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cheerfully as their meals." I had never before heard him speak so highly in her praise, and this did not seem so intended, though greater commendation could not well have been bestowed. I never heard him utter compliments to her or of her, on any occasion. I often wondered at this; for he appeared to love her much, as she also did to reverence him. There was none of that flattering language or gesture so often observed between married people, and which is so grateful to self-love. I have considered this as, perhaps, one cause of the peculiar character of his wife. She was not one who sought a religious reputation, or to be conspicuous. Her piety seemed not in her view to be worthy of remark. Had she been accustomed to praise, she might have thought herself deserving of such notice, and have acquired such a taste for it, and been so in the habit of looking for it, as to repine, if not openly complain, when it was withheld. Praise too often blights and dwarfs our piety. But her piety was something so natural, that though the want of it might be cause of blame, its manifestation in all its branches could not entitle to praise, or bear to be rewarded, without imposing new and greater obligations. The discharge of her whole duty was so congenial, a yoke so easy, a burden so light, that when contemplated as a small, a permitted return, for benefits received, it was itself a reward her life from day to day; and to commend it, was to humble her and surprise her, as if with something opposed to the current of her thoughts and feelings. She has gone to her high reward. We may now praise her, not so much to honor her, as the religion she adorned. She was a noble instance of what WOMAN MAY BE. Her husband was a man of qualities stern and difficult to comply with, but he respected her; she held a sway over him, and was herself ever uncontrolled. His wishes were

anticipated, his character was well understood, and thus she knew when to reason and when to yield, and was equally judicious in both. Compliance with the wishes of others was no frustration of her own; it gave her the consciousness of victory, and made her empire the more complete. She was devoid of that selfesteem which deems it an act of inferiority to be of service to others; and was best pleased with the happiness she conferred, regarding it as the only legitimate field and proof of woman's sway. All this was done so naturally, so evenly, as not to obtrude the idea of any study to please, any task in duty, but still to leave evident that charity which "seeketh not her own," and "never faileth."

During this conversation the father told me that he considered his little son, who died about a twelvemonth before, in his ninth year, to have become pious in his earliest years through the instrumentality of his mother. He had never had occasion to cor

rect him for he was a child of remarkable ripeness of mind, for his age-and so far as he could judge, he had been ready to think him almost faultless. As a single exception, he mentioned the following circumstance. He had established, as a rule with all his children, that he would certainly punish them for lying and deception, if for nothing else. On some occasion, when this son and a colored boy of his, were present with other children, mischief had been done. Suspecting the colored boy had taken part in it, he inquired of his son if he knew this to be the case. The child, with some embarrassment, said he did not. He still thought he must know, and, on the following day, he called him up, and again questioned. "Did you, my son," said he, "tell me THE TRUTH?" Pausing a little, the boy cast himself upon his father, and with tears starting from his eyes, said, "No, papa, I DID NOT. The colored boy told me that if I informed you he would kill me; and I, through fear, promised him I would not." He had seemed unhappy ever since his father inquired of him; and his heart now sought relief in brokenness and contrition. The child's statement was found to be true in all respects. He was deeply penitent, and the father doubted if it was his duty to chastise him. He asked his son what he should do. "You must whip me, father, as you always said you should, or you will tell a lie," was the answer. He reasoned with him, and considering the peculiar circumstances of the case, offered to pardon. But this the child would not consent to have done, on the ground that his father would tell a falsehood, if he did not punish him. earnest was his son in this view of the case that the father did not dare let him go unpunished, from the fear of weakening the child's confidence in his own rectitude. The boy himself went for the rod with which he wished his father to punish him, and took off his coat, and when the strokes seemed too light, complained of his father that he did not strike more in earnest. Such was the scene that the heart-broken father was obliged to whip him severely. When this was done, the first words of the child were, "Now, papa, forgive me, and pray God to forgive me."

How remarkable was the conduct of this child contrasted with that of children generally! They are satisfied if they can escape punishment, how greatly soever they may deserve it. They complain of their parents for correcting them; think themselves wronged, and often indulge in angry feelings. This child never needed to be punished again. He was a good child; he loved his Saviour; he never gave his parents pain; he loved others better than himself. In his last sickness his chief anxiety seemed to be the trouble he was giving his parents who watched over him. He could not rest at night unless they took their usual sleep. On the night of his death he begged his parents to retire

early, saying that he did not need them, and should rest better if they would do so. About one o'clock in the morning, he desired them to be called up; as they entered, he said, "I have sent for you to say to you that I am about to die, and go where my Saviour is. Do not grieve-do not be sorry. I am willing to die; be godly, and you will soon join me."

Such is the end of the good child; such is the reward of parental faithfulness. "Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." There is a POWER in regulated, gracious affection, to pluck from death its sting, and from the grave its victory. There is a sense in which there is no death to the Christian-his dying is but a casting aside of imperfection, and a clothing of himself with immortality.

TIME.

HAIL, mighty potentate! whose right arm sways
The sceptre of a power that has no bound,

Save in the will of Him whose fiat lays

All other empires prostrate, and the sound

Of whose almighty voice alone can raze

Their pomp, and power, and beauty to the ground:
All mortal tongues their homage pay to thee,
Whose empire ends but in eternity!

Where was thy earliest reign ?-did the pale light?
Of the first star mark where its course began?
Or the unbroken darkness of that night

Which brooded over chaos, ere the sun
Was hung in heaven, or all the planets bright

Around his brilliant orb their course had run?
No tongue can answer-all the earth is dumb!
Thou art, thou hast been, and thou art to come.

Thy rapid chariot wheels, unheard, sweep by,
By careless man unnoticed, and unknown;
Thy wingéd coursers like the lightning fly,
And like its faded path thy track is strown,
As when its vivid flashes rend the sky,

And crush alike the hovel and the throne-
The haughty monarch in his hall of state,
And the poor beggar trembling at his gate.

Insignia of the empire, in thy hands

Thou bear'st the everlasting scythe and glass:
That glass, the waning of whose measured sands
Numbers the fleeting moments as they pass.

That scythe which sweeps o'er earth's unnumbered lands
And cuts down their inhabitants, like grass
That falls beneath the reaper's hand to-day,
And ere the morrow hastens to decay.

The faintest, gentlest whisper of thy breath
Turns the fresh-glowing cheek of beauty pale,
And to the stately pride of manhood hath

A magic sound, that makes its vigor fail.
To tottering age it speaks the voice of death-
The fearful summons to his gloomy vale:
The giant oak that long has braved the blast,
Falls prostrate as the zephyr bears it past.

Yet mighty monarch! not alone in wrath

Are shown thy matchless power and majesty;

Not always desolation marks thy path-
Not always death and ruin follow thee

A cup of mingled good and evil hath

Been ever in thy hand, and still shall be:

They who have drank the wormwood and the gall
Of deep affliction, know thy comforts all!

(They who have struggled with the rankling pain

That death leaves in the hearts of the bereavedThey who have put their trust, and found it vain, In friendship's strength; they who have been deceived By love's unfaithfulness-oft and again

Have felt the wonders that thy arm achieved:
Touched by thy healing hand, have blessed the balm
That made the anguish of their spirits calm.)

Hail, mighty potentate! whose strong arms sway
The sceptre of a power that has no bound,
Save in the dawning of that fearful day,

When the last trumpet's overwhelming sound
Shall rend the mighty veil of heaven away,

And show the universe in flames around: Then thou shalt be no longer-earth shall see Thy finished reign merged in eternity!

ON CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

THE mighty Lord who sits on high,

Round whom the hovering angels wing,

Enthroned above the starry sky;

To whom the circling planets sing;

Who, in his all embracing love,

Sustains the sparrow in its flight ;

At whose command the waters move;

At whose word sprang from darkness, light;

Superior Power, who gave to man

His own bright image at his birth,
To rule the lower world-great plan!
The Lord-not tyrant-of the earth,
By the same fiat did decree

A Sabbath day-a day of rest;
No labor on that day should be;

Such was Jehovah's high behest!
A solemn day, reserved to all-

A holy day-a day of peace,

Which man and beast should disenthral,

When all their toil and care should cease.

God's gift to man!-He too did give

"Good will," and with that gift, the tear

(Soft Pity's high prerogative!)

The inward voice that makes to hear.

And wilt thou, man! his wrath contemn-
Each better, higher feeling still?

To sufferings sad the brute condemn,
Regardless of thy Maker's will?

Say, wilt thou Heaven's own vengeance dare,
To torture that thou should'st protect-
The beast whom thou art taught to spare-

Yet mercy for thyself expect?

The beast lent kindly for thy aid—

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"STRANGE that all who dwell in the Temple of Nature should not be worshippers of Nature's God! Strange that all who live in this beautiful world, should not remember that they are treading His courts, and be mindful to have clean hands and pure hearts." Such were, I conjectured, the thoughts of my friend, Henry Foster, as I found him one evening, just at sunset, leaning over his gate, and viewing the beautiful landscape which lay spread out before him.

"Stanley," said he, as I approached, "how is it that we all think so little of the mystery of our being, and are so little moved by the idea that we are inhabitants of the Universe? The child who builds his house of cobs, and digs his mimic weils, and the man for whom thrones are erected, and palaces reared, seem equally wrapt up in their own petty individuality, and occupied

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