinion had never 
 been heard, even in Alexandria. Things were 
 in this state, says the sage tradition, when there 
 arrived in the capital of Egypt a Persian, whose 
 fame had long preceded him. lie had been one 
 of the last of the Magi, dwelling at the base of 
 Caucasus, till the Parthians laid watse his coim- 
 try, when he left it, and travelled over the world 
 in search of knowledge, and, in both east and west, 
 tliey called him Kosro the Wise. Scarce was 
 the distinguished stranger fairly within their 
 gates, when the chiefs of the controversial parties 
 determined to hear his opinion on the matter in 
 dispute ; and a deputation, consisting of a Chris- I 
 tian bishoj), a Jewish rabbi, a Platonist teacher, i 
 and a priest of Isis, waited on the Persian one I 
 
 morning, when he sat in the portico of a long- 
 deserted temple, which some forgotten Egyptian 
 had built to Time, the instructor. The rabbi and 
 the priest were strong for actions. The Platonist 
 and the bishop were entirely motive men ; but in 
 the manner of those times, for even philosophy 
 has its fiishions, the four had agreed that each 
 shoiild projwse a question to Kosro, as his own 
 wisdom dictated. Accordingly, after some pre- 
 paratory compliments, touching the extent of his 
 fame and travels, the Platonist, who was always 
 notable for circumlocution, op en the business by 
 inquiring what he considered the chief movers of 
 mankind. 
 
 " Gain and vanity," replied Kosro. 
 " Which is stronger?" interposed the rabbi, in 
 Avhom the faculty of beating about in argument 
 was scarce less developed. 
 
 " Gain was the first," said the Persian. " Its 
 worship succeeded the reign of Ormuz, which 
 western poets call the golden age, and I know 
 not when it was ; but, in later ages, vanity has 
 become the most powerful, for everywhere I 
 have seen men do that for glory which they 
 would not do for gain, and many even sacrifice 
 gain to glory, as they think it." 
 
 " But, wise Kosro," demanded the priest, im- 
 patient with what he considered a needless di- 
 gression, " tell us your opinion — Should men be 
 judged by their motives or their actions?" 
 
 " Motives," said Kosro, " are the province of 
 divine, and actions that of human, judgment. 
 Nevertheless, because of the relation between 
 them, it is well to take note of the former when 
 they become visible in our light, yet not to 
 search too narrowly after them, but take deeds 
 for their value ; seeing, first, that the inward 
 labyrinth is beyond our exploring ; secondly, 
 that most men act from mingled motives ; and, 
 thirdly, that if, after the thought of a western 
 poet, there were a crystal pane set in each man's 
 bosom, it would mightily change the estimation of 
 many." 
 
 And the Christian bishop made answer — 
 " Kosro, thou hast seen the truth ; man must at 
 times perceive, but God alone can judge of, mo 
 tives." 
 
TPIE CONQUEST OF PERU. 
 
 (SEE PLATE.). 
 
 The Conquest of Peru, by Pizarro, was one of 
 
 the most powerfully exciting of that series of 
 acts in the bloody drama which illustrated the 
 discovery of the New World. Balboa, Cortes, 
 Pizarro, Desoto, have almost a spectral grimness 
 in the associations of history, and their names 
 stand for types of all that is brilliant in enterprise, 
 remorseless in character, and bloody in deeds. 
 Pizarro, to whose energy the conquest of Peru and 
 the destruction of the interesting race of the In- 
 oas is due, was one of the naturally greatest of this 
 succession of conquerors. Of low origin, illite- 
 rate, and beset by difficulties requiring the force 
 of the loftiest genius to overcome, he rose to tlie 
 highest pinnacle of honor and wealth, and added 
 to his na-tive country the fame and fortune of one 
 of the richest of her American States. 
 
 Our ph\te introduces to us the first and most 
 conspicuous of the victims of his lust of power 
 and wrath. Ataliba — or, as his name is usually 
 spelled, Atahualpa, became the reigning prince 
 of the Incas soon after the advent of Pizarro. 
 
 When the Spaniards first arrived at Peru in the 
 year 1526, Huana Capec, the twelfth Inca, ruled 
 the country. He was not only a wise ruler, but 
 was of a warlike disposition. He had conquered 
 the province of Quito, and lived in the capital of 
 that country. He seems to have liked the coun- 
 try which he had subdued ; for, notwithstanding 
 it was the law ofthe empire, that the Incas should 
 not marry any but their own relations, who were 
 descended from the same ancestor, lie had mar- 
 ried tlie daughter of the Prince of Quito, whom he 
 had conquered. 
 
 He died in 1529, leaving the kingdom of Quito 
 to his eon, Atahualpa, whose mother was the 
 princess of that kingdom, whom he had married. 
 He left the rest of the kingdom to his eldest son, 
 Huascar, whose mother was one of the royal 
 race. Though the people respected the memory 
 of Huana Capec very much, yet they tliought it 
 so wrong for him to have married any one but a 
 princess of the Sun, that they encouraged the 
 elder brother, Huascar, to try to take away from 
 his brother, Atahualpa, the part ofthe kingdom 
 which his father had left him. But the younger 
 brother had at his command a large army, the 
 most valuable soldiers in Peru; and with this 
 
 he felt so strong, that he refused to obey the or- 
 ders to give up his power, which Huascar sent 
 him, and marched with his army to attack his 
 brother. 
 
 Thus was a civil war begun, in Peru. Atahu- 
 alpa, having the best army, defeated his brother. 
 He tried to make his title sure, by murdering aP 
 the children of the Sun, the descendants of Mango 
 Capec, whom he could find. He had taken his bro- 
 ther Huascar, prisoner ; but he did not take away 
 his life, because he knew that many of the people 
 thought he was the rightful king, and he could 
 make Huascar give out such orders as he pleased, 
 which the people would obey. Thus did tlie quar- 
 rels of those two brothers open a way for the Span- 
 iards to overrun and subdue the whole of their rich 
 and powerful empire, which they never could have 
 done, had the Peruvians continued united. This 
 war was going on, when Pizarro arrived in St, 
 Matthew's Bay. If he had reached the country 
 a few years earlier, when Huana Capec, their 
 father, had been at the head ofthe kingdom, that 
 prince would undoubtedly have been able, and 
 would have been wise enough, to drive the 
 Spaniards away. 
 
 The brothers, however, were so much engaged 
 in their wicked quarrels, that they did not mind 
 the arrival of the Spaniards. Pizarro soon found 
 out the state of tlie country, and resolved to take 
 advantage of the disturbed state in which he 
 found it. The brothers even invited him to take 
 part in tlieir affairs. Huascar, who was a pris- 
 oner to his brother, sent to Pizarro, to beg him to 
 come and assist him to escape from the power of 
 Atahualpa, and recover his rightful rule. Pizarro 
 thought this opportunity was too good to be 
 neglected. He marched directly forward, without 
 waiting for the arrival of more troops from 
 Panama. He was obliged to leave some of his 
 people at St. Michael, to take care of the new 
 town, so that his army was very small, consisting 
 of only sixty-two horsemen and one hundred foot- 
 soldiers. Tiiey advanced toward the town of 
 Caxamalca, which was twelve days' march from 
 St. Michael. Atahualpa was encamped at that 
 place, with a considerable army. As they ap- 
 proached the Peruvian encampment, they were 
 met by officers, sent out by Atahualpa, bearing 
 
116 
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PERU, 
 
 presents, and bringing kind messages from the 
 Prince. Pizarro replied, that he came from a 
 powerful Prince, wlio would help Atahualpa to 
 conquer his enemies. 
 
 The Inca believed this report, and resolved to 
 receive the new comers kindly. Pizarro was 
 therefore allowed to enter into the heart of the 
 country, witii his small army. The road passed 
 through such narrow and difficult places, that, if 
 the Peruvians had been disposed, tliey might have 
 fallen upon the Spaniards, and entirely destroyed 
 them. They advanced, however, undisturbed, and 
 took possession of a fort, which had been built 
 to protect Caxamalca. They received new mes- 
 sages of friendship from the Inca, as they ap- 
 proached the fort. At Caxamalca, Pizarro took 
 possession of a large court, in which was a house 
 belonging to the Incas. Here, he arrayed his 
 troops, in a safe order, and, having done tliis, he 
 sent his two brothers to the camp of Atahualpa. 
 He invited tiie Prince to visit him, in his quarters, 
 that they might talk about the state of the 
 country, and see what would be best to do, to 
 restore it to peace. 
 
 The brotliers were treated with great hospital- 
 ity. Atahualpa promised to visit Pizarro, the 
 next day. Tiie messengers were feasted at ta- 
 bles, which were filled with gold and silver ves- 
 sels ; and the great abundance of gold and silver 
 which they saw, exceeded anything which they 
 had ever before seen or heard of. 
 
 On their return to Caxamalca, they gave to 
 their countrymen such an account of the wealth 
 of the Peruvian camp, that Pizarro, notwith- 
 standing his professions of friendship, resolved to 
 seize the monarch, and take possession of his 
 treasures. He remembered how Cortes had seiz- 
 ed Montezuma, and he thouglit that he should 
 much more easily conquer the country, if the 
 Prince were in his power. The conquerors of 
 that time seemed to liave no principle of justice 
 or honesty ; but thought they were right, to seize 
 whatever they could get, and to break the most 
 solemn promises, whenever they pleased. 
 
 Pizarro arranged all his army, in the most ad- 
 vantageous manner to do what he was so wick- 
 edly planning. His men were all ordered to 
 keep within tlie square, and not to move, until 
 they received his orders. 
 
 At an early hour, Atahualpa began to prepare 
 for his visit. As he wished to make the most 
 splendid appearance before these strangers, the 
 preparations lasted a great while, and the day 
 was far advanced, before he was ready to set 
 out. And then, that everything might be kept 
 in order, he made the procession move so slowly, 
 that the Spaniards, impatient for the booty, were 
 
 afraid he had become suspicious of them, and 
 had concluded not to make the proposed visit. 
 Their own guilty hearts probably made them 
 think of this. Pizarro sent more messengei"s 
 with friendly speeches, to hasten the unfortunate 
 Inca to his doom. At last, he came near, tie 
 was preceded by four hundred men, all dressed 
 alike, to clear the way before him. Tlien came 
 the monarch, sitting on a sort of tlirono or couch, 
 and almost entirely covered with plates of gold 
 and silver, which were adorned with precious 
 stones. He was also decorated with many col- 
 ored plumes. Thus loaded with ornaments, he 
 was carried on the shoulders of his principal at- 
 tendants. Behind him, were several of his no- 
 bles, carried in the same manner. Bands of sing- 
 ers and dancers escorted this procession, and the 
 whole plain was covered with troops, amounting 
 to more than thirty thousand men. 
 
 As the Inca came near, Valverde, a priest, wlio 
 was the chaplain of the expedition, came out to 
 meet him. He showed him a crucifix, and tried 
 to tell him about the Christian religion. He said, 
 that the Spaniards had been sent by their master , 
 a powerful Prince, to turn away tlie Peruvians 
 from the worship of the Sun, to tiiat of the true 
 God. He said, that, if Atahualpa would give up 
 his old, and believe in this new, religion, the 
 Spaniards would protect him ; but that, if he re- 
 fused to do so, tliey would make war upon him. 
 Tins speech was spoken by the priest to an in- 
 terpreter, and by him to the Inca. The interpre- 
 ter did not understand the language very well, 
 and the poor Inca could hardly tell what it all 
 meant. 
 
 He answered, however, that he did not under- 
 stand the speech very well, but he did not see 
 what right a strange priest had to come and 
 talk in this way to him ; that he should not leave 
 the worship of the Sun, in which he Iiad been 
 brouglit up. He asked Yalverde, where he had 
 learnt this new religion, of which he spoke. Val- 
 verde reached to him the book, containing the 
 prayers and service of the Roman Catholic Church, 
 which he held in his hand. The Inca turned 
 over its leaves, with wonder, and put it up to his 
 ear. He then said, " This is silent, it tells me no- 
 thing ;" and threw it, with scorn, upon the ground. 
 The priest was shocked at this: he cried out 
 "To arms. Christians ; the Word of God is insult- 
 ed ; you must avenge this profanation on the 
 impious dogs "' 
 
 At the sight of this rich and shining procession, 
 the men were so eager to seize upon it, that 
 Pizarro could hardly make them wait, while the 
 priest and the Inca were holding this conference. 
 When Pizarro heard the exclamation of the priest, 
 
THE CJDNQUEST OF PERU, 
 
 117 
 
 he gave the order for his men to attack. They 
 rushed at once upon the Peruvians, who were 
 entirely unprepared fur the cruel action. The 
 horsemen, the cannon, and the whole apparatus, 
 were so different from what they had ever seen, 
 and the attack was so frudden, that they fled on 
 every side. Pizarro, at the head of a chosen band, 
 rushed forward, to seize the Inca. The men who 
 surrounded their Prince tried to cover him with 
 their bodies, yet Pizarro succeeded in reaching 
 'his throne, seized hiia by the arm, and dragged 
 him to the ground, and then carried him, a pris- 
 oner, to his own quarters. At the sight of this, 
 the men fled, with still greater haste, and the 
 Spani.irds followed them, killing great numbers 
 of these poor creatures, who made no resistance. 
 The slaughter did not cease until the end of the 
 day. Four thousand Peruvians were killed, and 
 not one Spaniard. Pizarro had a wound in one (jf 
 his hands, which he received when he was trying 
 to seize the Inca. 
 
 The Spaniards seized the gold and silver of the 
 Peruvians. The quantity of these metals was 
 greater than they could ever have imagined to 
 see collected at once. They passed the night in 
 the most extravagant joy. 
 
 The Inca was at first very sori-owful, at the 
 slaughter of his troops, the loss of his treasures, 
 and to find himself a prisoner. Pizarro thought 
 he could carry on his plans better, if lie kept 
 possession of the Prince, and he would, on this 
 account, have been sorry he should die. He 
 therefore talked kindly to him, and tried to en- 
 courage him. 
 
 Atahualpa soon saw that gold was what the 
 Spaniards most desired; he therefore told Pi- 
 zarro, if he would set him at liberty, he would 
 give him as much gold and silver as w^ould cover 
 the room where he was confined, to be piled up 
 as high as he could reach. This room was 
 twentv-two feet Ions? and sixteen broad. Pizar- 
 ro promised to give him his liberty, if he would 
 do this, and the line was drawn at the proposed 
 height. 
 
 Atahualpa M'aa delighted with the hope of 
 getting his liberty. He sent messengers to 
 Cuzco, Quito, and the distant parts of the empire, 
 to gather the treasures, which had been heaped 
 lip to adorn the temples of the gods, or the 
 palaces of the Incju-i. Although he was a pris- 
 oner, the Peruvians did everything they could, 
 to fulfill his ordei-s Though the empire was still 
 strong, and able to funiish powerful armies, yet 
 the Peruvians feared to make any resistance to 
 the Spaniards, lest, by so doing, they should put 
 the life of the captive Prince in danger. The 
 Spaniards, therefore, were able to stay at Caxa- 
 
 malca, without being disturbed at all. Pizarro 
 sent out some small bodies of men, into different 
 parts of the country, but they found themselves 
 everywhere treated with great respect. 
 
 Almagro arrived, at this time, at St. Michael, 
 bringing with him the reinforcement of men, 
 for which Pizarro had been so long ho]ui)g. If 
 this gave joy to Pizarro, it gave no less sorrow 
 to the unhappy Inca. lie saw that his enemies 
 were growing stronger ; and, as he did not know 
 where they came from, he could not tell how 
 many more he might expect. His trouble was 
 increased, by hearing that the Spaniards, on their 
 way to Cuzco, liad been to see his brother Huas- 
 car, in the place where he was kept coufiued. 
 Huascar had told them his story, and had prom- 
 ised them if they w^ould release him from his 
 prison, and restore him to tlie authority which 
 had been given him by his father, he would give 
 them a much greater quantity of gold than had 
 been promised by his brother. Atahualpa heard 
 of this proposal of his brother; and, thinking 
 that if the Spaniards took his part, he should 
 not be so likely to be relieved from his troubles, 
 he sent and ordered Huascar to be killed. His 
 orders were obeyed. 
 
 The Indians brought in, every day, to Caxa- 
 malca, immense quantities of treasure. Nearly 
 the whole of what had been promised was col- 
 lected, and Atahualpa told Pizarro, that it was 
 only because it took so long to bring it from the 
 distant parts of the empire, that it had not all 
 arrived. But the soldiers became so impatient, 
 when they saw such immense piles of gold, that 
 Pizarro found it was impossible to restrain them. 
 They took out some curious articles, as presents 
 to the Emperor, and then the whole mass was 
 melted down. A fifth jtart was put aside, for 
 the Emperor, and a certain portion for the sol- 
 diers who had just arrived with Almagro, and 
 there then remained one million five hundred 
 and twenty-eight pesos for Pizarro and his fol- 
 lowei-3. They divided the treasure, with relig- 
 ious ceremonies, calling upon God to witness the 
 ..ction. By this division, above eight thousand 
 pesos, which are said to have been, at that time, 
 worth not less than thirty-five thousand and five 
 hundred dollars, fell to the share of each horse- 
 man, and half that sum to each foot-soldier. 
 Pizarro, and the other ofliicers, had shares larger 
 in proportion to the rank they held. 
 
 Though Pizarro had resolved to put his prisoner 
 to death, he did not dare to do it, without some 
 pretence of justice. He ordered a court, of which 
 Almagro and himself, with two assistants, were 
 judges. He kojit up all the forms of a trial in 
 Spain, and had all the regular officers appointed. 
 
118 
 
 REV. N. S. S. BEMA.N, D.D 
 
 It was alleged before this court, that Atahualpa 
 had deprived his brother of the command of the 
 empire, and had put him to death ; that he was 
 an idolater, and had ordered men to be sacri- 
 ficed, in worship ; that he had several wives ; 
 that he had wasted the public treasures, which, 
 since the country was conquered, belonged to the 
 Spaniards; and that he had tried to stir up his 
 subjects to fight against the Spaniards. Tlie mock 
 trial ended, by pronouncing Atahualpaguilty, and 
 condemning him to be burned alive. Atahualpa 
 
 tried to escape his fate: he begged that he might 
 be sent to Spain, to be tried by a king, who 
 would have some pity on his misfortunes. But 
 Pizarro knew no pity. He hurried the unhappy 
 monarch to his execution. Valverde, the priest, 
 pretended to console him. He told him, if he 
 would become a Clmstian, his death should be 
 made a less cruel one. The dread of being burn- 
 ed to death made the Prince consent to be bap- 
 tized, and he was strangled, instead of being 
 burned alive. 
 
 THE REV. N. S. S. BEMAN, D.D 
 
 BY HON. GEORGE B. DATIS 
 
 Dr, Beman was called to the pastoral charge 
 of the First Presbyterian Church, of the city of 
 Troy, some twenty-eight years since, and has 
 occupied that position during all that period, and 
 still does, with distinguished ability, eminent 
 success, and marked usefulness. He is a graduate 
 of Middlebury College, and left that institution 
 with the highest reputation for ripe scholarship ; 
 and very few men in this country possess, in so 
 high a degree, the elements to entitle them to 
 fill so broad a space in the public eye, as this 
 distinguished divine. 
 
 Dr. B. is no ordinary man ; he possesses one of 
 those rare and commanding intellects, that 
 scarcely can fail of marking the age in which 
 they live, and of leaving the impress of their 
 greatness upon it. He is one of those master 
 spirits, that are not compelled to follow the 
 beaten track of knowledge, and have not the 
 firmness, the originality of thought, and courage, 
 to explore any new and trackless course, but is 
 one who has the energy, the independent daring, 
 and the intellectual power to strike out a way of 
 his own, if he believed the old track led to error 
 of opinion, or of doctrine, and the ability to vin- 
 dicate and maintain tliat way against a world of 
 polemics in arms ; but, instead of seeking en- 
 larged fome, and " the bubble reputation," by 
 ambitious aspirations in his profession, through 
 the agency of those busy, bustling efforts that 
 characterize many minds, of altogether smaller 
 calibre, he has contented himself to remain in his 
 present quiet position, and give the powers of 
 his great mind, with ^1 it rich and varied stores 
 
 of learning, and knowledge, and deep reflection, 
 to his church and people, and to fill a space quite 
 too contracted for his own fame and merits, as a 
 profoundly learned, eloquent, and able theo- 
 logian. 
 
 Dr. B.'s intellectual greatness is highly and 
 fully appreciated by those who well know him, 
 but not to the broad extent he so richly deserves ; 
 and for no other reason than the fact, that he has 
 not been ambitious of blazoning it abroad, and 
 keeping himself before the public eye as a newly 
 discovered "bright particular star," but has filled 
 his place in his church, and confined his effort 
 mostly to that sphere. He has not, as many 
 minds far his inferior in intellectual strength 
 have done, published every effort of their minds, 
 and scattered them broadcast through the land, 
 to woo and win fjime and distinction, if not by 
 the quaUty, at least by their quantity. It is rare 
 he consents to the publication of the production 
 of his mind ; and when he does, you may be sure 
 he will not be ashamed to meet it anywhere ; and 
 hence a knowledge of his intellectual greatness 
 is mostly confined to the restricted circle of his 
 hearers, and his fame necessarily less broad and 
 expansive than a different course would have 
 given it. 
 
 Dr. B. possesses a mind of expansive and com- 
 prehensive compass, and an intellect of great and 
 commanding power, and one that is capable of 
 mastering any subject, and overcoming all oppos- 
 ing obstacles, and reaching the truth he aims at, 
 against all the subtilties of the schoolmen and 
 sophists that lay across his pathway ; he finds no 
 
REV. If, 9. S. BEMAN, D.D. 
 
 119 
 
 mists and darkness to obscure his progress after 
 truth, that he caunot jienetratc, and discover ite 
 light amid sorrounding murkiness. 
 
 He is a man of great energy and decision of 
 character, equal to any and every emergency, 
 and is not one who shrinks from danger and dif- 
 ficulty, or succumbs to popular error, for the 
 want of courage, ability, and firmness to meet 
 and combat it. 
 
 As a theologian, he is profoundly learned — as 
 a writer, clear, perspicuous and strong — as a rea- 
 soner, powerful, logical and resistless — as an 
 orator, cool, collected, commanding and attrac- 
 tive — his language is always the best, and classic- 
 ally pure, and admirably adapted to convoy the 
 idea he wishes to impress upon his hearers — he 
 studies no ornament, nor has he any occasion to 
 dress up his efforts with dazzling and fanciful 
 drapery, to hide the weakness of thought, for 
 thought, deep thought, is the animating soul of 
 all his mental efforts ; and he moves directly for- 
 ward, with a giant's tread, to the principle or 
 proposition he wishes to demonstrate, with a 
 chain of logical deduction that leads captive his 
 hearers, and is almost certain of producing the 
 conviction he aims at. 
 
 " The judgment and the passions at a slroke 
 Convinces and moves ; repels with -wondrous force 
 The skeptic's rebel reason ; and informs 
 The meanest intellect with instant light." 
 
 His manner in the pulpit, as a serraonizer, is 
 solemn, impressive, and dignified. 
 
 " At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
 His looks adorn the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevails with double sway. 
 And fools, who come to sooIT, remain to pray.-' 
 
 Dr. B. has long held the Presidency of " The 
 Rensselaer Insllhitf" in the city of Troy, an insti- 
 tute that stands high, and ranks among the best 
 schools of learning in the country, for a thorough 
 practical knowledge in the useful branches of 
 science. It is due to its President to say, that 
 his distinguished reputation for learning has con- 
 tributed greatly in giving it character, and his 
 active and energetic exertions in making it 
 useful. 
 
 Dr. B. annually delivers a course of lectures on 
 literature, ethics, and other branches of science, 
 for which he will not receive any remuneration ; 
 all he desires is to see it flourish, and is amply, 
 paid, in his estimation, in a consciousness that its 
 advantages are felt and realized, in the number 
 of well educated scholars that yearly graduate, 
 and go out to diffuse the light of knowledge and 
 the blessings of a sound education among the 
 
 people. He is a devoted friend and patron of 
 education. 
 
 He once a year avails himself of the occasion 
 of a thanksgiving sermon to unbend himself and 
 level the " dread artillery" of his mind against 
 what he deems public errors and prevailing 
 vices, and flings the whole power of his gigantic 
 intellect into a discourse ; and on these occasions 
 his house is sure to be crowded, expecting a rich 
 treat, and he docs not disappoint expectation ; 
 and wo betide the government, its oflicers, its 
 measures, or prevailing vices ; if he assails them, 
 they are sure to meet no mercy at liis hands. It 
 is then that he feels at home and untrammelled, 
 and he lets his genius loose, to wanton over the 
 acts, policy, and measures he dislikes, and the 
 vices he abhors ; then it is that the keenness of 
 his withering sarcasms is felt, and his stinging 
 wit strikes to the quick. He enters into no com- 
 promises with wrongs, errors, or measures he 
 condemns, but assails them with a bold and fear- 
 less severity, and a biting and scorching invec- 
 tive, that draws blood and blisters its agents and 
 actors. It is only on occasions like this that he 
 feels a freedom to indulge in the largest liberty, 
 and to cut and flog his victims with a merciless- 
 ness that makes them writhe under the tcrtur- 
 ings of his inflictions. 
 
 It is not alone as a theologian that he is dis- 
 tinguished ; his active and vigorous mind has 
 ranged through the whole circle of the sciences. 
 He is well posted up in all the measures of gov- 
 ernment, its domestic as well as its foreign policy, 
 and is at home on all subjects. Is it political eco- 
 nomy ? He is not a stranger to its principles. Is 
 it law ? He is familiar with Blackstone. Is it 
 medicine or surgery? He has studied its best 
 authors. Is it philosophy ? He is at home in its 
 sublime discoveries. Is it a question of national 
 policy ? 
 
 " Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs, 
 You would say, it had been all-in-all his study. 
 Turn him to any cause of policy, 
 The gordian knot of it he will unloose. 
 Familiar as his garter." 
 
 Transfer him from the pulpit he has so long 
 adorned and dignified, to the halls of the nation- 
 al legislature, and he would be there with his 
 armor on, and fully armed for the conflict with 
 the ablest of its champions and statesmen, and ■ 
 would be found a foeman " all soldiership," not 
 " mere prattle without practice." 
 
 Dr. B. belongs to the Dwight and Webster class 
 of minds, and, like those great men, would be 
 found a fortrea^, against which a small artillery 
 would aim its feeble shots in vain, nothing short 
 
120 
 
 REV. N. S. S. BEMAN, D. D. 
 
 of a whole park of heavy ordnance could slir.ke 
 its walls and impregnable defences. Like the 
 latter able statesman, he requires a powerful onset 
 to bring him out, and put him upon his highest 
 mettle ; then the giant energies of his mind will 
 be developed, and his great power exhibited in 
 all its strength and mastery, and his herculean 
 blows felt by the foeman who provoked them. 
 
 Di\ B. is emphatically a great man, and an or- 
 nament to the church of which he is "so bright 
 and shining a light." If ambition for political 
 distinction hatl been " his ruling passion," and 
 he had launched his bark upon that stormy sea, 
 he could not have failed, bv his own command- 
 ing intellect and acquirements, to have risen to 
 the highest honors in the gift of his countiy, and 
 "touched the highest point" his ambition had 
 aimed at, and been "the observed of all ob- 
 servers," and that, too, without the aid of those 
 petty means and miserable shifts, that some little 
 minds resort to, " to be the thing they are not." 
 He has all the elements to win success and secure 
 distinction in that career, and stand up a giant 
 figure among the towering great men of the na- 
 tion, and is entitled to occupy that lofty position ; 
 and would have had some claim to the distinc- 
 tion that has been so unjustly and inappropriate- 
 ly, if not impiously, awarded to Mr. Webster, of 
 " the godlike." 
 
 Dr. B., however, preferred an office less honor- 
 able in the world's eye, but one clustering with 
 brighter and richer honors in another and better 
 world, and sacrificed, if sacrifice is a proper term, 
 " the empty nothingness" of earth's barren 
 honors, to that crown of glory and priceless in- 
 heritance reserved for those who " fear and serve 
 the Lord," and has thus far fulfilled his high and 
 noble destiny, and won imperishable renown as 
 the champion of the cross, a renown that earth can- 
 not give or take away, "that is incorruptible, un- 
 defiled, and fadeth not away," and that the rust 
 of this world cannot tarnish. And who dare say 
 he did not choose wisely ? 
 
 In the General Assembly of the Presbyterians 
 in Philadelphia, in ISSY, that resulted in the di- 
 vision and excision of a large number of churches 
 and sixty thousand communicants from the as- 
 sembly. Dr. Beman Avas a delegate from his 
 church, and was the leading champion of the 
 
 New School in that body, and came in conflict 
 with the ablest of the old school leaders, and to 
 him was assigned the post of honor, as well as of 
 danger, to lead the onset — a position he sustained 
 with distinguished and signally pre-eminent 
 ability, as has been awarded him, not by his de- 
 voted and faithful followers alone, but by some 
 of the ablest and best judges in this country, who 
 were present at this war of ecclesiastical giants, 
 as indifferent spectators. 
 
 A distinguished member of Congress from our 
 State, himself a good judge of forensic talent, was 
 present ; and in giving an account to the wi'iter 
 of that great conflict, remarked, " that he had 
 listened to the greatest orators of the nation, in 
 the Senate and House — to Webster, Clay, 
 Wright, and a host of others, in their ablest 
 efforts, and never did he witness an eff"ort that 
 came up to the one made by Dr. Beman, to whom 
 up to that time he was an entire stranger." He 
 pronounced him one of the greatest orators it 
 had ever been his lot to listen to. He was 
 pressed hard, said he to the writer, but he came 
 out of the conflict, though not successful against 
 organized superior numbers, yet most triumph- 
 antly victorious in the power and weight of the 
 argument. 
 
 It is no more than simple justice to say, that 
 Dr. Beman stands at the head of the clergy in 
 the city of Troy, if not of the State and nation ; 
 and although, from social and church' partiality, 
 some might dispute this position, but put the 
 question to the unbiassed suffrages of the people 
 of his home, without distinction of sect or party, 
 and the verdict would vindicate his claim to that 
 elevated position, by a majority most decisive. 
 
 Dr. B. is beloved by his church and people, 
 and highly respected by all denominations in 
 the city, as well as by the citizens generally. The 
 city is justly proud of possessing such a master 
 mind, and well she may be. 
 
 The writer of this imperfect sketch is not of 
 Dr. B.'s church, but of another and different 
 ordef ; and therefore he can speak of him with- 
 out sectarian prejudice or social partiality, and do 
 him that justice he so richly merits, without a 
 misguided judgment, or under influences to give 
 an improper bias to his opinion. 
 
dD ling tn Jlit. 
 
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 I III 
 
A GREEN OLD AGE. 
 
 Br REV. DR. HA WES, HA5TF0RD 
 
 There are two events before ii?, -wlncli no skill 
 or power of men can avoid. They are old age 
 and death. All of us are advancing towards 
 them by a steady and irresistible progress. By 
 night and by day, we are traveling on throngh the 
 successive stages of life ; nor can we stop a single 
 moment on the road that is conducting us and all 
 mankind down the scale of years, to the affecting 
 termination of our earthly being in the grave and 
 
 eternity. 
 
 We may indeed be cut off in the midst of our 
 days, and thus be snatched away from the infir- 
 mities and trials of declining years; but if life is 
 spared, we shall all very soon reach the period of 
 old age; and when arrived at tliat period, the 
 next step brings us to death and the house ap- 
 pointed for all the living. 
 
 But though these events cannot be avoided, 
 much may be done to mitigate or remove the 
 evils connected with them, and to render ourselves 
 useful and happy even down to old age and 
 death. Plants and trees are necessarily deprived 
 of their fruitfulness by age, and are left to decay, 
 or are cut down as useless encumbrances of the 
 ground. The same is true of animals. They 
 grow, come to maturity, decay, and die. The 
 same also is true of multitudes of men, who, more 
 resembling vegetables or animals than rational 
 beings, live only for the present moment; and 
 having spent their little hour of being and enjoy- 
 ment in this passing scene, decay like the leaves 
 of autumn, and fall, soon to be forgotten, as if 
 they had never been. 
 
 But it need not be so with us. There is such 
 a thing as bringing forth fruit in old age. There are 
 those who are like the palm-tree, that is always 
 green — to the cedars of Lebanon, that are always 
 flourishing ; they are said to be planted in the 
 house of the Lord, and, as a consequence, they 
 flourish in the courts of God. Nature may decay, 
 but grace thrives still, putting forth fresh blos- 
 soms and bearing fruits even amid the storms 
 and frosts of the winter of life. 
 
 The beauty, the dignity, and the happiness of 
 a fruitful old age should make the attainment 
 of it an object of the warmest desire and the 
 most unwearied exertion to every living man. 
 There is not a more interesting object on earth 
 than an old disciple, who has been bringing 
 forth fruit to the glory of his Saviour during a 
 
 Ion" life, and who, when about to be removed 
 to a purer and brighter clime, is still seen putting 
 forth fresh blossoms and bearing fruits of right- 
 eousness. 
 
 He stands forth as a monument of the loving- 
 kindness and faithfulness of God— of the excel- 
 lence and worth of religion ; reflecting in his own 
 bright virtues the image of his Redeemer, giving 
 evidence in his life to all around, that he is an 
 heir of heaven, and guiding, by his example, hia 
 fellow-travelers in the way to the paradise above. 
 His hoary head is a crown of glory, being found 
 in the way of righteousness. As he draws 
 nearer the world of light, his countenance gathers 
 brightness, as did that of Moses when he had 
 been conversing with God on the Mount; and 
 though his earthly comforts may be torn from 
 him by the rude hand of time or the rough blasts 
 of adversity, his all-sufficient, his ever-abiding 
 happiness still remains. He still stands, like the 
 glory of the forest, stript indeed of his summer 
 foliage, but discovering more clearly to every 
 observing eye his solid strength and substantial 
 texture. How charming, my brethren, to see 
 grace thrive when nature decays ; the mind soar 
 when the body bows ; the venerable saint waiting, 
 like good old Simeon, for his departure ; or, like 
 Paul, the aged, uttering, with tremulous but 
 affecting accents, the language of holy confidence 
 
 " I mn nov,' ready to be offered, and the time 
 
 of my departure is at hand. I have fought a 
 good fight; 1 have finished my course; I have 
 kept the faith : henceforth there is laid up for 
 me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord 
 the righteous Judge, shall give me at his appear- 
 ing." 0, compared with such a sight, how does 
 all the pride of greatness, all the pojnp and 
 pageantry of earth, sink into insignificance and 
 nothing ! Bow is God glorified; how is religion 
 honored; how are the faith and the hopes of 
 surviving Chriitians strengthened and confirmed 
 by such a life, by such a death of an aged ser- 
 vant of Christ 1 How consoling must be the re- 
 flection of such an one on the past; how delight- 
 ful his meditations on the present ; how cheering, 
 how glorious his anticipations of the future! 
 When he looks back and remembers the way on 
 which the Lord his God has led him, how many 
 refre.-hing recollections will be called to mind ; 
 ii how many seasons of communion with God ; how 
 
124 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN THINGS. 
 
 many tokens of his loving-kiDclness and tender 
 mercy ; how many days and years of pious ser" 
 vice performed for his divine Master and the 
 happiness of his fellow-men! All these come 
 home as a reviving cordial to his spirit, now that 
 he is retiring from the field of action, laden with 
 the honors of victory, and about to receive the 
 plaudits of the great Lord whom he has served. 
 God, his almighty Saviour and friend, comes forth 
 to sustain him by his gracious presence, now 
 when heart and flesh are failing ; and while he 
 feels underneath him the everlasting arms, and 
 daily refreshes his spirit at those living fountains 
 that are provided for pilgrims in this dry and 
 thirsty land, the prospects that open before him 
 of heavenly blessedness fill him with joy un- 
 speakable and full of glory — his journey almost 
 ended ; his trials almost over ; heaven just at 
 hand ; himself ripe for glory, and about to take 
 possession of the promisedinheritance, to become 
 a pillar in the temple cf God, to go no more out 
 for ever. He dies ; and a heavenly light cheers 
 his departing moments. His friends look on, as 
 he takes his upward flight, and are quickened 
 
 and comforted by the remembrance of his virtues; 
 by the sight of his triumphs, by the assurance 
 that he is gone to be eternally present with the 
 Lord. 
 
 Such is the dignity, such the happiness of a 
 green old age. Having borne the heat and bur- 
 den of the day as faithful servants of Christ, they 
 are privileged to retire from the field of action, 
 bearing the honors of victory, and rejoicing in 
 hope of eternal glory. Death has to them lost 
 its sting, and the grave its terrors. They are 
 ripe for the last change, and are ripe for heaven. 
 As they come to the evening of their days, laden 
 with the fruits of righteousness, God comes forth 
 to acknowledge them as his own ; he pours 
 around them the refreshings of his presence ; gives 
 them foretastes of the promised rest, now so near 
 at hand, and enables them to sing, as they enter 
 the dark valley, — The Lord is my shepherd; I 
 shall not want ; I know in whom I have believed ; 
 I am in a strait betwixt two. to be able to 
 meet death in such a frame ; how sustaining to 
 the soul, how honorable to religion, how glorify- 
 ing to the God of salvation ! 
 
 THE VANITY OF HUMAN THINGS. 
 
 Alas ! that earthly cares should hide 
 The scattered blessing far and wide 
 
 Which God himself hath given — 
 That man o'er man should hold control, 
 And darken round each longing soul 
 
 The very light of heaven I 
 
 What the vain glitter of an hour, 
 The masquerade of boniow'd power, 
 
 Or all that wealth may claim ? 
 Can mortal bosom ever fill. 
 Unmix'd with human care or ill, 
 
 With the eternal flame ? 
 
 All human praise may o'er me pasa ; 
 But as the night-wind on the grass 
 
 That fades upon a tomb, 
 The glare of beauteous things that rise 
 Beneath the span of summer skies, 
 
 Resolves itself in gloom ! 
 
 When earthly vanities have pass"d, 
 O may my weary soul at last 
 
 Resolve itself in God ! 
 Nor fame nor praise intrude to break 
 A ripple on the tranquil lake 
 
 Of life in that abode, 
 
 Where roll the tides of human praise,— 
 The sound and stir of passing days, 
 Unseen, uafelt, unknown- 
 
 Unheard amid th' eternal hymn 
 Where rising clouds of incense dim 
 The everlasting throne. 
 
 [n vain, in vain my longing eye 
 Doth watch all day the summer sky, 
 
 Some form all strarge to see ; 
 For sights and scenes eye hath not seen. 
 For path where foot hath never been, 
 
 I'll search the troubled sea ; 
 
 Or follow in the tempest's path, 
 Or follow anything that hath 
 
 Some rage in its career ; 
 Or wait me till the sullen tomb 
 B;comes at last the very womb 
 
 Of dreams and spectres drear. 
 
 Yet through the shades of death shall liao 
 Th' eternal lights of Paradise 
 
 Upon my weary gaze ; 
 And scenes which pencil never traced, 
 And melody which never graced 
 
 The pomp of human ways ; 
 
 And flowers all beautiful will grow, 
 And summer winds will o'er me blow 
 
 The air 1 will not breathe ; 
 They'll linger near me when I'm dead, 
 They'll bind upon my lowly head 
 
 The unforbidden wreath. 
 
TWO STORIES FOR THE FIRE-SIDE 
 
 I I . — T HE WHITE LAMB. 
 
 BY B . 
 
 S T O D D A R D. 
 
 " Once in a far country, for -which you might 
 search all the geographies of the world in vain- 
 there lived a poor woman who had a little daugh- 
 ter named Agnes. Tliat she was poor, and had 
 a child, was by no means wonderful, for poor 
 people are common to all parts of the earth ; and 
 so, for the matter of that are children too, for 
 which the good God cannot be enough thanked. — 
 
 But this poor woman and child were not al- 
 together like the thousands who surrounded her, 
 as I shall show you in the course of my little 
 story. For the mother was exceeding goodly, 
 and the child was exceeding fair ; and goodly too, 
 as far as a child could be. Not that children can- 
 not be as good, ay, and better than most grown 
 people, but in that country fhey were very bad 
 and ignorant. 
 
 It is true that there were schools and aca- 
 demies there, and great colleges time-honored 
 and world-renowned ; but somehow or other the 
 people were no better, but on the contrary rather 
 worse for all these blessings. Whether they 
 neglected good, or good neglected them, is not 
 for us to inquire now, but certain it is that the 
 greater part of them grew up in ignorance and 
 vice. Now they need not have grown up in vice 
 unless they had preferred it to virtue, though they 
 could hardly have escaped a life of ignorance. 
 There were many priests there to teach them the 
 folly of sin in this world, and its eternal punish- 
 ment in the next. They were very energetic in 
 picturing the misery of sinners ; but in spite of 
 all they could say and do, they preached to thin 
 and careless congregations, in consequence of 
 which many of their salaries were unpaid from 
 one year's end to another. 
 
 Most of the men spent their Sabbaths in bull- 
 baiting and dog-fighting ; most of the women in 
 gadding from house to house with budgets of 
 scandal, while the children ran off to the woods 
 to snare birds and gather berries, and oftentimes 
 to fight out a match made up the day before. 
 Black eyes were by no means uncommon, with a 
 plenty more in perspective when those were 
 healed. 
 
 This was the life of the mass of people, though 
 I am happy to say there were many exceptions 
 
 in men, women, and children, who went to the 
 chapel, as all good Christians should, and lived 
 up to the precepts of the Good Book, as all good 
 Christians do ; among whom was the mother and 
 child that I began to tell you about. 
 
 And not only did the good woman go to church 
 on the Sabbath, and on all the appointed holidays 
 and feasts, but she endeavored to make her life a 
 perpetual sabbath unto the Lord. But the child- 
 because she was of a tender age, could not al- 
 ways accompany her ; nor understand why she 
 must always clasp her hands, and kneel down in 
 the pew, when the vicar did the same in his lit- 
 tle pulpit. But she was a good child for all that, 
 as the story will show, and loved her mother 
 with an exceeding love. 
 
 When she was about three years of age, her 
 mother died. Her deatli however was by no means 
 unexpected. The only wonder was that she had 
 lived so long, she was so thin and sickly. Her hus- 
 band had been dead a little over a year. He 
 left her nothing but his child and poverty, a 
 common legacy among the poorer sort of people 
 in that country. After his death, she toiled late 
 and early to maintain herself and babe. Many a 
 dawn she rose before the sun, and the sun arose 
 there very early. Many a night she saw the 
 moon set, and it sets very late at certain seasons 
 of the year ; but her labors were never done : the 
 labors of the poor never are until Death comes 
 When Death came to her, she rested from her 
 work, and her work followed her. 
 
 It was a fine day in spring when they burled her. 
 The fresh green earth was full of dew ; the soft 
 blue sky without a cloud. It was a day to make 
 one certain of immortality. Few and unconcerned 
 were those wlio bore her to the grave; they 
 would rather have gone to a merry-making; 
 were neighbors and nothing more : the dead 
 woman left no friends, or relatives, only her 
 child. 
 
 When they reached the churchyard, they found 
 the old sexton beside the grave, leaning on his 
 spade, ready to fill it again at the shortest notice. 
 The vicar put on his bands, and read the funeral 
 service. " Dust to dust — ashes to ashes, but the 
 spirit to God who gave it." The coffin was low- 
 
126 
 
 THE WHITE LAMB. 
 
 ered into its narrow house and the earth thrown 
 upon it, while the minister of Christ exhorted the 
 people around. 
 
 Little Agnes being left to herself by those 
 who had charge of her, strayed down the winding 
 paths, and was soon hidden among the grave- 
 stones, which were very thick, for the dead of 
 ages were buried in that little churchyard. At 
 first she wondered why she had been brought 
 there, but the sky was so blue above her, and the 
 earth so beautitul around, that she soon forgot it. 
 The shadow of Death, which falls heavily on the 
 hearts of men, passes like a light mist over the 
 soul of a child. 
 
 Large butterflies with crimson and gclden wings 
 were flying to and fro in the air, and the wild 
 bee pursued its honey-making in the buttercups. 
 She sat down in the long grass, and began to 
 weave the blue violets, as she had seen the bas- 
 ket maker weave his rushes. Not a month be- 
 fore, a little girl of her own age was laid with 
 many tears in the mound at her feet ; but the 
 dew hung there as brightly as in the deep mea- 
 dows and the sunshine filled the place like the 
 smile of God. Nature mourns not like man fur 
 the dead whom she has gathered to her bosom 
 in peace. 
 
 By and by little Agnes began to grow drowsy, 
 and in spite of all she could do to keep awake, 
 she found her eyes closing and her head nodding 
 on her breast : so she repeated the prayer that 
 her good mother had taught her to say before 
 going to bed, and committed herself to the care 
 of her Heavenly Father, and in a moment was 
 fast asleep, and walking in a dream wiih the 
 Angels. 
 
 In the meantime the good vicar, having finished 
 his exhortation, and the people having departed, 
 be^an to wonder at her absence, and search for 
 her down the path which he remembered to have 
 seen her take. Looking right and left among the 
 grave-stones, and calling " Agnes," with a sweet 
 low voice, he came to the spot where she had 
 fallen asleep. She was sleeping still, and beside 
 her stood a little lamb, innocent and beautiful. 
 Its fleece was whiter than driven snow, and glis- 
 tened in the sunlight like gold. There was a 
 golden collar around its neck, with an inscription 
 in an unknown tongue ; and its eyes were exceed- 
 ing tender and beautiful. There were no folds in 
 that country, and how it could have come there 
 was a mystery which the vicar could not ex 
 plain ; nor could the child when she awoke. She 
 only remembered to have seen it in her dream, 
 following a Shepherd in the pastures of Para- 
 dise. 
 
 As the vicar stood lost in amazement, it drew 
 
 near him, and looked up in his face with its ten- 
 der and beautiful eyes, and then at the child, and 
 then in his face again, as much as to say — Here 
 is a poor motherless one; she has no friends in 
 the wide world ; who wiU take care of her, if 
 you do not ? Indeed he fancied that it did say 
 so ; and that a voice softer than silence whisper- 
 ed to him " Feed my Lambs." His heart was 
 touched with pity, and he lifted her up in hid 
 arms and bore her to the vicarage. 
 
 It was not long before the news spread tlu-ough 
 the neighboring towns, and many of iheir dwellers 
 came to see the White Lamb, and l!ie young 
 child, who grew daily more beautiful and good. 
 The pious seemed to grow better the moment 
 they beheld the loving pair ; and the wicked 
 who had sat for years under the droppings of the 
 sanctuary, or mocked at the goodness of Heaven 
 afar ofl', grew thoughtful and penitent, and were 
 soon numbered among the people of God. 
 
 The lamb and child were seldom separated. 
 Little Agnes was very unhappy when parted 
 from it, and it seemed equally unhappy in its 
 turn when parted from her. Sometimes they used 
 to sit for hours together; she poring over the 
 vicar's antitpe missal, which by this she had 
 learned to read, and the lamb at her feet, looking 
 up in her face with its tender and beautiful eyes. 
 Sometimes, in the warm summer days, they went 
 off together to the woods and lanes ; sometimes 
 to the meadows where the daises grew in tufted 
 grass ; and little Ages was won t to b raid them 
 in a wreath around her brow. She said one day, 
 on returning, that she would soon wear a wreath 
 of stars. As regularly as the Sabbath came, they 
 went to the chapel together, side by side. The 
 sexton made a path for them, as they vvalked up 
 the broad aisle which was now crowded with 
 earnest and devout listeners. Their accustomed 
 place was on the cushioned seat that ran around 
 the altar. When the choir sang their anthems, 
 the voice of the child was heard above the deep 
 bass singers, and the full-toned organ ; yet it was 
 softer and sweeter than that of a dove. When 
 the vicar read the morning and evening service, 
 her reponses fell on the hearts of all like dew, 
 and a halo seemed to encircle her as she listened 
 to the words of life. 
 
 The ])eople began to consider it a miracle. 
 Cock-fighting and bull-baiting fell into disrepute : 
 drinking and gaming, to which the greater part 
 of them had been bred from childhood, lost all 
 caste as amusements, and other vices declined in 
 proportion. It was eviilent that a great change 
 was going on in the hearts and habits of all. 
 Profane oaths and light jests, which even the gen- 
 try condescended to indulge in (as they did in other 
 
'MY PEACE 1 GIVE UNTO YOU. 
 
 12'! 
 
 things better left to tlieir inferiors,) were banish- 
 ed from all society, even that of traveling tinkers, 
 time out naind a coarse set of fellows. Feuds 
 handed down from father to son were dropped at 
 once, and old enemies met with kind greetings, 
 and parted friends. Everybody seemed to pros- 
 per, and nobody was the woi-se for it. Beggars 
 began to lay aside their tatters, and wear good 
 substantial garments. There was no longer any 
 need to beg, for work was plentiful. Cottage 
 windows, once stufled with old hats, rejoiced in 
 the possession of new panes of glass ; and new 
 cottages were being builded everywhere, and 
 everybody declared it was the work of the White 
 Lamb. 
 
 Spring melted into summer, and summer was 
 now on the verge of autumn. The fields were 
 full of harvesters, reaping and binding up yellow 
 sheaves, and barns were open all day, and boys 
 might be seen within, storing up fruit for the win- 
 ter. Every day added some new grace to the 
 child; but those who were experienced in such 
 matters, mostly mothers who had lost children, 
 said she was dying. Her bloom was too unearth- 
 ly ; her eye too spiritual to last. She was no 
 longer able to run to the woods and fields: a 
 walk to the little summer house at the end of the 
 vicar's garden, only a stone's throw from the 
 door, was suflicient to make her very weary. Nor 
 could she visit the chapel unless carried thither, 
 
 which was a scource of great grief to all the vil- 
 lagers. 
 
 Day by day she grew more lovely and feeble ; 
 and the lamb grew more fund of her: they could 
 not for a moment separate them. It clung to 
 her days, as she sat in her little chair leaning on 
 pillows ; and nights, it crept to her feet as she lay 
 upon her couch dreaming of the angels. Its white 
 fleece seemed to gi-ow more wliite, and its eyes 
 more tender and beautiful. And it often look- 
 ed at the tiding child, and at the far blue sky 
 shining through the lattice, and its glance seemed 
 to saj' — Heaven is waiting for this little slip of 
 earth, and it must soon go. 
 
 Autumn came at last, and the child was dying. 
 It was morning, and she lay on her couch, with 
 half the village around her. Her eyes were 
 fixed upon the sky, and her arras were entwined 
 about the lamb, who lay with its head in her 
 bosom. The vicar knelt down, and prayed. He 
 could not bear to lose the light of his household, 
 though he knew that the Angels were waiting 
 for her on the threshhold of Heaven. When ho 
 arose she slept. Ages have passed since then, 
 and she still sleeps ; and will till the Heavens 
 and the Earth have passed away. 
 
 The next day was the Sabbath, and they bore 
 her to the little churchyard where her mother 
 was buried in the spring. Their graves were 
 dug side by side. All the children and maidens, 
 dressed in white, followed her bier ; and half the 
 mothers in the village wept as if she had been 
 their own child ; and the lamb, looking whiter 
 than ever, walked in their midst :— But when the 
 services were over, and tlie cofiiu lowered into 
 tlie grave, it looked once at the far blue sky, and 
 then turned away, and walked down the path 
 which little Agnes had taken at her mother's 
 funeral. No one dared to stop it ; but all watch- 
 ed it with breathless attention until it disappear- 
 ed among the grave-stone?. Some of the boldest 
 then, the vicar among the rest, followed to where 
 it seemed to disappear, but could find no further 
 traces; nobody Wiis ever able to account for it, 
 but everybody believed it to have been a mira- 
 cle, manifested for their salvation, notwithstand- 
 ing a wise philosopher who wrote a large folio 
 to prove that it never existed at all Its mem- 
 ory is still preserved with veneration in that 
 country, and from that day to this, the people 
 have continued goodly and pious. And so ends 
 the story of the " White Lamb." 
 
 " Aad so," said I, "ends the story of the night. 
 Bess is already asleep, and Ruth and Kate begin 
 to yawn. Uncle Tim, who would be a romancer 
 if he could see, as we do, the effects of his ro- 
 mance i But I won't moralize. Good uight." 
 
 MY PEACE I GIVE UNTO YOU, 
 
 BT A. R. WOLFE, 
 
 Transcendent goodness ! What are now the storms 
 That shake this fragile tenement of life ? 
 What the conflicting elements of strife, 
 
 That blend the raried forms 
 
 Of disappointment, sorrow, and distress,— 
 
 Making man's earthly home a wilderness ? 
 
 Rude blasts, ye ne'er disturb the tranquil spirit. 
 
 That has, when troubles rise, such words to bless, — 
 
 Such heavenly peace to cheer it. 
 
THE CLAIMS OF SACKED MUSIC. 
 
 BT RET. EDWIN 
 
 HATFIELD 
 
 Music has no human father. It claims to have 
 descended from the skies. Man has invented, it 
 is true, ways and means of rendering music 
 more expressive. To Jubal, the sixth in descent 
 from Cain, is accorded, by the inspired record 
 the high honor of liaving been " the father of all 
 such as handle the harp and organ." But who 
 was the father of song ? From whose prolific 
 mind proceeded first the enchanting ode ? 
 
 The origin of music is coeval with the human 
 race. It is to be found in the very elements of 
 the human soul. Man is the creature of thought 
 and feeling. He came from tlie Creator's hands 
 with a heart susceptible of an almost endless 
 variety of emotions, and with the faculty of giv- 
 ing expression to them, so that each emotion 
 might be distinctly known. These emotions may 
 be perceived by the eye, in the diversified aspect 
 of the features of the face, or in the position and 
 posture of the whole or a part of the frame. It 
 is the ear, however, which most readily perceives, 
 in the accents of the voice, the state and changes 
 of the heart within. All animals to whom God 
 has given the system of respiration, or in whom 
 the lungs and larnyx are found fully developed, 
 are possessed of the faculty of voice. By various 
 modifications of these organs, by the expansion or 
 contraction of the lunrfR, the increasing or the 
 diminishing of the length of the larynx, or wind- 
 pipe, and the action of the eplglot, or covering of 
 the windpipe, a great variety of tones may be 
 produced. These tones, by constant and uniform 
 association, become the wellkeown sigjis of a 
 particular emotion or feeling of the heart. Joy 
 and grief, love and hate, hope and fear, peace and 
 rage, contempt and pity, all have their peculiar 
 tones — tones as universally understood, as any 
 thing whatever pertaining to man. These tones 
 have no provincial meaning: tliey are nature's 
 language, common to man in every clime and 
 age; and many of them not peculiar to him, 
 but serving as the medium of thought even in the 
 brute creation. These sounds can never fall upon 
 the ear so as to be perceived, witliout exciting 
 within the human soul the idea of a particular 
 emotion. 
 
 There Is in souls a sympathy with sounds , 
 Some choni, in unison with what we hear, 
 Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies." 
 
 These varied tones of nature are the original 
 elements of music. A combination of these tones 
 after some order, more or less prolonged, is the 
 germ of music, — a germ that existed in the first 
 thing that had breath, as soon as it began to 
 breathe. 
 
 To arrange these tones in an orderly manner, 
 so as to reduce music to a science, must have 
 been the work of time. And yet scarcely any 
 time could have elapsed after the creation, before 
 the atmosphere was filled with the sweetest 
 music. No sooner had the larh sprung forth at 
 its Maker's word, than it soared aloft, and poured 
 its sweetest strains upon the air. Every bird be- 
 came a warbler, ready-taught to join the choir of 
 nature — the vesper hymn, at the first going down 
 of the sun — the first vocal symphony in the an- 
 them of " Creation." Thus ended the fifth day 
 of the Creator's work. And when, on the sixth, 
 obedient to its Lord, the dust of the earth as- 
 sumed the human form, and, receiving the breath 
 of God, became a living soul, the first accents that 
 fell upon the human ear were of the sweetest 
 music, and the first promptings of man's exulting 
 bosom must have been to join the universal choir. 
 As he gazed on the paradise that spread itself 
 over the earth, and, lifting up his eyes to the 
 firmanent beheld the glories of the azure heavens, 
 his soul must have kindled with adoring love and 
 gratitude to God. And this must have been a 
 feeling too sacred, deep and overpowering, for the 
 tame and spiritless enunciation of mere words. 
 The lofty song, in all its grandeur and sublimity, 
 can alone unburden such a heart. 
 
 Thus the first human pair, before the close of 
 the very day of their creation, must have joined 
 in devout and joyous ascriptions of praise to their 
 bounteous Lord. The first music of the human 
 voice must have been a holy exercise. Sacred 
 song is as ancient as the creation. It holds the 
 precedence over every other. It is the eldest 
 born of all the daughters of music. 
 
 But man was not the first to cultivate the sa- 
 cred art. It was not on earth alone that sweet 
 voices were heard, as the Creator " spake and it 
 was done." " The morning-stars sang together, 
 and all the sons of God shouted for joy." "Why 
 may not that angelic chorus have been heard in 
 
THE CLAIMS OF SACRED MUSIC. 
 
 129 
 
 Eden, and its blissful notes prolonged by human ^ 
 tongues ? 
 
 " In heav'n the rapt'rous song began, 
 
 And sweet seraphic fire 
 Through all the shining legions ran, 
 
 And strung and tun'd the lyre ; 
 Swift through the vast expanse it flew, 
 
 And loud the echo roU'd, 
 The theme, the song, the joy was new, 
 
 'Twas more than heav'n could hold." 
 
 In that day, when even the Creator himself 
 walked and talked with his earth-born children, 
 the intercourse of the angelic race with the holy 
 inhabitants of Kden may have been vastly more 
 familiar than is usually conjectured. Milton, in 
 his immortal poem, has taken up the thought, 
 and presented us with the beautiful idea of Adam 
 and Eve catching their accents of praise from 
 angel-lips and harps. Adam, as au introduc- 
 tion to their evening-worship, thus addresses 
 his beloved spouse : 
 
 " How often, from the sleep 
 Of echoing hill or thicket, have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
 Sole, or responsive to each other's note, 
 Singing their great Creator 1 Oft, in bands, 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
 With heav'nly touch of instrumental sounds, 
 In full harmonic number join'd, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to heav'n !' 
 
 It was reserved, doubtless, for a later period, 
 to introduce much of what is now regarded as 
 essential to music. From the love of order, which 
 in some degree is natural to man, would proceed a 
 measured division of time in the enunciation of 
 each note, and thus rhythm would become uni 
 ted with melody. Language, too, as one of the 
 modes in which feeling is expressed, woukl soon 
 be connected with the tone, and, uttered in a 
 measured division of time, would give rise to the 
 idea of harmony. Then followed, perhaps, the 
 union of two or more voices, producing, in perfect 
 accordance, sounds so kindred as readily to flow 
 together and gratify the ear. In process of time, 
 new combinations of sound would be produced 
 and scientifically arranged ; harmony would be- 
 come more various, extensive, and perfect ; lan- 
 guage more rhythmical, or better adapted to the 
 purpose of song ; instruments inventeil to aid the 
 voice : and thus music would become more and 
 more a perfect expression of the soul. 
 
 Let me advert to some of the uses of sacred 
 music. Not to speak of its effects upon the health, 
 which are most beneficial, and upon the animal 
 spirits, which are of the the happiest kind, I 
 would simply refer to its efliect upon the heart. 
 "Pure and simple music," says Plato, " is the sis- 
 ter of bodily exercise; as exerci.=e imparts health 
 
 to the body, so music imparts self-government to 
 the soul." Martin Luther, than whom none, 
 scarcely, have been, in modern days, more efHcient 
 patrons of sacred music, says, "The youth must 
 always be accustomed to this art ; for it makes 
 men kind and virtuous." Mr. Woodbridge, editor 
 of the " Annals of Education," relates, that " the 
 effect of introducing music mto one of the villages 
 of German Switzerland, upon the entire moral 
 character of the people, was immediate and 
 striking. They relinquished drinking, riot, and 
 debauchery, and all disreputable amusements, 
 to join in musical recreation. And villages be- 
 fore noted for nothing but ill, became distinguish- 
 ed for sobriety, order, and purity." 
 
 Music has ever been regarded as a most appro- 
 priate vehicle of praise. The exercise of the art, 
 therefore, is adapted to awaken that feeling of 
 the soul with which it is so intimately associated 
 in the pious bosom. The association of certain 
 feelings with their peculiar tones is so intimate, 
 that we can scarcely hear the latter, without hav- 
 ing the former stirred up. The plaintive cry 
 awakens pity and compassion. The lover of the 
 dance can seldom hear the strains of the viol, 
 without an inclination to move with corresponding 
 step. The veteran soldier hears the bugle-call. 
 or the rolling of the drum, and at once his bosom 
 beats for the tented field. Who has not heard of 
 the wondrous effects of the Tyrolese song or 
 Marseillaise Hymn ? Who has not felt a patriot's 
 blood grow warm, while "Hail Columbia !" was 
 poured forth from a thousand hearts ? So, too, 
 the lovers of sacred song are often stirred to rap- 
 ture, when the lofty and solemn tones of the no- 
 ble organ, or the full burst of praise from the 
 great congregation, fall upon their ears. Then, 
 if ever, the Christian feels that he can pour out 
 all his soul to God. 
 
 But the influence of sacred music in Wie family 
 circle is no less delightful. Who can help but 
 recognize the lineaments of peace and joy in that 
 scene so graphically drawn by the Scottish 
 bard ? 
 
 " The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
 
 They round the ingle form a circle wide | 
 The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 
 The big Ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : 
 Of strains, that once did sweet in Zion glide, 
 He wales a portion with judicious care ; 
 And ' Let us worship God." he says with solemn air. 
 
 They chant their artless notes in simple guise, 
 They tone their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; 
 
 Terhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise. 
 Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy o' the name." 
 
 How is the soul drawn upward by such a pic- 
 ture 1 How much more when we take our seat 
 
130 
 
 THE CLAIMS OF SACRED MUSIC. 
 
 by that "ingle," and not only hear the very 
 strains themselves, but mingle our voice with 
 that ofthe good old sire and his bairns ! Soul-stir- 
 ring scene ! Oft may its power be experienced! 
 We have seen an audience carried, as it were, 
 upon a mighty wave, as some noble anthem has 
 thundered forth the grandeur of our God, or whis- 
 pered to the soul the melting notes of Calvary. 
 Yea, when that favorite of Martin Luther and of 
 the whole church, good " Old Hundred," has fall- 
 en on our ears from the lips of thousands beneath 
 the sacred dome, and we ourselves have mingled 
 in the song, it has seemed, indeed, as if 
 
 " Our souls, on wings sublime, . 
 Rose from the vanities of time, 
 And drew the parting veil to see 
 The glories of eternity." 
 
 Sacr d music, practised by the Christian, makes 
 him happier, better. V.' hen performed in secret, 
 it dispels the gloom of depression, quiets the sea 
 of turbulence, and prepares the soul to couie into 
 the presence of its Maker with a livelier, holier 
 joy. In the family circle it checks the wildness 
 of the young, melts away the barriers of passion, 
 and unites the kindred group in heavenly devo- 
 tion. But it is chiefly in the great congregation 
 that its full power is felt, or would be felt, if our 
 congregations, having taken time and pains to 
 learn this sacred science, would pour forth their 
 swelling tides of harmony in the song of praise. 
 " Methinks," said Baxter, "when we are singing 
 the praises of God in great assemblies, with joyful 
 and fervent spirits, I have the liveliest foretaste 
 of heaven upon earth ; and I could almost wish 
 that our voices were loud enough to reach through 
 all the world, and to heaven itself." 
 
 Thus the practice of sacred music is admirably 
 fitted to prepare the soul for the enjoyments of 
 the world of glory. When John was favored 
 with a glimpse of the upper sanctuary, he found 
 them all engaged in chanting that noble anthem, 
 "Holi/! holy! holy! Lord God Almighty!" 
 and thi- is no sooner ended, than they take up the 
 strain, "Thou art worthy, Lord!" These 
 chants ended, they take their harps and sing a 
 new song: ''Thou art worthy, for thou wast slain .'" 
 " And I beheld," says John, " and I heard the 
 voice of many angels round about the throne, and 
 the beasts and the elders ; and the number of 
 them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and 
 
 tliousands of thousands, saying with a loud voice, 
 
 ' Worthy is the Lamb!' and every creature 
 which is in heaven, and on the earth, and under 
 the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that 
 are in them, heard I saying, ' Blessing,a7ul honor, 
 and glory !' After this I beheld, and lo ! a great 
 multitude, which no man could number, of all 
 nations, and kindreds and people, and tongues, 
 stood before the throne, and before the Lamb, 
 and cried with a loud voice, ' Salvation to our 
 God!' whereupon all the angels swell again 
 the mighty chorus, 'Blessing, and glory, and 
 wisdom !' " And yet again he listens. And now 
 the martyr-host appear. " And they sing the 
 song of Mose.«, the servant of God, and the song 
 of the Lamb ; ' Great and marvellous are thy 
 works, Lord God Almighty !' " " And after these 
 things I heard," he says, "a great voice of much 
 people in heaven, saying, '-4//cZMia .' Salvation 
 and glory, and honor, and jjower !' And a voice 
 came out of the throne, saying, ' Praise our God 
 all ye his servants ! and ye that fear him, both 
 small and great!'" After this expressive solo 
 follows another chorus — the " Halelujah Cho- 
 rus," — " the voice of a great multitude, and as 
 the voice of many waters, and as the voice of 
 mighty thunderings, saying, ^ Alleluia, for the 
 Lord God omnipotent reigneth .'' " 
 
 Thus, anthem after anthem, and chorus after 
 chorus, peals from the upper temple. There all 
 is praise, and none are silent. 
 
 " Seraphs, with elevated strains, 
 
 Circle the throne around ; 
 And move and charm the starry plains, 
 
 With an immortal sound." 
 
 With them we hope to dwell — with them to 
 praise. And how can we consent to forego even 
 here the bliss of heaven ? Why does not every 
 blood-bought soul catch something of that inspir- 
 ing theme that fills all heaven with joy ? why 
 not now learn and exercise that holy art which 
 fills angelic hosts and ransomed saints with rap- 
 ture ? Has he the soul of a saint, who has no 
 sympathy with the saints in bliss, no desire to 
 anticipate their joy ? I wonder not that the de- 
 votees of Mammon and of Mars, of Thespis and 
 of Bacchus, are deaf to the praises and dead to 
 the allurements of sacred song. Yes, 
 
 "Let those refuse to sing, 
 Who never knew our God ; 
 
 But fav'rites of the heav'nly King 
 Should speak their joys abroad.' 
 
■'^^i ' 
 
 K 
 
 o 
 z 
 
 en 
 O 
 
 a 
 
 GO 
 
 '^^'W 
 
THE THOUSAND ISLANDS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE. 
 
 BY REV. 
 
 H E A D L E Y , 
 
 (SEE PLATE.) 
 
 TuESE beautiful isles extend from near Lake 
 Ontario to within a few miles of Ogdensburg— tlie 
 most varied and romantic scenery lying between 
 Clayton and Alexandria Bay ; an area of about 
 twelve miles in length and from three to eight 
 in width. 
 
 Their size varies from a single rock shaded 
 with slirubbery to extensive farms and forests. 
 They break the St. Lawrence into many channels, 
 afifording a panorama of singular picturesqueuess 
 and often sublimity. 
 
 On Selkirk Island, Bill Johnson, the hero of the 
 Patriot War, and the hunted outlaw of an empire 
 and republic for years, has his home and fortress 
 — now a hale old man of seventy. His daughter 
 Kate lives quietly with her husband at Clayton. 
 She was the hero's companion and friend in pri- 
 son — and sought his solitude among the islands 
 while fleeing from pursuit, to convey food to her 
 lawless and fearless father. 
 
 K'ear Wells Island he and his band of disguised 
 banditti burned the Sir Robert Peel, whose colors 
 he has yet in concealment. 
 
 To see these lions and have pleasant sails, the 
 tourist will stop at Clayton, or French Creek as 
 it was formerly called. 
 
 But the best views and finest fishing are had 
 at Alexandria Bay, where oarsmen and excellent 
 skiffs are always ready, and a convenient hotel 
 stands on a summit of rock, washed by the waters 
 of the noble river. 
 
 It was to accompany friend.s, and see more of 
 the marvelously beautiful St. Lawrence, that I 
 came to its shore for the third time at Alexan- 
 dria Bay, on the morning of the 9th. Tlie day 
 before, we were overtaken by a storm at Plessis, 
 six miles distant, and which would have been a 
 solitary rendezvous for the night, had we not 
 made the acquaintance of J. Clarke, Esq., whose 
 hospitality, and musical family, lent wings to the 
 hours of the severest storm of the season. 
 
 A neat church stands on a summit of naked 
 rock, which has a most singular aspect, and a 
 preacher is engaged to supply the pulpit. At 
 Alexandria Bay we found a very pleasant and 
 finished edifice erected by Dr. Belhune during 
 the past year. He visited the Islands about 
 three years since, and becoming interested in the 
 
 people, destitute of the Gospel, returned home to 
 raise the means for building a sanctuary, and 
 sustaining a clergyman there. Tlie effort was 
 successful, and now a neat and ample structure, 
 with a bell, lifts its shining spire near the liffht- 
 house of the harbor — a point of moral radiation 
 amid a scattered multitude of peris^hiug immor- 
 tals. It is called the '■ Church of the Thousand 
 Islands." The faithful minister is a Mr. Dubois, 
 whose parish extends several miles over the bo- 
 som of the St. Lawrence. It must be pleasing 
 to Dr. Cethune to know that as the reward of 
 his benevolent activity, every Sunday morning, 
 from the tower of his beautiful stone temple, soon 
 to be consecrated to Almighty God, there rings 
 out upon the stillness of reposing life, and echoes 
 among the green isles of this noble river, the in- 
 vitation of the " church-going bell." Then from 
 the hill-sides and across the waters come the pea- 
 sant, the man of business, and the fisherman, to 
 hear the tidings of a full and free salvation. And 
 who shall estimate the widening and mighty in- 
 fluence for good, going forth from so obscure a 
 centre of missionary effort, on the boundary line 
 between an empire and a republic, controlling 
 well nigh the religious resources and commerce 
 of the world. 
 
 As the clouds vanished from the sky, and along 
 the shore were heard only the sobbings of the 
 retiring tempest, we entered our light boats for 
 an excursion down the channel of the river. Du- 
 clon is a fine oarsman, and for my barge I felt 
 no fear, though we were tossed roughly at times 
 over the waves. Pointing to Wells Island on our 
 left, he remarked, " There where you see the ru- 
 ins of a house and those old poplars, I lived till 
 a young man. There was no clearing in sight, 
 and no store within twent\'^ miles. We went out 
 to the nearest village once a year. And where 
 you notice a green spot on the side-hill, are bu- 
 ried my grandfather, parents, and brother." 
 While he was discoursing thus, my thoughts were 
 on the sad problem of human life. At tlie same 
 time, from the hum of the city and the solitude 
 of a forest-iiland, souls having passed the brief 
 history of their probation, disappear and are for- 
 gotten, to think and feel in rapture or wo for 
 ever ! What a leveler is Death I and what equal- 
 
132 
 
 PEACE, BE STILL. 
 
 ity will succeed the wide distinctions here, at the 
 Judgment ! I was beguiling the moment with 
 these reflections, when Duclon suggested the pro- 
 priety of striking for a distant island as a resting 
 place for gathering our little party and taking tea. 
 Throwing out my trolling lines, he was soon up- 
 on the surface where recently he had caught 33 
 large fish in an hour. Three glittering spoons 
 were in the wake of the boat, but no indications 
 of success. Resuming conversation with my sen- 
 sible guide, I asked him if often there were acci- 
 dents in these waters. " Sometimes," he answer- 
 ed, " but there need not be, if the passengers 
 would regard orders; for it stands to reason, that 
 we who have always been on the water, should 
 know best how to manage the fishing." — 
 
 Here I was interrupted by a sudden tension of 
 one line, and then another ; until nearly a dozen 
 fine fellows were at my feet ; their large black 
 eyes staring reproachfully upon their captor. 
 
 Landing upon a deliglitful but nameless island, 
 we awaited the arrival of Simpson's boat, bring- 
 ing Mrs. B and Mrs. H , with each a pri- 
 soner from the translucent tide. After a substan- 
 tial pic-nic, we were again floating among the 
 islands, which grew more verdant as the sun went 
 down, and around whose beach the purple waters 
 laid their limpid undulations. 
 
 And then the moon arose full and clear, and 
 threw over the scene her sheen— silent, magical, 
 and tranquillizing as a pleasant dream. 
 
 There were occasionally the light dip of distant 
 oars, and echoes from the mainland ; while the 
 
 red eye of the lighthouse, blazing upon the bo 
 som of the bay, reminded one that we need and 
 are under the gaze of a Sleepless Watcher of 
 time's unresting deep. 
 
 But now -ne reach the "Lake of the Islands," 
 formed by two long islands, "Wells and La Rue, 
 their extremities so nearly touching, that the en- 
 trance and egress are scarcely broad enough for 
 a steamer to pass. Yet these straits separate 
 English from American soil ; and our skiff's 
 prow was in her Majesty's domain, while the 
 stern was under the protection of the " Stars and 
 Stripes." The lake is five miles in length, and 
 studded with islands, presenting on its lonely bo- 
 som views exceedingly picturesque and roman- 
 tic. This, and many of the most attractive spots 
 on the St. Lawrence, cannot be seen from the 
 steamers, which keep the channel of the river ; 
 and none have really appreciated the beauty 
 and sublimity here, whose observation has been 
 confined to a hurried transit over the path of travel. 
 
 I date tliis letter from " Brainard's Island," 
 on which we have taken a late breakfast. It lies 
 oil the border of the " Fiddler's Elbow," so called, 
 I am told, from the shape of the curve described 
 by the steamboats, and their motion in the cen- 
 tre of the 1692 islands, which I find by a work on 
 Canada to be the number counted by the first 
 voyagers, several years ago. How Avere these 
 islands formed, is the unanswered question. How 
 deep the scars of both physical and moral revolu- 
 tions on this fallen sphere ! 
 
 PEACE, BE STILL, 
 
 B T 
 
 WOLFE. 
 
 Thro' stormy night and dark, ' 
 I saw a fragile bark 
 Glide out upon the bosom of the sea, 
 Urged by a noble crew 
 Of loving hearts and true. 
 Who still kept struggling on laboriously, 
 While armed with lightning's scath. 
 The storm-cloud fought the path, 
 And fierce winds heaped their wrath 
 On Galilee. 
 
 Calmly the Master slept. 
 
 While on the tempest swept, 
 
 And onward went the mustering of the waves, 
 
 A wild and savage horde. 
 
 That snuffed their prey, and roared. 
 
 And gathered round to drag them to their graves. 
 
 Why, in this fearful hour, 
 
 When death's dark minions lower, 
 
 Sleeps that Supernal Power, 
 
 That speaks and saves ? 
 
 "Is there no care to thee. 
 
 Master Divine, that we 
 
 Should perish so ingloriously here ?" — 
 
 He rose, and darkness fled 
 
 The halo round his head, 
 
 And hope again smiles out in clouds of fear : 
 
 '• Oh trembling ones and pale. 
 
 Why should your courage fail ; 
 
 Why doubt and terror fill 
 
 Your faint hearts ? " Peace, be still 
 
 The Master's near." 
 
 " Peace.'''' As the soothing word, 
 
 Each haughty billow heard, 
 
 Down sank he to the bosom of the deep ; 
 
 And softly lay his head 
 
 Upon his easy bed. 
 
 As never from repose again to leap : 
 
 So, on its mother's breast, 
 
 The fretted child doth rest. 
 
 Close hugs its Parent nest. 
 
 And sobs to sleep. 
 
THE FEAR OF DEATH. 
 
 B T REV 
 
 A. D. OEIDLEY. 
 
 Among the thoughts which are -wont to arise 
 ill the mind of the fick, is the fear of death. 
 This fear has respect to the pain of dying, the 
 sundering of domestic and social ties, the giving 
 up of all earthly joys, pursuits^ and hopes, the 
 darkness and corruption of the grave, and the 
 awful revelations of the judgment and eternity. 
 Such thoughts will force themselves into the 
 mind of the sick man, and often disturb his peace. 
 In view of one and all of these considerations, 
 he shrinks back from death ; he dreads to look 
 into the darkness before him, and either tries to 
 banish from his mind all thoughts of dying, by 
 the contemplation of vain and frivolous things, 
 or sinks into despair. 
 
 " The weariest and most loathed worldly life 
 
 That age, ache, penury and imprisonment can lay on man. 
 
 Is paradise to what we fear of death." 
 
 " Light is sweet, and a pleasant thing it is for 
 the eyes to behold the sun." This aversion to 
 death is, in a great degree, natural to man, and 
 cannot wholly be expelled even from the breast 
 of the devoutest Christian. And yet, there is 
 reason to believe that many persons suffer from 
 imaginary fears on this subject : they are all their 
 life-time subject to a self-imposed bondage, and 
 in the hour of sickness especially, find their tran- 
 quillity disturbed, their resolution weakened, and 
 their hopes beclouded. 
 
 It is a settled principle among physiologists, 
 I believe, that in order to a person's experiencing 
 pain, those nerves which ordinarily convey the 
 sensation of touch must possess their natural 
 sensibility. When, for example, a limb is para- 
 lyzed, and thus the tenderness of these nerves 
 destroyed, one may puncture the part affected 
 without producing any pain. Now, it is the na- 
 ture of disease to diminish the sensibility of the 
 nervous system, so that when, at the last, death 
 itself intervenes, the pain of dissolution is com- 
 paratively slight. 
 
 Since men ordinarily struggle when in distress 
 of any kind, many infer that death is necessarily 
 painful, because most persons struggle in the hour 
 of its approach. But this conclusion is not sound, 
 because struggling is a mere muscular action, 
 and often takes place when the subject is totally 
 
 unconscious of it. Decapitate an animal, and 
 the body will struggle for a considerable time 
 though the head, which is the seat of conscious- 
 ness, is entirely separated from it. " Very com- 
 monly convulsions occur in cases of apoplexy, 
 and when severe injury has been done to the 
 brain, long after consciousness has been suspend- 
 ed. "Within a certain period after death, those 
 struggles and contortions of the countenance 
 which are associated in the mind with the most 
 excruciating pain, can be excited by the applica- 
 tion of galvanism." We have the testimony of 
 persons recovered at the eleventh hour, that 
 while their friends stood about them pitying their 
 sufferings, their existence was a mere blank. 
 Montaigne, when stunned by a fall from his horse, 
 tore open his clothes and exhibited other signs of 
 distress, but it afterwards appeared that he was 
 senseless at the time, and knew of what he had 
 experienced and done only as informed by his 
 friends. 
 
 Many suppose death to be intensely distress- 
 fid, because they have endured extreme pain 
 without dying, and infer that life could not be 
 entirely destroyed without causing them to suf- 
 fer still greater pain. But like causes produce 
 like effects only in the same circumstances. 
 Hence, if disease benumbs the nervous sensibili- 
 ty as it advances, it is not to be supposed that 
 its progress will bring increasing pain. Those 
 who die from fevers, and most other diseases, 
 suffer their greatest distress, hours, days, and even 
 weeks, before the event of dissolution. " Those 
 who faint from the loss of a little blood, or on 
 any other occasion, have already experienced all 
 t!ie pain they ever would, did they not again re- 
 vive." Persons who have been recovered after 
 drowning have described their sensations imme- 
 diately before tliey became unconscious, as but 
 little painful ; and yet, had they never been re- 
 stored, they would have suffered no more. Fon- 
 tenelle, the poet, in allubion to his increasing in- 
 firmities shortly before death, wittily remarked 
 that he " was about to decamp, and had sent his 
 heavy baggage on before." So, in sober fact, it 
 often is — the most distressing part of dissolu- 
 tion is over before the hour of death comes. The 
 cases in which dying is exceedingly painful, are 
 
134 
 
 THE FEAR OF DEATH. 
 
 those generally in -wbicli life is taken away with- j 
 out a previous destruction of the nervous sys- 
 tem. But in a great majority of instances, the 
 pains of dissolution are overrated. In respect 
 to death from consumption, an elegant writer has 
 remarked: "Con?umptive patients are some- 
 times in a dying state for several days ; they ap- 
 pear at such times to suffer little, but to languish 
 for complete dissolution; nay, I have known 
 them to express great uneasiness when they have 
 been recalled from the commencement of insen- 
 sibility, by the cries of their friends, or the ef- 
 forts of the attendants to produce pain. In ob- 
 serving persons in this situation, I have always 
 been impressed witli an idea that the approach 
 of actual death produces a sensation similar to 
 that of falling asleep. The disturbance of res- 
 piration is the only apparent source of weariness 
 to the dying ; and sensibility seems to be impair- 
 ed in exact proportion to the decrease of that 
 function. Besides, both the impressions of pre- 
 sent objects, and those recalled by memory, are 
 influenced by the extreme debility of the patient, 
 •whose wisli is for absolute rest. I could never 
 see the close of life, under these circumstances, 
 without recalling those beautiful lines of Spenser : 
 
 '•Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, 
 
 ^ Ease after war, death afterlife, doth greatly please." 
 
 ' And what is commonly true of this disease, is 
 so, likewise, in many others. " If I had strength 
 enough to hold a pen," said William Hunter, " I 
 would write how easy and delightful it is to die." 
 "If this be dying," said the niece of John New- 
 ton, "it is a pleasant thing to die." And this ex- 
 cellent man himself tells us that he watched his 
 dying wife some hours with a candle in his hand, 
 and when he was sure she had breathed her last, 
 which could not at once be determined, she died 
 so imperceptibly, he knelt down and thanked the 
 Lord for her peaceful dismission. " If this be 
 dying, it is the easiest thing imaginable," said 
 Lady Glenorchy. " I thought that dying had 
 been more difiicult," said Louis XIV. Testi- 
 mony of this kind might be collected sufficient 
 to cover many pages. A writer in the Foreign 
 Quarterly Review (Dec. 1849,) gives an interest- 
 ing account of the death of the son of Edmund 
 Burke, a part of which I will here quote : '-Hear- 
 ing his parents sobbing in another room, at tlie 
 prospect of an event they knew to be inevitable, 
 he rose from his bed, joined his illustrious father, 
 and endeavored to engage him in a cheerful con- 
 versation. Burke continued silent, choked with 
 grief. His son again made an effort to console 
 him. "I am under no terror," he said; "I feel 
 myself better and in spirits, and yet my heart 
 
 flutters, I know not why. Pray talk to me, sir! 
 talk of religion, talk of morahty ; talk, if you 
 will, of indifferent subjects." Here a noise at- 
 tracted his notice, and he exclaimed, "Does it 
 rain ? — No, it is the rustling of the wind through 
 the trees." The whistling of the wind, and the 
 waving of the trees, brought Milton's majestic 
 lines to his mind, and he repeated tiiem with un- 
 common grace and effect : 
 
 His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow, 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines ; 
 With every plant, in sign of worship, wave I 
 
 A second time he took up the sublime and 
 melodious strain, and, accompanying the action 
 to the word, waved his own hand in token of 
 worship, and sunk into the arms of his father — a 
 corpse. Not a sensation told him that in an in- 
 stant he would stand in tlie presence of tlie 
 Creator to whom his body was bent in homage, 
 and whose praises still resounded from his lips. 
 But commonly the hand of death is felt for one 
 brief moment before the work is done." 
 
 From considerations and facts like tlie fore- 
 going, there is plainly no foundation for the popu- 
 lar belief that the extinction of life is uniformly 
 painful ; for, except in cases of sudden and vio- 
 lent death, sensibility lessens as disease advances. 
 Doubtless, most men suffer severer pain in some 
 of the various sicknesses to which they are sub- 
 ject, and in some surgical operations, than they 
 will in " the article of death." 
 
 We read that the venerable Thomas Fuller, 
 having considered the various ways in which life 
 is destroyed, came to this short and decisive con- 
 clusion: — "None please me." "But away with 
 these thoughts," the good man adds, " the mark 
 must not choose what arrow shall be shot against 
 it." It is not permitted us to decide by what 
 manner of death we will die, and it is well we 
 are not. But there is this consolation, that as a 
 general rule, the fear of dying is more distressing 
 than the reality. 
 
 Moreover, in the pains and weariness of our 
 sickness, Imd in our forebodings of the dying 
 hour, it is well for us who hope in Christ to re- 
 member that in his death he drank of a far bit- 
 terer cup than we can expect to taste. No mode 
 of destroying life is so cruel as that of crucifix- 
 ion. Those who die in other ways may endure 
 sharper pains, but no agonies are at once so ter- 
 rific and so long as those of the cross. The 
 driving of spikes through the hands and feet was 
 undoubtedly more painful, but to tliis must be 
 added the rankling of the nails, the fever which 
 ensued, and an intolerable thirst, and then the 
 pain caused in his wounds by every attempt to 
 
THE FEAR OF DEATH, 
 
 135 
 
 ■writhe under his sufferings, and all this prolonged ] 
 until death released him from his agonies. His 
 life was destroyed by violence, in the vigor of his 
 manhood and in perfect health, with his nervous 
 energies unimpaired : consequently, it was a 
 most painful death. Let us be thankful that it 
 is not appointed us to follow liim in the mode of 
 his dying, and that He was willing to submit to 
 such sufferings in order that He might extract 
 the sting from death in our behalf, and give us 
 victory over the grave ! 
 
 It was remarked at the beginning of this es- 
 say, that many persons fear death because of the 
 loathsomeness of the grave, and of other unplea- 
 sant associations connected with it. For example, 
 some, having heard of instances in which it was 
 supposed other persons had been interred before 
 actual death, fear lest it may be so eventually 
 with them. But a careful investigation of this 
 matter has convinced men of science that such 
 cases are exceedingly rare. There are certain 
 well known signs of death which are almost in- 
 dubitable, and corpses are seldom buried until 
 some of these signs have been developed. Be- 
 cause some bodies, on being exhumed, have been 
 found with their position somewhat changed, it 
 has been hastily inferred that life was not ex- 
 tinct when they were buried. But it is well 
 known that often, in the natural progress of de- 
 composition, the muscular fibres of one side or 
 portion of the liody relax sooner than the otliers, 
 and cause the body to be drawn slightly out of 
 its original position. Moreover, such changes in 
 the position of a corpse are often chargeable to 
 the mistakes or carelessness of pall-bearers in 
 carrying the coffin or in depositing it in the tomb. 
 No one, tlieu, we think, should harrass his mind 
 with apprehensions on this point. 
 
 Again, many persons are troubled with the 
 thought that their bodies will become " the food 
 of worms." They might be troubled, justly per- 
 haps, were there any ground for such apprehen- 
 sions. But tlie most eminent physicians tell us 
 that there is nothing in the nature of the human 
 body to indicate that worms prey upon the buried 
 corpse. If properly interred, it decays, and lit- 
 erally returns to the dust from which it was 
 taken. In confirmation of this, it is well known 
 that when bodies long buried are afterwards ex- 
 
 humed, they are commonly found with the fea- 
 tures perfect, though on exposure to tlie air they 
 crumble in pieces. The fact that we read in 
 scripture: ''Though after my skin, worms destroy 
 this body" <tc., (Job 19: 26,) is no proof that 
 this is a fact. Job, in this case, merely refers in- 
 cidentally to a notion prevalent in his day, and 
 does not assume to announce a physiological truth 
 on the authority of Divine inspiration. It is the 
 same as if lie had said: Though, as men com- 
 monly suppose, worms infest and destroy this 
 body, yet, Ac. The same superstition is referred 
 to in the familiar line of the poet : 
 
 " The deep, damp vault, the mattock and the worm." 
 
 Since, then, the notion has no foundation in 
 fact, let us banish this and all other imaginary 
 fears from our minds. To die is a solemn and 
 momentous thing enough, without its being in- 
 vested with unreal terrors. Especially, if we 
 are the followers of Christ, and tlius partakers 
 of the benefits of his sufferings, what reason have 
 we for fear? If deatli were more dreadful than 
 we know it to be, it would be unchristian in us 
 to tremble and shrink back at the thought of its 
 approach. God has promised that He will never 
 leave or forsake his children; that He will be 
 their refuge and strength, a very present help in 
 trouble; that He will strengthen them on the 
 bed of languishing; that He will be their guide 
 even unto death ; and that when they walk 
 through the valley of the shadow of death, He 
 will be with them, and his rod and staff shall 
 comfort them. Has God forsaken you, dear read- 
 ei', in the trials you liave been called to encoun- 
 ter in days past ? Does he not support you now ? 
 You cannot be so thankless as to say nay. Then 
 why distrust Him for the future ? Do not grieve 
 Ilim by your ingratitude, and by your distrust of 
 his faithfulness. Cast away your doubts and 
 fears. Entrust yourself, soul and body, and all 
 your interests, in his good hands, for tlie present 
 and for the future, and be happy in Him. And 
 whenever death comes, it will be less painful 
 than you have feared, and in addition to this, you 
 will find the Saviour by the side of your dying 
 pillow, and He will accompany you in every 
 step of your way through tlie Dark Valley. 
 
THE FEAST OF THE LORD. 
 
 BY CAROLINA CHE5EBR0. 
 
 One of the wildest of imaginable storms was 
 raving over the Atlantic. For days the clouds 
 had been gathering darkness until not a speck of 
 blue sky was to be seen, either to the east or to 
 the west, in the north or in the south ; and at 
 last, the tempest burst over the great waters, and 
 on a home-bound ship. 
 
 The seamen, and the captain of the vessel, and 
 more than all, the passengers, had watched the 
 clouds with increasing nervous anxiety, and the 
 latter in an undisguised and real terror, when the 
 wind rose so furiously, with fierce prophesyings 
 of hurricane. 
 
 The ship was crowded with passengers : only 
 a few on board were emigrants, and they were of 
 the better class — the great majority were pil- 
 grims to the shrine of a new world, or returning 
 pleasure-seekers, who Jiad been wandering 'mid 
 the glories of the old. There were men and wo- 
 men, and children, a motley group of tlicra: 
 beautiful, young, dreaming girls, eager and am- 
 bitious youths, gray-haired priests, politicians, 
 merchants, lawyers, doctors, and a poet;— French, 
 and German, and English, and American people; 
 an essentially mixed company. 
 
 It was curious to observe that company while 
 the ship went smoothly and quietly on her way — 
 more curious still, to watch them while the awful 
 storm was rising ; but dreadful indeed to behold 
 them when that storm had burst. There had 
 been a degree of acting amid the multitude, al- 
 most equal to that.whioh would have been re- 
 quired of them, had they really been performing 
 on a stage in a theatric entertainment : there 
 was no more of this seen when real danger pre- 
 sented itself. They formed, those passengers, in 
 that crisis, a startling picture for the world's view . 
 but there were none but God and the angels near 
 to look upon the scene ; all the rest who knew of 
 it were features of it. 
 
 It was no time, when the ship rocked to and 
 fro there in its helplessness, in the midst of the 
 great ocean — it was no time for mortal vanity to 
 show itself, and vanity had vanished. It was no 
 place for pride, there beyond all human help, 
 when the spirit of God was moving upon the 
 waters, and prido was not — yes, pride wastliere; 
 for some, upheld by no Christian faith, would 
 
 not tremble when the voice of the Lord went 
 echoing over the deep. It was a place of prayer ; 
 but alas ! u<hat prayers ! Utterances of mortal 
 agony, and anguish of fear, and despair that went 
 out ; mere utterances, mere ravings, from hearts 
 which knew not God, from hearts which found 
 him not ! It was a place also for humble and 
 confiding hope, and that was not wanting; a 
 place for Christian courage, it was there ; a place 
 for sacrifice and offering, and sacrifice and offer- 
 ing were ready. 
 
 The third day of the storm had been one of tor- 
 turing suspense ; all conversation ceased among 
 the people. They sate the most of them, and for 
 tlie most part of the time, pale and trembling, 
 thinking every crash of wind against the vessel 
 to be the signal of instant doom. But very few 
 of them had spoken of their j^i'obable destiny ; it 
 seemed a thought that utterance would fill with 
 fresh horror, and so they watched. On the eve- 
 ning of that day, the captain, who had lield little 
 converse with his passengers since the opening 
 of the storm, came into the cabin. Three hundred 
 people were gathered there, in such an agony of 
 terror as may God save you from ever knowing. 
 His presence, as soon as it was known, produced 
 the most solemn silence among tlie multitude ; — 
 had it not, his voice, which was faint and trem 
 bling, could scarcely have been heard. " It's my 
 opinion," he said, "and the opinion of my men, 
 that if the storm continues an hour longer, we 
 sliall be in eternity before the time is up. The 
 ship has held out remarkably well. I have never 
 been out in such a storm before. God have mercy 
 on you !" 
 
 He closed the door after him as he went out, 
 and immediately, ere the silence which followed 
 that terrible confirmation of their fears could be 
 broken, another voice was heard speaking, and 
 an old man was seen to rise from a far corner of 
 the cabin, where he had quietly remained nearly 
 all the day. 
 
 " My friends," he said, ' ' it has been the busi- 
 ness of my life to preach the gospel of Jesus 
 Clirist. I have, many times before this, invited 
 those who love our Lord to the supper of his 
 body and his blood. I invite you to-night. Whos- 
 scever loill, let him freely come. Passengers 
 
THE FEAST OF THE LORD. 
 
 137 
 
 bound towards Eternity ! we will tliis nigbt par- 
 take—oh, let it be with godly fear and with child- 
 like faith— the bread and the wine, to the refresh- 
 ment of our souls 1 We will consecrate ourselves 
 anew. Let us bow down before the high God, 
 believing that, inasmuch, as we confess him here, 
 he will not be ashamed of us when we appear 
 before him at the judgment."' 
 
 Tlie table was at once spread, and the bread 
 and wine were blessed ; then the speaker's voice 
 broke yet more strongly, and clearly, in that si- 
 lence which, since his solemn proposition was 
 made, had been marred by no cry, or groan of 
 fear, and be read that sublime and thrilling hymn, 
 beginning will), — 
 
 "Lo, God is here !"' 
 
 Then he said, " Come near, all ye who believe 
 that the Lord Jesus died for you. Come ! all who 
 are longing for his everlasting salvation 1 Come ! 
 in meekness, in reverence, and in faith, and so ye 
 may be sure that ye will not eat and drink to 
 everlasting damnation !" 
 
 That was a House of God then— it was con- 
 secrated by the holy name which the Apostle of 
 holiness had called upon — it was consecrated by 
 the Divine jiresencc, for God teas there. There 
 was a general movement toobey that call. Souls 
 which had been tossed for years on the ocean of 
 doubt, which, but for this providence, had been 
 lost upon the shoals of unbelief, had grace to say, 
 then, in all sincerity; "I believe; Lord help 
 mine unbelief." Careless sons and daughters of 
 the world were effectually awakened ; and the scof- 
 fers scoffed no more. There were few who held 
 themselves aloof from that celebration of the 
 Last Supper, but few who could resist the call 
 that had been made, as they verily believed, for 
 the last time. It was their satanic pride, their 
 unaccountable pride, that held them back. Tiiey 
 wire not willing, even in a last and dire extrem- 
 ity, to confess Christ before 7nen! They would 
 not be converted in the eleventh hour ; they had 
 resisted unto death, striving against God ! But 
 they did not at least doubt then. They knew 
 what they had never known before. They knew 
 that the voice of God was in that tempest, and 
 the voice had a terrific message for them. Tliey 
 knew that the hand of God was lifted to destroy 
 them ; and with a brutal courage, a blasphe- 
 mous daring, they exclaimed, 
 
 '• strike I thou art strongest." 
 
 When all, who would, had partaken, the preach- 
 er's voice (which was distinctly audible, because 
 his listeners and he were so in earnest in that 
 hour) exclaimed "That there are many here, who 
 have, to-night, partaken for the first time of these 
 
 sacred emblems, I cannot doubt. God bless you, 
 friends, who have now entered into covenant with 
 him. If we are saved in this dread journey over 
 the waters, you will have occasion to rejoice al- 
 ways over the vow you have this niglit made. I 
 believe that if you have cried unto him, who is 
 abundantly able and willing to save, that he 
 has, in this sacrament, anointed you with the oil 
 of his salvation. Tiie time allotted to us in this 
 world is, doubtless, just drawing to its close ; we 
 cannot but believe it, who listen to that voice 
 without, wlio feel the tossing of this frail bark. 
 Beloved friends, don't therefore tremble, and 
 turn pale ; our Father is near; He is here ; we 
 have only to taste one other drop of that cup 
 whicli our Saviour drank to the dregs, and he will 
 accept us ? Let us kneel down here, and await 
 tlie summons which shall lead us hence. Let 
 our prayers precede us ; in such silence as befits 
 us let us wait. Let our thoughts tend not earth- 
 ward now. We are all, doubtless, bound by 
 many tender ties to life. Let us commend our 
 btdoved ones to his fatherly protection, who loves 
 tliem better tiian we know how to love. Lord 
 Jesus, we bow before thee." 
 
 More than an hour passed on, and still that 
 congregation waited on their knees in silent 
 prayer, waited for the summons of their Maker. 
 Only an occasional sob, bursting from some heart 
 to whom the things of earth were yet inestima- 
 bly precious, or a groan from an unfortunate, who 
 had not yet made peace with God, disturbed the 
 solemn silence. Tliere were no cries of fear, 
 for fear was awed before the majesty of 
 fiiith. But while they knelt there, the wind had 
 assumed a softer tone, it raved not so savagely 
 around the vessel. It seemed also to have 
 caught the spirit of reverence, and the ship began 
 to rock less terribly : but not one mortal there 
 dared to gather hope from this — all felt that there 
 was but a resting pause in the storm, that with its 
 next burst, a grave and an eternity would be 
 opened for them. 
 
 The door of the cabin opened, and again the 
 captain stood before the people who had entrust- 
 ed themselves to his guidance over the great 
 deep: but he could at first find no words where- 
 with to communicate the tidings he brought; he 
 stood amazed, awestruck, before the silent kneel- 
 in" company. In a moment \\e conquered liiu 
 emotion, and exclaimed with a strong, glad voice 
 
 " Your prayers have saved us ! angels have 
 been with me ! the wind has gone down, the sun 
 is rising. It is a time for thanksgiving, glory to 
 God!" 
 
 Eyes that had not wept iu all those days and 
 
138 
 
 LET US LOVE EACH OTHER. 
 
 nights of terror, filled to overflowiDg then — 
 thoughts of kindred and of home, which the souls 
 that leaned most trustingly on God had put far 
 from them -when they imagined the death-doom 
 near, came rushing back, filling the heart with a 
 weight of thankfulness and joy, hard to bear in 
 calmness. The multitude luid grown quiet and 
 subdued, while the shadow of tiie eternal land 
 fell down so closely over them ; but they were 
 not calm and quiet when the Pilot guided them 
 away from that land, out from that shadow : oh 
 the thought of safety, of Life ! it was more com- 
 pletely overpowering than that of death had 
 been ! 
 
 And a stranger eflfect than the mere falling of 
 tears, than the almost maniac expressions of joy 
 to which some gave utterance, was produced by 
 this " great salvation ! for in the morning of de- 
 liverance, when the sunlight streamed through 
 the cabin windows, it beheld a still greater mul- 
 titude sharinga holy sacrament, in remembrance 
 of Him who had proved so mighty to save, and 
 young children were brought to the aged preacher, 
 by parents who would thus early dedicate them to 
 God, and some whose brows the " wing of time had 
 shaded," also then and there assumed the cross. 
 
 They are scattered now, those voyagers, over 
 the wide earth ; but, must they not bear with 
 them a memory, which will work always in them ; 
 and in others, through them, work mightily, for 
 good ? They who on that night assumed tiie 
 cross of faith, must they not bear it with tiiem, 
 
 wheresoever they may go ? And in bearing it 
 worthily, they must and will proclaim themselves 
 the missionaries of the high and holy, of the 
 meek and lowly One. Otherwise they have par- 
 taken of that body, and that blood, and assumed 
 that sacred symbol in an extremity of weakness 
 and unworthiness, which shall increase their con- 
 demnation? 
 
 That Feast of the Lord upon the Waters was 
 a feast of extremest sorrow and extremest need. 
 So was it at its institution on the night of Be- 
 trayal. The sorrow and the need are indeed as 
 abiding features of it, as its awful significance. 
 
 It is essentially the Supper of sorrow : but 
 joy is borne of it into the starving soul. It niay 
 be taken in heart-tears, but its effect, its impres- 
 sion, its reality, is Peace. Do you not know it 
 already ? The dead have learned it, when in their 
 last moments they prayed for the angel to delay 
 only till they could obey the sacrament call 
 " Come unto me ;" — the proudest have learned it 
 when they have been subdued to pray ; the most 
 worldly-minded have proved it, when they have 
 paused to think. We must all learn it — and it 
 will be well, if we do not have the lesson, to cop 
 it as the Thief upon the cross learned it, when 
 the sacrament was presented before him in its 
 most awful form, when he partook it in the most 
 dire extremity, compelled to confess after all 
 his waywardness and sin, compelled to turn to the 
 cross for guidance, ere he could go onward to the 
 supper of the Lamb. 
 
 LET US LOVE EACH OTHER. 
 
 oh ! why so oft does anger bum within the human breaf.t ? 
 Why are the gentle and the weak by violence opprest ? 
 "Why are our hearts so envious of good that others win ? 
 "Why are we prone to follow still the ways that lead to sin ? 
 "Why are our hopes so frivolous, so selfish, and so vain. 
 As if we thought tipon this earth for ever to remain ? 
 
 The heart that yields to an^sr wars against the God above, 
 And him by whom the weak are orush'd thoir Guardian 
 
 will reprove ; 
 The envious heart doth nurse the worm that gnaws within 
 
 the breast, 
 The follower of evil things shall find no place of rest ] 
 
 And he whose hopes are bent on earth, from earth will 
 
 soon beiLven, 
 And find that he has forfeited a bright abode in heaven ! 
 
 Oh ! let us love each other then, for ws have hated long ! 
 Let ns forego the frowning brow, the insult, and the 
 
 wrong i 
 Encourage btiU the wav'ring, talce the feeble by the hand. 
 While wanderers through tlie desert to the blessed promised 
 
 land ; 
 And our God, who is a God of love, will guide us in the 
 
 way, 
 And in time of death or peril, prove our all-sufficient stay. 
 
HORSEBACK RAMBLES AMONG THE MOUNTAINS OF VIRGINIA. 
 
 BY ELEANOR J 
 
 Would you like to take a ride this glorious 
 summer evening, my dear Annie, when the sun 
 is flooding everything with his fullest tide of 
 beauty, and nature is in the very hey-day of her 
 loveliness? Come then, I will take you on my 
 steed, ns your spirit-presence will be no addition- 
 al weight, and as I myself ride lightly, we will 
 have such a canter ! Could anything be more 
 delicious than this gentle motion ? — and then we 
 have nothing to interrupt our view, but, with 
 veil thrown back and cap slightly raised, how 
 delightfully these mountain breezes sweep over 
 our brows I I take for granted, you see, that 
 your spirit has all bodily belongings. 
 
 Do look at that forest before us, draping so 
 luxuriantly yon sloping hill-side — you see there 
 is between us and it that blue mist like the bloom 
 on grapes, which so few artists successfully trans- 
 fer to their canvass ; how it darkens and enriches 
 the noble forms of those beeches, chestnuts, pines, 
 and oaks, which are beautiful enough already 
 with their broad boughs, many-formed foliage, 
 and deep shades. And how it fades as we di'aw 
 nearer the base of the hill, like many another 
 sweet, airy illusion, for, aa Coleridge somewhere 
 says, 
 
 " The beautiful vanishes and returneth not." 
 
 Ah — 'here we come to the clear brook with its 
 shaded banks and gravelly bed, where " Gyp " 
 always shows his good nature by wanting a drink 
 in the shadiest spot ; — but there is no drink for 
 you this time, my good "Gyp," for the rains 
 have been so long withheld from the mountain 
 springs that the bi"ook is almost dry ; so on we 
 must go, over this rocky hill and down the deep 
 ravine beyond, where we will find water. Not 
 so fast though, for uncle Ned, who is driving the 
 carriage so carefully, has promised to keep a 
 good lookout upon us from his box, and see 
 that no accident happens; and so we must even 
 keep in sight of him, lest our friends in the car- 
 riage should grow uneasy; for I could not be 
 prevailed upon to take a seat with them, having 
 the horrors of sick-headache too distiuctly before 
 my view, and with true woman's wilfulness, in- 
 sisted on the saddle,^ — esteeming the want of 
 
 other escort than the carriage as no hinderance 
 whatever. Sure enough, " Gyp," here is the 
 watei-— and now for the ascent — a long way up, 
 but, to reward us at the top, there is spread out 
 before us a rich summer landscape. Here is an 
 open grain field, from which they are carrying 
 the heavy harvest of ripe sheaves ; and there are 
 two little negroes (why is it that they always 
 remind one of monkeys?) " minding the gap," as 
 they tell us. Happy little urchins, — with their 
 wooly heads, rolling eyes, and bare ebony arms 
 and legs, which their scant covering displays to 
 the best advantage ; there they can lie under the 
 shade, and rejoice in the Italian lazaroni's delight, 
 dolci far niente. There are a dozen of the un- 
 clean animals before us, which the dark little 
 imps have warded from " the gap" (and which, 
 by the way, furnish the best hams in the world, 
 not excepting the celebrated Westphalia, because 
 they are allowed to grow older than elsewhere, 
 and enjoy the happiness of running wild in the 
 fields and woods.) Suppose we give them a 
 run — how they can scamper! — and now they 
 have turned off into that bit of woods, and, 
 thinking they are safe, have wheeled about to 
 face the cuemy. Did you ever see a more v.'him- 
 sical picture of swinish determination than they 
 present as they stand so steadily gazing at us ? 
 What can they be thinking off Something deep, 
 no doubt. 
 
 Now we mount the brow of another hill, and 
 I am sure, Annie, you never saw a grander 
 sight than that chain of dark blue mountains, 
 stretching round two-thirds of the horizon, and 
 embracing " a most living landscape." Some are 
 sharply pointed, "like an encampment of giants' 
 tent.*," as Southey says: others are curved in a 
 perfect line of beauty— the deep gorges between, 
 where one melts into another, are almost black 
 in their depth of blue, and from base to summit, 
 they are clothed in the heaviest, richest foliage. 
 How shall we express in glowing enough terms 
 our admiration of their glory, magnificence, and 
 sublimity. We can truly say with Randolph, as 
 when gazing on a like scene, he turned to his 
 servant and said, " John, if ever you hear a man 
 
no 
 
 HORSEBACK RAMBLES AMO IS' G THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 bay ' There is no God,' tell him he lies !" Or with 
 Napoleon, who, when sailing under a brilliant, 
 star-lit sky, posed some of his skeptical officers, 
 aa he pointed upwards, and asked — " Gentlemen, 
 teho made all these]" Wlio but God could pile 
 together those mountains in such seemingly wild 
 confusion, yet such inimitable and unchanging 
 order — who else could deck them in such a gar- 
 niture of light and shade — wlio else could crown 
 them with such sun-bright clouds — who else 
 could veil Ihern Avith such blue, such golden, 
 such silver mists? Oh, for the utterance of a poet 
 to give voice to that beauty, 
 
 '■ TiThose dn-elling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the blue slcy, and all that we behold 
 From this green earth." 
 
 Well, Well, Annie, we must content ourselves 
 with the thought, that we can see, can perhaps 
 even feel, all a poet could, and certainly can 
 luxuriate in his descriptions. What ecstasies 
 Southey goes into about Skiddawand Helvelyn ! 
 — (by the way, have you read his corrcspond- 
 euce? It is a most agreeable book for a lazy 
 summer aftez-noon, notwithstanding all the crit- 
 ics say about its prosiness and prolixity.) And 
 Christopher North, in his dreamj^, delicious 
 aketches of Westmoreland scenery, how he glo- 
 rifies those mountains ; and yet I cannot think 
 they are more worthy than our magnificent Alle- 
 ghanies. But the wand of the poet has touched 
 them, and they are "consecrate in song." We 
 only need " the spiritualizing mists " of poetry 
 about ours to make them just as beautiful. 
 
 I wonder what you think, " Gyp," my gallant 
 " bay," not " grey ;" — no doubt, that it is very 
 stupid to stand here at the top of a hill, gazing 
 at the mountains, — 3'oti would vastly prefer to 
 turn into that oat-field on our left, and satiate 
 some other sense than sight. Well, one cannot 
 live on heights for ever, — so down, down, down 
 we go, till we come to the river brink. Are you 
 afraid to cross the water, Annie ? You need not 
 be, your spirit robes need fear no wetting; and 
 I shall gather up my flov/ing train. Carefully 
 now, good " Gyp," — lift j'our feet and place them 
 well, — there, you have done it finely ; — fording 
 a river is not such a frightful thing, after all. Ah 
 — here we are in a pretty grove of paw-paws. 
 Why is it that Americans so neglect to cultivate 
 them for shrubbery? Clumps of them, with 
 their rich, laurel-shaped leaves, would look beau- 
 tiful arising from a smoothly shaven lawn, and 
 then the fruit is considered very palatable by 
 many. See ! — there is a most tropical looking 
 bunch, clustered on the stem after the fashion 
 of the plantain, and somewhat of .he sarnc shape 
 
 and color, only more rounded and of a lighter 
 green. Perhaps it is admired and cultivated in 
 England as many plants are, which wclook upon 
 as "outside barbarians," v/ild things not worth 
 cultivating ; for there all great estates have what 
 they call "American plantation)?," — that is, most 
 carefully cultivated groves of American trees. A 
 lady encountered a mullen there in a green 
 house, which was much admired for its wooly 
 leaves and stately spike of yellow flowers. 
 
 N'import, we will learn in time — many of the 
 travelers now across "the water" M'ill bring new 
 ideas home with them, and perhaps one not the 
 least in importance will be a more proper appre- 
 ciation of our oAvn products and resources. 
 
 But while we have been speculating upon the 
 beauties of future lawns and shrubberies, "Gyp" 
 has been quietly pursuing his way, and has 
 brought us out of the deep shade of several 
 groups of woods, and see — what a graceful sweep 
 of the ro.ad brings in sight! How near the 
 mountains are; it seems as if we might almost 
 touch them. What appeared to us some miles 
 back only deep shades, now that the mysterious 
 veil of distance is withdrawn, prove to be the 
 wide gaps between pyramidal mountains, and 
 the dark shades are the most distant spurs of the 
 same great ridge. How exceedingly beautiful 
 they all are, — and what a variety of shades we 
 perceive now, which blended in the distance to 
 one harmonious deep blue. Those brown or 
 golden spots are the dead pines. It always 
 makes me sorrj' to see a tree die. It seems like 
 so many years' labor lost — so many summer suns 
 and dews all gone for nothing ! This same dis- 
 ease in pines is caused, it is said, by a worm at 
 the heart, and extends through the great forests 
 of North and South Carolina, all the way indeed 
 to Florida. 
 
 But we must turn away from the mountains, 
 and away from the sparkling, glancing river, for 
 another curve in our road brings us to the termi- 
 nation of our ride, and to the house of the friends 
 whom we arc going to visit. How prettily it is 
 situated, and see Avhat taste has done, in sparing 
 so fine a clump of trees beside it. As it nestles 
 almost under the mountain's brow, we might 
 call it a cottage, for, in modern parlance, that 
 means a comfortable two-story house, with high 
 ceilings and pleasant verandahs; and judging of 
 the high ceilings by those large windows, and 
 those pretty white columns, and the trees, and 
 clustering roses, — surely, this is a cottage. 
 
 There come our friends too, with true Virginia 
 hospitality and cordiality, to meet us, not wait- 
 ing on the portico in quiet lady-like repose of 
 manner, but coming to welcome us as we alight, 
 
HOME. 
 
 141 
 
 and conduct us up the broad gravel walk, set 
 thick on each side with jessamine and roses, and 
 the queenly dahlia. And now, "Gyp," commit- 
 ting you to the care of the dark-faced servants, 
 whose white teeth glisten a welcome not less 
 eager than their master and young mistresses, — 
 and your spirit, Annie, to any chance cloud, 
 purple or amber-colored, whichever you prefer,' 
 to carry you whither you list, I will enter the 
 house, not turning again, lest another glance at 
 
 the grassy, shady orchard, sloping down to the 
 curving, rippling river, and the grand mountain 
 outline and background beyond, should tempt 
 me away to spend the night with mountain mists, 
 at the eminent risk of cold-eatching ; for I am not 
 so fortunate as to be like tlie ladies of romance, 
 who can go through rain and mists without sore 
 throats, and with hair that never uncurls, and 
 dresses that never soil. 
 
 -♦*-a^-t-«— 
 
 HOME 
 
 Home, the home of childhood and of youth, 
 how dear must it ever be to the heart of man- 
 hood ! Years may have elapsed since we looked 
 upon its venerable form, or crossed its threshold, 
 worn by the tread of generations, but it can 
 never fade from our memory, or be displaced 
 from our recollection by any other we have 
 since learned to call our home. 
 
 Tlie love of home, like the love of country, is 
 confined to no class ; it is not to be bounded by 
 the landmarks of nobility, or limited in its uni- 
 versal sovereignty by the restraints of rank. 
 The lordly mansion and the splendid palace may 
 have little of home to bless their magnificence, 
 while the lowly hut reposing beneath their shade 
 may make good a title to the endearing name. 
 The traveler may have gazed on many a sunny 
 landscape and many a noble shore. The heav- 
 ing forest or the waving prairie may have 
 spread their loveliness before him, majestic riv- 
 ers may have courted his admiration, or the soft 
 murmurings of some blue lake have wooed him 
 to repose — but these, though they may charm for 
 awhile, cannot win his heart from home. He 
 may have wandered beneath the glowing sky of 
 Italj', or climbed the rocky heights, grand in 
 their towering ruggednes.a, of Switzerland. His 
 footsteps may have echoed amid the ruins of 
 Greece, or trod in paths hallowed bj' the feet of 
 Him who trod earth, with no home in which to lay 
 His head. But tlie glories of Italian scenery, the 
 mournful associations of lovely Greece, or the 
 still more tender recollections of holy Palestine, 
 may not tempt him to do more than linger for a 
 moment by the way, and then press on to that 
 less favored, it may be, but far dearer, land 
 "where is his home. 
 
 The sailor, as in the lonelv night-watch he 
 
 paces the deck of his gallant vessel, bounding 
 along over some distant sea, while the moaning 
 wind whistles through the cordage, dreams it is 
 the voice of spirits, whispering of home — the 
 home he quitted so readily, but which he now 
 longs for as the tempest-driven bird for the nest 
 it has too rashly forsaken. Many a strange vicis- 
 situde has he undergone since he left that peace- 
 ful spot ; at one time the scented gales of Araby 
 have flung their fragrance around him, as his 
 bark glided gracefully through the rippling 
 waters of the blue Mediterranean ; at another, 
 the rude blast of the tempest has struck his reel- 
 ing ship, and sent her leaping and quivering 
 over the mountain waves of the boundless Atlan- 
 tic. But, alike in sunshine and in storm, the 
 silken zephyr coidd not woo, nor the roaring 
 hurricane drive from his breast the sweet hope 
 of one day revisiting the home now so far 
 away. 
 
 The thought of home is that which infuses its 
 greatest vigor into the arm of the warrior, ren- 
 dering him on the battle-field indifferent to the 
 tramp of the war-horse, the flash of the bayonet, 
 or the roar of the cannon ; and which, on the bed 
 of sickness, breathes consolation into his wounds, 
 and robs them of half their pain, by reminding 
 him of their reward. 
 
 It matters not whether that home be in the 
 dim recesses of snow-crowned Norway, or in the 
 beaming plains of laughing France — under the 
 burning sun of Africa's scorched up deserts, or 
 by some glistening stream in forest glade of dear 
 old England — by Niagara's foaming precipice, or 
 Geneva's peaceful lake — home is everywhere 
 home. " Home, sweet, sweet home," is the song 
 in which all nations maj- join, for truly " there 
 is no place like home." 
 
A SOLILOQUY. 
 
 FROM THE DIARY OF A CLERGYMAN". 
 
 Life! pictures of life! wliat are they? Life 
 has no pictures. It cannot be painted ; it re- 
 fuses to be transferred to canvixss ; it u<ill be the 
 same indescribable and 2ttipaintahle thing, all art 
 and poetry notwithstanding. It is too much of 
 a reality to suffer coloring. The original will 
 not "sit" to the artist; and his highest skill can- 
 not equal its strange, yet familiar — extraordina- 
 ry, yet common features. Alas! alas! what have 
 I seen, what heard, what felt? O earth, earth, 
 shall it be always thus? Pain, sin, sorrow — sor- 
 row, sin, pain always? One multiform, mani- 
 fold, ever-changing, everlasting cycle of joy, 
 grief, laughter, madness, death ! A serio-comic 
 dance of wild liberty and rattling chains, of men 
 "great of flesh " and ghastly skeletons, of bloated 
 vanity and broken-hearted virtue, of chariots 
 and Avar-horses, of hearses and coffins for the 
 dead, of marriages and deaths, bells pealing in 
 the morning and tolling at night — and all this 
 accompanied by the horrid harmony of merry 
 laughter, hysteric screams, psalms of gratitude, 
 groans of agony, shouts of despair, and songs of 
 drunkards! O eai-th, earth, prolific mother! 
 sometimes thou puttest on such beautiful smiles, 
 that I cannot avoid loving thee, but, when I think 
 of thy history, I feel an iuvoluntaiy shudder! 
 Why ? — thou art guilty of millions of infanticides, 
 thou art choked with the blood of thy children, 
 thoii art laden with corpses uncounted, and thou 
 ploddest in grave-clothes thy way through the 
 measureless vault of the heavens! Thou art a 
 great hearse, a grave-yard, a network of vaults 
 for the dead, a huge urn ; and whither art thou 
 traveling with thy terrible load, august yet ter- 
 rific mother? Thousands of nations, and tens of 
 thousands of generations, have been committed 
 to thy keeping, thou grim jailer ! j\Iany a proud 
 king lies securely bound in thy cells, thy dun- 
 geons are crowded with despots and slaves, the 
 one harmless and the other unharmed now ; and 
 thou art rich in cities — the wealth of empires lies 
 fast locked in thy granite safes, and all that na- 
 tions have toiled for thou clairaest as thine own. 
 Imperious and insatiable ! shall it be always thus ? 
 Is there no goal to this weary race — no intermis- 
 sion, no rest, not even a halting-place, or " sta- 
 
 tion," by the way ? Humanity is tired of thia 
 monotony. Man cries for change, his heart aches 
 for something new, he groans for relief, and, as 
 in the days of old, asks a sign from heaven. Shall 
 no sign be given him ? 
 
 But is he not surrounded with signs? Are not 
 miracles every-day phenomena ? Is not creation 
 a miracle? Are not the seasons miracles, and 
 night and day, and sun, moon, and stars ? Is he 
 not himself a miracle to himself? Miracles are 
 mystei'ies; and is not every man a mystery to 
 himself? Every man is a publication, a pro- 
 phetic roll, a book, whose leaves are the heart, 
 the sentiments, the feelings, the senses, and the 
 soul ! I see, every day and hour of my rapid 
 journey, great sights and signs from heaven. I 
 have not time critically to examine them all. I 
 pass through them, and they pass by me, with a 
 velocity which prohibits close analysis ; but this 
 swiftness is itself one of the signs for which I fool- 
 ishly call. Like a child with too many toys, I 
 seek relief by crying for more, as if an increase 
 to the causes of the difficulty would diminish its 
 intensity. 
 
 It cannot be the design of the omnipotent arid 
 merciful Creator that matters are to remain for 
 ever in this state. The earth gives no answer to 
 my questions ; but I imagine an audible groan 
 from its heart, as if burdened with its dreadful 
 load, anxious to give up its charge, to cast out its 
 dead, and to enjoy the redemption which the 
 true Book says awaits it. When that period ar- 
 rives, what if it shall be discovered that this 
 globe of sepulchres is the most prolific life-world 
 in the universe? that death, the enemy, is work- 
 ing — not willingly, but by constraint— i/'i7/( Him 
 who is the Life, and whose purpose is to subdue 
 all things to himself? that the distresses, perplex- 
 ities, woes, agonies, and mortality of the present, 
 are but mysterious creating processes, all uni- 
 formly and steadily tending to a gloriously finish- 
 ed creation ? that we are, consequently, present 
 at, and witnesses of, and take part in, this elabo- 
 ration of an eternal and wonderful idea— of com- 
 pelling all temporary evil to minister to the 
 erection of a magnificent system of everlasting 
 good? and that we shall be able to say hereafter. 
 
flEV. GKORGE I'tn'TS. p. D. 
 
A SOLILOQUY 
 
 143 
 
 we were present at the moral creation, saw some 
 of the divine acts in tlmt stupendous work, and 
 had some slight share, though then we knew it 
 not, in the accomplishment of his infinitely wise 
 designs? It will be something to say hereafter, 
 that we remember certain stages in the creating 
 process ; that what we considered a terrible 
 waste of life was but the transition to a higher 
 kind of life ; that the sorrows of our great family 
 were bxit the seeds of immortal joy ; and that, 
 whilst laying our dead in the earth, we were ac- 
 tually accumulating stores of deathless vitality. 
 Certainly there is some connection between sow- 
 ing in tears and reaping in joy; and possibly 
 that connection is closer than any one imagines. 
 It strikes me that the processes of creation and 
 redemption are going on simultaneously ; or, per- 
 haps, it would be more correct to say, that the 
 process of redemption is a creation, a making all 
 tilings new out of the old materials, subjecting 
 all things to one design, compelling death to be 
 the nursery, instead of the grave, of life, and 
 making this earth the groundwork on which the 
 grandest of all problems shall be solved, namely, 
 the subjugation of error and sin into everlasting 
 subordination to truth and holiness. I have faith 
 enough both in the wisdom and love of the Re- 
 deemer to believe all this. " As sin hath abounded, 
 grace has supeiabounded," may be taken as a 
 principle capable of most extensive application. 
 The question as to the introduction of evil into 
 our world docs not trouble me. I infer, from the 
 paucity of information respecting it, that an am- 
 pler revelation would l;ave been no blessing. 
 God's kindness is manifested by his silence as 
 well as by his voice ; and while his benign su- 
 premacy is undisturbed by the introduction of 
 sin, a hearty concurrence with his system of re- 
 covery is more profitable employment than curi- 
 ous speculation about the origin of evil. It is lit- 
 tle satisfaction to a sufferer to remember distinctly 
 how and where he caught an infectious disease ; 
 but it is much to have the assurance of an able 
 physician that, on condition of strict attention to 
 his prescriptions, the disease will speedily be 
 conquered ; and, whilst it is sadly true that I am 
 a daily sufferer in consequence of sin, I think it 
 can hardly be questioned that my powers of en- 
 joyment, both present and prospective, are far 
 greater than they would have been had I not 
 " known sin." This, however, is not a necessary 
 result of evil, notwithstanding the mysterious 
 connection between contrasts, but the effect of 
 divine arrangements in the gospel of Jesus Christ. 
 The doctrine of necessity ought not to be pressed 
 into the service of humanity. It obviously rests 
 
 upon its own merits. To drag it out of its legiti- 
 mate province, is to open the floodgates of heresy. 
 "Whatever God hath decreed is, of course, neces- 
 sary, for that very reason ; but our knowledge of 
 his decree extends not beyond that "which is 
 written ;" and the assumption of necessity where 
 no doctrine is declared, is utterly unwarrantable. 
 In this case, namely, the probable good to which 
 existence may be given by the intervention of 
 evil in our part of the divine dominions, it is ob- 
 vious that it cannot be necessary in the same way 
 that acting causes necessarily produce correspond- 
 ing effects; but that good may spring out of 
 greater good overruling evil, may be firmly held 
 as an article of faith, supposing a declaratory 
 revelation to that effect. Now, we have such a 
 revelation ; and it accords at once with our best 
 wishes for the world of men, and with our duty, 
 firmly to believe, and earnestly to hope for the 
 blessings which that revelation promises. 
 
 This, then, is j)reciscly the position in whicli 
 we stand respecting this suffering family of man- 
 kind. We should knoAV nothing beyond the fact 
 that the earth is a great burial ground, but for a 
 divine revelation. AVe should sufi'er and witness 
 sorrows innumerable from the beginning to the 
 end of the year, without an intimation regarding 
 either their commencement or their close ; we 
 should plod on through the gloom, sad in spirit 
 and wretched at heart, without the least idea of 
 a brilliant sun about to rise on the thick dark- 
 ness; we should guess, speculate, philosophize, 
 and dream, about causes and effects, means and 
 ends, without any assured principle of interpreta- 
 tion, or settled axiom to which opinions might 
 be referred, or by which the value of theories 
 might be determined; and we should wonder 
 that the Being whose power and wisdom were 
 equal to the tremendous work of making and 
 peopling a great world, should leave it to be the 
 prey of demons and the arena of conflict to a 
 thousand generations of men; but we should 
 never, without a divine revelation, grasp the 
 thought that all the past is only a few steps in 
 the procession of the Eternal towards a magnifi- 
 cent and most glorious end, when the mystery of 
 God shall be finished, and the regenerated earth 
 become the most splendid world in the star- 
 thronged universe. 
 
 Yet^ that this is the case, and that such will be 
 the issue, I no more doubt, than I do the existence 
 of the sun at mid-day. "Wliy should I ? "Is any- 
 thing too hard for the Lord?" Faitli is knowl- 
 edge. " Bv faith vn: know." And if there be a 
 God — the atfirmative of which is infinitely more 
 rational than the negative — it is morally certain 
 
U4 ? 
 
 SUNSET IN BAFFIN'S BAY 
 
 that he will accomplish his original purpose, and 
 that he will not leave a world, upon which he 
 has expended so much care and attention — a 
 ■world which has literally cost him so much — un- 
 til he shall have effected his first design regarding 
 it, to the very letter. Of him it shall never be 
 said, "He began to build, and was not able to 
 finish." It is certain that we are nearer the con- 
 summation than were our fathers ; and it is high- 
 
 ly probable that, as we approach the end, the ra- 
 pidity of events will be amazingly accelerated. 
 Already, to speak with reverence, tie compara- 
 tively slow movements of Divine Providence 
 seem drawing to a close, and the indications of a 
 rapid winding-up of the multitudinous afiairs of 
 nations and of time are neither few nor unim- 
 portant. No, earth, earth, it will not be always 
 thus ! 
 
 SUNSET IN BAFFIN'S BAY. 
 
 BY MISS J 
 
 B E 8 S A C 
 
 Calm lay the sea. and far away, 
 Like marble piles, tlie pure snow slept, 
 And heaven was bright with such a day 
 As in the arms of night ne'er wept. 
 A veil 'tis true was lightly thrown 
 Of rainbow hues upon its brow, 
 But through the parted folds it shone 
 With beams of dazzling splendor now. 
 I said the sea lay calm, and bright, 
 And cold, for there the iceberg's form 
 Reared high its head amid the light, 
 As it were not the child of storm. 
 It was the noon of night — but far 
 In the clear North the red sun glowed ; 
 It was no night of monn, and star, 
 For sunbright splendors o'er it flowed — 
 And feudal towers whose banners fling 
 Their folds upon the silent air, 
 Rose proudly — Did the trumpet ring, 
 To call the banner'd hosts from far ? 
 Or did yon mountain raise its voice 
 Of thunder to arouse the world ? 
 
 Look where its floods of lava- flame 
 
 Are from its icy ramparts hurl'd ! 
 
 How gorgeous in the purple light 
 
 Arise those pillar'd domes to heaven, " 
 
 And burnish'd spires throw forth the light 
 
 In orient richness given. 
 
 Doth no tall palm its fanlike leaves 
 
 Spread o'er it in the golden ray ? 
 
 Doth there the daik-eyed Bayadere 
 
 Move in the dance away ? 
 
 Those glorious lands, those storied piles. 
 
 Those towers of high ancestral fame, 
 
 Those relics of the glorious past 
 
 Need but the prestige of a name. 
 
 The mirage lifts ; mount, dome and tower. 
 
 All vanish in the rising beam. 
 
 And lava flood, and banner-fold, 
 
 Fade from the changing scene. 
 
 The iceberg, and the mountain snow, 
 
 And the wild sea, remain ; 
 
 The Arctic day, without a night, 
 
 is on its march again. 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGELS. 
 
 Guardian angels, guardian angels I 
 
 They are with us night and day, 
 Dropping flowers of love the brightest 
 
 As they watch us on our way. 
 In our sorrows, in our troubles, 
 
 They with care around us throng, 
 Ever guarding us from danger, 
 
 Ever shielding us from wrong. 
 
 Guardian angels, guardian angels .' 
 Are a source of comfort here, 
 
 They prepare our every blessing, 
 Bring us all we hold most dear — 
 
 Turn aside those ills and trials 
 
 Which our spirits could not brook; 
 
 But for them, we all should stumble — 
 Fall at every step we took. 
 
 Guardian angels, guardian angels .' 
 
 Still your benedictions pour, 
 On our hearts the joys of truth, 
 
 Tlie light of virtue ever shower ; 
 Teach us how we may our blessings 
 
 Ever cherish, still increase, 
 And grant that every flower we pluck 
 
 May be a flower of love — of peace — 
 Guardian angels '. 
 
ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 Charles Lamb in one of his essays once divided j 
 men into two classes, those who borrow, and j 
 those who lend : following his example, we are j 
 disposed to be as narrow in our classification of ' 
 poets, whom we divide into those who are ori- 
 ginal and those who are not ; the word orginal, ! 
 however, by no means fully or correctly explains 
 our meaning. Many poets are strikingly original 
 in thought, whose mode of embodiment is as old 
 as the hills. The common sense of mankind is dis- 
 seminated from stereotyped plates, and so is 
 more than half of all the different branches of 
 English literature. There is no marked or radi- 
 cal difference in the style of Pope, Grey, Cowper, 
 Wordswortli, and Southey : — difference there cer- 
 tainly is in expression, in the length and turning 
 of periods, and a thousand minor points, but they 
 all leave the same impression on the mind of the 
 generality of readers, as far as their style is con- 
 cerned. Not so however with Tennyson, Miss Bar. 
 rett (now Mrs. Browning), and Robert Browning 
 himself. The peculiarities and excellencies of 
 the two former are mostly understood and appre- 
 ciated, but the latter is comparatively unknown, 
 especially in America, where his works have only 
 been reprinted during the past year. We should 
 not be surprised if he never attained general 
 popularity anywhere : he is not a stereotype man, 
 but bold and original, not to say bizarre in 
 ever^'thing that he attempts. He evidently 
 holds critics in utter contempt. He does not 
 write for them nor for the world : he wants a 
 " fit audience though few." 
 
 His plays are puzzles to the mass of readers : 
 devoid of what is generaly considered jilot and 
 action and delineation of character, they seem, 
 and to a certain extent are, obscure ; but the 
 obscurity lies as much in the reader as the poet : 
 he needs a metaphysician to xmderstand him 
 thoroughly : he delineated the motives and work- 
 ing of the minds of his various characters with- 
 out any reference to anything else, or anything 
 tangible or earthly : he places himself in their 
 diflferent situations, and thinks as they would ; 
 thinks metaphysiailly, deeply, passionately, but 
 not actively : he never acts : there is no plot in 
 any of his plays that would for a moment be 
 tolerated on the stage : his characters are not 
 men but minds, they wear no clay around them: 
 " Paracelsus," one of his earliest efforts, is a con- 
 
 versation.al, we can hardly call it a dramatic poem, 
 in which he endeavors to depicture the struggles 
 of a noble but restless nature, smitten with a thirst 
 of knowledge, but scorning from the first human 
 love. His bursts of exultation and confidence 
 as to the divinity of his mission — his accountof the 
 growth of his desires, and the certainty of their 
 success — his after depression and fear, uncertainty 
 ^and disappointment, are finely but abstractly 
 drawn : Paracelsus is perhaps too much of a 
 logician, but we must remember that he is a 
 student and dreamer. 
 
 The following passage is not over poetically 
 expressed, but philosophically true : — 
 
 " Truth is within ourselves ; it takes no rise 
 From outward things, whate'er you may believe : 
 There is an inmost centre in us all 
 Where truth abides in fullness ; and around 
 Wall upon wall the gross flesh hems it in, 
 This perfect clear perception — which is truth : 
 A baffling and perverting carnal mesh 
 Blinds it. and makes all error, and To know 
 Rather consists in opening out a way 
 Whence the imprisoned splendor may escape, 
 Than in effecting entry for a light 
 Supposed to be without. 
 
 The lines below must have been written in the 
 full flush and pride of youth : — 
 
 '^ Make no more giants, God! 
 But elevate the race at once ! We ask 
 Just to put forth our strength, our human strength , 
 All starling fairly, all equipped alike, 
 Gifted alike, all eagle-eyed, true-hearted- 
 See if we cannot beat thy angels yet 1" 
 
 "Pippa Passes" is one of the finest eflbrts of 
 the modern muse: the idea of the play is poetical 
 and beautifully executed — Pippa, a poor ophan 
 girl whose life is spent in the drudgery of a silk 
 mill, has a holiday, and goes through Azolo, sing- 
 ing snatches of old songs and h}Tnns. In different 
 parts of the town, different characters have met 
 for good or evil, and just at the turning point Pippa 
 passes in the street singing something applicable 
 their needs and desires — exerting as it were a 
 mesmeric influence over those around her. The 
 lines quoted below have been pronounced the 
 greatest instance of imagination in Browning's 
 works, " their fine audacity carrying us back to 
 the elder period of the English drama." 
 
 " Buried in woods we lay, you recollect, 
 Swift raa the searching tenapest overhea.d. 
 
146 
 
 ROBERT BROWNIXG, 
 
 And ever and anon some bright ■white shaft 
 Burst through the pine tree roof — burnt here and there 
 As if God's Messenger through the dose wood- screen, 
 Plunged and replunrred his weapon at a venture. 
 Feeling for guilty thee and we." 
 
 From a conversation between some poor girls 
 we select the following passages, whose pathos 
 and country-feeling have always made them fa- 
 vorites with us : — 
 
 FIRST GIRL. 
 
 '" Spring's come, and summer's coming, I would wear 
 A long low gown — down to the hands and feet — 
 With plaits here, close about the throat, all day : 
 And all nights lie, the long cool nights in bed — 
 And have new millc to drink — -apples to eat, 
 Deuzans and junctings, leather-coats — ah I should say 
 This is away in the fields miles 1 
 
 THIRD GIRL. 
 
 Say at once 
 You'd be at home- — she'd always be at home 1 — 
 Now comes the glory of the farm among 
 The cherry-orchards, and how April snowed 
 White blossoms on her, as she ran : why, foul 1 — 
 They've rubbed out the_chalk-marksof how tall you were, 
 Twisted your starling's neck— broken his cage, 
 Made a dung-hill of your garden — 
 
 FIRST GIRL. 
 
 They destroy 
 My garden since I left them? — well — perhaps .' 
 1 would have done so, so I hope they have 1 — 
 A fig-tree curled out of our cottage wall — 
 They called it mine, I have forgotten why. 
 It must have been there long ere I was born : 
 Cric — eric — I think I hear the wasps o'erhead. 
 Pricking the papers strung to flutter there 
 And keep off birds in fruit time — long coarse papers, 
 And the wasps eat them, prick them through and through. 
 
 " Colombe's Birth-day" and " The Blot on the 
 Scutcheon" are our favorites of all the plays. 
 The first is full of chivalrous sweetness and sub- 
 dued passion, the growth of which is equal to 
 anything in Shakspeare. The last is full of love 
 and sorrow, and contains the only flesh and blood 
 characters that Browning has yet given the world. 
 Dickens considered it the finest poem of the cen- 
 tury. We know not where to find more sweet- 
 ness, more intensity of love, more of the feelings 
 of youth and first grief, than is scattered through 
 its simple and pathetic scenes. We never read it 
 without tears. 
 
 The minor poems — " Dramatic Lyi-ics" he calls 
 them — are, perhaps, the most peculiar and bizarre 
 of all Browning's writings. They are for the 
 most part lyrical in expression, but always dra- 
 matic in principle, and the utterances of so many 
 
 imaginary persons, rather than the author's. Some 
 of the mare singular enough — "The last Duchess" 
 has been pronounced by one of the first dramatic 
 poets of the age, to be the finest piece of dra. 
 matic acting of the century — the story, and 
 peculiai-ities of the story teller, are developed 
 without any apparent effort : in this respect 
 Browning stands unrivaled, and may challenge 
 comparison with the old masters of the stage. 
 
 "Count Gismond" is a fine piece of narrative 
 verse, exquisitely managed. "The Soliloquy in 
 the Spanish Cloister" is very characteristic of the 
 author. "Artemi's Prologueizes" reads like a 
 translation from the Greek tragedians : the blank 
 verse is sounding, stately, and simple. " The 
 Bishop orders his tomb at St. Praxed's Church" is 
 fully equal to the "St. Simeon Stylites" of Ten- 
 nyson, though differently treated: " Porphyria's 
 Lover," "How they brought the good news from 
 Ghent to Aix," "The Italian in England," "The 
 Englishman in Italy," "The Flight of the Duch- 
 ess" — and " Saul" are all fine, and charactei-istic 
 poems. 
 
 " The Pied Piper of Ilamelin" is a specimen of 
 Browning's diablerie and humor. The follow- 
 ing is a good specimen of its style and versifica- 
 tion :^ 
 
 "rats. 
 " They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. 
 
 And bit the babies in the cradles. 
 And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 
 
 And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, 
 Split open the kegs of salted sprats. 
 Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
 And even spoiled the women's chats 
 
 By drowning their speaking 
 
 With shrieking and squeaking 
 Infifty difFereat sharps and flats." 
 
 " Meeting at Midnight," with which we must 
 
 close our extracts, has many of the characteristics 
 
 of Tennyson, and gives the feeling of " the place 
 
 and hour." 
 
 I. 
 The grey sea, and the long black land ; 
 And the yellow half moon large and low ; 
 And the startled little waves that toss 
 In fiery ringlets from their sleep. 
 As I gain the cove with pushing prow. 
 And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 
 
 II. 
 
 Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ;] 
 Three fields to cross till a farm appears : 
 A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 
 And blue spurt of a lighted match. 
 And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, 
 Than the two hearts beating each to each ! 
 
EARTH'S OLDEST SON. 
 
 BY REV. DR. CHEETER. 
 
 Toe youth of the world was the season of 
 man's greatest age ; perliaps also it was the season 
 of man's greatest wickedness. Three things we 
 know with certainty, amidst all the darkness 
 that hangs over the life of the antediluvians; 
 they lived to a great age, they rose to a great 
 height of depravity, and, except Enoch, they all 
 died. The assurance of a very long life would 
 be to any man either a great temptation to sin, or 
 a great means of holiness ; most likely the former. 
 Because sentence against an evil work is not exe- 
 cuted speedily, therefore the heart of the sons of 
 men is fulli/ set in them to do evil. The charac- 
 ter written for our instruction of the race of man 
 in the world before the flood, that every imagina- 
 tion of the thoughts of his heart icas only evil con- 
 tinually, corresponds unerringly with the inspired 
 declaration by the mouth of Solomon. The sen- 
 tence of death, deferred for so many ages, was al- 
 most unknown, and came at length to be utterly 
 discredited ; they thought not of it; nay, so hardy 
 and secure had long centuries of vigorous exist- 
 ence made them, that, as long as Adam lived, 
 they might have dreamed of indefinite centuries 
 yet to come, the limit of man's life, in all proba- 
 bility, not having been made the'Bubject of pre- 
 cise revelation. For more than seven antedilu- 
 vian generations no death is recorded in the 
 scriptures. There may have been mortal dis- 
 eases, and even the crime of Cain may have been 
 not unfrequently repeated, for the earth teas filed 
 with violence. 
 
 But, for aught we know, tlie funeral of Adam 
 was the first which his posterity attended for 
 nearly a thousand years. There was, indeed, 
 another fimei'al ; the murdered Abel was buried ; 
 but the parents were the only mournei's. With 
 his own hands Adam dug the grave of his young- 
 est, best beloved son ; with his own hands he 
 buried him; and Eve [ilanted the sacred enclos- 
 ure with flowers, and watered it with her tears. 
 The simplest things were then matters of revela- 
 tion ; death and its consequences were so little 
 known, that the angels would have to show Adam 
 what he must do with the bleeding corpse of 
 Abel ; the language of Abraham, bury my dead 
 out of 77iy sight, could only spring from experi- 
 
 ence ; for if death left the bodies of those we love 
 as uncorrupted and as beautiful as life, we should 
 wish to keep them by us, though inanimate and 
 lifeless. The ancient Egyptians had a strange 
 custom of doing this, as it was. They sometimes 
 kept the dead bodies of their friends standing 
 upright in their houses, embalmed so carefullj', 
 that every feature remained as it was in life ; 
 they kept them, Diodorus tells us, " in costly 
 habitations, for the pleasure of beholding them 
 for ever." , 
 
 "WTien Methusaleh was born, Adam was six 
 hundred and eighty -seven years of age. When 
 Adam died, Methusaleh was two hundred and 
 eighty-two. The oldest man lived in the society 
 of the first man 282 years. Methusaleh was the 
 grandfather of Xoah ; and when Noah was born, 
 Methusaleh was 369 years old. Methusaleh and 
 Noah were therefore contemporaries during the 
 long space of 600 years. Noah had never seen 
 xVdam ; the fiither of the second race of mortals had 
 never seen the father of the first. But Lamech, 
 Noah's father, and the first bom of Methusaleh, 
 had lived, while Adam was yet alive, 95 years; 
 and he, as well as Methusaleh, could describe to 
 Noah, from personal knowledge and recollection, 
 the teachings and the venerable grandeur of the 
 Father of them all. 
 
 The death of Adam took place just eighty- 
 seven years before Noah's birth. Of the death of 
 Eve no mention is made in the Scriptures. How 
 long she remained on earth with our great father, 
 by what angelic messengers or revelations from 
 the Almighty they were both prepared for their 
 departure, or what blessings and projihetic warn- 
 ings they left wit li their posterity on leaving the 
 world, we know not. Of all possible circum- 
 stances we have but one, and that the universal 
 record of man, he died. Nor is the name of any 
 woman of the posterity of Adam, from Seth to 
 Noah, handed down to us, nor any glimpse of in- 
 formation as to the part which the wives of the 
 antediluvian patriarchs might have played in the 
 education of tlieir children. Who was the mother 
 of Methusaleh ? and what the lessons taught him 
 in his infancy ? Was the help-meet of Enoch 
 chosen for her piety ? and did she walk, like him, 
 
us 
 
 EARTH'S OLDEST SON". 
 
 with God f are questions ■which curiosity, paus- 
 ing upon the life of the world before the flood, 
 would be glad to have answered. But not a ray 
 of information comes down to us, nor is even a 
 loop-hole left for conjecture, save that the charac- 
 ter .of men like Enoch and Koah is sufficient 
 ground for the supposition, that so far as their 
 minds were left to be moulded by their mothers, 
 the examples set before them, and the influence 
 exerted upon them, must have been holy. 
 
 And now, could we call up the shades of Me- 
 tbusaleh, and converse with the oldest man, 
 what would be the lessons of his experience? 
 Would they be greatly different from ours? 
 Would ihe thoughts and feelings, the events and 
 circumstances, of men whose life was of a thousand 
 years' duration, be very diverse from those of or- 
 dinary mortals, whose span is only threescore years 
 and ten, or would one little limit of existence vary 
 from theirs only as a miniature does from a por- 
 trait, where the features, the passions, the expres- 
 sion, are the same, and only the dimensions of the 
 canvass, the size of the painting, are diff"erent? 
 The temptations of Methusaleh must have been 
 like ours; his christian conflict was the same; 
 his faith was the substance of things hoped for, 
 the evidence of things not seen. But were his 
 trials as heavy as ours, or has the primeval curse 
 gathered a strength in the progress of six thou- 
 sand years, not known in the world's infancy ? 
 What indeed was affliction, disease, old age, with 
 the antediluvians ? Were their trials spread over 
 a larger portion of existence than ours? Did 
 colds and fevers rack the body with pain for a 
 time proportionally longer ? Ere the close of life, 
 did the keepers of the house tremble, and the 
 strong men bow themselves, and the grinders 
 cease because they were few, and were those that 
 looked out of the windows darkened ? Was their 
 infancy extended into our childhood, and their 
 childhood into our manhood, so tbat their youth 
 was our age, and the child died being an hundred 
 years old ? Was the flight of time with them as 
 rapid as with us, and notwithstanding their long 
 life, did they leave it with as strong unwilling- 
 ness, with as deep regret, with as many plans in- 
 complete, and purposes betrayed, as we do ours? 
 The unerring truth of Scripture has made one 
 thing certain ; that, as they grew in years they 
 grew in wickedness, despising the goodness of 
 God, and filling up life with impiety, till all flesh 
 had corrupted their way, and become fitted only 
 for the destruction of the deluge. Their passions 
 were the same as ours, and they gave them their 
 full swing of indulgence ; and in the long sweep 
 of nine hundred years they must have gathered 
 
 a prodigious power, and raged and burned like 
 a flaming volcano. 
 
 The extreme conciseness and paucity of detail 
 in the sacred history concerning the antediluvians 
 are remarkable. We may draw from them a salu- 
 tary lesson. Their space in the world's existence 
 amounted almost to one third of its whole being 
 thus far; for, of the sixty centuries that bave 
 nearly elapsed, from creation's dawn to the pres- 
 ent moment, their busy transit occupied not much 
 less than two thousand years ; and of the four 
 thousand years over which the Bible ranges its 
 sacred perspective, the wickedness of the antedi- 
 luvians consumed almost half; and yet notatwo 
 hundreth part of the inspiration of the Scriptures 
 is conceded to their notice. If they themselves 
 could have drawn up for future times even an 
 abridgement of all that they expected to be 
 known, and thought worthy to be known in re- 
 gard to them, the history of the world before the 
 flood would have occupied more space than that 
 of all ages since ; and we should have had an an- 
 tediluvian Bible, emblazoned all over with the 
 record of their glorious achievements ; and doubt- 
 less it would have been a most striking, a most 
 extraordinary history. All elements of human 
 greatness, as well as of human wickedness, would 
 have entered into its composition ; for there can 
 scarcely be a doubt that the intellectual faculties 
 of men wrought on a scale as gigantic as their 
 passions, so that, by the time the flood came, the 
 earth must have been covered with memorials of 
 most surpassing grandeur. The very first born 
 of Adam, the murderer of his brother, when the 
 volcano of passion had a little burned out, and 
 he had somewhat recovered from the tempest of 
 madness and remorse of conscience, buUdeda city, 
 impressing upon its stupendous architecture all 
 the energy of a mind of gigantic strength, and in- 
 stead of giving it a name that might have con- 
 nected it sacredly with heaven, indulged a mix- 
 ture of paternal fondness and ambition, and called 
 it after the name of his first-boi'n son. But of all 
 the grandeur that might have grown in time to 
 be characteristic of the first city, and of all the 
 countless temples and palaces whelmed beneath 
 the deluge, not a vestige was preserved for after 
 admiration, even in description ; and of all monu- 
 ments of genius, in history', poetry, biography, or 
 whatever other shape the mind of antediluvian 
 antiquity might choose for its creations, though 
 there may have been libraries larger than 
 that of all the Ptolemies, it is doubtful if Noah 
 deigned to take one solitary leaf into the ark, to 
 be preserved amidst the waste of waters. Over 
 all achievements of fame, all wonders of genius, 
 
EARTH'S OLDEST SOIf. 
 
 U9 
 
 all events of history, in -whicli the actora antici- 
 pated ail immortulity of glory, the pen of inspira- 
 tion draws a blank ; it is a parcel of insignificant 
 rubbish; it is like the chaos of an unformed 
 ■world ; it is all passed over in forgetful n ess, and 
 the record of their life is comprehended in the 
 merest affirmation of mortality — he died. 
 
 Only one event is recorded alike of them all, no 
 matter what may have been their situation in 
 life, whether princes of the earth, surrounded 
 ■with grandeur, or beggars in rags upon the dung- 
 hill. They may have amassed wealth beyond 
 the possibility of computation, they may have 
 enlarged the bounds of science, and filled the 
 world with tlie fiime of their discoveries, the3- 
 may have traveled into distant lands, and brought 
 back volumes of knowledge, they may have pos- 
 sessed an eloquence like that of angels, they may 
 have written poetry worthy the abodes of Para- 
 dise, they may have founded empires, and given 
 systems of law to communities, they may have 
 been poets, orators, statesmen, philosophers, they 
 may have done all tliat makes the name of mor- 
 tals great, they may have been the Homers, the 
 Yirgils, tlie Newtous, the Bacons, the Shakspeares, 
 the Miltons of their age ; — but -with all this, the 
 history of their life is reduced down to the bald, 
 unvaried epitaph, he died. There ■would be all 
 varieties of existence among them as among us; 
 some whose rank and connections in life -would 
 place them at the summit of society, and others 
 ■whose powers of conversation made them the ad- 
 mired in every circle, and others whose days 
 ■were crowded with events of wonder, and others 
 ■whose domestic relations were full of beauty and 
 tenderness, and others of a glowing imagination, 
 and others of a vast reach of mind, and others of 
 angelic symmetry and strength of body; — and 
 yet it is all annihilated in that one simple record, 
 he died. 
 
 There -would be, in the progress of antedilu- 
 vian existence, all materials that ever combine to 
 raise the record of a man's days from obscurity and 
 insignificance, all that we ever look upon as con- 
 stituting fit stuff for the tissue of a magnificent 
 history, or a grand and glowing biography ; 
 they must have attained all that in the world's 
 view is worth living for; they must have accom- 
 plished all that in the eye of ambition constitutes 
 a ground for that Immortality of fame which the 
 fallen mind thirsts after; actions to draw a 
 world's applause, inventions and discoveries of 
 surprising ingenuity, systems of science and phi- 
 losophy, all forms of greatness realized ;— and 
 yet it is all disposed of and confined within the 
 annals of two words, he died. 
 
 Once in the flight of ages passed, 
 There lived a man : — and who was he ? 
 — Mortal I howe'er thy lot be cast, 
 That man resembled thee. 
 
 He sa'w whatever thou hast seen, 
 Encountered all that troubles thee ; 
 lie was — whatever thou hast been, 
 He is — whatever thou shall be. 
 
 The annals of the human race. 
 Their ruins since the world began, 
 Of hira afford no other trace 
 Than this,— TnKRK bied a. man. 
 
 No^w it is scarcely possible to read a more af- 
 fecting and instructive lesson than the Holy 
 Spirit has thus transmitted for our consideration, 
 as to the worthlessness of all mere mortal gran- 
 deur in the eye of God. The pleasure, wealth, 
 power, knowledge, glory, of ten centuries crowd- 
 ed into one life, with all the changes and shows 
 of a human existence, continued through a period 
 -which with us suffices for the transit of nearly 
 thirty generations, are just as unnoticed as if they 
 had never had an existence. Except so far as 
 these things bear upon our eternal destiny, 
 it is absolutely regarded as of no account 
 -whatever, -whether a man were poor or rich, 
 learned or unlearned, lofty or lo-wly, -wise or 
 ignorant, -whether he -were a Newton or a Hotten- 
 tot, a Milton or a chimney-sweep, a Bacon or the 
 inmate of a mad-house, an Alexander or a beggar 
 in the street. Considered apart from the fact of 
 his probationary state, the enjoyments or events 
 in the life of the most distinguished of mortals, 
 though it were protracted to a period beyond that 
 of the oldest antediluvian, are absolutely of no 
 more importance, in comparison with the idea 
 of an endless duration, than the movements of a 
 new-born babe the first day of its existence. You 
 might compress the possession of all the royalty 
 and luxury of all the mouarchs of the earth, and 
 all the glory of the whole world's ■\varriora, states- 
 men and nobility, and all the wisdom and fame 
 of all the world's poets and philosophers, into the 
 experience of one mind, and the period of one 
 life, and yet, in itself, and for itself, without re- 
 ference to God, it is nothing, absolutely not 
 worth naming; considered with reference to 
 eternity, it dwindles to a point ; ■with reference 
 to happiness, it is gone like the ticking of a clock, 
 and is of no more value than the pulsation in the 
 veins of the smallest microscopic insect. Tlie 
 only thing of absolute value is that which con- 
 nects us with God, and makes us partake of his 
 holiness; all things else are baubles. Crowns 
 are playthings, dukedoms and dominions of no 
 more importance than the grains of sand that go 
 to make up an aut-hill. 
 
ON THE DEATH OP A DEAR FRIEND. 
 
 B T MRS 
 
 C A N :■} I N o 
 
 i know that thou art blest, 
 Friend of ray soul ! and in the better land ; 
 From troubled scenes of earth I know His hand 
 
 Hath led thee to thy rest 
 
 Brief was thy space of time, 
 And bright the beaming of thy morning sun : 
 Thy conflict's finished and thy victory w^on, 
 
 Ere yet life's noon of prime. 
 
 And thou are laid to rest 
 In the sweet summei-dawn, where early flowers, 
 Wakened to life by softly falling showers, 
 
 Shall bloom above thy breast. 
 
 And winds that gently sigh 
 Thy requiem shall breathe at close of day, 
 
 And joyous birds outpour their sweetest lay 
 Of wild- wood melody. 
 
 But my 301'rowing soul, 
 That mourns a cherished treasure gone for aye ! 
 Earth's glorious beauty fades as day by day 
 
 Life hastens to its goal. 
 
 No more will sun or stars, 
 Or silvery moon shine as in other days ; 
 Death's chilling shadow dims their purest rays- 
 
 Their holy radiance mars. 
 
 But toward the " better land" 
 Constant my longing heart shall follow thee ; 
 And to its blessedness thou'lt welcome me, 
 
 "When falls life's latest sand. 
 Stochhridge, Mass., June ith, 1851. 
 
 THE PRESENCE OF GOD 
 
 til heivenly climes, where harmonies 
 Of holy joy are heard alone, 
 
 Ahriglit, unnumber'd angel throng 
 Surround with harps the throne j 
 
 Or float, from glowing star to star, 
 
 "Without a bound, without a bar. 
 
 In glory now— then far away, 
 Amid the measureless-^the vast j 
 
 'Where burn ths ceaseless wheels of day. 
 Where howls the endless blast. 
 
 Where all is darlc, or all is bright, 
 
 God's presence ever fills their sight. 
 
 Beyond that presence ever near, 
 Their swiftest wing can never fly ; 
 
 Unheard, it meets the spirit ear. 
 Unseen, the spirit eye ; 
 
 Where sounds of life no whisper girC, 
 
 In present Deity they live. 
 
 God is where'er a drop of dew- 
 Hangs trembling on the harebell's leafj 
 
 Where floats a cloud amid the blue, 
 "Where days are bright or brief ; 
 
 Where shines the star and glows the air 
 
 With silent sunlight, God is there. 
 
 And oh I the blissful thought that Se 
 Whose presence fills the wondrous dome 
 
 Of measureless infinity, 
 Should love to fix his home. 
 
 His dearest dwelling-place, within 
 
 The humble heart that sighs for sin. 
 
 The heart that like the sunflower turns 
 To Him at morn— at noon-^at eve-^ 
 
 With silent love to Jesus bums. 
 And longs, for Him, to leave 
 
 The joys of earth— to love him more, 
 
 And sound his praise on Canaan's shore. 
 
€\)t Cili! 36H13. 
 
 S^WG BT MRS. L. A. JONES. 
 
 MUSIC BY LYDIA B. SMITH. 
 
 m^^E^^^^ 
 
 Allegretto Scherzando. -p- , ^^— *«5i # 
 
 :ibz=iz:#=z~^ 
 
 
 
 g^ggllrjfe^fE 
 
 'to the trmbling Li-ly bells, Beneath their leaves so green, 
 all my changeful moods they seem, An e-cho still to tma, 
 
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 Full many a merry 
 Their voi - ces haunt me 
 
 
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 fai-ry dwells, By mor-tal eyes un - seen ; „^";^ y/^ .^;;"'^„'^„^;^^^^ 
 
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THE LILT BELLS. 
 
 
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 heard a mystic strain Of mu-sic creep from flower to flower, Sung by that el - fin 
 
 hearts -vvithhope beat high ; And when de-jec - tion's blight we own, They give back sigh for 
 
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 train. . . . With - in the trembling Li-ly 
 sigh. . . . AVith - in, <fcc. 
 
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 rm~rrzri rj 
 
 bells, Be - neath their leaves so 
 
 
 
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 Full ma-ny a mer-ry 
 
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 fai - ry dwells, By mor - tal eyes un- 
 
 
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WILLIAM B SPRAGUE. D D. 
 
''I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY." 
 
 BT REV. DR. SPRAQUE 
 
 It is, I suppose, universally admitted that the 
 love of life is natural to man ; and there are cer- 
 tainly many things connected with the present 
 state of existence to render life desirable. The 
 world in which we dwell has been admirably 
 fitted up for our convenience and comfort ; and 
 there are good gifts constantly coming down 
 from the Father of mercies, to sustain and cheer 
 us during our residence here. There are oppor- 
 tunities here for doing good ; for atlministering 
 relief to the needy and wretched ; for aiding the 
 cause of truth and piety ; and thus glorifying 
 God in our body and spirit. There are the means 
 of working out our own salvation ; of laying up 
 treasure in heaven that will satisfy and endure ; 
 and even the afflictions of the present become a 
 furnace in which the soul is prepared to shine 
 with increasing beauty and brightness in the fu- 
 ture. And there are some of the Christian graces, 
 for the development of whicii this is the only 
 theatre ; for when injury ceases, there will be no 
 occasion for forgiveness ; and when suffering 
 ceases, there will be no demand for patience. 
 Indeed, there is good reason why every individual 
 should be thankful for his present existence: 
 even though he perverts it to his eternal ruin, 
 yet the hours of life are golden hours ; they are 
 given to be a blessing, and praise is due to Him 
 who bestows them. 
 
 I know, that when the old man is put off and 
 the new man put on, there is a sense in wliich 
 the Boul is brought out of darkness into marvel- 
 ous light. The mind takes far more distinct 
 and comprehensive views of divine truth than it 
 ever did before : it has a spiritual discernment 
 imparted to it, by means of which what had be- 
 fore seemed faint and shadowy, becomes substance 
 and life. But even tiiat marvelous light into 
 which the new-born soul enters when he is de- 
 livered from the blindness of spiritual death is 
 itself darkness, when compared with the radiant 
 manifestations of Jehovah's glory in the upper 
 world. Here the Christian, in his best state, 
 sees through a glass darkly. How very little 
 does he know of the plan of God's operations ! 
 How he is confounded at almost every step by 
 
 the occurrence of events whose meaning he is 
 utterly unable to explain ! How many things, 
 after his best efforts to comprehend them, he is 
 obliged to resolve into God's mysterious and un- 
 fathomable sovereignty ! And in his contempla- 
 tions of God's truth, as it is revealed in his Word, 
 how frequently is he perplexed with doubt in 
 respect to the actual meaning of the Spirit; and 
 when he attempt? to launch out at all beyond the 
 Revelation, how quickly does he find himself 
 sinking in a gulf of conjecture and uncertainty ! 
 How humbling to the pride of the intellect, how 
 indicative of the narrowness of its conceptions, to 
 find himself obliged to receive different truths. 
 which he knows must be consistent with each 
 other, which yet he is perfectly inadequate to re- 
 concile ; tocatchjust an indistinct glance of some 
 great field of truth, and then perhaps find his 
 vision immediately obstructed by intervening 
 clouds ! But then how delightful the contrast 
 when he reaches heaven ! There, many a dark 
 page in the history of God's dispensations on 
 earth will be illumined by a clear and satisfying 
 light. There he will know why he had anguish 
 when he longed for rest ; why his plans were de- 
 feated by which he would fain have glorified God ; 
 why Zion was left so long to mourn, and the 
 ch.-iriot- wheels of her King were so slow in their 
 approach, when God's people were upon tlieir 
 knees praying and watching for the dawn of a 
 brighter day. And the mysteries of Redemption 
 — O, how they will unfold to his deliglited eye ; 
 how the great and holy truths which he knew so 
 imperfectly here will burst upon him in their 
 full brightness, and in the harmony of perfect 
 proportions ! Tliere, there will be no uncertainty, 
 no confusion, no darkness at all. This seeing 
 through a glass darkly is the business of earth ; 
 seeing face to face will be the business of heaven. 
 There the vision will be perfect ; anitheSunof 
 the moral universe will shine with immortal 
 splendor. 
 
 I bless God for all the light which he gives 
 me now ; but I would not live alway, because I 
 have the assurance that a brighter light will 
 shine hereafter. I love to bend over the mys- 
 
154 
 
 I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY." 
 
 teries of Providence and the mysteries of Redemp- 
 tion ; and sometimes a field of glory opens sud- 
 denly upon me where thick darkness had always 
 brooded before ; but I own that I have my eye 
 and my heart upon a world where I hope to live 
 for ever amidst the brighter beams of immortal 
 truth. I would not live alway, because I desire 
 to get rid of this painful ignorance and doubt 
 which now oppress me ; because I would fain be- 
 hold mj God as he is, and see light in his light. 
 
 I would not live alway, because I would not 
 always be half a sinner and half a saint. I hate 
 this body of sin and death, and in God's best time 
 I would be glad to throw it down. I long to be 
 delivered from these wandering thoughts ; from 
 these expressions of devotion into which my cold 
 and reluctant heart will not throw itself; from 
 this feebleness and inconstancy of effort in doing 
 the will of Him who hath died for me. I would 
 be conversant only with holy objects ; I would 
 be the subject only of holy exercises ; I would be 
 engaged only in holy employments ; and I would 
 not live alway, because then this sweetest, noblest 
 desire of my heart could never be fulfilled. 
 
 Again : ever since sin entered to blight the 
 beauty of Jehovah's works, the human body has 
 been characterized by a tendency to decay. 
 Look at the man writhing in bodily anguish ; 
 bending under decrepitude ; fainting from bodily 
 exhaustion ; and say whether sin has not mixed 
 up its poison in the very blood that courses 
 through our veins ? And if the body is weak, so 
 is the mind also. It is conscious, indeed, of hav- 
 ing within itself a principle of greatness ; it is 
 sometimes surprised by the exercise of its own 
 faculties; but after all, many of its operations are 
 exceedingly feeble and unsatisfying. And there 
 is a proportional weakness in human virtue; for 
 how frequently is virtue conquered and carried 
 away captive in the war with temptation ! 
 
 Since then the Christian, while he remains here, 
 is comparatively feeble in his whole nature, how 
 reasonable that he should aspire to a state in 
 which he shall exchange his present imbecility for 
 enduring and ever-growing strength! At the 
 threshold of heaven he will drop this crazy, cor- 
 ruptible, inglorious body, and ere long will re- 
 ceive in its place a body endued with undecaying 
 vigor, and clothed with unfading beauty, a body 
 which may mock at the power of death ; and 
 which can move as if upon the lighting to execute 
 God's high commissions in other worlds. And 
 the intellect— Oh, how it will brighten and ex- 
 pand ; how it will rise to that which is lofty, and 
 sink into that which is profound, and never tire 
 either in the sublimity of its excursions or the 
 depth of its researches ! And the moral facultioa 
 
 — with what incalculable energy will they ope- 
 rate, when God's Spirit has given them a perfect 
 direction, and there is all the beauty and glory of 
 the third heavens to call them into exercise ! I 
 ask again, is it not reasonable that the Christian 
 should hail the day when he shall be taken up to 
 that region of immortal strength ? 
 
 I would not live alway, because I do not wish 
 always to be an heir to these clustering infirmi- 
 ties of mortality. I would bear patiently the 
 pains, the groans, the tossings, to which this poor 
 body is subjected ; but I would rather be beyond 
 their reach, and wear a body that could bid de- 
 fiance to disease ; that could shine with an angel's 
 beauty, and move with an angel's strength. I 
 would not complain of the feebleness of my men- 
 tal operations ; and yet I would hail with grati- 
 tude the expansion of these powers into some- 
 thing yet greater and brighter: 1 would prefer 
 the noble thoughts of glorified manhood, to the 
 narrow conceptions of this infancy of my existence. 
 I would be thankful for what God has made me : 
 and humble for what I have made myself ; but I 
 would wait in exulting hope of a complete renova- 
 tion of my nature, in which I shall have strength 
 imparted to me to bear an eternal weight of glory. 
 
 I would not live alway, because I cannot bear 
 the sound of dying groans ; because I instinctive- 
 ly shrink back from the bedside where my be- 
 loved friend is going through with his last agonies 
 I would not live alway, because I choose stability 
 rather than vicissitude ; and even when my hopes 
 of earthly good are the brightest, I never know 
 but that it is the harbinger of dire eclipse. I 
 would not live alway, because my spirit is offend- 
 ed by the scenes of discord and contention which 
 prevail around me ; — scenes in which I am com- 
 pelled to mingle, and which, perhaps, in my 
 weakness I may be left to promote. I would 
 not live alway, because I see in the distance a 
 region that is free from storms; — a region in 
 which not even a cloud lowers ; and I would 
 breathe that balmy atmosphere : I would walk 
 beneath the very throne of the Prince of Peace : 
 1 would be able to look around me, to look 
 before me, and reflect that there is not an element 
 of tempest in all that portion of God's dominions 
 in which I am to have my everlasting home. 
 
 In this mixed state of being, the best men are 
 frequently brought into contact with the bad ; 
 nay, even with the worst. It sometimes happens 
 that the Christian has his lot cast in a family, 
 one or more of whose members is openly vicious 
 and profane ; and sometimes even the Christian 
 parent is compelled to the reflection that his own 
 child, whom he meets every day in the discharge 
 of parental oflSces, is a blasphemer or a profligate. 
 
"I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 
 
 155 
 
 But in addition to this, even the fellowship of 
 Christians in this world is a fellowship of miser- 
 ably imperfect men. What Christian has not had 
 his heart wounded by the inconsideration, the 
 wickedness, it may be the absolute treachery, of 
 some one who has claimed to be acknowledged 
 as a brother in Christ? What Christian has 
 not sometimes been ready to ask, while he has 
 wept over the spectacle of a religious community 
 arming themselves witli the weapons of carnal 
 warfare, " Is there faith on the earth ?" What 
 Christian but has sometimes felt the need of 
 sympathy and co-operation, when it has been 
 withheld ; and when he would fain have opened 
 his heart to the invigorating influence of a godly, 
 fraternal fellowship, has found himself well nigh 
 chilled in the freezing atmosphere of indifference 
 and formality ? 
 
 Not so in the world which Christian faith an- 
 ticipates. There all will be bound together in 
 the cords of love; all will be helpers together of 
 each other's joy. All— and who will they be ? 
 First, all the ransomed out of every nation, and 
 kindred, and tongue, and people. Every patriarch 
 every prophet, every apostle, every martyr 
 every saint of every age, and clime, and condition, 
 will be there. Next, there will be the native in- 
 habitants of heaven, who have always been loyal 
 to their King: they will continue to be, as they 
 ever have been, at home on the fields of immor- 
 tality. Jesus, the dying Lamb, the God and Hope 
 of the world, the enthroned and all-gracious 
 Saviour, will be there, in mild and heavenly 
 majesty ; carrying forward the vast purposes of 
 his mediatorial reign, and pouring forth endless 
 benedictions over the whole host of the glorified. 
 This vast assembly will constitute one glorious 
 fraternity of exalted minds. And is it any wonder 
 that the Ciiristian should desire to be among 
 them ? Is it strange that, when rivers of waters 
 run down his eyes because men keep not God's 
 law ; when his heart bleeds from wounds that 
 have been inflicted by hands with which his own 
 had been joined in the bond of covenant engage- 
 ments, — is it strange, I ask, that he should be 
 more than willing, in God's best time, to join the 
 eternal fellowship of iieaven ? 
 
 I would not live alway, because I would escape 
 from a companionship with those who despise my 
 Redeemer and his salvation; because I do not 
 wish my ear to be always accustomed to sounds 
 
 of blasphemy, or mine eye to spectacles of pro- 
 fligacy and crime. I would not live alway, be- 
 cause even the communion of saints on earth is 
 imperfect and often embittered ; and I never 
 know what either I or those with whom I am as- 
 sociated may be left to do, to destroy each other's 
 peace. I would not live alway, because I expect 
 to meet in heaven those Christian friends whom 
 I love below, purified from their dross, and ad- 
 vanced to a state of absolute perfection ; because 
 my bosom burns with a desire to mingle with tlie 
 great and the good of other ages; because I 
 would fain see Abraham, and Moses, and Paul, 
 face to face ; because I would hear tlie martyrs 
 tell with their own lips the story of their suffer- 
 ings and their triumphs, and would join them in 
 a tribute of thanksgiving for all-sustaining and 
 all-conquering grace. No; I would not live aV 
 way, because the society of heaven is better than 
 the society of earth. I had rather see my Re- 
 deemer as he is, and gaze upon his unveiled glory, 
 than to hold communion even with Him through 
 the channel of his ordinances. 
 
 But I hear some one saying, " There is one thing 
 which perhaps you have forgotten : tliere is a 
 dark boundary — not a mountain, but a flood, that 
 lies between earth and heaven ; and that is to be 
 passed before the Christian conqueror can be 
 crowned." No, I have not forgotten that : I stand 
 upon an eminence now, with that flood rolling 
 and raging beneath my feet ; and even here I re- 
 peat, I would not live alway. For I know that 
 my Redeemer liveth, and 1 rely upon him to bear 
 me over ; and if I may only rest upon his arm, I 
 can walk firmly, though the tempest howls above, 
 and the waters roar around. No, I would not 
 live alway. — Rise, ye dark and stormy billows, to 
 frighten my poor soul, as much as ye will : Rise, 
 ye fiends of darkness, and make your last des- 
 perate effort to terrify and overwiielm ; and in 
 the courage of faitli I dare say even to you, I 
 would not live alway. 
 
 " Jesus, the vision of thy face 
 Hath overpowering charms ; 
 Scarce shall I feel death's cold embrace. 
 If Christ be in my arms. 
 
 " Then, when ye hear my heartstrings break, 
 How sweet the minutes roll. 
 A mortal paleness on my cheek. 
 And glory in my soul !" 
 
PERSONAL CHAKACTER OF DR. CHALMERS.* 
 
 The new volume of the Life of Dr. Chalmers 
 embraces his professorial appointments in St. 
 Andrew's and Edinburgh, and his connection with 
 the Veto and Church extension movements in the 
 Scottish Establishment ; and includes numerous 
 notices of and correspondence with the notables 
 of the period. 
 
 Chabneis was appointed to the chair of Moral 
 Philosophy in the University of St. Andrew's in 
 1823, and, exhausted as he was by his super- 
 human labors in Glasgow, the change from its 
 noisy thoroughfares to the grassy streets of the 
 once archiepiscopal city must have been grateful 
 in the extreme. He shook the dust from the chair 
 to which he was appointed, and entered on his 
 duties with characteristic energy and zeal. Al- 
 though from " hand to mouth," to use his own 
 phrase, in the preparation of his lectures, the 
 students (whose numbers he doubled) were enrap- 
 tured with his eloquence, and gave vent to their 
 satisfaction by very unacademic applause ; and 
 at the conclusion of the session they threatened 
 a presentation of plate. "Whilst prohibiting the 
 latter proceeding, the professor dealt the follow- 
 ing blow against 
 
 AMATEUR STUDENTS. 
 
 There is one topic more which I shall advert to, and that 
 is, to certain liberties which some very few of my visitors 
 have indulged in amid the general propriety that has char- 
 acterized their attendance. I acquit my stated attendants, 
 indeed, from the charge altogether ; but there have been 
 occasional hearers who, by coming in late, have inflicted a 
 sore annoyance on the business of the class. It is too late 
 now to set up any practical check against an inroad so un- 
 seemly, but I hold it of importance to the cause of academic 
 discipline, that even now I should make averment of the prin- 
 ciple, that not one freedom can be tolerated in a visitor, which 
 ought not also to be permitted to any of the regular students. 
 
 And on the same ground, gentlemen, I must allude to the 
 further indecorum of yesterday. It is not of a certain ob- 
 streporousness of yours that I now speak, against which 
 I have already made my remonstrances during the progress 
 of our course, and which perhaps, if permissible at all, 
 might, by way of easing the restraint under which you have 
 been laid, be humored with one tremendous bellow at the 
 termination of it. But what I speak of is the presence of 
 a certain noisy admirer, who added his testimony to the 
 general voice, and whose presence within these walls was 
 so monstrously out of keeping with the character and busi- 
 ness of a place of literature. The bringing in of that dog 
 was a great breach of all academic propriety. I dared not 
 trust myself at the time with the utterance of the indigna- 
 tion that I then actually felt, but it might be lowering your 
 
 * Memoirs of the Life of Thomas Chalmers, D.D., LL.D. 
 Vol. III. 
 
 sense of those decencies that belong to a university, were I 
 to pass it unnoticed now. A visit from the first nobleman 
 of the land were disgraceful to us all, if it turned out to be 
 a visit from the nobleman and his dog. — P. 10. 
 
 The mention of student life carries us to a story 
 which occurred in Edinburgh long after Chalmers 
 had left St. Andrew's. It refers to 
 
 THE TROUBLES OF A DENTIST. 
 
 The pedestrian approbation accompanied Chalmers 
 through the whole of his academical career. After the dis- 
 ruption of the Church, temporary premises were taken for 
 the classes in connection with the new body. These prem- 
 ises were immediately adjoining to the house of an emi- 
 nent dentist, a thin partition wall dividing the room in which 
 he operated upon his patients from that in which Dr. Chal- 
 mers lectured to his class. The rutling of the one room 
 penetrated into the other, and disturbed at times its delicate 
 and nervous operations. Mr. N. at last, and in the gentlest 
 terms, complained to Dr. Chalmers, asking him whether 
 he could not induce his students to abate the vehemence of 
 their applause. As Dr. Chalmers entered his class room on 
 the day after that on which this complaint was made, a 
 suppressed smile lurked in his expressive countenance. He 
 rose, told the students of his interview with Mr. N., ajid, 
 after requesting that the offence should not be repeated, 
 warned them most significantly against annoying or pro- 
 voking a gentleman who was soianoh in t/ietnoutks of th£ 
 public— T. 60. 
 
 From 1734 up to the time of Chalmer's induc- 
 tion, the professors had been wont to distribute 
 amongst themselves certain surplus funds, desig- 
 nated Candlemas dividends ; the " Candlemas 
 money amounted to about a third of his income, 
 but, having doubts as to the legality of its appro- 
 priation, he declined receiving his share during 
 the whole time of his residence there. In 1828, 
 when he had taken up his abode in Edinburgh, 
 and when the untouched sum at his credit amount- 
 ed to upwards of VOO/., he received from the 
 Royal Commissioners appointed to visit the 
 Scotch colleges a communication stating " that, 
 under all the circumstances, there is no good rea- 
 son why Dr. Chalmers, who has now ceased to 
 be a professor, should not receive and accept of 
 the sums so due to him ;" and on the faith of this 
 declaration he took the money. The Commis- 
 sioners, however, published their report without 
 alluding to the part which Chalmers had acted, 
 and gravely averred that "the principals and 
 professors appear to have made these appropria- 
 tions without any authority." And this was the 
 occasion of Chalmer's coming before the public 
 with a spirited pamphlet, explanatory of his 
 position in the matter. 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTER OF DR. CHALMERS. 
 
 167 
 
 Although dissatisfied with the state of afifairs 
 in St. Andrew's, Chalmers declined no less than 
 three offers of removal. One was the chair of 
 Moral Philosophy in the London University, ten- 
 dered through the recomraeudation of Lord 
 Brougham ; and tlie other two were the livings 
 of St. Cuthbert'?, Edinburgh, and the West Par- 
 ish, Greenock, the latter being the richest living 
 in Scotland. Tlie first was the offer of the Mar- 
 quis of Lansdowne, the second that of the patron, 
 Sir M. S. Stewart ; and he grounded his declina- 
 tions on his preference for academic labor. 
 
 During his connection with St. Andrew's he made 
 occasional preaching-excursions ; and to two of 
 these we shall now advert. Here is an admirable 
 sketch of 
 
 THE WEARINESS OF OVER-CIVILITT. 
 
 Miss never asks the same thing twice of me, but she 
 
 raalces up for this hy the exceeding multitude of these 
 things : such as, if ray tea is right ; if I would like more 
 sugar; if I take cream; if I am fond of little or much 
 cream ; if I would take butter to my cake ; when I take 
 to loaf, if I take butter to my white bread ; if I move from 
 one part of the room to another, whether I would not like 
 to sit on the sofa ; after I have sat there, whether I would 
 like to stretch out my legs upon it ; after I have dons that, 
 whether I would let her wheel it nearer the fire ; when I 
 move to my bedroom, whether the fire is right, whether I 
 would like the blinds wound up, &c., &c. She at the same 
 time most religiously abstains from repetitions, but to reply 
 even once to her indefinite number of proposals is fatigue 
 enough, I can assure you ; nor is the fatigue at all alle- 
 viated when, instead of coming fortli a second time with 
 each, she comes forth with a most vehement asseveration, 
 accompanied by uplifted hands, that she will let me do as 
 I like, that she will not interfere, that I shall have liberty 
 in her house ; and when I said that I behoved me to make 
 calls immediately after dinner, she declared that I would 
 have leave to go away with my dinner in my mouth, if I so 
 chose. I have got the better of all this by downright laughing, 
 for I verily think now that the case is altogether de.«perate- 
 
 Chalmers had agreed to preach in behalf of 
 a Sunday-school in Stockport, and, on proceeding 
 thither, ascertained that he was only one item in 
 a series of entertainments. His journal account 
 of the orchestral interview is amusing. 
 
 Sunilay. — Sadly annoyed all last night with their quack- 
 ish advertisement. I visited the school at one, and the 
 sermon was to begin at half-past five. Could see a certain 
 hard and ungracious reception of me, perhaps from the 
 consciousness of something wrong on their part. Mr. M., 
 my correspondent, did not appear for some time, and when 
 he did, there was a blush in his countenance and a tremu- 
 lousness in his voice. I was in the midst of managers, and 
 the stairs to the different rooms of their immense fabric 
 were crowded with scholars. I asked what they were 
 about ; and, wiih some hesitation and difficulty, they told 
 me they had been practising for the music of this evening. 
 When I went to the great preaching-hall, I found that there 
 was just this practising before an immense assemblage ; 
 on which I called out, in the distinct hearing of those about 
 me, that there was an air of charlatanry about the whole 
 affair, and that I did not like it at all. I would stay no 
 longer in that place, and went along with them to the 
 
 committee-room, where there were about twenty managers 
 and others. I said that I had come from a great distance 
 on their account, and had therefore purchased the privilege 
 of telling them plain things ; that they should have con- 
 sulted me ere they had made their arrangements ; that I 
 was quite revolted by the quackery of their advertisement ; 
 tliat they had made me feel myself to be one of the per- 
 formers in a theatrical exhibition ; that what they liad 
 done stood in the same relation to what they ought to have 
 done, that an advertisement of Dr. Solomon's did to the 
 respectable doings of the regular faculty, &o., &c. 1 was 
 firm, and mild withal — they confused and awkward, and 
 in ditliculties. I said, that still I would preach, but that I 
 thought it right to state what 1 felt. On the other question 
 of the urgency, and the pleading a promissory obligation 
 
 on my part, I have as yet had no reckoning I 
 
 got a second letter from a minister on the subject of the in- 
 decent exhibition of Stockport. I had got one the night 
 before from another minister on the same subject. It seems 
 that many serious people here are scandalized at it, and 
 that many eyes are fixed upon my conduct in regard to it. 
 I sent for Mr. M., that I might hold conversatian with him. 
 Mr. M. sent back word that he could not possibly come ; 
 and why? becau.se he was presiding at a dinner given be- 
 fore sermon to the gentlemen of the orchestra, and he was 
 just in the middle of a speech to them when my message 
 came. On this, Mr. Marsland and Mr. Grant walked down 
 to Stockport, and told Mr. M. of my difficulties and wishes ; 
 that I would not comply with their arrangement until it 
 was altered. They wished my prayers and sermon to ba 
 mixed up with their music, me all the while in the pulpit. 
 I said, that I would not be present at their music at all ; 
 that my service should be separated altogether from their 
 entertainment;* that I should pray, preach, and pray 
 again in continuo— not entering the pulpit till the moment 
 of my beginning, and retiring from it so soon as I should 
 have ended. The gentlemen had their interview with Mr. 
 M., and he was very glad to comply I dined at half-past 
 two, retired for an hour to prepare, drank coffee after five. 
 The two gentlemen walked before, to be at the music. The 
 two ladies went down with me in the carriage at six. "Will 
 you believe it ? an orchestra of at least one hundred people, 
 three rows of female singers, in which were two professional 
 female singers, so many professional male singers, a num- 
 ber of amateurs : and I now offer you a list of the instru- 
 ments, so far as I have been able to ascertain them — one 
 pair of bass drums, two trumpets, bassoon, organ, serpents, 
 violins without number, violoncellos, bass viols, llutes, haut- 
 boys. I stopped in the minister's room till it was over. Went 
 to the pulpit— prayed, preached, retired during the time of 
 the collection, and again prayed. Before I left my own 
 private room they fell-to again with most tremendous fury, 
 and the likest thing to it which I recollect is a great mili- 
 tary band on the Castlehill of Edinburgh. 1 went up with 
 the ladies again in the carriage. They were far franker 
 and pleasanter than before. Supped after Mr. Marsland's 
 return. lie told me that the collection was 39sl Went 
 to bed between eleven and twelve. I forgot to say that the 
 number of my hearers was 3..JO0. 
 
 Monday.— I am told that the Stockport people, suspicious 
 of my dislike to exhibitions, blazoned and advertised much 
 less than they would have done : and the interpretation 
 "iven by some to this is, lest it should meet my observation 
 
 • Amongst those whose performances were to be mixed 
 up with the sermon and prayers, the name of a Miss Cheese 
 had been announced ; and Dr. Chalmers reinforced his 
 argument with the managers by telling them that in his 
 country the cheese was never served till the solid part of 
 the entertainment was over. 
 
158 
 
 PERSONAL CHARACTER OF DR. CHALMERS, 
 
 too soon. Found a company in David Grant's, and he kept 
 me up till two in the morning. A kind-hearted, rattling 
 fellow. N.B. The collection is now 401Z.— P. 50. 
 
 Chalmers was appointed to the professorship of 
 theology in Edinburgh in 1S28. He mentions that, 
 in preparation for its duties, he got up at six o'clock, 
 in order to have time for " a little of Greek, Latin, 
 and Hebrew each day." Alluding to the prospect 
 of diminished revenues and other untovrard fea- 
 tures, he says : " I foresee the coldness of friends, 
 the controversy of foes, and probably the decline 
 of earthly comfort, in my approaching connection 
 ■with Edinburgh." The salary of the professor of 
 theology at the period of liis induction was 200/. ; 
 but at the end of the first session the " amateur 
 students," headed by Dr. Morehead, an English 
 clergyman, presented a thank-offering of 202Z. 
 
 Dr. Hanna adverts copiously to the Church con- 
 troversies that took place within the sphere of 
 his narrative, but as they are of ecclesiastical 
 rather than general interest, we can touch only 
 on salient points. In 1S32 Chalmers was nomi- 
 nated Moderator of the General Assembly of the 
 Church. In 1835 Chalmers was in the midst of 
 his great and favorite scheme of Church exten- 
 sion. We find a magnificent passage in a sei'mon 
 delivered about this time in anticipation of the 
 breaking out of cholera. The topic insisted on 
 is the 
 
 CONNECTION BETWEEN PRAYER AND THE UNIFORMITY OF 
 NATURE. 
 
 Instead of propounding our doctrine in the terms of a gene- 
 ral argument, let us try the effect of a few special instances, 
 by wliich, perhaps, we might more readily gain the consent 
 of your understanding to our views. 
 
 When the sigh of the midnight storm sends fearful agita- 
 tion into a mother's heart, as she thinks of her sailor- boy now 
 exposed to its fury on the waters of a distant ocean, these 
 stern disciples of a hard and stern infidelity would, on this 
 notion of arigid and impracticable constancy in nature, for- 
 bid her prayers, holding them to be as impotent and vain, 
 though addressed to the God who has all the elements in 
 His hand, as if Ufte;l up with senseless importunity to the 
 raving elements themselves. Yet nature would strongly 
 prompt the aspiration ; and if there be truth in our argument, 
 there is nothing in the constitution of the universe to forbid 
 its accomplishment. God might answer the prayer, not by 
 unsettling the order of secondary causes — not by reversing 
 any of the wonted successions that are known to take place 
 in the ever-restless, ever-heaving atmosphere — not by sen- 
 sible miracle among those nearer footsteps which the phi- 
 losopher has traced, but by the touch of an immediate hand 
 among the deep recesses of materialism, which are beyond 
 the ken of all his instruments. It is thence that the 
 Sovereign of nature might bid the wild uproar of the ele- 
 ments into silence. It is there that the virtue comes out of 
 Him, which passes like a winged messenger from the in- 
 visible to the visible ; and, at the threshold of separation 
 between these two regions, impresses the direction of the 
 Almighty's will on the remotest cause which science can 
 mount her way to. From this point in the series, the path 
 of descent along the line of nearer and proximate causes 
 may be rigidly invariable ; and in respect of the order, the 
 
 precise undeviating order, irherewith they follow each 
 other, all things continue as they were from the beginning 
 of the creation. The heat, and the vapor, and the atmos- 
 pherical precipitates, and the consequent moving forces by 
 which either to raise anew tempest, or to lay an old one, 
 all these may proceed, and without one hairbreadth of de- 
 viation, according to the successions of our established 
 philosophy, yet each be but the obedient messenger of that 
 voice which gave forth its command at the fountain-head 
 of the whole operation; which commissioned the vapors to 
 ascend from the ends of the earth, and made lightnings for 
 the rain, and brought the wind out of his treasuries. These 
 are the palpable steps of the process ; but an unseen in- 
 fluence, behind the farthest limit of man's boasted discover- 
 ies, may have set them a-going. And that influence may 
 have been accorded to prayer — the power that moves Him 
 who moves the universe ; and who, without violence to the 
 known regularities of nature, can either send forth the 
 hurricane over the face of the deep, or recall it at His 
 pleasure. Such is the joyful persuasion of faith, and proud 
 philosophy cannot disprove it. A woman's feeble cry may 
 have overruled the elemental war, and hushed into silence 
 this wild frenzy of the winds and the waves, and evoked 
 the gentler breezes from the cave of their slumbers, and 
 wafted the vessel of her dearest hopes, and which held the 
 first and fondest of her earthly treasures, to its desired 
 haven.— P. 320. 
 
 During the period embraced in this volume, 
 Chalmers' literary efforts were confined for the 
 most part to the production of his " Political Eco- 
 nomy," and his " Bridgewater Treatise." Econo- 
 mics was a congenial subject, but yet it is the one 
 department of his labors least appreciated by the 
 public. We observe that Mr. Mills rescues one 
 of his theories from unmerited obloquy, and pos- 
 sibly other -writers of acknowledged eminence 
 may do the same for other isolated portions ; 
 but, as a whole, Chalmers' system does not seem 
 to have been adopted by any modern school. 
 That a right moral is necessary to a right civil 
 order of things, will be admitted; but similarly 
 right morals are necessary to the right health of 
 the animal body, yet no amount of ethics or 
 knowledge of the dependence of hygiene on ethics 
 will prevent or cure organic and functional de- 
 rangements. For prophylactic or remedial mea- 
 sures we must have recourse to the sciences of 
 anatomy, physiology, and pathology ; and these 
 must be studied independently of all moral con- 
 siderations. In like manner, probably, the 
 structure, functions, and abnormal states of the 
 social system must be investigated in their in- 
 herent subtleties, witliout reference to moral cu- 
 rative treatment. " The extent and stability of 
 the national resources' may be seriously affected 
 without any infraction being made on the deca- 
 logue, and exclusive reference to ethics may tend 
 to obscure the more profound problems of the 
 science. 
 
 But leaving this dry subject, we shall now col- 
 lect such sketches of the " notables" of the day as 
 are to be found scattered through the volume. 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTER OF DR. CHALMERS. 
 
 159 
 
 Scott and Chalmers appear to have met only 
 once in public, namely, on the platform of the 
 School of Arts ; whether they met in private is 
 not stated. 
 
 Coleridge and most of the undermentioned 
 lions -were seen by Chalmers during his visits to 
 London. 
 
 Thursday.— V^s spent three hours with the great Cole- 
 ridge. He lives with Dr. and Mrs. Gillman, on the same 
 footing that Cowper did with the Unwins. His conversa- 
 tion, which flowed in a mighty, unremitting stream, is most 
 astonishing, but, I must confess, to me still unintelligible. 
 I caught occasional glimpses of what he would be at, but 
 mainly he was very far out of all sight and all sympathy. 
 I hold it, however, a great acquisition to have become ac- 
 quainted with him. You know that Irving sits at his feet, 
 and drinks in the inspiration of every syllable that falls 
 from him. There is a secret and to me as yet unintelligible 
 communion of spirit betwixt them, on the ground of a cer- 
 tain German mysticism and transcendental lake-poetry 
 which 1 am not yet up to. Gordon says it is all unintelli- 
 gible nonsense ; and I am sure a plain Fife man as uncle 
 " Tammas,'' had he been alive, would have pronounced it the 
 greatest buff he had ever heard in his life. 
 
 Returning from this interview, Dr. Chalmers remarked 
 to Mr. Irving upon the obscurity of Mr. Coleridge's utter- 
 ances, and said that, for his part, he liked to see all sides 
 of an idea before taking up with it. " Ha 1" said Mr. Irv- 
 ing in reply, "you Scotchmen would handle an idea as 
 ■ a butcher handles an ox. For my part, I love to see an 
 idea looming through the mist." 
 
 Alluding to his preaching in London during 
 this visit, Chalmers says — 
 
 Mr. Coleridge, and many other notables whom I cannot 
 recollect, were among my hearers. Coleridge I saw in the 
 vestry both before and after service ; he was very compli- 
 mentary. 
 
 On an after-visit to the metropolis he remarks — 
 
 Half-an-hour with Coleridge was filled up without inter- 
 mission by one continuous flow of eloquent discourse from 
 that prince of talkers. He began, in answer to the common 
 inquiries as to his health, by telling of a fit of insensibility 
 in which, three weeks before, he had lain for thirty-five 
 minutes. As sensibility returned, and before he had opened 
 his eyes, he uttered a sentence about the fugacious nature 
 of consciousness, from which he passed to a discussion of 
 the singular relations between the soul and the body. 
 Asking for Mr. Irving, but waiting for no reply, he poured 
 out an eloquent tribute of his regard— mourning pathetically 
 that such a man should be so throwing himself away. Mr. 
 Irving's book on the "Human Nature of Christ" in its 
 analysis was minute to absurdity: one would imagine 
 that the pickling and preserving were to follow, it was so 
 like a cookery book. Unfolding then his own scheme of 
 the Apocalypse— talking of the mighty contrast between 
 its Christ and the Christ of the Gospel narrative, Mr. Cole- 
 ridge said that Jeses did not come now as before, meek and 
 gentle, healing the sick and feeding the hungry, and dis- 
 pensing blessings all around, but he came on a while horse ; 
 and who were his attendants ?— Famine, and War, and 
 Pestilence.— P. 2C2. 
 
 Of Edward Irving much is said. Among other 
 eccentricities was the length of his services. 
 
 Saturday, 19th.— Mr. Gordon informed me that yester- 
 night Mr. Irving preached on his prophecies at Hackney 
 Chapel for two hours and a half, and though very powerful, 
 yet the people were dropping away, when he, Mr. I., ad- 
 dressed them on the subject of their leaving him. I really 
 fear lest his prophecies, and the excessive length and weari- 
 ness of his services, may unship him altogether, and I 
 mean to write to him seriously upon the subject.— P. 1C3. 
 
 Chalmers' personal experience was to the same 
 
 effect. 
 
 I undertook to open Irving's new chapel in London. The 
 congregation, in their eagerness to obtain seats, had already 
 been assembled about tiiree hours. Irving said he would 
 assist me by reading a chapter for me in the first instance. 
 He chose the very longest chapter in the Bible, and went 
 on with his exposition for an hour and a half. When my 
 turn (fame, of what use could I be in an exhausted receiver . 
 Ou another similar occasion he. kindly proffered me the 
 same aid, adding, " 1 can be short." I said, "How long 
 will it take you ?•' He answered, '■ Only one hodu a.sd 
 FORTY MINUTES." " Then," replied 1, '"I must decline the 
 favor."— P. 271. 
 
 Chalmers and Irving met for the last time in 
 London. The former was in bed at the time. 
 "He stopped," says Chalmers, "for two hours, 
 wherein he gave his expositions ; and I gave, at 
 greater length and liberty than I had ever done 
 before, my advice and my views. We parted 
 from each other with much cordiality, after a 
 prayer, which he himself offered and delivered 
 with great pathos and piety."' 
 
 The manner of Irving's death was in keeping 
 with his whole history. His father-in-law men- 
 tions that — 
 
 His medical advisers had recommended him to proceed 
 before the end of autumn, to Madeira, or some other spot 
 where he might shun the vicissitudes and inclemency of a 
 British winter. But some of the oracular voices whioh 
 found utterance in his church had proclaimed it to be the 
 will of God that he should go to Scotland, and do a great 
 work there. Accordingly, after an equestrian tour in Wales, 
 by whioh his health appeared at first to be improved, but 
 the benefit of whioh he lost by exposure to the weather and 
 occasional preaching, contrary to the injunctions of his 
 physician, he arrived at Liverpool on his way to the North. 
 In that town he was taken alarmingly ill, and was unable, 
 for several days, to quit his bed i but no sooner could he 
 rise and walk through the room, than he went, in defiance of 
 the prohibition of liis medical attendant, on board a steam- 
 boat for Greenock. From Greenock he proceeded to Glas- 
 gow, delighted at having reached the first destination that 
 had been indicated to him. From Glasgow it was his pur- 
 pose to proceed to Edinburgh ; but this he never accom- 
 plished. So much, however, was his mind impressed with 
 its being his duty to go there, that, even after he was una- 
 ble to rise from his bed without assistance, he proposed 
 that he should be carried thither in a litter, if the journey 
 could not be accomplished any other way ; and it was only 
 because the friends about him refused to comply with his 
 urgent requests to that effect, that the thing was not done. 
 Could he have commanded the means himself, the attempt, 
 at least, would have been made. . . . "Well," said he, 
 "the sum of the matter is, if I live, I live unto the Lord ; 
 and if I die. I die unto the Lord ; living or dying, I am the 
 
160 
 
 PERSONAL CHARACTER OF DR. CHALMERS, 
 
 Lord's ;" a conclusion which seemed to set at rest all his 
 difficulties on the subject of his duty. So strongly had his 
 confidence of restoration communicated itself to Mrs. Irving, 
 that it was not till within an hour or so of his death that 
 she entertained any idea of the impending event. — P. 288. 
 
 Going to the House of Common?, he 
 
 Saw and spoke to Peel ; after which Mr. Macaulay got 
 another introduction and joined me. In the lobby, met 
 an old acquaintance, Mr. Whitmore, M.P. ; we were dis- 
 appointed as to the debate, it having been postponed, and 
 the topics of' discussion were comparatively of smaller in- 
 terest, as spring-guns, and others. However, we got a 
 sight of more of the speakers, as Sir Francis Burdett, and 
 some more. Mr. Brougham spoke a little ; he came and 
 talked with me in a way that was very friendly and inter- 
 esting. He said nothing about the London University ; 
 and my impression now is that, rather than risk any dis- 
 couragement, they will wait the progress of events, more 
 especially as they have time for w-aiting. This leaves the 
 matter in the best possible state for me. 
 
 From Brougham Chalmers afterwards received 
 the following note regarding the short-lived Wel- 
 lington administration : — 
 
 My bear sir : — I congratulate you sincerely on the favor- 
 able prospects of some of those great causes in which (as 
 indeed in most) we feel interested in common. Really 
 slavery cannot now expect much longer protection from a 
 government so weak, that it is even about to give Parlia- 
 mentary Reform as a sop, and to save itself for a few 
 months. — Believe me, ever most respectfully and sincerely 
 yours, H. BKonoHAJi. 
 
 Peel also became his correspondent, having 
 voluntarily conferred on him the office of lying's 
 cliciplain. With Jeffrey he appears to have been 
 intimate, and specimens of their correspondence 
 are inserted in the volume. Dr. Philpotts and 
 Washington Irving he met at Murray's, the pub- 
 lisher. But not to dwell on more of the notorious, 
 we shall conclude the list with 
 
 O'CONNELL AND JIRS. OPIE 
 
 Monday^ July \st. — After dinner I went down to the 
 House of Commons. A dull debate, and I did not sit to 
 the end of it. Sir Robert Peel the best speaker. A num- 
 ber of the members came to me ; last, though not least, 
 Mr. Daniel O'Connell, who shook me most cordially by the 
 hands, complimenting me on my evidence about the Irish 
 Poor-laws, saying that he was a disciple of mine upon 
 that subject, and not of his own priest, Dr. Doyle ; and I, 
 on the other hand, glad of good being done whatever quar- 
 ter it came from, and knowing him to be an influential 
 personage, expressed myself much gratified with the view 
 that he had taken on that question. I am surfe it would 
 have done yonr heart much good to have seen how closely 
 and cordially Mr. Daniel O'Connell and your papa hugged 
 and greeted each other in the Lower House of Parliament. 
 
 But last of all I saw another lady, who dined and spent 
 the night — now aged and in Quaker attire, which she had 
 but recently put en, and who in early life was one of the 
 most distinguished of our literary women, whose works, 
 thirty years ago, I read with great delight — no less a person 
 than the celebrated Mrs. Opie, authoress of the most ex- 
 quisite feminine tales, and for which I used to place her by 
 the side of Miss Edgeworth. It was curious to myself 
 
 that, though told by Mr. Gurney in the morning of her 
 being to dine, I had forgot the circumstance, and the idea 
 of the accomplished novelist and poet was never once sug- 
 gested by the image of this plain-looking Quakeress till it 
 rushed upon me after dinner, when it suddenly and incon- 
 ceivably . augmented the interest I felt in her. "We had 
 much conversation, and drew greatly together, walking and 
 talking with each other on the beautiful lawn after dinner. 
 She has had access into all kinds of society, and her con- 
 versation is all the more rich and interesting. I complained 
 to her of one thing in Quakerism, and that is the mode of 
 their introductions : that I could have recognized in Mrs- 
 Opie an acquaintance of tliirty years' standing, but that I 
 did not and could not feel the charm of any such reminis- 
 cence when Joseph John simply bade me lead out Amelia 
 from his drawing-room to his dining-room. I felt, how 
 ever, my new acquaintance with this said Amelia to be one 
 of the great acquisitions of my present journey ; and this 
 union of rank, and opulence, and literature, and polish of 
 mind with plainness of manners, forms one of the great 
 charms of the society in this house [Mr. Gurney's]. 
 
 His excursions in the English provinces were 
 productive of more amusement than anything 
 that happened in the Emerald Isle. As, for ex- 
 ample, in one town the case of 
 
 THE BARBER AND BATH-KEEPER. 
 
 Wednesday, 26«A. -^Started at nine, much refreshed. Got 
 a hair-dresser to clip me — a great humorist ; he undertook, 
 at the commencement of the operation, to make me look 
 forty years younger, by cutting out every white hair and 
 leaving all the black ones. There was a very bright corus- 
 cation of clever sayings that passed between us while the 
 process was going on. I complimented his profession, and 
 told him that he had the special advantage that his crop 
 grew in all weathers, and that while I had heard all over the 
 provinces the heavy complaints of a bad hay-harvest, his hay- 
 making in the metropolis went on pleasantly and prosper- 
 ously all the year round. He was particularly pleased with 
 the homage I rendered to his peculiar vocation, and assured 
 me, after he had performed his work, that he had at least 
 made ma thirty years younger. I told him how delighted 
 my wife would be with the news of this wondrous trans- 
 formation, and gave him half-a-crown, observing that it 
 was little enough for having turned me into a youthful 
 Adonis. We parted in a roar of laughter, and great mu- 
 tual satisfaction with each other. Went from this to the 
 warm-bath, where a German had the management. He 
 told me that he understood me better than most of the 
 English who came to him. I was at pains to explain to 
 him the reason of this ; and tell Miss Parker what my ex- 
 planation was — that our island was named Great Britain, 
 that English was the patois, but that I came from Scotland, 
 and that our Scotch was the pure British dialect. — P. 3t-0. 
 
 Chalmers took his due share of the discussion 
 of public questions. He was in favor of Catholic 
 Emancipation, and was invited by Sir James 
 Mackintosh to throw the weight of liis influence 
 into the Liberal scale. He was also summoned 
 by Mr. Spring Rice as a witness before the Par- 
 liamentary Committee on the Irish Poor-laws ; 
 but as those are stale topics now, we prefer 
 dwelling on subjects of a personal and domestic 
 character. Here is a good hint on 
 
PERSONAL CHARACTER OF DR. CHALMERS. 
 
 161 
 
 NATURAL AFFECTION. 
 I fear that I erred with Miss L. to-night in my vehemence 
 
 about the exactions of attention on the part of Mrs. . 
 
 I see that, by a law of our sentient nature, love cannot be 
 bidden, and whenever attentions are demanded I do feel a 
 very strong repugnance, so that it is working against a 
 moral impossibility to attempt the alTection ; and without 
 the affection I feel it to be very painful to be working at 
 the required attentions in the spirit of bondage. But let 
 me be silent on these occasions ; aim at charity, and never 
 be diverted from the meekness of wisdom. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the humor of 
 
 A SCENE AT BUADFOUD. 
 
 Found a fair where I alighted, and was somewhat an- 
 noyed in my transition to the coach for Halifax. 1 had 
 first to get a porter to carry my luggage through the crowds 
 to a distant part of the town from which that coach 
 started ; then was told that the coach had not come in, and 
 I could not get a place till it arrived ; then had not a hole 
 to put my head in, as every room swarmed with drinking 
 and drunken market-people ; then, as I did not like to be 
 far away from my luggage, in an open and crowded coach- 
 office, had to keep my station near the door, where, as for- 
 tune would have it, there was a large, circular assemblage 
 of swine, on the margin of which I stood and contemplated 
 their habitudes and politics, for I could perceive ah action 
 and reaction, a competition for food, a play of emotions re- 
 ciprocating from one to the other, of which emotions, how- 
 ever, anger is far the most conspicuous, prompting to a bite 
 or a scratch, and even an occasional engagement. Speak- 
 ing of politics, you have heard me say that a man of re- 
 finement and educatiion won't travel through England on 
 the tops of coaches without becoming a Tory. My Tory- 
 ism has been further confirmed this day. There was a 
 (Quakeress girl, with a still younger companion, traveling 
 from their boarding-school home, and this was all well 
 enough ; but there were also the feeders and wool-staplers 
 of the West Riding, fat and unintelligent, with only pursy 
 and vesicular proportions on each side of their chins, and 
 a superabundance of lard in their gills, whose manners 
 weU-nlgh overset me, overloading our coach with their 
 enormous carcasses, and squeezing themselves, as they 
 ascended from various parts of the road, between passengers 
 already in a state of compression, to the gross infraction of 
 all law and justice, and the imminent danger of our necks. 
 The days weie when I would have put down all this ; but 
 whether from the love of peace, which grows with age, or 
 perhaps from some remainder of the enfeebling influenza, 
 which, however, is getting better, my quiescence predo- 
 minated. — r. 305. 
 
 Those who were familiar -with the outer man 
 of the subject of this biography will smile at his 
 
 ALLUSIONS TO COSTUME. 
 
 Thursda-ij. — Dressed for dinner. Have got a ne'W method 
 of folding up my coat, which I shall teach you when I get 
 home, and is of great use to a traveler. I am about as fond 
 of it as I was of the new method of washing my bands. 
 
 Friday. — I found yesterday a new waistcoat among my 
 clothes which I did not commission ; however, I put it on 
 with the rest of my new suit, and, being a good day, came 
 yesterday to Broomhall without luggage. My braics are 
 uot the worse. 
 
 Equally provocative of risibility are two re- 
 ferences to 
 
 CORPULENCE. 
 
 The minister of D insisted for a sermon for some 
 
 schools there. He put his arm under mine, and meant to 
 overbear all ray negations. His last argument for a sermon 
 was that I was fat ; on which I wrenched my arm away 
 from him, and came off. 
 
 The fact that the minister of D was right 
 
 as to obesity, received corroboration at an " aca- 
 demic party." 
 
 Mr. Duncan annoyed mo by the affirmation that I am 
 sensibly and considerably fatter since I left St. Andrew's. 
 There must be serious measures taken to keep me down. 
 Had cordial greetings with the gentlemen in the library, 
 then we sallied out to the premises, and had a very delight- 
 ful forenoon saunter through the woods and lanes of Cos- 
 terton. Before dinner we had a game at bowls in a green 
 before the house. I and Mr. Duncan against Dr. Nicoll 
 and Dr. James Hunter. We had the best of three games. 
 With all the convivialities of the west, I have seen no such 
 guzzling as to-day with my St. Andrew's friends, and told 
 Mr. Duncan so. They are rare lads, these Lefterati or 
 iiJaterati. Before supper there was family worship, when 
 I was asked to officiate. We were shown to our beds about 
 twelve. I got the large bed-room in which Mr. Duncan 
 was the night before, and he had a closet with a small 
 sofa-bed that communicated with the room. This arrange- 
 ment was vastly agreeable to me ; and we tumbled into 
 our respective couches between twelve and one. I like 
 him.— P. 279. 
 
 The great charm of the volume is the free and 
 unrestrained style of the letters and journals con 
 tained in it. Being written to or intended for the 
 perusal of the members of his own family, and 
 with no view to publication, there is an ease and 
 racy homeUness about them that is truly refresh- 
 ing. The amount of his domestic correspondence 
 was extraordinary, and could have been prompt- 
 ed only by tlie purest and most devoted attach- 
 ment to his household. To Mrs. Chalmers he 
 says on one occasion : — 
 
 I want each letter you receive from me to be signalized 
 by a fea.-it of strawberries to the children on the day of its 
 arrival ; therefore, I expect that on Saturday, which will 
 be the day of your receiving this, these strawberries, with 
 a competent quantity of cream and sugar, shall be given 
 accordingly, and given from me, the papa of these said 
 children, each and all of them being told that he is the 
 donor of the same. 
 
 The spirit of self-examination penetrates into 
 deeper recesses. 
 
 25t/..— I have to record this day that I am not mortified 
 to the love of praise. I did feel an anxiety that Miss L. 
 should speak of the sermon of yesterday when we walked. 
 I did feel interested and gratified when she did speak. Still 
 more, I did feel the gratification of Mr. Duncan's compli- 
 ments, and of the yet fuller testimonies which were re- 
 ported to me in the evening ; and I do mnch fear, or rather 
 I certainly know, that I feel a complacency in all this ; 
 and what if it be not superior to the pleasure I should feel 
 in having been the instrument of a saving and spiritual 
 impression ? This is so distinct a preference of my own 
 glory to that of God's, so obvious a preaching of self in- 
 
162 
 
 SOME GREAT WORK, 
 
 stead of the Saviour, so glaring a preference of the wisdom, 
 of words to the simplicity which is in the cross of Christ, 
 that my carnal tendencies in regard to this matter should 
 be the subject of my strictest vigilance and severest casti- 
 gation. 
 
 Do not speak enough in society of these things. I am 
 complained of on that account. God, keep me from the 
 guilt of denying Christ by m.y silence — P. 91. 
 
 Again : — 
 
 Have still to record a dreary ahsence of God and of the 
 Spirit from my soul. The want is, that I do not feel its 
 dreariness ; I live in comfort without God, and can enjoy 
 humor and conversation with ungodly people. There is 
 no such thing as laying a charge at any time through the 
 day upon my conscience ; an act of self-recollection, that 
 now I am in tire presence of God, and I must not forget 
 that I am His servant. Might not this be a good expedient ? 
 
 and when doing so, if I vent forth my aspirations for pres- 
 ent grace, will not this be a combination of watchfulness 
 with prayer ? my God, enable me to spread a savour of 
 divine things around me I Let my life be a perpetual 
 testimony for God !— P. 93. 
 
 We understand that another volume will con- 
 clude this memoir ; and we learn that, as Dr. 
 Hanna nears the quicksands of contemporary- 
 events, fears are entertained in some quarters 
 that the biographer may be merged in the par- 
 tisan. We have no apprehension of any effect 
 of this kind. The able, interesting, and impar- 
 tial manner in which he has executed the first 
 portion of his work, is a sufficient guaranty as 
 to the last. 
 
 SOME GREAT WORK. 
 
 BT ALICE CAREY 
 
 Think not the faith by which the jnst shall live 
 
 Is a dead creed — a map correct of heaven ; 
 
 Far less a feeling fond and fugitive, 
 
 A thoughtless gift witlidrawn as soon as given. 
 
 It is an afhrmatloQ and an act 
 
 That bids eternal truth be present fact. 
 
 Hartley Coleridge. 
 
 The dews of twilight were drowningthe golden 
 tresses of the sun— the birds, those sweet poets, 
 in whose songs there are no sorrows, had sung 
 their fill, and with little red feet clinging to the 
 lithe boughs, were softly rocking to sleep, with 
 only now and then a quick, uncertain twitter, as 
 though they could not quite give up all their 
 music yet. 
 
 All over the hills and along the valleys daisies 
 and buttercups and crocuses were sprouting up 
 thick in the grass, and along the brooksides the 
 violets leaned their pensive heads listening to the 
 rippling of the water among the blue flagstones 
 and bright pebbles, and broad-leaved flags and 
 tufta of high grass, wherein the black snipe hides 
 away from the schoolboy. 
 
 The blackberry vines shine along the edges of 
 the meadows ; in the thicket the wild morning- 
 glory twines its scarlet rings around the small 
 limbs of the sassafras, lifting itself higher and 
 higher; and the dark buds of the ivy are swelled 
 
 almost to bursting, for all the past week the April 
 sunshine and showers have been busy at their 
 work. The verdure is softly creeping over the 
 boughs that sway lightly to and fro, as the breeze 
 comes suddenly from the distant west, and sigh- 
 ing its murmurous joy, crosses the meadow and 
 fades over the next hill, about whose base lie 
 patches of white mist, like the new-shorn fleeces 
 of the lambs. Now the spider works all day, 
 and her fine circular net-work spread over rose- 
 bush or lilac, is sunken with the gray dew. From 
 the hollow stub where all day the lonely crow 
 sits and cries, the bat comes forth and flits and 
 wheels blindly about the open door, or entering 
 stealthily, shaves close along the ceiling with its 
 flabby wings, making the baby clap its hands 
 and crow again, while the larger children chase 
 hither and thither in perfect tempests of delight. 
 In the field, sloping to the south, the wheat 
 that, prisoned all winter in the close, cold earth, 
 almost hides the dark farrows, save that here 
 
SOME GREAT WORK. 
 
 168 
 
 and there, where the plowshare has been too 
 deeply driven, the plenteous growth is cut by a 
 barren ridge. 
 
 Away in the valley, where the pendulous 
 boughs of the elm drop on the one side, and a 
 border of maple and ash reaches along the other, 
 the cattle, fed to repletion, lie sunk in beds of fresh 
 clovers, red and white, or idly link their silver 
 horns and push each other about in playful war- 
 fare; while just above the hollow where the hedge 
 of willows drops its yellow tassels to the ground, 
 and crowning the neighboring slope, rises the 
 spire, whence drifts such solemn music over all, 
 and about which cluster the cottages of the peace- 
 ful villagers, who keep the even tenor of their 
 way in the beauty of innocent and humble lives, 
 apart from the stormy and tumultuous world. 
 There, in the shadow of the church, where Sab- 
 bath after Sabbath they hearken to the sorrowful 
 warnings, or great promises, or kind admonitions 
 of the simply eloquent pastor, the gravestones of 
 neighbors and kindred stand thick under the trees. 
 Some have gone down thither in whom the love 
 of life was strong, caught by the bright tresses 
 and dragged away; some glad to go where there 
 is no more pain, wrapping the shroud about their 
 bosoms like tlie dainty bridal sheets; and some, 
 whose work was done, with the flowers of three- 
 score years and ten white about their foreheads, 
 and little prattling children that were fearlessly 
 trusted to the dark — they are all there, nor chirp 
 of the merry grasshopper, nor light step of the 
 timid rabbit, nor the music of the evening bell, 
 disturbs their rest. 
 
 It is the season of quickening life, of bird-songs 
 and sunshine ; the season when the saddest heart 
 gathers back something of its old joy — when we 
 dig about the roots of our perished hopes and 
 braid up the broken garland anew. Nature, like a 
 kind mother, W003 us from the house of mourning, 
 and covers up the graves of our dead with her 
 blossoms. This is a beautiful world which God 
 has given us — the fresh, sprouting pastures, and 
 rains, that come down singing from the clouds — 
 the waving cornfields and fruitful orchards, the 
 spring brimming full of pure cold water, and the 
 harvest, with its sea of golden heads ; are not these 
 enough for my happiness ? 
 
 The cattle wading to the knees in fragrant 
 meadows, and drinking of the pure brooks, are 
 satisfied — the bird, building its nest anew, and 
 waiting for the young life to break the prisoning 
 shell, and get itself wings and a song, is satisfied — 
 the bee, searching the woods and gardens, and 
 filling its silver wells, murmurs only of joy ; for 
 all these there is enough, but my heart the while 
 
 is hungry and pining atid dissatisfied — the arm of 
 God's mercy is about me, but I cannot rest, and 
 even in sight of the crown turn rebelliously from 
 the cross. My life is an echo among ruins. 
 my Father, let me do for thee some great work ! 
 
 Away down the distance shine tliu lamps in 
 the lonely cells of the fathers — the grotto of the 
 barefooted hermit is still bright with the glory of 
 the red cross — the stern creed of tiie Genevan yet 
 towers in sublime and awful majesty above the 
 flames of the martyr, and the seed scattered by 
 tlie inilder Reformer ha-j sprung up and shadow- 
 ed half the world. My hands are idle, though I 
 continually pme to serve thee — give me, my 
 Father, some great work. 
 
 So said Miriam, sitting at the door of her dark 
 and lofty house, as through the deepening twilight 
 the stars broke forth one by one, and the moon 
 pushed her red disk through a drift of eastern 
 clouds. The milkwhite doves that had sat in a 
 long row on the eave above her head, catching 
 the sunshine on their bosoms, knew the night was 
 come, and shaking the dew from their wings, flew 
 away — the flowers, as their nature was, either 
 folded their petals close against the moonlight, 
 or opened them to its gentle kiss, and the blind 
 mole began its silent work. But Miriam sits idly, 
 and folding her hands upon her desolate bosom, 
 the wind blows the black tresses across her eyes, 
 so that she sees not the thin cheek of the child 
 that flattens itself against her gate. Wistfully he 
 looks, reaching toward her an empty hand, while 
 the other holds the gift of wild flowers that shall 
 repay her largess — in vain, in vain — tlie iron bars 
 yield not to so soft a pressure, and the eyes of 
 the sad lady are not once lifted up. Darker the 
 shadows drop around him, and tearfully and 
 feebly he goes forward, Ijut his steps falter more 
 and more, and he siuks exhausted to the ground. 
 The wild flowers drop from his hand, and are 
 scattered away by the winds, and a sense of dull- 
 ness and heaviness weighs down his eyelids. The 
 moon breaks from a cloud and wraps him in a 
 thin cold sheet, and the bird, fluttering in the 
 branches above, shakes the dew in his face — his 
 mother's smile is in his dream : 
 
 " Her blessing like a line of light 
 Is all around him day and night, 
 And like a beacon guides him home.'' 
 
 Home, where farewells arc ended and wander- 
 ings done. Close on the path of the poor little 
 child comes a stout traveler, beating down the 
 burrs and thistles with his staff, and singing 
 snatches of hymns. Is he thinking of some soul 
 astray ; hark to the words : 
 
164 
 
 SOME GREAT WORK. 
 
 When God smote his hands together, and struck out thy 
 
 soul as a spark, 
 Into the organized glory of things, from deep of the dark,— 
 Say, did'st thou shine, did"st thou burn, did'st thou honor 
 
 the power in the form, 
 As the star does at night, or the firefly, or even the little 
 
 ground-worm ? 
 When. God on thy sins had pity, and did not trample thee 
 
 straight, 
 With his wild rains beating and drenching thy light found 
 
 inadequate ; 
 When he only sent thee the North winds, a little searching 
 
 and cliill. 
 To quicken thy flame, did'st thou kindle and flash to the 
 
 heights of his will ? 
 When God on thy sin had pity, and did not meet it as such, 
 But tempered llie wind to thy uses, and softened the world 
 
 thy touch ; 
 At least thou wast moved in thy soul, though unable to 
 
 prove it afar, 
 Thou could'st carry thy light like a jewel, not giving it like 
 
 a star ? 
 
 Suddenly the song is still— he pauses, and 
 light, such light as might be shed from the white 
 wing of mercy's angel, illumines his face. He 
 flings the knapsack from his shoulders, and 
 brushes the gray hairs from his eyes that are 
 wrowino- dim with the shadows of time — time 
 that has touched him gently withal, for he is well 
 bevond the summer — even where the autumn 
 whitens to the winter snow, and stooping down, 
 takes up the little child in his arms. I will bear 
 him back to yonder friendly mansion, he says — 
 warmth and food may restore him. The head 
 droops heavily against the bosom of the good old 
 man, and the white skin seems loose about the 
 boy's fingers that clasp his neck, and the lips are 
 blue and unsmiling. Light is the burden, for in 
 a good act there is no heaviness, and as he ne.ar8 
 the mansion he says, I shall journey forward 
 lightlier anon, but the door was fast shut, and 
 Miriam was gone within to pray — "Give me, 
 my Father, to do for thee some great work !" 
 
 All night the tireless watcher folded the child 
 in his bosom — sometimes passing his hand across 
 his forehead, and sometimes holding his naked 
 feet to give them warmth, and waiting forHhe 
 morning ; at last, reddening the high eastern hill, 
 and burning through the wood^, she came, and all 
 the valleys were full of her genial smile; but 
 alas, the little child might not be warmed again. 
 Where the joyous warble of the thrush shook 
 down the blossoms of the hawthorn, the old man 
 made a grave, 
 
 '■ And left the babe and went away to weep, 
 And listened oft to hear if he did cry ; 
 But the great river sung his lullaby. 
 And unseen angels •watched his dreamless sleep." 
 
 The hush of the Sabbath hung over the world — 
 
 it was the early tide of summer — the winds crept 
 under the waves of the ripening rye, and hushed 
 their wild laughter into murmurous hymns — the 
 birds went deeper into the forests and carolled 
 less noisily than in hours agone — the shaggy 
 grapevines were weighed down with green clus- 
 ters, and the red berries glistened and shone from 
 the thicket where the urchin crept slyly, and 
 half afraid of the stillness of the time. The fra- 
 grance of the lilacs was all about the open doors, 
 and the rosevines, bright with blooms, blew in at 
 the windows. The cock stood erect and silent in 
 the midst of his feathery dames, for even he 
 seems to strut less proudly and crow less lustily 
 to-day than is his wont, and the watchdog, with 
 his nose close against the ground, drowses by the 
 wall. 
 
 The church door is open, and the sweet-voiced 
 bell is calling to all far and near — " Come up 
 hither," and from far and near, old men and 
 maidens and youths and little children are obey- 
 ing the call. Some go in noiselessly, and at once 
 give their hearts to the searching of the Holy 
 Spirit. Some linger at the door, exchanging 
 smiles and salutations, and haply sufi'ering the 
 weariness of time's change and chance, or the 
 might of secular aims and interest, to come be- 
 tween them and the psalm. Some Avith sprigs 
 of yew or cedar, or the simple blossoms gathered 
 by the way, go apart among the graves musing, 
 or weeping alone ; and over the green swell of 
 some mound that keeps down the pallid hands 
 of tlie dearly loved from the flowers, leave their 
 offering to wither like the earth-hopes of the 
 sleeper beneath. 
 
 Slowly, from the white cottage that is almost 
 smothered among trees and shrubs and vines, 
 comes the village pastor — "young, and eminently 
 beautiful," but the elasticity is gone from bis 
 step, and in his face there is the expression of a 
 sorrow that has worked itself up from the heart. 
 Alas, that he who goes up to speak consolation 
 to the mourner and comfort to the atHicted, should 
 himself be neediest of all — alas, that while he 
 says to the bruised spirit, heaven is waiting to 
 heal you, his own bosom is " bound from bleeding 
 with a cold cerement from the grave." And 
 wherefore ? Miriam, Miriam, putting away from 
 thee the now and the here, and sighing for the 
 unattained and far away, in mistaken zeal, let us 
 hope not in pride, hast thou nothing to answer for 
 in this? 
 
 That hollow temple would round back to health 
 Under the golden fillet of thy smile — 
 
 thou knowest it right well. 
 
 The heavy locks dampen with the dew that 
 
SOME GREAT WORK. 
 
 165 
 
 gathers to his forehead, as he gazes toward the | 
 proud and lofty house where she dwells wlioin 
 he fears he shall miss today from his little flock. 
 From the hollow of willows the tassels are gone, 
 and in the meadow beyond the clovers, red and 
 ■white, are alike changed to a dry brown — the 
 wheat is getting its yellow beard ; but varied na- 
 ture charms not from gloomy yearning the in- 
 habitant of the dark and close-shut house. No, 
 no, she will not come — and his almost transpa- 
 rent hands knit themselves tighter together as he 
 tries to shut from his senses what he vainly calls 
 the carnal, for thoughts of the spiritual life. I have 
 tasks to do and duties to perform, he muses as 
 he walks ; if I am unequal to their fulfillment, 
 should I seek to rest my weakness upon another, 
 and thereby clog the movements of a larger zeal? 
 or shall I pine out of life, and leave undone that 
 which I feel within me the ability to do, because 
 the hands which I would fain have made my 
 helpers are coldly withdrawn '. Nay, there are 
 lambs astray that even I may gather back— evils 
 that my weak hands may break — sepulchres from 
 which I may roll away the stone, and folding the 
 napkin from the face of the dead, show the weep- 
 ing kindred liiat the spirits for which they 
 mourn are not there, but gone before them into 
 Paradise. 
 
 Solemnly from the old tower sounds the bell-, 
 and as he draws near the church, leaning upon 
 that music as it were, his thoughts flow in that 
 eweet rhyme of Tennyson — 
 
 Ring out the want, the care, the sin. 
 The faithless coldness of the times ; 
 Kinj; out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 
 
 But ring the fuller minstrel in. 
 
 Ring out old shapes of foul disease. 
 Ring out the narrowing lust of gold ■ 
 Ring out the thousand wars of old. 
 
 Ring in the thousand years of peace. 
 
 Ring ia the valiant man and free, 
 The larger heart, the kindlier hand: 
 Ring out the darkness of the land. 
 Ring in the Christ that is to be. 
 
 One more glance across the hills —a sigh stifled 
 among the heartstrings, and calmly and slowly 
 he walks in the midst of his people — his cheek 
 more flushed than its wont, and his eye fuller of 
 troubled light, but never before dwelt such mov- 
 ing eloquence on his lip. He had gathered up 
 all his wasting energies, and in his words was 
 the power of one newly baptized with the spirit 
 of grace. Even his presence seemed to have in 
 it to-day a spell of mastery, and the hush was 
 intense when he arose and read, with what a 
 depth of meaning and terrible pathos, the hymn — 
 
 And are we, wi:etohes, yet alive? 
 
 And do we yet rebel ? 
 'Tis boundless, 'tis amazing love, 
 
 That bears us up from hell. 
 
 Lord, we have long abused thy love. 
 
 Too long indulged our sin ; 
 Our aching hearts now bleed to see 
 
 What rebels we have been. 
 
 No more, ye lusts, shall you command, 
 
 No more will we obey ; 
 Stretch out, God, thy conquering hand. 
 
 And drive thy foes away. 
 
 Then came the prayer, which mere words may 
 not portray — it was tiie spirit of it that was felt, 
 and not the form that was heard— no dashing of 
 the waves of sorrow against the throne — no im- 
 portunate demands pressing open, as it were, the 
 beautiful gates of Paradise, but the tremulous 
 whisper of a soul that feels its ruin and clings 
 only in hope to the cross and the power of hin 
 mercy, whose last sweet plea from the agony of 
 insulted sorrows 
 
 O'er death's night 
 
 Passed like the transit of the morning star. 
 And for a moment in the bosom of hell 
 Cooled the red burning like a cloud of dev,-. 
 
 Bat in the sermon, the zeal in, and devotion to, 
 the things which pertain to immortality burned 
 with the chiefest glory. From the 12th chapter 
 of 2d Corinthians he read : 
 
 "And lest I should be exalted above measure 
 
 through the abundance of the revelations, there 
 
 was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messen- 
 
 i ger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted 
 
 ; above measure. For this thing 1 besought the 
 
 j Lord thrice, that it might depart from me. And 
 
 1 he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee; 
 
 ; for my strength is made perfect in weakness. 
 
 i Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in my 
 
 infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon 
 
 me." 
 
 How upon the waves of failh he arose above the 
 sorrows and afllictions of life—what little things 
 they were ! What nothings in the glory of the 
 final triumph ! The congregation was swayed 
 and stirred like waves to the touches of the strong 
 ■^yrind- now they heard the muffled footsteps in 
 the corridors of crime, and shrank frighted from 
 the lightest thought of wrong ; and now the griev- 
 ed Spirit made once more the sweet offer of mercy, 
 and dying hope revived. The light of the diviner 
 world seemed streaming abroad over this ; fear 
 jl vanished, and trembling hesitancy changed into 
 fixed resolve — though all the world forsake thee, 
 yet will I not forsake thee, was the language of 
 every heart, and when the exhortation was fin- 
 ished, not one bosom there would have shrunk 
 
166 
 
 SOME GREAT WORK. 
 
 from the flames of martyrdom— but who of them 
 all dreamed that from the dim ruins of the bright- 
 est hopes of mortality came the eloquent inspira- 
 tion? 
 
 And day was over, and from under the pale 
 wings of the twilight came the stars. At the 
 door of her dark and lofty house Miriam sat alone. 
 The breeze tried to kiss up the crimson to her 
 thin cheek, but in vain— and the flowers, crushed 
 under her feet, sent out their fragrance, but she 
 heeded it not. Her hands lay idly on her knees, 
 and her thoughts were gone across the seas to the 
 benighted lands where the morning of Christianity 
 has but faintly dawned, or not yet broken at all. 
 The labors of the missionary are something worth, 
 she said. How glorious to break in pieces the 
 idols, and build up the true church— to lift the 
 macerated and blind worshipers from the abase- 
 ment of the dust, and give them to lean on the 
 arm of the great Jehovah! Why am I shut away 
 from doing good ? Ami worthy, O Lord, to be 
 tliy handmaid— fain would I serve thee— give, 
 o-ive me to do for thee some great work ! 
 
 A step glides through the moonlight, and a 
 shadow falls over the gray dew~a soft smile 
 lights up the face of Miriam, making it more 
 beautiful than its wont, as her hand is clasped in 
 that of the village pastor. He hears not the 
 rustle of the winds through the wheat field, nor 
 the tremor of the heavy foliage, nor sees above 
 him the sky like a great blue sea with lilies all 
 over its bosom, gdden and red and white, for 
 star differeth from star in glory ; but Miriam 
 hears and sees it all. Yf hy was the young man 
 there ? He had stilled the earthly passion in his 
 heart — haply the conquest was too easy — haply 
 it was not so perfect as he thought — once more 
 he would measure himself against temptation. 
 O earth, tlie hold of thy beauty is strong upon 
 us, and the weakness of the flesh is greater than 
 our poor resolves ; and he but waked again the 
 torture of unsatisfied thirst. The vine that has 
 fallen in the dust with the vigorous support hard 
 bv upon which it would fain fasten its tendrils, 
 but with no hand to lift it up, might be his em- 
 blem. And yet he spoke not of love, nor now 
 nor ever — that cold, steady hand, like an all- 
 pitiless demon's, held him back. And yet, in the 
 bosom of the maiden the fountain was troubled 
 by his smile, and she longed to rock his sorrows 
 to rest upon her heart ; but the humble duties 
 that contented him could not fill the measure of 
 her ambition. The comfort of his people, she 
 said, must be to him enough, nor could I, if I 
 would, snatch him from the borders of the grave. 
 The delusion gave way too late. 
 
 Light after light went out from the cottage 
 windows — the silence deepened and deepene 
 and the moon seemed to look reproachfully from 
 the clouds, while in the shadow of the dark house 
 the young man lingered still. The bell strikes 
 the half hour next the midnight, and, witli the 
 sudden energy we sometimes gather from despair, 
 he rises and stands erect, but gazing still on the 
 pallid and statue-cold beauty before him. 
 
 The white hand of Miriam reaches softly to- 
 ward him — doth she seek to detain him ? trem- 
 bling with delicious fear, he bends to her whis- 
 pered words — he does well, she says, to heed the 
 admonitions of his unequal strength and many 
 duties, and seek rest. Mockery of mockeries — 
 for him there was no more rest. The arm that 
 was just clasping her to his bosom dropped para- 
 lyzed away, and the kiss that was falling to her 
 forehead burned back upon his lips. One look 
 of reproachful agony — a farewell tremulous as 
 though a careless hand crushed his heart-strings, 
 and the last torture humanity may sufi'er had 
 been suffered, and Miriam was alone. Her hands 
 lie idly upon her knees again, and her thought 
 stretches from the certain and palpable to the 
 dim and impalpable, as the shadow stretches 
 into the night. She hears not the echo of a 
 broken heart that goes from tlie thick darkness 
 of the midnight, wailing and wandering toward 
 the immortal world. She hears not, for the hush 
 is broken by the prayer — Give me, O Lord, to do 
 for thee some great work ! 
 
 The brown and yellow liaze hangs like rust 
 along the edges of the sky — the roses are blown 
 away from the lap of tlie summer, the ripe fruit 
 drops from the orchard boughs, and the bees 
 creep out into the sun and lie in ridges, golden 
 and black, about the hive — their work is done. 
 The beating of the flail sounds from the thresh- 
 ing floor, and tlie chaff drifts away on the winds 
 like mist. The fearless boy climbs the tall- 
 stemmed tree like a ladder, and shakes the ripe 
 nuts into the lap of the laughing little girl. The 
 white husks lie thick along the corn-field, and the 
 sleek heifer presses impatiently to the fence, 
 seeing the heaps of full eared corn and bundles 
 of dry blades. Southward over the hills flocks 
 of birds are drifting all day long— the seeds drop 
 from the withered pods, and the down of the 
 thistle sails noiselessly about. 
 
 It is not the Sabbath, but the door of the vil- 
 lage church is wide open, and across the hills 
 and along the meadows, from the old-fashioned 
 homestead and the white-washed cottage, the 
 people are coming thither with downcast eyes 
 and thoughtful steps. 
 
APOSTROPHE TO NIAGARA, 
 
 16T 
 
 The trees stand naked or faded about the par- 
 sonage, that seems to-day very lonesome and 
 still — the books lie unopened on the table, tlie 
 study-chair is vacant, and strange faces and hush- 
 ed steps are in the house — whisper answers to 
 wliisper, but no one asks where the pastor is gone. 
 
 The slow chiming of the church-bell has in it 
 an awful solemnity — even the life-long prayer of 
 Miriam is still, as she hearkens, and leaving her 
 lofty house, her eyes fill witli tears, and a shadow 
 dark as death and silent as the grave sweeps 
 across her future, as she answers its call. Pick- 
 axes and spades lean against the larch in the 
 church-yard, and close by there is a great heap 
 of yellow mould. The village pastor is dead. 
 
 The dense throng have more than filled the 
 house, and many are standing about the open 
 door and at the windows ; but as the step of 
 Miriam falls on the threshold, all make way for 
 her, and the kindly and pious elder, who has long 
 mourned what he deems a soul far astray or 
 darkly rebellious, takes her trembling hand and 
 leads her close to the dead. How still it is ! so 
 still that you may hear the wind as it stirs the 
 heavy pall about the coffin. The locks are silver 
 that stream above the sacred page today, and 
 the voice falters with the cares and sorrows of 
 many years that reads for the departed the psalm : 
 
 " Asleep in Jesus ! blessed sleep. 
 
 From which none ever wake to weep — 
 A calm and undisturbed repose, 
 Unbroken by the last of foes. 
 Asleep in Jesns I far from thee 
 Thy kindred and their graves may be ; 
 But thine is still a blessed sleep. 
 From ■which none ever wake to weep." 
 
 Placidly, sweetly, he talked of the good man 
 gone — of the beautiful consecration of his life 
 and the glory of his death — God's hour of answer 
 to a life of prayer. He pointed to the hills white 
 with cottages, the morality, thrift, and intelli- 
 gence of their inhabitants — the prevalent spirit 
 
 of piety — the growth and engagedness of tfie 
 Sabbath-school — the fathers and mothers, and 
 maidens and youths, and little children, upon 
 whose foreheads his hands had laid the bap- 
 tismal waters ; and the many hardened sinners 
 wooed from the steep edge of perdition by his 
 mild and unwearied persuasions. The bright ex- 
 ample of his life, the preacher said, had been 
 more eloquent than words — he had gone in and 
 out before his people in meekness and simplicity, 
 doing the good things which his hand found ft> 
 do By what cords of love this broken and 
 mourning people were drawn hither today, anil 
 how hard it is to give up even the pale uncon- 
 scious dust — liow hard to look upon the still, 
 fixed smile, that briglitens not, as it was used, 
 when tliey approach — how hard to put the hands 
 that first led them to the cross, under the wind- 
 ing-sheet! He was your guide, your example, 
 your shepherd that kept all your lambs from 
 wandering — that made you brave to front the 
 tempter — strong for the time of trial, and good 
 to meet death. Maply he had sorrows, for who 
 of us all have not ? but he threw not their sha- 
 dows over you, and on tlie ruins of broken hopee 
 he climbed to gather the radiance of eternity. 
 0, he was worthy of all your love — he was wor- 
 thy of the tears that flow for him, and of the 
 benedictions that hover about his grave — worthy 
 of the covenant you make with your hearts to 
 stand up, if need were, in the judgment and tes- 
 tify to all the hosts of heaven that he hath done 
 a great work ! 
 
 The day was over, and the clay was heaped to 
 a smooth level mound, and the sorrowful peopls 
 returned to tlieir houses, desolate, yet not without 
 hope. O Miriam, Miriam, wliy refusest thoa 
 to be comforted i Does the crown of thy lo-va 
 settle on the brows of tlie dead, and hushest thou 
 now the frequent prayer for that tliou feelest 
 truly, as thou musest of his life of duty and his 
 death of peace, he hath done a Great Work \ 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO NIAG2VRA. 
 
 BT HORACE DRESSER ESQ., 
 
 Faith trembleth at thy passing, mighty flood \ 
 And from the secret chambers of the deep 
 The voices of thy many waters keep, 
 In thunder-tones and wild majestic mood. 
 One everlasting anthem praising God I 
 
 Thy fearful pathway leads thee o'er a steep, 
 Which thou thyself alone dost dare to leap I 
 
 I feel to worship here ; methiiiks TU seat 
 Me on the beetling cliffs above the brink 
 Of thy abyss ; there ruminate and think : — 
 
 How restless is thy surge beneath my feet '. 
 
 For ever rolling, rushing on to meet 
 
 Old ocean's boundless depths, for aye to sink 
 Into oblivion whence we mortals shrink ! 
 
GEMS FROM ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 
 
 BY AN ADMIKER. 
 
 There is a fine gradation and procession in the 
 things of nature, and many are the steps of the 
 golden Btair which leads up to the highest. The 
 material forms with which we are conversant, 
 are symbols enclosing a more transcendent 
 beauty ; and the life within us is, in its turn, a 
 symbol or adumbration of the primal archetypes. 
 To unfold it, therefore — to lay open its leaves and 
 filaments, that the light which is congenial to it 
 may fall upon it, as the light of the sun upon the 
 opening flower — is the highest and noblest of 
 endeavors, inasmuch as the result is the highest 
 and noblest. The best poets of the day, and 
 none of them more so than Mrs. Browning, dv/ell 
 long and lovingly in the recesses of our nature, 
 laying their hand upon human love, upon the 
 household affections, upon sin and the counter- 
 acting aspirations, upon the tangled yarn of good 
 and evil in the web of life; and as, with songs of 
 wailing or exultation, as in sorrow or in joy, in 
 shadow or in sunshine, they tread those deep re- 
 cesses which lie so near, yet are such mysteries 
 to us all, we feel that we are in the presence of 
 great spirits, yet, withal, of our own nature and 
 kindred ; we feel an unwonted exaltation in their 
 presence ; harsh contradictions are smoothed 
 down, and elements of afiinity present themselves 
 where previously we saw nothing but everlasting 
 antagonism ; we begin to be reconciled to loss 
 and suffering, by perceiving, in another than the 
 mere dogmatic light, that it is the only medium 
 of perfecting an aberrant nature ; and we go forth 
 to the work and conflict of life purer in heart and 
 stronger in spirit, in the strength of those mediat- 
 ing spirits who have taught us to know, and given 
 us to feel, more than we knew before of what is 
 meant by mediation. 
 
 We have indicated rather tlian defined the 
 scope and spirit of Mrs. Browning's poetry. Her 
 poems are sermons, but such sermons ! Reflect, 
 Uiat she is possessed of varied learning, and is 
 deeply read in classic lore ; that, to a masculine 
 energy, attempered and sublimated by womanly 
 affection, she adds a deep religious feeling, and 
 you will have some conception as to what sort of 
 sermons hers are. In listening to them, you are 
 conscious of the double process of enlightenment 
 
 and feeling. The mist rolls away, and the warm 
 sunbeams fall upon you. While you know more, 
 you love more, and the process of knowledge is 
 the process of reconcilement. Her texts are cho- 
 sen from both sides of nature, and from both sides 
 of human life. Her aim is, to reconcile contra- 
 rieties ; from sin and sorrow, from darkness and 
 suffering, to rise to purity and joy, to the glory 
 and brightness of the land where there is no need 
 of the sun. Mere objective beauty glows at her 
 touch, and you would confess her a true poet, 
 though she had done no more ; but this is only 
 the tuning of her harp. It is but the wand she 
 conjures with; the miracle by which she arrests 
 attention. Her ultimate purpose lies far beyond ; 
 or, rather, without purpose at all, it is the neces- 
 sity and tendency of her nature and genius to 
 make the forms of things, the manifestations of 
 natural grace and beauty, the stepping-stones to a 
 temple, in which, when she leads you in, you find 
 the unveiled presences of the outer shadows, and 
 have a glimpse of the divine Schekinah. 
 
 But it is time we now proceed to illustrate 
 these generalities by special reference to the 
 poems whose titles we have prefixed to them. 
 The incident of the " Lost Bower" is brief and 
 simple. Once upon a summer's day, a little girl 
 wandered into a wood, and found in it a beautiful 
 bower, which filled her child-heart witli over- 
 flowing gladness; but, when she returned next 
 day, she could not find it, and never found it 
 more. This is all. On this is built a poem of 
 seventy-six stanzas ; and we observe that a writer 
 in one of our monthly magazines, of high reputa- 
 tion, makes merry at the disproportion between 
 the basis and the superstructure. But on as nar- 
 row bases are built many things of larger propor- 
 tions than a poem of this length. A like incident 
 colors the poetry of every poetic life ; and the 
 prose of every prosaic life is rendered more pro- 
 saic, because every poor possessor of it, once up- 
 on a time, found and sported in a beautiful bower, 
 and went back at another time, and missed it, 
 and never found it more. It is a tlierae old as 
 the expulsion from Eden, and wide as the human 
 race. It appeals to universal sympathies, for 
 all have to regret a lost bower in some wood or 
 
GEMS OF MODERN ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 169 
 
 other. It is a theme, therefore, which needed no 
 inventive genius to find it out, and the poet who 
 deals with it must be judged solely by the amount 
 and nature of the new light which he sheds 
 upon it. 
 
 "In the pleasant orchard closes, 
 
 ' God Mess all our gains,' say we ; 
 But, ' May God bless all our losses,' 
 Better suits with our degree." 
 
 On this key-note the song opens, and we feel at 
 once that it is a plaintive minor. We have then 
 a sketch of that pleasant motherland of infancy 
 and childhood, with its '"summer snows of apple- 
 blossoms running up from glade to glade," which 
 reposes among beauty and regrets in a quiet, sa- 
 cred corner of every one's memory. There is the 
 childhood's valley, and in the valley is the wood, 
 and in the wood is the bower, and "over all, in 
 choral silence, the hills look you their all hail !" 
 The child's solitary journey to the wood is de- 
 scribed, and the first bursting of the bower upon 
 the entranced vision : 
 
 " As I enter'd, mosses hushing, 
 Stole all noises from my foot; 
 And a green elastic cushion, 
 Clasp'd within the linden's root, 
 Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute." 
 
 Questioning what and how it wa?, there " came a 
 sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt 
 than heard," 
 
 " Softly, finely, it inwound me, 
 From the world it shut me in, 
 Like a fountain falling round me, 
 Which, with silver waters thin, 
 Clips a little marble naiad, sitting smilingly within," 
 
 Here now was the perfection of communion with 
 nature ; the beauty without touched the sense of 
 beauty within ; and, for tlie moment, enjoyment 
 was complete. It was the terminal and highest 
 point of a series; but there was more beyond, 
 and to the beyond the rapt enthusiast must go — 
 
 " I rose up in exaltation, 
 
 And an inward trembling heat, 
 And (it seemed) in geste of passion, 
 Dropp'd the music to my feet, 
 Like a garment rustling downwards — such a silence fol- 
 lowed it. 
 
 Heart and head beat through the quiet. 
 
 Full and heavily, though slower; 
 In the song, I think, and by it, 
 Mystic presences of power 
 Had upsnatch'd me to the timeless, then retum'd me to the 
 hour." 
 
 She left the bower, she left the wood, she left the 
 sanctuary, and went out to the great temple, 
 which yet, for a little while, was all a sanctuary. 
 
 *' Oh, the golden-hearted daisies 
 
 WitnessVl there, before my youth. 
 To the truth of things, with praises 
 To the bea.uty of the truth. 
 And I woke to nature's real, laughing joyfully for both.'" 
 
 Light-hearted, yet full hearted, she vowed that 
 every day she would return to the bower ; and 
 she kept her vow; but "next morning all had 
 vanished, or my wandering missed the place," and 
 " I never more upon it turned my mortal coun- 
 tenance." It was the beginning of her losses, a 
 list or specimen of which she gives us : 
 
 " I have lost the dream of doing, 
 And tlie other dream of clone — 
 The lirst spring in the pursuing. 
 The first pride in the begun ; 
 First recoil from incompletion in the face of what is won 
 
 Exaltations in the far light, 
 
 Where some cottage only is. 
 Mild dejections in the starlight. 
 Which the sadder-hearted miss. 
 And the child-cheek blushing scarlet, for the very shame ot 
 bliss. 
 
 I have lost the sound child-sleeping, 
 
 Which the thunder could not break ; 
 Something, too, of the strong leaping 
 Of the stag-like heart awake, 
 Which the pale is low for keeping in the road it ought tr 
 take." 
 
 But the song must not close thus; at least, it 
 must not, and will not, close thus to the spirit 
 who has rightly undergone the discipline of the 
 losses which the loss of the bower prefigured and 
 necessitated. The time was long past, and the 
 place far away ; the discipline of life lay in the 
 scene between the tlten and the 71010 ; but, shut- 
 ting her eyes, and calling upon " unchanging re- 
 collections," the bower rose up before the spirit's 
 eye, fresh and fair as it first appeared to the 
 child's vision. Here is the exultant finale : 
 
 " Is the bower lost then ? Who sayeth 
 That the bower indeed is lost ? 
 Hark 1 my spirit in it prayeth, 
 Through the solstice and the frost, 
 And the prayer preserves it greenly, to the last and utter- 
 most — 
 
 Till another open for me. 
 
 In God's Eden-land unknown ; 
 With an angel at the doorway. 
 White with gazing at his throne, 
 And a saint's voice in the palm-trees, singing, Allisuiffr — 
 and won .'"' 
 
 The " Brown Rosar}-" is pitched on a higher 
 key, and takes in a wider range of thought ; but 
 it also is a song of losses, and of gains through 
 losses. In the "Lost Bower" we have delineated, 
 under the gui.-ie of a child's story, the disenchant- 
 ing process tlirough which nature passes, or seems 
 to pass, as it presents itself day after day, and 
 
110 
 
 GEMS OF MODERN ENGLISH POETRY. 
 
 year after year, to the eye and lieart which are 
 incessantly changed and modified by the ever- 
 shifting phenomena and events of time. The 
 theme and moral of the " Brown Rosary" are in- 
 dicated in these lines: 
 
 "Then breaking into tears — 'Dear God 1' she cried; 'and 
 
 must we see 
 All blissful things depart from its, or ere we go to Thee!'' '' 
 
 It is a sermon on the text — " He that loveth 
 father or mother, wife or children, more than me, 
 is not worthy of me." It has more of incident 
 than the " Lost Bower," and its structure and 
 motion are more diversified. Orona was be- 
 trothed to a noble and generous lover, and both 
 seemed to be well fitted for eacii other. Tliis 
 liuman love was all in all to Orona. She could 
 not see beyond it ; she could not live without it ; 
 and for it she was willing to sacrifice the love and 
 liope of heaven. This mood of mind is brought 
 out with admirable artistic skill by the machinery 
 of a dream, in which Orona, her dead father, an- 
 gels, and the ghost of a false nun, who, lost her- 
 self by earthly love, tempts Orona to a like ruin, 
 are interlocutors. A little brother of Orona's is 
 also introduced, who is supposed to be conversant 
 with the whole matter, and plays the explanatory 
 part of the chorus in the Greek tragedies. Orona 
 the betrothed, was doomed to die, as we learn 
 from the dream. She says : 
 
 '■ VVe heard, beside the heavenly gate, the angels muminr- 
 
 ing : 
 "We heard them say, ' Put day to day, and count the days 
 
 to seven, 
 And God will draw Orona up the golden stairs to heaven ; 
 And yet the evil ones have leave that purpose to defer, 
 For if she has no need of Him, he has no need of Aer.' 
 
 Evil Spirit. 
 Speak out to me — spealc bold and free. 
 
 Orona in sleep. 
 
 And then I heard thee say — 
 'I count upon my rosary brown the hours thou hast to 
 
 stay ! 
 Yet God permits us evil ones to put by that decree, 
 For if thou hast no need of Him, lie has no need of thee ; 
 And if thou wilt forego the sight of angels, verily, 
 Thy true love, gazing on thy face, shall guess what an- 
 gels be.' " 
 
 Orona did not choose the better part. Poor 
 girl ! her human love overcame her : — 
 
 '• Love feareth death. 1 was no child ; I was betrothed 
 
 that day : 
 I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away. 
 IIow could I bear to lie content and still beneath a stone, 
 And feel mine own betrothed go by — alas, no more mine 
 
 own ! — 
 Go leading by, in wedding pomp, some lovely lady brave, 
 With cheeks that blush'd as red as rose, while mine were 
 
 cold 
 
 in grave ; 
 
 How could I bear to sit in heaven, on e'er so high a throne, 
 And hear him say to her — to her .' — that else he loveth none ? 
 Though e'er so high I sate above, though e'er so low he spake, 
 As clear as thunder I should hear the new oath he might 
 
 take- 
 That hers, forsooth, are heavenly eyes — ah, me ! while very 
 
 dim 
 Some heavenly eyes (indeed of heaven) would darken down 
 
 to him.'' 
 
 Orona being thus overcome, she vowed this 
 fearful vow, which had power to defer the purpose 
 of the good angels. She addresses, in sleep, the 
 ghost of the nun — 
 
 " I vow'd upon thy rosary brown — and, till such vow should 
 
 brealt, 
 A pledge always of living days 'twas hung around my 
 
 neck — 
 I vow'd to thee on rosary (dead father, look not so 1), 
 I would not thank God in my weal nor seek God in my 
 
 wo .'" 
 
 Tlie current of human love was now free to take 
 its course. The bridal morn arrived. The little 
 brother mixed in the joyous throng, but not as 
 part of it, not as a happy heart. On the way to 
 the church, and again in the church, he reproach- 
 ed his sister with wearing on her bosom a brown 
 rosary. The mother frowned on her boy ; the 
 bridegroom laughed ; the priest said the boy was 
 wild, and approved the piety of the bride; and 
 " the maiden's lips trembled with smiles shut 
 within." The ceremony proceeded. A mocking 
 laugh broke in upon it, but none could find out 
 who the mockers were. The priest was per- 
 plexed. He could not name the great name — 
 
 "And each saw the bride, as if no bride she were, 
 Gazing cold at the priest, without gesture of prayer. 
 As he read from the psalter." 
 
 At length the rite was finished, and " they 
 who knelt down together, arise up as one." 
 Orona's vow renouncing heaven has won for her 
 human love. But only for a moment. The cup 
 was lifted to her lips only to be dashed to the 
 ground. The bridegroom glared blank and wide. 
 He kissed his bride, but his lips stung her with 
 cold. He called her his own wife, and " fell 
 stark at her feet in the word he was saying : " — 
 
 "She look'd in his face earnest long, as, in sooth, 
 
 There were hope of an answer, and then kiss'd his mouth ; 
 And, with head on his bosom, wept, wept bitterly— 
 ' Now, God, take pity, take pity on me ! — 
 
 God, hear my beseeching !' 
 She was 'ware of a shadow that cross'd where she lay — 
 She was 'ware of a presence that wither'd the day ; 
 Wild, she sprang to her feet — ' I surrender to Thee 
 The broken vow's pledge, the accursed rosary : 
 
 I am ready for dying :" " 
 
/ 
 
 THEY FADE. 
 
 171 
 
 Time's enchantments ■were now broken ; and, 
 in this total eclipse of human love and hope, 
 Orona first beheld the day-spring of the love that 
 is divine. We have the moral of the poem in 
 these her last words : — 
 
 " She spoke with passion after pause— ' And were it •wisely- 
 done, 
 If -we -who cannot gaze above, should walk the earth alone ? 
 If we whose virtue is so weak, should have a will so strong, 
 And stand blind on the rocks to choose the right path from 
 
 the wrong ?^ 
 To choose, perhaps, a love-lit hearth instead of love and 
 
 heaven ; 
 A single rose for a rose-tree, which beareth seven times 
 
 seven ; 
 A rose that droppeth from the hand, that fadeth in the 
 
 breast. 
 Until, in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best.' 
 Then breaking into tears — ' Dear God 1' she cried ; ' and 
 
 must we see 
 All blissful things depart from MS, or ere we go to Tuee? 
 We cannot guess thee in the wood, or hear thee in the 
 
 wind : 
 Our cedars must fall round us ere wc see thelight behind. 
 Ay sooth, we feel too strong in weal to need thee on that 
 
 road ; 
 But wo being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on 
 God.'" 
 
 We have noticed these two poems together, 
 because we think the one has its completeness in 
 the other, and both are required to the full de- 
 velopment of the leading thought which runs 
 through them. In both we have an exhibition of 
 beautiful and lovely things — lovely, and deserv- 
 ing to be loved, because they are beautiful and 
 true. In both, we are taught that this beauty is 
 
 not of the highest order ; and that if, while lov- 
 ing it, we do not stretch forward to the love of a 
 higher beauty, our idols will become dim, will 
 cease to fill our hearts, or will be dashed to 
 pieces before our eyes. Thus it is with nature, 
 as she presents herself to the young, susceptible 
 heart ; and thus it is with that higher phase of 
 the beautiful which comes in the fascinations of 
 young affection. We cannot love the one or the 
 other too well, if, at the same time, we keep open 
 heart to a higher love. The " Lost Bower " is re- 
 covered ; the " splendor in the grass, the glory in 
 the flower," are restored by the " prayer," which 
 " preserves them greenly to the last and utter- 
 most ;" and though, in the " Brown Rosary," poor 
 Orona's human love was blighted beyond the 
 power of prayer to revive it, her blighted earthly 
 hopes were the soil in which sprung up for her 
 the first heavenly flowers. 
 
 We have only further to express a hope, that 
 the extracts we have laid before our readers 
 will impress them with a favorable opinion of 
 Mrs. Browning's poetry. It is a source of high 
 and pure delight to us, aud we wish, tlierefore, 
 that its gifted authoress were better known in 
 this northern land. It bears the test of re-peru- 
 sal better than most poetry with which we are 
 acquainted •, which comes, we presume, from the 
 combination and fusion of strong thought with the 
 finest feeling. Itw as not without reason, and 
 Alfred Tennyson need not take it amiss, that 
 Mrs. Browning was named in some quarters for 
 the laureateship, on the death of Wordsworth. 
 
 THEY FADE. 
 
 Thus fade they, ever, ever — 
 
 To fade is beauty's doom ; 
 They come as hopes, but never 
 
 May ripen into bloom. 
 A little shadow chills them, 
 
 The sun may scorch anon ; 
 The frost-wind calls, the shadow falls, 
 
 And the beautiful are gone. 
 
 hope not ever, ever, 
 
 A bright thing shall endure ! 
 If it be but " very beautiful," 
 
 The end of it is sure. 
 Hopes dear as life, an angel wife— 
 
 A child— a darling one-- 
 The frost-wind calls, the shadow falls. 
 
 And the beautiful are gone. 
 
 Death is a tasteful spoiler, 
 
 He hath a dainty eye — 
 The young for him, and the light of limb, 
 
 Tliough weary ones are by. 
 He will steal into a circle, 
 
 With his shadow darkening on, 
 And the frost-wind calls, and the shadow falls, 
 
 And the beautiful are gone. 
 
 Yet stay thee not, oh, angel ! 
 
 It is thy mission here ; 
 And all are thine, by grant divine, 
 
 The fresh leaf, and the sere. 
 But only come for me too. 
 
 With the beautiful anon ; 
 I will journey with thee gladly, 
 
 To know where they are gone. 
 
A PLEA FOR OLD TREES. 
 
 TttERE are few things which I like better to 
 meet with in my wandering?, than an old tree. 
 When I see one upon which the storms of some 
 hundred winters have wasted themselves, sad 
 and solemn feelings always come over me ; I feel 
 as if I could linger long about it ; and sometimes, 
 strange as it may appear, I could even prostrate 
 myself before it, in mute awe and admiration. 
 It is not that there is anything very beautiful in 
 an old tree — sometimes it is even the reverse ; 
 and when I pause to look at some broken trunk, 
 •with scarce a mark of verdure remaining on it, 
 my friend who is with me will pull my arm, and 
 wonder what I see in that to stare at. But to 
 me, an old tree brings with it associations of a 
 very interesting and pleasing character; and it is 
 for these that I love to look upon it, and feel a 
 kind of friendship for it. 
 
 In the first jjlace, the delightful idea of con- 
 stancy associates itself with an old tree. Amidst 
 the rush and push of this world's changes, there 
 it has remained immovable for centuries; and 
 whilst cities have crumbled away, and kingdoms 
 have been revolutionized, and great empires have 
 risen and fallen, it has "taken root downward, 
 and borne fruit upward," and, year by year, its 
 branches have spread themselves overhead as a 
 green canopy, and it has helped to make the 
 face of nature lovelier and more beautiful. There 
 is one tree in my neighborhood — I think it is 
 said that nine hundred years have rolled their 
 clouds and played their lightnings over it — under 
 which I remember gamboling when I was a 
 child; and, though many changes have since 
 then come over me, and I have had my share — I 
 think sometimes, as I suppose most people do 
 tnore than my share — of dark days and sorrowful 
 ones; though friends whom I liad loved have 
 forsaken me, and some have turned away from 
 me, who I never thought would have done so ; I 
 go now occasionally, and I find the tree un- 
 altered : — 
 
 Fo was it Tivhenmy life be^^an ; 
 So is it now I am a mau :' 
 
 the marks of age, perhaps, are more apparent, 
 but it smiles upon me as it did of old ; and in 
 recalling, as I almost can, the sweet and innocent 
 thoughts and emotions which I indulged under 
 it, and the remembrance of the dear departed 
 
 ones with whom I stood at its feet, I can almost 
 bring back the days so long gone, and fancy my- 
 self a boy again. And I am not the only one 
 whom this old tree has cheered thus and encou- 
 raged : it smiled upon others before it smiled on 
 me ; and it will continue to smile when I am 
 gone and departed. The traveler has many a 
 time looked upon it, as he has passed the vUlage 
 in which it stands ; and the broken down soldier 
 has recognized it with a tear, as he has returned 
 after many battles to the quiet home of his boy- 
 hood- For many a year the swallow, returning 
 from her annual visit to a milder climate, has 
 always found its branches ready for her as a rest- 
 ing-place ; and in many a summer, the panting 
 flocks have sought and found under it a grateful 
 shade. How many things are there which the 
 world has less cause to be grateful to than it has 
 to an old tree ! 
 
 But an old tree has always associated with it 
 thoughts of the past. How many persons have 
 gazed upon it who will never gaze upon it again ; 
 and with what different emotions has it been 
 gazed upon at different times, and by different 
 classes of character ! The noble has gazed upon 
 it as he dashed by in his chariot ; and the poor 
 lame beggar, as he hobbled past on his crutch. 
 Perhaps, in some dark night, when the moon was 
 hidden behind the clouds, and scarce a star was 
 seen in the firmament, and the cold wind blew, 
 and the drizzling rain descended, which kept all 
 but the wicked or the houseless wanderer within 
 doors, the murderer may have arranged his plot ; 
 or even upon the very ground over which its 
 shade is cast, he may have carried it into execu- 
 tion ; and the old tree may have listened to the 
 cry of the murdered man, and seen his blood as 
 it mixed with the green gra«s around it. Centu- 
 ries ago, the Druid may imder it have offered his 
 human sacrifice ; and near it, may have rattled 
 in tlie night wind the chains and bones which 
 hung upon the gibbet. Wliat tales it could tell, 
 if it could but speak to us, of England in the 
 olden time ; and what revelations could it furnish 
 of events, but now imperfectly pictured forth to 
 us in the fictions of history ! It has heard the 
 old men talk of Alfred and of Canute, of the Con- 
 quest and William the Norman ; the tales of the 
 Plantao-enets and the Lancasters have been told 
 in its presence; it could speak to us of Magna 
 
SPIRIT OF LOVE. 
 
 1Y8 
 
 Charta and of the Crusades, of Harry the Eightli 
 and the Reformation ; it heard men talk with 
 glistening eye of John Ham])den and of Crom- 
 well, and how they stood up gloriously against 
 tyrants, and overthrew them ; it listened to their 
 deep murmurs at the tyranny of James, and to 
 their shouts of delight at the accession of the 
 Prince of Orange ; it heard them while they 
 talked iu whispers of the Plague, and of the 
 number dying daily, and how they were carried 
 in carts, and thrown uncoffined into the grave ; 
 amd it has seen how the world, amidst its ups and 
 downs, has been going forward all the while ; 
 and how, from all things being a monopoly of 
 the few, the rights of the many have come gra- 
 dually to be recognized, so that the "greatest 
 happiness of all" is likely yet to become the 
 politics of the world. Old tree ! wilt thou not 
 open thyself to us, and reveal the secrets to 
 which thou hast been a party ? 
 There is one lesson which we may very properly 
 
 learn from the contemplation of an old tre«. 
 Amidst all the changes which have occurred 
 around it, and notwithstanding the storms which 
 have beaten upon it, it has stood firm and un- 
 moved. How calmly it has witnessed the joys 
 and sorrows, the crimes and miseries, of tha 
 world ! Oh, to be as patient as the old tcea 
 amidst the storms and battles of life ; ever, 
 amidst changes and uncertainties, fulfilling our 
 high duty and destiny 1 
 
 I never like to see an old tree cut down. 
 When the woodman's axe approaches it, and I 
 observe upon it the mark which dooms it to 
 destruction, my soul protests against the sacrilegie. 
 It seems as if a part of myself were gone, when 
 an old familiar tree is removed — as if one of my 
 ties to this green earth were snapped asunder. 
 But perhaps it is better so. My friends of ^U 
 kinds are dying away ; and it is well that I 
 should sometimes be reminded that I soon must 
 follow them. 
 
 SPIRIT OF LOVE. 
 
 BY M R I 
 
 E A M E S 
 
 • The spirit of love floats everywhere." 
 
 Afar, afar, upon the wings of morning, 
 
 I send the spirit of my love to thee, 
 Beyond the seas, where'er thou art sojourning, 
 
 O'er utmost earth, remote as it may be .' 
 
 I send it in each wandering gale unto thee — 
 Eaoh whispering tone to tell of vanished hours j 
 
 I send it in the voice of streams to woo thee — 
 In the soft breath of odorous leaves and flowers. 
 
 In the light stir of forest-boughs, fast filling 
 My list'ning heart with memories of thee, 
 
 I send the spirit of my deep love, thrilling 
 Unto thine own with its soul-melody. 
 
 I send it on the glancing wings that hover 
 bove thee, in the blue, transparent air; 
 
 Eaoh bird-note echoing on thine ear, 0, rover, 
 A tender message to thy heart shall bear. 
 
 The crimson morn — noontide — the twilight falling ; 
 
 Night, with the steadfast stars we love so well j 
 The meek-eyed moon the olden times recalling — 
 
 In each, the spirit of my love shall dwell. 
 
 I send it in the beautiful, which liveth 
 Undying in the far depths of thy soul, 
 
 And in this voioeful spring, whose presence giveth 
 To all my hopes a happier control. 
 
 Afar, afar, upon the wings of morning, 
 
 I send the spirit of my love to thee, 
 Beyond the seas, where'er thou art sojourning, 
 
 O'er utmost earth, remote as it may be. 
 
PREJUDICES AGAINST INNOVATION. 
 
 When we consider the opposition wliicli every 
 diange has had to encounter before it has been 
 thoroughly adopted, we cannot be surprised by 
 tJie spirit which has been evoked by such inno- 
 vations as interfere in an especial manner with 
 dierished associations. The changes in national 
 oastume forced on a people have been ever pro- 
 ductive of the most bitter feelings, and often of 
 the most fatal consequences. It is well known 
 that an alteration in the uniform of the sepoys 
 was the cause of one of the most fearful tra- 
 gedies on record. It will be remembered that 
 gome military men at Madras, in the year 1806, 
 oa'dered the helmet worn by the European light 
 infantry to be substituted for the national tur- 
 lian, and prohibited the distinguishing marks of 
 tiieir respective castes worn by the native sol- 
 diers on their foreheads. These innovations were 
 deeply resented, and an awful vengeance fol- 
 lowed the new regulations. The particulars of 
 the dreadful massacre are recorded in the public 
 journals of the day. Of the European compa- 
 nies, upwards of 164 were cut off, with their 
 officers — many British officers of the native 
 troops, the sick in the hospital, and every per- 
 son found in the officers' houses, were \>\it to 
 death — and 800 of the sepoys were killed. The 
 obnoxious regulation was withdrawn, but for a 
 long time the spirit of disaffection continued 
 to spread in all directions. The prohibition 
 against the Highland costume is known to have 
 produced deep and bitter feelings, for it was 
 most fondly associated with all that was most 
 dear — martial prowess, and the ties of clanship 
 — end 80 picturesque, that it seemed to belong to 
 the very scenery and poetry of the country. 
 But a few years since, the public journals de- 
 tailed the grief into which the .Jews in one of 
 flie northern countries of Europe were plunged 
 by the law which obliged them to change their 
 accustomed garb ; their weeping and wailing 
 was described as most pitiable. One of the most 
 l)athetic airs ever composed, is said to have been 
 the lament for the culan, or long lock worn by 
 the Irish, and which they were compelled by 
 Law to cut off. 
 
 Some changes have, however, been so judi- 
 d'torus, that we should be utterly at a loss to 
 conceive how they could ever have been re- 
 sisted, were we not aware how everything is 
 
 endeared by custom ; and thus we find an expla- 
 nation for the obstinate pertinacity with which 
 old inconveniences were clung to. Every in- 
 vention to lighten labor or save time has met 
 with opposition from some quarter, in som<e 
 cases entirely from interested motives, which 
 have, not unfrequently, outweighed incalculable 
 advantages. The expedient devised by a bene- 
 volent person, to prevent the deleterious eifect 
 of their employment to the needle-pointers, was 
 of no use ; health and years of life being will- 
 ingly sacrificed for the high wages proportioned 
 to the risk which was incurred. Dreadful riots 
 followed the introduction of the power-loom. 
 Indeed, every improvement in machinery has 
 met with opposition in some direction. 
 
 There is no observation more just than that 
 made by Sidney Smith, Avhen he says, "Thene 
 is not one single source of human happiness 
 against which there have not been uttered tbe 
 most lugubrious predictions — turnpike roads, na- 
 vigable canals, inoculation, &q." There is, in- 
 deed, scarcely even an article in common use, 
 that has not been made the object of so much 
 invective or ridicule, that we wonder how they 
 ever came to be considered necessary to comfort. 
 Coaches, when first seen in England, were looked 
 on as evidences of sloth and efi'eminacy deroga- 
 tory to the English character. Umbrellas, when 
 first brought over from Italy, were not less the 
 objects of dislike and ridicule. A person seen 
 to carry one through the street was sure to be 
 hooted and laughed at by the mob, as a mere 
 dandy of his day. The prejudice against forks, 
 when newly invented, was so great that they 
 were supposed by many to be a device of Satan 
 to ofi"er an affi'ont to Providence, who had fur- 
 nished human beings with fingers for the con- 
 veyance of food to the mouth. It has been no 
 unusual thing thus to ascribe some of the most 
 useful discoveries and inventions to diabolical 
 intervention. Antimony and bark, now held as 
 such inestimable drugs in medical practice, were 
 supposed to have been brought into notic» 
 through the same evil agency. Bark had been 
 brought into Europe by the Jesuits, who distri- 
 buted quantities of it among the poor who were 
 laboring imder intermittent fevers and agues. 
 The cures which it wrought, and the quickness 
 with which they were effected, were made the 
 
PREJUDICES AGAII^ST INNOVATION. 
 
 175 
 
 great objection to its use. "The cures," said 
 they, -with a significant shake of the head, " are 
 too rapid." A preacher, from liis pulpit, de- 
 nounced it, as having been prompted by the 
 devil. 
 
 Inoculation for the small-pox was first tried in 
 England on seven condemned criminals, who, on 
 recovery, were pardoned. It might have been 
 supposed that such a successful experiment of its 
 efficacy would have established its value ; but it 
 had no such effect, and medical men continued 
 to inveigh against it for a time. Tamphlets were 
 WTitten, condemnatory of the impious attempt 
 to interfere with the decrees of Providence. In 
 the sermon of an admired preacher, it was in- 
 sisted on that all who infused the variolo\is fer- 
 ment were hellish sorcerers, aud that inoculation 
 was the diabolical invention of Satan. These 
 tirades had considerable effect on the public 
 mind, and for a long time retarded the benefit 
 of the great discovery. Vaccination, in its turn, 
 became the subject of bitter invective. The 
 tales propagated against it filled the minds of 
 tiie weak and ignorant with horror ; pamphlets 
 were written, and sermons were preached, to 
 put the unsuspecting on tiieir guard against this 
 new device of Satan. " God," said they, "gave 
 us the small-pox ; it is sinful to interrupt it by 
 the cow-pox." Hand-bills were pasted on the 
 walls through the streets, warning the people 
 against it. In some of them, a detailed account 
 was given of one who had submitted to vacci- 
 nation, and who soon had horns growing out of 
 his head. It is thus a medicjxl contemporary and 
 opponent of Jenner wrote on the subject — " Fu- 
 tm-e ages will read with wonder the history of 
 the cow-pox credulity of our nation ; and of the 
 headlong precipitancy with which the children 
 of this country were committed to a medical ex- 
 periment at the risk of their lives. This modern 
 eaposing of children sinks our boasted human 
 tenderness beneath the guardian spirit of in- 
 stinct. That a people should be found to con- 
 taminate their offspring with a poison taken 
 from the brute creation, of the origin, nature, 
 mid effects of which they had not the smallest 
 knowledge, will stand among the incredible 
 tales of some future Pliny." 
 
 We all know the cruel persecutions which 
 Galileo underwent for his astronomical discov- 
 eries ; thrice imprisoned, ordered to recant his 
 heretical theory of the earth, and his work on 
 the Ptolemaic and Copernican systems publicly 
 burnt; Virgilius, bishop of Saltzburg, condemned 
 tp expiate in the flames the heresy of which he 
 had been guilty in his assertion that there were 
 
 antipodes ; Cornelius Agrippa, accused of being 
 a magician, and compelled to flee his country, 
 for having exhibited some of the philosophical 
 experiments which we are accustomed to see 
 every day — deprived of his resources, and end- 
 ing his days in an hospital ; Galen, driven from 
 Rome by the persecution of the physicians, who 
 ascribed his success to magic ; Harvey, seeing his 
 great discovery of the circulation of the blood 
 made the subject of a bitter controversy, and so 
 protracted, that he scarcely lived to see his 
 theory established. 
 
 But it would be needless, and lead us into too 
 great length, were we to enumerate those whose 
 labors met with no better reward than the 
 calumnies of superstition and the persecution of 
 bigotry. Even in the better times wliich we have 
 seen, we know that geologists had to hear, and 
 strange to say, still have to hear, that the ten- 
 dencies of their pursuit lead to the most deplor- 
 able results. " "When," said Robert Fulton, " I 
 was building my first steam-boat at New York, 
 the project was viewed by the public either 
 with indifierence or with contempt, as a vision- 
 ary scheme. My friends, indeed, were civil, but 
 they were shy. They listened with patience to 
 my explanations, but with a settled look of in- 
 credulity on their countenances. As I had occa- 
 sion to pass daily to and from the building-yard, 
 while my boat was in progress, I have often loi- 
 tered unknown near the idle group of strangei-s 
 gathering in little circles, and heard various inqui- 
 ries as to the object of this new vehicle. The 
 language was uniformly that of scorn, or sneer, 
 or ridicule. The loud laugh often rose at my 
 expense — the dry jest, the wiser calculation of 
 losses and expenditure, the dull but endless re- 
 petition of the 'Fulton folly.' Never did a 
 single encouraging remark, a briglit hope, or a 
 warm wish, cross my path. Silence itself was 
 but politeness veiling its doubts or hiding its 
 reproaches. At length the day arrived when the 
 experiment was to be put into operation. To 
 me it was a most trying and interesting occasion. 
 I invited many friends to go on board to witness 
 the first successful trip. Many of them did me 
 the favor to attend, as a matter of personal re- 
 spect ; but it was manifest that they did it with 
 reluctance, fearing to be the partners of my mor- 
 tification and not of my triumph. I was well 
 aware tliat in my case there were many reasons 
 to doubt of my own succes. The machinery was 
 new and ill-made ; many parts of it were con- 
 structed by mechanics unaccustomed to such 
 work ; and unexpected difficulties might reason- 
 ably be presumed to present themselves from 
 
1Y6 
 
 PREJUDICES AGAINST INNOVATION. 
 
 other causes. Tlie moment arrived in which the 
 word was to be given for the vessel to move. 
 My friends were in groups on the deck. There 
 was anxiety mixed with fear among tliem. They 
 were silent, and sad, and weary. I read in their 
 looks nothing but disaster, and almost repented 
 of my efforts. The signal was given, and the 
 boat moved on a short distance, and then stop- 
 ped, and became immovable. To the silence of 
 the preceding moment now succeeded murmurs 
 of discontent, and agitations, and whispers, and 
 shrugs. I could hear distinctly repeated, ' I 
 told you it would be so — it is a foolish scheme — 
 I wish we were well out of it' I elevated my- 
 self upon a platform, and addressed the assem- 
 bly. I stated that I knew not what was the 
 matter ; but, if they would be quiet, and in- 
 dulge mc for half an hour, I would either go on, 
 or abandon the voyage for that time. This short 
 respite was conceded without objection. I went 
 below, examined the machinery, discovered that 
 the cause was a slight mal-adjustment of some of 
 the work. In a short period it was obviated. 
 The boat was put again in motion. She con- 
 tinued to move on. All were still incredulous ; 
 none seemed willing to trust the evidence of 
 their senses. "We left the fair city of New York, 
 we passed through the romantic and ever vary- 
 ing scenery of the Highlands, we descried the clus- 
 tering houses of Albany, we reached its shore, 
 and then, even then, when all seemed achieved, I 
 was tlie victim of disappointment. Imagination 
 superseded the influence of fact ; it was then 
 doubted if it could be done again, or if done, it 
 was doubted if it could be made of any great 
 value." 
 
 The application of steam has been an achieve- 
 ment of which science may well be proud. The 
 predictions of what it was yet to accomplish, 
 were not met with the spirit of pei-secution 
 which assailed former discoveries and inventions 
 from which the human race has reaped most 
 precious benefits. But most certainly they were 
 at first received with coldness, and often with 
 ridicule. 
 
 The celebrated " London Quarterly Review," in 
 1825, in an article, on " Canals and Railways," 
 said : " We scout at the idea of a general rail- 
 road, as altogether impracticable, or as one, at 
 least, which will be rendered nugatory in lines 
 where the traffic is so small that the receipts 
 would scarcely pay for the consumption of coals. 
 As to tho<!e persons," it says, " who speculate on 
 making railroads general throughout the kingdom, 
 
 and superseding all the canals, all the wagons, 
 mail and stage coaches, post chaises, and in short 
 every other mode of conveyance by land or by 
 water, we deem them and their visionary schemes 
 unworthy of notice." 
 
 The Review goes on to quote, We find a coun- 
 tryman of Mr. Telford writing thus : — " "We shall 
 be carried at the rate of 400 miles aday, with all 
 the ease we now enjoy in a steam-boat, but with- 
 out the annoyance of sea-sickness, or the danger 
 of being burned or drowned." "It is," the Review 
 adds, 'certainly some consolation to those who 
 are to be whirled at the rate of eighteen or twenty 
 miles an hour, by means of a high-pressure en- 
 gine, to be told that they are in no danger of be- 
 ing sea-sick while on shore, that they are not to 
 be scalded to death, or drowned by the bursting of 
 the boiler, and tliat they need not mind being shot 
 by the scattered fragments, or dashed in pieces 
 by the flying off or breaking of a wheel. But, 
 with all these assurances, we should as soon ex- 
 pect the people of Woolwich to suffer themselves 
 to be fired off upon one of Congreve's ricochet 
 rockets, as trust themselves to the mercy of such 
 a machine, going at such a rate. Their property 
 they may perhaps trust ; but, while one of the 
 finest navigable rivers in the world runs parallel 
 to the purposed railroad, we consider the other 
 20 per cent, which the subscribers are to receive 
 for the conveyance of heavy goods almost as pro- 
 blematical as that to be derived from the passen- 
 gers. We will back old Father Thames against 
 the Woolwich Railway for any sum." 
 
 This article, when written, responded to the 
 sentiments of the most influential part of the 
 community ; and it is curious to observe how ut- 
 terly unprepared the public were for the fulfill- 
 ment of predictions which they ascribed to a wild 
 enthusiasm, and which they considered it a duty 
 to keep in some kiud of check. But science and 
 genius have gone beyond the expectations of the 
 most sanguine ; and all seem ready to grant, that 
 what they may yet lead to is beyond human cal- 
 culation. Discoveries are no longer looked on with 
 mistrust and timid apprehension ; but what next / 
 is the feeling, if not the question, of all. Steam; 
 and electricity, those powerful agents, are already 
 affecting the destinies of man in all directions, 
 and rendering our earthly abode every day more 
 like that of purely spiritual beings, who pass 
 through space with unobstructed celerity, and 
 I exchange words and thoughts from the most re- 
 mote distances. 
 
DIGNITY. 
 
 FROM THE WASTE-DRAWER OF A CLERGYMAN 
 
 Could any superior intelligences take an inter- 
 est in observing the current of our social life, as 
 naturalists contemplate the habits of inferior 
 races, what a fund of amusement would they 
 find in the working of human notions of dig- 
 nity ! No class of beliefs is entertained with so 
 much of variety and 2'>'iradox. One nation's le- 
 gends on the subject are in complete opposition 
 to those of another, and the faith of almost every 
 age is contradicted by that of its successor. In 
 the caliphate of Bagdad, the public executioner 
 ranked next to the prime minister, and his offi- 
 cial title was Mesour, or the happy ; wliile in 
 Europe everything connected with the same of- 
 fice was deemed so disgraceful that the magis- 
 trates of a German town were once obliged to 
 proceed in a body, with all the insignia of civic 
 authority, and commence the repairs of the gal- 
 lows, in hopes that their example might induce 
 some workmen to complete that favorite engine 
 of Gothic law. The Danes reproached Alfred of 
 England with reading Latin like a priest ; and 
 now A''irgil and Horace may be said to lead the 
 van of an English gentleman's education. When 
 Lord Shaftesbury, being high chancellor, inform- 
 ed his royal patron in full levee that, " for a 
 subject, he believed himself the most profligate 
 man in his majesty's dominions ;" and a country 
 squire, descanting on the insolence c>f his ser- 
 vant, observed that " the fellow forgot his station, 
 and swore like a gentleman," the suitabilities (to 
 Tenture a new plural) of elevated positions must 
 have been somewhat different from the present 
 acceptation. Well might the old poet say, " The 
 glories of our birth and state are shadows, not 
 substantial things." Distorted shadows some of 
 them have been, and it is well that tlicy at least 
 are not substantial. Ideas of dignity, if not re- 
 stricted, are certainly common to mankind ; and, 
 whether originating in vanity, self-esteem, or a 
 desire for the respect of otlicrs, much of the ab- 
 surd and preposterous has in all times liung 
 about their demonstrations, and future investi- 
 gators will smile at those of the ninetcentli cen- 
 tury. 
 
 Dignity has been the source of many an old 
 and troublesome institution. Hence came the 
 
 caste system of India, interwoven with eastern 
 mythology, and established in earlier times, un- 
 der various modifications, in all the nations of 
 the earth. From the same root was derived the 
 science and mystery of heraldry, so important 
 in Europe's untaught and pageant-loving days. 
 Thence, too, originated the whole ceremonial of 
 etiquette, known to the world's courts and cas- 
 tles, from the nine prostrations of the Chinese 
 before the statue of the sun's brother, alias the 
 reigning emperor, to the famous ordinance of 
 Queen Charlotte, against saluting any but titled 
 ladies. 
 
 Among the remnants of Celtic literature there 
 is a satirical poem, called " The AVoman of Three 
 Cows," which contains a sharp expostulation with 
 an ancient dame for the hauteur she exhibited, 
 in virtue of the above-named possession. Others 
 rest on some imaginary or self-devised distinc- 
 tion. The industrious lady mentioned by Addi- 
 son, who would have her daughters spin hucka- 
 back for the household, but only on little wheels, 
 as large ones, however expeditious, were used by 
 common people, and therefore inadmissible, was 
 an example of the kind in her age. There are 
 also those who put on borrowed glory like a gar- 
 ment, and become great in their relations. A 
 titled cousin or a distinguished uncle has been 
 the innocent cause of injury to the social habits 
 and manners of many a family. 
 
 A German poet, who, by the way, lived and 
 died a bachelor, gave it, as the result of his ex- 
 perience, that the near relations, and particularly 
 the children, of celebrated literateurs were in 
 general disagreeably vain, and apt to cut a more 
 eccentric than respectable figure in life. The 
 single poet might have been given to fault-find- 
 ing with other people's children for their natural 
 pride in a distinguished relative, but honors en- 
 tirely derived have seldom been eitlicr gracefully 
 worn or turned to good account. Nearly allied 
 to this form is family pride. Tliat Gothic pillar 
 has supported the dignity of unreckoned num- 
 bers in the coiu'se of centuries. The Dalmatian 
 who could not plough his only field because his 
 ancestors had been chiefs of the Haiduks, confid- 
 ed in it quite as much as Louis XVI. of France, 
 
178 
 
 DIGNITY. 
 
 when, just before the first revolution, he issued 
 a decree, ordaining that none should expect pre- 
 sentation at court who could not exhibit a clear 
 pedigree of four hundred years. The assigned 
 cause of this ordinance was, that sundry family 
 trees of doubtful origin had sprung up in the 
 preceding reigns: and there is an anecdote in 
 point of Vauban, the celebrated military engi- 
 neer. He had done the state some service in 
 frontier fortifications — at least, Cardinal Riche- 
 lieu thought so — and it was proposed to reward 
 him by means of an order ; but Vauban was of 
 plebeian descent, and the ribbon could be be- 
 stowed on nothing less than nobility. The car- 
 dinal was considerate enough to send him an 
 intimation of the intended honor and its obstruc- 
 tion, with a consolatory hint that under his 
 patronage any herald could make out a genealogy. 
 " Tell the cardinal that I thank him," responded 
 the truly noble engineer to this courtly message ; 
 " but say also that I am not in the habit of pay- 
 ing for pride with truth ;" and history mentions 
 that Vauban received the order. 
 
 Family pride, though not unknown at any his- 
 torical period, appears to have been peculiarly 
 the growth of the feudal times. It was well fitted 
 for a state of society in which the few were lords 
 and the many their vassals ; but little did those 
 proud barons, who gloried in ancestors and quar- 
 terings, think what burlesque editions of their 
 trust in family honors should appear in more 
 equalizing ages. The sweep who commanded his 
 son, on pain of being disinherited, to give up all 
 thoughts "of a neighboring tailor's daughter, as 
 a connection beneath one whose grandfather had 
 swept the flues of Windsor Castle, must have 
 cauglit the mantle of their spirit, though its de- 
 scent was far. One of the most ludicrous circum- 
 stances of this kind that probably ever occurred, 
 took place between two emigrant Highlauderi 
 in tliis country. They were of the same patrony- 
 mic, but had taken different sides in an election- 
 eering question, and one of them, the better to 
 influence the votes of his emigrant countrymen 
 in the locality, reminded them of his descent 
 from chieftains, whether real or imaginary it is 
 needless to inquire, by assuming the well-known 
 title of "the Macnab ;" upon which his opponent, 
 not to be outdone at once in rank and voters, 
 announced himself to the amused public as "the 
 other Macnab," and each bore their respective 
 titles, it is said, much longer than they were 
 found agreeable. The pride of family may have 
 served a good purpose at times, when it operated 
 after the fashion of the Barmecide's advice to 
 his son — " Consider thine ancestors only to excel 
 them ;" but it is to be feared that, with those by 
 
 whom it has been most cherished, the having of 
 ancestors, in the ordinary acceptation, was deem- 
 ed sufficient excellence. To no idea of dignity 
 have greater sacrifices been made. There is a 
 dark picture, true to history, though often re- 
 peated in the fictitious literature of France. It 
 is an aristocratic family, reduced to absolute 
 penury by the extravagance of elder barons, and 
 the code of the noblesse which forbade any of their 
 branches to engage at all in business, occupying 
 an apartment or two in a vast but decaying cha- 
 teau, whence, from one generation to another, 
 the sons and daughters, all excepting the heir, 
 were transmitted to convent and monastery as 
 soon as they reached eighteen, being literally 
 born to the veil and cowl. 
 
 Such details verify the remarks of a modern 
 pliilosopher, that pride is the Juggernaut of the 
 moral world. The autobiography of Count Cha 
 teaubriand pi-esents us with a companion-sketch 
 taken from his father's household. They kept 
 but two aged sei-vants, and lived in a few rooms 
 of their huge castle, including the great saloon, 
 one end of which served them for a drawing- 
 room and the other for a dining-parlor. They 
 saw no company, had no books to read, and sel- 
 dom went out even to church, for want of equip- 
 ments suited to their rank. The head of the 
 family spent his time in musing over his fallen 
 fortunes, and supported his dignity by rarely 
 speaking to his wife and children, who were ex- 
 pected to keep silence in his presence. Tlie only 
 amusement permitted to his noble birth was that 
 of the sportsman, and, having no other hunting 
 ground, he shot owls as they flew out of the ivy 
 of his towers on summer evenings, and in winter 
 pored over a moth-eaten chest of family papers 
 in an old turret chamber called his study. 
 
 The inconsistency, which runs throughout hu- 
 man afiixirs, whether of faith or practice, is prom- 
 inent in many notions of dignity. At Venice, 
 in the days of her glory, none but the nobility 
 were allowed to game, yet, it is curious that, in 
 that city as well as in other old commercial 
 towns of Italy, such as Florence and Genoa, 
 mercantile pursuits, so far from being considered 
 vulgar, were almost confined to the aristocracy 
 during the middle ages, while they were regard- 
 ed as utterly plebeian over all the rest of Europe. 
 An ancestor of the revolutionary orator. Count 
 Mirabeau, who was of Italian origin, and had 
 established himself with his merchandise at Mar- 
 seilles, once had a dispute with the bishop, who, 
 by way of contempt, called him a merchant. "A 
 merchant of spice I am," rejoined the Italian, 
 " but you are only a merchant of holy water, and 
 that closed the contest. 
 
THE IDEAL. 
 
 no 
 
 Somewhat akin to self-magnifying notions on 
 the ground of birth and descent, is that over- 
 whelming veneration for the dignity of superior 
 rank. A notable devotee of the order was the 
 naval captain who, when referring to the captain 
 of a Spanish privateer in the sea-faring days of 
 William IV., observed that " the Spaniards had 
 the honor to be taken by the vessel on board of 
 which his royal highness served." A chemist once 
 performing an experiment in the presence of 
 Louis XIV., was still more reverential : " Sire," 
 said he, with a profound bow, "graciously deign 
 to permit these substances to coalesce in your 
 august presence." 
 
 During the exile of Charles II., his mimic court 
 was kept in a constant ferment by the rivalry of 
 Lord Herbert, and Clarendon, the well known 
 historian, for the possession of the great seal, 
 which had lain for years at the bottom of an old 
 trunk, and was long superseded by one of the 
 parliament's fabrication in England. Perhaps 
 some scent, or hope of the chancery, " hung round 
 it still ;" but, at length, when all Europe had 
 either openly or tacitly recognized the authority 
 of Crommell, and the whole court, according to 
 Clarendon's own letters, owed at least three 
 months' board and lodging, which he piously 
 hoped some of their descendants miglit pay, the 
 historian of the Rebellion was victorious, for the 
 king suspended the seal by a black ribbon round 
 his neck, and Lord Herbert is said to have died 
 of grief at his disappointment. Clarendon lived 
 to carry that seal before the restored king on his 
 march to Whitehall, with the chancellorship and 
 all its substantialities in full possession — lived to 
 gain much outward greatness, do some shabby 
 things, and fall out of royal favor, carrying with 
 him only the hatred of the multitude and a bro- 
 ken reputation, over which partisans have ever 
 since disputed. The story of Clarendon's fall 
 affords an example of the doings of dignity quite 
 
 as curious ast hose contemplated in his elevation, 
 though of a different kind. The chancellor's ene- 
 mies at court could never make the king forget 
 his long and faithful services, till they hit upon 
 the expedient of saying to Charles whenever he 
 appeared, " Old Rowley, there comes your 
 schoolmaster." The monarch, whose habits and 
 character sanctioned such a form of address, im- 
 mediately took alarm that his dignity should be 
 surpected of stooping to instruction, and Claren- 
 don's dismissal was determined. 
 
 How deplorably frequent are the correspond- 
 ing cases of private life ! Wise and loving coun- 
 sel has been despised, the bond of mutual interest 
 forgotten, and the friendship of years set at naught 
 by the dignity of both peer and peasant in fear 
 of presumed dictatorship. Are there any wlio 
 have never heard worthless associates mention a 
 man's best friend, or it may be his help-mate, in 
 the style of "Old Rowley, there comes your 
 schoolmaster ?" The pranks wliich dignity is apt 
 to play with peojile's manners are but too gen- 
 erally known. Perhaps a seat in either cluirch 
 or dining-room, be>ide a lady impressed witli the 
 necessity of supporting it, would furnish the 
 most familiar if not the pleasantest illustration. 
 Some philosophers have remarked than an over- 
 straining after dignity is the liability of tlio mas- 
 culine rather than tlie feminine character, and its 
 absence is certainly an advantage to the latter. 
 In all stations, the desire of respect is not only 
 natural but praisewortliy, nor is it less so that 
 men should avail themselves of fortune's aids for 
 the purpose ; but the respect of even ordinary 
 minds, whatever machinery of airs or circumstan- 
 ces may be brought to hear upon tlvem, can only 
 be secured by conduct which is really respectable. 
 Socrates once being asked what were the most 
 honorable among men and things, answered, 
 "Those that are wi.sest and best;" and Ids reply 
 embodied the truest notions of dignify. 
 
 THE IDEAL 
 
 B T R . 
 
 STODDARD. 
 
 A soft ideal, long beloved, 
 But long beloved in vain, 
 
 In memory's gallery hangs alone. 
 The picture of my brain ! 
 
 It is not young, nor beautiful ; 
 But worn vrith ain and care, 
 
 Like her who washed the feet of Christ, 
 And wiped them with her hair ! 
 
 But oh I the sweetness of the face — 
 
 The sadness of the eye | 
 It haunts my soul by day and night, 
 
 And will uniil I die .' 
 
THE TRUE SOURCE OF HAPPINESS. 
 
 Happiness is that bright particular star whose 
 genial rays are ever pleasing to the human eye 
 and exliilaniting to the human spirit What the 
 law of attraction is to the physical world, happi 
 ness is tcj the moral world ; it attracts and centres 
 in itself the feelings and emotions of the heart, and 
 the thoughts and aspirations of the mind. Every 
 human being is in pursuit of bliss, however much 
 lie may be mistaken in his conception of it, and 
 the means wliich he use? to obtain its possession. 
 The essence of it is divine and pure, and it is the 
 result of a due appreciation of, and due conformi- 
 ty to, the will of God, as it is revealed in crea- 
 tion and the Bible. By this we mean that God 
 is the author of all happiness, and that man can 
 only secure it by shaping his conduct according 
 to those lines of duty that are written in light 
 and love in his works and word. When we speak 
 of happiness, we do not allude to that illusory and 
 chameleon-like thing called pleasure, by which 
 60 many of our fellow-creatures are deluded. Not 
 that we object to rational and lawful pleasures — 
 we rather commend them ; but we consider them 
 as subordinate means of happiness. They are 
 only tributary streams, emptying themselves into 
 that deep and unfathomable sea of happiness 
 which was designed to fertilize and bless the 
 world of humanity. The elements of bliss are 
 around, above, and within us; we read of them in 
 the past, we see them in the present, and we 
 dream of them in the future. 
 
 It is truly lamentable that so fevi^, compara- 
 tively, should understand the real nature and 
 characteristics of happiness. Some seek it in am- 
 bition, power, and pomp; others in the trifles and 
 gewgaws of life ; and a third class wear the mana- 
 cles of passion, appetite, and lust ; and yet they 
 think that they are bound by the golden chain of 
 happiness. Their mental vision is obscured, and 
 their moral nature perverted, so that they cannot 
 perceive and value so heavenly a thing. Tiiey 
 mistake the instruments of happiness for the thing 
 
 itself, and too often, alas ! misuse them, so as to 
 convert them into positive curses. We do not 
 agree with Scotia's plowman-bard, 
 
 That man was made to mourn : 
 
 the germs of happiness are implanted in our na- 
 ture, and we are accountable for their develop- 
 ment and perfection. We can fully sympathize 
 with Byron when he says, 
 
 Our nature's false — 'tis not in the harmony of things, 
 
 because he felt the truth and power of what he 
 wrote. His heart was out of tune with all sur- 
 rounding objects, and consequently there was dis- 
 cord instead of harmony. If we allowed our- 
 selves to be influenced by appearances, we should 
 be led to infer that misery (or the opposite of 
 happiness) was a necessity of man's nature. The 
 empire of this million-phased monster is exten- 
 sive, and he rules with a rod of iron. But how- 
 ever much we may deplore the existence of 
 misery, it is a consolatory and well-ascertained 
 fact, that it is not a necessary evil, but that it is 
 to a great extent self-inflicted, and therefore may 
 be remedied by personal and social reformation. 
 Man was made for happiness. It is an inherit- 
 ance given to him by his Maker, but it has been 
 lost through sin and folly. But there is a possi- 
 bility of regaining it again; and that which is 
 now a dream, a wish, a prayer, may become a 
 great fact, a splendid reality. The sources of 
 happiness are laid deep in man's moral and intel- 
 lectual nature. Men must be taught to look for 
 them there, and not in the pleasures of sense. 
 The former are of paramount importance, the 
 latter are fleeting and transitory. No happiness 
 is so holy as that of purifying and exalting our 
 moral feelings, and developing and enlarging our 
 mental faculties. By this means we shall fit our- 
 selves for the enjoyment of everything that can 
 bless and elevate humanity. 
 
dD ling to 3Hl 
 
 SITNG BY MISS CATHARINE HAYES. 
 
 MUSIC RY C. A. OSBORNE, 
 
 -#-7^- 
 
 )=fc 
 
 i 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^^ 
 
 (111! sing, oh! sing to nie 
 
 FriouJs of my youth, friends past 
 
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 a - gain, 
 and gone, 
 
 With 
 
 ^^f^- 
 
 I^ 
 
 i ^^-#r-T 
 
 • \ 
 
 x_^ 
 
 £ 
 
 ft 
 
 :^ 
 
 plain - tive voice that well -loved 
 
 Scenes of bright days, . . . long, long 
 
 V — ^ 
 
 strain ; It brings back childhood's 
 
 flowu, Though you can ne'er be 
 
 
 f 
 
 ^1^ 
 
 i 
 
 ^L !. 
 
 3e^^ 
 
 iL-ljl' 
 
 ? 
 
 hours. Its sun - ny fields and bowers, WHien the heart was free from pain, 
 
 mine. While mem'ry's liglil doth shine. Your joys are all my own. 
 
OH! SING TO ME. 
 
 r^ 
 
 ^ ^T^ 
 
 'i=^f=^ 
 
 (^-^ 
 
 
 Oh ! sing, 
 Oh ! sing, 
 
 sing that strain a - gain And all my ear - - ly 
 
 sing that strain a - gain And all my ear - - ly 
 
 ©t 
 
 
 
 -t^— 
 
 1©- 
 
 ■«?- 
 
 -*^- 
 
 ^&- 
 
 -is^ 
 
 cres. 
 
 
 mm^ 
 
 joys re 
 joys re 
 
 store, 
 store. 
 
 Oh! 
 Oh! 
 
 sing, 
 sing, 
 
 sing to me that strain, that 
 sing to me that strain, that 
 
 ^n] 
 
 H*.* >;' 
 
 
 r 
 
 4^- 
 
 ^-^ 
 
 ^. 
 
 4^-^ 
 
 -<^- 
 
 -k^- 
 
 1©- 
 
 t^- 
 
 -Q 
 
 i 
 
 strain, 
 strain. 
 
 P 
 
 ral 
 
 len 
 
 [ M 
 
 —I — i — m—a~a 
 
 9-0-0- 
 
 And let me be the child a - gain ; 
 And let lue be the child a - gain ; 
 
 Oh ! sing, Oh ! sing to me a- 
 Oh ! sing. Oh! sing to me a- 
 
 gain that strain 
 
 gain that strain 
 
 \j^)f^^^S 
 
 s 
 
 
 m. 
 
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 miT) 
 
$$ \ 
 
 / '/^ 
 
 LEONARD BACON, B. D. 
 
EARLY PIETY 
 
 BY E E T 
 
 D R, 
 
 BACON, 
 
 The pietj which takes its date from early 
 youth ; which grows with tlie gi'owth, and 
 strengthens with the strength of the mind in all 
 its faculties; which sheds its benignant influence 
 on all the features of the character ; and which 
 has full opportunity to exert its purifying and 
 ennobling tendency, while the very substance of 
 the soul, as it were, is yet unformed and plastic, 
 acquires a consistency, a symmetry, a strength and 
 "beauty of holiness," which is rarely acquired in 
 any other way. The character of such an one is 
 worth more to the church, worth more to the 
 honor of God, and to the interests of man, than 
 the character of the same individual could be, 
 had he spent many years in mere worldliuess, 
 and then at last, after all his habits of thought 
 and action had acquired the stubbornness of age, 
 first experienced the power of religion. 
 
 The young have the entire period of their ac- 
 tivity before them, and may be permitted to 
 spend many years in works of usefulness. Let 
 the old man be converted, as he totters along on 
 the margin of another world; and what is there 
 which he can do for God or for men? His own 
 soul is indeed saved from passing into eternity 
 unreconciled to God, and unforgiven; but what 
 is there which he can do, what works meet for 
 repentance can he perform, as the shadows fall 
 dark and heavy on his path, and the gray even- 
 ing of that night in which no man can work, is 
 already closing around him ? What can he do to 
 advance the salvation of the world ? What can 
 he do to send down to after ages a strong and 
 holy Christian influence ? He can only offer to 
 God a few faded and decaying fragments of exis- 
 tence; he can only breath.e out, with the tremu- 
 lous asthmatic utterance of age, one feeble dying 
 testimony, and he is gone to that land of silence 
 where there is no work, nor knowledge, nor de- 
 vice. But the young Christian, M'hile he may be 
 trained, as we have already noticed, to a higher 
 and nobler measure of piety, may also be allowed 
 to devote, to the active service of God, all those 
 years which the aged convert regrets having 
 spent to no important purpose. If his life is 
 spared, he will soon be sustaining his part in the 
 
 vast and complicated drama of human action. 
 All his influence on the men of his own generation, 
 all his influence on the well- being of tiie ages 
 that shall follow him, is something yet to be ; 
 and now that he has first given himself to God, 
 we may hope to see that influence consecrated to 
 the noblest and holiest ends. We may hope 
 that in all the relations which he is yet to sustain 
 in life, domestic, social, and public, as well as re- 
 ligious, he will be serving God and advancing the 
 best interests of man. We may hope that through 
 all the channels of human influence, he will be con- 
 tinually sending forth upon the world a salutary 
 energy ; and that ere his head shall blossom for 
 the grave, he will have done much to breathe 
 into the character of ages yet unborn, the spirit of 
 Christian intelligence and Christian virtue. That 
 " aged one" who could say when the time of his 
 departure was at hand, I am ready to be offered, I 
 have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, 
 was converted while he was yet " a young man." 
 
 The most important peculiarity in the consti- 
 tution of society under which we live, that indeed 
 into which almost every other peculiarity may 
 be resolved, is the perfect freedom of opinion and 
 of moral influence which is here secured to all ; 
 the fact that here there is nothing to check or 
 control the mutual influence of the individual 
 members of the community. Every man has an 
 opportunity to exert on society all the moral in- 
 fluence of which he is capable. Here are no 
 privileged orders, no hereditary distinctions, no 
 ecclesiastical establishments, no ancient and sa- 
 cred immunities, no unrepealable constitutions, 
 to bound or curb the tides of popular opinion. 
 The character and the mutual influence of indi- 
 vidual citizens, is under God, the only thing on 
 wliich the destinies of the nation hang. What- 
 ever the people will is done ; and they will just 
 that which their character, and their influence on 
 each other, lead thum to regard as desirable. 
 Government is nothing; law is nothing; constitu- 
 tions and compacts are nothing ; public character 
 and public opinion, in other words the character 
 and opinions and mutual influence of individuals, 
 is everything. And while the influence of indi^ 
 
186 
 
 E ARLY PIETY. 
 
 viduals is so momentous, and the power of pub- 
 lic opinion so unlimited, every man i# at liberty 
 to push his influence in just what direction he 
 chooses, and to the greatest extent which his 
 faculties will allow. If a man chooses to propa- 
 gate intemperance, libertinism, infidelity, athe- 
 ism, any form of profligacy, or any monstrous or 
 abominable doctrine whatever, he has every Ai- 
 cility for doing it. If a man is careless what 
 opinions prevail, or what sort of influence he 
 exerts, there is nothing to hinder him from being 
 borne whithersoever the conflicting winds and 
 currents may happen to carry him. If a man is 
 impelled by the benevolence of Christianity, and 
 glows with desires to inculcate on others the 
 same principles which are so rich a treasure to 
 himself, no power can restrain him from doing 
 it. If individuals of kindred spirit, whether few 
 or many, choose to associate for the more exten- 
 sive propagation of what they regard as truth 
 and virtue, they have no need to petition any 
 body for the privilege of doing it; they cannot 
 be liindered from doing it, save by the absolute 
 subversion of the first principles of our social 
 constitution. Christians are allowed to do all 
 the good they can ; infidels, so long as they ab- 
 stain from actual violence, are allowed to do all 
 the evil they can; and there is no power but 
 God's which can prevent the inert, neutral, and 
 indifterent portions of society from being swayed 
 by just that party which proves itself the most 
 united, earnest, and efficient in its efforts. 
 
 Nor j.9 this all. It needs no spirit of prophecy 
 to prechct, that the greatest results are soon to 
 be decided in regard to the destiny of this nation. 
 But what shall be the character, and what the 
 condition, of the millions that shall people our 
 territories, and of their countless posterity, is a 
 question not yet decided. Whether Christianity 
 or infidelity is to form their characters, and to 
 model and inspire their institutions, is a question 
 not yet decided. Whether they are to be one 
 people, free, united, intelligent and peaceful, or 
 are to be divided into hostile states, under strong 
 and military governments, watering each other's 
 fields with blood, and giving each other's har- 
 vests and dwellings to the flames, is a question 
 yet to be decided. Whether the vales and 
 jnountain-tops of this wide empire shall be 
 adorned with the spires of Christian churches ; 
 Avhether the Sabbath shall smile on all the cities 
 and hamlets of the land, bringing to the universal 
 population its weekly repose and its holy in- 
 fluences ; or whether the temples of infidel rea- 
 son and the temples of a degrading superstition 
 shall triumph over tlie temples of Immanuel ; and 
 
 the orgies of atheism, the bowlings of fanaticism, 
 and the pomp of superstitious worship, shall 
 drown the voice of pure and spiritual devotion, 
 are questions yet to be decided. Soon, even 
 while tlie generation which is now young, is on 
 the stage of action — soon, even by their character 
 and their conduct, these results, now so uncertain, 
 that afi"ect so deeply the well being of this vast 
 portion of the human race, will probably be de- 
 termined and developed. 
 
 The great moral conflict which is now going 
 on in this land, is, in fact, a conflict on the ques- 
 tion whether light or darkness, truth or falsehood, 
 vital religion or sheer impiety, shall get the con- 
 trol over tlie rising generation. Neither party 
 in this conflict, calculates on efi'ecting any exten- 
 sive revolution in the minds of those who have 
 already attained to the age of maturity. It is 
 on the young that the hopes and fears and efforts 
 of both, are centering. Every youth imbued with 
 the spirit of evangelical devotion, and trained for 
 intelligent and decided Christian action, will pro- 
 bably be a witness for the truth, a strenuous sup- 
 porter of virtue and godliness, an earnest opposer 
 of all evil, a self-denying partaker in every 
 benevolent and Christian effort, in that most mo- 
 mentous and critical age, on tlie confines of which 
 we are already standing. So, on the other hand, 
 every youth whose sober habits are perverted, 
 and whose miud is poisoned, by the adroit and 
 indefatigable efllirts of infidel demagogues, cal- 
 culating on the future suff'rages of a corrupted 
 and besotted people, will propably becomes ere 
 he is hi.mself awareof it, a frantic infidel, making 
 his forehead like brass, and braying forth his 
 blasphemies against all that is holy. While " the 
 combat deepens," and the energies of the parties 
 are more desperately put in requisition, tlie in- 
 fluence of each individual will assume an impor- 
 tance the greater, and a responsibility the more 
 fearful, in proportion as it is the more closely 
 connected with the final issue. 
 
 With what importance then does this thought 
 invest the piety of the young. On the character 
 of the generation which is to fallow us, are de- 
 pending great results, not only in respect to our 
 own country, but no less in respect to the well- 
 being of the human race. The enterprises which 
 have been so auspiciously commenced in these 
 days, will soon devolve on the Christians of an- 
 other age. Op those who are now in early youth, 
 or in childhood and infancy, it must soon devolve 
 to prosecute these enterprises with a holier zeal, 
 and with an energy invigorated by the nearer 
 prospect of universal victory; or to abandon 
 them and let the whole creation continue to 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 187 
 
 groan and travail in pain together as until now, 
 waiting to be delivered from tlie bondage of cor- 
 ruption into the glorious liberty of the children 
 of God. How important then, is the conversion, 
 the early conversion of those who are soon to act 
 under responsibilities so momentous. Every such 
 conversion, we may hope, will, in a few years, tell 
 on the conversion of the world. Every youth 
 who now becomes a humble, decided, self denying 
 Christian, will soon possess, if his life is prolonged, 
 the energies of manhootl, guided by mature de- 
 votion, and impelled by an equable and fervent 
 zeal ; and will be called to exert those energies, 
 we may hope, at that critical point in the history 
 of the world's salvation, when every mite of in- 
 fluence contributed to the cause of holiness, will 
 derive an augmented value, from the instant 
 pressure of thick-coming events. 
 
 Nor can we fail to notice tlie dark and pecu- 
 liar atrocity of that wickedness, which aims at 
 the corruption of the young. All wickedness 
 tends to propagate itself, by its native contagion. 
 But there are men with whom the propagation 
 of evil is not only a matter of course, but still 
 more a matter of choice and calculation ; men 
 who take a fiendish pleasure in extending the 
 principles and the practice of sin. There are 
 men with whom it is a business to instill into the 
 minds of others, especially of the young, such 
 prejudices and opinions, and to excite there such 
 passions, as will ensure their bitter and persever- 
 ing enmity against religion and virtue. There 
 are everywhere, especially in our cities, men, 
 the very recruiting sergeants of the great enemy 
 of God and man, who love to gain a baleful in- 
 fluence over the inexperienced and unsophisti- 
 cated young ; to introduce them gradually, as the 
 decay of conscience in the bosoms of the poor 
 victims will allow, into the haunts and mysteries 
 and orgies of iniquity ; to teach them the lan- 
 guage of devils ; to put to their lips, and lure 
 them to taste, the fatal poison, hot with the fires, 
 and mixed with the sorceries of the world of per- 
 dition ; to bind them hand and foot, the slaves of 
 Satan ; to shut them up by the power of preju- 
 dice and passion, and by the mutual domination 
 of copartnership in sin, so that no better influence, 
 
 no voice of love, can eSectually reach them ; and 
 thus to secure their moral ruin in tliis world, and, 
 if there is any truth in the Bible, their perdition 
 in the world to come. Could we hope to reach 
 the ear, and to ring one startling note on the dull 
 conscience of such a man, we would tell him. It 
 is not merely fur the deep grief of those fathers 
 whose hopes have " expired under the contagion" 
 of your example and your principles; it is not 
 for the anguish of many a broken hearted mother, 
 or the tears and shame of many a desolate sister, 
 it is not for these alone that we regard you with 
 abhorrence. Nor is it only fur the fact that you 
 are sealing these individual souls f jr a miserable 
 eternity; awful as is the thought of what you 
 are doing in this respect, it is not for this only 
 that we shudder to look upon you. It is that 
 you are corrupting another generation, and train- 
 ing these victims for a wickedness as atrocious as 
 your own ; are, sending them down to be in their 
 turn and in their age the assassins of virtue and 
 the murderers of souls, it is for this that you de- 
 serve to be loathed and abhorred by all who love 
 the happiness of man. You cast deadly poison 
 into a river, to flow down with its current, that 
 all who dwell on its banks and drink of its waters 
 may die. Your guilt has an atrocity unparal- 
 leled. Go, scatter the seeds of pestilence, light 
 up the flames that shall consume our cities, per- 
 petrate what stupendous wickedness you will, 
 but leave us the virtues of our youth uncor- 
 rupted. All other calamities we can survive ; 
 all other calamities time will alleviate; all other 
 calamities a benignant Providence may ultimate- 
 ly convert into blessings to our posterity ; but, 
 for once, corrupt effectually and universally, as 
 you are doing within your limited sphere, the 
 principles and morals of our youth ; and for that 
 poison there is no antidote, in that moral desola- 
 tion tliere is no hope, there can remain for other 
 generations only a fearful looking for of the fiery 
 indignation, which never fails to come on a peo- 
 ple corrupted and rotten. Judge then what is 
 your crime in the estimation of a holy God. You 
 are laboring to destroy your country, and to 
 spread a pall over the hopes of the world. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 This shall be my prayer for thee, 
 That the Hand we may not see, 
 Still may guide and comfort thee. 
 
 Otherraore I may not speak ; 
 
 I am mortal, I am weak, 
 
 And my bursting heart might break. 
 
 Be thou happy. May thy feet 
 Trip through life, and find it sweet, 
 And in heaven we yet may meet. 
 
 Life, with all its ebb and swell. 
 Death, with hollow-sounding knell, 
 Centre here, in " Fare-thee-well." 
 
OLD ENGLISH SACRED POETRY. 
 
 From the death of Chaucer to the reign of 
 Henry VIII. a blank ensues in English literature. 
 The Reformation which began under Henry, 
 ■while it gave a vast impulse to the human mind 
 in every department of thought, most especially 
 affected the species of literature we are consider- 
 ing. The book of books was then unsealed ; and 
 we at the present day, when Bibles are in every 
 house, can hardly conceive with what eager eyes 
 its pages were pored over, and with what pant- 
 ing hearts its truth and promises were meditated. 
 The stream, that had been for ages dammed up, 
 was set free. The imagination, that had been 
 priest-bound, leaped for joy to find itself at liber- 
 ty to " wander through eternity," and form a 
 paradise for itself, without consulting the formu- 
 las of the Church. Then Poetry, that had left the 
 eaithapreyto ignorance, superstition, and ty- 
 ranny, descended again from the heaven to which 
 she had flown, and resumed her sway over the 
 hearts of men. The imaginations and affections, 
 that had been shut out by .spiritual despotism 
 from the garden of religion, and had been driven 
 to the haunts of vulgarity and earth-born vice, 
 returned to drink at the holy wells that had so 
 so long been closed ; the faith of the Christian and 
 the aspirations of genius, which had been most 
 unnaturally dissevered, were again united ; the 
 devotion of the worshipper and the enthusiasm of 
 the bard flowed once more in the same channel; 
 poet and prophet became one ; the first fruits of 
 genius were laid upon the altar ; and God was 
 honored, as he should have ever been, in the gifts 
 he had bestowed. 
 
 And it might with reason have been expected, 
 that the Scriptures, upon being opened to the 
 public eye, should awaken and bring to life what- 
 ever of poetry lay concealed in the community. 
 They are not only depositories of truths valuable 
 to every individual, because connected intimately 
 with every individual's present and future welfare, 
 but they abound in brilliant pictures for the ima- 
 gination; their solid and substantial contents are 
 inlaid with the diamond ornaments of Eastern 
 poetry, which throw a splendid lustre over their 
 pages, making them as delectable to the taste, as 
 they are invigorating to the moral and spiritual 
 nature of man. It is true, the first attempts at 
 sacred verse in England were rude, of which the 
 version of the Psalms in Edward the Sixth's time, 
 
 by Sternhold and Hopkins, is an example. But 
 a new era was about to commence. The sky of 
 English literature was red with the rising glory of 
 Spenser, and his Faery Queen walked forth with 
 blended majesty and sweetneess to captivate all 
 hearts. The poet designed in this work, it seems, 
 "to represent all the moral virtues, assigning to 
 every virtue a knight, to'be the patron and defend- 
 er of the same ; in whose actions the feats of 
 arms and chivalry, the operations of that virtue 
 whereof he is the protector, are to be expressed ; 
 and the vices and unruly appetites that oppose 
 themselves against the same, are to be beaten 
 down and overcome." 
 
 Among the early religous poets is Robert 
 Southwell. He belonged to the society of Jesuits, 
 and in 1592 was imprisoned on a charge of sedi- 
 tion. After an imprisonment of three years, he 
 was condemned and executed at Tyburn, We 
 copy the following verses from his lines "Upon 
 the Picture of Death." 
 
 " The gown which I do use to wear, 
 The knife wherewith I cut my meat, 
 
 And eke that old and ancient chair 
 Which is my only usual seat : 
 
 All these do tell me I must die. 
 And yet my life amend not I. 
 
 " My ancestors are turned to clay, 
 And many of my mates are gon e ; 
 My youngers daily drop away, 
 And can I think to 'scape alone '! 
 
 Ko, no, I know that I must die, 
 And yet my life amend not I." 
 
 Francis Davison is another of the early poets. 
 He was the son of Mr. Davison, Secretary to 
 Elizabeth. The genius with which he was gifted 
 formed a beautiful compensation for the reverses 
 of fortune that visited him. Like David, whom 
 he copied, his harp was his companion in the 
 wilderness of his sorrows, and it seems to have 
 been ever vocal with the sweet strains of piety 
 and love. The following verse from the loOth 
 Psalm has music for the ear and the heart too. 
 
 " My soul, base earth despising. 
 More longs with God to he, 
 Than rosy morning's rising 
 Tired watchmen watch to see." 
 
 Giles Fletcher was author of a sacred poem called 
 " Christ's Victory," first published in the year 
 IGIO. We agree with Mr. Willmott, that in the 
 
OLD ENGLISH SACRED POETRY. 
 
 189 
 
 following stanza " every word is full of beautiful 
 meaning." A writer who could pen such lines 
 ought surely to be rescued from dust and worms. 
 
 " No sorrow now hangs clouding on their brow, 
 No bloodless malady empales their face, 
 No age drops on their hairs his silver snow, 
 No nakedness their bodies dotherabase, 
 No poverty themselves and theirs disgrace ; 
 No fear of death the joy of life devours, 
 No unchaste sleep their precious time deflowers, 
 No loss, no grief, no change, wait on their winged hours.'" 
 
 The life of Wltlier was a long one, and was 
 crowded with interesting incidents. He lived 
 during a period of great excitement and feverish 
 activity, and his ardent temper forced him into the 
 thickest press of the times. One of his earliest 
 productions was a satirical poem entitled " Abuses 
 Stript and Whipt," written by liim in a season of 
 disappointment, and, as is frequently the case 
 with satire, more productive of liarm to the writer 
 than of good to the community. His imprudence 
 in this work caused him to be thrown into prison. 
 Here he suffered much ; but his vigorous mind, 
 conscious of honest intentions, rose above his situa- 
 tion, and he composed in the ilarshalsea prison 
 many poems, among others, " Tlie Shepherd's 
 Hunting," a pastoral of great beauty. The fol- 
 lowing extract from "A Prisoner's Lay," will 
 show that Wither could derive from his gloomy 
 dungeon the most sublime reflections. 
 
 " Or when through me though seest a man 
 Condemned unto a mortal death, 
 How sad he looks, how pale, how wan, 
 Drawing, with fear, his panting breath : 
 Think if in that such grief thou see, 
 How sad will ' Go, ye cursed' be I 
 
 " Again, when he that feared to die 
 (Past hope) doth see his pardon brought, 
 Read but the joy that's in his eye, 
 And then convey it to thy thought : 
 Then think between thy heart and thee 
 How glad will ' Come, ye blessed' be ! " 
 
 We wish we had room also for the exquisite 
 address to Poetry from " The Shepherd's Hunting." 
 
 After Wither's liberation, appeared his poem 
 called "The Motto." "Not the least singular 
 part of ' The Motto,' " says his biographer, " is the 
 frontispiece. The author is represented sitting on 
 a rock, with gardens, liouses, woods, and meadows, 
 spread beneath him, to whicli he puints with his 
 finger, holding a ribband, on which is written Nee 
 haheo, ' Nor have L' At his feet is a globe of the 
 earth, with the words, A'eccu?-o, 'NorcareL' Tlie 
 poet himself sits with eyes uplifted towards 
 heaven, from which a ray of light descends, and 
 from his lips proceed. Nee careo, ' Nor want I.' " 
 
 Among Wither's numerous works was the 
 
 " Preparation for the Psalter," " a specimen of a 
 voluminous commentary upon the Psalms, which 
 the author never completed." We give two 
 verses from his paraphrase of the 148th Psalm. 
 
 " Let such things as do not live 
 In still music praises give : 
 Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep, 
 On the earth, or in the deep ; 
 Loud aloft your voices strain, 
 
 Beasts and monsters of the main. , 
 
 Birds, your warbling treble sing; 
 Clouds, your peals of thunder ring ; 
 Sun and moon, exalted higher, 
 And you, stars, augment the quire. 
 
 " Come ye sons of human race, 
 In this chorus take your place. 
 And, amid this mortal throng, 
 Be you masters of the song. 
 Angels and cele.stial powers. 
 Be the noblest tenor yours. 
 Let, in praise of God, the sound 
 Rim a never-ending round ; 
 That our holy hymn may be 
 Everlasting, as is He."' 
 
 Wither was present while the city of London 
 was ravaged by the plague in 1625. His fortitude 
 and piety are evinced when he gives the reason 
 why he did not, like multitudes of others, desert 
 the dangerous place. He says that he did " in 
 affection thereunto make here his voluntary resi- 
 dence, when hundreds of thousands forsook their 
 habitations, that, if God spared his life during 
 that mortality, he might be a remembrancer both 
 to this city and the whole nation." He gives a 
 natural and impressive account of his experience 
 during this sad period, in his poem called 
 ' Britain's Remembrancer." 
 
 In 1641 he published "The Halleluiah, or 
 Britain's Second Remembrancer" ; and witli this 
 poem, says his biographer, " the poetical life of 
 Wither may be considered to have terminated.'' 
 The remainder of his mortal career, which ex- 
 tended far into the shades of old age, was any 
 thing but poetical. 
 
 Francis Quarles was born in 1592. The best 
 known of his poetical works is his Emblems, 
 which is supposed to have appeared in 1635. 
 The following extract illustrates his peculiarities. 
 
 PSALM. 
 
 " Ah ! whither shall I fly ! "NVhat path un trod 
 Shall I seek out, to 'scape the flaming rod 
 Of my offended, of my angry God ? 
 
 " Where shall I sojourn ? "What kind sea will hide 
 My head from thunder ? "Where shall I abide 
 Until his flames be quenched, or laid aside ? 
 
 " "What if my feet should take their hasty flight, 
 And seek protection in the shades of night ? 
 Alas .' no shades can blind the God of light. 
 
190 
 
 "WHITHER GOEST THOU?" 
 
 "What if my soul should take the wings of day, 
 And,find some desert ? If she springs away, 
 The wings of vengeance clip as fast as they. 
 
 " What if some solid rock should entertain 
 My frighted soul ? Can solid rocks sustain 
 The stroke of Justice, and not cleave in twain ? 
 
 " Nor sea, nor shade, nor'shield, nor rock, nor cave. 
 Nor silent deserts, nor the sullen grave, 
 Where flame-eyed Fury means to smite, can save. 
 
 " 'Tis vain to flee ; till Gentle Mercy show 
 Her better eye, the farther off we go, 
 The svring of Justice deals the mightier blow. 
 
 " The ingenuous^child, corrected doth not fly 
 His angry mother's hand, but clings more nigh. 
 And quenches, with his tears, her flaming eye. 
 
 " Great God ! there is no safety here below ; 
 Thou art my fortress ; Thou that seem'st my foe, 
 'Tis Thou that strik'st the stroke must guard the blow." 
 
 And the man who wrote this is satirized by Pope 
 in the Dunciad thus : 
 
 " Or where the pictures for the page atone ; 
 And Quarles is saved by beauties not his own." 
 
 Gentle, pious Herbert comes next in the gallery 
 of old worthies and sacred poets. At one time 
 he had hopes of political preferment, but these 
 •were blasted by the death of many of his noble 
 friends, particularly of James : and although 
 much disappointed, he brought himself, at length 
 to a surrender of the " painted pleasures of a 
 court life," that he might devote himself to the 
 work of a Gospel minister. The following lines 
 on Grace are from his " Temple " : 
 
 "My stock lies dead, and no increase 
 Doth my dull husbandry improve ; 
 0, let Thy graces, without cease, 
 Drop from above ! 
 
 " If still the sun should hide his face, 
 Thy house would but a dungeon prove, 
 Thy works night's captives ; 0, let grace 
 Drop from above ! 
 
 " The dew doth every morning fall. 
 And shall the dew outstrip Thy dove? 
 The dew, for which grass cannot call, 
 Drop from above ! 
 
 " come, for Thou dost know the way, 
 Or, if to me Thou wilt not move. 
 Remove me where I need not say. 
 Drop from above I " 
 
 We abruptly conclude our brief article with 
 the following version of the 137th Psalm, by 
 Richard Crashaw : 
 
 " On the proud banks of great Euphrates' flood, 
 There we sate and there we wept ; 
 Our harps that now no music understood. 
 Nodding on the willows, slept, 
 While unhappy, captived we, 
 Lovely Sion, thought on thee. 
 
 " They, they that snatcht us from our country's breast, 
 
 Would have a song carved to their ears, 
 In Hebrew numbers, then (0 cruel jest I) 
 
 When harps and hearts were drowned in tears : 
 ' Come,' they cried, 'come sing and play 
 One of Sion's songs tc-day.' 
 
 " Sing ! Play ! (ah ! shall we sing or play,) To whom 
 
 If not, Jerusalem, to thee ? 
 Ah thee, Jerusalem ! ah, sooner may ^j 
 This hand forget the mastery 
 Of music's dainty touch, than I 
 The music of thy memory. 
 
 "Which, when I lose, may at once my tongue 
 Lose this same busy speaking art, 
 Unperched, her vocal arteries unstrung, 
 No more acquainted with my heart, 
 On my dry palate's roof to rest 
 A withered leaf, an idle guest." 
 
 WHITHER GOEST THOU? 
 
 I STOOD upon a lofty hill, 
 
 And look'd upon the deep ; 
 Below, a ship so calm and still. 
 
 Lay like a thing of sleep. 
 Soon, roused by gentle winds, afar, 
 
 The snow-white clouds of sail 
 Lessen'd, as some bright morning star. 
 
 Before the sun grows pale. 
 I watch'd its course till lost to view, 
 Behind the swelling hills of blue. 
 
 1 saw, in thought, a human soul. 
 
 Dreaming of peace below ; 
 1 heard a solemn summons roll, 
 
 Like a mournful voice of wo. 
 Startled it woke from its pleasant dream, 
 
 And slowly took its fight 
 To the silent land, where things that seem, 
 
 Never delude the sight. 
 Upward it went till lost to view. 
 Hid by the overarching blue. 
 
 ship ! soul ! together bound 
 
 On journey long and lone. 
 Where shall thy resting-place be found 
 
 Within the great unknown ! 
 For who shall pierce the distant sky 
 
 With weak and mortal sight ; 
 Or see beyond the realms that lie 
 
 Outstretoh'd in glory bright ? 
 We can but raise our hearts for thee, 
 To Him who rules the sky and sea. 
 
THE STRANGER'S GR 
 
 BY D 
 
 BARTLKTT 
 
 A FKW months since, while wandering over 
 Europe, we saw in a cemetery, which is well 
 known to foreign travelers for its solitary beauty, 
 the grave of an American. The sight to us was 
 one full of sadness, for it brouglit to our memory 
 sorrowful scenes and hearts. We thought of those 
 touching lines of Mrs Hemans : 
 
 "The sea, the blue, lone sea hath one, 
 He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
 He was the loved of all, yet none 
 O'er his low hed may weep. 
 
 " One sleeps where southern vines are dressed, 
 Ahove the noble slain : 
 He wrapt his colors round his breast. 
 On a blood-red field of Spain. 
 
 "And one — o'er her the myrrh showers 
 Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; 
 She faded midst Italian flowers — 
 The last of that bright band." 
 
 The grave was grassed over and some stranger's 
 hand had planted a bunch of violets at its head. 
 It was a breezeless morning of June when we 
 rested upon a rustic seat near the grave, and 
 while we stayed there, thoughts of one, who was 
 once dear to us, were busy at our heart. 
 
 Arthur Vinton, was the only son of a widow 
 who lived humbly but respectably in a little vil- 
 lage of New England. His father had been the 
 pastor of his native town, but perished when Hen- 
 ry was young, leaving his wife a boy and girl, 
 the cottage, and a half dozen acres of soil. As 
 Arthur grew up he became not only his mother's 
 pride but her stay and support. We have not 
 time to delineate all the young man's struggles 
 to gain an education, or tell how faithfully he 
 loved his mother and his sister Agnes. He was 
 passionately fond of painting, and from a mere 
 boy had talked of going to Italy as the dearest 
 wish of his heart, but how he ever could get there, 
 steeped as he was in poverty, he knew not. When- 
 ever he talked of going his mother sighed, and 
 Agnes kissed his forehead, saying: "you will not 
 leave us so desolate!" 
 
 But a rich man who saw some of his perform- 
 ances at last offered, benevolently, to send him 
 two years to Rome. When the offer came Henry 
 
 was in poor health but his dark eyes lighted up 
 with hope, his heart became bouyant, and he soon 
 was ready to start. It was in vain that Agnes 
 wept upon his shoulder, that his mother looked 
 pale and sighed. I shall come back famous, 
 and will " make you rich !" he said, and when 
 they saw how his heart was set upon going 
 they said no more. The stage was to call be- 
 fore day-break for him at the cottage, and late 
 at night he laid his head upon his pillow — but 
 not to sleep. He saw that his mother's heart 
 was breaking, and that his gentle Agnes was 
 drooping beneath her sorrow. It was a quiet 
 village, they were all in all to each other; and 
 only such, the poor and neglected, know how hard 
 it is to part with a loved one. 
 
 Early in the morning he rose, and greeted his 
 mother and sister. He knew by their faces that 
 they had not slept any that night. He tried to 
 make a breakfast but had no appetite. At last 
 the stage drove up, and in the little porch in the 
 morning starlight he bade them " Good-by !" 
 
 Those who leave homes scarcely ever know 
 how lonely and sad are the places they desert. 
 All that day Agnes felt as if her heart would 
 faint, so cheerless and utterly desolate was their 
 home. It was not for a week that she dared go up 
 to his little chamber. Some of his things were 
 there still, a brush he had used in painting, a few 
 pictures, and a volume of poetry. She sat down, 
 and leaning her head forward upon the table, 
 cried as if her heart would break. 
 
 By this time Arthur was upon the ocean, and 
 had felt the sublimity of its grand scenery. 
 There was a constant succession of new eights 
 and he was not lonely ; but be did not forget for 
 an hour the dear hearts at home. 
 
 Afler a long voyage the vessel arrived at Leg- 
 horn, and Arthur started on towards Rome. A 
 strong desire forced him to turn aside far enough 
 from his route through Florence, to go to Pisa, in 
 Tuscany, and see the famous Leaning Tower 
 there. 
 
 When be left the ship he was not well, and 
 when he arrived at tlie ancient and beautiful city 
 of Pisa, he drove to an Inn and went to bed for 
 
192 
 
 THE STRANGER'S GRAVE 
 
 he was ill. The reader will anticipate the rest. 
 The next day the poor young man was in a deli- 
 rium, and was dying with fever. Physicians and 
 medicine could not help him, for he gradually 
 sank beneath the disease. 
 
 One afternoon — it was in August — he lay in 
 his chamber and a western window lay open close 
 by his side. A prettj^ Italian girl was watching 
 near him, when suddenly he opened his eyes 
 calmly, and looked out of the open window. 
 
 " Where am I ?" he asked faintly. The Italian 
 bent over him to catch his words, and murmured 
 something in her native tongue. The language 
 at once reminded him of where he was. "Ami 
 very ill ?" he asked. 
 
 "Ah! yes, signor" replied she "but we hope 
 you will not die !" 
 
 The truth shocked him — he saw by her woful 
 look that he must die. 
 
 "My mother — Oh! my mother, and Agnes!" 
 he said softly, while tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 The girl comprehended him ; and as if to soothe his 
 heart, pointed to a picture of Christ on the wall. 
 His eye fixed upon it and a pleasant smile came 
 upon his face. What his thoughts were we can- 
 not tell. The Italian girl took her seat by the 
 casement, and looked out upon the beautiful scene- 
 ry, while her tears dropped fast upon the flowers 
 in the garden below. When she looked again at 
 Arthur, there was a smile upon his face ; but how 
 fixed were the features, how marble the eyelids 1 
 A slight shriek escaped her, and then she knelt 
 and kissed his forehead — for he was dead. 
 
 Many miles away from Italy, sat Mrs. Vinton 
 one day, in her small cottage, with Agnes, plying 
 her needle, at her side. 
 
 " It is strange, mother, we dont get a letter 
 from Arthur — is it not ?" said she. 
 
 " He is very busy probably at first, in finding 
 him a home and a place to commence his labors, 
 she replied, endeavoring to look upon the sunny 
 side of the matter. 
 
 " Yes mother, but I know he would write as 
 soon as he got to Rome- — lie knows how lonely 
 we are here." 
 
 Just then a neighbor's child knocked at the 
 cottage-door, with a letter from the post oflSce. 
 
 "Oh! a letter from Arthur, mother — a letter 
 from Arthur!" fairly shouted Agnes. As soon 
 however as the letter was dropped into her hand 
 she turned very pale. 
 
 " What is the matter, child ?" said Mrs. Vinton, 
 hereby alarmed. 
 
 " It is not Arthur's handwriting — it — oh ! 
 mother, mother, I can't open it !" 
 
 The mother opened it — it was from the Ame- 
 rican Consul at Florence, and it communicated 
 news of Arthur's death, and said that his trunk 
 and personal property, of whatever kind, had 
 been shipped to New York. We dare not try to 
 describe the scene which followed the opening of 
 that fatal letter. The remembrance of it even 
 now oppresses our heart. There are scenes of sor- 
 row in this world where no stranger may intrude, 
 and this was one of them. Years have passed 
 away since then, and the widow's cottage is going 
 to decay. Mrs. Vinton is not there ; and Agnes is 
 not there ; but their graves are made in the vil- 
 lage church-yard. The shock was too much for 
 the frail widow, and she died. After her death 
 Agnes supported herself for two or three years 
 by teaching school, but she was spirit-broken ; and 
 when the village-bell tolled for her funeral, the 
 villagers were not surprised, for they had pre- 
 dicted it months before. 
 
 In the outskirts of the town of Pisa, in Tuscany, 
 there is a pretty and lonely cemetery. There 
 is a grave there also with a simple slab at its 
 head and Arthur Vinton's name is upon it — it 
 was erected by an old schoolmate of his. The 
 spot is scented with flowers, and the cypress 
 moves its solemn branches there ; the grave it- 
 self is garnished like a nuptial bed. The Italian 
 girl planted the flowers there, and nursed them in 
 memory of the fair stranger who perished in her 
 father's inn. 
 
 "And parted thus they rest, who played, 
 
 Beneath the same green tree ; 
 Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
 
 Around one parent knee 1 
 
 They that with smiles lit xip the hall, 
 And cheered with song the hearth 
 
 Alas ! for love if thou wert all. 
 And naught beyond, on earth! 
 
THE LAW OF THRIFT. 
 
 "Take care of the pence, and the pounds will 
 take care of themselves," said one; and the ex- 
 perience of every-day life gives to the saying the 
 force of an axiom. Many a miUionaire has owed 
 liis envied position to a respect for pence in the 
 outset ; Jacques Lafitte would never have risen 
 to be the Cronsus of modern France, did he not 
 entertain it — did he not regard trifles : and many 
 a once wealthy man can trace his downward 
 course to penury to a reckless disregard of small 
 sums — in short, to a contempt of pence. Every- 
 thing around us teaches us that we should enter- 
 tain a proper respect for small things, as the 
 foundation of great ones : the universe is compos- 
 ed of atoms — the coral reef is upheaved by the 
 labor of a tiny insect in the depths of the ocean 
 — trifles make up the great sum of life itself. 
 
 "With those, who have only their health and 
 muscles for a fortune, and who, like the silk- 
 worm, must spin all their riches out of their own 
 bosom — industry and frugality become, as we 
 have said before, solemn duties, which they have 
 no more right to neglect than they have to cast 
 aside their implements of toil, and refuse to work 
 for their daily bread : and yet how often do we 
 see the artizan, with a numerous progeny clus 
 tering around him, with a fond wife depending 
 on his exertions, neglect, although he has ample 
 opportunities, to lay by one penny to aid in the 
 hour of sickness, or to help his family should 
 death call him away. It is a bitter thought for 
 a dying man, that they who crowd around his 
 bed with anxious solicitude — they who for so 
 many years he has loved and cheri.shed — who 
 have been a comfort to him in trouble, and a so- 
 lace in the dark hour of adversity — that the dear 
 being who has journied with him so cheerfully 
 along the stony path of life, and who ever had a 
 smile of hope for iiim, and a kind word to bless 
 him when his soul was heavy — who always en- 
 tered into his wishes, and sympatliiscd with his 
 emotions — wiiose warm antl faithful heart, over- 
 flowing with a chaste and confiding love, was ever 
 busy in scheming little plans to give him pleasure, 
 and to anticipate his unuttered wishes : it is gall 
 and bitterness to a dying man to think that this 
 dear creature and his little ones, should be left 
 unprotected in the wide world alone — in tlie 
 midst of unsympathising strangers, and the pros- 
 pect of the workhouse as the only refuge from 
 
 starvation. A bleak and torturing thought is 
 that, to wring the expiring heart of a dying man ! 
 It is seldom, indeed, that one who has passed his 
 life so thoughtlessly, can enjoy that inward 
 consolation, and tliat sustaining hope, which ought, 
 at the moment of death, to fill the soul of a 
 Christian : his anxious mind cannot untwine itself 
 from its painful reveries, and he breathes his last 
 without the peace of God that passeth all under- 
 standing. 
 
 We consider it, then, and imperative duty that 
 all who have the power, should save, that they 
 should husband up, little by little, an increasing 
 store for their future wants. Some will say, that 
 by doing this we are showing how little faith we 
 have in Providence ; but they that say so, speak un- 
 advisedly, and might as well argue that, if we saw 
 a child in the water, and could save it, we ought 
 not to do so, but trust to Providence for its rescue. 
 It is our duty to be provident, careful, and frugal : 
 it is our duty, because the God of heaven bade us 
 gather up the fragments that remain, and to allow 
 nothing to be lost. We must not act, in tliis 
 railway stirring age, like the wagoner in the bog, 
 but embrace the opportunities which God has 
 given us, and use his gifts with prudence. Others 
 will say, sufiicient for the day is the evil thereof, 
 and advise us to think less about what may hap- 
 pen to us by and by ; but they draw false rea- 
 soning from another holy passage, for if we be- 
 come the humble instruments of our own preser- 
 vation from pecuniary want, does that prove less 
 our gratitude to Providence, for having given us 
 the means to do so ? Yet this is a maxim, which, 
 when indiscriminately applied, has sometimes 
 wrought the ruin of many, both good and noble. 
 James Ballantyne, the partner of Sir Walter 
 Scott, on his death-bed 'affirmed, that many of 
 those calamities which overtook them, and which 
 involved the ruin of the great literary magician, 
 was owing to the weakness of Scott in shrinking 
 from the appearance of danger, and from his apt- 
 ness to carry too far the maxim, that " suflicient 
 for the day is the evil thereof." 
 
 Many who have the wish to be frugal will 
 scarcely know how to begin: they have lived so 
 long the thoughtless spendthrift, that they cannot 
 be thoughtful all at once. They will mention 
 the trifling sum that forms their weekly earnings, 
 and ask, liow is it possible to reserve even a little, 
 
194 
 
 THE LAW OF THRIFT. 
 
 out of such a pittance ? It is a cheerful proverb 
 that tell us " Where there is a will there is a 
 way ;" and the homely truism is a suitable an- 
 swer to all who ask, How can I save ? 
 
 There are few working men who, if they have 
 the desire to be economical, will not call to mind 
 some useless luxury, in which they are in the 
 habit of indulging, and from which they could 
 easily refrain. Taste and caprice have invented 
 an infinite variety of superficial wants, in these 
 modern times, which are as unnecessary to our 
 happiness, as some of them are injurious to our 
 bodies. Tlie morning glass, the evening pipe, or 
 the Saturday's night revel, might be profitably 
 dispensed with, both to the health and to the 
 purse. The savings may not be great at first, 
 but frugality will have gained the ascendancy ; 
 and it is astonishing how much prosperity will 
 follow, and how many opportunities will offer, of 
 ■ adding to the little store, if prudence and indus- 
 try are on the watch. Retrench, in every rea- 
 sonable manner, your expenses, and strictly ad- 
 here to the admirable axiom of the Roman 
 poet — 
 
 Infra 
 Fortunam debet quisq ; manere suam. — Ovid. 
 
 and recollect the words of Dr. Cotton, that 
 
 Your portion is not large indeed, 
 But then, how little do you need. 
 
 For Nature's calls are few; 
 In this the art of living lies, 
 To want vo jnore than may suffice, 
 
 And make that little do. 
 
 There are few who have not, at one time or 
 other, felt, how useful a few pounds would have 
 proved, in advancing their future prospects ; and 
 who have not, at such times, looked back with 
 regret to their past extravagance, and to their 
 thoughtlessness, in spending stray sixpences. It 
 is only when we count up such trivial sums, that 
 we are convinced of their importance, or are at 
 all capable of judging how much we have lost 
 by squandering them. The old tale of the poor 
 drover, who gradually scraped enough together 
 to purchase a calf and, from that small begin- 
 ning, went on until he became the possessor of 
 many thousands a-year, is an instance of frugality 
 worth remembering ; yet let it never be forgot- 
 ten that, "although the apprehensions of future 
 wants may justify a cautious frugality, they can 
 by no means excuse a sordid avarice." Bearing 
 this in mind, the lives of misers, whilst they 
 pourtray the evils of an inordinate passion to ac- 
 quire, also illustrate a truism, well deserving the 
 attention of all who are anxious to practice 
 frugality without covetousness. 
 
 Let not a regard for little things be thought 
 a manifestation of avarice. The Rothschilds, 
 Barings, Coutts', Girards' and Astors' would 
 never have amassed their almost fabulous for- 
 tunes, had they not constantly regarded little 
 things, and looked well after the pence. Jacob 
 Clement, who died a few years ago in London, 
 leaving a fortune of three hundred thousand 
 pounds, began life as a pot-boy at an inn. His 
 first situation was as a waiter ; but he had perse- 
 verance, practiced frugality, and encouraged 
 habits of saving; had he neglected such habits- 
 he would probably have died a waiter. There is 
 wisdosi in that saying of the miser, who main- 
 tained, that "a farthing is the semina of wealth, 
 the seed of a golden progeny ;" and often has its 
 truth been remembered, not only by misers, but 
 by those whose virtues have only been equalled 
 by their prosperity. 
 
 The sketch of the life of Jolm Overs, whose 
 daughter, Mary Overs, founded a large and in- 
 fluential church in London, which bears her name, 
 is exceedingly graphic and interesting. 
 
 John Overs was a miser, living in the old days 
 when Popery flourished, and friars abounded in 
 England. Some of his vices and eccentricities 
 have been chronicled in a little tract of great 
 rarity, entitled " The True History of the Life 
 and Death of John Overs, and of his Daughter 
 Mary, who caused the Church of St. Mary Overs 
 to be built." But in giving the particulars of his 
 life, we do not vouch for their authenticity : the 
 tract resembles too strongly a chap book, to bear 
 the marks of honest truth ; yet the anecdotes are 
 amusing, and the tradition of the miser's pretty 
 daughter reads somewhat romantic. 
 
 John Overs was a ferryman, and he obtained, 
 by paying an annual sum to the city authorities, 
 a monopoly in the trade of conveying passengers 
 across the river. He soon grew rich, and became 
 the master of numerous servants and apprentices. 
 From his first increase of wealth, he put his 
 money out to use on such profitable terms, that 
 he rapidly amassed a fortune, almost equal to 
 that of the first nobleman in the land ; yet, not- 
 withstanding this speedy accumulation of wealth, 
 in his habits, housekeeping, and expenses, he 
 bore the appearance of the most abject poverty ; 
 and was so eager after gain, that even in his old 
 age, and when his body had become weak by 
 unnecessary deprivations, he would labor inces- 
 santly, and allow himself no rest or repose. This 
 most miserly wretch, it is said, had a daughter, 
 remarkable both for her piety and betiuty ; the 
 old man, in spite of his parsimonious habits, re- 
 tained some affection for his child, and bestowed 
 upon her a somewhat liberal educatioa. 
 
THE LAW OF THRIFT. 
 
 195 
 
 Mary Overs had no sympathy with the avarice 
 and selfishness of her parent; she grew up 
 endowed with amiability, and with a true 
 maiden's heart to love. As she appronched 
 ■womanhood, her dazzling charms attracted nu- 
 merous suitors ; but the miser refused all matri- 
 monial offers, and even declined to negotiate the 
 matter on any terms, although some of wealth 
 and rank were willing to wed with the ferryman's 
 daughter. Mary was kept a close prisoner, and 
 forbidden to bestow her smiles upon any of her 
 admirers, nor were any allowed to speak with 
 her ; but love and nature will conquer bolts and 
 bars, as well as fear ; and one of lier suitors took 
 the opportunity, whilst the miser was busy pick- 
 ing up hi^ penny fares, to get admitted to, her 
 company. The first interview pleased well; 
 another was granted and arranged, which pleased 
 still better ; and a third ended in a mutual 
 plighting of their troths. During all these trans- 
 actions at home, the silly old ferryman was still 
 busy with his avocation, not dreaming but that 
 things were as secure on land as they were on 
 water. 
 
 John Overs was of a disposition so wretched 
 and miserly, that he even begrudged his servants 
 their necessary food. He used to buy black 
 puddings, which were then sold in London at a 
 penny a yard ; and whenever he gave them their 
 allowance, he used to say, " There you hungry 
 dogs, you will undo me with eating." He would 
 Ecarcelj' allow a neighbor to obtain a light from 
 his candle, lest he should in some way impoverish 
 him by taking some of its light. He used to go 
 to market to search for bargains; he bought the 
 siftings of the coarse meal, looked out eagerly for 
 marrow-bones that could be purchased for a 
 trifle, and scrupled not to convert them into soup, 
 if they were mouldy. He bought the stalest 
 bread, and he used to cut it into slices, " that, 
 taking the air, it might become the harder to be 
 eaten." Sometimes he would buy meat so tainted 
 that even his dog would refuse it ; upon which 
 occasions, he used to say that it was a dainty cur, 
 and better fed than taught, and then eat it him- 
 self. He needed no cats, for all the rats and 
 mice voluntarily left the house, as nothing was 
 cast aside from which they could obtain a picking. 
 It is said that this sordid old man resorted one 
 day to a most singular stratagem, fortlie purpose 
 of saving a day's provision in his establishment. 
 He counterfeited illness, and pretended to die; 
 he compelled his daughter to assist in the decep- 
 tion, much against her inclination. Overs imagin- 
 ed that, like good Catholics, his servants would 
 not be so unnatural as to partake of food whilst 
 his body was above ground, but would lament 
 
 his loss, and observe a rigid fast ; when the day 
 was over, he intended to feign a sudden recovery^ 
 He was laid out as dead, and wrapped in a sheet, 
 a candle was placed at his head, in accordance 
 with the Popish custom of the age. His appren- 
 tices were informed of their master's death ; but, 
 instead of manifesting grief, they gave vent to the 
 most unbounded joy ; hoping, at last, to be re- 
 leased from their hard and penurious servitude. 
 They hastened to satisfy themselves of the 
 truth of this joyful news, and seeing him laid 
 out as dead, could not even restrain their feelings 
 in the presence of death, and actually danced 
 and skipped around the corpse; tears or lamen- 
 tations they had none ; and as to fasting, an 
 empty-belly admits of no delay. In the ebul- 
 lition of their joy, one ran into the kitchen, 
 and breaking open the cupboard, brought out the 
 bread ; another ran for the cheese, and brought 
 it forth in triumph ; and the third drew a flagon 
 of ale. They all sat down in high glee, congratula- 
 ting and rejoicing among themselves, at having 
 been so unexpectedly released from their bonds of 
 servitude. Hard as it wa^, the bread rapidly 
 disappeared ; they indulged in huge slices of 
 cheese, even ventured to cast aside the parings, 
 and to take copious draughts of the miser's ale. 
 The old man lay all this time struck with horror 
 at this awful prodigality, and enraged at their 
 mutinous disrespect : flesh and blood — at least, 
 the flesh and blood of a miser — could endure it 
 no longer; and starting up he caught hold of the 
 funeral taper, determined to chastise them for 
 their waste. One of them seeing the old man 
 struggling in the sheet, and thinking it was the 
 \ devil or a ghost, and becoming alarmed, caught 
 hold of the butt end of a broken oar, and at one 
 blow struck out his brains ! "Tims," says the 
 tradition, '' he, who thought only to counterfeit 
 death, occasioned it in earnest; and the law 
 acquitted the fellow of the act, as he was the 
 prime cause of his own death." The daughter's 
 lover, hearing of the death of old Overs, hastened 
 up to London with all possible speed ; but riding 
 fast, his horse unfortunatly threw him, just as he 
 was entering the city, and broke his neck. This, 
 with her father's death, had such an off'ect on the 
 spirits of Mary Overs, that she was almost frantic, 
 and being troubled witli a numerous train of sui- 
 tors, she resolved to retire into a nunnery, and to 
 devote the whole of her wealth, which was enor- 
 mous, to purposes of charity and religion. She 
 laid the foundation of "a famous church, which 
 at her own charge was finished, and by her dedi- 
 cated to the Virgin Mary." 
 
 Whilst we abhor the abuse, and think it well 
 to guard others by hideous examples of its folly 
 
196 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 and vice, we can appreciate and participate in its 
 general use. We look upon it as a solemn duty 
 in men, whether regarded as citizens or fathers of 
 families, to practice a prudent economy ; and the 
 man who is frugal without being avaricious — who 
 is parsimonious without being sordid — we regard 
 as fulfiling one of his greatest social duties. If 
 economy is a virtue, wastefulness is a sin ; and 
 yet how many weekly glory in being thought ex- 
 travagant ! Ruined spendthrifts will boast of 
 their meanless prodigality and their wasteful 
 dissipation, as if in their past liberal selfishness 
 they could claim some forbearance for their pre- 
 
 sent disrepute, or some compassion for the mis- 
 fortunes into which their own heedlessness has 
 thrown them. The learned, too, will disdain all 
 knowledge of the dull routine of economy, and 
 proclaim their ignorance of the affairs of life, as 
 if the confession endowed them with a virtue ; 
 but perfection is not the privilege of any order of 
 men, and many who ought to have been the mon- 
 itors of mankind, whose talents have made their 
 names immortal, imbittered their lives, and im- 
 paired the vigor of their intellects by their 
 thoughtless and wanton extravagance. 
 
 YOUTH. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY COLE'S PAINTING. 
 
 BY REV, 
 
 JOHNSON, JACKSONVILLE, ILL, 
 
 Splendid phantoms fill thy vision — 
 Youth, -upon life's flowing tide — 
 
 Pictures of that land Elysian, 
 
 Whence thy dreams of hope have hied. 
 
 Scarcely seems the swift boat moving, 
 
 To thy too impatient mind, 
 Since thy wish, more swiftly roving, 
 
 Leaves thyself so far behind. 
 
 Bright against yon empyrean, 
 
 Stands the fane that shrines thy soul. 
 There how soon shall victory's pfean 
 
 Round the lofty columns roll ! 
 Yes, how soon, oh eager mortal, 
 
 Shall those shining courts be thine ; 
 Fair within whose glittering portal, 
 
 Wait for thee the storied Nine. 
 
 "Well I know such pleasant dreaming 
 Sends that lustre to thine eye ; 
 
 And, with feverish fancies teeming, 
 Makes thy pulses wildly fly. 
 
 Lo 1 upon the shore beside thee. 
 Thou hast left the angel friend, 
 
 Who was kindly sent to guide thee, 
 Till the voyage of life should end. 
 
 Still she seems in love to linger, 
 On that calm, enchanted shore, 
 
 As if sad to loose her finger 
 
 From the helm it pressed before. 
 
 Oh, if thou woaldst turn from linking 
 Airy thoughts, and lofty schemes, 
 
 And for once of her bethinking, 
 
 Ask what truth is in thy dreatns. — 
 
 '• Youth," — she then would say unto thee — 
 " Sailing down this rapid tide, 
 
 Painted joys are those that woo thee 
 Far and fleeting from my side. 
 
 " Yonder palace, though appearing 
 But a league thy bark before, 
 
 Thou mayst keep forever nearing, 
 But shaft enter nevermore. 
 
 " As the child, at morning hieing 
 Toward the red horizon's rim. 
 
 But at evening sad and sighing. 
 That the skies have cheated him. — 
 
 " Thus, although in swift recession 
 Life's gay banks may pass thee by. 
 
 Yonder fane, with like progression. 
 From thy touch shall swiftly fly. 
 
 " Gold and Fame in fullest measures, 
 At thy feet, their gifts may pour. 
 
 But these never reared the treasures 
 Beckoning thee from yonder shore. 
 
 " Never raised they for a mortal 
 Shelter from affliction's dart, 
 
 Or, within their shining portal. 
 Spread fruition for the heart. 
 
 " ' Tis a phantom thou art viewing. 
 False and fatal, though so fair ; 
 
 And when weary with pursuing, 
 
 Naught shall greet thee — but despair ! 
 
 " Take me back, oh youth ! I pray thee 
 To the helm that knows my hand, 
 
 And this life-stream shall convey thee 
 To a fair and happy land : 
 
 " To a temple where are singing 
 Peace and Joy, in silver notes; 
 
 O'er whose dome, its shadow flinging. 
 Love's white banner ever floats. 
 
 "There, life's voyage serenely ending, 
 
 And the bark moored by the shore. 
 Shall thy song, with seraphs' blending. 
 
 Tell thy raptures evermore !" 
 Tell me, eager youth, I pray thee. 
 
 Hath that voice thy spirit stirred ? 
 Or shall its appeals to stay thee 
 
 Powerless be, as if unheard ? 
 
LUTHER AND HIS WORK. 
 
 BY A CLERaTlIAN 
 
 On the 17th July, 1505, a young man, who 
 was studying at the University of Erfurt, in Ger- 
 many, invited his friends to his lodgings, to pass 
 the evening together. The frugal supper was 
 over ; they had some cheerful exercises in music. 
 At the close, he told his companions, that it was 
 their last meeting together in this free capacity — 
 " To-morrow I become a monk." This was 
 Luther. He had been intended by his father for 
 a lawyer, but the death of a friend, and a peril 
 of death he had been in himself, made him re- 
 solve to abandon the world. In the heart of this 
 man, the Reformation was to enact itself before 
 it came forth to history. Mark his thought at 
 the date of the supper. As a student teacher, 
 lawyer, lie could not be holy enough, could not 
 be secure enough of heaven. The monastery is 
 holy, the mouk is holy. By this means I shall 
 attain to heaven. The European man has come 
 up out of the hold, has left his parents, his friends, 
 his studies below. He presses up to join those 
 noble men who have continual access to God. 
 Honestly he strove to be a monk, did monkish 
 duties with earnestness and zeal, found, to his 
 sorrow, that he had not left the world behind 
 him, and had sore buttles in the inner man. It 
 was his thought that divine influences entered 
 the soul by attending to Church ordinances. 
 With streaming eyes he waited for these in- 
 fluences ; for the pardon of his sins, above all. 
 He knelt at the altar, and sought for it ; he came 
 back to his cell, and sought for it ; lie wanted sleep, 
 that he might find it. One morning the brethren 
 find his cell-door shut, and have to force it 
 open. Fra Martin is stretched upon the ground 
 insensible. One of the monks took a flute and 
 played an air that Luther loved, and gradually 
 he was restored. He was not at peace with God. 
 He was a monk, but the imrest remained. He 
 did all a monk's duties, but it was not removed. 
 His soul was full of trouble. 
 
 It is the birth throes of the European heart 
 bringing forth Faith. The thought was at work 
 in Luther, but he could not yet give words to it, 
 that the priesthood shut out the light of heaven 
 from the people. He had stumbled upon a dusty 
 Bible in the Erfurt University Library. The 
 
 people knew nothing of it ; the monks had for- 
 gotten it. Here is God's own Word, he said ; 
 here God speaks out direct to me. He began to 
 study the Bible in the original. Other monks, in 
 whom the good work was going on, gave counte- 
 nance to hiiu. Others, again, told him to mind 
 his monastic duties. He did mind them. He 
 swept the monastery, begged for the monastery, 
 prayed in the monastery, did penance ; but his 
 soul was not at peace. " This black heart of 
 mine," he cried ; " these sins, day after day, hour 
 after hour ; this prepetual inclination to sin — who 
 shall free me from all this ? " His soul's trouble 
 brings his body to the brink of the grave. An 
 old monk entered his cell. He repeated the 
 words of the creed, " I believe in the forgiveness 
 of sin." He told his young brother it was not 
 enough to believe that David's sins and Peter's 
 sins were forgiven. The commandment is, that 
 " we believe our own sins forgiven." 
 
 The word was uttered ; the light had dawned ; 
 Luther Wiis standing face to face with the infinite 
 mercy of God. He has entered into the peace 
 which passeth understanding. "I have been 
 begging, and sweeping, and praying, that by re- 
 peating these acts I might procure the pardon of 
 my sins." And, lo ! my Father has been standing 
 by me all the time, holding it out to me, be- 
 seeching me to believe, that what I was seeking 
 for by monastic works was mine already by his 
 infinite graci'. And yet Luther's own mind was 
 not wholly free. His brethren sent him to Rome ' 
 on some monastic business. He ran from church 
 to church, doing those exercises which were pre- 
 scribed for the salvation of his soul, shocked at 
 everything, and yet believing everything. Be- 
 hold him one day on his knees, climbing up 
 Pilate's staircase. He who does this shall have 
 an indulgence — a boon of future mercy from 
 Heaven. It was too late for the German monk. 
 The Erfurt Bible was in his heart. And ever as 
 he clomb another step— by this climbing of a 
 material stair, striving to possess more of God's 
 life — a voice from the bottom of his heart cried 
 I to him, in tones of thunder, " Luther, Luther, not 
 ! by climbing stairs; not by works of this sort! 
 I The just shall live by faith." 
 
198 
 
 LUTHER AND HIS WORK, 
 
 The work was done. That side of the Refor- 
 raation which was a protest against the clergy- 
 church, was realized in the heart of this man. 
 Luther's preaching was practically, although 
 at first he was not conscious of it, a denial of 
 official Driesthood. He said, "It is a business of 
 thine own, my brother." This, too, was a denial 
 of it. But it was when he stood up in his Witten- 
 berg pulpit, and, out of the fullness of his' own ex- 
 perience and his knowledge of the Word, pointed, 
 on the one side, to the sins of those who heard 
 him, and, on the other, direct to the mercy of God, 
 that the great protest was made. That a man 
 might be saved without the priest — that salva- 
 tion did not flow to the heart through the Church : 
 this was the new thing he uttered. He came to 
 light still clearer. His industrious piety re- 
 ceived large accessions of knowledge. He came 
 to see that a great evil had dominated over the 
 consciences of men. " The ecclesia — the Church 
 — does nort exist," he said," for the people. 
 The clergy alone are the Church. They only par- 
 take the symbol of brotherhood. Is not every 
 man a brother ? Is not the Lord brother to every 
 man ? What means the incarnation if He is not ? 
 It was my flesh, not priest's flesh. The Word 
 has hallowed my flesh. My human nature has 
 thereby been brought into contact with the Word 
 of God. I am related direct to that Word. So 
 are all men. All men who recognize this rela- 
 tion recognize also that they are priests. The 
 believer is a priest; may stand for himself in 
 God's presence ; does not need a fellow-man to 
 go into that presence for him." 
 
 In this aspect, the Reformation was a new 
 rending of the vail — a new assertion of the doc- 
 trine, that separate official priesthoods had 
 ceased, and that each believer stands for himself, 
 an anointed priest at God's altar, to perform a 
 priest's function there. " If a priest is killed," 
 said Luther, in one of his earliest tracts, " the 
 ■whole district is put under ban. Why not just 
 the same when a poor peasant has been mur- 
 dered ? We are all priests." In other words : 
 Europe is crying, " Good for us to be safe in the 
 hold when storms are ahead, and to have no care. 
 But we have awaked to see that there is no hold. 
 The hatch is gone : the deck is torn up. We are 
 in an open boat. And God is calling us to look 
 with our own eyes upon the terrors and the 
 splendors of His universe, and to listen, each 
 soul for himself, to the Word which He has 
 spoken." 
 
 We speak of the past. We talk of Pope and 
 Protestant now, no man making us afraid. With 
 Luther it was not so easy. He did not feel it to 
 be easy. How often, he says, during the first 
 
 year or two, did I ask myself if it were not pre- 
 sumption in me ! His journey to Rome opened 
 his eyes. Then came Tetzel, selling indulgences. 
 The two elements of the Reformation rose up in 
 Luther against this proceeding. First of all, he 
 saw it to be a lie, that mere writing on a bit of 
 paper could forgive sins. Next, he was indig- 
 nant that, by means of this lie, good German 
 money should go to Rome. He denounced Tet- 
 zel, exposed the falsehood, challenged the whole 
 priesthood to debate the matter with him. No 
 one minded the Saxon monk at first. By and by, 
 however, he is found to be dangerous. A papal bull 
 is issued against him. His books are to be burnt. 
 He himself is to repair to Rome. What will 
 Luther do? He invited the members of the 
 university and the officials of Wittenberg to 
 meet him, at nine o'clock in the morning of the 
 10th December, 1520, at the east gate, opposite 
 the Church of the holy Cross, and there, not with- 
 out solemnity, he did what never European man 
 hitherto had courage to do, committed the bull, 
 and all papal pamphlets and books connected 
 with it, or the question at issue, to the flames. 
 
 The game is up. "The mighty hunter," as 
 Luther called the Pope, demanded the victim. 
 ■ His peril was great. He is summoned to Worms, 
 to meet the emperor and the German princes, to 
 answer for his doctrines. And on to Worms went 
 emperor, prince and peasant, all anxious to see 
 the man who had dared to lift his voice against 
 the Pope. " Do not go," said his friends. " I will 
 go," said Luther, "if there were as many devils 
 in Worms as there are tiles on its house-tops." 
 
 On the 2d of April, 1521, he sets out. Turn- 
 ing to Melancthon, he said, " If I am put to death, 
 cease not, oh, my brother, to teach and remain 
 firm in the truth. If tliou art spared, what mat- 
 ters it that I perish ?" He stepped into a low 
 wagon, with block wheels, which the magis- 
 trates of Wittenberg had provided. From Witten- 
 berg to Leipsic, from Leipsic to Nuremberg 
 from thence to Weimar — all was gloom. Every- 
 body looked on him as a man marching to his 
 grave. Next he came to Erfurt. Here, when a 
 little boy, he had sung at the doorsof the rich for 
 bread ; here he had been a distinguished student ; 
 here he first saw a Bible. There is no gloom in 
 Erfurt. Their old scholar comes back. Tliey 
 come out on horseback to give him welcome ; 
 they line the streets to give him cheer. '-Thou 
 must preach to us," they said. The herald con- 
 sented. He was led into the church. Often had 
 he swept its floors, and opened and locked its 
 doors, in days long past. And now he is in the 
 pulpit. His text was, " Peace be unto you : and 
 when Jesus had so said, he showed them his hands 
 
LUTHER AND HIS "WORK. 
 
 199 
 
 and his side." "Life comes from Him," he said. 
 " One builds a church, another goes a pilgrimage, 
 a third fasts, a fourth puts on a cowl and goes 
 barefoot. All vanity this. But Christ hath risen 
 from the dead : this is the -work of salvation." 
 From Erfurt to Gotha; from Gotha to Frankfort. 
 In Frankfort, they took him to a school, and he 
 blessed the boys. One stage more, at Oppenheim 
 — and then I 
 
 At last, on the morning of the IGth, he is in 
 sight of Worms. His heart is leaning on the 
 Lord. At Oppenheim, he had composed a hymn 
 and set it to music. When he beheld the tower 
 of the ancient city, where the fate of the Refor- 
 mation was to be decided, he rose up in his wa- 
 gon, and sang the hymn. The Germans sing it to 
 this day. We give Carlyle's translation : — 
 
 "A safe stronghold our God is still — 
 
 A trusty sliield and weapon ; 
 H9"ll help us clear from all the ill 
 
 That hath us now o'ertaken 
 The ancient prince of hell 
 llath risen with purpose fell ; 
 
 Strong mail of craft and power 
 
 He weareth in this hour — 
 On earth is not his fellow. 
 
 With force of arms we nothing can ; 
 
 Full soon were we dow^n-ridden ; 
 But for us fights the proper man, 
 
 Whom God himself hath bidden. 
 Ask ye, Who is this same ? 
 Jesus Christ is his name, 
 
 The Lord Zebaoth's son ; 
 
 He, and no other one, 
 Shall conquer in the battle. 
 
 And were this world all devils o'er, 
 
 And watching to devour us, 
 We lay it not to heart so sore — 
 
 We know they can't o'erpower us. 
 And let the prince of ill 
 Look grim as e'er he will, 
 
 He harms us not a whit. 
 
 For why ? His doom is writ — 
 A word shall quickly slay him. 
 
 God's Word, for all their craft and force, 
 
 One moment will not linger. 
 But, spite of hell, shall have its course — 
 
 'Tis written by his finger. 
 And though they take our life, 
 Goods, houses, children, wife. 
 
 Yet is their profit small ; 
 
 These things shall vanish all — 
 God's city, it remaineth." 
 
 Next morning he is summoned to appear. He 
 stands there, in the old imperial hall, alone, in 
 the presence of princes, nobles, dignitaries of the 
 church, and the young emperor. A manly mod- 
 esty overpowers him at the first. He a^^ks one 
 day to prepare his answers. On the 18th April, 
 then, in the afternoon, he is borne by soldiers 
 tlirough the crowded streets of Worms, into the 
 
 imperial presence once more. Yesterday, the 
 emperor and the princes were struck by hia 
 timidity, today, by his frank, unboastful open- 
 ness. " I am here,'' he said, " to answer for my 
 books. In one part of those books, I say that 
 man is saved by God's mercy, and not by going 
 pilgrimages, and doing penances, and the like; 
 this part I dare not retract. A second portion of 
 my writings is directed against papal abuses and 
 tyranny ; this part, the abuses existing, it would 
 be wrong to retract. In a third portion of my 
 works, I have used personalities and hasty words 
 which, in my more retired moments, I regret ; 
 this portion I most heartily give up." He added, 
 " I am a man ; I mai/ have formed wronjf 
 notions. If there be anything in my teaching 
 opposed to Scripture, show me what it is ; and 
 that which is so opposed I will retract : no more.' 
 The ofiicial who questioned him was not satisfied. 
 " Thou art to answer simply, not to preach to 
 us ; yes, or no ; retract or not retract." " Since, 
 then, your impartial majesty and your highnesses 
 demand a simple answer, I will give you one. 
 Unless I am convicted of error by the testimony 
 of Scripture, I cannot, and will not retract. . . . 
 I have done. God help me. Amen." 
 
 This was the culminating point of Luther's 
 protest ; the upbreaking of the dark morning 
 cloud. And yet this formed but a poor portion 
 of the work Luther did : — Preaching, teaching, 
 writing books, sermons, pamphlets, translating 
 and commenting on the Bible, and bearing the 
 whole burden of the churches. From this point, 
 forward, flows the outer history of the Refor- 
 mation. 
 
 For those who wish to study Luther, we shall 
 mention the two works of Ranke — his History of 
 the Popes who have reigned since the Refor- 
 mation, and the History of the Reformation itself. 
 A book easier to reail, but theatrical and one- 
 sided a little, is D'Aubigne's; and Robertson's 
 " History of Charles X. ;" and Michelet's '' Life 
 of Luther." We especially recommend this last 
 book. It is made up of extracts from Luther's 
 letters, sermons, and table-talk. Luther depicts 
 Luther in it; and you are struck by finding your- 
 self in the company of quite an ordinary-looking 
 mortal. There is nothing of the " great man" 
 about him ; no airs, no assumption of superiority. 
 It is not a monk who is beside you ; it is a man 
 who was never meant to be a monk — a homely, 
 rather jovial man, who will take a can of beer 
 with you of an evening, and pin- uis flute, and be 
 delighted with your son--. 
 
 " People fancy," he once said, " because I am 
 joyous and jovial, that I recline upon a bed of 
 
200 
 
 LUTHER AND HIS WORK. 
 
 roses. God knows how far wrong they are." 
 Yes, indeed, they were wrong Under all that 
 joviality, there was a soul enlarging itself, by 
 severe discipline, by active thought, by untiring 
 prayer, to know more and more of God. But it 
 was a soul that led its life in secret ; that knew 
 the value of the counsel, " Vhen ye fast be not 
 as the hypocrites " Luther was no hypocrite ; 
 was not evon sanctimonious ; had notions on many 
 things which would be counted loose in our day. 
 But he was honest ; spoke out the word which it 
 was right to speak, whether it was rebuke, 
 or sermon, or joke, and had no reserves ; he 
 gave you his frank opinion, and the ground on 
 which it rested ; if he discovered he was wrong, 
 as frankly he retracted. 
 
 We look upon his conduct in relation to the 
 peasants' war, as, perhaps, the highest outcome 
 of this honesty. This war was a direct result of his 
 work ; I mean, it was one of the evils which flow- 
 ed out of the principle of private judgment. If 
 Luther was right in revolting from the Pope, the 
 peasant is right in revolting from his prince. 
 Everybody saw that it was a result of Luther's 
 principles. The German nobles, who had sym- 
 pathized with the reformer hitherto, turned to 
 ask him what this meant. If Luther declare for 
 the peasants, the princes will forsake him ; if 
 he declare for the princes, the peasants will lose 
 confidence in him. What does Luther care ? 
 There is a word which it is right for God's speak- 
 ing-man to speak, and he straightway speaks it 
 out. '"Ye princes, ye men-in power, in tliis out- 
 break ye are not without blame. These peasants 
 are God's instruments to punish you fur your lux- 
 ury and oppressions. Trample them ; but God 
 will raise peasants out of the stones to afflict and 
 to bring you to do that wliich is right. . . . They 
 will no longer submit to your crying extortions. 
 You lavish, ia fine clothes, fine castles, fine eating 
 and drinking, their hard-won produce ; and what 
 l/ou must do first and foremost is, to put a stop 
 to all this vain luxury of yours, to close up the 
 holes through which this money runs, so that you 
 may leave some little part in the peasant's 
 pocket." He then addressed the peasants: — "You 
 have lifted the sword, peasants ; Luther did not 
 lift a sword. If truth sufficed to overturn the 
 Pope, have ye not faith enough in truth, that it 
 will overturn the oppression of princes ? Struggle 
 — I forbid you not ; but struggle by the truth. The 
 truth will conquer. If you and the princes come 
 to blows, pr'>sume not, on the one side or the oth- 
 er, to call youroc'ves Christians. It will be a 
 war of pagans — nothmj else. Christians fight 
 not with swords or arquebuses; but with the 
 cross, and with patience ; after the example of 
 
 their general, who handled not the sword, but 
 unresistingly suffered himself to be bound to the 
 cross. Their triumph consists not in domination 
 and power, but in submission and humility. If 
 you abide by reason, by truth, I too will join 
 you ; if you take the sword, it is my determina- 
 tion to throw myself in all confidingness at the 
 feet of God, and take part against you." They 
 did take the sword, and he took part against 
 them. 
 
 Great, indeed, was Luther's confidence in the 
 power of truth. He translated the Bible, that 
 men might be saved by it — the Koran, tliat they 
 might see how beggarly falsehood was ; and to 
 the truth he continually ascribed the credit of all 
 that was doing. "While I am drinking beer in 
 Wittenberg, with Philip and the doctors, the 
 Word is saving the world," he was accustomed 
 to say. 
 
 For those who know Luther only through the 
 pages of D'Aubigne — who have been accustomed 
 to see him in the pink light of a mere hero — it 
 will be quite refreshing to go fairly through 
 Miciielet's book. What a mere man this over- 
 turner of the papacy was ! What pathos, what 
 beauty, lay in that heart of his. Once he looked 
 out, and saw a little bird settling for the night upon 
 a branch of a tree. "There thou settlest, poor 
 bird," he exclaimed, "the infinite dome of heaven 
 above thee, and the great earth beneath, and 
 goest to rest without fear." It was a delightful 
 thing to spend an evening with hira. His broad, 
 beneficent nature expanded into the sunniest, 
 playfulest kiudliness. His talk was full of wis- 
 dom, of humor, of genuine insight. Nature, art, 
 humanity, philosophy, theolgy — he was at home 
 in them all. Floods of light came forth from 
 him in single utterances, given freely, without 
 effort. His mind vras open as a child's for truth. 
 It is most exhilarating to be beside him when he 
 first discovered, studying the Greek language, af- 
 ter tlie Reformation has begun, that meta7ioia did 
 not nieaa penances, but a change of life. 
 
 You know, amongst other courageous things he 
 did, that he cast ofi" the monk's cowl, and married 
 a nun. Catherine de Bora was her name. She had 
 to beg her bread from door to door after her hus- 
 band's death. With his wife, he lived a noble 
 domestic life, and yet quite an every-day one. — 
 How playfully he bantered her, laughed at her 
 attempts to fathom the deep thoughts of her hus- 
 band. " My Eve," he called her — " my Kit— my 
 lord Kit — my rib Kit — that most learned dame, 
 Catherine Luther de Bora. Ah, Kit, thou shouldst 
 never preach ! If thou wouldst only say the Lord's 
 Prayer always before beginning, thy lectures 
 would be shorter." In the history of his married 
 
EARTHLY SORROW. 
 
 201 
 
 life, you will not miss acts of highest benevolence 
 — of hoi^pitality atForded to those who could not 
 return it — of just dealing with old servants. Lu- 
 ther and she were often very poor. The princes 
 took his preaching, but left him to live as he might. 
 He never would take money for his writings ; the 
 booksellers got all the profit. At one time, he 
 took to turning wood for a little money ; at an- 
 other, to gardening. Yet, in the midst of all 
 this hardship, when he had not a coin for himself, 
 he would take the silver drinkingcups he had 
 got as keepsakes from the princes, and give them 
 to poor students. 
 
 We have mentioned his home feelings. We 
 were much touched by his exclamation, when he 
 heard of his fatlier's death — "7 am old Luther 
 now." There was insight in this word. We re- 
 member, too, a beautiful letter he wrote to Lis 
 little boy, namesake of his father, about a lovely 
 and smiling garden — the garden of celestial life 
 — full of children, dressed in robes of gold, who 
 
 played under the trees with beautiful apples 
 pears, cherries, nuts, and prunes ; and had drums 
 and fifes, and music of all sorts. And little Hans 
 would be admitted to this garden, if he be a good 
 boy. So simple — so like a child, could the man 
 who hurled down popes, whose words are still 
 " half-battles," write on the proper opportunity. 
 
 The time came when he was to write no more. 
 He was absent from his Catherine, at Eisleben. 
 attending a Protestant Synod. It was the 17th 
 February, 1546. He felt that he was dying. 
 " Pray brethren ; oh I pray for the spread of the 
 Gospel," he said to his fellow-laborers. Then he 
 took a turn or two in the room, and lay down. — 
 " Friends, I am dying. Into thy hands, O Lord, 
 I commit my spirit." " Reverend father," said 
 Dr. Jonas, " do you die firm in the faith you have 
 taught V Luther opened his eyes, which were 
 half closed, looked fixedly at Jonas, and replied, 
 firmly and distinctly, "Yes." That was the last 
 word he uttered; then, his great spirit went home' 
 
 EARTHLY SORROW 
 
 "Wht should man, with bitter grieving, 
 Mourn the hopes his heart deceiving, 
 Which, though false, array'd in beauty, 
 Rise in youth before his sight? 
 These are but the desert-vision 
 Tempting to a wTong decision, 
 Leading from the path of duty, 
 But to fail when comes the night. 
 
 Not for wanton ease and pleasure, 
 Life unlocks its secret treasure ; 
 Not to those who idly seeking. 
 Take its cross but miss its end ; 
 Life is meant for cairn endurance, 
 Lighten'd by the blest assurance 
 That a glorious dawn is breaking 
 For the hearts no sin can bend. 
 
 Who but dreams of life, unknowing, 
 111 or pain, from nature flowing, 
 To its purpose lives a stranger, 
 Only worse to be deceived : 
 While the man who grief awaiteth 
 Sorrow as a furnace rateth, 
 
 Where the soul is freed from danger. 
 Though of early hopes bereaved. 
 
 Earth is beautiful : but yonder, 
 Where our holier musings wander, 
 Lies a country far more glorious. 
 Heirdom for the sons of care ; — 
 Griefs but move us to obtain it ; 
 Through His might who died to gain it ; 
 Over death itself victorious. 
 Bliss eternal we may share. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 Oh, would I were a flower bright, 
 To charm and ravish mortal sight, 
 
 And shed perfume around ! 
 Hadiant in the sunbeam's light, 
 Bathed in dew on starry night, 
 
 With gorgeous lustre crowned. 
 
 Smiling on the hazy mom, 
 The glorious glowing golden dawn 
 Of life and glistening light, 
 
 Smiling 'neath the moon's pure beuns, 
 Drinking deep its silvery streams, 
 With all its charms bedight. 
 
 The tempest hour being come, 
 Unblessed by either moon or sun, 
 
 To hang my drooping head j 
 And when the darkness took to flight 
 To hail once more the ambient light, 
 
 And dying odor shed. 
 
'SPEAK TENDERLY TO THE ERRING 
 
 > 5 
 
 BY REV. CHAS. HOOVER, 
 
 The following history embraces facts which 
 are but too common, illustrativo of the perils of 
 young men, and of the little interest that is felt 
 for their souls even by nearest friends, and by 
 those whose special office it should be to seeii 
 and save the lost, and be a guide and a helper to 
 the wanderer. "With the hope that it may prove 
 a profitable chapter, I shall here introduce the 
 leading facts of his history as he communicated 
 it to me. 
 
 Henry H , the young man I am speaking 
 
 of, was the son of respectable parents, of very 
 moderate pecuniary means, but amiable and in- 
 telligent, and much esteemed in their neighbor- 
 hood for their various excellent qualities. Our 
 family and the H's, were on very friendly terms, 
 and long after misfortune had broken up and 
 scattered them, they were remembered by us 
 with more than ordinary interest. Of all our 
 child acquaintances, Henry was one of the most 
 peculiarly interesting. Beautiful in person and 
 afifectionate in disposition, he was also remarka- 
 bly thoughtful, serious, and inquiring, so that 
 when he was but about six years old, every one 
 predicted that he would one day become a 
 preacher and a great man. Just at this time, 
 sudden calamity came with desolating power 
 upon Henry's family. His father in tlie prime 
 of manhood was drowned. A sudden squall 
 overturned a sail-boat in which he was one of a 
 party of pleasure, and he, with several others 
 perished. This sad event was soon followed by 
 the scattering of the family. Henry was taken 
 in charge by a wealthy old quaker gentleman 
 fanner in the vicinity of the city, with whom he 
 remained till he was twelve or thirteen years 
 old, and where his appetite for reading and in- 
 struction were abundantly indulged. He made 
 surprising attainments for one of his years and 
 opportunities. Finding in the books of science 
 which fell into his hands, the frequent occurrence 
 of Latin terms, he applied himself of his own ac- 
 cord to the acquirement of that language ; and 
 afterwards, in like manner, undertook the Greek, 
 and before he was fourteen, and without a word 
 of instruction, he readily mastered Virgil in the 
 
 former, and the New Testament in the latter lan- 
 guage, and had also formed a considerable ac- 
 quaintance with several modern tongues. This, 
 however, was a very small part of his knowledge. 
 His reading was immense. He devoured every 
 thing he could lay liands on in the shape of a 
 book. There was to be sure little or nothing of 
 system in his studies, for he read without 
 sruidance whatever came to hand, and his ac- 
 quirements were a vast chaos of facts without 
 form and void, and darkness brooded over ail- 
 But his memory was faithful and seemed never 
 to relinquish a fact which it had once grasped. 
 About this time he read those two pernicious 
 books, Paine's Age of Reason and Volney's 
 Ruins, but by a singular Providence, Bishop 
 Berkley's Minute Philosopher, one of the ablest 
 answers to infidelity ever written, though some- 
 what abstruse, fell into his hands, and entirely 
 satisfied his mind as to the speculative truth of 
 Christianity. 
 
 And now, for the first time in his life, he began 
 to feel his personal need of religion. His resi- 
 dence had been removed to the city, and he began 
 to be interested in the faithful preaching of the 
 gospel, a thing as new and as strange to his ears 
 as if he had lived all his life in a heathen land. 
 Does Dr. Skinner, now of the Mercer street 
 Church, New York, remember the meetings that 
 used to be held in Mr. Patterson's Church, in 
 Philadelphia, and in the school-house in the 
 rear, in which he and Dr. Cox, now of Brooklyn, 
 both then young men, with Mr. Burch and the 
 now glorified Patterson participated? Among 
 the deeply anxious souls that then and there 
 cried out, " what must we do to be saved?" was 
 this young man ; and there, after many days of 
 anguish bordering on despair, he found that peace 
 which the world cannot give. After a suitable 
 time he was received into one of the city 
 churches, and commenced his public profession 
 of discipleship with the strongest desire and pur- 
 pose to be wholly devoted to the Lord. For two 
 or three years his religious ardor appeared not in 
 the least to abate. His enjoyment in private re- 
 ligious duties was great. His peace flowed like 
 
"SPEAK TENDERLY TO THE ERRING, 
 
 203 
 
 a river. Every day was a Sabbath, and every 
 Sabbath a foretaste of heaven. His thirst for 
 knowledge meantime was as great as ever, but 
 better directed. With an increasing love for the 
 Scriptures, his attention was directed with new 
 interest to the languages in which its revelations 
 were originally given. The Greek Testament 
 became his pocket companion, and was studied 
 daily. He now studied the Hebrew, and enjoying 
 the advantage of a competent instructor, made 
 rapid progress. The advice of friends, and his 
 own views of duty concurred in regarding the 
 ministry of reconciliation as the calling for which 
 Providence designed him. And although he was 
 not now his own master, having become an ap- 
 prentice some time before, and although the pros- 
 pect of realizing his new purpose was remote, he 
 marked out for himself a plan of study, and de- 
 voted to its prosecution all the time he could 
 call his own, abstracting many an hour from the 
 time usually allotted to sleep. 
 
 Thus, all things promised well. But the fiery 
 trial of the young Christian was at hand. Two 
 or three of the youths in the same office to which 
 he belonged, invited him one pleasant day, to 
 join them in a sailing excursion. He accepted 
 and went, not dreaming for a moment that any 
 harm could arise from it, or that it would be lia- 
 ble to miscoustruction. The time was spent 
 pleasantly, jovially, but yet innocently, not as a 
 religious exercise certainly, but as a perfectly 
 harmless recreation. In a day or two, however, 
 Henry was taken to task by one of his fellow 
 church-members, a few years older than himself, 
 and charged in a very severe and harsh manner 
 with having disgraced religion and violated his 
 vows, by going with a pleasure party of ungodly 
 young men. Henry's constitutional infirmity 
 was extreme sensitiveness, and these reproaches, 
 the first he had ever heard, withered his very 
 soul. He was conscious of innocence, but the 
 thought of being singled out and pointed at as 
 having di.sgraced religion, by those too, with 
 whom he had walked to the house of God and 
 the prayer-meeting, sunk deep into his heart. 
 Very soon the story grew like that of the black 
 crows, and it was now said that Henry and his 
 companions in the sailing party had been drink- 
 ing rather freely. The story was utterly false, 
 but it answered the purpose for which Satan in- 
 vented it. It crushed Henry's young affections, 
 destroyed his confidence in those fellow profes- 
 sors whom he had formerly regarded as exam- 
 ples, and alienated him from the prayer-meeting, 
 and after a time from the church where he had 
 recorded his vows. His young, sensitive, afifec- 
 
 tionate nature had received a blow from which 
 he could not recover. He shrank from inter- 
 course with those who had inflicted it ; shut him- 
 self up in his closet, and nursed his grief in soli- 
 tude and silence. 
 
 Henry's employer was a Presbyterian elder, 
 and a man of the world; he owned a pew in the 
 church, and a box in the theatre. Henry was offer- 
 ed the use of the family ticket whenever he 
 should feel inclined to attend, and occasionally, to 
 relieve the tedium of his lonely and uncared for 
 life, he accepted the offer, and in process of time, 
 became a pretty regular attendant upon the dra- 
 ma, though I believe he was addicted to none of 
 the vices which are usually connected with thea- 
 tre-going young men. With him it was a mere 
 literary recreation ; he saw a play as he read a 
 poem, and all his habits in other respects were 
 moral in the usual sense of that word. His 
 church, however, was now for several years entirely 
 neglected, and his Sabbaths were spent at home. 
 And now, note one fact : Henry, under the sup- 
 position that he had committed a dreadful sin by 
 spending a few leisure hours in sailing with two 
 or three of his office-mates, who were not church 
 members, was virtually driven from Christian so- 
 ciety by the harshness of a blind zeal ; and after 
 he had withdrawn, almost heart-broken, and shut 
 himself up to mourn alone, this mere child in 
 years, this infant in religion, this unfriended or- 
 phan boy, is then left to stray at his will, and 
 there is none to follow him, and in the loving 
 spirit of the gospel, endeavor to heal his wounds, 
 real or imaginary, and encourage him in the path 
 of duty. One kind word would have saved that 
 boy. But for years he lived as I have described, 
 and no officer or member of the church upon 
 whose books his name still stood, inquired after 
 him or cared for his soul. Even those who were 
 so dreadfully shocked at the dishonor brought 
 upon religion by his sailing excursion, sremed to 
 forget there was such a person in the world. Ex- 
 posed to all the temptations of great city, with 
 none to guide him, no father to counsel him, no 
 mother to pray for him, no sister to win him to 
 virtue's side, no church to watch over his way- 
 ward footsteps, what wonder if he should be 
 wicked forever. * * * * 
 
 Several years after tliese things, my father 
 was called upon one morning by a stranger, who 
 informed him that a young man was lying at a 
 low miserable groggery on the outskirts of a 
 town, in a deplorable state, brought on by exces- 
 sive drinking; that his situation required immedi- 
 ate attention ; and that he had been heard to name 
 my father as a former friend of his family. 
 
204 
 
 "SPEAK TENDERLY TO THE ERRING 
 
 Without being able to imagine who the unfortu- 
 nate outcast and wanderer might be, my father 
 immediately set forth to see him, taking me along 
 with him. We proceeded according U, the di- 
 rection of the stranger, .and soon reached the dis- 
 mal rum-hole that had been described to us. 
 Making known our errand, we were shown into 
 a back room, dark almost as night, filthy as a 
 sty, with several beds in it, on one of which, 
 covered with a horse blanket, lay the object of 
 our visit. My father spoke in a kind tone, some 
 words of inquiry to the unhappy man, which 
 were answered only by sobs, convulsive sobs, that 
 seemed to shake the room, and we awaited in 
 silence the subsidence of his agony. At length, 
 turning to my father and grasping his hand, we 
 beheld the haggard featuresof Henry H. My fa- 
 ther wept like a little child. Enough was known 
 of Henry's situation to decide our course. The 
 poor fellow had to be clothed from head to foot 
 before he was fit to be removed ; after which, he 
 was taken to our house and ministered to as his 
 situation required, after a long coui-se of inebri- 
 ation. 
 
 We soon had the happiness of seeing him him- 
 self again. He was encouraged to believe that 
 all was not lost ; that divine grace would be 
 sufiicient for him if he forsook his evil way, and 
 that there were friends who felt for him and were 
 ready to second his endeavors. The thought 
 that any one cared for him, and that his return 
 to the path of duty would cause any one to rejoice- 
 afiected him exceedingly. The rock on which 
 he had split, indeed, as the foregoing narrative 
 shows, was the impression produced by injudicious 
 treatment, that no one loved him or cared for 
 him. On this subject, with his sensitive spirit, 
 he had become a monomaniac; one step more 
 made him a misanthrope, and he swung from his 
 moorings in the social system, as multitudes had 
 done before him. But now his disappointed heart 
 was invited to try again, to come back into the 
 magic circle of sympathy and love, and Ciiristian 
 communion, and with an expanding heart he came. 
 We were daily and glad-hearted witnesses of the 
 gracious change in his feelings, and of the modest, 
 childlike, yet determined spirit with which he re- 
 commenced the Christian course. how his bosom 
 swelled with affectionate gratitude for the small- 
 est token of sympathy or solicitude for his well- 
 being. His sense of the mercy of God in reclaim- 
 ing and forgiving him was at times overwhelming ; 
 
 I have seen him sit often for a long time, his eyes 
 closed, a smile of peace and joy on his counte 
 nance, while tears would chase each other down 
 his cheek, tears of mingled penitence and joy, and 
 he was not conscious enough of their presence to 
 wipe them away. His personal experience of 
 the harsh and uncharitable judgments of men, 
 had a powerful effect in rendering him slow to 
 utter or believe evil reports ; and he was always 
 ready to espouse the side of the accused, main- 
 taining it as a practical duty as well as a legal 
 maxim, to hold accused persons innocent until 
 proved to be guilty. His whole soul interested 
 itself in the erring and the wretched, and he 
 would say tiiat he desired no higher honor than 
 to be a gospel missionary in hospitals and pri- 
 sons. 
 
 Circumstances rendering it as convenient as it 
 was agreeable, Henry i-emained along time a mem- 
 ber of our family. I have incorporated with these 
 simple annals his not uncommon history, because 
 it interested ray own heart, and because it may 
 be useful in cautioning others against rude and 
 unfeeling censoriousness which repelled Henry 
 from the church to the world, and well nigh 
 wrecked his soul forever ; and if the eye of some 
 backslider, far gone in the ways of sin, should 
 light upon these pages, let him pause and return, 
 and bowing with a broken heart at the cross of 
 Calvary, find peace to-his guilty and troubled 
 soul. Church members and church officers too, 
 may learn a lesson from this story. Often, while 
 great zeal is manifested to get people into church, 
 very little concern is felt for their subsequent 
 course. A great deal of attention is shown to a 
 young man when he first becomes concerned 
 about his soul. The minister, the elders, the 
 members of the church notice him, converse with 
 him, give him religious advice, and lead him to re- 
 ligious meetings, till he joins the church, and 
 then nobody has anything to say to him. If he 
 conduct himself properly, very well ; but it will 
 not be owing to any particular efforts made by 
 others for his advancement in the spiritual life. If 
 he goes astray, he will hear of it, not from some 
 Christian brother calling on him in a kind and 
 loving spirit to confer with him alone, but in 
 whisperings, and backbitings, and harsh censures. 
 These are hard sayings, but alas, too true. Would 
 that the time miglit speedily come when the 
 church shall be purged from its unbrotherly spirit, 
 and be baptized anew with the baptizm of love ! 
 
THE FAMILY IN HEAVEN. 
 
 3T MISS M. C 
 
 TROWBRIDGK . 
 
 Home and its joys, is a theme old — yet ever 
 new, fruitful, inexhaustible; a green spot in the 
 world's waste wilderness, an oasis in the desert. 
 The weary traveler may have looked upon it 
 times without number, yet has each view re- 
 freshed, gladdened, invigorated his spirit. Still 
 it is a mournful truth that the roses plucked 
 from beueath tlic shelter of tiie domestic roof, are 
 not thoriiless. If it be granted that every otlier 
 element of perfection is sometimes found here, it 
 must be admitted that one is wanting. The joys 
 of home may be sweet, may be precious, but 
 they are not permanent. 
 
 Let the history of as united, affectionate, and 
 devoted a family as ever gathered around the 
 household hearth, be written out, and the last 
 chapter, if no otlier, will sadden the heart and 
 moisten the eye, as it records sad partings, and 
 points to the fiimdy vault, where those so united 
 in life together, lie in the cold embrace of death; 
 unless, indeed, their final resting place is more 
 justly described in these familiar lines of the 
 household poet : 
 
 " They grew in beauty side by side, 
 They filled one house with glee, 
 Their graves are severed far and wide, 
 By mount, and stream, and sea." 
 
 But is it true that all the love and confidence, 
 the mutual forbearance, the disinterestedness ; all 
 the pure and holy affections quickened into being 
 by the existence of these family ties, are to be 
 entombed in the family vault ? Is there never 
 to be a family re-gathering, where these budding 
 affections shall find a congenial atmosphere, in 
 which they may expand and develop in beauty 
 and loveliness, of which earth's holiest affections 
 are but a type, a shadow ? 
 
 Many a trusting heart, looking within the vail, 
 ■will answer, " If these all died in faith, they shall 
 meet again to part no more !" True ! but not again 
 as a family. Of the many mansions of the blest, 
 we have no warrant to suppose that one will be 
 opened for their reception as a family, when the 
 family circle may again be formed, and the 
 family altar consecrated. 
 
 Let us cast no shadow upon the hope of a 
 joyous re-union which now sustains the spirit of 
 many a mourner for departed ones. Let such 
 exclaim with Martha, " I know that he shall rise 
 again in the resurrection at the last day ;" or with 
 the bereaved king of Israel, " I shall go to him 
 but he shall not return to me." We cannot doubt 
 but there will be overflowing joy in the mutual 
 recognitions and retrospections of members of 
 the same household in a future state of being. 
 But however great the joy of such re-unions, or 
 whatever their nature, we know that the ties of 
 family, as existing on earth, will not be perpetu- 
 ated beyond the grave ; for we are expressly 
 assured that there " they neither marry nor are 
 given in marriage, but are as the angels of God." 
 Will then the family relation find no counterpart 
 in forms of existence beyond the grave ? Has 
 the nursery of filial and fraternal affections here 
 no relation to, no direct bearing upon, the duties, 
 the relations, the affiliations of another state of 
 existence. 
 
 Suppose the family circle enlarged till it em- 
 braced the globe, every fellow being giving you a 
 brother's welcome to the inner temple of his 
 hearts purest affections, and warmest sympathies; 
 that all were bound to you by ties as strong, as 
 sacred, as fraternal as those which unite the 
 hearts of the members of an affectionate house- 
 hold; that by every one you were greeted with 
 the warm heart, and beaming eye of devoted af- 
 fection, the present narrow stream of fraternal 
 love, swelled to a broad ocean by the contribu- 
 tions of countless numbers of loving hearts. Or 
 suppose yon were suddenly introduced to such a 
 scene and assured that the family relations you 
 had hitherto sustained, were designed to prepare 
 you to particijjate in its joys. 
 
 But does not the Divine Record lead us to be- 
 lieve that the affections which are first drawn out 
 around the houi^ehold hearth, are to be transferred 
 to another family circle, Uie communions, the fe- 
 licity, the joy of which shall be, in measure, pro- 
 portionable to the augmented numbers comprising 
 the fimily group, and the strength, the perma- 
 
206 
 
 REJOICE IN THE LORD. 
 
 nence, the perfection of the ties -which bind them 
 to each other ? Does it not lead us to believe that 
 the discipline of the family on earth is beneficent- 
 ly designed to prepare its members for member- 
 ship in a family embracing all, and infinitely 
 more than has here been suggested ? Does not 
 each sundering of family ties here impressively 
 remind us of their frailty, that they are but types 
 and shadows of a glorious substance, a heavenly 
 reality ? 
 
 How impressive are those portions of Divine 
 Truth which are designed to open our hearts to 
 the conception of this family relation, to its real- 
 ity even on earth, and to the filial and fraternal 
 duties involved in it- How opposed to pride, to 
 misanthropy, to selfishness, such declarations as 
 these, "For he that loveth not his brother, whom 
 he hath seen, how can he love God, whom he hath 
 not seen? Every one that loveth is born of God, 
 and kuoweth God. 
 
 When the only begotten Son, which is in the 
 bosom of the Father, came down to impart to 
 fallen man that knowledge of the true God, which 
 is eternal life, in what language did he seek to 
 convey to his hearers a true conception of their 
 relations to this infinite Being? Was he sent to 
 speak of Him as the Almighty God, the Mighty 
 
 One of Israel, the I am That I am? Listen to 
 the appellation, most frequently, chosen by the 
 Divine Teacher. " Your Father who is in Heaven ; 
 as if his heart of infinite benevolence would fain 
 have gathered the whole human family, and placed 
 them in the arms of their One common Parent, 
 binding them to him, and to each other, by a tie 
 never to be sundered so long as the Everlasting 
 Father lived to protect, sustain, and bless, the 
 children of his love. 
 
 Were we habitually to regard our homes as 
 the nurseries in which our spirits were being dis- 
 ciplined for member' ^ip in the one family of the 
 Redeemed, would not the light of a holier home 
 be shed upon them, increasing every joy and al- 
 leviating every sorrow ? Were there more of the 
 filial in our communion with our Heavenly Fa- 
 ther, and more of the fraternal in our intercourse 
 with our Christian brethren — more of the spirit 
 of that aged disciple, who having survived all her 
 kindred, could still say "I have brothers and sis- 
 ters more than I can number ; for every child of 
 God is one of them " — should we not more nearly 
 resemble Him, who when on earth declared, 
 " Whosoever shall do the will of my Father who 
 is in Heaven, the same is my brother, and Sister, 
 and mother." 
 
 "REJOICE IN THE LORD." 
 
 B T MISS L 
 
 M . 
 
 SEYMOUR. 
 
 Dost say thou art happy since fortune hath smiled, 
 And dressed thee in robes of her costliest state, — 
 
 Thy rank hath set high, and thy coffers hath piled, 
 Thus writing thy name 'mong the rich and the great ? 
 
 Dost say thou art happy since genius is thine, 
 
 To weave round thy being a bright magic spell, — 
 
 And show all above thee a lovelier sign 
 
 Than pencil can paint, or thy tongue ever tell I 
 
 Dost say thou art happy, since loved ones are near. 
 To wake in thy bosom affection's sweet thrill, — 
 
 And give thee responsive in smile and in tear. 
 
 Affection whose life-pulse e'en death cannot still ? 
 
 Nay, what are the favors that fortune may fling. 
 If He with those favors refuseth to bless I 
 
 And is not thy genius a wearisome thing. 
 And what are the sweets of the loving caress I 
 
 Dost say thou art happy when deep from thine heart, 
 Upspringeth a yearning the world cannot meet? 
 
 Which only may rest in the holier part 
 
 That Mary once chose as she sat at his feet ? 
 
 Dost say thou art happy before thou hast found 
 The peace that the Saviour ha-s promised to give ? 
 
 The peace which like rivers will flow all around. 
 Will comfort and gladden so long as thou live ? 
 
 Dost say thou art happy, when low in the grive, 
 
 Thy future seems shrouded in darkness and gloom ? 
 
 Gloom 'naught can dispel or illuminate, save 
 That Light which triumphant first rose from the tomb. 
 
 Oh look to thy Saviour, where happiness is. 
 In measure exceeding all mortal e'er dreamed ! 
 
 Thus thou shalt wax stronger and brighter in bliss, 
 Till thine are the transports which fill the redeemed I 
 
STEPHEN II. TYNG, D. P. 
 
THE SEVEN WONDEHS OF THE WORLD 
 
 All men have heard of the Seven Wonders of 
 the "World, of ancient times. The following se- 
 rial account of them is taken from a respectable 
 and learned work of the <i;ite of the reign of 
 James I. of Oreat Britain. For the positive truth 
 of all that is here told about the seven wonders, 
 we must decline being responsible; for a change 
 in the spelling only are we answerable, believing 
 tkat no good end would be gained by retaining 
 it in its now obsolete form. It will be observed 
 that our old author quotes several of the best 
 writers of Greece and Rome in support of his 
 statements; and even in the present less credu- 
 lous time, we could scarcely find more trust-wor- 
 thy vouchers. Where the wonders yet exist, how- 
 ever, as in the case of the Pyramids, the matter 
 takes a different shape. If there ever was a py- 
 ramid that covered "eight days" journey of 
 ground, it has not lasted to our day, assuredly. 
 
 Such as have read ancient historians, orators, 
 and poets, do find, that (hey make mention in 
 many of their books, of seven marvels or wonders 
 of the world, and that they were in divers places. 
 All they that have written do consent to six, but 
 concerning the seventh there are variable opin- 
 ions, and likewise a great difference in placing 
 one before another. Notwithstanding, I purpose 
 to speak first of the Walls of Babylon, which are 
 ranked in the number of these wonders, and upon 
 good reason, because the greatness of the place, 
 as also the situation thereof, seemeth incredible. 
 
 Concerning those walls, according to the sound- 
 est opinions, namely, Justine, and also as Trogus 
 Pompeius saith, they were founded by the famous 
 Queen Semiramis, mother to Niuus. Diodorus 
 Siculus, Ammianus Marcellinus, and Paulus Oro- 
 sius do maintain the same, with the greater part 
 of our Gentile authors. Nevertheless, St. Augus- 
 tine, and Josephus in his "Antiquities," say, that 
 they were builded by Ninirod, assisted by the 
 proud giants then living. But be it, that the 
 foundation or reparation of them was done by 
 Semiramis, it is sufficient that they were greatly 
 ennobled by her. 
 
 The situation of the city was with a plain on 
 the one side, and on the other ran the river of 
 Euphrates. The model and figure of this city 
 was in a quadrangle, and the walls wonderfully 
 high, as also wrought with marvellous cunning. 
 The matter was of stone, joined with lime and 
 
 cement, growing in the mines of that country, 
 but especially in the great lake of Judea, where 
 some time stood Sodom and Gom^rrha, named 
 Asphaltida, which yieldeth such a kind of slime 
 or mud, as bindeth like pitch or glue, the very 
 strongest that is to be found. Historians do dis- 
 agree about the height and largeness of the cir- 
 cuit, which might happen through the diversity 
 of the measures they then used. Pliny saith, 
 that the circuit of those walls was threescore 
 thousand paces ; so that one of the squares was 
 fifteen thousand. He also saith, that they were 
 two hundred feet in height, which foot exceeded 
 by three fingers'-breadth the measure of the 
 Roman foot ; and the thickness was fifty feet of 
 the same measure, which was indeed a matter 
 very admirable. 
 
 Diodorus Siculus said, that the walls contained 
 in all round about 360 stadii, and that they were 
 so broad and wide, as six chariots might easily 
 be trained in front together, without offending 
 one another. The bridges, the mounts, the tow- 
 ers, and the gardens, Semiramis caused to be 
 made, which were works of great astonishment. 
 It is credibly set down in records, that she kept 
 daily at this work three hundred thousand men, 
 out of all the kingdoms which were subject to 
 her. Quintus Curtius addeth thereto eight stadii 
 more in length, and said that tbey were an hun- 
 dred cubits liigh ; but Paulus Orosius saith, that 
 they were 480 stadii in length, which amount 
 (taking sixscore and five paces in every stadium) 
 to threescore thousand paces, as Pliny said. 
 Strabo said and aflSrmeth, that they contained 
 three hundred eighty five stadii, and also that 
 they were so broad, as the former named chariots 
 might in that manner go on them, and yet not 
 hurt or hinder one another in their passing along 
 together. 
 
 Moreover, authors do report marvellous things 
 of gardens made upon the arches and towers, 
 wherein grew trees of unmeasurable height. 
 Jolius Solinus confirms the same with Pliny. 
 Some among the authors do avouch, that the 
 walls without were engirt with ditches, full of 
 water, as large and deep as an indifferent wide 
 river. In this city there was a hundred gates of 
 metal, very admirable And for conclusion, all 
 that is written of the greatness and height of tho 
 walls, may well be credited, because, in truth, 
 
208 
 
 THE SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD. 
 
 this city was the proudest in tlie whole world, 
 and long time held the universal monarchy, 
 ■which is an especial argument of her greatness. 
 And the same is also described by Aristotle, when 
 he saith, that being once taken with enemies, 
 they that dwelt at one end or side of the city, had 
 no advertisement thereof, till three whole days 
 space after. 
 
 The second place of the World's Wonders, we 
 give to the Colossus of the Sun, which was at 
 Rhodes. It was a statue, or a figure of a man, 
 offered by the Gentiles, and dedicated to the Sun, 
 and some say to Jupiter. It was made of metal 
 of an incredible greatness, and in height also like 
 a. huge tower ; so that it could hardly be imagined 
 how it was made and raised in that manner. — 
 Pliny, who discourseth on all things, saith, that 
 it contained tiireescore and ten cubits in height ; 
 and although, at the making of it, there were many 
 good workmen continually laboring yet were they 
 twelve yeiirs before it could be perfected, and it 
 cost three hundred talents. He that undertook 
 the workmanship thereof, was named Cares, an 
 Indian by birth, and scholar to Lysippus. 
 
 This statue was so immeasurably great, as it 
 seemed, that the earth could not any longer sus- 
 tain it, because, according to Pliny and Paulus 
 Orosius, it stood not above six and fifty years ; at 
 the end of which time it fell, by reason of a great 
 quaking and tre^nbling of the earth. After which 
 fall, and namely in the time of Pliny, many went 
 to see it as a thing to wonder at, For, saith he, 
 there were few men found that could embrace 
 the great fingers of this statue ; so that the very 
 least of his fingers was greater than any other 
 statue's, how great soever. And yet he speak- 
 eth of an liundred other colosses of meaner sta- 
 ture, which were also at Rhodes. 
 
 Returning then again to our wonderful colos- 
 sus, I say tliat it lay there ruined a very long time 
 ago, even till the days of Pope Martin I., which 
 was in the year 600, when the infidels, and the 
 Sultan of Egypt, their captain, came upon the 
 Rhodians, and according as Platinawriteth in the 
 life of Pope JVIartin, and Antonius Sabellicus, in 
 the third part of his book, they carried away that 
 which they found of the relics of this colossus, 
 and they find nine hundred camels to be laden 
 with the metal. 
 
 In the third place, we determine the Pyramids 
 of Egypt ; and undoubtedlj', if that be true which 
 historians have written of them, they are things 
 deserving admiration. These Pyramids were 
 certain buildings, which began beneath in quad- 
 rangle form, and so rose up (in a diminishing 
 manner) a huge height, in the shape of a pointed 
 diamond. 
 
 Among all other pyramids, historians make 
 particular mention of three which were in Egypt, 
 between the city of Memphis, which is now Cairo, 
 and the isle that now maketh or createth Nilus, 
 named Delta, one of which is ranked among the 
 seven wonders. For it is said, that to the mak- 
 ing thereof, there were continually employed three 
 hundred and threescore thousand men, and the 
 work lasted twenty whole years. Many do af- 
 firm it, and particularly Pliny, in speaking more 
 amply, alleging twelve authors for his warrant, 
 as Diodorus Siculus, Strabo, Pomponius Mela, 
 Herodotus, Ammianus Marcellinus, and many 
 more, whereof, some say, that the foundation and 
 groundwork of tliis pyramid covered and con- 
 tained eight days' journey of ground ; others say 
 seven, and most agree on six, and as many (little 
 more or less) in the height. Pliny saith, that 
 each quadrangle or square contained 8S3 feet in 
 breadth. The stones were marble, brought out of 
 Arabia, and Pomponius Mela maintaineth that 
 the most part of them were thirty feet in large- 
 ness. Whereby may be gathered, that so many 
 thousand men must need be busied, some in cut- 
 ting and squaring tliose stones, others in bringing 
 and carrying them, and others in laying them, 
 besides the mighty multit;:des employed for 
 fetching them so far off, and about other necessa- 
 ry occasions. 
 
 Of the other pyramids the like is spoken, at 
 least of the other two forenamed, one wliereof 
 was made by the vanity of the kings of Egypt, 
 who were the very richest in all the world. 
 
 I find it recorded also, that those pyramids 
 served for sepulchres to their kings. And who- 
 soever doth well consider the multitude of He- 
 brew people that served in Egypt, and by whom 
 the kings made their cities and fortresses to be 
 builded, will not be much amazed hereat,in regard 
 that it is very certain, that six hundred thousand 
 men on foot, besides a great multitude of women 
 and small children, departed out of that servi- 
 tude, and that all of them were employed, and 
 served in those wonderful works; whereby it is 
 no marvel at all, that such buildings should be 
 made. 
 
 The fourth marvel or wonder was the Mauso- 
 l£ea, (now callled Mmisoleum). Artemifia was 
 wife to Mausolus, king of Caria, a province in the 
 greater Asia. This woman (according to Aulus 
 Gellius, and other historians) so dearly affected 
 her husband, as it was generally recorded for a 
 most notable example. Her husband, the king, 
 dying first, she lamented his death with tears and 
 complaints, more than were of ordinary custom. 
 Needs would she erect a tomb or sepulchre for 
 him, answerable to the extraordinary love she 
 bore him ; and such, indeed, it proved to be, that 
 
THE SEVEN WONDERS OF THE WORLD, 
 
 209 
 
 it was recorded amongst the seven wonders of the 
 world, The stone of the whole structure was of 
 a most excellent marble, consisting of fotir hun- 
 dred and eleven feet in circuit about, and five 
 and twenty cubits in height ; it had also about it, 
 six and twenty columns of admirable stone, and 
 likewise of as fanous sculpture. 
 
 The building was open on all sides, with arches 
 of seventy-three feet in wideness, and it was 
 framed by the hands of the most exquisite work- 
 men then to be found. The perfection of the 
 work was such, and that on the whole body so 
 sumptuous and beautiful, as partly it was there- 
 fore called Mausokea, and in regard also of the 
 king, for whom it was made ; so that even to this 
 very day, when any tombs of such superficial art 
 are made, they are called maufolasas. Of these 
 things mention is made by Pliny, Pomponius 
 Mela, Herodotus; Strabo also remembereth them, 
 so doth Aulus Gelliiis, and many other historians. 
 It is found written, that Artemisia, after tlie death 
 of her husband, lived in continual tears and 
 mourning, and that she died before the work 
 could be fully finished ; having drunk the bones 
 of her husband, beat into powder, which she 
 burned and buried in lier own body, that it might 
 be the sepulchre for his. 
 
 The Jifth edifice of these wonders, was the 
 Temple of Diana, whom the Gentiles adored as a 
 goddess, and it was builded in the city of Ephe- 
 sus, in Asia, in the province of Ionia. Of this 
 temple, great speeches were made throughout the 
 world, so that one named Democritus wrote a par- 
 ticular book thereof Plinv, writing of this tem- 
 pie, saith, that the Amazons caused it to be built, 
 and that it contained four hundred and five and 
 twenty feet in length, and two hundred and 
 twenty feet in largeness. The work was so ad- 
 mirably artificial, that it had 220 years to the 
 perfecting. It was built in a lake, to prevent the 
 peril of e irthquakes ; and it is said withal, that on 
 the foundation was laid great store of coal dust 
 and wool thereupon, the better to make firm and 
 sure the moist and marshy place. It had an hun- 
 dred and seven columns or pillars of most excellent 
 marble, and each of them was made by all the 
 kings of A-ia ; thirty-seven of them were of most 
 curious, cunning and sculpture, and all the others 
 of the choicest marble. 
 
 All historians do consent with one accord, 
 that the pillars of this temple supported the 
 planked deling of wood, tlie most excellently 
 wrought that could be devised, and that this 
 whole covering was of cedar, and all the doors 
 and wainscoted works were of cypress. 
 
 Yet afterward-:, a villain, seeing this solemn 
 and sovereign building, conceived a lewd desire 
 to burn it, as, indeed, he did. And being taken 
 
 for the fact, confessed that he did it to no other 
 end but to leave a famous renown of his deed to 
 the world. Solinus and Strabo both say, that he 
 was named Herostratus, and that of him came up 
 the usual proverb, that when any man would 
 strive to be famous for some vicious deed, people 
 would commonly say — This is the renown of 
 Herostratus. 
 
 The sixth wonder was the idol or image of 
 Jupiter Olympus, which was in his temple in 
 Achaia, between the cities of Ellis and J'isa ; and 
 the place was named Olympus, as also the tem- 
 ple, in regard of Jupiter Olympus, of whom write 
 both Strabo and Pomponius Mela. They maintain 
 that this statue or image, which stood in the 
 temple, was mnch renowned, as well for artificial 
 perfection and admirable workmanship, as also 
 for the greatness thereof It was made of por- 
 phyry, some say of ivory, and by the hand of 
 I'hidias, the most excellent carver and engraver 
 for imagery, in gold or ivory, that ever was ; al- 
 beit, Pliny nameth divers others. Strabo saith, 
 that the excellency thereof consisted in the great- 
 ness; and yet the matter which made it more ad- 
 mirable, was in the being wrouglit of porphyry, 
 knit and united together of infinite small pieces. 
 Some say that Phidias was taxed with one only 
 imperfection, to wit, that he had not proportioned 
 the image to the capacity of the temple, because 
 he had made it sitting, and so great, as when due 
 consideration was made, what the height thereof 
 would have been, if he bad made him standing up- 
 right on his feet, the temple had no way been 
 able to have contained him. Nevertheless, the 
 renown of this image did most highly illustrate 
 the place. 
 
 Now, concerning the seventh wonder, some say 
 that it was a tower which stood in the Isle of 
 Pharos, near to the city of Alexandria, in Egypt. 
 Pharos was a small island, long and narrow, seat- 
 ed on the coast of Egypt, over against the mouth 
 of Nilus, which, in former time (according to Pom- 
 ponius Mela and Pliny) was wholly, as it were, 
 engirt with firm land, and afterward in the times 
 of these authors, the sea embraced this firm land, 
 excepting only a bridge, whereby men went from 
 the one place to the other. In the firm land is 
 the great city of Alexandria, builded by Alexan- 
 der the Great, which city was afterwards a colo- 
 ny of Julius Cresar. In this isle (named Pharos, 
 after the name of a great pilot, who belonged to 
 Menelaus, ami was tliere buried) the kings of 
 Egypt erected a tower of marble, marvellous in 
 height and cunning workmanship, upon a moun- 
 tain environed with water ; the artificial perform- 
 ance of which tower was such that it cost 800 
 talents, which value four hundred and fourscore 
 thousand crowns, after the computation of Bud 
 
210 
 
 RUNGA. 
 
 seus. And it was built for no other purpose, but 
 to set up in the night-time a lighted fire thereon, 
 beacon-wise, to guide and direct such ships as 
 came to take landing there ; and this tower, ac- 
 cording to the greatest ojjinion?, was erected by 
 King Ptolemteus Philadelphus, and the mas- 
 ter architect that made it was named Sistratus, 
 which is confirmed to us by Pliny. 
 
 Coesar, in his " Commentaries," highly praiseth 
 the height and workmanship of this tower; and 
 saith, that it was also called Pharos, as taking 
 name of the island. 
 
 Thus, this tower was the last of the wonders, al- 
 though by divers it is not named in their number, 
 but instead thereof, the hanging gardens of Baby- 
 lon are reckoned, whereat we have already 
 hinted. Ccelius Rhodigiuus, discoursing on the 
 seven wonders of the world, dotli not insert this 
 tower of Pharos, but the Obelisk of Semiramis, 
 which was 150 feet in height, and 24 feet square 
 
 in a quadrangle, so that the whole circuit was 90 
 feet, and this stone was so taken whole, out of 
 the mountains of Armenia, and by the command 
 of Semiramis, brought into Chaldean Babylon. 
 But in truth, when due consideration is made, 
 how it should be taken out of the quarry, brought 
 thence, and erected up on end, it miglit appear a 
 matter incredible, if antiquity had not yielded 
 things as strange, and certified to us by authors 
 well deserving belief, yea, and of other great 
 obelisks made by the kings of Egypt. Pliny de- 
 scribeth how they are fetched forth of their quar- 
 ries. Of the pyramids, obelisks, statues, and 
 colosses, mention is made by Polyphius, in the 
 beginning of his book, called "Hypnerotomachia." 
 Therefore, I need not to make any further rela- 
 tion of them, fearing I have offended already, by 
 presuming upon the reader's patience, in what 
 hath been said concerning these seven wonders of 
 the world. 
 
 >-> — ♦- 
 
 R U N G A 
 
 BY WILLIAM OLAND BOURNE 
 
 " Not far from Shingona Holly stood a temple of the idol Runga. * * * There was a lamp standing before the idol 
 but it had gone out ; and there was a garland of flowers hung around its neck ; but it was withered ; and as the beams of 
 the roof had fallen in, the image was covered with dust and dirt." 
 
 Near the village of Shingona, in a fertile Indian plain. 
 Stood a massive idol temple where the demons held their reign ; 
 There it stood upon a hill-top, with its gloomy pillars high, 
 As it lured the pilgrim onward, standing out against the sky. 
 
 There the worshipper of Runga, with his many offerings came, 
 Falling down in adoration at the idol's sacred name ; 
 And they flocked around the altar, and their offerings humbly laid, 
 As they cried aloud to Runga, and their willing homage paid. 
 
 And they cried aloud to Runga, but he never heard their prayers. 
 And they cried from morn till evening, but he never soothed their cares; 
 And they rung their bells to call liim, but he never stooped to hear, 
 For an idol deaf was Runga, though they wept the bitter tear. 
 
 There the poor benighted Hindoo, in his darkness long was led, 
 While the sighing millions perished, and were numbered with the dead. 
 But the idol that they worshipped, and the god that they adored, 
 ■ Was of wood grotesquely graven, yet they blindly called him "Lord:"' 
 
RUNGA. 
 
 211 
 
 Then there came a Christian teacher, and he said to all the throng, 
 " Will ye -worship still your Runga, whom ye now have worshipped long ? 
 Do ye make a god of Runga, and in him put all your trust? 
 He is helpless ! If you leave him he will crumble into dust. 
 
 " Let alone your idol Runga ! Take no further care of him ! 
 
 He can't save himself from ruin, neither head, nor foot, nor limb ! 
 
 And he cannot save his temple, but to ruin it will fall, 
 
 And your eyes will see that Runga is no god on whom to call." 
 
 Then the poor benighted Hindoos pondered as they stood and heard. 
 And they said to one another, '• Tiiere is reason in this word !" 
 And they looked at ancient Runga, and they left him there alone. 
 Coming back to see him standing, senseless as a block of stone. 
 
 Lo 1 the lamp upon his altar flickered till it died away, 
 And the light was strange and gloomy, for it had no sunny ray ; 
 And the ancient fiiith in Runga died in many a trusting breast. 
 When they saw the darkness gather round the temple's honored guest. 
 
 Then the richly chosen garland from the Indian garden strung, 
 Lost its bloom and quickly withered, though around an idul hung ; 
 And its freshness and its fragrance, with its gorgeous beauty died, 
 In the mouldering gloom and silence which the brooding god defied. 
 
 And the temple is decaying ! From the gilded roof o'erhead 
 
 All the massive beams are falling where the worship long was said ; 
 
 And the ceiling on old Runga, in a thick enfolding crust. 
 
 Wraps the idol in tlie silence iu a kindred shroud of dust. 
 
 Even so as fell old Runga shall the countless idols fall ! 
 And the darkness of oblivion shroud them with its funeral pall I 
 While the voice of love and mercy bids the worshippers draw nigh 
 Where the radiant cross of Jesus gives redemption from on hio-h. 
 
 In the dark yet living temple shall a heavenly light appear. 
 While the spirit turns to Jesus with its love's most grateful tear ; 
 And the flowers shall shed their fragrance in the wealth of their perfume 
 And in blissful fields shall ever with the Rose of Sharon bloom. 
 
 THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 
 
 When I think of the past, and with quivering glances 
 Look back on my spring and my summer suns, 
 
 I feel it is true, that, as age advances, 
 Life's river more coldly and darkly mm. 
 
 Yet far be the spirit of fretful repining, 
 That life's dewy morn cometh back no more — 
 
 That I bask not again in the noon of its shining, 
 And dream the bright holiday ne'er will be o'er I 
 
 All fled though they are, and though memory weepeth- 
 Frail sorrower she — oTer time's decay, 
 
 The disciplined spirit a tranquil eye keepeth 
 In faith of the davrn of eternity's day I 
 
 And though darkling and cold, beneath evening's shadows, 
 Speeds on to its ocean life's sin-biHow'd .stream, 
 
 'Twill gush out afresh in the ever green meadows, 
 Aa " clear as the crystal," and "still" as a dream. 
 
 And by its bright banks, love-enamell'd and glowing 
 With glories transplanted from Eden's pure bed. 
 
 Will Blessedness walk, royal trophies bestowing 
 On all who have waah'd in the blood that was shed. 
 
HOMANCE OF EYERY-DAY LIFE. 
 
 BY ION 
 
 TuE beautiful, the noble, and the good are all 
 about usj, even on our e very-day path, the life 
 which is about us lacks not for the poetry "which 
 fiUeth all things. How manj'-phased is this life 
 about us! Here may we read tales of high chi- 
 valrous devotion, of deep-souled, earnest hero- 
 ism. It, too, has its tales of true and tenderest 
 pathos, its sorrows too deep for utterance, its 
 tragedies stern and terrible. ISIystery is about it 
 and in it. Now you hear a wild exulting shout 
 of jubilance and glee, and in a moment a pro- 
 longed aud agonizing wail of most tragic soitow. 
 You see the bright beaming face, covering per- 
 chance the gnawed and cankered heart. There 
 is the seemingly staid, sad countenance, hiding, 
 it may be, a soul full of secret, hypocritical glad- 
 ness. And all about you, you see a dread strug- 
 gle and battle of life — some combatants with 
 closed lips, and firm unblenching eye ; others, 
 with trembling aspect, giving vent to oft-repeated 
 sighs and groans. Oh, the mystery of the burden 
 of life ! We pace our busy, crowded streets, our 
 thoughts the while winging their way through 
 old historic lands, and scenes, and ages, recking 
 not of the sad sorrow which is eating away the 
 heart of the maiden who has just passed us, spite 
 of her heroic struggles to forget the cause of all 
 her misery ; nor of the soul-conflicts of that 
 young man, as he nightly tosses on his restless 
 pillow, in vain endeavoring to solve the mystery 
 that surrounds him ; nor of the desolateness of 
 that old man who had just buried the last friend 
 of his youth, and whose sorrows heavily press 
 upon his bowed head. And how we miss the 
 gladness which abounds in the world, spite of 
 sin and sorrow, when we transport our thoughts 
 
 to some far distant clime and age 1 Beautiful 
 nature is everywhere present, and that to make 
 us glad. All pleasant sights and sounds will 
 greet our eyes and ears if we will but open them 
 and attend. The bright, happy faces of friends 
 are ever ready to smile upon us. Children — 
 often so like dew-drops on the flower of life, 
 soon dried up by the scorching sun — these with 
 their innocent gay prattle we may have for our 
 companions : 
 
 To look upon the fair face of a child, 
 
 Feels like a resurrection of the heart, 
 
 Children are vast in blessings ; kings and queens, 
 
 According to the dynasties of love. 
 
 The might and the delight of nature lies 
 
 In them, and for them earth is vfhat it is. 
 
 Then there is in the frolicsomeness of youth, and 
 the harmonies struck out by the meeting of two 
 fair souls who decide evermore to sing in con- 
 certs ; and those gay hearts, who bear every- 
 thing cheering, having a merry laugh and witty 
 jest at life's petty ills, yet withal full of general 
 genial seriousness ; and the gentle, loving ones, 
 ever ready to soothe the sorrowful, and relieve 
 the weary and over-burdened ; these and num- 
 berless other sources of joy and gladness we miss 
 when we neglect to read the book of life about 
 us. 
 
 Life is a great poem, full of tragedy and pathos, 
 comedy and laughter, mad fun and sad sorrow ; 
 having strange jilots and denouements, but bearing 
 the impress of a great unity, manifesting a serious 
 Godward earnestness of purpose ; and nowhere 
 can we study this great poem so well as on our 
 daily life-path, in the life which is about us. 
 
 STANZAS. 
 
 Come not, when I am dead, 
 
 To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, 
 To trample round my fallen head, 
 
 And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. 
 There let the winds weep, and the plover cry j 
 But go thou by. 
 
 Child, if it were thine error or thy crime, 
 
 I care no longer, being all unhlest ; 
 Wed whom thou wilt ; but I am sick of time, 
 
 And I desire to rest. 
 Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie. 
 Go by— go by ! 
 
'3! 
 '-9 
 
 
JDljij iin ,?iinnntr llnstH jFiih? 
 
 Written by J. E. CARPENTER. 
 
 Andante con Espressione. 
 
 CoMPOSBD BT GEORGE BARKER. 
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 Friendship, too, will pass away. 
 
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 Friendship pass without a sigh. 
 And all on earth pass coldly by. 
 
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 And friendship, love, and roses too, 
 The gpring-time shall again renew. 
 
THE MARTYRDOM OF POLYCARP 
 
 BY REV. RUFUS 
 
 Among the various objects wliich excite human 
 admiration, few are comparable with tlie liigh 
 achievements of man himself In the world's his- 
 tory, the brightest page is filled with the record 
 of those who have nobly dared, and nobly done, 
 and nobly died. Perhaps it was hardly to be ex- 
 pected, — while obtuseness or indifference to moral 
 distinctions was so generally prevalent, — while 
 the moral sense was so little excercised and cul- 
 tivated, — while so much disguise was intentionally 
 cast around the purposes of the more prominent 
 actors, — that much accuracy of just discrimination 
 should be manifested, in meting out to each his 
 righteous award. 
 
 The word, martyr, originally meant only a wit- 
 ness ; and the corresponding derivative words had 
 a signification equally definite and limited. In 
 processoftime, as the circumstances under which 
 the act of witnessing became scarcely less interest- 
 ing than the testimony itself, the two became com- 
 bined, and, by a natural and easy transition, this 
 adventitious idea, in the end, usurped the place of 
 the primary. In many minds, the term, martyr, 
 now suggest only the idea of a sufferer, not a wit- 
 ness. In others, the two ideas are still combined. 
 
 Towards the latter end of the second century 
 of the Christian era, under the reign of the younger 
 Antoninus, wI)ose philosophy, much as it has 
 been extolled, did not preserve him from the ca- 
 price and cruelty of becoming a persecutor of a 
 portion of his subjects, the imperial decree for 
 this purpose was again issued. Imagination may 
 follow the pretorian guard, which bore this rescript 
 from imperial Rome to her subject cities of Asia 
 Minor. The swift galley, freigiited with the deadly 
 mandate, may be followed, as she swept her proud 
 course along the shores of classic Greece, and, 
 threading her way between the smiling islands 
 of the Archipelago, entered a long winding bay, 
 upon its eastern boundary. As the evening sun 
 gilded its peaceful waters, how little iu harmony 
 with the murderous purposes of that noble galley 
 are all the surrounding objects ! At the head of 
 that bay, on the declivity of a mountain, running 
 down to its very shore, there then stood (and 
 still stands, after destruction ten times repeated) 
 
 the city of Smyrna, the queen of Anatolia, ex- 
 tolled by the ancients under the title of " the 
 lovely," " the crown of Ionia," " the ornament 
 of Asia." "Cliosen," says our countryman Ste- 
 vens, who recently visited it (and whose charm- 
 ing volumes, depicting it and innumerable other 
 o ojbcts of interest and instruction, who has not 
 read ?) — "chosen with that happy taste which 
 distinguished the Greeks in selecting the sites of 
 their ancient cities, its bold slope, which extended 
 quite down to the bay, covered by tiers of houses 
 rising one above another, now, but not then, inter, 
 spersed with domes and minarets, the monuments 
 of the Moslem faith ; and crowned on the summit 
 of the hill by a large and solitary castle." That 
 galley, so deepl}' freighted with destruction, 
 reaches the shores, and the oflBcer in charge has- 
 tens to the proconsul's palace, with the bloody 
 mandate in his hands. The next day's sun shall 
 witness the execution of this stern decretal. 
 
 "Search out these doomed men," said this ap- 
 pointed executioner of Rome's authority. " In the 
 meantime, let no means be spared, to prepare, to 
 excite, to exasperate the minds of all the populace, 
 against those who are to be the subjects of im- 
 perial vindictiveness. Let the Jews be embitter- 
 ed against the votaries of that Messiah, who is by 
 them so mucli abhorred. Let the artisans, whose 
 craft has been endangered by the deserted shrines 
 of our temples, be invited to exterminate the sect 
 which threatens their overthrow. Let all the 
 inveterate, lung smothered prejudice against these 
 innovators, be now aroused and rekindled. "With 
 all these means, see to it that tlie love of excite- 
 ment, of games and gladiatorial sports be turned 
 in the same direction. Let the multitude be stim- 
 ulated to crave fresh victims, and applaud even 
 the most sanguinary execution of the laws." 
 When prejudice is thus backed by unlimited 
 power, it is easy to see with what fearful celerity 
 such orders might bo executed. 
 
 We must pass over, with slight notice, the 
 events which transpired during tlie first few days 
 of the pouring forth of this persecuting fury. 
 Why should we dwell on the anguish and torture 
 iuflicted, by scourging the flesh, till its power of 
 
218 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM OF POLYCARP. 
 
 endurance was exhausted; then stretching the 
 niansled and swollen frames of these victims on 
 the rough points of sea-shells, or upon the alter- 
 nate heads and points of spears ; then casting their 
 gory bodies, while life yet remained, to the most 
 voracious wild beasts I But these forms of torture, 
 revolting and horrid as the bare mention of them 
 may seem, were, in reality, among the mildest 
 which their ingenuity excercised itself in applying 
 to these unoffending, unresisting subjects. 
 
 One of these victims, a young man of unusual 
 distinction and promise, named Germanicus, was 
 particularly eminent, as a martyr. And though 
 the proconsul, — moved, it may be, by his youth, 
 his noble family, and lofty bearinr-, — strove ear- 
 nestly to persuade him to have compassion upon 
 himself, and, by complying with the idolatrous 
 practices required of him, save himself from the 
 tortures and cruel death which otherwise awaited 
 him, he hesitated not, but even irritated the wild 
 beast which was led forth against him. Upon 
 this " glorious death," as subsequent historians 
 denominated it, the whole multitude, amazed at 
 his courage, and at the fortitude of the whole race 
 jigainst whom this persecuting rage was directed, 
 began with one voice to call for the aged patriarch, 
 as a more distinguished victim than those who 
 had already suffered. He had not, amid these 
 scenes, presumptuously courted persecution and 
 danger, nor did he timidly shrink from it. By 
 the warm persuasions of his friends, he was at 
 first induced to retire before the furious storm. 
 But now, that the public voice thus called for liim 
 by name, and the officers came to arrest him, 
 though a further opportunity of escape was open 
 to him, he nobly rejected it, saying, with the 
 spirit of willing self-sacrifice, " The will of the 
 Lord be done," With a benevolence worthy of 
 the disciple of him who prayed for his murderers 
 in death, he ordered suitable refreshments to be 
 set before those who came to arrest him. Then, 
 when he had offered up an humble prayer, — re- 
 membering in it, witi] minute particularity, all 
 that had been connected with him, — breatlied 
 forth with such fervor and humility as melted the 
 iron-hearted soldiers who had seized him, they 
 led him to the city. But who are these, in a 
 chariot of state, that come to meet the venerable 
 prisoner by the way ? They are no less person- 
 ages than Herod the Irenarch, or head officer of 
 the police, with his father Nicetes. They per- 
 suade him to take his seat by their side, and with 
 insinuating deference to his gray hairs, they strive 
 to win him from his steadfastness of purpose. 
 " What great harm can there be in addressing di- 
 vine honors to Csesar, and offering, at least one 
 
 grain of incense upon the Idol's altar ?" At first 
 he remained silent, and they, encouraged, renewed 
 their solicitations. Perceiving their misconcep- 
 tion of his feelings, with great dignity and calm- 
 ness, but so firmly as utterly annihilated their 
 hopes of success, he answered, "I shall never do 
 what you advise me." Then they turned their 
 flatteries to the coarsest abuse, and thrust him 
 from their car with inhuman violence. Injured 
 by the fall, he bore the indignity with uncomplain- 
 ing meekness, and, fast as the tottering steps of 
 age would bear him, he hastened to the stadium. 
 The proconsul was already there. To the ques- 
 tion, "Who art thou V he fearlessly replied, "I 
 am Polycarp." The renewed attempts of this 
 vice-regent of Rome, to induce the venerable man 
 to swear by Ciesar, or perform some other act, in- 
 compatible with the sacred dictates of his con- 
 science, he steadily resisted. 
 
 "Revile Christ, and swear ; then will I dismiss 
 you," said the proconsul. 
 
 Polycarp replied, "Eighty and six years have 
 I served him, and he never did me wrong ; how, 
 then, can I now blaspheme my king that has sav- 
 ed me?" 
 
 The governor still continuing to urge him to 
 swear by the genius of Csesar, Polycarp said, 
 " Hear my free confession : I am a Christian ; and 
 if you would know what Christianity is, grant me 
 a day and listen to me." 
 
 The proconsul said, "I have wild beasts at hand ; 
 I will cast you to them unless you change your 
 mind." 
 
 He answered, "Call them; for we have no 
 reason to change from the better to the worse,but 
 it is good to turn from wickedness to virtue." 
 
 Again he urged him. "I will cause you to be 
 consumed by fire, should you despise the beasts, 
 and not change your mind." 
 
 Polycarp answered, "You threaten fire, that 
 burns for a moment, and is then put out ; but you 
 consider not the coming judgment, and the fire 
 of eternal punishment, reserved for the wicked." 
 
 The Governor, astonished at his confidence, — 
 that he not only refused to retract, but continued 
 undismayed, his countenance brightening with 
 joy, — sent forth the herald to proclaim in the mid- 
 dle of the stadium, "Polycarp confesses himself a 
 Christian," This was equivalent to pronouncing 
 the sentence of death against him ; and that blood- 
 thirsty populace, idolaters and Jews, with united 
 vociferation, cried out, "This is the teacher of 
 Asia, the father of Christians, who causes our gods 
 to be forgotten, teaching the multitude neither to 
 sacrifice nor worship them." 
 
THE MARTYRDOM OF POLYCARP. 
 
 219 
 
 "Burn him alive !" "Burn him alive !" -was 
 ao-w shouted and reechoed through the throng. 
 Fuel was collected from every side, with surpris- 
 ing avidity ; their victim stood bound before them. 
 He required no fastening to the stake, but calmly 
 said, "He that now gives me strength, will enable 
 me to remain unmoved, even upon the pile." 
 
 Then breatliing forth an humble prayer, more 
 full of lofty virtue and true piety than heathen 
 philosophy ever conceived, — in which, be it re- 
 membered, his privilege of bearing witness, in 
 this martyr death, for the truth of the religion of 
 his Lord, was distinctly and gratefully recognis- 
 ed, — he was made to suffer the cruel punishment 
 prepared for iiim. His brethren and fellow-dis- 
 ciples then gathered up his bones, and deposited 
 them in an appropriate sepulchre. 
 
 Let us consider the elements of real greatness 
 evinced by the true martyr. Wisdom, benevo- 
 lence, self-control, a firm tenacity of purpose, which 
 remains unshaken in most adverse circumstances, 
 and cheerful, generous self-denial, for the accom- 
 plishment of any noble end, especially one which 
 is widely promotive of human happiness, have 
 pretty uniformly received the approval, as Ihey 
 deserve the homage and the imitation of mankind. 
 But where else will these be found in such perfect 
 combination and harmony, as in the character of 
 him who bears witness for the truth, on some top- 
 ic of transcendent interest and value, and who is 
 willing to seal that testimony with his blood ? 
 He sees the truth clearly. Its value, its adapted- 
 ness to promote the happiness of those around 
 him, is obvious to his view : and when he sees that 
 truth assailed, its illuminating influence checked, 
 its power and progress impeded, he is also called, 
 it may be, to abjure it. How many opposing in- 
 fluences conspire to bar up his way, and turn him 
 from the high and holy purpose of bearing his 
 "witness of sufferings," in behalf of that truth 1 
 Self-preservation, the love of life, — tliat strongest 
 of our impulsive principles, — conspires with fear 
 of suffering, or of shame, while a temporizing ex- 
 pediency, which puts on the garb of prudence, 
 joins in the effort to cause him to falter. But all 
 these combined do not outweigli his regard to 
 truth, and his benevolence to those who need its 
 salutary influence. How noble, too, tliat exhibi- 
 tion of firmness, which preserves from irresolution, 
 when motives and impulses so powerful, would 
 incline him to hesitate! What self-control, to 
 hush the commotion within, and, undaunted, sur- 
 vey the accumulated terrors without! 
 
 This spirit evinces its superiority, not only by 
 the principles which it developes, but by the cir- 
 cumstances and concomitants of its exhibition. 
 Viewed in comparison with some of the objects 
 
 of highest admiration, as they are usually re- 
 garded, this claim will be made more obvious. 
 The warrior has personal courage ; but how low 
 a rank would justice award to it, under the cir- 
 cumstances of its usual exercise I Maddened by 
 a passing excitement, — lured on and sustained by 
 the high- wrought sympathy of the hour, — almost 
 every sense taken captive by some specious or 
 powerful hallucination, — iiow little, at such a 
 moment, is requisite to carry him onward in the 
 current, even to the peril of life ! Very little 
 surely, more than mere animal impulse, and that 
 not of the noblest kind. Those who have willed 
 the contest, and who set the opposing masses in 
 hostile motion, do not generally share the person- 
 al peril. These master spirits, who play the des- 
 perate game of war, have long since discovered, 
 and many of them have honestly testified, that 
 high moral excellence is quite incompatible with 
 those fighting qualities which are most estimable 
 in those who are compelled to be pliant instru- 
 ments ofthe unhallowed ambition of their master. 
 The common soldier may sometimes think ; and 
 the sober exercise of even a few moments' reflec- 
 tion will be sure to unfit him forliis employment. 
 Like that private, who was observed musing in 
 melancholy mood, after one ofthe bloody battles 
 of the Peninsular war, and when asked the reason 
 of his dejection by his commander, replied, "to 
 think how many widows I have this day made 
 for six pence." A score or two of such thinking 
 soldiers would be more dreaded in the army or 
 the camp, than the united influence of the most 
 debasing vices. These fit men to be the supple 
 tools ofarbitrary power. Reflection throws bar- 
 riers insurmountable in the way. How unlike 
 the courage which needs such appliances and con- 
 comitants, is the heroism of the martyr ! No 
 maddening passions carry him on in thoughtless 
 frenzy. No confused din of martial music, and 
 the cannon's roar, with shouts, and groans, and 
 bustling strife, make him forgetful of duty and 
 of right, but in the calmness of the soul's collect- 
 ed powers, with a moral vision purified and ex- 
 alted, he sees truth, immortal truth, to be more 
 valuable than life, and nobly makes the exchange. 
 The philosopher may cxinbit a sincere and ar- 
 dent love of truth, both in it<< pursuit and its man- 
 ifestation. But will the lovoof it which bears him 
 on so serenely in the closet, and in his silent in- 
 quiries and observation, — will this rise to an ad- 
 equate iieight to make him the suffering witness 
 in behalf of that truth to others? How many of 
 the amiable and distinguished votaries of Science, 
 to whom she has unfolded her choicest arcana, 
 and laid bare her richest gems, have, with cow- 
 ardly timidity quailed before the array of deter- 
 
THE MARTYRDOM OF TOLYCARP. 
 
 mined opposition ! Galileo could demonstrate 
 the revolution of the earth ; but he could not, or 
 did not, bear an unhesitating testimony to this 
 truth, when prejudice backed by power demand- 
 ed his recantation. Nor does this case of mental 
 or moral imbecility stand alone in its class. 
 Under similar severity of trial, it would probably 
 be the rule, rather than the exception. Indeed 
 it may reasonably be doubted, whether abstract 
 scientific truth, unconnected with the moral na- 
 ture of man, has power or adaptedness to elicit, and 
 attract to itself such a degree of benevolence, as 
 the martyr spirit requires. 
 
 Statesmen may give proof of decided sagacity ; 
 their plans of government and their codes of laws 
 may indicate vast and profound researches after 
 truth, in the science of government, and high ap- 
 preciation of its worth. But how few of them 
 have been willing to leave their own testimony 
 of suffering, to carry conviction to the minds of 
 those for whom they legislate, of their own love, 
 ardent, strong, immovable, for " the useful, and 
 
 the beautiful," which their own codes and con- 
 stitutions evince ! True, there have been patriots, 
 who, for their country's cause, to promote in some 
 way its welfare, have nobly given themselves up 
 to death. But the number of such, especially of 
 those who have done it in a spirit allied to mar- 
 tyrdom, is exceedingly small. For, assuredly, by 
 no fair construction, can we include in this number 
 those who take arms of offence, and wield them 
 for the destruction of their fellow men. Hopes 
 of personal success, and of consequent domina- 
 tion, the spirit of self-aggrandizement, and in fine, 
 the low, base aims of mercenary warfare, are 
 generally the preponderating elements in the 
 character of your fighting patriots. The true 
 martyr never dies with arms in his hand, for the 
 plain reason, that the most successful battle can 
 never settle a disputed matter of ri2;ht. As New- 
 ton said of a fine poem, "it proves nothing." Nor 
 can it be made to occupy the place of testimony 
 for the truth. 
 
 ROSABEL 
 
 ST WILLIAM GLAND BOUBNE 
 
 My Ito=abel was bright and fair, 
 
 How bright and fair was she ! 
 An angel was my Rosabel, 
 
 An angel fair to me I 
 
 Her eye was like a fount of light 
 
 That in the azure shone, 
 So clear and blue, I fondly dreamed 
 
 Of light when she was gone. 
 
 Her golden ringlets fell in waves 
 
 Of gently moving curls, 
 While ruby lips but half concealed 
 
 A queenly set of pearls. 
 Her voice was like a wind-touched harp, 
 
 Hung 'mid the perfumed flowers. 
 When golden eve's soft whispering breeze 
 
 Makes melody for hours. 
 
 She had a light and airy step, 
 And moved with matchless grace, 
 
 Her footsteps on the gossamer 
 Would scarcely leave a trace. 
 
 She seemed to all as e'er to me, 
 
 A gentle, meek-eyed dove. 
 Whose hand with lustrous jewels shone — 
 
 The pearly deeds of love. 
 
 Her heart was pure as morning lighS, 
 
 A gushing, sparkling spring, 
 "Where dwelt a spirit musical. 
 
 That never ceased to sing. 
 
 And 1, in many a sleeping hour, 
 
 And many a waking dream, 
 Have tinted pictures of my joy 
 
 That still unfading seem. 
 
 !My Rosabel was bright and fair, 
 How bright and fair was she ! 
 
 An angel was my Rosabel, 
 An angel fair to me. 
 
 But such too early pass away. 
 
 They seem not long for earth ; 
 They fade, and find a purer home. 
 
 In climes where they have birth. 
 When first we saw the paling cheek. 
 
 And watched her changing eye, 
 We could not make our hearts believe 
 
 That Rosabel could die. 
 
 And I — jMo ! let the secret keep 
 
 Its sorrow in my breast ; 
 I could not think that we must part 
 
 When she lay down to rest. 
 
 She passed as autumn passed away, 
 
 And faded like a flower, 
 To leave my heart as desolate 
 
 As our own cherished bower. 
 
 Her lovely spirit passed away, 
 
 To heaven's unsighing sphere, 
 And left me sorrowing, here to wait 
 
 My sadly closing year. 
 And when I think of Rosabel, 
 
 My pictures come again. 
 So filled with life, I think I see 
 
 And hear her now, as then. 
 How bright and fair is Rosabel .' 
 
 How bright and fair is she ! 
 An angel is my Rosabel — 
 
 In heaven she waits for me. 
 
ONE OF THE GRACES. 
 
 "The greatest of these is Charity.' 
 
 " Please, cook,"' saiJ Mrs. Fleming's house naid, 
 as she entered the kitchen with the tea-things, 
 "Miss Marion wishes you to boil some calves- 
 foot jelly to-night for poor Mrs. Eastlake. Mis- 
 tress saitl you might, and you are to get a calves' 
 foot directly." 
 
 Such a rattle and clatter of fire-irons ensued on 
 the issue of this mandate, that there was no doubt 
 in the world what view cook took of the matter; 
 and when the rattle and clatter of the tongs, <fec., 
 had subsided, there began a scarely more plea- 
 sant sound, the noise of an angrv woman's tongue. 
 
 ".I go and get a calves' foot ! not I. I boil 
 calves'-foot jelly at this time of night! Miss 
 Marion must be crazy. Well, for ray part, I 
 think charity should begin at home. There's no 
 charity to me in ordering me to slave here after 
 jelly when my day's work has been hard enough." 
 
 " Cook, the woman is very bad, and she longs 
 so for jelly, and to be sure you are too kind- 
 hearted to make a trouble of making it," said the 
 milder-spirited housemaid. 
 
 " I shan't go for the foot at any rate, and the 
 boy is gone, so how the jelly is to be made, I 
 don't see,"' said cook, who accordingly sate herself 
 down resolutely to mend her stockings. 
 
 A pale, gentle-looking girl was the witness of 
 this scene, and a very observant witness too. 
 She was a dress- maker, and had just come to re- 
 ceive some new spring dresses from tiie Misses 
 Fleming, with orders to finish them, without fail, 
 by Saturday night. It was now Wednesday eve- 
 ning; the dresses, three in number, were to be 
 flounced nearly to the waist; but young ladies 
 who are very charitable in broth making and 
 almsgiving, sometimes forget that dress-makers' 
 eyes ache, and that their backs grow weary, and 
 that, in fact, tliey are the veriest slaves tliat toil 
 for their hard-earned bread ; but let them pass. 
 Kate Hall was sitting to rest for a few minutes 
 before commencing her walk homewards, when 
 the conversation just recorded took place. 
 
 "Did you say that poor M rs. Eastla ke was ill ?" 
 said Kate to the housemaid. "Dear me, and 
 those little children ! What is it tliat is the mat- 
 ter with her ?" 
 
 "Why, she got about too soon after her confine- 
 ment," said the housemaid, "took cold, and neg- 
 
 lected it, and now she has had inflammation of 
 the lungs, and lias been given over; but to-day 
 she is a little better, and the doctor has given 
 her leave to iiave some jelly, and the young la- 
 dies, when they were out visiting their district 
 to-day saw her, and came home and gave orders 
 about the jelly, as I told cook. Poor creatures, 
 it is so melancholy to see the three little children, 
 one a baby too, with no one, as we may say, to 
 look after them. I went tliere yesterday, and it 
 was quite heart-breaking." 
 
 All this time cook was industriously darning, 
 but showed no signs of going to the butcher's for 
 the foot, and as the housemaid could not be spared, 
 because tliere were visitors, Kate considered, and 
 considered truly, that Mrs. Eastlake stood a poor 
 chance of her jelly. Hastily, therefore, bidding 
 the servants good night, the young dress-maker 
 departed. Slie did not leave her bundle of mus- 
 lin, for her mind w^as not quite made up. She, 
 therefore, toiled iill the way up the long hill 
 which led from the Flemings' door with her 
 troublesome burden of dresses, and she stood at 
 the top of the hill awhile hesitating whether to 
 take the turn which led to her home, or to go to 
 the butcher's for the calves' feet. She was not 
 very strong — few dressmakers' girls are — but 
 she thought of those weaker and more suffering 
 than herself, and the resolution was taken. To 
 the butcher's she went. The butcher stood at his 
 door enjoying tiie haling air of the summer's eve- 
 ning, and amusing himself with the gossip and 
 the talk of the busy village street. Business 
 was over, and he did not look particularly ami- 
 able at iiaving to turn in for the foot. However, 
 on hearing it was for Mrs. Fleming, he rather 
 changed his tone, and presented it to Kate, as 
 butchers usually present meat, without any paper 
 or wrapping whatever. 
 
 " Can you send it ? " said Kate, kindly ; " I am 
 not going back." 
 
 "Can't send it to-night," said the butcher, "can't 
 indeed. My boy is gone home, and my man and 
 the horse ore out. You had best take it, young 
 woman, if tliey want it to-night." 
 
 So poor Kate had to go and leave her bundle 
 down at the baker's, an acquaintance of hers, and 
 to borrow a little basket of the baker's wife, and 
 
222 
 
 OlfE OF THE GRACES. 
 
 then to toil back again to Mr. Fleming's house, 
 weary and hot and breathless, just as the cook, 
 with a face as hot as her own, though from 
 another cause, was proceeding on the errand her- 
 self. Cook, although irascible, was not bad- 
 liearted, and she thanked her very warmly. The 
 circumstance was related to the young ladies by 
 the housemaid, and a few commendations were 
 bestowed on "the obliging girl." Thus they 
 termed her self-denying act of charity. Yes, 
 charity ! Tiiink you that the recording angel set 
 down the Misses Flemings gift, which cost them 
 nothing but an easily-spared coin, under the head 
 of charity, and took no note of the self-denial of 
 the young dressmaker, in an act for which she 
 neither received nor expected human applause ? 
 
 The jelly went to IVlrs. Eastlake the next 
 morning. The ladies' charity and goodness were 
 extolled by the neighors. Kate sate at her dress- 
 making, and thought. Of what did she think ? 
 — that pale, industrious Uttle creature. Not of the 
 gay colors of the lilac muslin with a wish that 
 she owned sach a dress ; not of the money which 
 she was to receive, and which should buy her 
 something almost as good, and, made in the same 
 fashion, would look quite as pretty. Oh no, Kate 
 was not thinking of herself; she was remember- 
 ing the poor mother on her sick bed, and revolv- 
 ing in her mind some means to help her. She 
 did not know much of Mrs. Eastlake, but she 
 was her fellow-creature, she was in sickness and 
 necessity, and that was quite enough for Kate. 
 Kate Hall had heard a sermon on charity a few 
 Sundays before (and so had the Misses Fleming 
 by-the-by), which very much impressed her. 
 She thought then, as she looked on the minister, 
 with her blue, earnest, thoughtful eyes. "Ah, if/ 
 could but be charitable! but I am a poor girl. I 
 can't give away money, and / have no time to 
 visit sick people. I cannot be charitable." Soon, 
 however, she thought differently as he expounded 
 the true meaning of the words, and she began to 
 liope that in some respect she might be an imi- 
 tation, though an humble one, of Him who was 
 kind and good to all. 
 
 Kate really loved the Saviour, I should tell you, 
 and thus she was prepared to exercise that char- 
 ity which never faileth, which hopeth all things, 
 believeth all things, endureth all tliings. One 
 remark of the preacher's struck her very much — 
 I am not sure that the Misses Fleming heard it; 
 Kate did, I know — that true charily never exist- 
 ed where there was no self-denial. Charity, does 
 not consist in almsgiving merely. The Christian 
 charity of which the apostle speaks, has a far 
 wider, nobler meaning. It does not necessarily 
 require any self-denial to give money to a socie- 
 
 ty, or to relieve the necessities of a poor neighbor. 
 There may be much money given, and little char- 
 ity in such ways, but it sometimes requires con- 
 siderable self denial to withhold an unkind or a 
 slanderous suggestion about another, and truly it 
 demands much of the spirit of Christ to hope all 
 things, and to believe all things. Where can we 
 find morality so pure and elevated as that of the 
 gospel of Jesus Christ ? 
 
 As Kate sat sewing, a thought came into her 
 heart that she could help Mrs. Eastlake — she 
 would at all events try; and so her nimble fin- 
 gers worked away, and she felt as bright and 
 happy as only good charitable thoughts can make 
 us. How the Misses Fleming would have laugh- 
 ed to hear Kate, the dress-maker that they pat- 
 ronized, called charitable ; she that only earned 
 enough by her hard labor to supply the wants 
 of herself and a crippled sister, with whom, and 
 the God she loved, she was left alone in a world 
 that had not dealt very kindly with them. She 
 had only lately set up as dress-maker for herself. 
 When her mother died a few months previously, 
 she found that she could no longer retain her sit- 
 uation at Mrs. Tavenor's, the principal dress- 
 maker of the little country town, and, therefore, 
 resolved to trust to her own exertions at home 
 for a scanty maintenance, and to nurse and tend 
 her dear sister Bertha. 
 
 The love of those two sisters was enough to 
 make a paradise, even of their little lodging. 
 The poor feeble cripple, who had lain five years, 
 suffering under a hopeless spinal disease, just able 
 to do a little of the lightest of the sewing if 
 Kate were very busy, was a kind, happy 
 Christian. Kate had lately, very lately, begun to 
 follow in her sister's footsteps, and now they were 
 going hand in hand to heaven. She that was so 
 weak and frail in body, that she needed to be lifted 
 daily from her bed to her couch, was the strong, 
 hopeful christian, and the counsellor and strength 
 of her darling sister, Kate. 
 
 And now you must fancy Bertha as she lay 
 watching her industrious sister. She often watch- 
 ed her, but the quick eye of her love — (Bertha's 
 sickness had not made her selfish) — the quick 
 eye of her watchful love saw that there was some- 
 thing on Kate's mind 
 
 " Kate, what are you thinking of ? " Kate 
 started. 
 
 "Of poor Mrs. Eastlake." 
 
 " Are you ? and so have I been thinking of her 
 ever since daylight, Kate. Don't you think, dear, 
 we might help her ?" 
 
 " Sure enough, Bertha, my darling, I long to 
 help her; but see my work, how can I be spared ? 
 Here are all these dresses to finish by Saturday, 
 
ONE OF THE GRACES. 
 
 223 
 
 " But could we not do without the money, 
 Katy ? " 
 Kate lauglied. 
 
 " Well, Bertha, we very likely mii^t do with- 
 out the money whether I take the dresses home 
 or no ; but the Misses Fleming won't do without 
 their dresses, I fear." 
 Bertha paused. 
 
 " Yet the Misses Fleming are such good young 
 ladies, go about so much among the poor ; surely 
 they would wait ; and I have set my mind, Kate, 
 on your running over to see this poor woman. 
 She has a thoughtless husband, I know ; she is 
 almost a stranger here, too, and has no friends ; 
 so do, dear sister, leave your work ; there, I can 
 pipe that flounce ; run off dear, do ; I. want noth- 
 ing ; go, there's a dear sister." 
 
 Kate's bonnet was soon on. " The running 
 over " was literally more than half a mile, for 
 Mrs Eastlake lived at the extreme end of the 
 village. She had only lately come to settle in 
 
 S , where her husband, a thoughtless, and 
 
 some said, an idle man, had obtained a situation 
 as gardener. They were not so very poor as they 
 were friendless. Mrs. Eastlake had known bet- 
 ter days, and passed with her bad neighbors as 
 " very high." Be that as it may, she found, that 
 on a b^ick bed, she had no one to come and smooth 
 her pillow for loves sake ; and, oh, what worse 
 desolation can there be ? 
 
 The Misses Fleming having heard of her sick- 
 ness had visited her very kindly, had given her 
 plenty of advice, such as to put out her children 
 to nurse, which would have been all very well, 
 only, that putting children out to nurse costs 
 money, and Mrs. Eastlake had but little money. 
 They told her she ought to have a regular nurse, 
 and not to depend on the litte ignorant servant 
 girl. Good advice too, but money, money again. 
 An old lady, a neighbor, had come in as fre- 
 quently in the course of the day as she was able, 
 and the girl of sixteen did as well as girls of six- 
 teen usually do, but that was only moderately, it 
 must be confessed. The Misses Fleming talked 
 a great deal, but, with the exception of sending 
 tlie jelly, did very little. Tlie case was rather 
 puzzling to them: money was not so much 
 wanted as help, such as they could not or did not 
 render. 
 
 Charity is not a loquacious virtue by any 
 means. It is a quiet but active, thouglitful but 
 effective angel. It was nearer Mrs. Eastlake's 
 pillow than she imagined when Kate, the poor 
 dressmaker, stepped in. She had no money in 
 her purse; no jelly, nor blanc-mange, nor wine m 
 her basket, but she had kindness in her voice, 
 love in her expression, selfdenial and benevo- 
 
 lence in her heart, as she entered Mrs. Eastlake's 
 cottage. Two little children were playing in the 
 garden, unwashed, uncombed, fretful, and quar- 
 relling ; the baby of about two months old lay 
 in its cradle, breatliing hard, in one of those 
 heavy slumbers, obtained as the slumbers of 
 poor people's children too often are, by sleeping 
 drugs. 
 
 Jane, the servant-maid, with her hair all 
 streaming down behind, and twisted up in curl- 
 papers before, was cooking, or trying to cook, at 
 the dirty dusty grate. The husband was out at 
 work, and Kate's visit was most seasonable. 
 There was no occasion for ceremony ; Mrs. East- 
 lake saw in a moment that Kate's motive in 
 coming to see her was one of true charity, not of 
 common curiosity, and from that moment they 
 were not strangers. Kate now proceeded to 
 smooth the pillows, to lay the miserable dirty 
 covering straight, and resolved in her mind that 
 she would bring a pair of her own coarse clean 
 sheets that night. She then sponged the suf- 
 ferer's face with warm water, all noiselessly, 
 quietly (Kate had had sad experience in sick- 
 nursing), and after making the room as tidy as 
 she could in a first visit, without appearing to 
 take liberties, she went down stairs and spoke to 
 the children. They were more difficult to set to 
 rights than the sick-room. However, she told 
 the maid to wash the two elder, and this being* 
 after considerable screaming, accomplished, she 
 asked the poor mother's permission to take them 
 home with her for a few hours. Now, mark, there 
 was more of the principle of true charity here» 
 than in going without a meal. Kate did not feel 
 disposed to take charge of two turbulent children 
 under five years of age. She had her fears, 
 moreover, that they might annoy her precious 
 Bertha ; but she saw that this was likely to re- 
 lieve the mother more materially than anything 
 else, and accordingly she did it. It was now two 
 o'clock, and she dare not stay, she said, for fear 
 Bertha should want anything ; so taking the two 
 little creatures by the hand, who were pleased 
 enough with the change, they proceeded home- 
 wards. 
 
 It seemed almost a hopeless task to help Mrs. 
 Eastlake, so at least thought Kate, as she toiled 
 this hot summer afternoon up the weary hill, 
 which led to their humble lodging. 
 
 Bertha had wanted nothing, ehe said, but she 
 looked pale with her exertion in sewing, and 
 Kate felt condemned for bringing the children ; 
 but Bertlia loved little children. Most good, 
 gentle, Christ-like persons do. How can we look 
 coldly on those whom the Saviour blessed ? So 
 whilst Kate got the diimer ready — and there was 
 
224 
 
 ONE OF THE GRACES. 
 
 not much preparation in that — Bertha called the 
 little ones to her couch, and amused them 
 by stories, and then by letting them have the 
 gay snips of the lilac muslin to play with, and 
 the pincushion to fill with pins, which ke'pt them 
 quite amused, and Kate never admired her sick 
 sister more in her life than now. An -unselfish 
 invalid is a beautiful and an admirable rarity. 
 Bertha was such an one. 
 
 Kate was a little anxious, a little flurried, and 
 Bertha had again to cheer her. 
 
 "What now, Katy dear? Be quick and dine, 
 and you shall sew very hard, and I will amuse 
 the children, and then you will have time before 
 night to run over, and make Mrs. Eastlake com- 
 fortable for the night." 
 
 " But the dresses, Bertha ?" 
 
 At this moment, Miss Fleming came in. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Hall, I only called to say, I hope 
 you won't fail to let us have our dresses on 
 Saturday night, in pood time. We thcrught you 
 seemed rather doubtful.'" 
 
 "Indeed, Miss Fleming, I am," said Kate. 
 " I don't like to promise if I have any doubt, 
 and I do fear I shall not get them all done. Those 
 flounces. Miss, take so much time." 
 
 " But we must have them," said Miss Fleming, 
 ■with rather more asperity than exactly became a 
 "sister of charity." " If you cannot undertake 
 them, I must take one of them to Mrs. Tavenor," 
 but, remembering Mrs. Tavenor's high charges, 
 she added, " Oh, I shall quite expect them." 
 
 " Miss Fleming," said Bertha kindly, " could 
 you not give us until Tuesday ? They shall be 
 finished well, and certainly by that time, but I 
 do not think it is possible to get them done before 
 unless we get assistance, and that, you know," 
 here Bertha blushed, " takes from our profit. We 
 could not make you dresses at the price we do 
 if we hired help." 
 
 Miss Fleming, however, was obdurate, and 
 Kate therefore gave the reluctant promise. 
 
 The children were taken home at seven, happy 
 and clean. The clean sheets were on the suffer- 
 er's bed; the poor baby taken to a married friend 
 of Kate's, a poor woman, but a kind one, who gave 
 the little pining, exhausted creature, tiie food it 
 needed from her own motherly bosom. 
 
 "I will keep it for the night, Kate," she said, 
 as she saw how the babe had nestled down and 
 slept. " It is only the same as having twins for 
 a while, John," said she to the husband, who look- 
 ed a little anxious, not grudgingly, but he feared 
 for the fatigue of his young wife. 
 
 The warm bath and the motherly touch, and 
 careful tender treatment, told on the infant before 
 long, and Kate ran with the good news to Mrs. 
 
 Eastlake, that baby was fast asleep at one end of 
 the cradle, and her friend's little Fanny at the 
 other. Mrs. Eastlake slept better that night than 
 for many a preceding one. 
 
 "It is twelve o'clock, Katy dear," called Bertha 
 from her little room ; "come, come to bed." 
 
 " Not yet, Bertha. It is only by sitting up all 
 night that I can finish my work by any possibility. 
 Go you to sleep, dear, for what shall I do, Bertha, 
 if you are worse ?" 
 
 Morning dawned, and still the young girl sat 
 and sewed. The Misses Fleming slept ; and the 
 next day they were out again, blithe, healthy, and 
 refreshed, visiting their sick poor district as usual, 
 and passing for young ladies who did a great 
 deal of good. 
 
 Now it is a question whether this visiting of the 
 poor involved any self-denial with the Misses 
 Fleming. To be sure, if the cottages were very 
 dirty, they soon bustled out, and bought a bottle 
 of lavender water of the chemist without delay; 
 but there was little very squalid poverty that 
 came under their notice ; and if the day were fine 
 (when it was very wet they did not go out), it 
 was rather a pleasant occupation for them twice 
 a week. Do not misunderstand me; I would not 
 detract from the advantage and propriety of such 
 efforts amongst the poor; but I want you to see 
 how far we may perform such acts in the sight of 
 men, and yet in the sight of God we may be 
 verily wanting. The Misses Fleming could not 
 know that Kate would have to sit up all night 
 long to work at dresses, without which they 
 could have done perfectly well. But why did 
 they not? Ignorance in such a case was a sini 
 because they might have known. Who that 
 looks on a fasJiionably-made dress but must 
 know that the work which it contains has cost 
 close, hard labor; and that to press for an arti- 
 cle of apparel within a given time, just to 
 gratify a wliim of vanity, is barbarous cruelty. 
 It is a fault of heart, believe me — a want of kind 
 consideration and charity, for which no alms giving 
 in the world can atone in His sight whose stand- 
 ard of love is, " that ye love one another as I 
 have loved you." Oh, for more of that charity 
 which never faileth ; which, amongst the " all 
 things" that it endureth, is content to deny itself 
 for another's self! 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Eastlake, how nice and comfort- 
 able you look this morning," said the Misses Flem- 
 ing, as they entered the sick-room where the 
 weary girl had already been; "you have got a 
 nurse at last, I liope." 
 
 " I have indeed, Miss, but a nurse who comes 
 for love, not for pay."' 
 
 " Who r 
 
ONE OF THE GRACES. 
 
 226 
 
 " Kate Hall, Miss Fleming." 
 
 "Kate Hall, our dressmaker ! I did not know 
 you knew her." 
 
 " I did not. Miss, but I know lier now. She 
 came all of her own free will, twice yesterday, 
 and again to-day ; got a friend of hers to take my 
 poor baby ; kept the children all day yesterday. 
 Oh you don't know what she has done for me !" 
 
 The jMisses Fleming were young ; they knew 
 but little of human nature, and it seemed to 
 them that Mrs. Eastlake's gratitude almost 
 exceeded the obligation ; but they did not say so. 
 
 Saturday night came, and at eight o'clock a 
 ring a.t the bell animated the young ladies, one 
 and all. Mary Anne, the housemaid, entered with 
 the dresses. They were fitted at once, and pro- 
 nounced to '• set admirably." Mary Anne still 
 waited. 
 
 " Miss Hall hopes, Mi.ss, you will excuse her for 
 asking you to pay her to-night, but she would be 
 very thankful for the money." 
 
 " We will call and pay her on Monday," said 
 Miss Marion ; " she can't do anything with the 
 money on Sunday, I suppose." 
 
 Kate had to struggle for a few moments, but 
 charity triumphed, and I am not sure but that 
 this was the noblest triumph of all. The "char- 
 ity that never faileth" was that cherished by the 
 Halls. Poor Mrs. Eastlake's illness was lingering 
 and trying enough to test any impulsive or litful 
 kindness. The Misses Fleming sent wine and jelly 
 now and then, but their visits were less frequent. 
 She did not seem to care for tliem, they said, and 
 there was no doing any thing to help her, poor 
 thing ! Kate thought otherwise ; often would she 
 take her work, and sit by the lonely bed-side, 
 dieering her with pleasant tones and hopeful 
 words, correcting her errors, and often reading to 
 her in her long-neglected Bible, till at length the 
 poor creature's heart was opened, and she under- 
 stood the Scriptures, and received the word with 
 joy. But she faded with the autumn leaves, and 
 scarcely had her new life begun on earth than she 
 was taken from tlie evil to come into the safety 
 and blessedness of heaven. Who shall say that 
 Kate's mission wa.'< a tiny one ? 
 
 The hour is twilight, the autumn mist is chill- 
 ing, and few persons are abroad — few but those 
 who, like the little dressmaker, have to toil for 
 their daily bread. She has just left the Fleming's 
 house with her load of dresses to alter, and to 
 make, and to modernize, and is thinking of a 
 happy evening with her dear Bertha, and the book 
 that Bertha is to read, when she feels her dress 
 pulled, and looking round sees the face of an old 
 acquaintince, but so altered, so haggard, that until 
 she speaks she does not fully recognise her. It 
 
 WIS Anne, an old companion of hers atMrs. Tav- 
 enor's,who had left her employer two years before 
 to take a situation as lady's maid, and of whom 
 Kate had heard a very moderate account, so much 
 so that she shrank from her. 
 
 " Do not shrink from me, Kate, it is my only 
 hope. I am come to you, the best friend 1 ever 
 had. I am humble now; I am, indeed. I have 
 no character, no home, no friends but you and 
 Bertha. Give me a hearing to-night, Kate Hall, 
 and tiie blessing of her who is ready to perish will 
 sound in your ears." 
 
 Poor Kate ! slie still shrank and hurried on ; 
 but Anne followed with all the desperation of 
 her sorrow, and they reached the lodgings. Hap- 
 pily, the landlady, a very good sort of woman, (so 
 called), but of a very hard kind of goodness, was 
 out, and Anne pressed eagerly in, and was soon 
 in the little parlor. Bertha, whose face was not 
 to the door, was hearing little Susy Eastlake say 
 her evening prayer, before sending her home with 
 the kind woman, who, it may be recollected, took 
 care of the infant, and who now took charge of 
 the three motherless children. They stood stil^ 
 to listen ; Bertha looked, as she always did, calm, 
 placid, and happy, but paler than usual by the 
 lighted fire, and the little light-haired girl who 
 knelt by her couch was just saying as they enter- 
 ed, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them 
 that trespass against us." Anne sobbed aloud, 
 and Bertha looked up. 
 
 It was not a strange tale, that of the poor, home- 
 less, motherless, hopeless girl. It was a sad 
 story, but, alas! not an uncommon one. Love of 
 dress and gayety had, in the first instance, induced 
 Anne Forster to leave her lionest calling, and to 
 take the tempting situation of lady's maid in a 
 gay and worldly family. Her conduct there had 
 been light and giddy. She had made bad ac- 
 quaintances — had deceived her employer, and 
 was at length dismissed in disgrace, with a 
 general charge of flighty and unbecoming con- 
 duct, quite sufficient to prevent her obtaining an- 
 other situation. And now she was come to her 
 native village, with a faint hope that those who 
 had known her in her better days would take 
 compassion on her now ; but oh, none so dis- 
 believing in her profession of penitence as the in- 
 habitants of S . " They wondered at her 
 
 thinking of such a tiling as that they should re- 
 commentl her !" Mrs. Tavenor shut the door in 
 her face ; Mrs. Fleming's housemaid told her 
 not to dare to come any more ; she had heard 
 enough of lier doings. And it was only Kate of 
 whom she had any hope — Kate and her sister. 
 
 The two sisters beard her story. It was evi- 
 dent that she had been wrong, giddy, and flighty, 
 
226 
 
 BUNKER HILL AND CALVARY. 
 
 but she longed to alter ; she said so, at least, and 
 their charity believed it. How meekly and like 
 a child she listened to the faithful Bertha ; and 
 ■with folded hands and an humble heart, sate 
 shrinking from Ihcm now as one unfit to approach 
 those pure and pious women. They made her no 
 promises, but thej' did not spurn her. They pro- 
 cured her a bed at an old neighbor's, and spoke 
 words of kindness and hope, giving her the gospel 
 message of reconciliation, you may be sure — and 
 then they knelt down and prayed, and hoped for 
 Anne. Theu-s was the charity, you know, that 
 
 hopeth all things. What had they in their power 
 to do for this poor girl? Not much, it is true, 
 but they did what they coukl. They gave her 
 employment — for their business was steadily in- 
 creasing, and they often needed help. They gave 
 her counsel and instruction, and encouraged her 
 by a little judicious notice to redeem the character 
 for steadiness and propriety that she had lost. 
 
 Years afterwards, Mrs Tavenor's bu.siness was 
 taken by Kate Hall, and the best assistant in her 
 work-room was Anne, the all but lost Anne. 
 
 THE GEEATEST OF THESE IS CHARITY. 
 
 BUNKER HILL AND CALVARY 
 
 BY EEV. C. G. CLABKE 
 
 BoNKEE Hill is among the household words of 
 Americans. It occupies a prpminent place among 
 our most cherished ideas. Its enunciation wakes 
 up the gushing emotions of the soul. Nor will 
 it cease to be the centre of precious recollections, 
 while earth rolls and patriotism lives. 
 
 It is right and proper that it should be so; for 
 there commenced the mighty struggle for right — 
 for nationality. The painful events, which there 
 transpired, were harbingers of the final and glo- 
 rious results of the conflict. The foundations of 
 our national temple — the temple of liberty — were 
 there laid and cemented with blood. Yes, the 
 choicest blood of the land was there poured out 
 like water. The sacrifice for freedom and right 
 was tliere laid upon the altar. From that spot, 
 and from that fearful hour, sprang into existence 
 a nation — a nation destined by Heaven, we trust, 
 to do more for the renovation, the salvation, of 
 the world, than any other on the footstool. 
 
 Already it has done wonders, in opening the 
 eyes of the masses, long under the crushing heel 
 of despotism, to an acquaintance with their 
 rights. It will — it must — do more. We shall 
 bear the torchlight of liberty, and the more pre- 
 cious light of religion, to all the down-trodden 
 and benighted, througliout the earth. Surely, 
 then, Bunker Hill is a mighty word. 
 
 But there is another hill more blessed than 
 
 that. Up Calvary, the well-beloved son of God 
 toiled, bearing his cross. There he suffered and 
 groaned and died. How much more precious 
 was the sacrifice, there offered up, than the other! 
 The sacrifice was laid upon the altar of love — 
 not of country or of friends — but of enemies. Nor 
 was it offered amid the thunder and havoc of 
 war, but the more fearful rockings of earth, the 
 shakings of the temple's foundations, and the 
 rending of its veil. There the powers of dark- 
 ness were defeated. 
 
 Hence, the mighty Conqueror arose, leading 
 captivity captive, procuring gifts for man. There 
 was achieved our liberty ; liberty to draw nigh 
 to God ; liberty to devote ourselves to the ser- 
 vice of Heaven ; liberty to worship our Maker 
 without hinderance or restraint ; liberty to hope. 
 There was laid a sure foundation, on which rests 
 the temple of truth, which is to rise glorious and 
 eternal — whose top-stone is to be brought forth 
 in heaven, "with shoutings of grace, grace unto 
 it." Wliat rich blessings cluster around Cal- 
 vary ! Rich in present enjoyment — rich in fu- 
 ture anticipations. Yes, the story of Calvary is 
 to be told on every hill-top and valley of earth. 
 It is to pour consolation into myriads of souls, in 
 their final struggle— turning "the shadow of 
 death into the morning." It will be the inspira- 
 tion of the eternal song, 
 
MAN'S EXTREMITY, GOD'S OPPOHTUNITY 
 
 BT REV. JONATHAN BRACE 
 
 This sentiment has become a proverb, and like 
 most proverbs, is founded in truth. It is a. fact 
 that divine intervention may be expected in be- 
 half of man, and more especially in behalf of the 
 frienda of God, when necessity calls for it. 
 
 "Just in the last distressing hour 
 The Lord displays delivering power ; 
 The mount of danger is the place 
 Where we shall see surprising grace." 
 
 Of the truth of this familiar apothegm, it is not 
 difficult to find illustrations. 
 
 Look at the Israelites in Egypt. They were 
 ground down by oppression, and " sighed by rea- 
 son of hard bondage." A season came, however, 
 when the cruelty exercised against them became 
 extreme, — when they were not only forced to 
 labor, but their very ofFijpring were doomed 
 to die. When this season came, when murder 
 took off the infants, and threatened to extirpate 
 the seed through whom the promised Shiloh was 
 to come, — then, the Lord "showed himself to 
 Moses in a flame of fire out of the midst of a 
 bush," and commissioned and endowed him to be 
 the triumphant champion of bis abused people. 
 
 The Israelites went up harnessed out of Egypt. 
 Pharaoh, repenting of his permission to let them 
 go, "made ready his cliariot, took six hundred 
 chosen chariots," and his mighty men of valor, 
 and followed m close pursuit. Nothing however 
 is done on the part of God, till there seems but 
 a step between his people and destruction. When 
 they had reached the Red Sea, which lay as an 
 impassable barrier before them, when mountains 
 rugged and higli prevented their escape on either 
 side, and the hosts of the tyrant thirsting for 
 blood were hard upon their backs, then it 
 was, that the salvation of tlie Lord was shown. 
 " And the Lord said unto Moses, Lift up thy rod, 
 and stretch out thine hand over the sea and divide 
 it, and the children of Israel shall go on dry 
 ground through the midst of the sea. And the 
 Lord said again unto Moses, Stretch out thine hand 
 over the sea, that the waters may come upon the 
 Egyptians, upon their chariots and their horses." 
 And he did so; the sea returned to its strength, 
 
 overwhelming all the hosts of Pharaoh, so that 
 there remained not so much as one of them ! 
 
 Jehovah had declared that " the seed of the 
 woman should bruise the serpent's head." His 
 advent was looked for with interest. Types, 
 shadows, and emblems, prefigured and betokened 
 his coming; yet century after century rolled 
 away, and no Messiah! But when the darkest 
 hour had arrived, when the world was crowded 
 with idols, "when reason, tired and blind," could 
 do nothing for the relief of man, and philosophy 
 nothing, — when Satan, besides possessing the 
 souls of mankind, had begun to claim their bodies 
 also as his, when the sceptre had departed from 
 Judah, the law-giver from between his feet, when 
 the Jews were slaves to the Romans, and Herod 
 an Edomite, king; then. He comes; then the 
 
 " Star of the east, — the horizon adorning, 
 Guides ^here the infant Redeemer is laid." 
 
 Christ entered into a ship, and ^his disciples 
 followed him. While the sun shone clear, the 
 winds were favorable, the motions of the ship 
 easy, and the waves curled gently around her, 
 their Master " was in the hinder part of the ship, 
 asleep on a pillow." But when there arose a 
 great tempest, insomuch that the billows beat 
 violently, covered the ship, and threatened to 
 ingulf him and them ; then he arose, and rebuk- 
 ed the winds and the sea, " and there was a great 
 calm." 
 
 The Apostle Peter is apprehended, thrust into 
 prison, and delivered to four quaternions of sol- 
 diers to keep him. There he remains, though 
 " prayer is made unceasing by tlie church unto 
 God for him," — until the night previous to his 
 contemplated execution. Wlien that crisis 
 came, — the very night before, by a decree of 
 Herod, he was to be brought forth, — brought 
 forth that his enemies might make him a public 
 victim to their rage, put him to deatli like a wild 
 beast for their entertainment ; then, an angel finds 
 his way to him in the gloomy dungeon, and 
 light shines in upon the darkness, and his fetters 
 fall off, and the iron gate leading into the city 
 openeth of its own accord, and Peter is free ! 
 
228 
 
 MAN'S EXTREMITY, GOD'S OPPORTUNITY 
 
 At the commenceinentof the Christian dispen- 
 sation, the wrath of the wicked waxed hot against 
 the church ; but when this wrath was the hottest, 
 when that barbarous persecutor Dioclesian was 
 so confident of the success of his measures to 
 annihilate the church, as to cause pillars to be 
 erected with the inscription, '' Deleia supersti- 
 tione Christiana,'' — the Christian superstition is 
 destroyed,— her deliverance under Constantine 
 the Great was just at hand. Constantine suc- 
 ceeded Dioclesian. 
 
 After the decease of Constantine, the church 
 suffered severely under the Roman pontiffs. But 
 when truth was adulterated, virtue driven to 
 cloisters, and piety bad almost become extinct, — 
 when the grave of spiritual Religion was dug, and 
 she, to human appearances, was about to descend 
 into it, the Lord raised up Luther, and kindred 
 minds and hearts of zeal and courage, who in- 
 fused into her precious body, vitality and strength. 
 When the Dominican Tetzel was peddling his 
 indulgences in the streets of Wittenberg, the 
 Scarlet Lady throned upon the hills was in her 
 glory, and then it was that she received a wound, 
 from which she has never recovered, and we pray 
 may never recover. 
 
 And just previous to our Saviour's second com- 
 ing, we have reason to think that Zion will be 
 wrapped about with the blackest clouds. " When 
 the Sou of man cometh,"— was the significant in- 
 terrogatory of Christ,—" when the Son of man 
 cometh, shall he find faith on the earth ?"' That 
 
 is religion will be at a low ebb ; believers in 
 
 him be very few. Yet, at this juncture, when 
 the gospel shall be trampled upon, scoffers cry 
 " where is the promise of his coming ?" and when 
 the torrent of iniquity shall seem to be bearing 
 down all before it,— Gog and Magog, in the plen- 
 itude of their strength and fury, — •' the earth cor- 
 rupt before the Lord, and the earth filled with 
 violence ;" then, too, shall " the Lord arise, and 
 his enemies be scattered 1" 
 
 Other illustrations of the fact, — that " Man's 
 extremity is God's opportunity,"— it were easy 
 to produce. But these may suffice. Jehovah 
 does appear in behalf of men, and especially in 
 behalf of his people, in times of despondency and 
 distress. 
 
 If we are asked why He proceeds upon this 
 principle ? several reasons may be assigned. His 
 attributes are hereby glorified ;— His attributes 
 of wisdom, power, compassion, goodness, forbear- 
 ance, and long suffering. His attribute of wisdom. 
 It displays superior wisdom to devise means for 
 the removal of great difficulties. He is the most 
 learned and skillful physician who can master the 
 most violent and dangerous diseases. And when 
 
 matters have reached such a pass that all which 
 human knowledge can do is unavailing, God 
 manifests his wisdom by a successful interposi- 
 tion. When informed by a messenger of the 
 sickness of his friend Lazarus, " Christ abode two 
 days still in the same place where he was." Not 
 because he did not love Lazarus, but because be 
 would glorify himself in raising him from the 
 dead. In bringing the counsels of the heathen 
 to nought, and making the devices of the prudent 
 of none effect ; in turning wise men backwards, 
 and circumventing the crafty designs of the arch 
 apostate, he makes a signal illustration of his 
 wisdom. 
 
 His attribute oi power. The weaker his Church, 
 and the more energetic and malignant her ene- 
 mies, the mightier that arm which upholds the 
 Church, and conquers these enemies. Hence, 
 when in the case of Pharaoh's hosts, who, breath- 
 ing out threatening and slaughter against Israel, 
 cried, " I will pursue, I will overtake, I will di- 
 vide the spoil ; I will draw my sword, I will de- 
 vour them ;" God blew with his wind and the 
 sea covered them, and they sank as lead in the 
 mighty waters ; he eminently glorified his pow- 
 er. And very natural was the exclamation of 
 the redeemed Jews, as they beheld horses and 
 riders submerged in the waves, and their carcases 
 driven upon the shore, — " The Lord is a man 
 of war, the Lord is his name, the Lord is our 
 strength." 
 
 His attributes of compassion and goodness. It 
 is the part of compassion and goodness to relieve 
 distress ; and the deeper the distress the great- 
 er the mercy. When the Church faints; when 
 friends are far from her, and sighs are wrung 
 from her, then the kindness of her covenant 
 God appears. A brother is born for adversity; 
 and so is a father ; and when neither can as- 
 suage misery, then the pity and benevolence of 
 Jehovah appear in taking us up; and he often 
 waits till then that he may be impressively gra- 
 cious unto us. "I will heal thee of thy wounds," 
 said he, to Zion, " because they called thee an 
 outcast, saying this is Zion, whom no man seek- 
 cth after." 
 
 His attributes of forbearance and long suffer- 
 ing. He shows that he cherishes no malicious 
 feelings towards the creatures he has made, and 
 though they do wickedly, that he is willing to be 
 patient, and grant them space for repentance. 
 Not till the cup of iniquity is quite full, is the 
 struggling bolt of justice loosed, and sent abroad 
 on its mission. Not, sometimes, till the question 
 arises whether his people shall be destroyed, or 
 their foes destroyed, does He destroy the latter. 
 
THE PRESS 
 
 229 
 
 Further, — by acting upon this principle, — a 
 spirit of prayer and supplication is awakened. 
 
 "We naturally rely upon our own resources, — 
 dislike to be laid under obligations to another, 
 and are disposed to resort to numerous expedients 
 before supplicating aid. Hence the little prayer 
 that ascends from our earth — for prayer is the 
 breath of want. It is an humble confession of self- 
 impotence, an extorted acknowledgment of an- 
 other's superior ability. But in man's extremity, 
 lie calls upon God, and those who are wont to 
 invoke Him, then invoke Him with increased 
 fervor and importunity. When did the children 
 of Israel cry unto the Lord? When "they lifted 
 up their eyes, and beheld the Egyytians march- 
 ing after tliem, and were sore afraid." When 
 did the disciples cry — " Lord save us, we perish?" 
 When a storm of wind came down upon the lake. 
 When did Peter pray ? When he saw the heavy 
 swell of the sea, and was beginning to sink. 
 When was the Psalmist most earnest in his plead- 
 ings in behalf of himself and friends? When ene- 
 mies came in upon him and them like a flood. 
 " Have mercy upon us, Lord," is his cry, — "have 
 mercy upon us, — for we are exceedingly filled 
 with contempt." It is in the hour of perplexity and 
 distress, when men's hearts are foiling for fear, 
 and for the looking of those disasters which may 
 befal them, — it is then, that, like the mariners 
 bound with Jonah for Tarshish, they "arise and 
 call upon God ;" and since Jehovah enjoins prayer 
 as a duty, and would encourage it, He often 
 brings the children of men into straits, that so 
 they may feel the necessity of it, and appreciate 
 the value of it. 
 
 He acts likewise upon this principle, to in- 
 crease the confidence of his people in him. 
 
 Beholding how they have been rescued and 
 sustained in six troubles, they may feel confident 
 tliat they will be borne triumphantly through 
 the seventh. Hence, David, when remonstrated 
 with against exposing himself to the might and 
 fury of the gigantic Goliah, properly replied — 
 "The Lord, who delivered me out of the paw of 
 
 the lion, and out of the paw of the bear, he will 
 deliver me out of the hand of this Philistine." 
 And when the Church marks how signally she has 
 been saved, when wofully sunk, she may feel 
 " strong in the Lord, and in the power of his 
 might." As Abraham could not but confide in 
 God, that he would take care of Isaac, after that 
 lie had redeemed him from the knife and the 
 flames, by the intervention of tlie lamb caught in 
 the thicket, so the spiritual children of Abraham 
 may learn from the repeated deliverances of the 
 Church from the ferocious passions of those who 
 would exterminate her, that '"Jehovah is in the 
 midst of her, and she cannot be moved." 
 
 We may say, too, that such deliverances are 
 well calculated to dishearten the enemies of 
 Christianity. They may see, in these instances of 
 Divine interposition, that there is a vigilant, able 
 guardian of truth, and the friends of truth, and 
 that it is useless to war against it and them. And 
 were they not infatuated they would see that 
 truth and Christianity are impregnable, — that 
 " there is no enchantment against Jacob, nor any 
 divination against Israel." Like the natives who, 
 having chased the pious captain Wilson, and hav- 
 ing seen him plunge into the Coleroon, a stream 
 full of alligators, and emerge safe on the opposite 
 bank, were so struck at the hand of God in his 
 preservation, as not to discharge their arrows but 
 retire silent and thoughtful from the pursuit; so 
 ihey, were they not smitten with madness and 
 blindness of heart, would acknowledge that a 
 Divinity is on the side of the gospel and Zion, and 
 all endeavors to destroy either is the height of 
 folly. "Truth crushed to earth will rise again," 
 — and the Church attend the funeral of all other 
 societies. Indeed, truth and the Churcli will sur- 
 vive the general conflagration, — will rise from 
 the ashes of tlie world like the fabled Phujnix, 
 and spring upwards immortal. 
 
 The sentiment, therefore, with which we com- 
 menced our article, is founded in fact, and is hap- 
 py in its bearings on God and humanity. 
 
 THE PRESS, 
 
 A MILLION tongues are thine, and they are heard 
 Speaking of Hope to nations in the prime 
 Of Freedom's day — to hasten on the lime 
 When the wide world of spirit shall be stirred 
 With higher aims than now— when man shall call 
 Each man his brother — each shall tell to each 
 His tale of love — and pare and holy speech 
 
 Be music for the soul's high festival ! 
 
 Thy gentle notes are heard like choral wava.-i, 
 
 Reaching the mountain, plain, and quiet rale ; 
 
 Thy thunder-tones are like the sweeping gale, 
 Bidding the tribes of men no more be slaves ; 
 And earth's remotest island hears the sound, 
 That floats on ether wings the world aroiuiJ. 
 
 WiLUAH Glaxo Bocbse. 
 
EARLY LIFE IN THE COUNTHY. 
 
 BY R. H. STODDARD. 
 
 It is now some eigliteen years since I was a 
 boy, and lived in the country, yet nearly every 
 scene that I then beheld is as fresh before me, as 
 the events of yesterday. Those who have lived 
 in contemplation of the works of nature in youth, 
 rarely lose the memory of one of her charms, 
 though after years may call them to the dusty 
 streets and turmoil of cities. In hours of weari- 
 ness, and solemn thought, the recollection of pas- 
 toral landscapes, and the free unfettered heart of 
 youth, 
 
 " Clothing the palpable and familiar 
 With golden exhalations of the dawn,"' 
 
 comes over one like " airs from heaven." Na- 
 ture is a mighty healer of sorrow and wrong, 
 and a gentle minister of goodness to those who 
 listen to her teachings. " She speaks a various 
 language," but always one of serenity and beauty. 
 No storm of passion mars her divine aspect, no 
 sorrow mingles in her manifold harmonies. 
 Even the dark and solemn in nature leave a 
 softening and elevating impression on the mind. 
 The cloven peak of the mountain ; the deep 
 chasms; the thunder storm, and the illimitable 
 sea ; never jar on the most sensitive heart, 
 though its own passions, and the miseries of 
 mankind, are a torture and a discord. It is but the 
 deep bass of the organ ; the crash in the har- 
 mony ; the shade of the picture : and, so far from 
 depressing, lifts us above the level of mortal life 
 and men, and we feel 
 
 " A presence that disturbs us with the joy 
 Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime 
 Of something far more deeply interfused, 
 "Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
 And the round ocean, and the living air, 
 And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 
 A motion, and a spirit that impels 
 All thinking things, all objects of all thoughts, 
 And rolls through all things." 
 
 Oh ye dwellers in the dust and noise of cities, 
 ye weary-hearted money -getters, rich and poor, 
 come out into the green world of nature ; and 
 bathe your souls in the living waters of beauty. 
 There is a blue sky over the woods and fields, 
 though you hardly ever see it for the smoke of 
 
 your manufactories : you walk on hard brick 
 pavements, but the fields are carpeted with grass, 
 and sown with wild flowers. Look at the sickly 
 trees that try to shade your walks, but fail 
 miserably in the attempt ; and then come out 
 into tlie grand old forests of your native land. 
 There you may rove for days in eternal twilight 
 and coolness, breathing odors at every step ; 
 your pale cheeks will become ruddy with the 
 rose of health ; your thin frames will grow hardy 
 and muscular, and your hearts nobler, and more 
 divine, than they ever can be in counting-houses 
 and gas-light. Your legers may be heavy on 
 the Dr. side, and all good debts ; but the book of 
 nature (if I may be allowed an opinion in the 
 matter,) is far richer, and more trustworthy. 
 There is no bankruptcy here, not even in winter, 
 when all is covered with snow and ice. If the 
 fruits are gone then, and the harvestsall gathered 
 in, the woods are hung with jewels. Every man 
 may have a private Golconda of his own, and be 
 as rich as he (and the frost) pleases. I have no 
 doubt, from the hearsay of others, (for I have 
 never been blessed myself by the lady in ques- 
 tion,) that fortune is a very pleasant thing. I 
 shoitld not object, as a particular favor to some 
 friend, to receive a small annuity, say five hun- 
 dred per year ; but as many thousands could not 
 keep me from the country, and rural enjoyments. 
 
 " I care not, Fortune, what you me deny, 
 You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace, 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
 Through which Aurora shows her brightening face ; 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 The woods and lawns, by living streams, at eve. 
 Let liealth my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
 And I then toys to the great children leave ; 
 
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave I'' 
 
 In my last paper of this title, I left myself at 
 Hingham Hill, a juvenile: how long I remained 
 in that beautiful place, I know not ; I can remem- 
 ber nothing distinctly after leaving it, till we 
 went to reside in the little town of Abington, 
 some miles distant. There I spent some, nay, I 
 may say all, the happiest years of my existence. 
 I cannot do the town, or my life at that period, 
 justice. I was a simple, happy boy there ; and 
 
EARLY LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 231 
 
 many a time since I have tried to recall what I 
 felt then, and what all children must have felt in 
 the same circumstances; for all men are full of 
 poetry, and wonder, and beauty, in their early 
 years : 
 
 " Heaven lies about us, in our infancy." 
 
 Life seemed a di-eam ; nothing was real ; or all 
 things were lifted above reality : the dusty road 
 that ran by the door was not a common road ; 
 the old barn was not a common barn ; the cher- 
 ry tree, by the stone wall, was as wonderful as if 
 it had been guarded by the Ilosperides. Everj-- 
 tliing was strange and wonderful : there was a 
 shape in mist and cloud, a presence in the blue 
 sky and the light of summer : ever}'^ day was an 
 epoch, every boy a friend, every little lass a sis- 
 ter and a sweet-heart. Childhood added to the 
 universe 
 
 " The light that never was on sea or land, 
 The consecration, and the poet's dream." 
 
 The finest poet does no more, not often as 
 much, as the child : the child feels, the poet 
 describes ; and happy indeed is he, if he can 
 describe these things, and the sensations and 
 moods to which they give birth, with sufficient 
 distinctness, or indistinctness, as the case may 
 require, for others to recognize them, and him, 
 as something loved and known of old. It has 
 always seemed to me that the poetry of dreamy 
 sensation is the most difficult and most ethereal 
 of all. Few men succeed in this walk of the 
 Muses. Apollo himself seems to hold the clue. 
 
 Our cottage was by the roadside, a small, black- 
 boarded building, which must have seen some 
 twenty years when we moved into it. I see it be- 
 fore me now as plainly as the building next door, 
 which blocks the sky from my window. One half 
 the cottage curtain has slipped from its loop, and 
 blows out through the open sash. An old flower- 
 pot, crusted with mos.s, stands in the window. 
 It is a rose. Up the sash steals an ambitious 
 creeper, wild vine, morning-glory, or the common 
 garden bean, as the case may be. A smooth 
 block of stone, one step in height, lies in front 
 of the door, from which a j^ath runs through the 
 closely-nibbled grass in the yard, to the road. 
 From the corner of the liouse, on the left, a line 
 of picket-fence forms the end of the garden wall. 
 Tliere, in old time, we used to have the greater 
 part of our flowers. They were not over-choice, 
 I fear : red and white hollyhocks, poppies, and 
 peonies, with other like gaudy attempts in the 
 floral way; now and then a stray rose, or a 
 bunch of fringed pinks, but for the most part 
 
 the " common people of nature." I never have 
 been able since to bear the sight of flowers in a 
 garden : they seem in an unnatural state there, 
 like a party of ladies at the opera. Let me have 
 them (both flowers and ladies) in their homes, in 
 the woods and fields, where the dew can wash 
 their cheeks, and the sunshine press them to its 
 glowing lips. 
 
 Of all my early pleasures, the chiefcst was to 
 rise on a spring morning and look from my 
 chamber window through the tufts of snow- 
 blossomed peach trees, over the misty, fresh, 
 soft green fields below, and beyond the neigh- 
 boring farm house, on and on, till the gray woods 
 belting the horizon barred my eager vision. The 
 sight of a green field in spring alvrays gives me 
 an unutterable feeling of luxury and pleasant- 
 ness. I take the landscape into my soul as a 
 lover drinks in the image of his beloved one, and 
 often, in after years?, recall the moment that im- 
 pressed it upon my memory. Not a bough is 
 missing from the trees, not a dew-drop or daisy 
 from the grass, and the very light and shade 
 which then made it beautiful and peculiar, arc 
 painted eternally on the picture. 
 
 There was an old wood on the I'ight and back 
 of the cottage, where it made an elbow around 
 the corner of the fields, and stretched away in a 
 level line till it was lost in the distance. At one 
 point the trees seemed to have shrunk together 
 to form an aisle ; for some ten or twelve feet 
 they opened, and hardly joined their branches 
 over the space. Spots of sunshine, moving east- 
 ward or westward, might be seen on tiie dead 
 leaves which carpeted it, from morning till 
 sunset ; and when the sun went down, patches 
 of moonlight lay there like drifts of snow. I 
 was never weary of tramping in the leaves on 
 holidays and after school hours : their sharp, 
 quick rustling is a pleasant sound, and the scent 
 which embalms the whole air exceedingly fresh 
 and dolieious. Tiie larger boys of the town were 
 in the habit of setting snares for partridges, 
 though I believe none of them ever made his 
 fortune from the sale of game. Squirrels were 
 plenty, but exceeding shy. "We used to see 
 them occasionally scampering from bi-anch to 
 branch ; and once or twice a day we were sure 
 to hear some stray mastiff barking in the dis- 
 tance. Tradition, on such occasions, always said 
 that he had driven one to his hole ; but as he 
 generally went home without his victim, those 
 who prized the canine race declared it something 
 else, and not a real squirrel. The robin red- 
 breast used to build his nest in the pine trees; 
 and we children loved him for the sake of the 
 
232 
 
 EARLY LIFE IN THE COUNTRY. 
 
 " Babes in the "Wood." I have my doubts now 
 about that ancient feat of sextonship ; but I love 
 the robin yet, and often dream of his "red 
 stomacher." 
 
 But perhaps the forest was more beautiful in 
 autumn than at any other period of the year. 
 To be sure, the flowers we used to gather 
 through the summer were all gone, and berries 
 were not to be had at any price ; but the glory 
 of the fading leaves amply compensated for them. 
 I never expect to be so happy again, as when I 
 used to walk up and down the aisles of that old 
 forest, gazing at the illuminated leaves, which 
 interwove like i-ainbows, and made a dome over 
 ray head ; and under my feet it was the same : 
 myriads and myi-iads of i eaves, all touched and 
 tinted Avitli the most gorgeous hues from the 
 palette of autumn. The most common colors in 
 this infinite kaleidoscope were yellow and jDur- 
 ple, running off into all shades and tints : some- 
 times variegated and clouded ; sometimes barred 
 and flecked; and sometimes of a single hue, 
 blushing through all their stems and fibres. 
 Look where I would, it was a realm of enchant- 
 ment, more beautiful than a dream ; and horn- 
 after hour, lapped in the most delicious dreams 
 I used to wander over the fallen leaves I feared 
 to crush. I always think .autumn more beauti- 
 ful than winter in its effects on woodland scen- 
 ery: the glittering icicles on the sleety bough 
 remind me too much of those abominable prisms 
 which dangle from large chandeliers; besides, 
 when the sun melts them, they form an unpleas- 
 ant reminiscence of dew. 
 
 The road, as I have already said, ran past our 
 door, and just above the cottage on the right, for 
 about a quarter of a mile, through the forest I 
 have been describing. On either side the fre- 
 quent rains had washed from its edges large 
 gullies, which were generally overgrown with 
 low bushes, plentifully sprinkled with briers; 
 nor did they lack, among other attractions, or 
 nuisances, as the reader is inclined to view them, 
 a large supply of spiders, and their webs : these 
 in some degree were forgotten and forgiven, 
 however, for the sake of the blackberries which 
 they surrounded. We might be seen, as we 
 went to school in the morning, stooping over 
 some monster vine, with black lips, when we 
 should have been in hearing of the bell with 
 which the mistress always rang us in. I have an 
 indistinct memory of sundry floggings for being 
 late, and dirty-fingered ; but how could I help 
 it, when blackberries grew by the roadside ? 
 The flowers of learning were cultivated amongst 
 us ; the tlu'ce R's (reading, 'riting, and 'rithme- 
 
 tic) highly valued in that part of New-England ; 
 but none of us could, or would resist blackber- 
 ries ! 
 
 Before we came to the end of the road, the 
 woods terminated in two or three pastures, at 
 the end of which another road branched off to 
 the right and left : we used to hate the sights 
 because it led us to our . old school-house ; nor 
 do I think we were at all remarkable in our dis- 
 like, since I have never been able to discover in 
 children of later time any great love for scholas- 
 tic pursuits. Between you and me, reader, I am 
 inclined to think the whole system of modern 
 education based upon a fallacy. Why children 
 of a tender age should be made to sit on hard 
 benches six hours a day, in the heat of summer, 
 or the cold of winter, conning tasks which never 
 can be of the slightest use to them, theoretically 
 or practically, is more than I have ever been able 
 to determine ; nor have I ever been able to find 
 any one who could. If we would bring gym- 
 nastics and bodily training in with some of the 
 best of the present studies, we would be the 
 benefactors instead of the tormentors of the juve- 
 nile classes. Again, until the curiosity of a child 
 can be awakened and aroused, all that ever can 
 be drilled into him will fail of its desired effect. 
 Learning by rote is not learning : wisdom and 
 stimulated memories are two different things, as 
 the world will one day find out. 
 
 I remember that in my school-days I was gene- 
 rally perfect in my lessons. I could tell you the 
 height of the Himalaya Mountains, or the 
 width of the Amazon ; the extent of the great 
 wall of China, or the length of the Grand Lama's 
 great toe. I was well " filed up" in the different 
 gases, the various "gins" of the chemical bar, 
 and could determine to a nicety the amount of 
 air in a vessel which had been exhausted by an 
 aii"-pump: the amoi:nt was "nil;" and "nil" 
 have been all the advantages that I have derived 
 from this most interesting of sciences. All that I 
 learned at school has vanished like a morning 
 mist, and I believe it is so with men in general. 
 My curiosity was not stimulated as it should have 
 been, and what I learned to-day, as a task, was 
 forgotten to-morrow, as a pleasure. All this will 
 be mended before many years have past^ or 
 dunces will be multiplied to an alarming ex- 
 tent. 
 
 I believe the old custom of teaching by women 
 has in some degree fallen into disuse in that part 
 of the country now. I passed by the old 
 school some year or two ago, and saw a village 
 pedagogue, a young sickly -looking student, in the 
 ancient desk ; but when I was a boy the school- 
 
EARLY LIFE IN THE COUNTRY, 
 
 233 
 
 master was unknown there. My earliest teacher 
 was a woman, and I hope my latest will be. 
 
 " The very first 
 Of human life must spring from woman's breast ; 
 Your first small words are taught you from her lips ; 
 Your first tears quenched by her, and your last sighs 
 Too often breathed out in a -Woman's hearing, 
 When men have shrunk from the ignoble care 
 Of watching the last hour of him who led them." 
 
 "Well do I remeniher tlie pleasant face of Mis- 
 tress Richmond, and the blue sillc dress that she 
 wore then. She was a mild and beautiful woman, 
 or so she seemed to me in my juvenile days. 
 Many a reward of merit have I I'eceived from her 
 fair hand?. Do they give them to the children 
 now, I wonder? They were simple, plain tilings 
 enough — little slips of paper with a bee-hive, or 
 something of that order, for a vignette, and tlie 
 cabalistic words, " Reward of merit, presented 
 to (blank) for good behavior and proficiency in 
 (his or her) studies. So-and-so, Preceptor." To 
 the mind of some, these little things may seem 
 unworthy of notice, but if you reflect a little, my 
 friends, you will find all the world crazy on the 
 same point. The artist and literary man is desir- 
 ous of a favorable notice in the pages of some in- 
 fluential review ; that is his " reward of merit." 
 The soldier wishes his brave deeds to be chron- 
 icled in the Gazette; that and a two-penny 
 medal is his " reward of merit." The mercliiuit 
 desires his name to be good on 'Change, and in 
 the ledgers of his banking friends; that is his 
 " reward of merit." In liict, I doubt very mucli 
 if any of us are sinless enough to "cast the first 
 stone " at this folly. 
 
 I wonder where my old school-fellows are 
 now. Tlie greater part, if living, are no doubt 
 married, and well-to-do in the world. I know 
 one or two of them are, for I pass their farm- 
 houses, and certain chubby youngsters that there 
 can be no mistake about, every time I visit 
 Abington. They have forgotten me ; the ties of 
 boyhood and school friendship are soon broken ; 
 but the man who lias no greater evil than that to 
 complain of is happy. It is when we grow old- 
 er, and only then, that our hearts become stable 
 enough to receive deep loves and passions. The 
 child will quarrel with his fnend one moment, 
 and make friends with his enemy the next. 
 Where are the old books that I used to study 
 — the dog's-eared spelling-book, and the Parley's 
 Geography ? "Was there a bona Jide man like 
 Peter, or so profound a word-knower as Noah 
 "Webster, or was it all a fiction ? And the crack- 
 ed slate and pencil — have they gone tlio way of 
 earth ? or do they do duty under the dirty cuffs 
 
 of some urchin of to-day ? I saw my old seat in 
 the corner when I was there last, but the books 
 and the slate were gone : the initials that I was 
 whipped for carving were missing too ; nor have 
 I yet, as Ralph Hoyt once said, "carved them 
 on the scroll of fame." How we used to play ! 
 how idle we boys were in the olden time ! School 
 was a torture to us, a pound into which we were 
 driven unwillingly, and we determined to make 
 the best of it, and we did — when we could elude 
 the vigilance of the mistress and the monitors. 
 Poor woman ! our idleness and bad temper must 
 have been a sore trial to her. "We little thought 
 that her heart might ache, and her head throb, 
 at our peevisli stupidity. "We were like the 
 world, and had no pity or love for those who 
 taught us truth and wisdom. 
 
 " They learnt in suffering what they teach in song." 
 
 The school-house branched off to the right from 
 our cottage road ; but at about the same distance 
 on the left lay the old blacksmith's shop of " Un- 
 cle Nat." (He was everybody's uncle ! like those 
 kind-hearted gentlemen of English farces.) No 
 village is complete without a smithy: how 
 could it be, when even Olympus was not itself 
 when Vulcan was absent ? From the days of 
 Tubal Cain, the oldest iron worker on i-ecord, 
 down to th.it of the apprentice of yesterday, 
 blacksmiths have been a favorite and honorable 
 class of men. I never heard of any one (who ever 
 i heard of one?) v>'ho was not a jolly fellow, and 
 good withal, though a little fond at times of blue 
 Mondays. I have known many of the craft, and 
 always likeil them vastly, even the one whom 
 I once knew. But, to go back to my uncle Nat, 
 he was a fine old Cyclopean fellow, swarthy and 
 huge. Ili-s head is now bald, and his strong arm 
 has lost much of its vigor and nju.<cle: but he 
 has not altogether lived in vain ; his life lias been 
 profitable to him and to us. 
 
 " Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
 
 For the lesson thou hast taught ! 
 Thus at the flaming forge of Life, 
 
 Our fortunes must be wrought. 
 And thu4 on its sounding anvil t>haped 
 
 Each burning deed and thought "' 
 
 Some two or three years ago I visited the old 
 forge, and while there I could not btit put in 
 verse a ilescriptiun of it. The piece lias no merit 
 but an exact fidelity to the truth of things in 
 their detail and atmosphere It may, or it may 
 not be poetry, but it is at least truth. As a slight 
 reminiscence of my youth it is pleasant to me; I 
 hope it maybe to others ; but anything that re- 
 calls their youtli cannot be wholly uninteresting • 
 so, if you please, we will go over the 
 
234 
 
 THE USE OF TEARS, 
 
 BLACKSMITH S SHOP. 
 Beside the road in Harley town. 
 
 There stands an ancient blacksmith's shop : 
 Who?e walls and roof are dark and lo'.v, 
 
 "U'ih chimneys peeping o'er the top ; 
 Some two or three on either side, 
 But only one with fire supplied. 
 Which puffs its smoky volumes high 
 In dusky wreaths along the sky. 
 
 Harrows, and teams with splintered shafts, 
 And broken wheels, are standing round ; 
 And molten coals and cinders lie, 
 
 In scattered heaps along the ground : 
 And in the yard beside the door. 
 You see the square old tiring floor, 
 With grass and weeds and waving sedge 
 Bent down around its trampled edge. 
 
 Fronting the door the anvil stands, 
 
 "With burnished surface broad and clear ; 
 The rusty pincers, dropped in haste, 
 
 And heavy sledge are leaning near ; 
 While hammers, tongs, and chisels cold. 
 And crooked nails, and horse-shoes old, 
 With all the tools renowned of yore 
 In blacksmith duties, line the floor. 
 
 Beneath the window stands a row 
 
 Of dusty benches, rough and rude ; 
 And bars and files are thrown thereon. 
 And vices on the edge are screwed ; 
 And see the last year's ahnanao, 
 With songs and ballads torn and black. 
 And battle prints by sea and land. 
 That line the walls on every hand. 
 
 The forge is in a little nook 
 
 Before the chimney slant and wide. 
 And, in a leather apron clad. 
 
 You see the helper by its side : 
 Nodding his head and paper crown, 
 He moves the handle up and down 
 Beneath his arm, with motion slow, 
 And makes the rattling bellows blow. 
 
 Hard by, the blacksmith folds his arms. 
 And swells their knotty sinews strong j 
 Or turns his iron in the fire, 
 
 And rakes the coals, and hums a song ; 
 But when his heat throws out its light. 
 He hurries to the anvil bright. 
 And sledges fall with deafening sound. 
 And sparks are flying thick around. 
 
 'The village idlers lounge about, 
 And talk the county gossip o'er ; 
 And now and then a farmer's man 
 
 Drives up on horseback to the door ; 
 And reapers come from pastures near. 
 And Ned, the ploughman, with his steer ; 
 And passing teamsters broken down, 
 O'erloaded for the neighboring town. 
 
 From morning's break to evening's close, 
 
 In early spring and autumn lime. 
 The dusky blacksmith plies his craft, 
 And makes his heavy anvil chime ; 
 And oft he works at dead of night 
 Like some deep thinker, strong and bright, 
 That shapes his strong, laborious lore, 
 In iron thoughts for evermore I 
 
 THE USE OF TEARS, 
 
 B T MRS. L 
 
 A B B L L 
 
 Whek the blinding tear-drops stand 
 
 In the eye unused to weep. 
 Oh! 'tis then an angel band 
 
 O'er the heart blest vigils keep. 
 Through those tears a ray doth shine 
 
 Never, never seen before. 
 Light and glory all divine. 
 
 Gleaming through those tears the more. 
 
 There are scenes the eye sees not 
 When the world attracts it most, — 
 
 Claiming ear and eye and thought, 
 Inner life, and beauty lost '. 
 
 And how cold and hard and lovr. 
 
 As the iceberg of the Pole, 
 la the heart till melting flows 
 
 Love through tears into the soul. 
 
 When wo sit in Eden-bowers, 
 
 Earthly joy but dims the sight; 
 Swiftly haste the world-lit hours. 
 
 Blinding with their meteor light. 
 Tears are messengers of Lo^'e 
 
 Angel-borne, in mercy given. 
 Bringing visions from above, 
 
 God and glory, light and Heaven ! 
 
LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 WITH A PORTRAIT. 
 
 LuDWiG KossoTH was born in ISOO in a little 
 village of the Zemplin district in northern Hun- 
 gary. He was of a Sclavonian family. His pa- 
 rents were so poor that he was obliged to provide 
 for hi.'i own education. After completing his le- 
 gal studies in Pesth, he lived in the greatest pov- 
 erty until several deputies made him their agent. 
 By these means he acquired that accurate know- 
 ledge of complicated affairs of the country for 
 which he was afterwards distinguished. The ne- 
 cessity for completing his education brought also 
 the means of doing so. His literary talents, 
 which were discovered by his employers, were 
 Ktill further developed when he commenced the 
 editorship of a parliamentary journal. Hitherto 
 no such paper had existed in Uungajy. The 
 most important debates of both Assemblies were 
 concealed withiu the walls of the Diet-house ; the 
 official journals contained only some meagre no- 
 tices. The more popular Kossuth's paper became, 
 the greater were tlie hindrances opposed by the 
 Government to a work so dangerous to itself. 
 His journal was lithographed in order to avoid the 
 censure to which all printed works were subject. 
 The police managed to interpret the law so as to 
 include lithographs under the head of printed 
 documents, and forbade the political reports. 
 Kossuth now had recourse to the expedient of cir- 
 culating hi-" journal by means of written copies. 
 His editorial office in Pesth was daily frequented 
 by a number of law-students and other young men, 
 each of whom took a copy of that day's journal. 
 The copies thus produced travelled from house to 
 house, from province to province ; and though 
 Kossuth had few subscribers, he had thousands 
 of readers. The censure of the press could not 
 touch him now, and the Government had recourse 
 to its favorite step of imprisonment. One quiet 
 niglit a police force broke into the house wliere 
 Kossuth lived, made him rise from his bed, and 
 took him off to prison. Tiie people invest this 
 persecution of their hero with a somewhat roman- 
 tic dress. According to their statement, Kossuth 
 was led round about with bandaged eyes, and 
 was taken to prison also blindfold, so that he did 
 not know where he was confined. His imprison- 
 ment commenced in 1837 ; it terminated in 1&39 
 
 by a grand amnesty. Two other patriots were 
 confined with him, Wesseleuyi and another of less 
 note, whose name we have not been able to ascer- 
 tain. Wesselenyi grew blind in prison ; the other 
 became mad. Kossuth came forthwith impaired 
 health, but unsubdued in spirit, to labor unsparing- 
 ly for the renovation of his country. The regula- 
 tions concerning the press being now less adverse 
 to liberty, Kossuth founded a political journal in 
 Pesth, which soon became more generally read 
 than any other in th.e country. "His abilities," 
 eays a Sclavonian writer, " were now acknowl- 
 edged liy all. His mind, whicli had for some time 
 been at rest, was only strengthened and invigora- 
 ted by long repose. Like a bubbling stream, he 
 watered the dry fields and deserts of old Hunga- 
 rian society ; like a storm, he swept over the tow- 
 ering growth of feudalism. Like a botanist who 
 knows, observes and gathers every plant, was he 
 in his restless activity. He found material on 
 every side, and in his hands everything received 
 life and truth." He was intimately acquainted 
 with all the social and municipal rights of the va- 
 rious provinces, and in his paper he unsparingly 
 exposed all trick and oppression practised by the 
 landed proprietors and the officials of the country. 
 Above all things he labored to maintain, strength- 
 en and do honor to the Magyar nationality ; to 
 foster the democratic element and the independ- 
 ence of the country at large. With these views 
 he endeavored to rouse the activity of the now 
 noble representatives of the country, and also to 
 effect a change in the city members, in order to 
 pave the way for a truly representative Govern- 
 ment. Though he was of a speculative turn of 
 mind, he engaged in practical labors with zeal and 
 distinction. He founded an industrial union, the first 
 act of whicl), an industrial exhibition, completely 
 removed the erroneous idea that the country 
 had nothing worthy of notice. The efforts of the 
 society were specially directed to encounige in- 
 dustry by poly tcchtiic reports and schools, and to 
 support its undertaking by tolid assistance One 
 consequence of tliis encouragement to industry 
 was another institution of Kossuth's, one how- 
 ever of questionable utility, namely, a protection- 
 ist union to support home manufactures against 
 
236 
 
 LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 those of foreign countiies. His services in the 
 founding of the Hungarian Trade-society and in 
 many other active movements, were not less im- 
 pDrtant than his efforts for the improvement and 
 extension of many Hungarian manufactures. In 
 the Diet it was long before Kossuth met with any 
 success. The moderate party saw their hopes of 
 a reconciliation with the Government at Vienna 
 destroyed. He was accused of destructive ten- 
 dencies; the sincerity of his intentions was ques- 
 tioned; calumny was busy against him on every 
 side. In 1847, Kossuth offered himself to the 
 Pesth district as a candidate for the Diet. His 
 opponent was the Conservative, Biilla, who ob- 
 tained 1,314 votes, while Kossuth had 2,948. In 
 this Diet Kossuth rose to the position of first speak- 
 er of the Opposition. By his brilliant eloquence, 
 by his moderation and dignity, he gained the ap- 
 probation even of his political opponents. The 
 innumerable slanders by which he had been as- 
 sailed were silenced by his distinguished talent. 
 This Diet was the last of the old recjime. A new 
 era was commenced in Hungary by the thunder- 
 ing eloquence in which Kossuth denounced all the 
 sins and f;iilings of the Metternich system. 
 
 The news of the downfall of Louis Philippe's 
 throne caused great excitement in Hungary, and 
 encouraged the Opposition to assume a more de- 
 cided attitude. They condemned in the most se- 
 vere manner the whole policy of the Vienna Cab- 
 inet, and hinted at the overthrow of the Austrian 
 monarchy if another course were not immediately 
 adopted. They now openly acknowledged their 
 earnest wish, which they had hitherto not express- 
 ed, because they scarcely dared to hope for its 
 fulfilment, and demanded a constitutional Govern- 
 ment for the whole of Austria, and an independent 
 Ministry for Hungary. Ludwig Kossuth was the 
 man to seize the proper moment, and give utter- 
 ance to the long-suppressed desires. It was on a 
 financial question that he spoke. The impression 
 made by his eloquence was most intense. Even 
 the members of the Opposition were astonished at 
 this bold speech, which they themselves consider- 
 ed too daring. Nor was its influence confined to 
 Hungary alone ; it extended to Austria, and pre- 
 pared the way for the outbreak of the revolution. 
 When the Emperor granted tlie demands of the 
 people, and permitted the formation of an Hunga- 
 rian Ministry under the presidency of Bathyani, 
 Kossuth, the " Liberator of Hungary," took office 
 as Minister of Finance, and as such was the di- 
 recting spirit of the new Government. Ludwig 
 Bathyani and Kossuth were old allies who had 
 fought together before this time ; both were striv- 
 ing for one end, viz., to guard the independence of 
 
 Hungary against the attacks and usurpations of 
 the Austrian dynasty. They appeard to be ne- 
 cessary to each other, and formed a close offensive 
 and defensive alliance. Bathyani's family was 
 one of the richest, oldest, and most important ; its 
 head, Ludwig, one of the most esteemed nobles 
 in the country. Kossuth used Bathyani to give 
 more weight to the national movement by a name 
 of importance and renown, and to further its ob- 
 jects among the nobility. Bathyani, on his side, 
 could not dispense with Kossuth's pen and tongue 
 — Kossuth's talent, energy and perseverance — 
 which had not their equal in all Hungary. The 
 bond between them was made still closer from 
 the beginning of tlie Diet. When Kossuth became 
 a direct leader of the Opposition in the Lowee 
 House, Bathyani occupied a similar position in 
 the Upper Chamber. Nevertheless, the charac- 
 ters as well as the ultimate aims of these two 
 men were widely dissimilar. Bathyani was a 
 Liberal magnate, who hailed the new ideas as 
 far as a man could do so who looks back with 
 pride on the age, splendor, riches and renown of 
 his family. He was opposed to any servile caste, 
 to all the vices and privileges of the nobility 
 which oppress the people ; but he would never 
 have consented to the abolition of titles. The 
 Gr. ( Graf, or Count) was never absent from his 
 signature as Minister, nor from that of his brother ; 
 and when Ludwig Bathyani was placed before 
 Hainan's court-martial, instead of vindicating 
 himself by the fact that almost all his measures 
 had received the assent of Ferdinand, he most 
 characteristically declared that, as an Hungarian 
 magnate, he could be tried only by his peers, and 
 not by a military tribunal. 
 
 Kossuth, on the other hand, was a Liberal Mag- 
 yar, who advocated freedom and progress in so 
 far as they appeared to forward his Magyar views ; 
 when, however, this was not the case, the Magyar 
 triumphed over all else. Hence it naturally en- 
 sued that whenever Liberalism came into colli- 
 sion with Magyarism, Bathyani was moie Liberal 
 than Kossuth. Dut sometimes the reverse was 
 the case. The Liberal magnate valued historical 
 right, royal dignity, tfec, because if they fell, his 
 nobility must fall with them; while the Liberal 
 Magyar was opposed to all those things where 
 they in any way interfered with his great national 
 objects. Here the Magyar was more Liberal than 
 the magnate. 
 
 Kossuth, as we have said, took office under Ba- 
 thyani as Minister of Finance. What he effected 
 in this position is almost incredible. Hungary 
 had no gold, no arms, no means of defence : Kos- 
 suth created all. Calumny now attacked him 
 
LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 237 
 
 with redoubled energy. He was accused of wish- 
 ing to make Hungary a republic — himself, first 
 dictator, and then king. But he triumphed over 
 all these slanders. His popularity increased under 
 the attacks made upon him from every side. His 
 enemies say that he bewitches every one who 
 comes near him. In fact, he did gain over many 
 magnates who had despised the movement as 
 democratic, and won also to the popular party 
 many imperial officers; among others the brave 
 Messaros, who long refused to take office in Pesth, 
 but consented to it as soon as ever he came into 
 contact with Kossuth. During the summer of 
 1848 Kossuth's health was extremely bad, and 
 he was often so weak as to be obliged to speak 
 to the deputies in a sitting posture. This, how- 
 ever, did not interfere in the least with his activ- 
 ity, la spite of his physical weakness, he framed 
 the financial measures which replenished the ex- 
 hausted exchequer; be electrified the Diet with 
 his eloquence ; he sent appeal after appeal among 
 the people, rousing them to the holy contest. We 
 give a translation from one of these appeals as 
 affording the most striking picture of the elo- 
 quence of the man who wrote it and the character 
 of the people to whom it was addressed. It was 
 written in the latter part of September, 1848, 
 when the intrigues of the Court of Vienna had 
 called forth the counter-revolution under Jella- 
 chich, which threatened to destroy the new-born 
 Hungarian liberty: — 
 
 "As a propliet do I speak unto you, patriots! 
 poor betrayed Magyars ! Often have I prophe- 
 sied in the last seven years, and I tremble when 
 1 see that all, all has so fearfully soon been ful- 
 filled. Yea, each and all of my words have come 
 to pass. I even foretold tlie dreadful illness of a 
 man the memory of wliom is connected with so 
 many benefits, and whose mental death fills the 
 human breast with deep pain.* What I foretold 
 of the monarchy, of the Hungarian aristocracy, of 
 Croatia, has all come to pass; and that which I 
 prophesied concerning the dynasty will soon be 
 fulfilled. I tremble at myself It is as if the 
 book of fate lay open before me ; in vain do I 
 close my eyes upon it, the light penetrates into 
 my soul like a flash of lightning through darkness. 
 I yield to its power, and again will I prophesy. 
 Hear me, patriots ! The eternal God mani- 
 fests himself, not in single wonders, but in univer- 
 sal laws. It is an eternal law of God, that he 
 who forsakes himself is abandoned also by God. 
 It is an eternal law that God will help him who 
 lielps himself. It is a law of God, that perfidy 
 
 * This refers to Szecheny, one of the most noble men of 
 Hungary, -who had become mad. 
 
 in the end brings its own punishment. It is a 
 law of God, that whosoever serves perfidy or un- 
 righteousness prepares the way for the triumph 
 of righteousness. Resting on these eternal laws 
 of the universe, I swear that my prophecy will 
 be fulfilled. And my prophecy is this: From 
 Jellachich's incursion into Hungary will result 
 Hungarian freedom. In the sacred name of our 
 poor, perfidiously-betrayed Hungarian fatherland, 
 I entreat you to believe in the prophecy, and it 
 will be fulfilled. Of what does the power of this 
 Jellachich consist ? It is a email physical force 
 of 60,000 or 70,000 men, which for a moment 
 appears great. But what is behind him ? What 
 support has he ? AVhere is the nation to uphold 
 him with the inspiration of a righteous cause ? 
 Nowhere, nowhere ! Such an army cannot lay 
 waste our country, conquer us, or profit by the 
 victory. Batu Chan overran our fatherland with 
 a hundred thousand men. He destroyed, but he 
 was obliged to yield. Such a Jellachichexpedi- 
 tion is like a swarm of locusts ; it presses ever 
 onwards, but it always decreases and falls at last 
 to the ground. The farther Jellachich advances 
 into the midst of the people, the more certain it 
 is that not one of his force will ever again see the 
 waters of the Save. We Hungarians need only 
 resolve, and we are sufficient to stone his army 
 to death. We will speak in due time of what 
 shall happen next. The Magyar would not de- 
 serve that God's sun should shine upon him, if 
 his first thought in the morning, and his last at 
 night, were not the recollection of the base per- 
 fidy, the hateful and unexampled treachery which 
 has sworn to root out the Magyars from the hu- 
 man race. The Hungarians have now two things 
 to do. The first is, to rise up in a mass to drive 
 back the enemy who has set foot on their native 
 soil. The second is, to remember themselves. 
 If the Magyars do not tliese two things, they are 
 a dastardly, miserable race, whose name will be 
 synonymous in history with shame and degrada- 
 tion ; they will be a cowardly, wretched race, who 
 have disgraced the sacred memory of their fore- 
 fathers, of whom the eternal God himself will say, 
 ' I repent that I created them.' Then will the 
 Magyar people be so accursed of God that the air 
 will refuse them its enlivening power, the fruitful 
 corn-field will in tlieir liands become a sandy des- 
 ert, at their approach the refreshing stream will 
 dry up. Homeless will the Magyar wander over 
 the eartli ; in vain will lie beg from the hand of 
 charity the dry bread of alms. Tiie strangers who 
 will make him a beggar in his fatherland will 
 give him no alms; the}- will strike him in the 
 face — him, a beggar whom every rascal may buf- 
 
238 
 
 LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 fet with impunity, like a clog without a master", 
 he will become like the Indian pariah, who is 
 hunted with hounds ! And in vain will he turn 
 for comfort to religion ; it will afford him no con- 
 solation. God, the work of whose bands he has 
 degraded by his cowardice, will not forgive him 
 his sins either in this world or the next. The 
 maiden to whom he shall lift his eyes will drive 
 him from her threshold with a besom like a mangy 
 cur; his wife will spit in his face with contempt ; 
 the first word of his child will be a curse upon 
 his father. Oh, horror, horror! But so will it be. 
 With the inexorable oath of a curse do I swear 
 by the God of freedom, by the insulted memory 
 of our ancestors, who bought this fatherland with 
 their blood, I swear that so will it be if the Mag- 
 yar race is base enough not to rise up against this 
 servile jailor, Jellachich, and to crush the Servian 
 robbers and that traitor who has dared to lift his 
 hand against the Magyars, as the whirlwind 
 sweeps away the unbound sheaves before it, or 
 if the Hungarian people be cowardly enough to 
 rest content with the annihilation of their ene- 
 mies, or to forget for a moment the traitor and 
 his treachery. No ! no ! the Magyar cannot do 
 it; and cursed be he that does! Therefore say 
 I unto you, that from Jellachich's incursion will 
 come Hungary's freedom. First let us conquer, 
 and then we will settle all. This is our task- 
 To arms, then, all ye who are men ! But let the 
 women dig a great grave between Vessprim and 
 Weissenburg, in which we will bury the Hunga- 
 rian name, the Hungarian honor, the Hungarian 
 nation — or our enemies ; and over which shall 
 rise a monument to tha shame of Hungary, with 
 this inscription, ' Thus does God punish coward- 
 ice !' or tlie ever-green tree of freedom, from 
 whose foliage shall be heard the voice of God, as 
 it spoke to Moses from the burning bush, saying, 
 ' The place whereon thou standest is holy ; thus 
 do I reward valor with the freedom, renown, wel- 
 fare, and happiness of the Magyars!' To arms, 
 then, Magyar ! for thy life, for thy honor, for 
 thy fatherland, for thy house, for thy hearth, which 
 thou hast inherited from thy ancestors, for the 
 ground which nourishes thee, which thou hast 
 cultivated with thy bloody sweat, and which now 
 the traitors, as a reward for the overthrow of your 
 liberty, will deliver into the hands of the Servians, 
 the lUyrians, that they may make you accursed 
 in your own native land, as the poor Temerin 
 Magyars are already become. Up! up ! to arms, 
 Magyars! He who obeys not the law, to which 
 the King himself has sworn, is a traitor ; and take 
 the traitor prisoner and deliver him up to the 
 law. Our fatherland is our all ! Fatherland is 
 
 everything ! To save our fatherland is our first 
 duty 1 If we save our fatherland we shall save 
 ourselves ! Whoever has the least influence in 
 a village or a province, let him seize a banner. 
 Let us hear upon tlie Hungarian plains no other 
 music than Rakozy's mournful earnest march > 
 gather together ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred, a 
 thousand men, as many as it is possible, and lead 
 them to Vessprim ; there shall the whole Magyjfr 
 people assemble together, as the risen human 
 race shall assemble on the day of judgment — and 
 then against the enemy ! Sing your sacred hymn, 
 ' God save our fatherland, our Magyar fatherland; 
 annihilate our enemies who persecute us! Up, 
 up, to arms! With us are God and the right!'" 
 
 When the struggle with Austria commenced> 
 Kossuth's activity was redoubled. Notwithstand- 
 ing his numerous duties as President of the Com- 
 mittee of National Defences, he found time to 
 hasten from place to place, rousing the people to 
 arms. His eloquence, his valor, his ability, were 
 the very soul of this righteous insurrection, of 
 this war defensible, if ever war were, against ty- 
 ranny, cruelty, and wicked oppression. Our space 
 will not admit of our giving particulars of the 
 contest. The events are too recent, too deeply 
 and painfully interesting to be already forgotten 
 by Englishmen, who must feel the greatest sym- 
 pathy in efforts to gain that freedom which they 
 themselves possess and value above all price. 
 We have all mourned over the fall of that noble 
 band of patriots ; we have all felt bitter indigna- 
 tion against Austrian barbarity. 
 
 We have given a specimen of Kossuth's elo- 
 quence and spirit in calling his fellow-countrymen 
 to rise for their mother country. We now quote 
 a touching account of his farewell to them when 
 the struggle was over and their ardent hopes 
 were destroyed: — 
 
 " Whoever saw the sun-burnt faces of the war- 
 riors who surrounded the bending form of Kossuth 
 when he pronounced his farewell words in the 
 barracks of Schumla; whoever beheld the hot 
 tears coursing down the cheeks of his bearded 
 Honveds when Kossuth bade them ' Istenaldjon ! 
 ' God bless you !' will have been reminded by the 
 incident of 'the Old Guard,' who retained their 
 unswerving devotion to Napoleon to the very 
 latest moment. That moving scene so often rep- 
 resented in pictures, ' Napoleon's farewell,' was' 
 on the loth of February, 1850, rehearsed before 
 my eyes in living colors. The Honveds hung in 
 silence on his every word, that the echo of those 
 well-beloved and inspiring tones might long lin- 
 ger in their souls. Nor did Kossuth forget to gaze 
 long and intently with his streaming eyes upon 
 
LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 239 
 
 the countenance of each brave comrade there, to 
 fix the features in his memory. Profoundly agi- 
 tated as he was, with a trembling voice he spoke 
 these words : ' Brothers, the first hard necessity 
 of my life was that to which I was subjected 
 when constrained to abandon my native soil and 
 my noble nation; the second meets me today, 
 when I behold myself obliged to bid a long fare- 
 well to you, glorious remnants of the brave Hun 
 garian army, and compelled by force to depart 
 from Europe to a place where the grave yearns 
 for me. Ye are still strong and efiicient ; ye are 
 still permitted to bear arms for your fatherland 
 and struggle for its freedom — a boon no longer 
 granted to me, for I feel my strength declining 
 every day. I yield to the unalterable decree of 
 destiny, and behold myself doomed to the same 
 sad lot of exile which was meted out to my pre- 
 decessor, Rakoezy. Brothers ! ye are yet young 
 enough to see our fatherland in the glory of her 
 restoration to freedom. Should ye be so blest 
 as to witness this, swear to me that ye Mill not 
 leave my bones to moulder in a foreign soil, in 
 the land of this barbarian ! This ye will promi:?e 
 me, and this, I am couvinced, ye will fulfil.' Now 
 Count Ladislaus Vay, with uncovered head, step- 
 ped up to Kossuth, and said aloud in a strong and 
 manly voice, ' Great man ! who standest there 
 pure and spotless before the eyes of the world, 
 thou whom the Hungarian nation honors to-day 
 as it honored thee when it took thee for its Re- 
 gent, thou wilt, thou shalt, thou 7)iust live .' Not 
 thy bones but thy living self will we bear back 
 in triumph to our fatherland ; this we swear by 
 the Almighty God.' And all bared their heads 
 while they uplifted their hands to take the oath, 
 and solemidy repeated, ' Esku Zunk,' ' We swear 
 it!' 
 
 " Kossuth kissed and embraced those who stood 
 nearest to him. All pressed towards him to grasp 
 his hand and bathe it with tears. The old Hus- 
 sars strove once more to press the hem of his 
 mantle to their lips. The whole group was heart- 
 rending to look upon ; and even the Turks — and 
 this is saying much — were moved to tears at the 
 sight. The train then repaired to Count Casimir 
 Bathyani, to bid him also a heartfelt farewell. 
 The Count left manj^ beautiful reflections of his 
 Doble soul in the remembrance of the emigration. 
 
 "Kossuth mounted his horse and was borne 
 away. That brilliant star of the firmament of 
 Hungary, from which the nation had received its 
 greatest light, gradually disappeared until it could 
 no longer be seen in the whole circuit of tlie hori- 
 zon. The waves of tiie Black Sea once more gave 
 back a reflection of its splendor, and a long night 
 
 closedinupon that too brief day."' ("Sketches of 
 the Magyars," itc, by Von Korn.) 
 
 In the "Hue and Cry," in which the Auslrians 
 proscribed his wife and three children (!) as well 
 as himself, Kossuth's portrait is given to the fol- 
 lowing effect: "His proud forehead is set in con- 
 trast with his smiling lips and pearly teeth. The 
 brilliant glow of his dark-blue eyes is as well 
 defined as the sickly paleness of his noble counte- 
 nance. His charming voice is specially remark- 
 able; no less his knowledge of all the principal 
 European languages. In summer he pever wears 
 a cravat, but simply a curled collar." His men- 
 tal and physical qualities are summed up by the 
 author of " Revelations of Russia" in these words : 
 " I believe Kossuth to have as profound a know- 
 ledge of human nature as his favorite writer, 
 Shakspeure, of whose bust his features in some 
 degree remind you. To complete his physical 
 portraiture, I would only add to this description 
 the chin antl mouth of Byron, the eye and com- 
 plexion of Bonaparte, as painted by De la Roche, 
 and beg the reader to suppose the efifects of a few 
 years' imprisonment, of his long parliamentary 
 campaign, and of the period of his ministry and 
 presidency. His knowledge of human nature, 
 together with his power of adapting himself to 
 the capacity of those he addresses, is the source 
 of his eloquence ; and if the test of eloquence is 
 to move and to persuade, he is assuredly the most 
 eloquent of all men living. The masses admir- 
 ingly term his style, in addressing them. Biblical ; 
 and perhaps do not inaptly characterize it. His 
 enemies reproach him justly with being a poet; 
 and assuredly his writings and his speeches are 
 filled with poetry of the highest order ; but they 
 fell into a grievous error when they thereby in. 
 tended to imply that he is nothing but a poet. 
 The distinctive peculiarity in which he differs 
 from all other popular leaders I can remember 
 who have been gifted with that poetical genius 
 which is so important a constituent of eloquence, 
 is the rare combination with that talent of an 
 equal aptitude for figures, facts, and administra- 
 tive detail. There are tAvo men in him : the Kos. 
 suth, eloquent with tongue and pen in half the 
 languages of Europe, who can raise the whirl, 
 wind of passion in the masses, and lead the peo - 
 pie as Moses did the Israelites; and the logically 
 argumentative Kossuth of deliberative assem- 
 blies, the administrator and financier who writes 
 a secretary's clear round hand, and enters will- 
 ingly into the most laborious detail. Add to 
 this the most fervent patriotism and an integrity 
 and disinterestedness which has never been as- 
 sailed e.xcept by notorious hirelings of Austi'ia. 
 
240 
 
 LOUIS KOSSUTH. 
 
 You will say from all this that I who repudiate 
 so energetically the idolatry of hero-worship have 
 fallen into it. It is not so. I am perfectly awake 
 to Kossuth's faults, which are various and many. 
 He is too soft-hearted. He could never sign a 
 death-warrant ; he was hardly ever known to pun. 
 ish. I believe that if Kossuth had a servant who 
 could not clean his boots, he would never think of 
 superseding him, but clean the boots himself. 
 On this principle he wastes his time and energies 
 in details in which he should have no concern, 
 and wears out, if not his untiring mind, a body 
 which would be otherwise robust. These weak- 
 nesses, which might be amiable in an individual, 
 are fetal in one who is literally a nation's repre- 
 sentative. But I believe that he has judgment 
 enough to see, and will have sufficient determina- 
 tion to correct these faults. In conclusion, I can 
 only say that, after the calamitous issue of the 
 struggle which he directed, the people call him 
 Father Kossuth, wear shreds of his porti'ait on 
 their bosoms, invest their hoarded savings in his 
 notes, which I have seen purchased at twenty 
 per cent., though their possession is felony, and 
 that if he could present himself on the frontier 
 with 400,000 muskets, a few presses, and some 
 bales of paper, 400,000 soldiers would rise up, 
 and he would find his paper-money received as 
 eagerly as before. The peasantry affectionately 
 remember Kossuth as their emancipator, and the 
 proprietors gratefully recall that to the measures 
 into which his eloquence persuaded them is due 
 that hearty reconciliation between all classes 
 which has made the Magyar nation the only one 
 on the continent of Europe in which, amid its 
 misfortunes, all heart-burnings between caste and 
 class are set at rest." (" Memoirs of a Hungarian 
 Lady." By Theresa Pulzky. Vol. ii., p. 354 
 seq.) 
 
 Specially deserving of notice is Kossuth's gentle, 
 tender, and trusting heart. His unsuspiciousness 
 is illustrated in the fact, that though be was well 
 aware of Goergey's ambition, he did not till the 
 last believe him capable of treachery. His good- 
 ness of nature made him respect the life of man 
 as the highest gift of God, and he neither could, 
 would, nor ever did sign a death-warrant, though 
 placed at the head of a fearful revolutionary strug- 
 gle. His religious earnestness and high moral 
 principle shone forth advantageously when the 
 proposal was made by Turkey to himself and fel- 
 low fugitives, that if they turned Mohammedans, 
 the government would be able to guarantee their 
 safety, as the Koran condemns, as an unpardon- 
 able crime, the delivery of a Mussulman to his 
 enemies. Most of the emigrants replied to the 
 
 overture, "Rather the Russians than the Aus- 
 rians, rather Mohammedanism than the Russians." 
 Kossuth answered that he did not pretend to con- 
 trol the conduct of any of his compatriots; that 
 every man's religious convictions were a matter 
 which rested only between himself and God; 
 that, consistently with that sincerity and truth to 
 which he had always rigidly adhered, he could 
 hold out no hope that if they refused the offer 
 made them their extradition would be averted, 
 and that if given up to Austria, he knew its Cab- 
 inet too well to allow them to cherish for a mo- 
 ment the illusion that any mercy would be 
 shown. Nevertheless, for his own part, he would, 
 when asked to abjure the faith of his forefethers 
 through terror of the executioner, welcome rath- 
 er the gibbet and the block ; and he concluded 
 by denouncing curses on the tongue which would 
 dare to propose to him anyl;hing so infamous. 
 
 It is not easy to form an exact conception of 
 a man who has been engaged in a great political 
 struggle, in which parties of various sympathies 
 and aims have been actively engaged. The pre- 
 ceding statements, however, contain facts and 
 views out of which a correct judgement of Kos- 
 suth's character may be gathered. H ighly gifted 
 as a man, he has appeared in different liglits ac- 
 cordingly as he has been regarded from different 
 points of view and by disagreeing partisans. His 
 admitted tenderness of heart has been reproached 
 as a weakness ; and doubtless in a statesman 
 firmness of nerve, if not vigor, is sometimes ne- 
 cessary. Yet if his aversion to severity detracts 
 from his efficiency as a Governor, it makes him 
 more estimable in his private relations. His en- 
 emies have pronounced him an agitator rather 
 than a statesman ; but occasions there are when 
 the qualities of an honest agitator are of great 
 value. Even friends of Kossuth, however, hold, 
 that had his mind possessed more statesmanlike 
 qualities, he would have less confidently reckon- 
 ed on receiving succor from Liberal govern- 
 ments; and so, with a less incorrect estimate of 
 available resources, have served the cause of prac- 
 ticable good more effectually. The truth seems to 
 be that, with a most impressible temperament, he 
 is more fitted to arouse an oppressed people than 
 to devise the measures or procure the resources re- 
 quisite for the successful assertion of their liberty. 
 Equally true is it that his sympathies and prin- 
 ciples were too exclusively and too ardently demo- 
 cratic to conciliate and bring into effective union the 
 hereditary, prescriptive and traditional forces of 
 ancient and historical races who had little else in 
 common but the same soil. Hence was he dis- 
 liked and distrusted by the nobility, from whom 
 
THE WARRIOR AND THE POET. 
 
 241 
 
 he obtained concessions chiefly in virtue of his 
 command over the people. Tliat command was 
 supreme. Its potency may be illustrated by an 
 anecdote. A file of Hungarian prisoners was led 
 into Szegedin, attended by a strong Austrian 
 guard. Being a market day, the town was crowd- 
 ed with sturdy peasants who had come from the 
 whole country around. From some cause tlie 
 van of the soldiers had fallen a little behind, and 
 the first prisoner entered the market-place al' 
 most alone for the moment. As he came to the 
 spot where Kossuth's last and very stirring 
 speeches were made, he suddenly stopped, took 
 off his hat, raised his fettered hands to heaven, 
 and with a voice which rang like a trumpet over 
 the immense crowd, shouted again and again, 
 "Eljen Kossuth ! Eljen Kossuth !" In a moment, 
 despite the Austrian cannen and the long line of 
 soldiers whose bayonets almost touched them, 
 the people put forth a shout, like the roar of the 
 sea on the shore, again and again ringing out the 
 words "Eljen Kossuth!" The whole Austrian 
 forces were at once called out for fear of an out- 
 break. 
 
 For this empire over the people Kossuth is 
 much indebted to his eloquence. Certainly, if 
 eloquence is to be estimated by the effects it pro- 
 duces, the eloquence of Kossuth is surpassingly 
 great. But with even the most higlily-gifted na- 
 
 tures eloquence waits an occasion. The centre 
 of a great national struggle is pre-eminently the 
 point for the concentration of the electric influence, 
 and for the due utterance of eloquence a native 
 language, if not a native soul, is indispensable. 
 Moments of vexation, ceremonious audiences, and 
 municipal small talk quench rather than stimulate 
 eloquence. We are not, then, to question Kos- 
 suth's oratorical power, if we find his travelling 
 words somewhat high-flown. Besides, eloquence 
 is a national growth. It varies with latitude and 
 longitude. If to us Kossuth's eloquence appear 
 too ardent, too imaginative, even a little flighty, 
 we must remember that we are of Anglo-Saxon 
 blood, and live far north and west. His own 
 countrymen are the best judges of Kossuth's ora- 
 tory ; and they have felt its power and acted un- 
 der its impulse. Whether his wisdom equal his 
 eloquence will be made clear in his future career. 
 That he is not a mere poet nor a mere agitator, 
 but a noble-hearted patriot as well as a good and 
 disinterested man, what he has already effected 
 makes abundantly manifest. Undoubtedly his 
 imagination is strong and vivid. We hope that 
 in strength of intellect and breadth of view he 
 has powers of corresponding ])otency. Best of 
 all is his nobility of soul. It is moral greatness 
 that makes truly great men. 
 
 THE WARRIOR AND THE POET 
 
 BT CAROLINE CHE3BBBO 
 
 One ruled in camp and state, and one 
 In glorious realms of heart and mind ; 
 
 And both a conquering race have run. 
 And in their victories bless'd mankind. 
 
 They 've nobly won their burial-place, 
 Deep in a nation's reverent heart ! 
 
 The lyre Sne touched with all the grace 
 Of peerless genius, linked with art, 
 
 The sword He held, are silent each : 
 Oh lay these emblems gently down 
 
 Close by our dead — within their reach — 
 And with them lay the laurel crown. 
 
 For they have won the noblest meed, 
 A nation's sad, bereavement-tears ; 
 
 And grandly will their histories read 
 To glistening eyes of future years. 
 
 For her how high the thoughts of pride, 
 How full the thankful hearts -w^ill swell, 
 
 For love and power stood side by side 
 To teach her their bewildering spell. 
 
 They 've nobly won the noblest meed. 
 The honors which most proudly shine ; 
 
 His fire-nerved soul, of daring deed, 
 And hers who sang with "bards sublime." 
 
 They struggled through life's toilsome ways. 
 Undaunted, wheresoe'er they led ; 
 
 They counted wearying years but days. 
 O'er which one sun its love-light shed. 
 
 Thoy struggled well — they died outworn — 
 High let their grand memorial rise; 
 
 They braved the battle-shock and storm, 
 A crusade-cross upon them lies. 
 
 Xo more on him the government — 
 No more for her the sickening strife : 
 
 The chief has scaled Time's battlement — 
 She tunes her harp to angel-life I 
 
THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH-BED 
 
 BY E , 
 
 CANNING. 
 
 It was a summer sunset. All the west 
 Was strewn with gorgeousness — a cloudy sea 
 That surged with golden glory. Day's last smiles 
 Were dying on the mountains, and the breeze 
 Forth in its twilight joyance came to kiss 
 The folding flowers, and with their stolen sweets 
 Lull Nature to her dreams. The busy hour 
 Of gathering to rest was come ; the eye 
 Of toil watched wearily the ling'ring sun. 
 And ached to slumber. Carolling good night, 
 Sought the plumed songster his repose. The vale 
 Looked dreamy as the gathering mist grew deep 
 Upon its bosom ; and began the rill 
 To lift a louder clamor from afar. 
 
 The lattice of an humble cottage stood 
 On the calm scene unclosed. A woodbine hung 
 Its rich, dark burden in luxuriance 
 Above the trellis, wooing dalliance 
 Of the soft zephyr, and its green festoons 
 Contrasted with a curtain bejLuteously, 
 That shook its folds of spotless white within. 
 No eye looked forth in gladness thence, to trace 
 The step of evening on the landscape far, 
 And watch the stilling pulses of a world : 
 The chamber of the dying opened there. 
 There was a hush of tongues within, and he 
 Who pressed the pillow that should be his bier 
 Looked with a Christian's hope beyond the tomb. 
 Death's hand was busy ; for his frigid brow 
 Was dampened, and the fallen cheek had lost 
 Its mantling life-blood. Every nerve grew still. 
 And from each feature looked mortality 
 In ghastly triumph. Life's last energy 
 Smiled at the conqueror through the eye, that shot 
 Unearthly lustre to illume the wreck 
 Of beauty and of manliness. Alas ! 
 That death should quench that glory, as it beamed 
 Like beacon on the boundary of Time. 
 There was a calmness in the upturned gaze. 
 Quickening at times to splendor, that bespoke 
 A spirit loosening its earth-clogged wing. 
 To sweep the fields that lie beyond the stars : 
 Ay — read it not e'en now in holiness 
 The mysteries of immortality. 
 And conned the gloried rhapsodies of heaven ? 
 
 The stillness deepened, and the twilight gloom 
 More sombre waxed upon the shadowy walls. 
 Noiselessly trembled in the breath of eve 
 The clustering woodbine, and the insect's drone 
 Which boomed without, or, sudden down-dropt, hushed, 
 Startled the deep solemnity — when lo ! 
 
 There burst a beam of sunset splendor bright 
 Athwart the casement, and its golden glow 
 Lit the calm features of the dying man. 
 Beauteous mockery ! that fain would catch 
 A borrowed brightness from that radiant eye 
 That lit itself where light knows no decline. 
 And hark ! was it an angel's voice that spoke ' 
 Softer than murmurs of the far-off grove, 
 There floated strains of untold melody ; 
 And thus an unseen minstrel seemed to sing : 
 
 Come, spirit immortal, 
 
 Thy pinion is free ! 
 And hosts of the blessed 
 
 Are waiting for thee 1 
 come, for earth's shadows 
 
 And sorrows are o'er. 
 And the tear-drop of anguish 
 
 Shall trickle no more. 
 
 Spread, spirit immortal, 
 
 Thy glorious wing ! 
 A seraph shall guide thee 
 
 Where seraphim sing. 
 Thy warfare is finished. 
 
 Thy sins are forgiven ; 
 The ransomed sliall welcome 
 
 Thine advent to heaven. 
 
 Away, for they call thee 
 
 To dwell with the blest, 
 Where joy never dies. 
 
 In the land of their rest, 
 Where the bright brow of love 
 
 Is undimmed by a frown. 
 And the conqueror beareth 
 
 The harp and the crown. 
 
 Haste, spirit, they're shouting 
 
 With raptures unknown ; 
 Thou 'It bend with the triumph 
 
 That circles the throne. 
 Lo ! splendor immortal 
 
 Illumines out way ! 
 Heaven opens ! God smileth ! 
 
 Haste, spirit, away I 
 
 The airy harp was hushed; yet lingering. 
 The latest numbers lengthened, softening still, 
 And like a dream of beauty died away. 
 The sunbeam faded, and the parting soul 
 Leaped to Ihe joyous summons forth, while burned 
 The latest smile of ecstasy behind. 
 
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