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they roll, continually changing their appearance-now white as the plume of the plover, just wetted in the salt sea foam, now dark and threatening, as if pregnant with wrath to man, and again glowing in all the colors of the radiant bow, limned on the retreating cloud-and thus to see them pass, till all have gone except, perchance, a lingerer here and there, that seems loth to go from the cheering smile of the sun, while yet a single ray is left to gild and beautify earth, ocean, or sky-to gaze upon such a scene, I say, is, indeed, delightful; and will and must draw forth the admiration, if not the adoration, of every intelligent existence. Here is an exhaustless field for admiration-something that will never tire-always beautiful, always new.

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But I digress. After all my admiration of the thousand scenes of beauty that day presents, still can I turn with the sincerity of early love, and in the fulness of my heart exclaim, with one of our own sweet poets,

"Most beautiful, ecstatic, holy night!
How I do love thee!"

A veil seems drawn over the cares and sorrows of earth for a brief period, and, as the last dim light of day is fading from our view, and the shadows of night are deepening around us, we are reminded that even thus is passing the brief day of lifethus, soon will the shadows of the tomb shut from our vision the blessed light of the rejoicing sun.

Whispers, as of unseen spirits, are ever floating around us, at this calm and holy hour-and is it not soothing to think, that, perchance, the spirits of departed friends-those dear ones to whom our hearts so fondly clung-are hovering around us, like guardian angels, to shield us from danger, to whisper to us of their radiant home, and raise our aspirations to the God of all! We seem enveloped by an atmosphere of holiness-the very air is redolent with music, falling upon the spirit like a spell, and we seem, as it were, raised nearer heaven, and more lost to earth, than we can feel in the hurry and bustle of the day. We look up to the illimitable sky-studded with innumerable stars-and we feel our spirits yearning, ay, panting within us, to hold communion with those worlds of light. In every gentle spirit lives a tone that echoes back the sweet and simple language of the poet :

"If those bright orbs that gem the night
Be each a blissful dwelling sphere,
Where kindred spirits reunite,

Whom fate hath torn asunder here-
How sweet it were at once to die,
And leave this dreary world afar,

Meet soul and soul, and cleave the sky,
And soar away from star to star."

Let not us, who enjoy the clear light of revelation, judge those with too much severity, who, in olden time, bowed down in worship to the stars of heaven. Theirs was an idolatry that degraded not. And did not the quiet heaven, with its myriad eyes, look down, approvingly, on worship and on worshippers? Ó, heard they not a voice in every star, that spoke to them of Deity? Theirs was a worship that chastened, and purified, and exalted the soul; and, though they erred, who shall say that they erred fatally? Not we, who kneel on velvet cushions in the magnificent temples which our pride, and not our love to God, has piled; uttering the prayer which our hearts feel not, pouring forth burning words with our lips, while our spirits are lifeless within us. Their temple was the earth, curtained by sky and cloud; their altars were the flinty rock, cushioned alone by moss; their songs were echoed by mountain and hill, and the voice of many waters gave the solemn response. They worshipped in spirit and in truth, ignorantly, it is true, but not the less fervently. And who, I had almost asked, who can refrain from worshipping this burning record of the Universal Mind, this

'Beautiful language of the unseen God!'

Can a being, fashioned by an almighty hand, endowed with deathless energies, go forth alone at the still, calm, holy hour of midnight, and gaze on the mysterious beauty, the silent magnificence, of the starry worlds, nor feel a thrill, a struggle within him, as if his soul had caught a glance of the high land of its birth, and was panting to go home to the bosom of its Father and its God. Who can feel, as his eye is lifted, and the starlight rests on the uncovered brow, that he is to sink, in a little while, into a sleep that shall never know of waking? Surely, something must whisper to the soul of an immortality-an immortality the very consciousness of which lifts the proud spirit above its clog of clay, and places man upon a glorious heightan elevation which is, in truth, but a little lower than the angels.

Those blessed stars, those radiant characters of light, have been beautifully termed, by a popular author, the poetry of heaven.' Yes, they are, indeed, poetry, written by the finger of Jehovah upon the eternal sky, and he who cons it well may learn full many a high and holy lesson. He will feel the rust that hath gathered around his spirit from the chilling mists of earth, wearing away, and his soul resuming more and more of its original brightness, and thus preparing to join, ere long, the chorus of those eternal harmonies above,' those never-fading stars, which are

'For ever singing as they shine,
The hand that made us is divine.'

LUTHER'S PREACHING.

BY R. MONTGOMERY.

"So felt the young Reformer, when he rose
Within thy square, high-fated Wittemberg!
Where the grey walls of St. Augustine's fane
Crumble in low decrepitude and dust,

And from his pulpit, piled with simple planks,
Blew that loud trumpet of salvation's truth
Whose echoes yet the heart of empires wake
To fine pulsations, free as Luther loved!
Eye, cheek, and brow, with eloquence array'd
As though the spirit would incarnate be,
Or mind intense would burn its dazzling way
Through shading matter—like a second Paul,
Flaming with truth, the fearless herald pour'd
Himself in language o'er the listening hearts
Around him!-like a mental torrent ran

The rich discourse, and on that flood of mind
Nearer and nearer to the Lamb's white throne
The soul was wafted: Christ for man,
And man for Christ, and God for all he proved,
And hid himself behind the cross he raised."

THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

BY REV. JAMES EASTBURN.

WHEN toiling on this troubled sea
Of pain, and tears, and agony,
Though wildly roar the waves around,
With restless and repeated sound,
'Tis sweet, to think that on our eyes

A lovelier clime shall yet arise ;

That we shall wake from sorrow's dream, Beside a pure and living stream.

Yet we must suffer here below,
Unnumbered pangs of grief and wo;
Nor must the trembling heart repine,
But all unto its God resign;

In weakness and in pain made known,
His powerful mercy shall be shown,
Until the fight of faith be o'er,
And earth shall vex the soul no more.

FEMALE CHARACTER AND EDUCATION.

No. L

BY SAMUEL GALLOWAY, A.M.

THERE is no nobler characteristic of our age, and none which more strikingly proclaims the superiority of modern over ancient civilisation, than elevated female character. The brightest eras of antiquity are unadorned by that redeeming radiance which female excellence ever imparts. In the records of the past, the picture of man's achievements is sketched in all the rich and varied coloring of fancy and of fact; whilst the portrait of woman's deeds is so drawn as to hide from view those nobler features which are her appropriate ornament, and mark her high original. We contemplate the grandeur of man's enterprise in those magnificent monuments of skill and giant energy which have stood, like the rock-bound coast, unmoved by the waves which have buried all else in oblivion. We bow before the loftiness of his intellect, as we are warmed and invigorated by the power of those thoughts which yet remain as a central fire in the literature of the world, and as we feel the tones of that commanding eloquence which has thrilled the passion and intellect of successive ages. Amid all the memorials which recall man's glory, in the brightest periods of antiquity, there exists scarcely one which illustrates the dignity, purity, and moral power of the female. Her proudest eulogy, as given by Thucydides, is, "That the best of women is she of whom the least can be said, either of good or harm." Her most cherished qualities were such as were personified by Venus, the adored patron of all licentiousness, and yet the chosen deity of the refined and classic Greek. Alas! that depravity which changed the glory of the incorruptible God into an image made like unto corruptible man, dragged woman-heaven's brightest emblem-from her high pre-eminence, and crushed, with a tyranny dark as the mantle of midnight, those nobler attributes which link her to angelic intelligences. But thanks to the genius of Christianity, the same power which "spoiled principalities, and made a show of them openly," displayed, as one of the loftiest trophies of its conquests, woman, rescued from the degradation of centuries. She rose a participant in the risen glories of her Lord, with the spirit of that redemption in her heart, and its tones upon her tongue, and walked abroad invested with that moral grandeur which burst upon

the

world, when the "Sun of righteousness arose with healing in his wings." It might be interesting to compare the past and present condition of the female, and exhibit the happy reformation which has been effected in her character and prospects by the spirit and power of Christianity; but our object, on the present occasion, is to vindicate her neglected interests by some remarks on the importance and character of female education.

The first consideration which we would present upon the importance of her education is, that to the female is confided the direction and development of the infant mind. There can be no higher nor more solemn office than to preside over the operations of immortal powers. Words, thoughts, and actions, exhibited before the opening heart and intellect, are stamped with the seal of immortality.

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"A pebble on the streamlet scant,

Has turned the course of many a river;

A dew-drop on the baby plant

Has warped the giant oak for ever.,

Upon the mother devolves the responsibility of giving those impressions which shall warm every vein, beat in every pulse, and remain imperishable as the elements of the soul. She watches the first beatings of the young heart, and "enshrines her own image so deeply in its sanctuary," that its striking features shall survive the dissolution of the body. She occupies a station which no other teacher can possess. She stands at the fountain head, observes the bubblings of the little rivulet, and can mark the channel in which its waters may peacefully flow: other teachers have to stem the angry and chafed torrent, as it rolls impetuously on. Her authority is supreme, and her words fall as the voice of an oracle: the sway of others is disputed, and their motives questioned. She takes the canvass fresh from nature's hand, and writes upon its surface the sentiments and passions of her own bosom; others take it so overspread with the pencillings of other artists, that it cannot receive an original impression. How few acknowledge a mother's power! When the "oak tree is felled, the whole forest echoes with it," but a thousand acorns are planted, silently, by some unnoticed breeze. The philosopher enriches the world by his labor, and his fame is heralded by every tongue: the mother lays the foundations, and rears the pillars of her country's greatness, and her deeds are unnoticed and unknown. The history of the world abounds with examples of her commanding influence. Cornelia, as a lone star, stands out, amid the darkness and degeneracy of Roman matrons, illustrating a mother's power. The expression, "These are my jewels," displays her interest in the destiny of As the mother of the Gracchi, she shines upon the

her sons.

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