322 c famil4 Civdr. THE PAINTER AND THE MONK-II LBOWARDO DA VINCI POETIZES TO THE DUKE IN HIS OWN DEFENCE Padre Bendelli, then, complains of me Because, forsooth, I have not drawn a line Upon the Saviour's head ; perhaps, then, ho Could without trouble paint that head divine. But think; oh Signor Duca, what should be The pure perfection of our Saviour's face— What sorrowing majesty, what noble grace, At that dread moment when He brake the bread, And those submissive words of pathos said, "By one among you I shall be betrayed,"— And say if 'tis an easy task to find, Even among the best that walk this earth, The fitting typo of that divinest worth, That has its image solely in the mind. Vainly my pencil struggles to t Acprese The sorrowing grandeur of such holiness, In patient thought, in ever seeking Rrayer, I strive to shape that glorious face within, But the soul's mirror, dulled and dimmed by BM, Reflects not yet the perfect image there. Cart the hand do before the soul has wrought? Is not our art the servant of our thought? And Judas, too,—the basest face I see Wiil not contain his titter infamy Among the dregs and offal of znunkind, Vainly I seek an utter wretch to find. He who for thirty silver coins could sell His Lord, must be the Devil's miracle. Padre Bandelli thinks it easy is To find the type of him who with a kiss Betrayed his Lord. Well, what I can I'll do; And if it please his reverence and you, For Judas' face I'm willing to paint his. Padre Baodelli is a sort of man Joking apart, whose little round of thought Is like his life, the measure of a span. He knows and does the duties he is taught— Prays, preaches, eats, and sleeps in dull con- tent; Does the day's work, and deems it excellent; Says he's a sinner, but we're sinners all, And puts hisrown sin down to Adam's fall. Christ, at the last day, others may reject,— Poor painters, or great dukes with their state cares ; But that, with all his masses, fasts and prayers, A convent's prior should not be elect, Padre Bandelli has not half a doubt— 'Twere a strange heaven, indeed, with him left out. Him the imagination does not tease- With hungry cravings, restless impulses ; Him no despairing days the Furies bring, No torturing doubts, no anxious questioning; But day by , day his ordered time is spent, In doing over the same things again. How should he know the artist's inward strain, His vexing and fastidious discontent ? Art he considers as a sort of trade, Like laying bricks : If one can lay a yard In one good hour, how can it be so hard In two good hours, that two yards should be laid ? But, Signor Duca, you can apprehend The artist's soul—how there is ne'er an end Of climbing fancies, longings, and desires, That burn within him like consuming fires; How, beaten to and fro by joy and pain, He grasps at shadows he can ne'er retain. How sweet and fair the inward vision gleams! How dull and base the painted copy seems I We are like Danaus' daughters—all in vain We strive to fill our vases. Human art Through myriad leaks lets out the spirit's part, And nothing but the earthy dregs remain. * * * * Oh Signor Duca, as the woman bears Her child not in a moment nor a day, Srr doth the soul the germ that God cloth lay Within it, with as many pains and cares. From the whole being it absorbs and draws' Its form and life—on all we are and see It feeds by subtle sympathetic laws ; Bach‘sense it stirs, it fires each faculty .To hunt thd outer world, and thence to,seize Food for assimilation. By degrees Perfect it grows at last in every part, And then is born into the world of art. In facile natures fancies quickly grow, But such quick fancies have but little rooL Soon the narcissus flowers and dies, but slow The tree whose blossoms shall mature to fruit. Grace is a moment's happy feeling, Power A life's slow growth; and. we for many an hour Must strain and toil, and wait and weep, if we The perfect fruit of all we are would see. * * * * _ ILITOHE2. EY THE MISSES WARNER, AUTHORS OF THE "WIDE, - WIDE WORLD," " OLD HELMET," kC.. If I tell you some true things that happened in the life of a real little boy, you must not suppose that these are all the things which ever happened to him. Some, perhaps, would not interest you, and some would do you no good,and many, many others I do not know; 'so that these articles may be called a part of a true story. And as it is only a part, and not the whole, I shall not call the boy'by his real name—as if I were pre tending to write an exact account of his life—but shall call him what he called' himself once, before he had learned to tell the truth. Nearly ten years ago,—before wine of you little children were born, and while others of you were rocked in soft cradles and =tended by kind hands,— there lived a certain man in New York who had three little boys. Many men think it a great thing to have even one .son, and can never do enough .for him ; but this man had three, and cared no thing for them all. That was not the children's fault. They would have been just as pleasant looking as many of the little velvet-clad boys of Fifth Avenue, bad their faces only been.`washed anal their hair combed and their clothes clean and whole ; and by natii•e their hearts were not a bit worse. The Lord Jesus had died for them as for others; and without• his help not the richeit lit - Ale boy' in. all New York could go to heaven. But their father never told them anything of all this, nor indeed of anything good,—there was but one thing in the world for which he, cared much, and that was strongdrink; so you - will not wonder to hear that he and his little children were wretchedly poor. Of course, loving brandy and gin so well, he did not love work ; and thus although he was a builder by trade, and could earn very good wages when he chose, yet he only took a job now and then, when all other means of getting brandy failed. The place where he lived was dirty and miserable—l dare say you never saw such a one ; and yet it was both larger and better than many a dwelling place of poor people. That is, the room itself; but so long as this man could get drink, he never seemed to care whether his children had either food or fire or clothes. Long ago he had lived in England; and there he had a pleasant garden in front of his house, and roses climbing up the walls and a smooth gravel walk, and a fine white and black cat. Then the mother of the eldest of these three boys was alive, and took care of him, and sent him to the infant school. But now she was dead, and Johnny's father had married a woman as bad as himself ; and three more little children had opened their eyes upon this world of sin and sorrow, and saw nothing but sin and sorrow all the day long. All the family lived in one room. In one corner stood a bedstead covered with a warm feather bed (until this was sold for brandy); and near by was a carpenter's bench, and three chairs, and a table, and two wooden seats of some sort. In another corner was the 'chil dren's bedstead, but this had only abed of chaff. There all the five yoting ones slept together, stowed away just like little herrings_ in a box—one with his head one way, and the next with his head the other ; and covered with such comfort as an old ragged quilt could bestow. You would not have thought them very comfortable, had you looked in there some night; and yet they were far better off then than when awake. For then they could not hear the bad words spoken around them, and then they were never told to do anything wrong. You children who fret a little some times because your mother says this is not right, or your father thinks that will not do, learn if you can what a great, great blessing it is to have such a, careful father and mother. For these .poor little ones were never forbidden to do wrong,—ah they were often ordered to do it ! It is almost too dreadful to tell, but this man used to send his boys out to get what he wanted,—not to buy it, nor even to beg it, but to steal it: and very much of the coal and wood and Vegetables that came into the house were got in this way. Do you say they should have refused to do such wicked. work ?, ah, little children, no one had ever taught them anything right since their mother died. They never saw a Bible now ; they never heard the name of the Lord, unless spoken in some dreadful oath. And if they were not successful in their stealing, if they; did not bring home, as much as their father expected, he would beat them dreadfully. If you had seen these poor little crea tures wandering about the streets,— here catching up, a cabbage or two pota-, toes from the open - barrel at a grocer's door, and there filling an old basket with coal from the heap on. some rich man's sidewalk,—you would have felt angry at first, maybe, if you had been the child of the grocer or the rich man; but if you could have looked into the ignorant, sad, little hearts that beat warm and full beneath the 'ragged jack ets, you would have felt verY, very sad too. I have looked on with great won der, in a candy shop, when I have seen some of the rich customers eat a sugar plum from this tray and a morsel of candy from that ; a rose drop from this open jar and a burnt almond from the next, while waiting for their parcels. To be sure, the shop-women saw it as well as I, but she` said'nothing, because the lady wore a velvet cloak and the boy and girl came out of a grand car riage. Yet if- to steal' be to take what does not belong to you, I for one see little difference whether the thing be candy or cabbages. I know if one of these poor little boys had walked into the shop and taken a burnt almond, he would have bees calledl a, thief in no time. And the eighth comniandment does not say Thou shalt not steal much, but simply, Thou shalt not steal." The boys could riot always fill:their pockets and baskets, watch as well and run as fast as they might. Often the coalman was too quick for them' ' or the grocer's man ran faster than they, and so brought back the cabbage, leaving a aood cuff instead. Once as they passed a rag-picker's cart they saw his _bag • of broken victuals and made off with .it; but the ragrpicker let loose his. dogs on them, and then the boys had to run for their life—the dogs nearly hunted them down. But all. this was nothing to the blows they had if they went home empty handed. Sometimes, indeed, when it had been a bad day, the , elder boys dared not go home at all, but slept in boxes and carts and all sorts of places. And, when they got more than usual, especially if any money made part of it, even then affairs did not mend, fcir their father only got the more brandy and drank the harder. And then that brought on What the Children,called 'brandy - fits,' —when he seemed out.of his senses, and • nearly frightened them out of theirs., For at such- times lie was perfectly wild; driving them from the honse, 'threaten ing to kill them, and even trying to do W. W. S It happened one day, that as Johnny, the eldest,was roaming about the streets, loitering round wharves, , and peeping into alleys to see what he could pick up, he espied a good piece of board lying all by itself. "'That will make' splendid stuff for the stove," thought Johnny, " and no body's looking on." So coming cautiously round the pile of lumber he caught up the board and made off with it. Now the owner of the board had been watching all this while to see who it- was that carried PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 13, 1864. off his stuff; and the minute Johnny began to run the man ran too. And Johnny was lame, and the lumberman had full use of both his feet and of both his hands too, as Johnny soon found to his, cost ; for the man gave him such a beating, that Johnny went home and declared to his father that he would not pick up wood any more. And then, as his father was very angry, Johnny told him that he would be a match boy, and try and make a living in that way ; if he could only have twenty-five cents to begin with. Children have no idea how many people live by selling matches. And in the first place, many people live by ma king them. Some families are even sup ported by making the little paper boxes in which the matches are put. A single one of the great match factories in New. York has a hundred branch establish ments, from each of which very great quantities of matches are sold to stores in the city and at :a distance. '•Besides this,.a great many are bought by poor people who take only a few boxes at'a time ? and then peddle them round the streets ' from house to house. To just one of these estahlishments fifty men and women, and as many boys and girls, went regularly for matches at the time of which I speak, and had no other means of support than the street sales of the same, and the small profit they could make on each box. And now Johnny came to add his little self to the number. Up to the great factory he went, with his little capital of twenty-five cents— lent him by his father—and bought two packs of matches at twelve cents a pack; with the twenty-fifth cent he bought some cord to tie them up ; then seated himself on a doorstep to arrange his stock. In each pack were thirty-six boxes ; and as the boxes were very full, Johnny took a .few out of each and so made twenty-five new bunches. This gave him ninety-seven bunches in all, and as each bunch sold 'for one cent, Johnny had ninety-seven cents at the end of his first day's work. Beside this some kind person made him a present of five cents ; and just as the sun was set ting. Johnny set out for home with a dollar and two cents in his pocket. Perhaps the child was hungry—per haps he thought so much of the day's earnings fairly belonged to him ; but at all events he stopped at a bakers's by the way, and bought two cents worth of cake, then carried the dollar home to his father. This seems like an easy sort of work —a dollar a day, and nothing to do for it but walk the streets and ring at door bells and ask people to buy matches : - but little feet get soonef weary on the hard pavements than they do on the fresh green grass, and little People get very hungry in the course of a long day, and grown people will not always buy matches. How many times do you suppose Johnny had the door slammed in his face, without even a civil answer ? How many gentlemen pushed him out of the way? How many ladies looked at him with, disgust ? To be sure, they could not all buy from his basket—and doubtless he was sometimes in the way —yet that is a good old heathen proverb worth importing to Christian lands " If you cannot go yourself to one in trouble, send a kind word." Do,not look only at the dirty hands and ragged clothes of these forlorn, ones, look at their poor little thin, faces i so pale ; so lost in shadow. I saw a I little girl's face inthe streets once which half broke my heart. I. did not know enough then to question„er and find outlier distress; and so she stayed shivering there at the corner, and I went sobbing doWn Broad- way. . It often happened that Johnny got little but' cross words ; some days it seemed as if everybody had matches ; and then if he went home:at night with light gains, the words and blows which he had to encounter were neither light nor few. The gay, well-dressed people. who parade up and down:the streets in the daytime, little guessed that at night a poor little match boy sometimes trot ted up and down those same pavements nearly the whole night ldng ; afraid to lie down on . the steps lest the police should take him off to the station house, afraid to go home lest his father should beat him. One night when Johnny was too tired to walk any longer, he marched into an oyster saloon and hired' a bed for twenty-five cents. It was _Saturday night, and as the 'oyster man never took down his shutters again till Mon day morning; poor weary little Johnny slept right on, all through Sunday, nor ever roused up till the first day of the week was passed. " I thought," he said afterwards, "that I had had a pretty good twenty-five cents' worth of sleep t." GOD'S. LITTLE MESSENGER As I stepped upon the platform of the Cleveland depot, a• hand was laicr upon my arm, and a voice said, "Norman'! is this you ?" I turned and looked at tike speaker.. It was an old. classmate, Richard , with whom T had agreed to pass a few weeks, and, whom I had not seen for years before. After we had pushed our way throngh the noisy crowd and were seated im his carriage,l looked at him again and exclaned, 'Richard ! hoW you have altered 1 how different now frog the wild youth of .old!" " Yes, Norman, there have been many changes with me since we parted, but the greatest has been here," said he, smiling, and gently touching his breast. "Humph!" was my ejaculation, which elicited no reply. That evening, as he, his wife, and my self were walking in the conservatory, and I was admiring some jasmines, he said to me, "Norman, I have yet a little treasure to show you, and although it is small, it is great—greater than all these —almost the greatest one I have. Can you guess ?" When we went back to the drawing room he showed her tome—his beautiful little girl, his only child, his little Bessie. I was not fond of children, at least I thought so, but strangely did that little maiden win her way to my heart--my old bachelor heart. Eight cloudless summers of her sunny life had passed, and had each one, as it gently glided by, left with her all its charms, she could not have been more beautiful. That evening, sweet in memory to me, we became firm friends. She loved me because, when she asked papa, he said he did. She sat with me a little while, and ',told her an old fairy story, which most strangely came to my remembrance; and-then, after she, her papa, and myself had had a frolic, she went to bed. The next day we all went out for a drive, and a delightful one we had. Little Bessie was as bright and beautiful as the day, but sometimes there was a strange thoughtfulness of expression upon her face which troubled me as being beyond her years. As I was talking to her father :I said something jeeringly about Him who had led the only pure life upon earth. Richard said not a'word in reply, but motioned me to look at little Bessie. She was gazing into my face with a look of mingled horror and surprise,an expres sion such as I never saw before or since, and which I shall never forget. She gazed so for a _moment. No one spoke. Never had anything before been able to make me feel that religion was above my scoffing remarks; but as I glanced at that little face, - so earnestly endeavoring to read mine, and Saw °the little maid burst into uncontrollable tears, I felt a certain shame that in the presence, of' one so pure I should have spofren what perhaps she had never heard before. Then she looked at me in "a sort of a pitying way and said, ," I thought you loved my Jesus ! 0 how could you say that of him ?" During the rest of the drive :she lay upon her father's bosom in perfect silence—no one spoke. The next day I was alone in my room, thinking of all that had occurred, and a strange and unaccountable feeling of seriousness was creeping over me, a sort of longing to be like her, when suddenly the little maid was at my side. I started as I saw her and met the tender gaze of love and pity which she bent upon me. Her little hand was laid upon my arm, andfor a, moment both were silent.— Then the silence was broken by the words, " Won't you love my Jesuir and she was goner I could not ridicUle that loVely spirit, and yet some demon within me tempted my soul to do so. The next morning, and the next, and the next, the little maiden came in the same way, said the same words, and disappear ed. I never answered her, and at no other time did she allude' to the subject, but she never failed to 'come at that morning hour. One morning I said to her, almost unconsciously " Tell me how, Bessie ?" She looked at me a mo ment, and the next was seated =on ray knee. And the words that flo wed—those, Simple, childish words in which she told the story of Christ's love! Never, never shall I forget them. My eyes were far from dry when she went away, and there was less of sorrow on her face than usual. And morning after morning she came, and seemed,never weary of telling the sweet tale. But one morning she did not come. I waited a long time but in vain. No little feet came pattering along the, hall. No little hind was clasped in mine. - .4r0 words of instruction were lisped in my ear. Presently there came a hurried knock at my door. It was opened'with out waiting for permission, and 'her father was with me. " Norman," said he, "she has ju.st waked from a long and heavy sleep, and 'is fearfully ill. Will you come?.Tell me if you know what it is." I went. < There lay the little one, with eyes closed and in a sort of stupor. I knew at a glance. It was scarlet fever. How I told those two aching hearts I know not, but they were wonderfully, calm in their anguish. The doctor soon confirmed my statement,but there was so painfully little to be done, for the dear sufferer, that these two days almost passed by.,in silence as we three watched over the precious form. We knew from the first that' she was no longer of the-earth, and indeed it was a heavy burden for us to bear to think that she would no longer be the. light of our hearts. I say we, for though I was, perhaps mistaken, the little one had so taken possession of my heart, that it seemed to me that she could, not be dearer to those who had the first earthly' claim upon her; affections. • At the end of the'second day her life seemed • partially to 7return ; and- she opened her_large beautiful eyes,,,iarkd smiling a little said, "Dear mamma--- dear papa V' and then looking around, "Dear uncle Norman, won't you love my Jesus ? Mamma loves Him Papa loves T-Tim I And I am going to Him, and I want to tell Him that you love Him. Won't you love ; Him ?" "Bessie!;little Bessie,!" said I, "tell Him my heart and life are His for ever m ire, and may my soul some day be as pure and undefiled as hers who bears the messa,ge to Him !" "Mamma! Papa! 0 my Jesus ! I am so happy now ! Now I have all I want! Now I come, come, come ! Even so, come Lord Jesus !" And the little spirit, so pure, so holy, returned whence it came. God's little messenger had fulfilled her mission to the earth, had turned a soul to righteouness, and was called home. Dear reader, have not some of " God's little messengers" visited your household and spoken to your heart, ere they plumed their golden wings for the upper and better land ? How have you re sponded to the gentle call ? Is Glhrist still saying of you,_ "Ye will not come to me, that ye might have life ?" If no little messenger has been permitted to nestle in your bosom, and tell you, in the sweet accents of innocent childhood, of the love of Jesus, let, 0 let this little one speak to you as she did to Norman, and woo you to the Saviour. Let her pleading words, " Say won't you love niy - Jesus ?—he loves, you," find lodgment in your heart, and lead you to the " Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world ;" that it may be truly said of her, "By it, she being dead, yet. speaketh. See her walking the golden streets - of' the <New Jerusalem, refreshing herself by the river of the water of life, .tuning, her golden harp to the praise of redeem ing love, and casting her crown at the Saviour's feet ! Hear her, as she speaks to you from her home in glory, saying, " Come 'up hither," and tell me will you go ? 0 ! will you go ?—Drops of Truth. THE MO NESTS Robby Rover fushed into his mother's presence one afternoon, his bright eyes sparkling with delight, and shouted—as only little boys can---" Look here mother, see what I've found ; a bird's nest—a real, live bird's nest !". (Robby had found discarded nests before, in the currant bushes, so he called this a live one, in contradistinction to - them - ) 1 . " Well, child, you need 'not scream 'loud enough to make one deaf about it ; and see - there," she said in a • tone of vexation; you have tracked ,clear across the floor with,your dirty wet feet. You just be off with yourself and see that you don't break those nasty eggs on your clothes ; if you do, you will be sorry for it.,, Robby, somewhat abashed, retreated out of doors with his prize, which he carefully placed in an old box his father had given him to keep his playthings in. There was a curious medley of things in it—balls, tops, marbles, sticks, twine, a button " buzz," and countless other things very precious to the eyes of little boys. But Robby thought there was nothing there so beautiful as that little, round nest, with those four pale blue eggs in it, so he viewed it o'er and o'er, with a confused notion his head that little boys should never "'bawl;" never have wet feet, and never soil their clothes with broken bird's eggs, but without one thought of the cruel wrong he had thoughtlessly done, in taking that pretty nest from the bush where the cunning architects had with such . delicate skill woven it. Ah ! who can tell what far extending waves of desolation may circle from one childish act of wrong, which that mother careful in many things," had suffered, to pass unrebuked. Robby grew up a careless, cruel man; giving the deepest sorrow to his parents. Turn we now to another home. Across that floor, there were marks of little feet leading to an outer door, where stood a little boy, holding a 'nest in his hand— hisToo.Y face all glowing with excitement. "See here, mother," he cried, "what I found in the hazel bushes; one, two, three little birdies." The mother turned with a smile at the call of her darling, but the moment, she saw what he held, her countenance fell. Why, Willie, how could you take that away from the old birds; how sad they will feel when they come home by-and by, and, find their nest, and little birdies all gone." "It was so pretty," said the child in a subdued voice, "but I am sorry I took It, if it was naughty." 1 " " It was very wrong, although,perhaps you did not think how sad the old birds would feel - See," she continued, "there is the mother bird now; she has missed, her darlings; and how, distredsed she is." Willie's lips quivered; and the tears sprang to his eyes, and handing the nest to his mother, he cried, " Put it back, mother. don't want it any more." "Can you show me where you - found it .?". "Yes, I know the very bush." " : Then come, and we will try and re store it." Taking the nest in one hand and her little one's chubby fingers in the other, she walked` slowly away, talking in a low sweet tone to him,- striving to plant the priceless germ of kin.dness.to all—and especially to all weak and un :protected things—in his little heart; and the nest was soon resting in the same bush whence those eager ilittle fingers had torn it. ' The'leAson that noble mother instilled was never forgotten.' The terror Of the bereaved robin, the gentle reproof from his mother's lips, and the triumphant song which the parent bird poured forth that evening, as he found his treasures all restored, combined to make an un.-, fading impression on his 'tender `,'mind.. Impulses were checked thus "early which might otherwise have led to -much evil in after years ; and kindly feelings were fostered which never ceased to -operate` and which to-day form the crowning graces of his noble and manly character. —British, Workman. WE must not walk by example, but by rule. SUBLIMITY OF THE ALPS. Chamouni, ( Champ m uni from Campus Munitus,) is but a small village, irregu-. lar as the mountains which encompass it. Apart from the natural scenery which lies about it, its chief sights are mules and goats, and dusty travellers, and sun browned guides. But, what are the works of man, the glories of his cities, or the splendors of his deeds, compared with these Alps, which tower around me, lifting their ice-bound spires to that God who gave them being, preaching by their thundering avalanches the unsearchable ness of Almighty power, and looking out from their unsealed summits on scores of miles of crystal palaces, and jeweled homes >of mountaiil-sprites, by which even the fancies of the highest human genius are put to shame ! There is an awful sublimity in mountains. The most wonderful manifestations of God head, related in the Scriptures, were made ;upon mountains. Corning so near to heaven, they connect most naturally with the divine. I never' came in con tact with them but I feel a quickening within me, a waking of feelings which seem to whisper to me, " Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground." You may imagine, then, with what emo tions I looked on these glorious hills; so high that heavenly purity covers them forever ; so exalted, that necklaces like crystal mountains hang in drooping folds from their shoulders ; and so beautiful, that the winged clouds, the virgin daugh ters of the sunny sky, come and throw their white arms round them, and load them daily with their tender caresses. "All that expands the spirit, yet appals, gather around their summits." In lone ly quiet, I again and again looked up. these sublime steeps, as I had before looked upon the ocean's waves, and my soul sung anthems of praise to the ma jesty, and glory and beneficence of God, who "made heaven and earth, and the sea, and the fountains of waters."—Rev. J. Seiss, D. D., in the Lutheran. ACCESS TO GOD However early in the morning you seek the gate of access, you find it already open; and however deep the midnight moment when you find yourself in the sudden arms of death, the winged prayer can bring an instant Saviour near, and this wherever you are. It needs not that you ascend a special' Pisgah or Moriah ; it needs not that you should en ter some awful shrine, or put off your shoes on some holy ground. Could a memento be reared on every spot from which an acceptable prayer has passed away, and on which a prompt answer has come down, we should find Jehovah shammah, " The Lord hath been here," inscribed on many a cottage hearth and many a dungeon floor. We should find it, not only in Jerusalem's proud temple, David's cedar galleries, but in the fisher man's cottage by the brink- in Gennesa ret, and in the upper chamber where Pen tecost began. And whether it be the field where Isaac went to meditate, or the rocky knoll on which Jacob lay down to sleep, or the brook where Israel wrestled, or the den where Daniel gazed on the hungry lions and the lions gazed on him, or the hill-sides where the Man of Sorrows prayed all night, we should still discern the prints of the ladder's feet let down from heaven, the landing place of mercies, because the starting-point of prayer.—Hamilton. BUT ONE SABBATH IN THE WEEK A person being invited to go on an ex cursion for pleasure on the holy Sabbath, replied, "I should like an excursion very well ; but I have but one Sabbath in the week and I can't spare that." This expresses an important truth in an impressive manner. • When we have but one day in the week exclusively de voted to the concerns of eternity, while six- are devoted to the affairs of time, can we spare that one day for pleasure It is the best day of the seven. It is worth more than all the rest. If rightly em ployed, it will bring us a richer return. What we can earn in six days is perish able; but the fruits of a well-spent Sabbath will endure forever. The Sab bath, when properly spent, is the day for the highest kind of f ,.employment or rather. enjoyment. If, therefore, you would, seek mere earthly pleasure, you can better afford to take any other day in the week for it than to take the holy Sabbath. USELESS YOUNG LADIES A contemporary thus seriously speaks of that very large class of useless young ladies who glory in being above useful employment The number of idle, nieless girls in all our large cities; seems to be steadily in creasing. They lotrige•Or sleep through their'mornings,parade the streets during the afternoon; and assemble in frivolous companies of their own and the other sex to'paSs away their evenings. W hat a store of unhappiness for themselves and others are they laying up for the coming time, when real duties and high responsibilities shall be thoughtlessly assumed ! They are skilled in no domestic duties—nay, they - despise thud : have no habits of in dustry nor taste for the useful. What will they be as wives and mothers ? Alas for the husbands and children, and alas for themselves ! Who can wonder if domestic unhappiness and domestic ruin follow ?
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