HUNTINGDON JOURA At
Driaotctg to acurrat flacttincit re, anertioing, VoMiro, ?Literature, Ittoralttg, arto, *ciencro,afiricitittirc,antttoctittitt, Scc., BCc.
'QraDll. '2V•LEZ2U 9 Tal). siaa
PIIIILISRED DT
THEODORE H. CREMER,
cisvrt.wasz3o
The u.louttsse will be published every Wed
nesday morning, at $2 00 a year, if paid in advance,
and if not paid within six months, $2 60.
No subscription received for a shorter period than
six months, nor any paper discontinued till all lir
rearages are paid.
Advertisements not exceeding one square, will be
inserted three times for $1 00, and for every subse
quent insertion 25 cents. If no definite orders are
given as to the time an advertisement is to be continu
ed, it 4:11 be kept in till ordered out, and charged ac
cordingly.
POZTRT.
The following Poem appeared first in a paper
called the States Rights Republican, published in
Richmond, Va. No recent American Poem has
received more universal and merited praise, and wo
subscribe to the opinion expressed by a contempo
rary, " that it is the heart's own language, clothed
in the soft drapery of love and truth."
Mr. Gardner, the author, recently met an un•
timely death at Norfolk, Va., by the. discharge of a
pistol, whether accidental or by design is unknown,
lie was engaged in a personal altercation with a
Mr. Cook, with whom he had some previous mis
understanding, when Cook was seen to raise his
walking cane. Gardner stepped back, and drew
from his pocket a revolving pistol; upon which
Cook dropped his cane, and siezed the pistol. A
deadly stuggle ensued, during which Cook suc
ceeded in wrenching the pistol from Gardner, and it I
was discharged, the ball entering the heart of the
latter, who instantly expired. Cook was unharmed.
Whether the discharge of the pistol was intentional
or not, is known only to Cook, who immediately
surrendered himself to justice. Gardner was about
30 years of age.
The melancholy death of the writer, and bereave
ment of her to whom it was addressed, give the
recta an additional and painful interest.
TO MY wirn
Written in absence, on the Anniversary of our
3Aurrioge.
SY MEL.. GAMIN..
Thou who (lithe teach my youthful muse to sing,
Strung her new harp, and claimed her earliest
strain; . .
Hover thou near me on thy spirit wing,
And I wilt wake its melody again !
Surely to thee its sweetest strains belong—
Thy love—thy truth—thy constancy my song.
E'en from the dawning of my spirit's life,
No soul hath breathed its sympathy for me;
No kindly word had the red inc in the strife ;
And I was like a gnarled and blighted tree,
Which, planted firmly on tho storm god's path,
f3corns all his fury, and defies his his wrath!
The world had never /need ins. I—a child—
Caat on its bosom, found that bosom cold ;
It spurned me, when I thought in would have smi
led,—
And when I offered love it asked for—gold;
And showed too--Love, an article of trade,—
And truth and friendship waiting to be paid!
I loathed it then ;—and each day nerved my soul
As with a year of strength, its hate to brave;
I never bowed me to its base control;—
And thus my heart became a living grave
Of strong affections. Thou did'st set them free,
And all Its treasured wealth belongs to thee!
It is all thine ! Oh, would that it were more,
And better worth the sacrifice it cost!—
Kind tirienda--thy pleasant home—and all the
gore
Of love thy life had gathered—three thou lost!
Each would have shared, and each have claimed a
Pan —
Now, thou haat love for love, and heart for heart.
A wanderer then—poor, friendless and alone—
No houso—no lands—no hoarded wealth were
mine;
Thou wort my all; and thou wen all my own;
Ah, I was rich to win a heart like thine !
Love that wealth buys with poverty will fail,
But truth like thine is never kept for sale !
"I've given up all I loved, for thee alone!"
These were thy words, which memory aye will
keep ;
When thou with me did'st brave the cold world's
frown;
And on my bosom sobbed thyself to sleep!
Best pledge of earnest truth, thy young heart's fears ;
And sweetest proof of love, those bridal tears!
Well might thou doubt my poor world-beaten barque,
To bear my fortunes o'er life's stormy sea!—
The tempest then was howling fierce and dark,
•
And its wild wrath was terrible to thee ;
And but one light shone in the murky sky—
"rwes Love's bright star:—our hope--our destiny
That sad unbidden fear—'tis past—'tis past!
And though there linereth still that threatening
cloud,
No shadows on our spirits can it cast,
Nor there that light, 'tis powerless to shroud,
Beams clearer—purer still, as years depart—
The bright continuing sunshine of the heart !
Star of our wedded life !—thy brightening ray,
High never faded from the upper sky!
My spirits darkness thou host turned to day,
And thy soft beams now light that tearful eye,
For this, I thank thee Father!—who to me
Didst gi;e that light it borrowcth front thee!
Nine circling seasons now their course have run,
tlince my world-trolley love did warm;
klince—when I told tin all thine own—
Home for life's sunshi cher from its Btorm
Thou, gentle one, didst nestle by my aide,
And to drat heart I clasped thee, RS my bride!
It cloth not seem so long:—yet Time hath fled,
For there are sweet and ever blooming flowers,
Our daughters—come to tell us years have sped,
Their age, Love's only record of the hours!
And since I left thee, yet another one
Waiteth his sire's first kiss;—'rs thine, :sr sex!
I am alone—and far from them and thee—
Yet have I switt-winged Thought!—and to thy
home,
When evening shadows fall, I haste to see
The smile of joy that woiteth till I come,—
Leaving behind all thoughts that give us pain,
To clasp my loved ones to my heart again!
God keep them ever!—and if memory's page,
When I am gone, should hear my humble name,
Or with the record of the passing ago
Be linked one act of mine, deserving fame;
Long as that fame one heart is treasured in,
Be thine the praise, thy love inspired to win!
God keep thee, ever dearest! May no cloud
Of Sorrow cast its shadow on thy brow;
Or if come, still beaming through its shroud,
May Love and Hope shine beautiful as now;
Till, when the tic that joins our hearts is riven,
It blendeth with the better light of Heaven!
101303LLANZOVEL
From the Artist Magazine.
COURTING IN TILE COUNTRY,
WI COLLOQUY.
"Germans are honest men."--Stealespeare.
It was a bright summer afternoon, when we gal
loped into the tidy, brisk village of Grey. With
out any acknowledged concert, we certainly put
ourselves upon our best paces, and most approved
equestrian attitudes as we dashed down the princi
pal strects--indeed in the excitement of our spirits
we indulged in an ebollution of vanity pardonable
in a trio, but at which we should, either of us, have
blushed singly, for we exchanged glances, which
each interpreted in his heart as meaning—
" Fine looking cavaliers we, such not to be seen
every day."
Unluckily, for ue, or it may have been luckily,
great habitual meeting was holden in the village at
the time, and every hotel, tavern or boarding house
was full to overflowing: full of men with solemn
looks, grave with the affairs of the time—oracular
words, or piercing eloquence, upon the subject of
turnpike or no turnpike; men with long speeches
in their pockets, ready to be extemporised—men
who have put on their ..Sunday best," even com
bed their carrotty locks, and taken a pocket hand
kerchief on the great occasion—and now moved
uneasily in stiff white collars, and new cow-hide
shoes. What were we to these!
At first, w•e glanced at our modish habiliments
with exultation, but, as file after file of these sturdy
farmers came by, a lurking sense of effeminacy
crept over us; and our trim boots, and faultless
tailor-work grew ridiculous, and reminded us of
men made by the tailor. Besides, we were a pitiful
minority, and one must have some grand truth to
sustain him well in that position; besides we were
hungry as panthers, which is of itself apt to impart a
sneaking aspect.
"Now remember that, Cm, a hungry woman
does not, as you women imagine, look spiritual—
she only looks dull."
„ Wisely said, good cousin, we will dispense
with that, but go on."
Well, after being baffled half a dozen times, by
fear we began to look a little less cavalierly. Then
we bethought ourselves of the farm-houses in the
neighborhood, and started again in tolerable style.
There was one with an avenue of trees up which
we rode, and I knocked with my whip upon the
door. It was opened by a girl with a n I arch-look, as
much as to say, "you didn't expect such a pretty
girl, did youl" No more we did, and we were all
ourselves, instantly.
"Of course, Frank, but what next I"
Why she could take only one. Here was a sad
dilemma; but tho neighbors would each take one.
But then such a pretty house-mate—which should
stay? We declared she should decide. She
laughed and shook her curls, and tapped her small
foot on the floor, and her ribbonds fluttered in the
wind; and altogether made as pretty a picture as
ono would wish to see. Wo looked interesting, I
apprehended our best looks were on ; we slightly
improved our position in the saddle, Richard took
off his cap on account of the heat, but you remember
his fine hair! William smiled; but then his teeth!
I was grave and indifferent.
"Frank, Frank."
"True, upon my word, cousin. The little beauty
glanced from ono to the other, laughing and blush
ing, and refusing to say; but at length she pitched
upon your cousin Frank."
"Now cousin, sparo your invention, you know,
Frank, I credit ono half you am telling, and I will
not believe the story itself. Oh! Frank, Frank,
how your sex is given to fibbing—well it is an in
stinct with you."
"There you are out, cousin, for the women have
the training of us. You think it quite incredible
that the girl should choose me—humph—"
" Pah, cousin, don't look fierce—l dare say you
were irresistible; but then Richard is so handsome."
"Confound that Richard—l wish I had left him
out altogether in the excursion."
" Well, now, to finish it, for at present the lady
had just elected her squire, and ho is yet perched
upon his horse—fierce and hungry."
" Most =heroic, I confess. " Well, the girl ush
ered me into the neatett little room—the floor son-
I:PCS:Lo g c.U7:II:JZMI 4/Ell34otel3c,
ded and green boughs in the chimney. Here sat
an elderly woman quite deaf—think of that—and
the beauty screamed—
Grandmother, this is—and then she laughed, and
colored, and stopped short.
" Frank," said I.
Mr. Frank, Grandmotivi s,
Yea, yes, get him a chat le.
I think we are quite well acquaint&l, Jennie.
"Perfectly, Frank."
What does he say, Jennie?
Oh ! he says--"Pts reie day," nnterposed.
All this time a handsome youth was standing by
the window, who certainly was not deaf, for I heard
him mutter—"Well,that'swhat I rail kin' mighty
home like."
Then Jennie spread the table, and all was so
fresh, so nice—and all of Jennie's own making.
And then she laughed, and chatted, and said so
much ; one-half I really believe to tease the youth,
whom I learned to call George, because she did,
only I put the Mr. to it. I soon found they were
lovers, he dying of jealousy, and she the village
beauty, and a sad coquette into the bargain. But
then her coquetry was so becoming—not cold and
calculating, but merely the ebullition of spirits in
one who had been used to admiration ; and then
her pretty pettishness, her gay laugh and real good
ness of heart. I learned all this by a thousand little
indications before I had been there a week. In
deed Jennie WM the very perfection of a rustic
beauty, and I would'nt have had her cityficd for
the world.
Sabbath day I went to church, walked beside the
little belle with her laughing eyes dancing in my
face, her musical voice close to my car, and her
beautiful cheek like a peach just visible among the
curls that half filled her bonnet.
"You make a long story, cousin Frank."
"But think what a beautiful subject, Coz."
"Yes, Frank."
I don't remember what the sermon was about—
but the singing was exquisite, for Jennie had a
voice like a bird. 'We all stood at prayers, and
then I observed the men turned their backs upon
the clergyman, but the women did not. And then
when church was over the men all left the house
before the women,which gave them a chance to see
nearly all as . they came out, and then such blooming
faces, and so many black slippers, and white stock
ings—and dresses a trifle shorter than you wear in
New York.
George walked a little in the rear of Jennie and
me, looking sulky—and I dare say wished me at
the north pole.
"Where you deserved to be Frank; what right
had you to make him unhappy ; by your ridiculous
attentions'!"
"You shall see, sweet Coz, I was doing hint a
benefit. These country lovers are excessively
green; they let a woman feel that she has tremen
dous lower over them, and then she abuses it, or
else cares nothing about them."
"Aye, Frank, but they arc truthful anti earnest,
and that is the only love to be prized. Your man
aging lover is no lover at all."
" I deny your premises, Coz. A man must be
master of himself, at least in appearance, or despair
to win the deep love of woman's heart. Your
whining lover is a sorry object. But to my story.
"Jennie, was all day as tt lark—she sang at the
wheel old ballads such as we find in Percy; she
played forfeits, told fortunes in tea-grounds, and
seemed the very impersonation of cheerfulness.—
The old lady busied herself in the kitchen, and
George went out on the fann. We mowed apples
and snapped the seed. We talked every thing but
sentiment—tbr when I attemped that, she laughed
in my face, and bade me hush such nonsense, I
recited poetry and she opened her eyes, end looked
very incomprehensible, and then George began to
laugh, and I felt ridiculous.
We went to singing school—it was a clear moon
light night. The little beauty never looked love
lier—was never in a saucier mood, and never in a
better spirit for mischief. It was ono half to spite
George, who staid at home in a fit of the sulks, and
I knew it—she didn't care a straw about me, and in
revenge, just us we reached the door I snatched a
kiss. How the little creature's eyes dashed—she
gave me a sound box on the cars, and then ran into
the house.
" Good night, Mr. Frank," alto called as I heard
her foot on the stairs.
The grandmother had gone to bed—George sat
by the window—it did not command the entrance.
He was certainly a very handsome fellow—much
handsomer than he was aware of. He had too an
off-hand, assured bearing, that would have been
equal to anything, had he not been in love. He was
surly and I sat down by the opposite window.
" You seem to understand the women, almighty
well," he said rather abruptly. •
I should think not, by the way my car rings.—
Miss Jane likes to be kissed before folks."
"To be sure she does—a right nice, smart gal
she is too, only a little skittish."
" I wonder you don't make love to her, George.'
"The deuce take her—a fellow never knows
what she means—chipper to-day and set off to-mor
row—'twould be like running after a Jack-o-Ituttern.
She'll laugh and talk wills any popinjay that comes
along."
"I hemmed of course, Coo."
" And then, as for the lantern jawed chaps of the
village, she'll laugh and talk herself hoarse with
them, and never look at rue."
" Is she the only pretty girl in the town 1"
George opened his eyes wide. " That's it, is it?
I'll see."
I redoubled my attention to Jane—George was
away every night; but this only seemed to increase
the vivacity of her spirits. I quite neglected my
two friends, 'kid half abandoned my rod and line,
though the sport could not be improved. At length
the night of the singing school arrived. Jane and I
were just seated, when in came George with a
verry pretty girl, though not half so pretty as Jen
nie. She began turning the leaves of the singing
book, and was a long time in finding the place, but
could see her color come and go, and heard her
red lip tremble in spite of its compression.
George played his part to perfection, and his
companion was in fine spirits, growing every mo
ment more beautiful from her happiness. Poor
littln Jennie—she was nervous--now chattering like
a magpie—and now silent, and lost in reverie.
Going home, I touched upon the sentimental,
looked at the moon, and thought of you, Coz, and
then I recited—
"Oh! thou that dolt inhabit in my breast,
Leave not the mansion too long tentuitless,
Lest growing ruinous thebuilding
And leave no memory of what it was."
Jennie burst into tears; after a while she said,
"come tothink about it Mr. Frank, poetry is always
about love isn't it—l never thought of it before.
And then it is always sad." Poor little Jennie—lt
was her first touch at the sentimental—the birth of
her first grief.
I took the occasion to read her a lecture upon
truthfulness—the hazard of trifling with real affec
tion—the folly of seeking admiration at the sacrifice
of love. Even you, Coz, would have been edified
might you have heard it. " She gave me for my
pains a world of sighs."
The next day I expected to sec her quite tender'
and attentive to George—but no, the little chit was
as stately as a tragedy queen ; and George appeared
quite unconcerned. That night she half cried her
eyes out of her head, for at the breakfast table they
were red and swollen, and she looked quite the pale,
sentimental beauty. She grew listless; gave over
sighing—read all the poetry she could find—and at
the new moon I found her gathering clover, four
leaf clover, and repeating—
"Now moon, new moon tell to me,
Who my own true love shall be."
My approach stopped the incantation audibly,
and the next morning I beheld the trefoil with the
four leaves— , that's an Irishman is it not r—sus
pendcd over the principal door. I was careful that
George should be the first to pass under it.
Q - I have received this paper, undoubtedly sent
by George or Jennie. It is Jennie's hand lam
sure.
" Married in Gray, by the Rev. Mr. Houmy,
George —, to Jane —, all of this place."
" So, Coz, you have the whole history of my ex
cursion, and do you not think it was for good?—
There is no knowing what might have been the
fate of the lovers had I not been able to impart a
little wisdom to George."
"The result of my experience, cousin."
THE CHRISTIAN ARTIST.
sr mns. nAnnur E. BEECHER STOWS.
We have noticed, in a recent periodical, an ac.
count of the death of John Henry Dannecker, one
of the sculptors of modem times and undoubtedly
the first, perhaps the only Christian artist of his
age. We do not mean to imply by this, that no
other artist has been a believer in Christian truth,
or uninfluenced by Christian principle, but that no
other one has, to ouch an extent, made his art a
medium for the expression of the class of ideas and
emotions peculiar to Christianity.
The history of Dannecker is highly eventful and
interesting. He was the son of one of the grooms
of the Duke of Wirtemburg, and of course, receiv
ed no early culture. His passion for drawing,
however, was very early manifested, and it is said,
that when unable to procure paper for his purposes,
he often covered the slabs of a neighboring stone
cutter with his designs. His talent at lenght be
came known to the Duke, who undertook his edu
cation, at his own expense. Ho studied at Rome,
under Canova; and ouch was the purity and tran
quility of his spirits, so elevated and heavenly Isis
conceptions of art, that he received from this artist
the surname of "II beato," (or "the Blessed One,")
During his stay in Italy, his talents procured him
an appointment to the academies, both of Rome
and Bologna; and after his return, he was appoin
ted, by his patron, professor of the fine arts in his
academy. He accomplished several works of art,
many of them upon classical subjects, but he inves
ted everything that he touched with a spiritual ear
nestness and dignity, far exceeAling the mere physi
cal perfection of the antique. Whenever he repre
sented physical beauty, it was still touched and
glorified by the brightness of immortality, as if in
the perfection of the earthly he beheld the foreshad
owing of the heavenly.
But the great work to whirls ho believed himself
divinely called, and on which he exhausted all the
terror and enthusiasm of his deep spirit, was is rep
resentation of the Meditator between God and loan.
The manner in which he felt himself culled to so
solemn and sublime a theme is peculiar. Ho had
long and earnestly meditated that highest problem
of Christian art: "How should the Goths= be
presented and the union of the awful and the infi
nite, witls the aympathetical and tender, he shadow
ed foals in human form!"
Nor did artist ever pursue, with more intense
ardor, the yet unfounded image of the perfect and
the beautiful, than Dannecker followed this still re
treating mystery. At length, a dream unveiled be
fore him that face and form which he had vainly
striven to create.—“ This is He!—this must be He!
this can be no other!"—was the solemn and thril
ling certainty of his soul: and he awoke with an
unetticeablo impression that to him it was given to
achieve this most sacred triumph of religious art.
Though others might regard it as a dream, yet
in the enthusiasm of his spirit, lie looked upon it as
a sacred reality, and inunedlate revelation from the
Redeemer, and regarded himself henceforth as sanc
tified and ennobled by a heavenly commission, to
which he devoted himself with absorbing zeal.—
Day and night the unutterable vision stood before
him, every line and lineament as clear as in the first
hour of revelation.
During eight years it way his unintermitting
study and effort; and the result was, a production,
which, in the estimation of both artists and Chris
tians, has as nearly accomplished his of jest as hu
man conception can receive the idea.
The marble statute was purchased by the emper
or Alexander, and is now in Russia. The clay
model in which the artist embodied his first idea, is
in a church at Stuttgard. Wu have never seen it,
but received from a friend an account of the im
pression produced by a eight of it.
' "After breakfast," he says, "a friend of ours said
to us, come down to the church, and see Danneek
cr's Christ." "Dannecker's Christ?" We had
never heard of the work, not being familiar with
the records of German art, but we had achieved so
much sight•sceing (particularly un sacred subjects,)
with so little satisfaction, that we proceeded with
indifference.
But immediately on entering the church, our eye
was arrested—we paused, involuntarily became si
lent; and stood breathless, motionless, and absorb
ed. We needed none to say to us, This is He!"
but seemed to be overshadowed by on as ful yct be
loved presence. How long we stood I know not—
I only know that we made no comments, either to
each other, or to our friend—that we looked at
nothing else in the church—but returned to our
lodgings in perfect silence; nor was it until sonic
time after, that we began to say to each other,
"How wonderful—how beautiful—how sublime I"
I can give you a few particulars by which you
can form any idea of this statue. It is placed in
the centre of a large church, at the junction of four
aisle. It represents the Saviour as standing, with
one hand gently upraised, in the attitude of speak
ing, and the impression that it produces is, "Never
man spake like this man." The dress is the seam
less robe, a simple single garment reaching to the
feet. The hair is parted on the forehead, and hangs
in curls upon the shoulders. So far, I can remem
ber, but the face I have never been able to recall.—
The impression, so far as I can remember, was pro
duced by no one thing alone, but a divine harmo
ny, in the face, figure, and attitude, exciting an
emotion so immediate and undivided, us to disarm
criticism, and produce emotion, rather than reflec
tion; and though I have often striven to recall the
image to my mind, that I might analyse its power,
I have never been able to do it. I can only remem
ber the general outlines, and the overwhelming
effect."
Dannecker afterwards produced another copy of
this statue for the mother of the Prince of Tlturn
and Taxis, and it is now in the church of Neres
helm, in the kingdom of Wirtemberg. It is said,
by artists, to excel even his first effort. He also
produced a statue of St. John, in which the appar
ently conflicting attributesof the "Son of Thunder,
and the beloved disciple, have been admirably com
bined." His last work, executed in extreme old
age, is the Christian Death angel, guiding an aged
man through the shadow of death, and pointing to
him an unfolding heaven—a lovely and fitting
image to cheer the last hours of a Christian artist.
The rook for the Intellect.
The bible must be brought into action. It must
shape the intellect and inspire the heart of the
young. Its treasure must be thrown open to their
view. The nature, extent, and value of its history
must be engraved upon their memories. They must
be taught to sit on the brow of the sacred mount,
and listen to the philosophic sages of inspiration,
while they expound to their opening faculties the
sublime theory of nature. They must be permitted
to soar upon the pinions of a heaven-illuminated fan
cy, and explore the broad limits of the universe, and
celebrate with the Psalmist the character of the great
Creator, and with the prophets pursue the destinies
of the deathless spirit, as it rises to the dignity and
enters upon the fruition of immortality. Every
thing, in a word, should be attempted to resider the
Bible more engaging to tiro young. The imagina
tion is the first intellectual power that expands. It
is the leading faculty in the development and culti
vation of the mind. And, like the needle that
brines to the pole, it cannot be directed by constraint;
but is attracted with unerring certainty when left to
action of its relative power. That relative power is
the Bible. It is the pole, of the human mind. Ro,
moving all disturbing forces, all negative and coun
teracting influences, and let the Bible exert its native
energy upon the soul, and man will goon return to
Isla true position in the sight of Cod. Let the ruin
ous popular fictions of the day be discountenanced
by every friend of mankind. If the finey must be
instructed by pictures; if it must he warmed by the
touch of beauty ; if it demands u peculiar aliment
-~
1 - 6 7 0)Q
for its sustaintmco and clamors for gral
those pictures be drawn by the penal tiou
let that touch of beauty be from thnh plan.
ted the flowerets of Eden; let that aliment gently
fall upon the soul like manna from the heaven,—
We need not fear we shall accomplish too much in
attempting to throw a livelier interest around the
Bible. A modern poet has correctly and beautifully
said—
"As into seven softer hues
shivers the silvery beant of light,
As all the severs rainbow hues
Run back into the dazzling white!
So round the swimming eyes of youth
With all your glancing witcheries play;
So flow into one bond of truth,
Into one stream of perfect day."
Can the reader evade the poet's touching appeal!--
What exertions should be regarded us arduous, in
comparison of so happy a result? Let the Sabbath
school be made a nursery of little plants extracted
from the paradise of revelation. Let the smaller
gems of the Bible be transferred to the coronet of all
juvenile readers. Let the pulpit become radiant
with the literature of the Scriptures. Let the halls
of education emit the twofold splendor of classic and
Biblical learning. Let the fireside, the family circle,
be adorned and hallowed by choice recollections of
the history, philosophy, and poetry of inspiration.—
How many youthful, straying feet, might be allur
ed to the noblest walks of piety and duty, if the par
ent only, the mother, would tahc the pains to display
the flowers which inspiration has thrown upon these
paths of peace ! For himself, the writer will take
occasion at this moment to render a tribute of grati
tude to divine Providence, that a mother was allot
ted him who loved and appreciated the Billie; who
stored his young fancy with such bright images and
lovely pictures as a boy could receive. Thus
early was he induced to reverence that religion, the
record of which he had been taught to admire; and
now,
" Before thy mystic altar, heavenly Truth,
I kneel in manhood, as I knead in youth;
Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay,
And life's last shade be brightcn'd by the ray;
Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below,
soar without bounds, without consuming, 1101,!"
Evidences of Christianity,
I have been used for many years, to study the
history of other times, and to examine and weigh
the evidence of those who have written about
them; and I know of no one fact in the history• of
mankind, which is proved by better and fuller evi
dence of every sort to the understanding of a fair
inquirer, than the great sign which God has given
us, that Christ died and rose again from the dead.
But were the evidence of other facts ends, that our
great sign of Christ crucified and Christ risen may
be said only to begin. I might convince your un
derstandings, as I own mine has been convinced
long since, that the faet is proved according to the
best rules of testimony ; but if our belief rest here,
we do not know the full richness, the abundant and
overflowing light of our Christian faith. The evi
dence of Christ's apostles, preserved to us in their
writings, is very strong, very full, very irresistible;
hear it fairly, and we cannot believe that Christ is
not risen. But the evidence of Christ's spirit is
much more strong, mere full, more penetrating our
whole nature. He who has this evidence, not only
believes that Christ rose, and was seen of Peter, and
of the other apostles; Christ has manifested himself
to him also ; he knows in whom he has believed.—
Life and death aro no longer a great mystery, be
yond which our faith dimly catches the light of re
surrection ; Christ is with us now, and life is clenr,
death is peaceful, and resurrection is the natural end
to which both lead us. There arc thousands and
tens of thousands who have gone through this bless
ed evidence also; who doing Christ's will daily,
have learned by experience the manifold riches of
his grace, who have received his spirit and life, in a
continued consciousness of his presence and his
love : to whom there is no need that they should pray
for the sky to be opened, that they tray see and
hear God. God dwelleth in them already and tl.ey
in God. The Heaven is opened, and the angels of
God are every hour ascending and descending on
that son of man, who through a living faith in
Christ, bath been adopted through him to be a son
of God. So perfectly may the Prophet Jonah, the
sign of Christ's death and resurrection, be rendered
to each one of us, all that we could desire in a sign
from Ileaven.—Dr. Arnold.
PROGRESS Or SLANDER:" Mrs. Hopkins told
me that she heard Sam CiWs wife say that John
Harris' wife told her, that Granny Smith heard there
was 110 doubt the widow Baker said that Captain
Wood's wife thought Lane's wife believed that old
Mrs. Lamp reckoned positively that Peter Eulnute's
wife had told Nell Bassenden that her aunt had de
clared to the world that it was generally believed that
uncle Tritubletop had said in plain terms that he
heard Betsy Cook soy that her sister Polly had said
that it was well known in the neighborhood that old
Mrs. Slough made no bones of saying that in her
opinion it was a matter of fact that Dolly Lightfinger
would soon be obliged to get her a sew apron airing,
ulfl kick you," said a Ilatboatman to a man whi/
was bothering hint, "you'll go so high that the fear
of falling will be muelfilllnkm that of starving tv
death before you —and I'll give you hot
loaves of brcatl to *th you in the bargain,"
The fellow thought "logy !allguage," and
tuw•ed off.