Jamilg smh. PISGAH. “Get thee up into the top of Pissah, and lift up thin* eyes westward, and northward, and southward, and east ward,and behold ittrith ihine eyes.''—Deuteronomy iii-27. “ And the l.ord said unto him, This is the land which I aware unto Abraham, unto Isaac, and unto Jacob, saying, I will give it unto thy seed.”—Deuteronomy xrxir. 4 “ But now thev desire a better country, that ia, an hea venly.”—Hebrews xi. 16. Of old the Hebrew prophet stood, His lustrous eye undimm’d with age, Surveying far o’er Jordan’s flood The covenanted heritage. Bo would I climb some Pisgah height, And scan by faith the wondrous scene. Forgetting, ’mid its visions bright, The wilderness that lies between. I long to roach this blest domain, "Where pleaauro reigns without alloy; Where trial is unknown, and pain Shall never break the trance of joy. Without a voil I then shall gaze Upon my Saviour, face to face, And see the wisdom of those ways Which’, while on earth, I failed to trace. Oh, blessed hope! the desert past, And all life’s feverish visions o’er : The longed-for Caanan reached at last, Where sin is felt and feared no more. Meanwhile, on Pisgah’s top I’ll sing, With the bright shores of promise nigh, “ O Heath, where is thy vanquish’d sting? And where, oh Grave, thy victory ?” —Altar Incense. OUR ORDERS. Weave no more silks, ye Lyons looms, To deck oar girls for gay delights i The crimson flower of battle blooms, And solemn marches fill the nights. Weave but the flags whose folds to-day Hroop heavy o’er our early dead, And homely garments, coarse and gray, For orphans that must earn their bread. Keep back your tunes, ye viols sweet, That pour delight from other lands! Rouse there the dancer’s restless feet; The trumpet leads our warrior bands, And ye that wage the war of words With mystic fame and subtle power, Go chatior to the idle birds, Or teach the lesson of the hour! \ Ye sibyl arts, in one stern knot Be all your offices combined 1 Stand close, while courage draws the lot, The destiny of human kind ! —Living Age. WAITING POE JESUS. From heavy sleep little Paul Clifford suddenly awoke, and staring with great wondering eyes .upon unfamiliar walls, started impetuously up in bed, but sank back with a quick, sharp cry of pain. A gentle face bent over him. “What is it, dear?” “Where am I?” said Paul, faintly, “ and what is the matter ?” “ Ah, you can’t remember, poor little child! You have had a terrible fall, and it hurt you very much, but we hope to make you all well in a little while. Don’t think any more about it now, but try to go to sleep again.” Paul shuddered. “Oh, I remember now —those cruel, cruel doctors—how they screwed my leg, and put fire on my back. Father wouldn’t have let them do it if he had been here,” and the child’s breast heaved painfully. “They tried to he kind,” saidthe nurse, with 1 a tear in her eye, “ but “know it was very hard to bear. But ihw see, darling, the worst is over; they have set your leg, and tried to do something for your poor little back, and now you have only to lie very still, and get well as fast as you can. Come,’V said she, as his face grew calmer, “ we will have a very nice time together. Shall I read till you go to sleep ?” “ I can’t sleep any more now, please,” Said little Paul wearily. “ Then I will shake up your pillows so you can look around and see’ all the pleasant little children.” Very tenderly she raised his head, but not so carefully but that he felt that strange sensation: of fire on his back, and groaned, although he bit his proud, young Ups, and tried to smile his thanks to the sweet-faced lady.. Very languidly at first did he raise his heavy lids; but he soon became more interested, for this is what he saw: A long, cheerful room, Uned on two sides with little cots with snowy coverlids, and soft white pillows, and in a pretty sacque of pink or blue, like a bird in each fair little nest, was sitting or lying a patient little child. They were all very young. One was not more than two years old, and the greatest veteran in the company had not counted more than eight or nine birth days!. But every one already knew yrhat it was to suffer pain, and around some of the small mouths there were sweet, patient lines, very touching to see in such Baby faces. Paul leaked earnestly from one to the other. Hknoticed the little girl oppos ite, singing'softly and contentedly to her wooden doll, pressed close to her white, thin cheek —he saw the clear-eyed little boy next to hen peering eagerly into the mechanism of a toy steam-engine, en-‘ tirely unmindful of the helpless arm tied up in a sling,—aiiji another child, a little further on, turning over a picture book, and almost forgetting bis poor paralyzed feet, upon which he would never walk again. “ Yes,” sighed Paul to himself, “ they seem happy enemgh, but they must have been here a greab; while, and forgotten how splendid everything is out in the sunshine, but “—only yesterday I could run faster than any boy in the street, *And now —” the tears,gathered in his eyes. \ “ I am very sorry for yV, little boy,” said a sweet voice, and turnW, be foilnd it came from his next whose cot was only a few feet from hia^wn. The speaker was a little girl, \with very fair hair, and a skin so transparent that he could trace the delicate blue reins on her temples, and as he looked at her innocent face he wondered to find him self thinking of the fair white lilies he had once seen when he peered through the fence of some rare city garden. Paul felt himself greatly comforted, he scarcely knew why, by the look and words of sympathy, and a quick, impul sive. friendship sprang up between the little fellow-sufferers. It was not long before Paul was telling her all his story — how “ mother died, and father and he went to live with Aunt Margaret, who was poor, and had ever so many children, and was sometimes very cross. Then father, dear father went off to the wars, and told him as soon as he was old enough he should be a soldier too. Ever since father sailed he had been longing for him, and whenever any of the soldiers went away he always wanted to see them, be cause they were going where father was, and so one day when he climbed a tree, to see a procession go past, Ben Butler, who was half foolish, would creep on to the same limb. It began to crack, and he thought poor Benny wouldn’t know enough to save himself so he tried to jump to another branch, but missed,' and' fell down, —down, on the hard pavement, and, didn’t know any more till the doctors—” his voice quivered. “Never mind,” said Susy, “don’t tell any more,” and they mingled their tears. Then Susy, in her turn, told him “she had already been there twdyears, and never expected to be well, but knew that she should live in that little cot till she died.” “ But you don’t seem to care at all,” said Paul, looking wonderingly at her smiling face. “No,” said Susy, “I am very hap py. Very few sick children have such nice clean beds, and such pleasant nur ses to take care of them; Do you know this is S hospital, and the nurses, are ladies—some of them very rich— who come here just because they love God, and want to do something toiplease him?” ’ “ Aud do they stay here all their lives to take care of sick children ?” “That’s just as they please,” said Susy. “Some of them stay a few months, and some of them a good many years, and besides taking care of us they have a great many sick men and, women in the other rooms.” “I should think God would love them very much,” said Paul, looking affection ately after the nurse flitting noiselessly, in her soft dark dress, from one little cot to another. “ But Susy,” he began, after a long pause, “ I suppose girls can keep still easier than boys, but I’m sure I could never smile again if I thought I must stay here all my life. 0 Susy, have you. forgotten bovr splendid it is to run and jump ? It would just break my heart if I didn’t think I should get well very soon, and go to be a soldier with father. How can y«u smile so, Susy?” “ I’m waiting for Jesus,” said Susy, softly ? “What can you mean?” “ Why,” said Susy, “ the nurse reads to us every day from the Bible, and once she told us about Jesus passing amidst all the sick people, and ’making them well, and I said,' 4 0 nurse, if he only would pass by here, and touch every lit tle cot,’ and then she told me that Jesus would come to every little child that ask ed for him, and if it was best "he would make us well, and leave us on earth, or perhaps, if he loved us very much, he would take us with him to heaven. So,” said Susy, with a strange sweet smile, “ I’m waiting for him every day.” “ And you really think he’ll come ?” “ I know it,” said Susy, simply. Paul looked doubtful, and sinking back upon his pillow wearily closed his great sad eyes. The days passed on, and little Paul grew no better, although he had learned from Susy to be very patient for Christ’s sake. One bright May morning he woke hearing the doctors talking around his bed. They had decided that perhaps one more operation might save his life. “ Will you bear it like a hero my little fellow ?” said one, kindly. “I’ll try, sir,” said Paul, steadily, -for you know I’m to \s& si■ soldier one of these days.” “To be sure,” saidthe doctor, kindly. “ To-morrow, then,” and they passed on. Susy, with her violet eyes full of tears, said again and again: “Dear Paul, poor dear Paul,” but he wanted to be brave, and was afraid he would cry if he looked at her. So he lay very still, with closed eyes, while the sweet Sabbath music stole in from the chapel, where some of the poor sick men and women were worshipping God. With all his bravery he could not help shuddering to think of the cruel suffering on the mor row, and thinking how sweet it would be for Jesus to come, as Susy had said. With a piteous little prayer trembling on his lips, he fell into a half slumber, and dreamed that he did indeed see the beautiful Saviour coming down between the long lines of little cots, straight to wards his own bed. Paul hid his face from the brightness, but he knew when Jesus touched him, for the pain slipped away softly, and with a glad cry he open ed his eyes. Alas! the old pain came leaping back—ran over his poor back, and shivered down his tired little limbs. With a heavy sigh he looked around the room. It was flooded with glad sunshine, and one bright beam rested on the sweet picture of Jesus blessing little children, and saying, “ Suffer them to come unto me.” Paul grew calmer while he looked at it. Ho wanted to tell Susy that he PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, JULY 14, 1864. was almost sure Jesus would come some time, but lie was so very tired, liis eyes again closed wearily, nor did they open till in the twilight he heard the children singing “ I know I’m weak and sinful, But Jesus can forgive.” “ Oh, yes,” said Paul starting anxious ly, as he caught the name. “ I almost forgot, Jesus is coming,” and he tried to bolster up his little thin hand so it would stay up in the air. “ What are you doing ?” said Susy. “You see,” said Paul, in a drowsy wandering voice, “ I’m afraid Jesus might pass by in the night, when I was asleep, jyid I want to keep my hand lip so he can find me, and know I’m the hoy who has been waiting ” bis voice died away. “ Dear Paul, he is gone to sleep,” said Susy. Paul slept late the next morning; “I cannot hear to wake him,” said one kind nurse-to another. “ Poor little fellow ’• he must suffer so much to-day, and it will break his heart when he finds he can never be a soldier, for they say he will always be lame.” But Susy, looking eagerly to the bed, and seeing the hand lying quietly by his side, said, with a glad hopeful smile. 44 I shouldn’t wonder if Jesus put it there.” And Susy was right, for Jesus had in deed passed by, and finding little Paul •waiting for him, and loving him very wiMcA,'had lifted the tired lamb to his bosom. ASHAMED OF HER FATHER. 44 Clinkerty, clankerty, clink!” sound ed out the hammer of worthy Giles Hardy; as the sparks flew, and the red gleam brightened the smutty timbers within the shop, and shone across the greensward over the way, where the vil lage hoys played with kite and ball. You might think his lot was a hard one, toiling as was his wont from morning till night, did you not hear his glad song rising,, high above the sound of the iron he* was welding. “ I’m going home,” and 44 Happy day,” were ever on his lips, and music and gratitude dwelt in his heart; therefore he was one of the happiest men in W. Giles lived in a little house so-near the shop that it was covered with the soot and cinders from the forge. From its door might often be seen his little Sallie running over to ad mire the sparks, which she called “sol diers,” or to lead her father home when the day’s toil was over and the evening meal was waiting. She was not ashamed of Iris smutty face, his bare, brawny arms, or his soot-begrimed clothes; not she ! In her loving eyes, Giles was the most beautiful man alive. She was not old enough to know that men are toQ often honored in this world for their garments rather than for their worth; so she imagined that everybody esteemed him just as she did. A new house had been erected on a high “ill near theirs, by a fine gentle man from the city; and Sallie was delighted to see in his carriage, drawn by two bay horses, a sweet little girl about her own age. Once when she was in the shop, they stopped to say some thing to Giles about shoeing the horses, and Sallie smiled at Lucy, who in return threw her a great red apple. She caught it so nicely that they both laugh ed heartily and became friends; for lit tle children have none of that mean pride which we sometimes see among older people, till they are taught it. One day, when Sallie was dressed very neatly, she asked leave to take a walk, and bent her steps toward the mansion on the hill. She did not know how to go round by the road, so she climbed over fence and wall till she reached the grounds. There, to'her delight, she saw Lucy on a little gray pony, which the coachman was leading carefully by the bridle. She drove up to the wall, and asked in a kind voice, “Have you berries to sell, little girl?” Sallie' laughed, and said, “No, I’m Sallie; don’t you remember me? I came to play with you a little while. May that man open the iron gate for me. It is very heavy.” “ I should like to play with you, and to let you ride on my pony,” replied pleasant little Lucy, “but I know mam ma would not allow rife to play with you.” 44 Why not?” asked Sallie, in wonder. “ I never say naughty words, and I’m all dressed clean this afternoon.” “Oh,” said Lucy, “it is because your father works with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and has a smutty face and hands.” “ Oh, the smut washes off!” replied the innocent child. 44 He is always clean in the evening; and when he has his Sunday clothes on he’s the handsom est man in the world ! Mother is pretty all the time !” “ Oh, but—mamma would not let you in, I know, because your father shoes the horses,” added Lucy. “ That is no harm, is it? Don’t your father want his horses shod ?” asked the wondering Sallie. “ Yes; but he won’t let me play with poor people’s children,” answered Lucy. “ We’re not poor ; we’re very rich replied Sallie. “ Father owns the house and shop ; and we’ve got a cow and calf and twenty chickens, and the darlingest little baby boy in the world!” - But after all this argument little Lucy shook her head sadly, and said, “I wouldn’t dare to ask you in; but I’ll give you some flowers.” So Sallie went back, oyer fence and wall, wondering much at what had passed ! Shea, for the first time ia her life, she wished that her father would wear his Sunday clothes all the week, just as the minister and the doctor and Lucy’s father did. She almost felt ashamed of him—so noble and kind and good—as she entered the shop to wait fpr him. She stood by the forge trying to enjoy the sight of the sparks, as they danced and fought each other after each stroke of the hammer. But her thoughts were so troubled that she could not see them, nor the beautiful pictures- which she always found before in the blazing fire; —mountains, castles, churches, an gels, all were gone, and there was noth ing left in the black shop but a coal fire, hot sparks, and a smutty man! Tears came into Sallie’s eyes, but she crowded them back because she could not tell why she shed them. The fire was out; the blacksmith pulled off his apron, laid aside his ham mer, and took the soft hand of Sallie in his own hard and smutty one. For the first time in her life she withdrew it to see if the black came off. Just then the cars came in, creaking and whizzing; and to her joy she saw little. Lucy on the platform, waiting for her father. The 'conductor helped him from the steps, and he called out to Lucy, “Take my hand, child;” but she put both hands up to her face, to hide it, and sprung back into the carriage, alone; while the coachman, with a blushing face, almost lifted the finely dressed gentleman into it. Oh, what a sad, sad sight! He had been drinking wine till his reason was gone, and "he could not walk; so his own dear child was ashamed of him. . Then Sallie grasped the hard hand of Giles, not caring now whether the smut rubbed off or not, and told him all that was in her heart. “Oh, father,” she cried, “ I was so wicked that I was just beginning to be ashamed of you because your face was black, and you did not dress up like a gentleman all the time ! I’m so glad you are a blacksmith instead of a drunken man! Poor little Lucy! She is ashamed of her father , although he has on a fine coat, and has gold but tons in his shirt!” \ - “Ah, my child,” said the good black smith, “ God deals justly with us all ; every one has sorrow, a black spot somewhere. Some have it as grief in the heart, some as sin in tbe life, and others as poverty which forces them to toil hard and live poorly. Thank your Heavenly Father, dear, if all the black ness you see about your father is on his face and hands; for the fine gentleman -whose child I fear you have envied, has a black heart, which shows itself in a wicked life. He has money , but that cannot make one happy or honored who does not fear God or respect himself.” 44 Oh, father, dear,” replied tlie child, 44 1 shall never, never be ashamed of you again as long as I live, for there was never such a father as you are to ine; I don’t care how black your hands and face are.” —Child at Some. MOEE ANECDOTES OF DE. BEEOHEB. An agreeable little sequel to the au tobiography of Rev. Lyman Beecher is contained in the Congregational Quar terly for July, in the 44 Sketches and Re collections of the Old Clergyman,” con tributed by 0. E. Stowe, at Hartford* Here is one of the anecdotes: Beecher’s simplicity, buoyancy and imperturbable good-humor disarmed op position when he came in personal con tact with an opponent. An old wood lawyer whom we will call W ,a rough, strong, shrewd man, who belonged to a rival sect, was violently prejudiced against the doctor, especially on account of his total abstinence principles. He had never seen him, and would not hear him preach. This man had a large lot of wood to saw opposite to the Doctor’s house. The doctor depended upon con stant manual labor for keeping up his own health; and in Boston, where he could not enjoy the luxury of a garden to dig in, he was often puzzled to find means to keep himself in go’od working order. The consequence was that he sawed all the wood for his own large family, and often finding that too little, would beg the privilege of sawing at the wood pile of a neighbor. He was fastidious in tbe care of his wood-saw, having it always at hand in his study, half concealed among minutes of coun cils, incomplete magazine articles and sermons, and the setting of his saw was often duly accomplished while lie settled nice pointy of theology with his boys, or took .council with brother ministers. Looking out of his study window one day, when his own woodpile was re duced to a discouraging state<of order— every stick sawed and .split—he saw, with’ envy, the pile, of old W. in the street. Forthwith he seized his saw, and soon the old sawyer of the street beheld a man, without cravat and in shirt-sleeves, issuing from Dr. Beecher’s house, who came briskly up and asked if he wanted a hand at his pile; and forthwith fell to work with a right good will, and soon proved to his brother sawyer that he was no mean hand at the craft. - Nodding his head significantly at the opposite house, W. said : “You live there?” B. 44 Yes.” W. 44 Work for the old man ?” B. “Yes.” W. “What sort of an old fellow is he?” B. “Oh, pretty much like the rest of us. Good man enough to work for.” W. “ Tough old chap, ’ain’t he ?” B. “Guess so, to them that try'to chaw him up.” So the conversation went on till the wood went so fast with the hew corner that W. exclaimed, “First rate saw that of yourn!” This touched the Doctor in a tender point. He had set that saw as carefully as the articles of his creed—every tooth was critically adjusted, and so he gave a smile of triumph. “ I say,” said W., “ where can I get a saw like that?” B. “I don’t know, unless you buy mine.” W. “ Will you trade ? What do you ask ?” B. “ I don’t know. I’ll think about it. Call at the house to-morrow, and I’ll tell you.” The next day the old man knocked, and met the Doctor at the door, fresh from the hands of his wife, with his coat brushed and cravat tied, going out to pastoral duty. W. gave a start of surprise. “ Oh,” said the Doctor, “ you’re the man that wanted to buy my saw. Well, you shall have it for nothing—only let me have some of your wood to saw when you work on my street.” W. said that he then felt as if he wanted to crawl into an auger-hole. HIS MANUSCRIPT. His habits of composition were pecu liar. His social nature was so active that as soon as he had ■written a sen tence which pleased him he had an irre pressible desire to read it to somebody. Many a time has he rushed into the dining-room where Aunt Esther was washing dishes—“ Here, Esther, hear this.” Aunt Esther, with martyr-like patience, would stand, towel in one hand and an unwiped plate in -the other (for he must have her undivided attention), till he had read his paragraph, and trot ted back to his study again. It some times seemed as if he would never get a sentence done. He would write and re write, erase “and interline, tear up and begin anew, scratch out and scribble in, almost endlessly. In the latter part of his life this habit became morbid, and actually shut him out from the possibility of publishing his own writings. He was the torment of printers, both by the delay of his manuscript and by the condition in which they found it when they got it. One of his daughters said there were three negative rules by which she could always read her father’s writing, to wit: 1. If there is a letter crossed, it isn’t at. 2. If there is a letter dotted, it istft i. 8. If there is a capital letter, it isn’t at the begininng of a word. At Lane Seminary he lived more than two miles from the city. One time after the printers had been on tenter hooks forty-eight hours for their copy, he hastily finished his manuscript in his study, crushed it into the crown of the hat that lay/nearest to him, clapped another hat on his head, drove down to the city, rushed up to the printing office, and snatched off his hat. “Here’s your copy—h’m, h’m—well, if it isn’t here, it is somewhere else.” The copy was still in the hat that had been left at home. But who could be angry with*so much good nature, even if it were a ■plague? CHILDREN'S BOOKS. A suitable literature, religious, moral, and secular, for the young —now that it is admitted they too must have a litera ture—is yet a desideratum, un3upplied by our great publishing houses andsoci eties. Approximations of an encour aging character are made to it on every hand, but there is an ample field for criticism, and every honest and earnest observer upon the wants and defects of our present methods of supply should be listened to. "We quote some just re marks on "the subject,from Child's Liter ary Grasette of July Ist: “ The demand,” says the writer, “ for children’s. books, has grown with the supply ; where a library of one or two hundred volumes was once amply suffi cient for Sunday-school purposes, five hundred or a thousand are now called for; and as taste has become fastidious (not to say perverted), the “run” is upon a certain class of story books, and there must be none among them that are too old to be-called new. The re sult of all this is obvious. The teachers or friends of a school collect (by means of a fair or congregational collection) say seventy-five or one hundred dollars to replenish the library. The parties intrusted with the purchase, visit a book-store, and make known their er rand. The stock is examined or per chance the selection is left to the sales men. The points in view on his part are: 1. To absorb the whole sum to be expended, and 2. To make the best profit. On the other side, the aim is to secure the largest number of “new and interesting” books for the least money. The range of' choice extends in size from eighteens of thirty-six pages to octavos of six hundred—and in charac ter from “Alleine’s Alarm” to Scott’s novels. Of late years the smaller class of books, designed for “young children,” are eschewed, no such persons being found “in our midst,” and it is not rare for an order to the amount of fifty or even one hundred dollars, to exclude all books, the price of which is less than twenty-five cents! A considerable pro portion of the books put up on such an order are probably a 3 ill-adapted to the purpose as Newton’s Principia would be to an infant 'school. The eagerness with, which new publications are' seized for this purpose stimulates ingenuity and labor in their production, and it i 3 no matter of wonder that so broad a current should be shallow. The thinner the porridge the less are its nutrient qualities likely to be. Our strictures apply to that large class of books which try to redeem the faults of a silly novel by the intersper sion of texts of Scripture 'and religious maxims, and, under some imposing title, and by .dint of liberal advertising and puffing, find their Way into Sunday schools and families as aids and guides to a religious life in childhood! It may be doubted, perhaps* whether this vast array of reading matter, in this form, is not rather a hindrance than a help to improvement. ' The undisciplined mind of childhood roves restlessly from one hook to another, skimming over the story (not unfrequently, to- the neglect of other and holier duties in the sanc tuary of God), and glancing at the pic tures, while scarcely a thought is given to the principle illustrated, or to the lessons taught. Our purpose is answered if we excite others to think as we do of the extreme folly of multiplying children’s books, simply because there is money to pur chase them and children to read them. The remedy lies in the hands of parents and teachers. A rigid scrutiny by com petent and disinterested parties would doubtless condemn two-thirds of the current literature of childhood and youth, as unfitted to strengthen the vir tue or improve the understanding of its readers. In saying this we do not lose sight of the low capacity and forlorn education of many into whose hands these books fall, and who may gather many useful hints from them. A full supply of their wants would be included in the uncondemned third. We would not object to a liberal share of books that should simply detail the ordinary events of the daily life of chil dren, with no formal “ reflections,”-for these may be safely trusted to suggest themselves, if the narrative has much force. The religious books, such as we suppose would be generally sought for on the shelves of the Sunday-school library, should be prepared with the best judgment and most scrupulous- care, teaching the simplest doctrines of the Christian faith, which (thanks to Thee, 0 Father, Lord of heaven and earth) “ are hidden from the wise and prudent and revealed to babes,” and enforcing them by reference to relations and con ditions which are familiar to ordinary child-life. That the highest dramatic power combined with unaffected simpli city may be employed successfully in conveying the subhmest of' religious truths to the mind, is put ..beyond doubt by the story of Joseph and his brethren, Ruth-and Naomi, and the prodigal son. No change could improve either of them, for the philosopher or for the peasant. If our best book-writers would give to one book the reflection and labor which they spend over ten, and if onr publish ers would be content to eater for the natural and wholesome appetite for new books, instead of stimulating a morbid craving for them, we should hail it as a token for good. This, however, is hardly to Jbe expected, for since the world began it was never known that pens and presses were idle, so long as there was money to keep them busy. SINGULAE DISOOVEEY OF A SULPHUR MINE. One of those great lines of volcanic action which furrow the surface of the earth extends from the Gulf of Mexico to the Pacific, directly across the table land described, to within about sixteen mires from the city of Mexico; and there exists a very remarkable series of extinct or dormant volcanoes, through which the internal fires of the globe formerly found a vent. Popocat epetl, the loftiest of these volcanic cones, and, indeed, the loftiest mountain in Mexico, being 17,884 feet above the sea, has' not been in eruption within-recorded time, but over its crater is still frequently suspended a cloud ol sulphurous vapor, and smoke is still occasionally seen to issue from its summit. Within its cav ernous recesses are inexhaustible deposits of sulphur which have been the source of considerable wealth. One was discovered by accident. A despairing bankrupt merchant, who had determined to put an end to his existence by decendihg into the crater of Popocatepetl, persuaded his guides to lower him into it by ropes. He believed that he had only to breathe the sulphurous fumes and die. Passing i apidly into the vast chasm, he suddenly felt all oppression cease, and he found himself in a spacious hall ornamented by fluted columns of a glassy lustre, and supporting a dome’ of glittering yellow crystals lit up by countless flickering jets of gas. Por a moment he believed he had passed'the portals of death, and had entered another but not a better world. He stood in a sulphur cavern where the air was pure, the ascending vapors being condensed at the top of the crater. Giving a concerted signal to the guides, he was rapidly drawn to the sur face. He had made a great discovery, and he instantly perceived that it might be made a source of incalcuable wealth. The sulphur mine thus singularly found speedily restored his fortunes, and he became one of the richest merchants in Mexico. : —London Quarterly. He who openly tells his friends all that he thinks of them, may expect that they will secretly tell his enemies much that they don’t think of him.
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