386
givoilig girth.
BLESSED 1&' THE MAN WHOM THOU
CHASTENETH
• The following beautiful lines are by Eir Robert Grant,
late Governor. General of India:
0 Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its kind-
ness,
Has chastened my wanderings and guided
my way,
Ador'd be the power which illumined my
blindness,
And weaned me from phantoms that smiled
to,betray.
Enchanted with all that was dazzling and fair,
I followed the rainbow—l caught at thetoy ;
And still in displeasuros Thy goodness was
there,
Disappointing thehope anddefeating thejoy,
The blossom blushed bright—but a worm was
below ;
The moonlight shone fair—there was blight
in the beam ;
Sweet whispered the breeze—but it whispered
of woe,
And bitterness flowed in the soft-flowing
stream.
So, cured of my folly,—yet cured but in part,—
I turned to the refuge Thy pity displayed;
And still did this eager and credulous beart
Weave visions of promise that bloomed but
to fade.
I thought that the course of the pilgrim to
heaven
, Would be bright as the summer, and Old
as the morn ; -
Thou show'dst me the path—it was dark and
uneven
All rugged with rock, and all tangled with
thorn.
I dreamed of celestial reward and renown; •
I grasped at the triumph which blesses the
brave—
I asked for the palm-branch, the robe, and the
.crown ;
I asked—and Thou shovedst me a cross and
• ' a grave. • .
Subdued and instructed, at length, teThy
• My hopes and my longings I fain would
resign;..
0 gi4e me the heart that can wait-and be still, -
Nor know of a wish nora pleasure but Thine..
, .
There are mansions esernpted Irom sin and
.. • , :from woe,;
,;•;!, ,
• But they stand in a region by mortals Untrod;
There 'tire liters of joy butthey roll hot
• below;
There is rest—Lbut it dwells in the presence
of God:
` 'THE ' OLD` HOUSE FAR AWAY
The wild birds warble, the silvery. rills •
Bing cheerily rouqd the spot, ,
And the peaceful Shade of the purple hills
Falls dim on my mother's cot ;
Its windows are low, and its thatch is low,
And its ancient walls are grey ;
0, I see it! I love it:! where'er I go !
The old house far away!
~,
The little clock ticks on the parlor wail,
Recording the passing hours;
A.nd the pet geranitim grows rank and tall,
With its brilliant: scarlet flowers;
And the old straw chairs, so cozy and low,
Where mother sat knitting all day;
0, I see it 1 I love it ! whero'er I go!
That old house far away !
Dear mother 1 how plainly I see her now,
Reclining in that arm-chair,
With the sunset resting upon her brow,
That was once so smooth and fair ;
With her crimpled border white as snow,
.Andler once, dark hair now grey-;:.
0, I see it l I love it ! where'er I go !
.Inf,that old house far away 1
Not all the treasures the world affords,
The riches of land and sea,
Nor all the wealth of earth's proud lords,
Can blot from my memory
The roof that sheltered each dear, dear head,
And the humble floor of clay,
Where the feet I lo'ved were wont to tread
In the old house far away !
—Dublin Journal.
[WRITTEN FOR ova coLumms.]
THE YOUNG BAVARIAN
TIY MISS 'WARNER, 'AUTHOR OF " DOLLARS AND
exxTs."
CHAPTER I.
Bavaria is a beautiful part of G-erma
ny. In some of 'its districts there are
,high Alpine peaks, 'and lakes and gla
ciers ; in others there are. Fide moors of
moss and lichen; and in others still are
great forests, and • meadow vallies that
are fifty miles long. Many rivers wa
ter the country; and it is: full of won
derful buildings and strange old tewers.
The climate is temperate and healthy ;
the soil, very productive, and , though
some parts are too cold for much fruit,
many others are warm enough for vine
yards and almond trees to thrive and
bear abundantly.
Near one of the old towers in Bava
ria there stood, some years ago, a farm
house. The farmhouses in our own
land have always several, rooms and
many windows; and though the wood
shed may be close at hand the barn is
so ne distance off. But this house had
only one room, with the deep thatched
roof overhanging . it on all sides. In
this room all the family slept.. Each
bed was of feathers, and instead of quilt
ed conafortables 'each had a feather cov
erlet too ; so that it was a little like
sleeping between two great pillows.
The front door opened into this room,
and the back door opened out of it—in
to the stable,—where the restless horses
stamped impatiently all the night
long, and the quiet cows stood chewing
the cud. In front of the house was a
gay flower garden, and a vineyard, and
a dancing brook below all. A great
lime tree hung over the cottage and
screened it from the sun.
Well, the old storks knew this cottage,
and had built there nest year after year
in the roof thatch ; and there was great
watching among the children in the
spring, to see-the first stork make his
appearance. For every winter all the
storks went south for their health, and
to let their young ones see the world '•
spending, the cold months in Algier4
and Bagdad, and all such queer places ;
where to be sure it was hot enough.
And though the country people in Bava
ria did not, like the Greeks long ago,
pay a reward to him who first announ- -
ced the storks' return ; nor proclaim the
arrival by sound of trumpet, as their
forefathers had done in the last centu
ry; yet they watched none the less ea
gerly for their feathered friends. And
no wonder, for he who saw the first
stork on the! wing, might know that
good luck was hastening towards him ;
but if the bird was sitting still, so had
his fortune gone to sleep for the pres—
ent. Then if the first stork arrived
with soiled plumage, the following sum
mer was sure to be wet and dirty; but
woe unto him who hea,rd the stork clap
pering ' without having seen it !—it was
certain then that he himself would
make a clatter among the, cups and dish
es and break much earthenware.' So
these simple people believed, and no one
had ever taught them any better.,
The children„ on their part, never
doubted for an instant that the* storks
brought every new little' baby* brother
or sister that came ,into •• the house;; but
they*showed their gratitude in a queer
way, for they used to throw , all manner
of things at the birds as they sat on, the
house roof; pelting :them with:sticks
and little stones, and , lumps of
Cr,, indeed, I should say tryin,:q to 'pelt
them,—for the storks held too high a
position to be reached by such', young
mischief makers. Perhaps the farmer's
wife thought that the intention made
the deed,—for as soon as she saw the
children beginning this kind of sport,
she never failed to look out of the door ,
and say_: -
" Children, if you do that, old father
stork will $y away ; and then the wick
,
ed sprites will come artd-43e't fire to 'the
roof." ,
SO she had been taught in her child
hood. and now she triedbito•teach the
same !old superstition ,tO, her children.
However,, the sprites never came; and
,the young ones danced in the shnsbine
and grew fatter strongereveryr day.
As for . .the;StOrks, "they seemed enough
'like - wicked things themSelves'sotnetimes,
for they would ' fight ! 0, how they
would fight. One day two of them - had
a duel which lasted one hour and a half,,
and only ended by their pushing each
other into the well. There they splash
ed.and struggled at, a, great rate, and
ache forgot,:ithat pleasure it would be to
see the tither drown, in the fear of
drowning himself. And ••when at last
the old farmer came and drew them out,
they .were quite cool and sober, and had
as little to say as possible.
And so year , after year passed by, un
til the old farmhouse echoed the voices
of a whole handful of children,
.standing
like-a flight of steps, each one a little
bit higher up in the world than the last;
and the farmer and his wife thought
they had not much to wish for in this
world.
There :came a time of trouble in all
that region of country. The season
had been unfaverable, tbe crops ::*ere
scant and'poor, and money was: terribly
scarce. Every one suffered, among the
poorer people, and our old farmer with
the rest. He could not wish' that he had
fewer of these laughing. mouths to feeii,
but where should he find bread ? And
many a night after the young ones were
sound asleep among the feathers, their
father and mother sat considering with
tears what, to do.
At last it came to this: they could
not stay and starve in Bavaria, 'there
fore they must go away; and with very
heavy hearts they resolved to set out to
'seek their fortune. Seeking .a fortune
is an excellent' thing, in._ fairy tales,
but_ this, was quite a different affair.
There, the people may begin .with ever
so little, and may
,meet with all sorts of
misfOrtunes, but they are sure to meet
the fortune too, in the mid. Some
wonderful pussy brings it, or a .flst; .
hands up a ring from the depths of the
sea ;—which ring is a key to a gold mine
or.the'forlorn fortune seeker, goes down
a flight of steps into the, earth, and finds
jewels that it dazzles your eyes even to
read about. You know how easily all'
this is mariaged a,fairy tale ; but real
life is another Matter. None of these
things were in store for the old German
farmer. He knew that he was 'heir to
a kingdom which cannot be moved,' but
its fair borders. lay beyond this world;
it was not yet time to go up and possess
it. He had heard, too, of a country, far
across the sea, where everybody was free
and happy and had enough; and he
thought if he were but there -it would be
easy to earn bread for his children. So
'he and his wife said to each other, night
after night, and at last made up their
minds to leave Bavaria. for ever.
I cannot tell you what sorrow of heart
it cost them,—how hard it was for the
old farmer to sell the house where he
and his father had lived so long,—but
he did sell it • house lime tree, stork's
nests and , all, and prepared for his jour
ney. The • feather beds and= coverlets
were packed in chests, and the children
were scattered here and there among
their friends; for the father and mother
thought they would try the new land
first themselves, before they brought out
all their little ones. Only that they
might not be quite childless and forlorn
in a strange land, they would take John,
the oldest child of all. So there were
four to go, the farmer, his wife, his wife's
sister, and John; and after many wary
and sorrowful days and weeks, they had
fairly left their native land, and turned
their faces towards America.
Dn. J. M. PECK was accustomed to say, that
man who could not go without food for twen
ty-fonr hours, and sleep on the ground as com
fortably as on a bed, was unfit to be a pioneer
preacher.
: mlOO Doi I.lsSuil ;1-zi 171bAla DM NivA lON mmilt:T4l
, .
The battle was over and the day was
lost. The fight had been terrible.- -The
dead and wounded lay thick on the field.
Shots were still flying, and shells 'sCream
ing and bursting through our retreating
ranks. -
" Comrade," called a dying man, and
his feeble hand took hold of one of the
retreating soldiers. " Comrade !"
The soldier paused.
"Ah, Benson, God bless you! Take
my pay from this pocket and send it to
my mother ! She needs it. Take her
letters, too ; I give them to you. You
will find them a, treasure. God reward
you!"
The wounded soldier lay back to die,
and his comrade passed .on—a more
thoughtful man for that trust—for those
few dying words. So much is-sometimes
centered in so - little. •
Benson had been a reckless, desperate
man. An orphan from his birth, cast
loose upon the world to, fight his way
through it among the base, the grasping,
the selfish; he had grown selfish and
fierce; He had despised law, defied re
straint, and followed his own strong will
without Tear and without prineiple—a
reckless, dangerous man. But he was
nian still. Down below 'the roughness,
stains and crimes of years, lay slender
ness born of a "gentle:mdther ; seldom
touched, but.there...• •He had a heart in
him that_ could be- stirred, by love, and ,
trust and. confidence. The trust of that
dying man
,had moved l31;m. He had
trusted him with his lah'inessage .for
home; had . given him- hie letters of affec
tion'; implored God's blessing
That' trust .was not misplacedl that con
will not be abused ; that prayer.
will. not be unheard. may ' •
" Ah, Benson,'!. shouted ,his, .fellows;
as he. joined them, " give us a share !
How much of a haul this, time? Fierce
enough for fight, but fiercer:fur Plun.-
der." • .
„
"Plunder I” repeated Benson, ;and his
eyes .flashect " Plunder ? Say" that
again!" - =•
"Blood's up," said one of the boldest ;
and no further remark - was ventured.
. Benson walked on in, silence. The,
earnest,
,imploring, confiding look of the
dying man was before him'; his failing
voice still in his ears ; his letters, his
Money in his bosom. His thoughts
went forward to his own last hour.
Would a comrade pause to,hear his last
words'? What would they be ? For
whom ? Who would care when he should
die ? Who mourn for-him ? For whom
had he lived? Whom had he blessed?
Could he call on God for 'helpin the
final, fearful struggle ? How could he
appear before God in judgment ?
The soldier at his side tried to rally
him, "What's the trouble, Benson?"
No answer.
Benson obeyed the request, of the dy
ing soldier. He delivered bis last mes
sage ; remitted his pay. Remembering
the words,
" She needs it, spoken so
.feelingly,, he added to it his own. pay.
He had no need of it, clothed and fed as
he was ' • no mother, nor, wife nor child
to carefor. . Let it go to tilt: bereaved
mother. She may perhaps feel her loss
somewhat the less for it. Better so, far
better, than it should go in gambling or
in drink. His letter closed—" Had I
not been motherless.from my birth, I
might perhaps have been worthy to fill
the place of him you `mourn, to be a, son
to - you, but I have been too a,bandoned.
I can only offer you'respect, and Contri
bute may poor earnings for your coin
for t."
He read and.re-read the letters.given
him by the departed son; so pure, 'so
tender, BO elevating. He found: them a
treasure, as the son had found them.
They awoke in him a desire for purity;
an aspiration for the better things than
he had ever known; to be a Dater man
than he had ever been. They spoiled his
taste for gambling; they made him abhor
vileness and carousing.
His comrades rallied him again and
" What ails you, BensonT - Come,
let's have a hand at cards. It's a month
since you have played."
No," .was all his answer.
" Drink with us. You don't drink
now.
" Why not? Guess you're getting
pious."
No answer ; and they who knew him,
knew better than to •jest, when he was
silent.
A letter came for him;
a. letter of
thanks from the bereaved mother. It
was full of gratitude and kindness.
Benson's lips quivered; and he shaded
his eyes with his hand, as he read
" I eg its shall rard you my son. Your
generosity, your filial tenderness, your
sense of unworthiness ' make you not un
worthy in my eyes. My prayers go up
to God for you ! My blessing rests on
you!"
Benson was indeed another man. He
had new relations, new hopes, a new
future. But will the change in him last?
Will he not shake off his new relations ?
Will he not go back to his old ways.
Why should he? Were they the paths
of ease and delight ? Were they the
paths of blessedness and peace ? Were
they not rough and thorny, full of pit
falls, and were not beasts of Prey crouch
ing beside them ? Why should one es
caped from folly again seek it ? Escaped
from danger, again rush into it ? Es
cayed from death, again lie clown in cor
SELECTIONS.
BENSON
- A . 8 - OLDIER'S :STORK
ruption ? " Will he . go back ? Is not virtue
better than vice ? purity than vileness ?
love than lust ? worship than blasphemy?
Can he go back?
-..He ea - n. -Such is man's weakness,
madness; such is the power ,or evil.
Pray God he may not go.b - ack ! -
Pay-day came. "Now, Benson, treat!"
they call. "Not a red cent have you
spent for weeks. You're getting stingy
with your money.
- Bensonlrew back. They-rallied him
again as they freely drank.
"
How. many boys here have mothers?"
he asked and waited.
"All!"
" Have all mothers ? My poor mother
needs all I have and it shall be hers.
She shall not want while I riot."
Some, who had forgotten-or tried to
forget their mothers in •want and wait
ing far, away in their lonely , homes, re
membered them now,, and put down their
cups. The next mail carried their wel
come letters, and a welcome remittance.
Some laughed' and asked--:" Where did
you get your. w- 9,, new' mother, Benson
" God give her to me ," he answered,
in his manliest tone, " and I'll not ne
glect her:" - .
Nor'did he. Month. after month his
timely remittance reached her; anclivhen
at last it came no more, she Who had
made him her son in place of the dead,
6ew well that ghe was sonless once more;
thathe, too, had fallen in fight, and she
mourned his death.' '-She - was newly -be-.
red by his loss:
He died not without God, nor :without
hOpe. - He had-learned to, call on God.
He, hadilearned that : He was his father,
tender toying, -caring for -him alwayS—
that Christ ; was, his .elder 'brp t her. He
had recliye d "his . 'words—" Whosoever
shall do the will of my father which is
in heaven, the same is my brother, ,and
sister,: and' Other.' '
A NEW.(THOUGHT FOR OLD BARLOW.
"So youwon't give me anything ?"
, ,
'"Yon* needn't - have put 'it in that
t' eh' to • " •
way;'v go no mg give, said
Allan TarloW. "-Isl'obodY' gives to me.
I -get 'nothing but what I:work for, tra
pay for,. and it's rather hard to, come
'upon stela folks;. you should go to: them
, as you, may say, • that gets plenty for`no
thing, and have,more than they want."
- And olct,Allatt Barlow leaned both his
elbows on his garden fence 'and turned
away &op the person he spoke to.
The person he spoke to was a. gray
headed man, in workman's clothes. He
carried a little book in one hand, and in
the other held a pencil ready to write.
- ‘4iYou have told me of two sorts of
people," said . Silas Pyne, "that I don't
expect to meet with—those that have
nothing but what they pay fel-, and those
that have more than they want."
"Very like," said Allan • " but there's
sonie • of both in the world for all that.
I've gothothing but.what I'pay for, but
I haven't got more:than I want."
Silas smiled and ,shook his head.
"::What df,e shake, your head at !"
.asked Allan gruffly.
"Why, at the mistake you are in,
friend,' answered Silas, "in thinking
you pay for every=thing." •
"Make it out that it's a mistake, and
I'll give you leave to put me down five
shillings in your book," said Allan.
" Thank you;" said Silas ; "but be
fore I begin to do it, will you just give
me a draught from your well? It's the
best water anywhere about."
"That it is," answered Allan, readi
ly getting a cup for him ; " and it's a
prime thing for me, that can't drink
much of anything - else." ,
" . -Aye ; what should we do without
water,' said Silas, , taking a' deep
draught,. " when you come to thinlc how
it comes -into.alL the things that keep
life together ?"
" Qh, it's wonderful Us,eful ;"= replied
"maybe the Most, Useful thing in
life." • e
"As to that," said Silas, "we couldn't
live well withont it. Air, gook fresh
air, is the thing we couldn't by any
means do without.",
" And for. that," said Allan " you'll
never have finer, than, this as blows over
the common. I take it, it's worth ten
years of life to be in a good air."
" You are right there," said Silas,
"and I should say you're a proof of it;
you look as firm as a rock, and as red,
as a rose.
" Not amiss," said Allan; "never
knew.much about sickness."
"And yet you've lived many years,"
said Silas. .
Just up to my threescore and ten,"
answered Allan, nodding.
Sila"S began to write in his book.
".What are you putting down?" ask
ed Allan. -
‘, Your name for five .shillings," said
Silas ; " didn't you say that I should
have it, if I could prove that you had
things more than you waht that you
neither work for nor pay for ?" _
" Yes ; but you've never begun to do
that yet," said Allan.'
" What do you pay for air ?" asked
Silas.
" Pooh ! nonsense !" said. Allan.
" For water ?" said Silas.
" Pooh I" said Allan again.
" For health, and having been brought
through threescore years and ten ?" con
tinued Silas.
" Oh, as to them—of course webnever
count up the things that God gives us,"
said Allan ; "I wasn't thinking of
them."
" No, friend ; few people do think of
them," said Silas. " The best bless
ings, I mean of those belonging to this
life, are such as cannot be bought with
silver or gold ; and they are freely giv
en to the rich and "Poor, without any
difference—yes, and more than they
want—and are taken as matter s of course
Without any praise or thanks to the Giv
er. come, now-I haye.shown you• that
you don't pay for the things that you
couldn't do without, and I could tell you
of many more—can't you find it in your
heart to give something to give poor
sinners, yoUng and old, a knowledge of
the better blessings of salvation through
Jesus Christ ? Surely such a thank of
fering would be but becoming."
" Well," said Allan,, putting his hand
in his pocket, " I'm not against giving
you a trifle, but I didn't know you was
going -to talk that Way when I said"
about. the five shillings. =N. Y. Meth
odist. - •
liberalaristian, Who gives for the
spread' of the gospel all he earns in the
first Week in January, the week of:pray
er, believes that other Christians will
find a blessing in determining before
hand to make such a consecration.
'PRAYING -MOTHERS
A clergyman from• California related
the following incident, in connection
with his own experience and observa
tion : -
As he had . a large circle of friends
,and acquaintances at' the East, and it
was known that he was travelling to a
gicat'extent over California,,he received
many letters from anxious friends, 'beg
ging „him to, hunt np a brother or a aim,
and, endeavor to„ bring them to Christ:
Many an earnest' letter of this kind he
had,received Among the rest was one
from:a, mother, so Urgent, so full of en
treaty; that it took n deeplold upon his
heart. The letter tOldtbim how - she had
agohiteddand prayed for ~a -son in Cali
fernia until shelad lost all traces of him
and:begged of him-that, On her behalf,'
.he would endeavor to look up the lost
boy, who shefeared was in the bread
road to ruin, and, is be - loved Souls, - do
all could`to save - him
Then the speaker went on to say,
huntedd - for that - son' a whole year.. I
made inquiries for him7everywhere.- I
determined to . find him, -if possible. At
last I found him in- a gambling salmi;
-at the card table, deeply engaged in play.
In the midst of .this game I approached
him, and told him I wished to speak with
him. We descended into the'street to
gether. I told him how long I had been
on the huntler him, and it was all about
the salvation of his soul. He laughed
me to scorn. He assured me I used my
time and money to very poor advantage
in looking for him, and as he would take
good care of himself, he did not know
but thanks for all my painstaking would
be superfluous. He said much that in
dicated that he looked upon my efforts
with a haughty disdain and contempt.
But I had a commission: to fulfil. So I
requested him to go with me.to the tem
perance room and there sign the temper
ance pledge ; and then i wished him to go
to the prayer-meeting with me. He flatly
refused to do either. Stepping up close
beside him, I placed my hand upon his
shoulder and said, Charlie, I believe.
you have a pious, praying mother. I
am here at the request of that mother.
All this long year have I sought you,
from place to place, in obedience to a
request of that mother._ I nave the let
ter in. my pocket asking this of me;
would you like to seqpit ?' The young
man was struck dumb for a moment with
astonishment. I ran my hand into my
pocket for the purpose of showing him
the letter; 0, said he, don't produce
the letter. I cannot bear to see it. If
any young man owes 'a debt of gratitude
to a mother,' none more than . I.' I
asked him again ,to .go nie. He
answered, Let me go hack and finish
my game, and then I will come and'go
with, you.' He :went back and played
out his game; and, gdod as his word, he
came' and went With*me. 'We went, first
id the leniperance rooins, and he signed
the pledge. Then he went to•theprayer
meeting. The man was - soon in great
agony of spirit.
"To make a long story short, that
young man become hopefully converted,
and witnessed a good confession' before
many
_witnesses. He was a liberally
educated young man. He was, in pro
.cess bf - time, chosen to be a judge of the
county in which he resided. He was a
conscientious judge. One day he was
trying a man who was indicted for gam
bling and similar offences-=just such as
he had before been guilty of. The man
at the bar was a desperado, and shot the
judge upon the bench. He was mortally
wounded, and .life was fast ebbing away.
He sent immediately for me, continued
the speaker ; I had just time to reach
him and receive his last words. 0, what
precious words they were. '`Tell my
dear mother,' said the dying young man,
' that I am dying in the assured hope of
a glorious immortality beyond the grave.
Send to her a thousand thanks that she
sent you that letter, and 0, a thousand
thanks to, you, that you so faithfully fol
lowed me up, and hunted that whole
year for me. Tell my darling mother I
thank her for that love which never
tired, and for the prayers which were
never omitted for her 'far off son. lam
going—going to heaven. I shall meet
her .there. 0, who can value a mother's
prayer ? And who would complain of
the faithfulness of a covenant-keeping
God, if they would give him no rest, as
did this mother --my dear, dear mother.
Farewell.' "—_Frive Years of Prayers
and Answers.
NOVEL READING AND INSANITY
Dr.iay; of the Rifler Insane Asy
lum, Providence, Rhode Island, in no
ticing some of the prominent causes of
the increase of insanity in our day, lays
- stress on - thelight reading of the age.
It fails .to develope the mental health
and strength needed to endure the tri
als of life, and by cultivating a morbid
frame of mind, makes it more suscepti
ble to certain forms of insanity. He
says : -
" Generally speaking, there can be no
question that_ excessive indulgence in
novel reading necessarily enervates the
mind and diminishes the power of endu
rance. In other departments, of litera
ture, such as biography and history, the
mental powers are more or less exercis
ed by the ideas which they convey.
Facts are stored up in the memory,
hints are obtained for the further pur
suit of knoWledge, judgments 'are form
ed respecting character and actions,
original thoughts are elicited, a spirit of
investigation is excited, and more than
all,• life is viewed as it really has been,
and must be lived. A mind thus fur
nished and.diaciplined is provided with
a fund of .reserved power to fall back up
on when assailed' by the adverse forces
which, in some shape or other, all of us
must expect to encounter.
"In novel reading, on the contrary,
the mind passively contemplates the
scenes that are brought before it, and
which, being chiefly addressed -to the
passions and emotions, naturally please
- without the , necessity of effort .or pre
paration. Of late years a clais Of books
has arisen, the sole object of which is to
stir the feelings,' not by ingenious plots;
not by touching -the finer Chords of the
heart, and skilfully unfolding the springs
of action; not by-arousing our 'sympa
thies for unadulterated, unsophisticated
goodness, truth ,and beauty, for that
would assimilate them to the immortal
productions of Shakspeare and Scott ;
but by coarse exaggerations of every
sentiment, by investing every scene in
glowing colors, and; in short, by every
possible form of unnatural excitement.
In all this :there is littleor in addition
to one's- stock of knowledge, no ; -element
of mental strength is evolved, and no
one is better prepared by it for encoun
tering the stern realities of life. The
sickly sentimentality which 'craves thii
kind of stimulus, is as different from the
sensibility of 'a well-ordered mind as the
Crimson flush of disease from the rud
dy glow of high health. A mind that
seeks its nutriment from books of this
description is closed against the genial
influences that flow from real joy and
sorrow, and from all the beauty and he
roism of common life. A refined sel
fishneas'is apt to prevail over every bet
ter feeling, and - when the evil day comes,
the higher sentiments which bind us to
our felloi-men by all the ties of benev
.olence, and:justice, and veneration, fur
nish no support nor consolation.
"The specific doctrine that I would
inculcate is, that the excessive indul
gencein novel reading, which is a char
acteristic of our times, is chargeable
with many Or the irregularities that pre
vail among us in a= degree unknown at
any former period."
ASKING FATHER
A gentleman of fine social qualities,
always ready to make liberal provision
for the gratification of his children, a
man of science and a moralist of the
strictest school; was skeptical in regard
to prayer, thinking it surperfluous to ask
God for what nature had already fur
nished ready to hand. His eldest son
became a disciple of Christ. The father,
while Tecognizing a happy change in the
spirit and *deportment of the youth, still
harped upon-his old-objection to prayer
as unphilosephical and'unnecessary.
•, "I remember," said the son, " that I
once made free use of your pictures,
specimens,an.d instruments for the enter
tainment ,of my friends.
,When you
came home you said. to me, All that I
have . belongs to my children, and I have
provided it on purpese for them ; still I
think it would be respectable to ask your
fatherbefore taking anything.' And so,"
Aided the son, " although God has pro
teverything for me, I think it /3
respectful to ask Him, and to thank
Him for what I use."
The skeptic was silent ; but he has
since admitted that he has never been
able to invent an answer to this simple,
personal,' sensible Argument for prayer.
—Congregationalist.
THE ADVANTAGE OF A TRUNK
In reference to the overloading of an
imals, the late Sir Charles Napier gives
an anecdOte of an -elephant, which real
ly roes far to justify Pope's epithet of
"half-reasoning," 'as applied to it.
"Here," Sir Charles says, "I cannot
refrain from telling a story of one of the
Scinde elephants taken in 1813, and
called by some qinbador Moll.' Re
belongs to the baggage corps, and be
has been attached to a regiment march•
ing up to Moulton. My letters tell me
that. Kubador Moll' allows them to
load kiln as much as they like, and then
deliberately with his trunk takes Off a i d
again beyond the quantity he think!
fair to put on his back. They dare nos
put on anything again."
Pity but the horse had a trunk ! Ile
might then unseat half a dozen of the
passengers of ,an overloaded vehiele.
It is too 'true that the problem Which
peoph undertake to solve when then
hire a carriage is, how many it will hold.
not how many the horse can draw.