Gilbert to Maria, the next day, after they had The physician and Gilbert entered the dungeon, that scene of all agonizing emotions, a been sitting together in almost total silence geon. Lucy, pale as a sheeted corpse, moved spot for earthly love? True love is a pure for half an hour; 'you have sacrificed quite a || not, spoke not, until they approached and and holy principle. It needs not prosperity splendid fortune, which my presence at· knelt down by the lifeless form, still resting for its aliment, but can live even on anguish. might probably have secured to you, and I on her lap. And then looking up into Gilbert's Lucy Beauchamp was not what the world fear to very little purpose.' And you believe him guilty ?' No: I have entire confidence in his innocence; but it cannot be demonstrated.' O, brother, you will, you must save him!— Your exertions, your eloquence-' • Will all be in vain, sister, even if he lives till the day of trial; but I think he will not; he is very ill, perhaps dying.' face, she said, in a voice awfully calm, he terms a beautiful girl. There was nothing striking in her pale cheeks, light brown hair, and blue eyes. When seen under ordinary circumstances, she attracted but little attention from the casual observer. Yet there was Nay, do not weep,' she said, 'it is wrong to weep because his generous and noble spirit || intellectual beauty in the pensive expression has ceased to suffer.' Gilbert raised the already stiffening form of his young friend, while the physician felt his pulse, and laid his hand to his heart. of her features, something which always charmed her intimate acquaintance. Naturally timid and retiring, there were few who bad ever read her character aright. She had generally been regarded as a gentle and amiable girl-but the strength of her mind, the richness of her talents, and the deep devotedness of her heart, was left for circumstances to develope. Her beauty, either of mind or person, was 'O, if there is any hope,' exclaimed Lucy, entirely different from the style Gilbert had eagerly, (and the slight painful flush that came always been accustomed to admire. He had over her features, showed that one agonizing always been devoted to the brilliant in attracremnant of hope had been re-kindled in her tious; and dark hair, flashing eyes, and heart,)—and yet why do I wish it? has he burning cheeks, were associated with ready not already endured his full share of suffer-wit, fluency of conversation, and impetuousing? This awful change in his countenance ness of feeling, in his beau ideal of her he tells that in a few weeks he has endured years, ages of common agony? O, if my own spirit would go with his !' 'Yes, his was indeed a generous and noble spirit,' replied the young lawyer. If you was his sister, he loved you well. His own! fate was forgotten in his anxiety for you.' ⚫ O, my brother, my only brother, sobbed Maria made no reply, but with a face pale Lucy, as burning tears choked her utterance. as death, immediately left the room. Gilbert was indefatigable in his efforts for the prisoner. He procured the postponement of the trial, to enable him to procure witnesses, and spent every leisure moment in preparing a spirited and eloquent defence. He also continued to visit the prisoner as often as the jailor would permit. Several weeks had worn away. James Beauchamp was sitting in one corner of his cell-his head leaned against the damp wall. It was the first time since his illness that he had been able to think coherently; and bitter, overwhelming were the thoughts that rushed impetuously through his mind. The burning and delirious heat of the fever had abated, and he realized fully, calmly, and coolly, his situation. The door of his cell was opened, and the pale image of Lucy Beauchamp stood before him! He started as if he had seen a spectre, and then made a wild effort to spring to her embrace! But the galling chains detained him! The next instant her arms were around his neckher tears bathing his bosom! He strained her to his heart with one wild, convulsive effort, and then sank back overwhelmed and fainting. The attendant Gilbert had procured for the prisoner, had just left him to procure some rest and refreshment. would love. Had he met the bashful Lucy in a fashionable assembly instead of a brother's prison, he would probably never have thought A half hour of agonizing suspense! and of her twice. But witnessing, as he did daily, Beauchamp murmured, as he opened his eyes, her fortitude, her self-sacrificing spirit, he a blessed-blessed dream-how like reality.thought of her as a being superior to her sex. My sister-my poor sister-how like her Lucy regarded him as her brother's only former self-only paler,' for he did not per-friend-as such she loved him. Maria Gilceive that his head was even then pillowed on bert, soon after her brother's return to the Lucy's bosom. city, had by his advice left New Orleans, and It is no dream,' said Gilbert, your was now in the bosom of her own undisturbed sister-your Lucy is indeed here.' home on the green banks of the Illinois. The prisoner turned his eyes, and met her deep living gaze. He flung his wasted arms around her neck and wept. It was the first time since his imprisonment. Their kind friends withdrew, and left them to mingle unobserved their burning tears. George and Maria had been reared in poverty and obscurity. George had early left the paternal roof in search of wealth and distinction, and was now pursuing a successful course as an advocate in New Orleans. Lucy had only visited that city a few weeks previous We cannot stay to tell how time passed to her introduction to the reader. Her rich how Lucy voluntarily shared her brother's uncle and aunt, who resided there, had called dungeon-how like a heavenly spirit she at her father's cottage, while on a tour of ministered to his wants-and whispered con-pleasures to the north, and charmed by solation to his sick heart-bow at midnight's Maria's brilliant appearance, had persuaded still and awful hour, she would kneel at his her parents to allow her to return with them. side, and watch his troubled sleep, and pray only for him, while her own brow was every day growing more and more deadly pale. The door had been already fastened, and Lucy, was alone with her apparently lifeless brother. She raised his head from the cold floor, and placed it on her lap. She had no restoratives, and her efforts to revive him were all fruitless. He will die-she whispered to herself, as she put back the dark hair from his forehead, and gazed on his ghastly, emaciated face; and then as she bent her Gilbert still continued to visit his friend as cheek to the pale brow, its freezing chill went often as he could gain admittance to his to her heart, and told her he was already prison; and when he looked on the young dead! The fountain of tears, which suspense girl, sacrificing health and life, and enduring had frozen, was again unsealed, she wept all the untold horrors of a loathsome dungeon, long and bitterly, and then her tears were for a brother's sake-he felt a new and dried, and she sat, calm, motionless, and powerful motive to exertion in a brother's apparently unconscious as the senseless clay cause. Did the wild dreams of love mingle with his devoted friendship? Was that dun before her. This visit, her brother, though fond of his sister's society, had always disapproved. And Maria, weary of society, compelled to smile while her heart was breaking, and despairing entirely of being permitted to see Beauchamp, was glad when he proposed her return to the country. CHAPTER VI. Oh light is pleasant to the eye, And health comes rustling on the gale, As I have met her in my dreams. 'And death himself, with all the woes tone-after which Beauchamp drew a dirk He found Pennfield quite dead, and several countenance, as the awful-guilty-sounded through the hall! He stirred not, but sat as if changed to marble. Lucy fainted, and was borne from the court-house. The prisoner gazed vacantly at her as she was carried away. The Judge rose to pronounce sentence of death. He confessed himself the murderer of Pennfield; said that ever since the fatal night, life had been to him but prolonged torture; and to lengthen it a few days or weeks, he would not sacrifice an innocent and worthy man; that his soul was already stained deep enough with murder. The day of trial came. James was still ill, and though he had nerved himself for the occasion, he found when his chains were taken off, that he was utterly unable to walk. He At that instant a youth, who had been looked with a thrill of joy on the old familiar observed as 'deeply interested in the trial, face of nature, as he was carried from his The watchmen swore that they had dis- came forward from among the crowd, and prison to the court-house. It looked to him covered the scene immediately on being requested to be heard. He was about the pleasant, though dark clouds had overspread aroused by the cry of murder; that the mur-size of the prisoner, and his person, it was the sky, and a gloomy, drizzling rain, wasderer, when discovered by them, appeared to thought at the time, bore a strong resemfalling thick and silently to the earth. He sat be extracting something from the pocket of blance to his. But conscious guilt had in the court-house. His frame was emaciated the murdered man; that he fled, and they wrought even greater ruin than sickness and almost to a mere skeleton; and the fever had pursued and soon overtook the prisoner, imprisonment. His form, which seemed to left his cheeks sunken and deadly pale. Yet whom, from his dress and size, they believed have been cast in nature's noblest mould, there was an all-pervading energy of mind, a to be the same they had seen standing over was wasted to a perfect skeleton; his counsanctifying influence on that countenance, the body of the murdered man; that at the tenance was of a livid paleness, and in the ghastly as it was. He raised his head from time they had come up with him, he was not centre of each sunken cheek consumption the table, where from mere exhaustion he had running, but walking calmly along; that he had placed its unerring token. bent it on his first entrance, and gazed slowly had manifested the greatest horror and surand calmly around the room. In that gaze prise, asserting his innocence in the strongest he met the fond look of many of his former terms, on being taken into custody. acquaintance. Among the group of witnesses Two very peculiar pieces of money, found he reconized his old friends, Judge Mans-about the prisoner's person, were identified, field and his wife. Durand was also there-as having been seen in Pennfield's possession, there to testify against him! and by his side the day before his death. was Julis. A deadly paleness simultaneously As the prisoner sat there, erect, pale, his It appeared that he was a mere youth of overspread the countenances of Durand and dark locks thrown hack from his remarkably nineteen; had been in New Orleans but a his beautiful wife, as they encountered the high forehead, and his eyes unnaturally bril-few months; had a widowed mother and an earnest gaze of Beauchamp, on whose cheek liant, fixed immovably on the witnesses, he only sister in; though poor, had been one bright red spot gradually kindled, till it seemed less a being of this world, than a respectably educated; that, on coming to burned deep and painfully. He turned away: departed spirit come back to confront his New Orleans, he had became acquainted his eyes rested for a moment on the form of accusers. with the family of Pennfield; had loved deephis sister, whose face was hidden from the Judge Mansfield was the first witness ly the only sister of the murdered man, and view of all, but whose slender and beautiful examined for the prisoner, and irrepressible his affection had been all returned by the inhand, as it hung listless by her side, trembled tears rolled down his manly cheeks, as he nocent, confiding girl. Her brother had perceptibly, and was white as purest snow.spoke in high terms of his former irreproach-always opposed strongly her attachment to From her his look wandered, and sought outable character. among the crowd his young and ardent friend, on whose eloquence that day his fate seemed to depend. Gilbert's eyes were unusually brilliant, his cheeks deeply flushed, his manner restless and impatient. The trial went on, the cold forms of a court of law were gone through with. Francis Durand was called to the witness stand. The prisoner suddenly raised his head, (for fatigue had compelled him again to rest it on the table,) and continued gazing earnestly at the witness during the whole of his testimony. Durand stated in a very cool and collected manner, that about eleven o'clock on the night of, he was sitting by the window, in his bed room in the hotel. That he observed two men meet and accost each other in the street, just opposite where he was sitting. One of the men he recognised as George Pennfield, Esq. The other he believed was James Beauchamp. Some words which witness did not understand, passed between them in a low, compressed and angry Julia Durand confirmed all he had said, while the deep paleness of her countenance bore witness to her own feelings. Several of Beauchamp's most intimate acquaintances in New Orleans testified to the rectitude of his conduct since he had been in that city; and here the evidence was closed. There was scarcely a chance for any defence. Gilbert, however, was sanguine; and he made a bold, spirited, and eloquent appeal to the jury. He exerted all the powers of a strong mind, and a vivid fancy, aided by all the best, strongest, and purest feelings of an unsophisticated heart. In a cold, business-like manner the Judge charged the jury. They retired; and after an hour of awful suspense, returned and announced that their decision was made. There was a breathless pause among the audience. The prisoner was sitting by the table; his elbow rested on that, and his cheek pressed upon his hand. There was no perceptible change in his him. A few nights before the murder, that brother had won from him, at the card-table, his last dollar. Pennfield had spoken tauntingly, contemptuously to him, on that fatal night, when he had met him in the street, and absolutely forbid all intercourse with his sister. This the fiery spirit of the spoiled boy could not endure, and in a moment of wild excitement he plunged a dagger to his heart. It is useless,' he continued,' to speak of what I felt, soon as the deed was done. Reckless and insane I wandered I knew not where. The next morning I went to see Sarah. I knew it must be the last visit, but I went, and I told her all! She was before involved in the deepest grief for the death of her brother; but never-through the endless ages of eternity!-shall I forget the look with which she listened to my confession. She banished me, as I had expected, for ever from her presence; but entreated me to fly, to save myself. I did go. I had been talk ing of leaving the city, and my departure ex- ||state of his finances was calling loudly. And the memory of these careless actions, and cited no suspicion. But I could not stay. I read in the papers an account of Beauchamp's arrest, and conscience goaded me effectually, I returned to this city one week ago. The next day I gazed on the lifeless features of Sarah Pennfield. I saw her laid by her brother's side! I had murdered both! it was agreed that the party, on the morrow, The circle, at old Mr. Gilbert's, had certainly been a happy and interesting one. The old gentleman had been an officer in the army of the revolution: and the young people were as fond of listening to his long and To-day I have heard one, I know to be minute stories of those ever interesting days, innocent, pronounced guilty of the murder Is he was of relating them; and among the committed; and though life to me is now listeners, none dwelt with more undivided valueless, I might―(so hard is it to confess attention on every word than Maria. myself a murderer)—I night, had it not been for the eloquence of that young gentleman,' pointing to Gilbert, ' permitted him to die!' As I said before, my life is valueless. True, I too have a sister, who loves me as well, perhaps, as Pennfield's did him as well as the devoted girl, just carried from this room, loves her brother. And-I have a mother! O God!-But I can be nothing now to them but a blighting curse! Let me die! I would not live! He paused. And then the long, long romantic walks, on the ocean-like prairie, and amid the masses of the never-ending forest. They gathered wild flowers, they listened to the music of morning's earliest birds, they traced the course of the wayward brook, they drank in the influence of nature together. Maria had been happy, most happy, even while she had been nursing a hopeless passion. But to her it was not then hopeless. Sanguine in all her expectations, unused to It would be vain to describe the astonish-the blandishments of polite society, unskilled ment produced hy this speech;-vain toin reading human hearts, and too conversant describe the appearance of the prisoner-or with novels and romances, she imagined, that of the misguided youth who was speaking or of Lucy Beauchamp, when she was told that her brother was proved innocent-or the feelings of Gilbert, who was the first to communicate to her, the welcome news, as she recovered from the long, death-like swoon into which she had fallen-or the meeting of Beauchamp with his sister. idle words!-Little did he think, as he playfully kissed her forehead, while in all the artlessness and innocence of early childhood she clung around his neck, that he was mingling anguish in her cup of bliss! And were Gilbert and Lucy all this time unmindful of each other's charms? O no, inquisitive reader. The young germs of affection, nourished at first in a dungeon, had expanded into full and beautiful bloom. The course of true love had for once flowed sinoothly. And now they stood together before the marriage altar. Lucy had never looked so beautiful before. Her health, which anxiety and the horrors of a dungeon had impaired, was now perfectly renovated. A faint, retiring red was just perceptible on her cheeks; her soft eyes were redolent of bliss, and there was a devoted look of fond confidence in the most pensive smile that played around her beautiful lips. Gilbert's appearance was a perfect and happy contrast to Lucy's. He was tall, his form manly and striking. His forehead was noble, and its clear, pure white was shaded by hair of the deepest black. His lips curled the fondness which Beauchamp manifested haughtily; but his eyes were the most strikfor her society was love. Deluded girl!-He ing of his features; it would have been diffidid indeed regard her as a beautiful and cult for the careless observer to have told rather interesting, but with l a wayward and their color, but their expression was never faulty child. And the attention with which surpassed. Whether they kindled with anhe treated her was more the effect of grati-ger, flashed with delight, or melted in tentude and friendship for the brother, than a derness, they were alike unrivaled. There tribute to any qualities possessed by the was a renmant of boyhood's roses on his We will leave them all, and briefly narrate sister. And had he even looked on her with cheek, which, in moments of animation, what remains to be told concerning the ill-more partiality, he would not have aspired to would gradually change to a deep, burning red ; fated, guilty, but noble boy, in whose fate I her hand, for she had now become an heir-yet his countenance was manly in the extreme, think my readers must be interested. For reasons, which must occur to every generous mind, he was pardoned by the governor and his last pangs were mitigated by the presence of his sister and mother. He had been a petted and-idolized child! He dieda broken-hearted penitent! and they thought of him with hope. CHAPTER VII. And from her soft blue eye, It was the close of a glorious summer. Old Mr. Gilbert's small white house, on the banks of the Illinois, embosomed in a rich profusion of living green, adorned by flowers of deep luxury, and canopied by a sky of sunny and gorgeous hues, had been that summer the abode of as happy a party as evere gathered around a cottage-door, on a summer's evening. Young Gilbert, Beauchamp, and his sister, had spent several months there. James's health, which had been seriously impaired by severe suffering, was now so far restored as to admit of active exertion, for which the ess. The law-suit, which Gilbert had so Beauchamp admired the firmness with He never dreamed of the existence of that foolish passion which his slightest attention, his most unmeaning compliment was nursing. If he had, his manner towards her would have been cold. Willingly he would not have blighted one rose in her future path: little did he think he was strewing it with thorns! Little did he think, while he twined wild flowers amid her flowing tresses, and praised the fresh bloom of her young cheeks, how many bitter tears would be shed over and had nothing of the round, smiling plumpness usually associated with red cheeks. But though the personal appearance of that youthful pair was interesting, it was nobility of mind that shed an unearthly glory around them. They were indeed redeeming spirits among common minds. Oh is it not exhilirating to turn from the utter selfishness of the great mass of mankind, their false and hollow friendship, their mockery of love, and gaze on generosity, devotedness, and undisguised truth? CHAPTER VIII. Maria Gilbert was left to weep over the presumption of unfounded hopes-to lament vanished dreams. But she was a proud girl; her pride was lofty, as her affections were constant-and though in the depth of her young heart was buried anguish, yet hers were not the eyes to quench their fires in unavailing grief, nor hers the cheek to grow pale of unrequited love. But she had soon other sorrows, than those of disappointed love, over which to grieve. [Concluded in our next.] MISCELLANY. delight. Others had surrendered soul and dream of life was passed without an awaking. bowers that hung round the mountain's brow like a golden cincture were replete with the songs of birds, and their varied tints shone through the leafy shade as a gleam from Paradise. Still higher, groves of palm trees tossed there broad arms in the gale, while from the festooning vine descended showers of purple fruit. The circling hours flew on. It was high noon. Perfume and song had ceased to rise, for bird and flower slept beneath the triple light of an orient sun, and the infectious repose seemed stealing over the senses of Akiba. Anon soft showers descended from a clouded sky, and the rain god's spanning bow, rose in mid heaven. As the sage looked upon the glowing arch, he felt that art could never reach its dimmest tints, that nature's merest colors were incomparably beyond the most gorgeous dyes from the looms of Cashmere. Her parents, ere the return of spring, were both laid in the same grave. Maria, for a long time, was involved in the deepest anguish. She had been a wayward, and some-beguiled by their blandishments, the bright times a disobedient child, but she had loved her parents with a depth and fervency of feeling of which common minds never dreamed; and so now the bitterness of her regret was proportional to the intenseness of her love. and made a thousand times more bitter by every recollection of her former unkindness towards those who were now alike insensible to her love, and her repentance. There was. however, one consoling reflection; for, during Thus were the years of Taric fast hastening the months of their illness, she had been to on, when at the close of a day, while reclining them a ministering angel. Yet her reflec-as was his wont, at the door of his tent, he tions were sufficiently bitter to steal the became absorbed in meditating upon the woe color for a while from those blooming that, Upas-like, threw its baneful shade over cheeks, which nothing else could have paled. the sunlight of life. A repose, unlike that of Maria spent several years at a boarding mortal slumber, gradually stole over his school, and then went abroad in company senses, and the soul of the sage seemed with her brother and his angel wife. In invested with a new nature. Suddenly a form Rapidly, like the shifting pictures of a Europe they resided several years during of more than earthly majesty burst upon his panorama, the scenes passed before the which they visited all its countries. enraptured gaze. The locks of the stranger bewildered gaze of Taric. The last of those The beautiful orphan, and rich heiress, streamed in the air like the rays of the rising magic hours was before him.-The monarch did not escape admiration and flattery. But moon, and from his countenance beamed the of that day of beauty, had sunk into his she was no coquette: she treated all her ad-light of all knowledge. A smile of ineffable western home, surrounded by the cloudy mirers and suitors with the same cold, calm, sweetness played around his features, as in forms of air, like a crimson panoply. Then hardly respectful, indifference. tones that melted on the ear like the sound rose the moon to trace her path through the of distant water to the desert traveler, he blue sky in lines of silver light, and the starry addressed the sage - Taric l'Akiba, thy spheres wheeled through their vast orbits. prayers have been heard at the throne of The soul of the gazer was filled to faintness Allah-the desire of thy life is granted. I am with unutterable perceptions of beauty. 'Becommissioned to reveal to thy dim gaze anhold, O Taric!' said the genius, 'in the The Vision of Taric l'Akiba. object worthy a mortal's highest adoration, by In a remote country of the East, where him in whose hands are the keys of every continual summer ever smiles on fruitful truth-by one to whom are familiar the Thy cold philosophy has taught thee to be fields, dwelt the sage Taric l'Akiba. From workings of nature in the recesses of the thankful that the earth is abundant in pleasant infancy he had been nursed in the quiet vale earth, and among the stars of heaven, of whose fruits to nourish existence. Might not the where slept his fathers, and his maturer years hidden and awful mysteries thy sages never comely grain bear its rich tribute without the knew not a yearning to roam among foreign dream. Follow, and thou shalt witness the flower? the summer rain descend without scenes. Learned in all the philosophy of his consummation of thy wishes.' Prompted by yon radiant bow? and the stars traverse time, and skilled in the sacred mysteries of a resistless impulse, he obeyed. In a moment their destined courses without rendering the Eastern Magi, his mind knew neither they stood on a lofty eminence, around whose night glorious? Return-exhaust the founweariness nor void in its ignorance of the base lay stretched, in boundless space, the tains of thy love on Him who has not only alternate song and wail that ever arose among wonders of the universe. Behold,' said the satisfied the wants of his children, but in his the inhabitants of the distant valleys. The guide. And the eyes of the sage fell upon a infinite kindness has spread out so much of uncultured plains that stretched around his Persian landscape, the high hills of which his transcendant glory to exalt and refine humble home in amazing fertility, amply towered with many a feathery lift into the their souls:-He will yet deserve more.' supplied his wants, while the hills produced purple light of early day, while the shades of luscious fruit sufficient to gratify the most night yet hung over its vales. But the misty pampered appetite. But amid all the beauties curtain quickly rose into the upper space, and of which nature is so lavish in that voluptuous exposed to his gaze lake and vale, winding clime, the soul of Taric was discontented. river and sinuous shore. The eye of Akiba The fountains of wisdom from which he had had often looked on a scene like this unmoved, learnt indifference to his fellow men, had but by some mysterious sympathy he now taught him contempt for their pursuits, and saw it in its true light. The broad lines of apathy to their pleasures,-nothing was left|| sparkling water swelled beneath the wings of on which he might bestow his affections. He the breeze, and the valley, in many a mimic had regarded the progress of the friends of his youth-those who commenced life's pil grimage with himself. Various were the paths they chose. Some had sought wealth through toil and danger, and in its fruition found For the Rural Repository. undulation, glittered with the hues of innu- Creator of these scenes, the being whom thou hast sought. The sage awoke. He was yet reclining at the door of his tent, and no trace of his vision was visible. But Taric l'Akiba no longer sighed that there was nothing worthy his affections. L. S. M. jr. Southbridge, 1837. From the Evangelical Magazine. Prayer. PRAYER is the language of the heart, the hidden emotion of the soul, its act of deep communion with its Maker. And who is there that has not prayed? There may be those who who contemn it, who jeer at it, but they should remember that it is not alone the formal act of bending the knee and repeating a set form of words-but it is the high and holy desire, stealing from the bosom's inmost recesses and going up to the Father of our spirits,' Has such an one never known the time when all looked dark ?—when the rainbow was gone and the flowers had faded? or when hopes were in the tomb and around was a waste of blighted memories?-or when communion with his fellows seemed cut off, and he a banned and persecuted one ?-or when the soul was desolate within, and the world looked cheerless without? Aud has he not prayed then? did there not rise from his heart-depths a breathing for something better and surer, aye, a breathing to God for light, peace and a blessing? bosom as a Friend. We know that the are animated by the moving picture of enjoyLord hath his way in the whirlwind and the ment. But our energy and our independence storm, and the clouds are the dust of his are both in vain.-The stream bears us on, feet'-we know that he bringeth forth Maz-and our joys and our griefs alike are left bezaroth in his season, and guideth Arcturus hind us; and we may be shipwrecked, but we with his sons'-we know that he bowed the cannot anchor; our voyage may be hastened, heavens and came down, and darkness was but cannot be delayed; whether rough or under his feet'-that He speaks and it is smooth, the river hastens towards its home, done, he commandeth and it stands fast,' we till the roaring of the ocean is in our ears, acknowledge him, we trust with solemn awe, and the tossing of its waves are beneath our to be the King eternal, immortal, invisible,' keel, and the lands lessen from our eyes, and 'the Judge of all the earth'-yet, when we the floods are lifted up around us, and the bow down and veil the brow at his foot-stool, earth loses sight of us, and we take our last he speaks not through the storm and the leave of the earth and its inhabitants, and of cloud-his voice comes not in the swelling our farther voyage there is no witness but the winds and the great thunder-for the pavilion Infinite and Eternal! of light is opened up-and the Comforter, It is a solemn rite that has admission every has shed its holiness around-the earthquake A Child's Funeral.-It is the most touch where. By the couch of the new-born babe; has passed on, the whirlwind swept by, anding of sights, the burial of a little creature, and oh! what birth-herald so appropriate ?- a still small voice' breathes peace to the which shuts its eyes as soon as the glories of by the marriage-altar; and what better bridal troubled soul, and an unseen hand wipes the earth opens to its view, without having known gift than the Almighty's blessing?-by the tear from the weeping eye. the parents whose tearful eyes are gazing on bed of the dying; should we not hold com- Is it not a consoling thought, then, amidit; which has been beloved without loving in munion once more in the language of faith, the toil, and tumult, and sorrow of this hur- return; whose tongue is silenced before it while the spirit yet lingers, with things, which, rying world, when harshness and neglect has spoken; whose features stiffen before to that spirit are soon to be those of sight?- have jarred the fine chords of the soul, when they have smiled. These falling buds will by the lowly bier; for who next may lie there? bright prospects have grown dim, and sere yet find a stock on which they shall be graft-and surely it is fitting to commune with hopes are falling around us, and desolation ed; these flowers which close in the light of the Creator when he has spoken so near us-and darkness are settling thickly upon our morning will yet find some more genial haven in the morning's light; Father, praise, that path-Is it not a consoling thought, that He to unfold them. light has come in the evening's shade; who holdeth life, and chance and destiny-who Father, thy blessing on our sleep!-on the setteth in play every spring of action-has perpebbly strand when the chafed boat waits our nitted us to come to him, to pour into his departure; on the hearth of home when long paternal ear the sorrows that are ready to years have brought us back-in the breathless bursts our hearts, and to implore the aid that hush before the fight; in the anthem's swel- shall keep our sinking spirits up?" We are ling peal of victory-where the battle booms told that He is Love'-are we afraid? There over the surging deep; where peace rests on are no thronging servitors to keep us from the silver waters-on the mountain's top, in the court of his presence, for He is not far the awful realin of snows; at the fountain's from every one of us-will we not come gush in a desert-land-wherever we go, freely? We will; trusting. Him in youth's whatever our lot, whatever the circumstance spring-time, in manhood's hour of pride, and may be, when the weary spirit would rest and when our aged feet are tottering feebly down the stricken heart be glad to prayer, to to that valley where the wicked cease from prayer! troubling and the weary are at rest.' E. H. C. 6 Its aspirations are limited to no bounds, confined to no country-not alone to the stoled priest at the altar, and the great congregation' beneath the proud arches of the temple-but its incense wafts as purely from the lone shades of the forest and the humble cabin, as when its influence thrilled over the hearts of the thousand worshippers-no alone to the shrines of the free, and the blessed fanes of Christendom; the red Indian kneels by his wig-wam-door to talk with the Great Spirit, and who can say that the acceptable sacrifice' is not offered by the deluded one, even in the temples of Vishnu and Bramah? Whatever ideas we ny form of God from beholding the glory, wonder, and ever-varying beauty of the external world, we love to approach him as a Father, to pillow on his The Stream of Life. THE UNRULY MEMBER.-Never let the stream of passion move the tongue. Some people, when they are about to put this member in motion, hoist the wrong gate-they let out passion instead of reason. The tongue then makes a good deal of noise, disturbs the quietude of neighbors, exhausts the person's strength, and almost always does a great deal of harm. The whirlwind has ceased, but where is the benefit? Letters Containing Remittances, Received at this Office, ending Wednesday last, deducting the amount of Postage paid. P. M. Victor, N. Y. $10,00; P. M. Stokes, N. Y. $7,00; W. T. M. Attica, N. Y. $1.00; W. S. Gilboa, N. Y. $1.00; R. P. Russell, Mass. $1,00; S. & M. West Sand Lake, N. Y. $1,00; J. B. R. Shoreham, Vt. $1,00; P. M. Cran brook, Mich. $1,00; W. H. Westerlo, N. Y. $1,00; C. J. Speedville, N. Y. $1,00; R. J. I. South Lansing, N. Y. THE following beautiful passage is from a $1,00; J. A. B. Chicopee Factory, Mass. $2,00; J. S. B. Charleston, S. C. $1,00; C. R. Columbiaville, N. Y. $1,00; sermon preached by Bishop Heber, to his pa-E. H. Saratoga Springs, N. Y. $1,00; E. C. G. Centerfield, rishioners a short time before his departure N. Y. $5,00; P. M. Shawangunk, N. Y. $3,00; H. W. R. for India, in 1823. Life bears us on dike the stream of a Oswego, N. Y. $1,00. MARRIED, In this city, on the 30th ult. by the Rev. Mr. Whittaker, Mr. Cornelius Yates, to Miss Jane Wescott, both of this of Ghent. At Claverack, on the 18th ult. by Ambrose Root, Esq. Mr. George Glover, to Miss Rachel Miller, both of the same place. mighty river. Our boat at first, glides down DIED, On the 29th ult. William, son of Richard and Rachel On the 4th inst. George Lean, in the 24th year of his age. Our course in youth and manhood is On the 2d Oct. last, in the town of Copake, John Rey |