his meaning; but I saw it was all love, and thus my earliest impression was associated with the idea, that it was religion which made him love us so tenderly, and that prayer was an expression of that love. I was led, in this way, to pray for those who were kind to me, as dear papa did.

"In conversation, he did notoften urge the subject of religion directly on our attention, or question us much as to our personal experience of it. He has sometimes regretted this, and called it his infirmity; but I think he adopted a more successful plan. He used to watch over us most cautiously, and express his opinion in writing; we constantly found letters left in our rooms, with directions to think and pray over them. Reproof was always conveyed in this way; and he also took the same method of questioning us on experimental religion, and of beseeching us to become more decided for God. Sometimes he required an answer, but generally his own request was, that we would 'spread his letter before the Lord, and think over it.'

"His reproofs were inexpressibly tender. He was never angry with us; but when we displeased him, he showed it by such a sad and mournful countenance, that it touched us to the very heart, and produced more effect than any punishment could have done, for we saw that it was our dear father who suffered the most. In this way he gained such an ascendency over our affections, that none of us could feel happy if his smile was withdrawn, and all regarded that smile as a rich reward.

"I cannot express the veneration and love with which he was regarded by every one of his children. With an understanding of the very first order, a mind elegantly refined and polished, and feelings of the most delicate susceptibility, he had a heart overflowing with intense affection toward each of them, which was shown by daily and hourly attention of the most winning nature; and they found in him not only a counsellor and instructor, but a companion and bosom friend. They clung to him, indeed, with an almost idolatrous fondness. Each of my brothers and sisters will agree with me in the senti•ment of dear Wilberforce, (it was one of my brother's remarks a little before he closed his eyes upon his weeping parent,) 'When my heart feels too cold to thank God for anything else, it can thank him for giving me such a father.' He was the spiritual as well as the natural father of that dear boy, and I trust others of his children are thus bound to him by a tie strong and lasting as eternity itself Surely the world does not contain a spot of more sweet and uninterrupted domestic happiness than Turvey Rectory presented, before death entered that peaceful dwelling."

Written for thfi Ladies' Garland. REFLECTIONS ON THE RUINS OF POMPEII.


My muse inspired, would for a moment roam
O'er thee. Pompeii, once the joy and home
Of thousands, who, no name or place now find
j Amid the living; who among mankind
I Were once the gayest—rife with pomp and power,
I And like a meteor, vanished in an hour!

Here are thy temples;—here thy glittering vanes,
Which rose in clouds and trembled o'er the plains.
•Here priest-craft held its dire despotic sway,
Leading its votaries down the slippery way
Of sensual pleasure—virtue but a name—
'Till from afar the fiery deluge came.
i An avalanche, by God's tremendous hand
I Hurl'd o'er their crimes, their memories, and their land.

j Thy theatres, how still I—how breathless now!
iWhere forms once wav'd like ocean's mighty flow;
j Where voices echoed, as they saw portrayed
'Those mimic scenes, which they so soon surveyed.
j Here are thy forums, 'neath whose gilded dome,
I Thousands have listened, 'till enwrapt, o'ereome

With eloquence, which in such sweetness roll'd,

That life's pure current in i!s course ran cold;

Here are thy sumptuous dwellings, costly halls;

How rich in sculpture! here thy painted walls, i Where caricatures in glowing forms were wreath'd,

'Tille'en the marble in its colors breath'd.

Here household gods, intent with watchful eye,
Gaze on the hearth-stones, where the ashes lie
From fires which seem but just enkindled—blown
From flaming fuel, on the altar thrown;
Here wellstor'd pantrys; here the flowing wine.
The sparkling goblets, and the cups divine—
Whose magic none had courage to control.
Nor break the spell they wound around the soul.
Here the rich furniture ;—the cushion'd chair,
On which in splendor languish'd oft the fair;
Here gilded divans, and the sofas high.
Where flash'd in beauty once the soul-lit eye;
Where vows were breath'd, where hearts drunk in the

Which flow'd from love's first swfet and thrilling kiss; Here sylph-like forms mov'd 'round with matchless grace,

Adorn'd with gold Behold their only trace
Upon the ground—where on that hour they sank.
When time, and things, and life, became a blank!

In this charm'd spot,—this city of the dead !—
I move with awe, and wlffi a faultering tread.
How still! how solemn! how profound its rest!—
No murmurs agitate the pulseless breast.
The mind is lost, amid a countless throng,
Where, centuries past, mingled the jest anil song;
Where feats of valor, by the brave were won,
And gladiators, 'mid the riizzening hum
Of cheering voices, rais'd the bloody knife,
Proud of their conquest o'er another's life.

How brilliantly, on that ill-fated morn,
The sun arose, when all in Pompeii born
View'd his rich beams, as o'er each mountain height
He threw around his broad refulgent light,
For the last time, upon those reckless souls.
Till like the leaves, shall shake the steadfast poles;
Till sounds more dire than those whose sudden peal
Made Pompeii tremble, and her pillars reel;
Till land and sea, from every clime and shore,
To life eternal shall their treasures pour;
Till souls relit, and summon'd, shall obey,
To be connected with their former clay;
Till all of man redeemed, shall take their flight
From this dark world, where all is dazzling bright.
Sag Harbor, L. I., 1842.

Humility is the low but broad and deep foundation of every Christian virtue.

No. 7.

All Things are of God.Parental Sorrow.



Thou art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wond'rous world we see;

Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from thee;

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,

And we can almost think we gaze
Through opening vistas into heaven;

Those hues that make the sun's decline

So soft, so radiant, Lord, are thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,

Like some dark beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes;

That sacred gloom, those fires divine,

So grand, so countless, Lord, are thine.

When youthful Spring around us breathes, Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;

And every flower that summer wreathes, Is born beneath thy kmdling eye;

Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are thine.




A few months ago I buried my eldest son, a fine manly boy of eight years of age, who had never had a day's illness until that which took him hence to be here no more. His death occurred under circumstances peculiarly painful to me. A younger brother, the next in age to him, a delicate, sickly child from a baby, had bcea^own for nearly a fortnight with an epideJRc fever. In consequence of the nature of the disease, I used every precaution that prudence suggested to guard the ether members of my family against it. But of this one, my eldest, 1 had but little fear; he was so rugged and so generally healthy. Still, however, I kept a vigilant eye upon him, and especially forbade his going into the pools and docks near his school, which he was prone to visit.

One evening I came home wearied with a long day's hard labor, and vexed at some little disappointments, and found that he had also just come into the house, and that he was wet and covered with dock-mud. I taxed him with disobedience, and scolded him severely—more so than I had ever done before; and then harshly ordered him to his bed. He opened his lips for an exculpatory reply as I supposed, but I sternly checked him; when, with a mute, sorrowful countenance and a swelling breast, he turned away and went

slowly to his chamber. My heart smote me even at the moment, though I felt conscious of doing but a father's duty. But how much keener did 1 feel the pang when I was informed in the course of the evening by a neighbor, that my boy had pone to the dock at the earnest solicitation of a younger and favorite play-mate, and by the especial permission of his schoolmaster, in order to recover a cap belonging to the former, which had blown over the wharf. Thus I learned that what I had treated with unwonted severity as a fault, was but the impulse of a generous nature which, forgetful of self, had hazarded perhaps life for another. It was but the quick prompting of that manly spirit which I had always endeavored to engraft upon his susceptible mind, and which, young as he was, had already manifested itself on more than one occasion.

How bitterly did I regret my harshness, and resolved to make amends to his grieved spirit in the morning! Alas! that morning never came to him in health. Before retiring for the night, however, I crept to his low cot and bent over him. A tear had stolen down upon his cheek, and rested there. I kissed it off; but he slept so sweetly and so calmly, that I did not venture to disturb him. The next day he awoke with a raging fever on his brain, and in forty-eight hours he was no more! He did not know me when I was first called to his bed-side, nor at any moment afterward, though in silent agony I bent over him till death and darkness closed the scen«. I would have given worlds to have whispered one kind word in his ear, and have been answered; but it was not permitted. Once indeed a smile, I thought of recognition, lighted up his eye, and I leaned eagerly forward. But it passed quickly away, and was succeeded by the cold unmeaning glare, and the wild tossing of the fevered limbs, that lasted till death came to his relief.

Every thing I now see that belonged to him reminds me of the lost one. Yesterday I found some rude pencil sketches which it was his delight to make for the amusement of his younger brother; to-day, in rummaging an old closet I came across his boots, still covered with dock-mud as when he last wore them ; and every morning and evening I pass the ground where his voice rang the merriest among his play-mates. All these things speak to me vividly of his active life; but I cannot, though [ often try, recall any other expression of his face than that mute, mournful one with which he turned from me on the night I so harshly repulsed him. Then my heart bleeds afresh. O! how careful should we all be, that in our daily conduct towards those little beings sent us by a kind Providence, we are net laying up for ourselves the sources of many a future bitter tear! How cautious, that neither by inconsiderate word or look we unjustly grieve their generous feeling! And how guardedly ouurht we to weigh every action against its motive, lest in a moment of excitement we be led to mete out to the venial errors of the heart the punishment due only to wilful crime! Alas! perhaps few parents suspect how often the sudden blow, the fierce rebuke, is answered in their children by the tears, not of passion, not of physical or mental pain, but of a loving but grieved or outraged nature !— Knickerbocker Magazine.



The first year of a young woman's wedded life is generally the most unhappy, and the most trying one she experiences. However, intensely we may have studied the character of our affianced, in all its narrow windings, still shall we find, when we become wives, that we have yet something to learn. By actions are the affections on either side shown, and although it is in the power and the nature of woman to manifest her devotedness by a thousand little attentions, she must not repine if she receives not the like.

The feelings of the other sex are not so soft and exquisite as those of our own; if they were, we might possibly be happier, and we may for a moment wish they were so, but we shall restrain so selfish a desire, if we reflect how much more unfit they would be by such a constitution to bear the crosses and the buffets of the world.

It is said that lovers' quarrels are but the renewal of love, but it is not so in truth. Continued differences and bickerings will undermine the strongest affection, and a wife cannot be too careful to avoid disputes upon the most trivial subject; indeed it is the every day occurrences which try the love and temper of the married life; great occasions for quarrels seldom occur. Every wish, every prejudice must meet with attention, and the first thought of a woman should be the pleasing and providing for her husband. It is impossible to enumerate all the little incidents which may annoy married men, or the little, unobtrusive pleasure which it is in the power of a wife to give, but throughout her life and employments, she must bear his pleasures on her mind. She must act for him in preference to herself, and she will be amply rewarded by witnessing his delight in her and his home. To a woman who loves her husband with all the devotedness of her nature, this will be a pleasure, not a task; and to make

ihim happy, she will never grudge any sacri

(fice of self.

! The greatest misery a woman can expedience is the changed heart, and the alienated 1affections of her husband, but even in that I painful case she must not upbraid; she must bear with patience and fortitude her great disappointment, she must return good for evil to the utmost, and her consolation will be the consciousness that her trials have not their rise or continuance in any decline of affection or duty on her part.

Some women, in order to win back their husband's wandering love, have recourse to attempt to arouse.his jealousy; but they are much mistaken in pursuing such a course. A man, however debased his conduct, never entirely forgets the love he once bore to the wife of his youth; there are moments when feelings of tenderness for her will return with force to his heart-; to reap the benefits of such moments, the injured, forgiving wife must still be enshrined in the purity of former times. A husband will excuse his fault to himself, and, in some measure, stand exonerated in the world, if the wife relax in the propriety of her conduct, while on the contrary, the gentle forbearance, the uncomplaining patience, and the unobtrusive rectitude of the woman he injures, will deeply strike to his heart, and do much to win him back to his former love, and the observance of the vows he breathed at the altar where his heart was devoted to the being from whom it has wandered. A kind loofy an affectionate expression half uttered, must bring his wife to his side, and she must with smiles of tenderness, encourage the returning affection, carefully avoiding all reference to her sufferings or the cause of them.

This will not be dMicult for good, sensible women to perform^Our love which before mariiage is constrained by the modesty and reserve natural to our Spx, increases in fervency and depth afterwards; it enables us to bear unfelt the world's scorn ; all is swallowed up in it. An affectionate wife clings to her husband through poverty and riches; and the more the world recedes from him, the more firmly will she stand by him; she will be his comforter when all earthly comforts ! have slid from him. Her devotedness will be his rock when he has no other support; she will smile at the frowns of the world; she will not heed its censures; he is her all, and in love are all other feelings to be forgotten or absorbed. No sacrifice will be too great, the faintest smile will not be regarded too little; quick at feeling unkindness, we are also quick at feeling tenderness, and a very trifling circumstance is sufficient to awaken or still the pain of our heart, and bring us misery or happiness.


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- | - ver mountain, Over fountain, Thou art bounding, gay and light;

- Viewless spirit of the air, Thou hast made thy dwelling there, Gentle Echo

2. When the winging 3. Thou art dwelling

Birds are singing, Where the swelling

In the sweet and flowery glen, Torrent boundeth from the rock,-
Soft repeating, Where the moaning
Thou art greeting Oaks are groaning o:

Them with their own songs again: Sadly 'neath the wintry shock.—

And when Autumn woods are bare, Thus thou mockest, every where

Thou are sadly sighing there, Changing with the changing year,
Gentle Echo! Gentle Echol

Hamilton College, N. Y., Oct. 1842.



From the Diary of a London Physician.

As there are a great many speculations afloat in regard to the time when this world is to have an end, the incidental allusions to the subject, in the following thrilling narrative, makes its re-publication at this time peculiarly appropriate. A number of such prophecies have been promulgated within the last century or two, but they have all failed, and the prophets have proved themselves to be false prophets. We are told that " the day of the Lord will come as a Thief In The Nioht; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat," &c.

In view, therefore, of the great uncertainty of the time when this solemn event will take place, and yet of the great certainty that it will take place, sooner or later, we are admonished to " be diligent, that we may be found of Him in peace, without spot and blameless."

We put no more faith in Parson Miller and his Prophecies, than we do in any other agitator, and yet the time may be on the day he mentions, or it may be sooner, or it may be at any other time hundreds of years hence. As individuals, we are liable every moment to have the world come to an end, so far as we are concerned. It therefore behooves all to faithfully consider and observe the admonition above quoted, " he diligent," &c.

By the way, does not Mr. Miller's theory prove itself false, or else prove the word of God false? Miller pretends to know precisely when the end shall come, whilst the Scripture says, "the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night," which of course implies man's entire ignorance of the time of its coming.

In the summer of 18—, London was visited by one of the most tremendous thunder-storms that have been known in this climate. Its character and effects will make me remember it to the latest hour of my life.

There was something portentous—a still, surcharged air—about the whole of Tuesday, the 10th of July, 18—, as though nature was trembling and cowering beneath the coming shock. From about eleven o'clock at noon, the sky wore a lurid, threatening aspect, that shot awe into the beholder; suggesting to startled fancy the notion, that within the dim confines of the "laboring air" mischief was working to the world.

The heat was intolerable, keeping almost every body within doors. The very dogs, and the cattle in the streets, stood every where panting and loath to move. There was a prodigious excitement, or rather agitation, diffused throughout the country, especially London ; for, strange to say, (and thousands will recollect the circumstance,) it had beerrfor sometime confidently foretold by certain enthusiasts, religious as well as philosophic, that the earth was to be destroyed

that very day; in short, that the awful Judgment was at hand!

By the time I reached home, late iri the» afternoon, I felt a fever of excitement. i found an air of apprehension throughout the whole house. My wife, children, and young visitor, were all together in the parlor, looking out for me, through the window, anxiously—and with paler faces than they might choose to own. The visitor just alluded to,

by the way, was a Miss Agnes P , a girl

of about twenty-one, the daughter of an old friend and patient of mine. Her mother, a widow, (with no other child than this,) re-' sided in a village about fifty miles from town —from which she was expected in a few days' time to take her daughter back again into the country. Miss P was without exception the most charming young woman I think I ever met with. The beauty of her person but faintly showed forth the loveliness of her mind and the amiability of her character. The tones of her voice, so mellow and various—and her whole caniage and demeanor, were in accordance with the expression of her features. In person sire was a little under the average height, but most exquisitely moulded and proportioned. She excelled in almost all feminine accomplishments; but the "things wherein her soul delighted," were music and romance. A more imaginative, etherealized creature was surely never known. It required all the fond and anxious surveillance of her friends to prevent her carrying her tastes to excess, and becoming, in a manner, unfitted for the " dull commerce of dull earth!" No sooner had this fair being made her appearance in my house, and given token of something like a prolonged stay than I became the most popular man in the circle of myljlcquaintance. Such assiduous calls to inquire after my health, and that of my family! Such a multitude of men —young ones, to boot—and so embarrassed with a consciousness of the poorness of the pretence that drew them to my house! Such matronly inquiries from mothers and elderly female relatives, into the nature and extent of "sweet Miss P 's expectations V

During a former stay at my house, about six months before the period of which 1 am writing, Miss P surrendered her affections—(to the delighted surprise of all her friends and relatives)—to the quietest and perhaps worthiest of her claimants—a young man, then preparing for orders, at Oxford. Never, sure, was there a greater contrast between the tastes of a pledged couple,; she all feeling, romance, enthusiasm; he serene, thoughtful, and matter-of-fact. It was most amusing to witness their occasional collisions on subjects which brought into play their respective tastes and qualities; and interest

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