tly fantifij eirtit UNDER THE SHADOW. BY ALICE CARY My sorrowing friend, arise and go About thy house with patient care; The hand that bows thy head so low Will bear the ills thou caust not bear. Arise, and all thy tasks fulfill. And as thy day thy strength shall be; Were there no power beyond the ill, The ill could not have come to thee. Though cloud and storm encompass thee, Be not afflicted nor afraid ; Thou knowest the shadow could not be, Were there no sun beyond the shade.' For thy beloved dead and gone, Let sweet, not bitter, tears be shed; Nor '' open thy dark saying on The harp," as though' thy faith were dead Could'et thou e'en have them reappear, In bodies plain to mortal sense, How were the miracle more clear To bring them than to take them hence? Then let thy soul cry in thee thus • 'No more; not-let thine eyes thus weep; Nothing can 'be withdrawn from us • That we have any need to keep. Arise, and Beek some light to gain From life's dark lesson day by day, Nor just rehearse its peace and pain— A wearied actor at the play. Nor grieve that will so much transcends Thy feeble powers, but in content • Do what thou canst, and leave.the .ends And issues with the Omnipotent. Dust al thou art arid holm to woe, Seeing darkly, and as through a glass, lie made thee thus to be, for'lo ! Ile made thee grass, and flower of grass The tempest's cry,. the Thunder's moan, The waste of waters wild and dim, The still small yoice thou liear'st, alone— All, all alike interpret EOM. • Arise, my friend, and go about Thy darkened house , with cheerful feet; Yield not one jot to fear nor doubt, But baffled, broken, still •repeat : "'Tie mine to work, and not to win— The soul must wait to have her wings— . Even time hi' but a landmark in 'the great eternity of things. "Is it so much that thou below, 0 heart, shouldst fail of thy desire, When death, as-Ave 'believe and know, is but,a call to come up higher?" BID'S TRIAL. "I wish I bad some real playthings, like Em. Shaw's; everything I've got is make believe," I said, discontentedly, as I sat be fore my play-house; exam'in'ing article Ater article, and then the collected whole, with a weary, dissatisfied air. Until within a very few weeks that play house had seemed to me a marvel of beauty. We children—Annie, Kate, Mary, and I— had the garret all to ourselves. Annie's house was in 'Llio southwest corner, and con stituted the town of Milford. Kate's, was in the southeast corner, and was the town of Orange. Mary's and mine were close to gether, and we had a little store between, so we called that a city; and, of course, that was New Haven. The great old-fashioned chimney, with its rough stones coming out into the room, filled the whole north side of the garret, and that we made believe to be West Rook. You'll easily guess what State we lived in, and what part of it, from seeing how we named our towns. The garret was so large that it was really quite a nice doll journey from Milford to Orange, and from both places to the city. Mary and I used always to be very glad to see our "country cousins" when they came to visit us; and we never, treated them to " cold shoulder," but gave them ihh very best we had—even if after they were gone we did-say sometimes to each other, "It is strange bow , kind of countrified folks will get to looking, who live so far from the city!" We would sometimes invite theni to join us on a picnic on West Rock. Then we started early in the morning—of our doll day—and had a long tind tbilsome ascent in our box-wagons up the rough stones of the chimney, till we came to a place where -it took. an abrupt cant in the opposite direc tion, and where there was quite a large flat stone; this was the top of the rock, and bore we had our:lea-cakes, and our fzin ger nuts, and our one or two raisins, which per haps we had saved for days for this special occasion. My house—which I have said was in the city, and which I bad heretofore considered very grand—was what remained of a little banging book-case which had'once hung in my own robin, but which' mother bad taken down, because the upper shelf came off. I considered this rather of an improvement, because it made the ceiling of my upper story so Much higher. I had 'two good floors, well-defined and shut in by the book thisc sides." All the other children had to sot up boxes to wall in their play-houses, (for you must remember this was ever so many years ago, when children did not usually have such elegant thingsto play with as they do now). Then in the middle of my parlor I had a gorgeous mirror—it bud been tbelooking-glass in the top of my grown-up' sister's work-box; and I bad an olegant glass pier-table ;—it was the bottom and standard of a glass preserve dish ; and I bad beautiful carpets—strips of heavy brocade silk ribbon, which had come to me by some chance; and, most wonderful of all, I bad a stuffed rocking-chair, which my sis ter J ule bad given rhe.for a Christmas pres ent. She cut it out of pasteboard, and cov ered it with black silk. You see I really THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY, JULY 9, 1860. was the best housekeeper , and had the finest house in all the garret. How proud I had But now 1 sat before it dis- been about it 1 contentedly. All its beauty in my eyes had passed away. I had been playing of late with Em. Shaw. Her father was a candy- peddler, and used to travel round the coun try in a great covered wagon, with four horses; and almost every week, when he came home, he would bring Em. something. She had a black sofa, with red velvet back and seat, and some beautiful red wooden chairs, with blue bottoms, and a table with a real drawer, and ever so many other things. that I cannot remember now; but, dear me ! how I used to know every one of them then, and sigh over them, too. Everything I bad in my play-house was " make believe," ex-. cept just that rocking-chair • and that Teem ed about half so—for, though I used to think it was so grand, I knew now that it wasn't bought, but that Jul& made it. Well, CbristmaS came' at last;nnd 'Santa ' Clans, having heard my murmur, I suppose, had granted me my heart's desire. It was a bureau, about three inches high and two wide, and- it had two drawers in id I don't think' the •world ever, before or since, has contained a richer or a pmuder creature than I was thatehristtnas ! At last I had a real piece ei'farniture. !To be sure, the drawertk wqren't .big enough to hold even a dOll - handkerchief; still, they we're: draw ers, and would shove in• and out, and it was as nice as anything Em. , Shaw had, and, my bliss was complete ! Indeed, 'so proud was I that I subverted .my gift 'from its natural debign, a place in the play-houSe, and 'cat ried it round with, me, to exhibit my treaS are on all possible occasions. But ah ! how. short-lived is• earthly happiness; and chil- dren must learn the lesson Just a little while before this, there had been a new play-house set up in the previ ously unoccupied corner of the garret. My father had taken into the familY'a little girl, who was the daughter of an old friend.'Her mother had died, and her father was very poor ; and so father had taken his little girl. She - WiW younger than I, and very small of her age, and had' large black eyes, with a general expression of injured ; innocence. And my, sister—the one that made me the rockingchair,. and gave me 'the work-box glass-had now reached the sentimental age; and so she called Sophia (that was her name) her protege; and made much of her. I did not at all know what that word meant, but I thought it was something very disagreea- ' ble ; for'Jille took no notice of Me 'poW, and, every nice thing that she ,bad to give away went into the ,play-house of this protege. So you see I did not lovethe new-comer very, much. Mynew treasure had not been mine a great while—not long enough for me to tire of it in'the, least—when father called me to him one, dftYi saying, !` What has Bid got here ?" Quite, proud and delighted, I ex hibited my gift. I.,was disappointed to see it did not make the impression on him which hadeipected. He was a stern xrianytif few worth: .He'looked at it a few moments; and then, as he banded it back, he said, "This is, more fit for Sophia than for you; you may giVe it to her." My father's word was a court with no appeals. I dare not remonstrate. I dare not tell him that bureau was dear to me as the apple of my eye, that it was 'my first real plaything, that it was the only thing I had that, was one bit like Em.'Shaw'a. turned away in silence, rushed for my garret, met the now almost hated protege on my way ; and in,4l fear, no very gracious man ner, gave her my treasure, and then, by the. dear Old play-house, gave way to my grief: Never'a broker on Wall street, when a fall in ",Erie" had left him penniless; never woman of the world, when her grand man- BiOVI was swept from, her by a single turn of fortunes wheel, was more utterly heart broken than I. With Mrs. Browning, I can say, "I have met with many losses; and my first was of" that bureau! But Time, wbo heals all wounds, at last spread his balm over mine. The family had forgotten all about my trial, and life bad begun to look cheerful again, even to me. One night, some months after, father came home from the city—the actual New Haven —at the close of a day's trading. We chil dren all went out to the wagon, as usual, to help him bring in • tlis bundles. There was a pair of shoes for Kate, and some groceries, and some brooms ' and a square bundle, which he said was books, and we might put them in the school-room. And there was another big bundle, bigger than the books; and he did not 'say what that was, but he gave it to me, and said, "Carry it carefully, and put it on the table in the sitting-room." I did so; and, of course, I wondered what it I could possibly be. Not because there was anything very mysterious in the looks of the bundle itself, but because he bad told us, what everything else was, but. had not said one word about that. Well, he came in and took his supper just as usual. Talked with mother about all he had done during the day, spoke to Kate about her shoes, spoke about the books, but never referred to the bundle; and there I was, dying to know what was init. It got to be almost my bedtime, and I feared I must go to bed with my curiosity unsatisfied; when father, just as he was taking up the paper for his evening reading, laid it down again, and, looking round, as if an idea had just come to his mind, said, " Oh ! where is that bundle you brought in, Bid?" I flew to it. It was in his lapin.a twink ling. But it was done up in brown wrap pings, and closely tied. He would not cut a single knot, but untied every one! But all were done at length,; and, as he took off the last wrapping, it burst forth like a but terfly from its shell—the most beautiful be reau Solid mahogany, a foot high, with three drawers, the upper one with a " swell front ;" and, on a small scale, finer than any bureau mother had in the house, except the ono with the carved lion's claws in the "spare chamber !" Father did not say one 'word about my former trial and struggle, or bow pleased he was that his little girl had obeyed un hesitatingly his commands. Ho only spoke these words—but they told all the rest: " There is a bureau about big enough, for Bid I" LONGFELLOW'S FAREWELL. Our Poet, who has taught the Western breeze To waft his songs before him o'er the seas, Will find them wheresoe'er his wanderings reach Borne on the spreading tide of English speech Twin with the rhythmic waves that kiss the far thest beach. Where shall the singing bird a stranger be That finds a nest for him in every tree? How shall he travel who can never go • Where his own voice the echoes do not know, Where his own garden-flowers no longer learn to grow? Ah gentlest soul 1 how gracious, how benign Breathes through our troubled life that voice of thine. Filled with a sweetness born of happier spheres, - Thtt - t—wins' and swarms; thatv softens, cheers, That &arks' the.wlldesit , woe, and' stays the bitter ' est 'tears.' ' . Forgive the simple words that sound like praise ; The mist bef4re ins dm is Plirdse ; Our speech• at best is half alive anti cold, • - And save this, tenderer moments 'Make us; bold Our whitening lips would Close;their truest truth untold. We .who behold our autumn sun below The Scorpior?s sign, against the Archei's bow, Know well what parting means of friend from ifrienli;• ' •• After the snows no freshening' dews descend • And'whatithelfrost has marred the sunshine will 'notmend. • ' Sci we all count the months, the weeks, the days That'keep thee fromus in unwonted Ways, .:Grudging to alien hearths our wideiwed time; And one unwinds tvelew:of artless rhyme To track thee, following still through each remotes clime. What wishes,-longings, blessings, prayers sha The more than golden. , freight that floats :with thee And know s , whatever welcome.thou shalt find— Thou who .hast won the hearts of half man kind— The:proudgstA fondest , love thou leavest still,loe hind 1, • . SWINDLING} THE SEWING, GIRLS IN. NEW The Working-Women's ProteCtive one of 'the - most laudable charities in the land, has just Issued its Fifth Annual Report Daring'the hist three years of its operations, it has secured, employment for over 10,000 peisons, hasi given legal protection in. 468 cases; involving over $2OOO. To ilhisirate the, n n edloflanuh -protection, a number of cages - 0f1144 . 043 and , fiagrant"wrong:`are • Ito giVen, from iihlekyyp extract the following : - - . Middle-mita 40 those who stand between employers and ertiployc:d. They make con tracts with_thvemployer to furnish a certain amount of vierk rit'a certain price, and then procure the'worit — dorie in einaller quantities by different persens. In this way they often make large percentages of profit, and always:these, percentages ate deducted from the earnings of those who du , the work. With this explanation the office and position of middle women r.eed no definition. ,Such a 'woman (Miss Prue, we will ca her), takes contracts with clothiers to make up quantities of garments. She , provides herself with, a number of sewing. machines and the needed accommodations as -work rooms. Thus prepared, the newspapers pro Claim the' fact thht Miss Prue requires the services of fifty vest makers, or panta foop-makers, as the case may be, and two or three hundred poor girls flock to the desig nated number and street, there to beg for the employment. Out of so large a crowd, Miss Prue finds no difficulty in selecting more than enough for her purposes, and on her promise of liberal pay, they commence work. But there is a wide difference be tweea getting work done and paying the wora-woman who does it—as Miss Prue bas proved by long experience. At the end of the first week the poor women go home disappointed, but in perfect confidence that the little amounts due them will be liqui . dated in aceortiance with the promises made. The second;, week is endod,,and new excuses are made, but no money is offered. By this time a few, - to• whom such experiences Are no novelty, determine to trust Miss Prue's promises no longer, and quietly desert her profitless employment. A Jew are, however, wheedled into continuance during the third and some even into a fourth week. But any thing in the way of payment is not suffered to pass Miss Prue's tight band—that would be so much wasted, she reasons. The poor girls labor on, hoping against hope for the little amounts, alreadl due, and all the more steadily because no other opportunity pre sents itself. But neither patience nor ,per severance avail, and the last lingerer finally yields to despair, and the persecutor of her self and companions remains master of the field. Meanw bile, fresh advertisements have been bringing fresh,recruits, though, as the experiences of their predecessors becomes known, the number of final victims is re duced more rapidly. , At last. the swindle becomes so .glaringly known that Miss Prue s arts entrap no more victims. Then the gay work-rooms are abandoned, 'and the landlord is' fortunate if he has obtained his rent, for the removal is effected " between two days." - The morning, after this disappearance the newspapers proclaim the demand of Mrs. Pyne, who, in another part of city, is carrying on a flourishing business and re quires much extra help to meet her engage meats. Mrs. Pyne's mode of operation is precisely that adopted' by Miss Prue; and if we examine closely, we find that Miss Prue and Mrs. Pyne aro the same individual. Yet a few weeks later, Mrs. Pyne appears YORK. in still another locality, and now her name is Madame Pont. But under whatever name—Prue, Pyne, or Pont—and wherever located, the swindler and the swindle are the same. The field is changed only that new and unsuspecting victims may be found. Miss Prue's second removal was hastened by the firmness of despair to which one of her poor victims was driven. Anna Gosse had worked three weeks without pay, and emptied her purse in the regular payments for board. At the end of the third week she had been notified that, unless her week's board, then due, were paid, she would that night be turned into the street. Knowing that the threat would be fulfilled, she re fused to leave her employee's house without payment for ,her work. ,And there, in the hall, she remained--despising threats and commands—all the day, all the night. Nei ther food nor drink she had. Her brutal employer dared not call for foice, lest her own misdeeds should be exposed, and at last. she yielded to a temporal y comproMise paying the poor girl three of the twelve dollars due. "dint why not prosecute?" Good.roader, Miss'Prue defies prosecution. The seWing:? ffeaChines and furniture are the property of William Gra.ball, and cannot be touched by judgments against her. The ,Worying- Women's Protective Union have procured' more than one•judgment of court; which the Marshal returns unsatisfied. Through its instrumentality, d' law was passed, authori zing imprisonment on such unsatisfied judg ments for,, the unpaid labor of working women; but "wise" legiblators could not believe that women would thus oppress their sex, and , hencerestricted the operation of the law to men. When they grow wiser, they will provide' the s'anie 'penalty for the same offence by women,' and this class of frauds will be lessened. • WHAT MUST YOU DO ? Reader, de 'you feel' the slightest drawing towards God, the lirnallest concern ,abont your, mortal.. soul?• l)ops, yonr oonstpie.nce tell .you. this day that.you are_ not yet for= given, and have not yet felt the Spirit's pewer,'and do you want to' knoW what to do? Listen,•and I will'tell yon. • - You must go 'al once to the, LOrd . jesus Christ in prayer, and beseech . him have mercy upon, you, and send : yon.,the . ,'Spirit: You must go direct to...that open fountain of living. waters, the Lord• , Sesus Christ, and you shall receive the Holy Ghost. (John 7: 39.) Begin' UtoricntO pray to •Jesus for the Tioly Spirit. ThirkflOtthat yen are shut up and eat off fromhope, ; 1 1 1 he,Holy Ghost is promised to theta,that 'ask,.himi: Give the Lord no rest till he comes; down and.makos you a new-heart. -Cry mightil . r;unto the the Lord;- say unto' him; "Bless -me, even nfealso ; 'quicken me, and make me alive." 'dare not, for my Wt . ' send anxious souls to any one ,but Chrisf. i ' I cannot hold with those who tell men to fpray for, the Holy Spirit in•tbe first place, in order that they may gatn.Christ in the second place; I see no warrant of • Scripture for saying so. I only ; see that if men feel they are needy, perishing sinners, they ought to apply first and foreinost, straightand direct; to.'Jesua Christ. I see He himself says ‘,‘lf i any man thirst,let him come unto me ,and drink." (John 8 37.) I-knew it is his:special -0 - fft6e to baptize with the Holy Ghost, and that " in him all fullness dwells." I dare not pre tend to be more systematic than the Bible. I believe that Christ is the Meeting-place between God and, the soul, and my first ad vice must always be, Go to Jesus, and tell youi' wants to Reader, remember thisj havo told you what to do. , YOU alro .TO GO TO CHRIST, if you want to be saved..—(7. C. Ryle. • PETTED MINISTERS. Men like to say sharp things of their own profession. Clergymen, lawyers,physicians, and all have a way of turning state's evi dence on their brethren. The most striking recent instance of this is in the pithy re mark of Rev. John Weiss, before the Free Religious Association in Boston " Our churches are filled with gentle invalids, veterans of sentiment, nurtured at the pub lic expense, and now lingering out an inglo lions but not mute career." This does not aim to describe the average clergyman, perhaps—the speaker hims;lf being one of the brotherhood --but only the drones and weaklings of that profession. Who does not know them? Who has not met the petted minister at the domestic tea table ? Who has not seen him wave his scented handkerchief in the pulpit, and shake his hyacinthine locks? Who has not turned with delight to the roughest pioneer preacher, unable to speak a grammatical sentence, but able at least to lead a manly life? But let us not lay the whole blame upon the minister. The curse •of the American Church is that doom of flattery which waits upon the popular divine. A hundred influ ences,are at work to effeminate him, for one that works to , make him strong. There is a pitiful and unmanly look that comes over the face of even a sincere and hearty man, when he begins to feel the influence of these sweet persecution& The one-sided attitude of the preacher is a trial in any case. He misses the useful tonic of opposition which the lawyer receives from the opposing coun sel, and the doctor from his rival next door. He. has things too much his own way, and has not sufficient means to test his work. A man may suppose for years that he is doing good in his parish, and may discover at last that he has been, simply, tolerated all the time. , A strong man understands this , evil, and tries to guard against it. But to •be wor shipped instead of merely tolerated, to have every sermon accepted as the oracles of God, and every dinner-table pun applauded as a piece of the rarest , wit; to live s,urrounded by bland brethren s retailing every casual word, and sympathetic sisters weeping over every roll of the eyes; to be known as " that blessed man ' by the old, and as "our beautiful new minister" by the young; to have even one's honest self-depreciation taken as an added proof of saintliness—this is what demoralizes the petted minister. For few men can bear petting. Not one in a thousand is strong enough to endure this attributed infallibility. Preaching is softened down to meet the flattery half way. The preacher who, in discoursing before Louis XIV., said solemnly, " We must all die," and thn, with a courtly bow toward the king, added, "Almost all," was a petted minister. The English dean who warned his bearers (so Pope says) that unless they mended their manners, they would reach a place " which be would not mention in so polite an assembly," was a petted minister. We do not advocate a coarse roughness -among the clergy. Followers of Him who Was called, not irreverently, "the first true gentleman that ever breathed," they should at least have the refinement that grows out of stainless lives. It was said of John. New ton, by some amazed individual, that "he had the.manners of a gentleman, though he had been-a buccaneer-and was still a clergy.. man." But we. wish to see our clergy too truly dignified c 'tO" be, petted, and too much in earnest . to : be treated like fops. We do not wish to see their manly qualities spoiled by such a-coating of•coneeit that one longs to say to them, as Sidney Smith said to Jef frey, "If you could'he surprised . into the semblance of modesty, you would charm everybedy." A SUGGESTION. When superintendent of's' Sunday-school, I bad a novel 'and simple arrangement which proved very valuable, and may assist others. A small wooden box, nicely painted, bearing the inscription " Questions," was securely fastened to the wall near the' en trance; and throngh an opening in the top of it, any who desired might, thrust in from time to time, any religious or moral ques tions. Once a month our box was unlocked, and its contents produced before the school, giving any, one an opportunity to answer the queries. 'Eventually our box only re ceived question upon the lessons of the day, which were depogited by teachers and Schol ars on entering the room., The, first plan awakened a great interest among the mem bers of the school - arid of the community, many of the, latter_ coming expressly at such times' to listen ',to the answers.'But the second plan had . a wonderful influence, awakening greit interest in 'the lesson. It gave me what I was so anxious` to obtain, and could obtain id' no other way, some knowledge of what the scholars had been thinking Of durigg the week, and at the same time it aided inc 411 my work of catec;hising, for it furnished material• and secured atten tion. lligtiOT OF _ritiiYEß. "Prayer is the soul's , sincere desire, un uttered or expressed." It is the natural act of a dependent creature. It is the voice of nature in its deep4oned breathings speaking to God. _There is something nearly akin to prayer observable, even in inarti culate nature ; The ; whole. creation groan eth and travailethr"in pain." The earth unnerved - and torn - by throbbing earth quakes,,and belching volcanos, seems as if struggling to give ',utterance to some ter rible, sense of woe. The vast deep, ever restless and wailing, seems as if an indistinct sentiment of terror was sweeping over its rough-billowed bos om. The utterance of the brutes may be interpreted as the dim consciousness of' want and dependence, But it is in, man that this divine instinct becomes audible. Man alone is conscious of his helplessness, and in this consciousness can alone turn to a superior power. His whole life from his cradle years of infancy to hoary age, teach es but one lesson--that.of ignorance, of in firmity, and of dependence, upon the, God who made him. There are no wise, but feel their ignorance and need of divine light and guidance; and this feeling, he breaks forth with the dying Goethe : " Light, Lord --zmore light !" The 'strongest feels his weakness. His pulse beats faintly—and he realizes that his existence is a frail and fragile thing, and in order tchstrength and sustenance, he must of necessity join him-. self to the centre of all life. He is unhappy and wretched, and he would quaff 'the waters that gush from the fountains of life and glory. He is miserable guilty, and he would flee where niercy can, be obtained. The natural expression of his conscious ness is to pray. Prayer is but the voice of man crying to God out of the depths of despair and guilt into which be has fallen. Left to his own guidance, he plunges but the deeper into misery, and from mountain gorges he, looks on, high, and cries to him who sit enthroned on the everlasting hills, to bring him up from the gates of death and hell. 'Burdened with such terrible uncer tainty and dread, there are but few who do not at times give loud utterance to a bitter, realizing sense of their weakness, and cry to God for help. It is perfectly natural, for man to pray. Pride may deter; shamelmay bend low its head to conceal its secret sorrow ; but the soul feeling the divine breathing of the up per world sweeping o'er it, yearns to open itself to God, as morning flowers open themselves to the genial warmth and light of the.sun, There is not a warm, pure, en nobling, gushing emotion of our Datum, but naturally breathes' out in prayer. In Such times all feel that God is the best friend—our natural protector—and hence we look to him, alone.--The Avangel. Though we die, our prayers do not die with us: they outlive us, and those we leave behind us in the world may reap the benefit of them when we are turned to dust.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers