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We closed the cottage door, and he prayed with so much humility of heart, and so much earnestness of feeling, that I felt almost sure that God's grace would be lighted up in the bosom of this unhappy man, if sighs, and tears, and prayers, could wing their way to heaven. He was very grave, and said little or nothing that night. The next morning, when I woke up, I was surprised, as the sun had not risen, to find that he had already gone down. At first, I felt alarmed, as such a thing had become unusual with him, of late years; but my anxious feelings were agreeably relieved, when the children told me their father had been hoeing, for an hour, in the potato field, and was mending the garden fence. With our scanty materials, I got ready the best breakfast I could, and he sat down to it with a good appetite, but said little; and, now and then, I saw the tears starting in his eyes.

I had many fears that he would fall back into his former habits whenever he should meet his old companions, or stop in again at the Deacon's store. I was about urging him to move into another village. After breakfast, he took me aside, and asked me if I had not a gold ring. "George," said I, "that ring was my mother's: she took it from her finger and gave it to me the day that she died. I would not part with that ring, unless it were to save life. Besides, if we are industrious and honest we shall not be forsaken." "Dear Jenny," said he, "I know how you prize that gold ring: I never loved you more than when you wept over it, while you first told me the story of your mother's death: it was just a month before we were married, the last Sabbath evening in May, Jenny, and we were walking by the river. I wish you would bring that ring." Memory hurried me back in an instant, to the scene, the bank upon the river's side where we sat together and agreed upon a wedding day. I brought down the ring, and he asked me, with such an earnestness of manner, to put it on his finger, that I did so; not, however, without a trembling hand and a misgiving heart. "And now, Jenny," said he, as he rose to go out, "pray that God will support me."

My mind was not in a happy state, for I felt some doubt of his intentions. From a little hill at the back of our cottage we had a fair view of the Deacon's store. I went up to the top of it; and while I watched my husband's steps, no one can tell how fervently I prayed to God to guide them aright. I saw two of his old companions standing in the store door, with glasses in their hands; and, as he came in front of the shop, I saw them beckon him in. It was a sad moment for me. “Oh, George," said, I, though I knew he could not hear me, "go on; remember your poor wife and your starving children !" My heart sunk within me, when I saw him stop and turn towards the door. He shook hands with his old associates; they appeared to offer him their glasses; I saw him shake his head and pass on. "Thank God," said I, and ran down the hill, with a light step, and, seizing my baby at the cottage door, literally covered it with kisses, and bathed it in the tears of my joy.,

About ten o'clock, Richard Lane, the Squire's office-boy, brought in a piece of meat and some meal, saying my husband sent word, that he could not be home till night as he was at work on the Squire's barn. Richard added, that the Squire had engaged him for two months. He came home early, and the children ran down the hill to meet him. He was grave, but cheerful. "I have prayed for you, dear husband," said.

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Light in Sorrow's Night.

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I. "And a merciful God has supported me, Jenny," said he. It is not easy to measure the degrees of happiness; but, take it altogether, this, I think, was the happiest evening of my life. If there is great joy in heaven over a sinner that repenteth, there is no less joy in the heart of a faithful wife, over a husband that was lost, and is found. In this manner the two months went away. In addition to the common labor, he found time to cultivate the garden, and make and mend a variety of useful articles about the house.

It was soon understood that my husband had reformed, and it was more generally believed, because he was a subject for the gibes and sneers of a large number of the Deacon's customers. My husband used to say, Let those laugh that are wise and win. He was an excellent workman, and business came in from all quarters. He was soon able to repay neighbor Johnson, and our families lived in the closest friendship with each other.

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One evening farmer Johnson said to my husband, that he thought it would be well for him to sign the temperance pledge; that he did not advise it when he first began to leave off spirits, for he feared his strength might fail him. "But now," said he, "you have continued five months, without touching a drop, and it would be well for the cause, that you should sign the pledge." Friend Johnson," said my husband, "when a year has gone safely by, I will sign the pledge. For five months, instead of the pledge, I have in every trial and temptation—and a drinking man knows well the force and meaning of these words--I have relied on this gold ring, to renew my strength, and remind me of my duty to God, to my wife, to my children, and to society. Whenever the struggle of appetite has commenced, I have looked upon this ring: I have remembered that it was given, with the last words and dying counsel of an excellent mother, to my wife, who placed it there; and, under the blessing of Almighty God, it has proved thus far, the life-boat of a drowning man.'

The year soon passed away; and on the very day twelvemonth, on which I had put the ring upon my husband's finger, farmer Johnson brought over the Temperance book. We all sat down to the tea-table together. After supper was done, little Robert climbed up and kissed his father, and, turning to farmer Johnson, "Father," said he, "has not smelt like old Isaac, the drunken fiddler, once, since we rode home in your yellow wagon." The farmer opened the book: my husband signed the pledge of the society, and, with tears in his eyes, gave me back-ten thousand times more precious than ever-MY MOTHER'S GOLD

RING.

LIGHT IN SORROW'S NIGHT.

Our earthly loves, like summer leaves,
Gladden, but intercept our view;
But when bereft the spirit grieves,

And hopes are crushed and comforts few,

Lo! in the depths of sorrow's night
Beams forth from far, celestial light.

ST. PAUL'S PERSON AND THORN IN THE FLESH.

BY THЕ EDITOR.

"How little stress is to be laid on external appearance! This prince of apostles seems to hint concerning himself, that his bodily presence was not calculated to command respect; 2 Cor. 10: 10. St. Chrysostom terms him a little man, about three cubits (or four feet and a half) in height.' But of all other writers, Neciphorus has given us the most circumstantial account of St. Paul's person. "St. Paul was of small stature, stooping and rather inclining to crookedness; pale-faced, and of an elderly look. His eyes lively, keen and cheerful; shaded in part by his eyebrows, which hung a little over. His nose rather long, and not ungracefully bent. His head pretty thick with hair, and of a sufficient length, and his locks interspersed with grey." So far as this description pertains to his eyes, critics have supposed it to be incorrect at least in his later life. There seems to be some good reasons for believing that the "thorn in the flesh," to which he alludes (2 Cor. 12: 7,) is to be referred to some defect in his eyes. It has been said, at least ingeniously, that a number of facts and incidental allusions in the epistles of Paul, receive light and explanation from this supposition. Thus, he says to the Galatians, 4. 5: "I hear you record, that if it had been possible, ye would have plucked out your eyes and have given them to me." How, it is asked, could such an action have been any proof of love, unless the supposed gift had been intended to supply some deficiency under which the apostle was known to labor?

It is known also that the apostle employed an amanuensis. Some have supposed that he was unable to write the Greek characters. But this cannot be supposed of a man of his education. Besides he quotes passages from three or four of the Greek poets, which shows a familiarity with that language. This explanation seems therefore quite farfetched; but on the supposition of defective vision all is natural and plain.

"When the High-priest Ananias ordered Paul to be smitten, he retorted on him as an ordinary Pharisee; 'God shall smite thee, thou whited wall,' but when informed who it was that had spoken, he excused himself by saying, 'I wist not that it was the High-priest!' The commentators account for this ignorance in various ways, but they leave the great difficulty untouched, since the seat and dress of the High-priest would have been sufficient evidence of his dignity in the eyes of a Jew, if seeing eyes he had. But if Paul's infirmity prevented him from seeing the position in the conncil, or the external emblems of office which indicated the high station of the speaker, a clear solution of the mystery is provided."

It has been supposed that St. Paul's infirmity was a chronic opthalmia, a disease of the eye well known in hot climates. "The pain of opthalmia," says Mr. Stevens, "when severe, exactly resembles that of a

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John Anderson, My Jo.

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thorn or pin. I once had it very severely indeed in the West Indies. It made me blind, in a manner, for about three weeks, and during that time, if a ray of light by any means broke into my darkened chamber, it was like a thorn or pin run into my eye, and so I often described it. I felt also the subsequent effect for years, which I supposed to have been felt by St. Paul, a predisposition to inflammation in the eyes, which extreme care and timely application alone prevented from recurring."

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

THIS exquisite ballad, constructed by Robert Burns, out of a different and somewhat exceptionable lyric, has always left something to be wished for and regretted: it is not complete. But who would venture to add to a song of Burns? As Burns left it, it runs thus :

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessing on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clam the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

Fine as this is, it does not quite satisfy a contemplative mind; when one has gone so far, he looks and longs for something more-something beyond the foot of the hill. Many a reader of Burns must have felt this, and it is quite probable that many have attempted to supply the deficiency, but we know of only one success in so hazardous an experiment. This is the added verse:

John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we have slept thegither,
The sleep that a' maun sleep, John,
We'll wake wi' ane anither;
And in that better warld, John,
Nae sorrow shall we know;

Nor fear we e'er shall part again,
John Anderson, my jo.

Simple, touching, true-nothing wanting, and nothing to spare; precisely harmonizing with the original stanzas, and improving them by the fact of completing them. The poetical achievement is attributed to Mr. Charles Gould, a gentleman whose life has been chiefly devoted to the successful combination of figures-but not figures of rhetoric. The verse was written some years ago, but it has not hitherto found its way into print; yet it well deserves to be incorporated with the original song in any future eddition of Burns' Poems, and we hope some publisher will act on this suggestion.

SWEET SOUNDS.

BY SELDOM.

CERTAIN qualities of sound affect the ear in the same way that savory relish affects the sense of taste on the tongue and palate. In either case the pleasure of enjoyment, in the sentient, conveys the idea of sweetness to the soul. There are, however, differences between sweet tastes and sweet sounds. One has reference more to the animal part of man, the other reaches the higher sphere of the spiritual. Both can be abused and prostituted to subserve the baser life, when they are laid hold of by "certain lewd fellows of the baser sort." In their right use both can be cultivated and their pleasures manifoldly multiplied. All know, however, that the sweet pleasures of taste are often turned into intemperance, gluttony, and debauchery, by depraved and morbid appetites. And even dulcet sounds are not unfrequently made to give charm to shameless revelry and coarse, indecent carousals. Gladly we turn to the brighter side, to the sweet sounds we so much delighted to hear, and whose echoes still intone our heart-chords.

Sweet sounds are inwoven with all the home-sounds of our life. The freshest and purest emotions that have ever swelled the heaving breast were the product of sounds common to the home circle. Our household names cannot be called except sweet sounds gush from the voice that speaks them. Whether we be old or young, none of us can use the language and terms of the home-life without attuning the articulations of the voice to its most melodious pitch. Terms of endearment, expressing the ties and relations of family, all vibrate with richest elements of harmony. No din and noisy strife can utterly destroy the memory of what charmed so sweetly in those better days. Often the yearning heart longs that the discord of busy life would give place to the lost melody of happiness now gone.

In nature's utterances we hear sweet sounds. The gurgling streamlet, the murmuring rill, the babbling brook, the rush of the roaring river, and even the deep-toned thunder of the mighty sea-wave breaking on the shore, are sounds that waken in us emotions of pleasurable delight. So, too, the whispering zephyr in the summer's eventide, the sighing breezes of autumnal days, the brisk, whistling winds of winter, and the more mournful moanings of the storm blasts, are all only the minor cadences in the great anthem of nature. Then in the animal world, the buzzing hum of insect, the croaking voice of reptile, the warbling song of bird, and the lowing of beast, all join in the choral, which had been perfect harmony, but for the discord of sin. Were it not for this, the frogpond had been a concord of sweet sounds!

A mother's whispered love is the first and sweetest sound that ever falls on the infant's ear. The gentle soothings of a mother's lullaby distil sweet melody within the unfilled chambers of the soul, unstained as yet with actual sin. Her voice, in all its tones, vibrating with maternal love, repeats to the willing ear of childhood, sweet sounds that trace

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