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From the* Litermy World*
THE SPIRIT SACRIFICE,
A CHIPPEWAY LEGEND.
BY CIIARI.EB unman.
It was Stidsummer, —and there was a
feniblc plague in the wilderness. Many
a Chippeway village, on the borders of
Lake Superior had been depopulated.—
The ohlv band of the great Noilhern na
tion which had thus far escaped, was the
one whose hunting grounds lay on the
Northern shore of the St. Mary’s Iliver.
Their principal village stood upon a gen
tle promontory overlooking the great Lake,
immediately at the head of the Sault or
Falls, and at this village the chiefs and
warriors of the tribe were assembled in
council. Incantations of every possible
description had for many days been per
formed, and yet nightly tidings were re
ceived, showing that the fatal disease was
sweeping over the land, like the fires of
Autumn over the prairies. The signs in
the sky, as well as these tidings, convinc
ed the poor Indians that ‘heir days were
numbered. It was now the last night of
their Council, and they were in despair.—
They knew that the plague had been sent
upon the earth by the Great Sprit, as a pun
ishment for some crime, and they also knew
that there was but one thing that could
possibly appease his anger. And what
was this'* The sacrifice of the most beau
tiful girl of her tribe. And such was the
decree, that she should enter her canoe,
and throwing away her paddle, cast her
self upon the waters, just above the Sault.
Morning dawned, and loud and dismal
beyond compare, was the wail of sorrow
which broke upon the silent air. Another
Council was held, and the victim for the
sacrifice was selected. She was ar, only
child, and her mother was a widow, feeble
and infirm. They told the maiden of her
fate, and she uttered not a repining word.
The girls and women of the village flocked
around their long-loved companion, and
decked her hair and her neck with all the
brightest wampum and the most beautiful
feathers and shells that could be found in
all the tribe. The time appointed for the
sacrifice was the sunset hour; and as the
day was rapidly waning, the gloom which
pervaded the entire village gradually in
creased, and it even seemed as if a mur
muring tone mingled with the roar of the
mighty waterfall. The day had been one
of uncommon splendor, and as the sue. de
scended to the horizon, a retinue of gor
geous clouds gathered around him, and the
gieat Lake, whose waters receded to the
sky, was covered with a deeper blue than
had ever before been seen.
All things were now ready, and the In
dian maiden was ready for the sacrifice.—
In silence was she conducted to her canoe,
and loud was the wail of lamentation. It
died away ; and now, to the astonishment
of all the people, a strange echo came from
over the waters. What could it mean'!
viuutiias siieucc ensued, ana even the
old men listened with fear. And now a
louder and a clearer continuation of the
same echo breaks upon the air. A speck
is seen upon the waters. The sun has dis
appeared, and a small canoe is seen rapid
ly approaching, as if from the very spot
where the orb touched the waters. The
song increases; and as the fairy-like ca
noe sweeps mysteriously over the watery
waste, it is now seen to contain a beautiful
being, resembling a girl, clothed in a snow
white robe. She is in a standing attitude,
her arms are folded, and her eyes are fixed
upon the heavens. Her soul is absorbed
in a song, of which this is the burden :
“ I come from the Spirit land,
To appease the Great Spirit,
To stay the plague,
Ami to save the life of the beautiful Cliippcway.”
Onward she came, and her pathway lay
directly towards the mighty rapids. With
titter astonishment did the Indians look
upon this unheard-of spectacle, and while
they looked, they saw the canoe and its
spirit voyager pass directly into the foam,
where it was lost to them forever.
And so did the poor Indians escape the
plague. The St. Mary is a beautiful riv
er : and during the summer time, its shores
are always lined with lilies, large, and of
a marvellous whiteness; and it is a com
mon belief among the Chippeways, that
they owe their origin to the mysterious
spirit from whose mutilated body they
sprang. And so endelli the Legend of the
Spirit Sacrifice.
THE FORSAKEN.
A BUMMER NIGHT’S TALE IN VENICE.
“ As those wo love decay, we die in part,
String utter sir ngis sever'd from tho heart.”
I felt that the last, the only tie that
hound me to life, would soon be severed, as
I gazed on the hectic cheek and fragile
form of my dying cousin, Mary Esdale.
She had been, she was still, though the
wife of another, the object of my devoted,
unchanging love. I had loved her in boy
hood, ere the heart comprehended the true
nature of the feeling by which it was agi
tated—loved her amid the fiery trials of
youth; her image had preserved me in a
thousand dangers, carried me through
temptations, supported me in the hour of
sorrow, and cheered me on the couch of
sickness; she had been my guardian spirit,
my warmest friend, my kindest—best ad
viser; but she had never shared the pas
sion by which my whole soul was consum
ed—she was ignorant of the nature of the
affection I cherished for her, and treated
me as a fondly-loved brother. Her heart
was given to a college companion of her
brother. I saw (the eyes of love are
keen) the hopelessness of my affection,
and smothered the emotions 1 experienced
in my own breast. Poor Mary! thou
didst never guess the pain thou wert in
flicting—didst never suspect the warmth
with which thy very shadow was wor
shipped by the tall, ungainly boy—the
wild untractable youth—the dark, sorrow
ful and morose being thy cousin was con
sidered, by those who never dreamed of the
secret that had worked this transforma
tion in his own frank and joyous nature.
We were in Venice Mary had been ta
ken thither from her native land, in the
hope that change of scene would restore
her fading health. Vain hope! What
i can bind the broken spirit- -heal the crush
ed heart—minister to a soul diseased ? We
had brought her from her home to die!
Each day, as it drew to its close, left Ma
ry weaker than the preceding one; her
bodily strength was rapidly passing away,
whilst the bright flush upon her thin cheek
grew blighter, and her large blue eyes
shone with almost unearthly lustre.
It was evening. Venice, with her sev
enty islets, three hundred bridges, noble
domes, and marble palaces, lay reposing in
the gorgeous splendor of an Italian sunset.
The blue waters of the Adriatic were cov
ered with boats; numerous vessels were
floating on its waves, from the humble
bark of the peasant fisherman, to the rich
ly decorated gondola of the Venetian no
bleman, the latter gliding along with noise
less rapidity ; whilst the reflection of the
bright lights which the boats always car
ry at Ihcir prow, as soon as evening advan
ces, appeared in the waters beneath like
so many glittering stars. Mary was in
j the large balcony of our apartment in the
Albergo Favretti. The sea lay out before
! us; its sweet, fresh breeze was sufficient to
j fan, without chilling, our beloved charge.
| On one side stood the grand ducal palace,
on the other II Ponte die Sospire (the
j Bridge of Sighs,) and a little to the left St.
i Mark’s Tower, from which Gahleo con
templated the starry Heavens: but why
I does my pen linger thus on the scene
! around 1 Is it that my soul shrinks from
j recalling the final scene in the life of one
I or Heaven’s purest, as well as fairest crea
tures ? Yes, though years have past over
this seared heart and furrowed brow, 1
still feel the past as vividly as ever.
Though sufficient time has fled to render
the hair, once dark and glossy, thin and
white—the form once strong and manly,
bowed and decrepid—the mind once ener
getic, enfeebled and worn out—still the re
collection of that evening is as fresh in my
memory as if it were but a day old. The
anguish, the pain, the desolation of that
hour, is as bitterly, as keenly felt, as it
was that night in Venice. Mary had that
day appeared belter than she had been for
some weeks previously; her voice seemed
stronger, her step firmer, and her spirit
lighter. Henry vainly hoped that she
would yet recover —that we should again
bear her to England ; but I, alas, saw full
well the evanescent nature of the change.
To me it seemed but the last effort of expi
ring nature. Reclining on alow couch, she
gazed with greater animation than usual
on the splendid scene below. Henry sat
on one side, whilst I lay down on the bal
cony at her leet. Our attention rao at
tracted by a large gondola, which was ra
pidly approaching. The sound of a gui
tar came slowly across the water; but the
tented canopy, or covered cabin, in the cen
tre, effectual)” concealed the performer from
our gaze. 1 know not why it was that
our attention was so engaged by this par
ticular gondola, but a sudden feeling of
coldness appeared to creep over my whole
frame, as it glided near us. Were 1 inclin
to be superstitious, I might imagine that
my spirit experienced a fore-knowledge of
the blow which was about to crush it—
that the coming cloud then cast its shadow
on my soul. The Adriatic swarmed with
gondolas—almost every boat contained a
musician ; then why were we all so intent
upon this particular one I why single it
out to gaze upon its motions from among
the hundreds around it I
As the boat drew near, I observed that
Mary shuddered, as if the “evening air had
chilled her. I raised my eyes anxiously to
her face, and in reply to my glance, she
said ; “The black awning of that gondola
has, to my mind, a funeral appearance;
one could almost fancy it the bearer of a
death-warrant to some poor captive in yon
der state prison.” At this instant the boat
lay quite beneath the balcony', and a deep
manly voice was heard singing the beauti
ful and impassioned verses of Tasso. Hen
ry convulsively grasped my arm—we had
both at the same instant recognized the
voice of Villiers. A woman's voice had
now joined in the refrain ;it was Claudine's
I hastily turned towards Mary, trusting
that her sense of hearing had not been
equally acute, when I perceived that her
head was resting upon her brother's. She
had recognized the well known tones!—
The shadow of death lay upon her brow ;
all trace of color had faded from her cheeks ;
the long dark fringe of her closed eyelids
rendering the unatural pallor of her face
more apparent. She remained for a few
brief secoeds inanimate, when unclosing
her beautiful eyes, she fixed them on her
brother's face, and convulsively grasping
his hand, murmured, “I die forgiving
him.”
She sank back lifeless; her pure spirit
had winged its way to another and a bet
ter world.
Fifty years ago, Mrs. Washington
knit stockings for the general; now there
are not fifty ladies in the city who can play
that part, and hundreds know not how the
apple'gets into the heart of the dumpling.
“ Know thyself,” was the re
mark of a gentleman to his son, in the
course of a parental lecture.
“ Thank you, my list of acquaintances
is sufficiently large already,” 6aid the as
piring youth.
“ And the acquisition would be equally
profitless,” retorted the father.
io©eia l o ß® w &iaai
VIEW OF THE BOSTON CUSTOM-HOUSE.
We have been permitted to copy the above
beautiful view of the Boston Custom
House, with the accompanying letter
press, from Wheler's Southern Monthly
Magazine , for July.
i
This edifice is one of the most beautiful
and durable architectural ornaments of our
country. It is situated on India (nearly op-.
posite State) street, Boston—a location se
lected for its convenience rather than its
commanding view.
Tne foundation was commenced in 1837.
Three thousand piles were first driven, the j
whole covering an area of about 14,000
feet. A granite flooring was then laid down
upon these, eighteen inches thick, and ce
mented in such a manner as to be impervi
ous to water. On the east, south and west
sides is a shield wall.
If 818 YBAWISILim.
CONBTAKTINOPL*.
BY 0. L. niTSON.
No city of the East which now exists
has undergone so many vicissitudes of for
tune as has Constantinople. It has been
besieged four-and-lwenty times and devas
tated by fire and pestilence as many more.
From the East and the West, every nation
when it began to exult in its strength, has
turned its longing eyes and its arms to
wards this “fair city of the sea.’’ The
Greeks and Persians, Bulgarians and Arabs,
Romans and Ottomen, besides many others,
have pitched their hostile tents about her
and girded her with men at arms ; and six
,j-ichicj nerselt up to the sway
of foreigners. Since 1543 the crescent in a
crimson field has waved above her battle
ments, and the golden barges of the sultans
have swept fearlessly over the glassy wa
ters in which she seems so dreamily to
float.
The splendid appearance of Constantino
ple, from Scutari, Pera, the Marmora, and
more particulary from the Bosphorus as
you approach from the Black Sea, has been
so often so graphically described that I will
not myself attempt it; yet I cannot help
but confess that the power of that coup d'ail,
when one winds along those neighboring
banks, or floats rapidly down with the
swift current from the Euxine, is thrilling
in the extreme, and cannot be seen with
out that cale-frio of the soul whose silent
happy quiverings are more eloquent than
words. From the last position, the city
bursts upon the sight just at a sufficient dis
tance to lend all the enchantment approved
space can give to one of the most pictur
esque portions of the globe, seeming a bright
crystal vision hanging along the distant
horizon, which must recede as you advance,
and which can never be reached.
It is not that Constantinople stands on an
elevated point of land surrounded by the
smoothest of waters which reflect her gor
geous seraglio, gardens, mosques and mina
rets,—it is not that she is beautiful in her
self, or has on her opposing shores, fair vil
lages and loved classic spots, sacred from
their antiquity, hallowed by those geniuses
who have clothed them anew for our mem
ories—but all of these combined ; and when
the mellow morning or evening light rests
on her marble domes, her gilded spires, her
green trees and fountains, and in theglovv
ing and gently undulating bosom of the
Marmora and the Golden Horn, it so blends
and harmonizes the whole, that when once
beheld it becomes, like the scenery of cara
Genoa, as an inspiration of the soul, and
with it will live forever.
If New York city stood on a lofty range
of land rising gradually from the Battery,
and had her highest point crowned with
a hundred domes besides the church tow
ers which now adorn her—if the loved Ho
boken was as elevated as memorable Brook
lyn, it would, on approaching her from the
harbor, remind one forcibly of Constantino
ple ; for the East River would answer for
the Golden Horn, and the Hudson, for the
Marmora, or the entrance to it, which ap
pears hut narrow when first seen from the
Bosphorus.
When the poet, the painter, the enthusi
astic lover of the beautiful, descending from
the Black Sea, first catches a glimpse of this
time-extolled panorama, which, indepen
dent of its intrinsic charms has had an
imperishable halo thrown around it by some
of the most gifted pens of our own age, let
him land at a lovely spot on the left hank
where a curious structure, reminding one of
The cellar is much cut up by thick walls
1 and arches, required to support the immense
1 weight of the internal stone work. The
| first story open to the light of the day is
i the basement. In addition to the thick
! wall partitions separating the rooms, two
1 granite columns, four feet in diameter, and
eight, t\vo feet in diameter, are distributed
. through the rooms as supporters. Besides
the two rooms for the night inspectors,
there is a room for the engine used to pro
-1 pel the fans by which the heated air is
forced up. The remainder of the rooms
j are for storage.
The main feature of the second story is
the grand entrance vestibule, or rotunda,
fifty-eight by sixty feet, formed by twelve
granite columns, four feet in diameter.—
from the north and south sides rise two
grand stair-cases, fifteen feet wide at the
a pagoda, rises near the water's edge, and
here in its wooded walks let him spend his
days enjoying a vision of beauty which it
is painful to destroy. But if like the young
girl who also wished to see the follies of
life, her mother had seen and was advising
her to avoid, he chooses to be disenchanted,
he can proceed on to the city itself, and wa
ding through the narrow and filthy streets,
can be successful without an effort, for the
gardens of the Seraglio which occupy her
most attractive and alluring site, he will
not be allowed to inhabit though he may
ardently desire it. Should the magnifi
cence of the mosques, the beauties of the
fountains, the brightness of the women's
eyes, and the outlines of their fine features
perfectly well seen through their very thin
i muslin veils or bandages, surpass his ex
-1 pectations and enthrall him for a moment,
the muddy alleys, the new dwellings, the
snarling dogs, will act as a counter charm,
’ and fortunately, perhaps alley an enthu
siasm which might make a too sensitive
man as seemed the learned and eloquent
Paul.— Boston Evening Gazette.
•Dl3 ui Da aIT IE a-
For Richards’ Weekly Gazette.
ROSE HILL CEMETERY.
Macon, Ga., June 20th, 1849.
Dear Richards: Have you ever wander
ed among the tombs in “Rose Hill Ceme
tery” ? Have you ever reclined beneath
the thick foliage of its forest trees, and lis
tened to the rushing waters of the turbid
Ocmulgec"? Have you ever gathered the
flower* which grow in wild luxuriance on
its gentle hills and in its shady dells ?
Have you ever strayed along its tortuous
paths, meditating on the sad emblems of
departed joys 1 If you have not, then you
have yet to visit one of the most beautiful
spots in beautiful Georgia. But come
with me this pleasant evening, and with
minds attuned to serious reflections, let us
goto this “field of God, sown with the
seeds of the resurrection.” As we enter
its sombre gateway, and walk along the
broad avenue to the left, we see the Odd
Fellows’ enclosure, where rest their broken
links of friendship. Rich evergreens rise
from the enamelled turf, and throw their
gentle shadows athwart the sculptured
marble. To the light there stands a sim
ple block of the purest white : its emblem,
a severed bud, tells us of one “ who came,
and was not.” Further on, through the
mossy covering of time, we may read of
one, radiant in beauty—blushing with the
joys of life—who looked for long years of
happiness, but who was, in the twinkling
of an eye, clasped in the embrace of death.
Her’s was a melancholy end. Her form
was not wasted by disease—nor the rich
tints that mantled her cheek, paled by sick
ness. The flames, in lambent streams,
consumed the beauteous casket, and her
spirit went up to the God of love. A little
to the right, on a time-worn stone, you
may read the whole history, life—its be
ginning and its end—the “Preface” and
the “ Finis,” with the sad tale of three
score and ten, all laid out before you, as
follows ;
“ Natus in Hibernia —mortuus cst, in Maconia,
Et hie jacet.”
“ Earth's highest station ends in ‘ Here he lies,’
And ‘ Dust to Dust,’ concludes her noblest song.”
Young.
But here are new-made graves. The
earth is yet fresh with the tears of sorrow,
and those who lie so still and cold beneath,
ere long since, like us, trod this region of
mortality, and drank the golden day.—
With them the bitterness of death is past; 1
they have tasted what that is which so
bottom, and seven at the top, terminating
in smaller vestibulesabove. On the north
east side of the grand vestibule are the as
sistant treasurer's apartments. On this
floor are apartments for other officials.
In the third story is a great business
room, s.xty-two by fifty-eight feet, lighted
from the dome principally. The dome is
supported by tweve marble fluted columns,
twenty-nine and a half feet high. Above
them rises the dome thirty-two feet more.
The lower circuinfrence of the dome is one
hundree and ninety-five feet—at the eye
of the dome, fifty-six and a half feet. The
eye is furnished with abeautifully variaga
ted stained glass, which lights one of the
most splendid halls, of the Corinthian ord
er, in the United States.
The cost of this edifice was about one
million of dollars. The material is the
much perplexes the human thought, of
which we all know so little —of which we
all must know so much. These new-made
graves are eloquent with admonition.
But let us walk along. None are too
young to die. These five short graves, un
urned, have each their voice of warning to
the young. That tall monument marks
the resting-place of a herald of the Cross,
the servant of the Most High, the messen
ger of love, who, having fought a good
fight, and finished his work, went home to
his reward. When the light of eternity
shall dim the paler light of this world, he
will present himself before the Judge of
all the earth, with the white-robed souls of
those he led to the fountain of redemption.
But come with me to yonder shady nook,
ami sit down beneath the wide-spreading
branches of that old oak. Life and death
are all around us. Life sows, and when
the grain is full, Death puts in his sickle
and gathers an abundant harvest. It can
not be that the All-wise Creator made man
a living soul, only as a link in the chain
of animated existence. That soul, burn
ing with immortal lava, often soars away
from earth to its high birth-place. There
is something more for us, than to sleep the
sleep of an eternity in the cold grave. Do
you remember what quaint Sir Thomas
Browne says, in his “Religio Medici:’"—
“ When I take a full view and circle of
myself, without this reasonable moderator
and equal piece of justice, death, I do con
ceive myself the miserablest person ex
tant ; were there not another life that I
hope for, all the vanities of this world
should not entreat a moment’s breath from
me ; could the devil work my belief to im
agine I could never die, I would not out
live the very thought.”
Do you see that mound of fresh earth 1
There the fading sun of yesterday threw
its mellow light upon an open grave—a
band of weeping mourners stood around,
their hearts big with the agony of sudden
sorrow; they were burying a young mo
ther.* The stricken husband, paralyzed
with the intensity of his grief, saw the ob
ject of his tenderest affection given to the
grave. The man of God prayed fervent
ly, and Nature echoed a response. His
thrilling words brought sympathizing tears
irom the deep fountain of human affection.
How solemnly sounded the words of that
incomparable prayer in the burial service :
“Man that is born of a woman hath but
a short time to live, and is full of misery!
He cometh up and is cut down like a flow
er; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and nev
er continueth in one state.
“ In the midst of life we are in death :
of whom may we seek for succor, but of
thee, 0 Lord! who for our sins art justly
displeased.
“ Yet, O Lord God, most holy ! O Lord,
most mighty! O, holy and most merciful
Saviour! deliver us not into the bitter pains
of eternal death.”
Every soul was stilled—every sound
hushed—and the spirit was borne away
on the incense of prayer, to the bright
world above.
One year ago, a bridal party, full of hap
piness, with hearts throbbing with antici
pated delight, started on a tour to the
North. A few days after their arrival in
one of the Northern Cities, while the cup
of pleasure was glowing for them, death
came and laid low the father of the bride.*
The message of sorrow was sent after
them, and the cup of pleasure was embit- ‘
tered. The bride returned to our midst,
i
clad in the sable garb of wo. Two weeks
since, in the same mansion, there was ano
*Sar*b, wife of Win. H. Bray, Esq., aged 21
Quincy graniie, hammered. The style of
architecture is the Grecian Doric. The
length of the building is one hundred and
forty-five feet; its depths, omitting porti
cos, seventy five; its height, ninety-five.
Externally, thirty-two fluted columns are
presented—each five feet four inches in di
ameter, and thirty-two feet high. Os these,
sixteen are three-quarter columns. The
porticos are ten feet deep by sixty-six in
width, each with six columns. The entab
latures are ornamented with triglyh friezes
and multule cornices. The porticos are
reached by a flight of eleven stone steps.
Throughout the whole building the floor
ing is of stone. The entire roof is tiled.
In most of the rooms the ceiling is arched.
About the whole building there is very lit
-1 tie combustible material.
Amrai B. Young was the builder.
ther marriage festival, and the bridal party
left home with the same glowing hearts as
the former. The fount from which they
aie now quaffing the sweet waters of joy,
must be turned to gall. The first bride is
the young mother they yesterday laid in
the tomb, and by her death, desolation will
overwhelm the heart of the second. The
death of one so young, so lovely, and so
cherished—of one around whose path were
gathered the bright-hued flowers of hope—
whose cheek was smiling with health, and
whose eye was lit up with the light of her
soul, is one of those mysterious messages
from God that will be heard. The feeble
infant received no kiss of maternal affec
tion. Life and death met together, and
each one set its seal. That surely is an
awful blow, which sunders the tics of mor
tal love How vain it is for friends to
gather around and attempt to stay the sor
rowing tears. They will gush forth, when
the loved and the beautiful are snatched
from our grasp—when the sweet tone and
cheering smile fade away from the earth
“like a dream of the night.” That be
reaved and heart-broken husband, in the
luxury of his wo, may call to mind the
language of Beattie:
“ No more thy soothing voice my anguish cheers;
Thy placid eyes with smiles no longer glow,
My hopes to cheri-h. and allay my fears ;
’Tis meet that I should mourn: flow forth afresh
my tears.”
But let him remember, “Faith builds a
bridge across the gulf of Death.” C.
LEPROSY IN AFRICA.
The awful disease of leprosy still exists
in Afi.ca. Whether it be the same lepro
sy as that mentioned in the Bible, I do not
know; but it is regarded as perfectly incu
rable, and so infectious that no one dares
to come near the leper. In the south of
Africa there is a large lazar-house for lep
ers. It is an immense space, enclosed by
a very high wall, and containing fields
which the lepers cultivate. There is only
one entrance, which is strictly guarded.
When any one is found with the marks of
leprosy upon him, he is brought to this
gate and obliged to enter in, never to re
turn. No one who enters in by that aw
ful gate is ever allowed to come out again.
Within this abode of misery there are mul
titudes of lepers in all stagesof the disease.
Dr. llelbeck, a missonary of the church of
England, from the top of a neighboring
hill, saw them at work. He noticed two
jiarticularly, sowing peas in the field.
The one had no hand; the other had no
feet —those members being wasted away
by the disease. The one who wanted the
hands was carrying the other who wanted
the feet upon his back; and he, again,
carried in his hands the bag of seed, and
dropped a pea every now and then, which
the other pressed into the ground with his
foot, and so they managed the work of one
man between the two. Ah ! how little we
know of the misery of this world. Such
is the prison house of disease. But you
will ask, who cares for the souls of the
hapless inmates ? Who will venture to
enter there 1 Who will forsake father
and mother, houses and land, to carry the
message of a Saviour to these poor lepers ! 1
Two Moravian Missionaries, impelled by ;
a divine love for souls, have chosen this
lazar-house as their field of labor. They
entered there never to come out again.— 1
And, I am told, as soon as they die, other I
Moravians are quite ready to fill their place, j
Ah! my dear friends, may we not blush’
and be ashamed before God, that we re- 1
deemed with the same blood, ami ta|
by the same spirit, should yet be so uI
these men in vehement, heart-consul
love to Jesus and the souls of men. J
Cheyne.
BEAUTY,
No woman can be handsome by J
force of feature alone, any more than |
can be witty only by the help of sp e J
Nor is she capable of being beautiful J
is not incapable of being false. It is, J
thinks, a low and degrading idea of |
sex, which was created to refine the J
and soften the cares of humanity, bvl
most agreeable participation to eonsidertn
merely objects of sight. She who takes I
care to add to the natural graces of her J
son any excelling qualities,may be alloj
still to amuse as a picture,but not to triun
as a beauty. Adam, in relating to the;
gel the impressions he felt upon seeing Ki
at her first creation, docs not represent h
as a Grecian Venus, by her shape or f(
tures, but by the lustre of her mind, whi
shone in them and gave them the power
charming. — Steele.
J. G. WHITTIER.
Whittier gave early indications of potl
powers. Several of his juvenile poefl
having forind their way into the newsp*
pers and magazines of the day, attract!*
the attention of some literary gentlem*
who appreciated the merit of the prodol
tions, and resolved to make their author I
visit, to offer their assistance in introj
cing the “Quaker poet” to literary notorjß
ety.
Accordingly they took a conveyatJ
that soon set them down in the picturesqui
town of Weare, N. H., the residence of tin
young poet. With some difficulty the;
found the dwelling of Whittier, and wen
ushered into the best room of the house b;
the mother, to whom they made know
their desire to see her son.
All this time young Whittier was worl
ing away at the certainly rather unpoetic;
business of cleaning out the hog-sly. H
plied his shovel with right good will, total
ly unconscious of the honor that awaite
him.
Judge of his astonishment, when Lizz;
; his sister, came running from the house
-and informed him “ that it was full o
j very great people, who were waiting t
1 see him.”
“What shall l do 1” cried the youn
poet, in agony. Run, Lizzy, and get mi
boots, while 1 wash me in the brook.”
The bools were brought, but the bare
wet feet of Whittier refused to enter. A:
length, after a deal of tugging, one war
j drawn on, but oh, horrors! the other
i would not go on, neither would the fits
i one come off.
; “ A pretty looking spectacle I shall pre
sent for their inspection,” murmured Whit
! tier, as with one boot in his hand and the
other on his foot, he entered the house.
But in a short time, the flattering wordsol
| Iris visitors made him quite forget the awk
j wardness of his attire. —Madison Visitor.
Reverence your superiors. —Every boilvl
admits the propriety of this advice, k.l
there is one little dfficulty in its practicaH
observance—very few people can find theam
1 “ superiors,” though it is ten to one theyß
j can find yours without the least trouble B
I
Suntr.in .Sunc XXBSI
THE IMPORTANT SEARCH.
i “ Your heart shall live, that seek God.”—Pslaia. 1
lziz. 32.
The Psalm before us was doubtless pen-J
i ned by David in a season of sore affliction.
Wc have in it a statement of his trying
case, and the assurance he felt that God
would hear and deliver him. The words
selected as the subject of our meditation,
hold out to us abundant encouragement to
wait upon God and keep his way. Observe
What is required oj us in a icay of duty.
To seek God. This implies that we have
lost him ; by sin we have lost his pres
j ence, his likeness, his friendship, and bis
favor. Wc cannot be happy until we have
found him.
Its object. “God.” It is the mark of a
wicked man, that he does not inquire after
God, nor feel desirous of seeking him ; but
it is the evidence of a Christian, that be
seeks God. This is the noblest pursuit in
which we can possibly engage. We must
; seek an experimental knowledge of him, a
j firmer reliance on him, nearer communion
j with him, and greater devotedness to him;
his favor, his pardon, his grace, and his
’ guidance. Are not these worth possessing I
Its scenes. Where is he to be sought T
He has not left us in ignorance respecting
! this matter. We must seek him in Chris!
as the way; with the word as our rule,.the■
Spirit as our guide, and glory as our end.
He is not far from us in nature, and in
providence, but in the word he is very
near unto us. Seek him in the oracles of;
truth ; here he is set forth clearly and ful
ly. Seek him in his house; here he is
exhibited in all the grandueur of his maj
esty, the depth of his condescension, the
loviltness of his character, the plenitude of
his grace, and the nature of his require
ments. Seek him.at the m,er.cy-seat; here
he sits to commune with you ; the Spirit is
ready to help your infirmities, and Jesus
bids you welcome. Seek him at all times,
you can never come out of season.
Its manner. The coldness of formality
should never he united with the warmth
of devotion. The fire in the temple, of our.
hearts must never go out; but there wHI’
be great danger of its burning very dimly
unless we stir it up in the cultivation of a
spiritual and devotional frame. God miifJ
be sought with our whole heart; all its
powers and passions must be employ'd};
we must seek him simply in his own way.
and dependently, on his own strength