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.