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 ?