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The Old Soldier's Rule.—If you would have friends, you must show yourselves friendly. I know an old soldier of the Revolution, who told me the following story :—
"I once had a neighbor, who, though a clever man, came to me one bright hay day, and said, ''Squire White, I want you to come and take your geese away.' 'Why?' said I, 'what are my geese doing V 'They pick my pigs' ears when they are eating and drive them away; and I will not have it.' 'What can Idol' said I. 'You must yoke them.' 'That I have not time to do, now,' said I; '[ do not see but they must run.' 'If you do not take care of them, / shall!' said the clever shoemaker, in anger; 'what do you say, 'Squire White?' 'I cannot take care of them now, but I will pay you for all damages.' 'Well,' paid he, 'you will find that a hard thing, I guess.'
"So off he went, and I beard a terrible squalling among the geese. The next news from the geese was that three of them were missing. My children found them horribly mangled and dead, and thrown into the bushes.
"Now, said I, all keep still, and let me punish him. In a few days the shoemaker's hogs broke into my corn. I saw them, but let them remain a long time. At last I drove them all out, and picked up the corn which they had torn down, and fed them with it in the road. By this time the shoemaker came in great haste after them.
"' Have you seen any thing of my hogs V said he. 'Yes, sir. you will find them yonder, eating some corn which they tore down in my field.' 'In your field?' 'Yes, sir,' said I; 'hogs love corn, you know—they were made to eat.' 'How much mischief have they done V 'O, not much,' said I.
"Well, offhe went to look, and estimated the damage to me, to be equal to a bushel and a half of corn.
"' O, no,' saidll, 'it can't be.' 'Yes,' said the shoemaker, 'and 1 will pay you every cent of damage.' 'No,' I replied, ' you shall pay nothing. My geese has been a great ^eal of trouble to you.'
"The shoemaker blushed, and went home. The next winter when we came to settle, the shoemaker determined to pay me for my corn. 'No,' said I, 'I shall take nothing.'
"After some talk we parted; but in a day or two 1 met him in the road, and we fell into conversation in the most friendly manner. But when I started on, he seemed loth to move, and I paused. For a moment both of us were silent. At last he said, 'I have something laboring on my mind.' 'Well, what is it!' 'Those geese. I killed three of your geese: and I shall never rest till you know
how I feel. I am sorry.' And the tears come in his eyes. 'O, well,' said 1, 'never mind; I suppose my geese were provoking.'
"I never took any thing of him tor it; hut whenever my cattle broke into his field, after this, he seemed glad—bdtausc he could show how patient he could be. 'v»
"Now, said the old soldier, conquer yourself, and you can conquer any thing. You can conquer with kindness where you can conquer in no other way."— Vermont Chronicle.
Anecdote Of Wesley.—Joseph Bradford, who was some years the travelling companion of John Wesley, for whom he would have sacrificed health, and even life, but to whom his will would never bend, except in meekness. "Joseph," said Mr. Wesley one day, "take the letters to the post." B. "I will take them after preaching, sir." W. "Take them now, Joseph." B. "I wish to hear you preach, sir; and there will be sufficient time for the post after service." W. "I insist upon you going now, Joseph." B. "I will not go at present." W. "You won't?" B. "No, sir." W. "Then you and I must part." B. "Very good, sir." The good men slept over. Both were early risers. At four o'clock, the next morning, the refractory helper was accosted with, "Joseph, have you considered what I said—that we must part?" B. "Yes, sir." W. "And must we part?" B. "Please yourself, sir." W. "Will you ask my pardon, JosephV B. "No, sir." W. "Then I will ask yours, Joseph." Poor Joseph was instantly melted; smitten as by the wand of Moses, when forth gushed the tears, like the water from the rock. He had a tender soul; as was soon observed, when the appeal was made to the heart instead of the head.—Wesley's Talkings.
A Fact.—The ready wit of a true-born Irishman, however humble his station, is exceeded only by his gallantry. A few days since, we observed a case in point. A sudden gust of wind took a parasol from the hands of its owner, and before we had a chance to recollect whether it would be etiquette to catch the parasol of a laoj to whom we had never been introduced, a lively Emeralder dropped his hod of bricks, caught the parachute in the midst of its eccentric gyrations, and presented it to the loser with a bow which reminded us of poor Power. "Faith, ma'am," said he, as he did so, " if you were as strong as you are handsome, it would'nt have got nway from you." "Which shall I thank you for first, the service or the compliment?" asked the lady, smiling. "Troth, ma'am," said Pat, again touching the place where once stood the brim of what once was a beaver, "that look of your own beautiful eyef! thanked me for both."—Bro. Jonathan. THE MISS
THE LADIES' GAKLAND.
One summer twilight, two girls, yet in the opening bloom of life, were resting on a rural seat by the borders of a southern river. The fingers of one rested between the closed leaves of a book, while the glow of a communicated thought from its pages dwelt on her abstracted countenance; and the other was pointing out the softening glories of the western sky. An artist might have lingered near that lovely spot. Above and around were spread the branches of an oak, from which the gray moss hung quietly in the hush of nature, sweeping the green sward below; a garden, rich with flowers, lay near, in front of the white walls of the family mansion; an amphitheatre of woods enclosed the planted fields, forming a green curve in the distance, stopping where the river, beautifully clear, came in with its graceful flow at the foot of the oak, one huge branch of which looked at its own glossy leaves and gray drapery, mirrored in the waters; a warmly tinted sky broke in bright flickerings through the leaves and tinged the stream, while the birds of day flittered to their nests with farewell strains. The only other sounds that interrupted the stillness were the splash of an oar and the notes of a distant horn.
"Look up, Isabel," said the speaking girl, "from that book to this glorious sunset . It is worth a thousand volumes."
Isabel shook her head gravely, her downcast eyes bent to the turf at her feet. At length she sighed, and said "Cousin Ellen, a solemn duty is pending over me, which makes me blind and deaf, even to these great
Vol VI.—No. 2.—August, 1842.
natural manifestations of Deity. I begin to feel, with a thrilling consciousness, that I have no right to linger over these scenes of my early joys. This book describes the want of the heathen, the poor heathen, who, when they look at nature, acknowledge no creating hand ; and if they possess a friend, dear to me as you are, Ellen, they know nothing of that world where such friendship shall be made brighter and unbroken through eternal years."
A soft and solemn depth was in the. tones of the speaker, and her full dark lids were wet with tears.
"And can you be willing to think for a moment," said Ellen, " of leaving your well defined fireside duties, your father, your mother, and little Rosalie, for an uncertain sphere among the heathen?"
"There is nothing uncertain in the Missionary's path," exclaimed the enthusiast, as she rose and clasped her hands with an onward gesture. "Every step he takes is heavenward, every sorrow he endures adds a gem to his immortal crown. Yes, dear garden, where my childhood's foot has trod, skies that have so long looked down upon me, birds that have sung me songs from year to year, father—mother—sister, farewell! A prophetic hope of good is upon me. I must g°
"With which of those handsome students are you about to partake the crown of martyrdom?" said Ellen, archiy, vet trying to suppress the smile on her lips.
"With Henry Clayborne, as his wedded wife," said Isabel, with dignity, scarcely a blush tinging the delicate hue of her cheek.
Ellen turned deadly pale—a rush as of
sudden winds pounded through her brain; but, recovering instantly, she stooped to caress a tame fawn which was browsing at her side. We will not penetrate the secrets of that young heart in loneliness, but too happy if it can surfer unseen. Isabel, absorbed in the contemplation of her own lofty purposes, did not observe the agitation of her cousin. These almost masculme purposes belonged to a young and seemingly fragile being; but it is wonderful how feminine enthusiasm bears up the frail and delicate, where seemingly stronger spirits fail. One who noted Isabel's slight figure, and looked into the soft depths of her eyes, and heard her gentle voice, would never have dreamed that she could voluntarily leave the home of her childhood for a strange land, and endure the hardships of an unhealthy climate, and the rugged duties and toils of a missionary's wife; this, however, was her determination, and. though Henry could not but admire her fortitude, and love her the more ardently for it, he doubted the propriety of such a course, and resolved not to take advantage of it.
"Better, dearest," said he, fondly, as he held her confiding hand, "is it for me to brave this wild path alone. I leave no mother who nursed my childhood to weep over my absence, no father to sigh for attentions he just begins to realize, no little sister whose opening rnind I ought to mould. Besides, I am a man, and can tread through dangers where your softer spirits would droop. I could not boar, love, to see this white brow, (and he pressed his lips to it with subdued homage,) burning beneath those sultry skies; I could not bear that these tender feet should fail in the wilderness; nor that your intellectual powers and affectionate heart should languish for sympathy. Be my bride, and with that claim upon you I shall depart braced for danger; but I must go alone. My dreams were terrific last night, and when I awoke, the glow of the missionary was lost in the tremor of the lover. You must remain, Isabel."
"You have been tempted, Henry," said the brave girl, caressing the hand she held. "God has withdrawn his countenance from you, or you would not talk thus. My parents will shortly feel a holy pride in their bold missionary girl, as friend after friend gathers round with religious sympathy. Beside, Henry, who should think of such ties when God calls? We must tread the waves at the voice of Jesus. His voice is near. I hear it now. Help, Father, help, or we perish," she exclaimed, and her face glowed like an angel's as she sank on her knees with clasped hands and prayerful eyes. "Shall we sink while he is by 1 Look on thy servants in this hour of need—the storm of temptation is
near; the billows rage—put forth thy hand and save."
Henry knelt beside her; he caught the soaring enthusiasm of his promised bride, his voice was not heard, but his lips mowed. In those moments of stillness a sublime selfdedication had been made. They both rose. "We go together," he whispered, and folded her to his heart.
A Mother's Tbials.
There were busy preparations for the bridal and voyage. Religion, love, and fiiendship, were active, and even strangers, as they heard the story of the self-immolation of the young and beautiful girl, sent in their testimonials of interest.
When friends entered and bestowed their parting kiss on her sister, Rosalie's pretty eyes filled with tears; but the gifts, the bustle, and novelty of preparation, soon dried them up again. A doubting cast of care was on her father's brow, but he bade God speed and bless his child. Ellen went mechanically through her duties. If she was sadder and paler than her wont, was it not for Isabel, her dear friend and cousin 1—And how fared it with the mother of the young exile? She busied herself, for she dared not be idle. She checked the struggling sigh, and wiped off the gathering tear, and her short ejaculatory prayer for patience and submission went up when none couluShear. Time sped, (how soon he flies with moments counted by parting friends!) and the bridal was to take place on the morrow, the departure the succeeding day. One by one of the family retired, the mother last, for a troubled and restless emotion made her wakeful. As she sat alone, the ticking of the timepiece seemed almost shrill to her excited ear. She recalled the childish joy of Isabel; when, raising to that old clock she clapped her hands at the revolving moon, whose round face looked upon her; there was the little chair, now Rosalie's, in which Isabel had sought, ambitiously, but in vain, to rest her dimpled feet on the floor. The room could almost tell her history. There was the framed and faded sampler, mocked by the changing fashions of the day; the more elaborate and tasteful decorations of the pencil; the piano forte, which had soothed and brightened her varying hours. Was it possible that those dear hands should touch its cords no more for years—perhaps forever? There was the work-box, the quiet but precious instrument over which a woman's heart pours out its home emotions in most unconscious freedom. She opened it with a trembling hand. How tasteful, how judicious! Character was visible in all its combinations; it spoke of economy, just arrangement and fancy, while little touches of the affections peeped forth from its many compartments; as she gazed on these things, tears gushed forth, and she heard not Isabel's light footstep, until her arms were thrown around her.
"I would that you had not witnessed these emotions," said her mother, almost coldly.. "You have chosen your path, and leave me to go down coldly to mine. Strangers are to occupy the heart which I have trained for eighteen years. But go. Console yourself as you will, midnight and tears are my portion."
Isabel clung to her mother, beseechingly, the lofty look of heroism almost driven from her brow. "Mother, your parents doted on you," she said, falteringly, "as you on me, yet you left their arms for an earthly love. How much greater is the duty which calls me from you! to give salvation to the lost, life to the dying. Oh, mother!" she continued, grasping her hand, with kindling eye and solemn gesture, "should I die in this enterprise, go boldly to the court of heaven and ask for your child. How proud will be your joy, to see the weak and humble girl you nurtured on your bosom, surrounded by the white-robed souls she has rescued through Christ's mercy; perchance leading their hymns in heaven as she has done on earth? Oh, mother! will they not greet you with a new song of joy, 'Welcome thou, whose child has opened unto us the book of life.'"
Her mother was awed—silenced. She took the dear enthusiast to her arms, stroked the falling hair from her glistering eyes, and pressing that soft cheek to her bosom, said, "I will resign thee, beloved, God's will be done."
The bridal was over, the few guests had gone, and silence settled on that little group, so soon to be severed by rolling seas. Isabel touched a few chords on her piano forte. At first her hand trembled, and Rosalie, who stood by, looking wistfully, wiped her sister's cheek with her little handkerchief. Gradually her fingers became firm, as her thoughts possessed themselves of her great mission, and her voice strong and deep as in her freest moments, while she sang to the tune of the 'Bride's Farewell,' the touching verses of a southern poetess.
THE MISSIONARY'S FAREWELL.
BY HISS MARY PALMER.
Farewell, Mother—Jesus calls me
Farewell, Father—Oh! how tender
Farewell, Sister—do not press me
Every heart was throbbing, every eye gushing with tears except that of the rapt singer, who sat with upward look like a bird preparing to wing its homeward way to warmer skies.
Rosalie had been cradled in her sister's arms for three years; that night was the first banishment, and the child had sobbed herself to sleep in the little crib assigned to her by her mother's bedside. Isabel sought the slumberer alone, for the first lime overpowered by regrets stronger than religious duty. She locked the door and trod lightly to the bedside. The little sleeper's face had resumed its tranquillity, but there was a deeper flush than usual on her rounded cheek, and as Isabel put softly aside the entangled hair on her pillow, she found it wet with tears. Long and earnest and loving was the gaze of the Missionary's bride, and as she looked, the chest of the child stirred with a prolonged and trembling sob, like the heaving of a billow when the gale has died away. Isabel disengaged one of the moist curls, severed it from its luxuriant companions, and placed it in her bosom, pressing her hand a moment on her own throbbing heart. The struggle passed away, and kneeling by her bedside, she whispered a prayer.
"God and Father of innocence," she said, "as I love the soul of this little child, so may I love the souls of the young benighted ones who are in the darkness of heathenism. Let me crush every care which would draw me away from my high calling."
She rose from her knees tearless in the midst of holy resolution, and bending over the little girl, kissed her hands and forehead, then looking upward, said agein, " God bless thee, young angel, and teach me to save kindred souls."
A low knock at the door, and a tender voice aroused her, and with a light tread she left the room.
The young bride at sea! Who has not seen her gush of parting sorrow dried slowly away as one for whom she has left all, stands near to comfort her! And she is comforted. The long, long day, listless to others, is full of thought to her, for he watches her steps —her smile—her sigh—his future and her's are one. She loves to see the sunlit waves —the evening stars, with him; and the storm loses its dreadfulnesa—for she is clasped in his arms amid its tumult. Young, confiding bride, be it ever thus even on the ocean of life! May thy trim ship tread well the waters—the sky of heaven be bright above thee—the winds waft thee kindly on—and he who holds the helm be true!
It was sweet to hear the hymns that rose from time to time, from the young missionaries in the holy joy of their souls. Isabel's voice kindled m rapt delight, until the roughest sailor paused and caught the religious glow.
There was little to try the fortitude of the Missionaries in the voyage, which was marked by the common incidents of sea-life, until they entered the Bay of Bengal. The day previous had been oppressive; there was a stagnation in the air as if its circulation had been suddenly suspended, and on the following morning the experienced commander reefed his sails, though the winds as yet but threatened in light gusts. A yellow haze loomed athwart the sun, which was strangely reflected in the gurgling waters; this aspect continued through the morning. Henry and Isabel observed a change in the countenances of the seamen, which at first they could scarcely think was authorized by the appearance of the heavens, for though unusual there was nothing terrific in the brazen hue of the clouds; but as they continued to gaze, there was a mystery in the stillness as if the foot of the Eternal might be treading on his wonderful watery creation. After a few hours a steady gale commenced, gigantic clouds rolled like troubled spirits through the air, and as they strode low likeseemingmonsters above and around, Isabel shrank nearer to her husband. At twilight the hurricane began—and the chafed ship, like a living thing, now sank as if in despair—now leaped over the swelling billows.
The Missionaries summoned the strength of their souls and awaited in silence God's will. It was a night of fearful anxiety; no one slept but Isabel, who, leaning on her husband, dreamed sweetly of her oaken seat beside the river, started only when the captain's voice spoke in the deep tones of the trumpet and overtopped the gale.
Suddenly a heavy sea struck the ship astern, and the waters rushed into the cabin. The shock was tremendous. Henry bore his dripping charge in his arms to the captain's cabin. She was quite insensible, her loosened hair fell upon her in wet masses, her lips were blue and her whole frame rigid. Henry
chafed her cold hands, wrung the damp from her hair, and gave her restoratives. She opened her eyes at length, spoke his name, and laid her head on his shoulder like a glad child.
"We will die together," whispered she, "and though we are God's favored instruments, he will carry on his good work by other hands."
And now the uproar on deck became dreadfully terrific; huge billows burst over the bow of the ship, writhing, and spouting, and glittering with phosphoric light, while the lightning darted and flashed over the ocean. The captain lost his assumed calmness, and his wild oaths sounded amid the storm like the shouts of a demon. Isabel shuddered at the impiety which could thus brave heaven, when seemingly so near its final judgment. At this period the vessel was inert and powerless, drifting like a disabled swan on the waters. Isabel sat, her hands clasped in Henry's, her eyes upturned, and her lips moving as if in prayer. At length the welcome sound of relief was heard, the vessel righted, and the waves rushed like relieved prisoners from the deck.
The morning rose in beauty, and soon the lines of green so dear to the landsman's eye opened on the view.
"Is your heart still strong, beloved V said Henry, as he pointed to the distant shore. "Are there no yearnings for friends and homer'
Isabel smiled and pressed the hand of her husband. "The Lord has not preserved me from a watery grave, that I should bear a faltering heart. I feel strong in his arm; let him lead me where he willeth, so I can aid his cause."
THE NEW HOME.
Isabel's emotions as she neared the shore of Hindostan were almost dream-like, and she asked herself, as objects of strange novelty met the eye, "What am I who have ventured thus? An atom amid the ocean; but the Lord careth even for the sparrow."
The new perfume among the flowers was among the first things that told her of her distance from home.
"I have to remember," she said to Henry, "that the same God scented these rich blossoms who gave the odor to my garden rose; let tne not forget that He too is the God of heathen, as well as christian souls."
They were touched with the picturesque beauty of the scene as they sailed up one of the mouths of the Ganges. Hindoo cottages in the form of hay-stacks, without chimnies or windows, clustered beneath luxurious trees, contrasted in their rudeness by the more elaborate pagodas.. Wide fields of rice and grass