WOMAN AND RELIGION.

BY MRS. ANNIE L. ROUS.

THE HE adaptation of the Christian religion to mankind is acknowledged by all those who have studied the wants of human nature; but more particularly does it seem congenial to the female character.

than intellectual, stretching out from home like the rays of a beautiful star-entering the abodes of poverty and want, and shedding abroad the sacred influences of hope and religion.

GOING NUTTING.

BY LUELLA CLARK.

THE sunshine falls softly over the old beech

She may be beautiful as a poet's dream; her mind may sparkle with the rich gems of thought; she may possess a long list of accomplishments, fitting her for the transient brilliancy of the draw ing-room, or the easy gentility of the parlor; but if her heart be not cultivated she is destitute of the highest charm of which her nature is susceptible; she is wanting in the greatest element of usefulness and happiness. We have been truly told that, "bright eyes lack luster, if no soul beams through them; that coral lips lose their beauty, if they speak not words of wisdom; and the fairest beings in creation without religion in the heart, are like gathered dew-dropsthe elements are there, but the sparkling is gone."

In every relation of life woman needs the holy principles of religion; and the education which will fit her for her duties must reach the affections of the heart as well as the faculties of the mind. As a mother she must feel her inability to train an immortal soul for eternity, unassisted by that wisdom which is not of earth. What more beautiful sight than that of the mother instilling into the youthful mind the holy truths of religion, or teaching the infant lips to lisp the name of Jesus!

This may seem insignificant to those whose object and aim in life is to win for themselves a name among the gifted of earth; but not so to her who feels called to a destiny more lofty than a life of pleasure or of gratified ambition. True, her name may not be recorded in the annals of fame; for while the genius and even the beauty of woman have had their meed of praise, she whose greatest ambition is to emulate the virtues of the "Sisters of Bethany" is often forgotten.

But it is the true woman's glory to do good her mission to walk in the path of noble, unpretending usefulness. Her influence is more moral

You remember how, when the last load of corn was husked-and the yellow pumpkins, that had goldened so long the sloping upland, were brought home at last to the great barn that had welcomed, one by one, the summer's harvest-you remember how you, with a basket on your arm, and carrying with you as light a heart as ever beat under a boy's waistcoat, went, with Nelly, and Sam, and Bessy and the rest, for the nuts which the frosts of the clear autumn nights had brought to the ground.

You remember how the sunshine lay all about in the broad woodland in beautiful, bright patches, and how you wandered on, down the warmest avenues, till you came to the great beech on the south side of the brook that came singing down from the upland pastures, and how, raking back the leaves, you hunted carefully the little, shining, three-cornered nuts, talking much and laughing all the while, you very slyly helping Nelly fill her basket, she rewarding you with the merry twinkle of her blue eyes. And you remember how the bright-eyed squirrels perched in the branches overhead, and, watching you jealously a moment, slid down the great trunk right in your faces, and, winking gayly, were off out of your reach in a moment.

You remember how, when the patches of sunshine had grown smaller and smaller, and you began to be tired of gathering the tiny nuts, you walked slowly down the path leading out into the meadow that lay all glorified in the autumn sunset, and, with Nelly by your side, how happy you were. And you remember how, in the evening, you thought you would just go over and help Nelly crack her nuts; and how you, and she, and her tall brothers sat by the great fireplace and pared apples, and ate nuts, and told stories, and read fortunes in the glowing coals; and how-very late-you walked homeward through the clear moonlight and over the crisp, white frost, thinking still how happy you were.

That was a great while ago; but as softly as then falls the sunshine over the old beech woods this October afternoon, and the nuts are dropping quietly, one by one, down among the rustling

leaves; for yesterday morning a clear, white frost lay all over the meadows and every-where, and I know the nuts lie there just as they used to; but what do you care?

You sit in your dusty office where you have sat since early morning, and great books, bound in leather, lie heaped about you, and if you stop a moment and remember that the sun shines, you look up to see its glare on smoky brick walls, and read just over the way, "John Smith, best Spanish Cigars." And you read the "war news" in the morning paper, and glance hurriedly over the "bank stock reports," and watching a moment the sunshine on the wall, which wakens, in spite of you, an old, sweet thought, you turn again to your well-worn ledger; for what do you care?

Ah! I know how far you have drifted from the bliss and beauty of your boyhood. I know how the breath of a hundred sorrows has swept over you; how the soft, green paths have grown steep, and thorny, and rough to your feet; how friends have grown false and cold; how time and toil have covered your brow with wrinkles; how your heart has grown hard and your thoughts harsh as, one by one, you have buried the old sweet memories that should have saved you. I know, alas, as well as you, how, on the same hearth where cracked nuts with her brothers in the evening fire-light, Nelly sits, and with these same blue eyes, grown steadier and softer, makes glad the heart of your old rival Sam, and you a bachelor still. Ah! did the glowing coals letter that fortune for you that evening long ago? But what do you care?

you

Shut your eyes, and lo! there, beyond the meadow, are the old woods mellow with sunshine, and down that broad avenue, with its old patchwork of light and shadow, stands the great beech by the brook-side. There is no one there; but you know the nuts lie thick under the leaves, and the waves go by with the same old ripplethe same old song. The same blue, hazy heaven smiles down through the tops of the trees, and the squirrels-you would think they too were the very same-flash through the rustling leaves, lighting them up as with a sudden flame. And there is the old path meadowward. But what do you care?

Yes, turn again and run up for the tenth time that list of figures on the page before you. What is the matter? Do n't you see the figures are all mixed together and they do n't count as they did the last time? Sure enough. So much sunshine has blurred your eyes; 't is a very bright day you know, so you had better shut them again and let the old memories have a resurrection. ledger 's all right, and what do you care?

The

THE THRESHOLD.

BY SAREPTA M. IRISH.

Ir may be a block of marble
At the rich man's palace-door-
At the peasant's humble cottage,
Just a stone, and nothing more;
But each threshold hath its story
Of the feet that tread it o'er;
Many have a sad remembrance

Of the feet that come no more!
There is one my mem'ry seeth,
Shaded by a maple-tree;
Over which our feet went dancing
With a tinkling sound of glee,
In and out with ringing laughter-
Out and in the livelong day,
Till two crossed a gloomy threshold
Made of green sward by the way,
Leaving us outside, awaiting

For the opening of the door,
That we knew could open to those
Footsteps never, never more!

O how pallid looked the sunshine
As it crept the threshold o'er!
And how dreary seemed the shadow
Of the maple by the door!
And how long the hours lingered

As if saddened by our woe!
While our feet, tuned to the beating

Of our hearts, went sad and slow, Till at last we crossed the thresholdPassed the maple by the doorLeft the haunted crescent cottage

To return again no moreLeft it haunted by the memories

That still cross the threshold stone; Out and in, forever talking

Of the inmates that have gone. Now our feet cross other thresholds; Some the one that 's made of gold; Through the door that leadeth into

Joys that tongue hath never told. And with hearts forever yearning

For the loved who 've gained that home, Others wearily are treading

'Mid the happy throng alone!

But we think, while we are passing,
Sad and tired on our way,
With our "broken home
behind us,
Where the lights of mem'ry play,
Of the one that 's just before us-

And when all these scenes are o'er
We shall cross its golden threshold,
To pass outward never more!

"THOU know'st but little, If thou dost think true virtue is confined

To climes or systems; no, it flows spontaneous, Like life's warm stream, throughout the whole creation,

And beats the pulse of every healthful heart."

DAILY DEVOTION.-" Pray without ceasing." 1 Thess. v, 17.

Degenerate souls, wedded to their vicious habits, may disclaim all commerce with heaven, refusing to invoke Him whose infinite wisdom is ever prompt to discern, and his bounty to relieve the wants of those who faithfully call upon him; and neglecting to praise him who is great and marvelous in his works, just and righteous in his ways, infinite and incomprehensible in his nature: but all here, I would persuade myself, would daily set apart some time to think on him, who gave us power to think: he was the author, and he should be the object of our faculties.

And to do this the better, let us take care that every morning, as soon as we rise, we lay hold on this proper season of address, and offer up to God the first-fruits of our thoughts, yet fresh, unsullied, and serene, before a busy swarm of vain images crowd in upon the mind, when the spirits just refreshed with sleep are brisk and active, and rejoice, like that sun, which ushers in the day, to run their course; when all nature just awakened into being from insensibility pays its early homage; then let us join in the universal chorus, who are the only creatures in this visible creation capable of knowing to whom it is to be addressed.

And in the evening, when the stillness of the night invites to solemn thoughts, after we have collected our straggling ideas, and suffered not a reflection to stir, but what either looks upward to God, or inward upon ourselves, upon the state of our minds; then let us scan over each action of the day--fervently entreat God's pardon for what we have done amiss, and the gracious assistance of his Spirit for the future: and, after having adjusted accounts between our Maker and ourselves, commit ourselves to his care for the following night.

Thus beginning and closing the day with devotion, imploring his direction, every morning as we rise, for the following day, and recommending ourselves every night before we lie down, to his protection, who neither slumbers nor sleeps, the intermediate spaces will be better filled up: each line of our behavior will terminate in God, as the center of our actions. Our lives all of a piece will constitute one regular whole, to which each part will bear a necessary relation and correspondence, without any broken and disjointed schemes, independent of this grand end, the pleasing of God. And while we have this one point in view, whatever variety there may be in our actions, there will be a uniformity too, which constitutes the beauty

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of life, just as it does of every thing else; a uniformity without being dull and tedious, and a variety without being wild and irregular.

How would this settle the ferment of our youthful passions, and sweeten the last dregs of our advanced age! How would this make our lives yield the calmest satisfaction, as some flowers shed the most fragrant odors just at the close of the day! And perhaps there is no better way to prevent a deadness and flatness of spirit from succeeding, when the briskness of our passions goes off, than to acquire an early taste for those spiritual delights, whose leaf withers not, and whose verdure remains in the winter of our days.

And when this transitory scene is shutting upon us, when the soul stands upon the threshold of another world, just ready to take its everlasting flight; then may we think with unalloyed pleasure on God, when there can be little or no pleasure to think upon any thing else. And our souls may undauntedly follow to that place, whither our prayers and affections, those forerunners of the spirit, are gone before.

One of the greatest philosophers of this age-Boerhaave-being asked by a friend, who had often admired his patience under great provocations, by what means he had suppressed his anger? answered, "that he was naturally quick of resentment; but that he had by daily prayer and meditation attained to this mastery over himself. As soon as he arose in the morning, it was, throughout his life, his daily practice to retire for an hour to private prayer and meditation. This, he often told his friends, gave him spirit and vigor for the business of the day. This he therefore recommended as the best rule of life. For nothing he knew could support the soul in all distresses but confidence in the supreme Being. Nor can a rational and steady magnanimity flow from any other source than a consciousness of the Divine favor."

Of Socrates, who is said to have gained an ascendant over his passions, it is reported that his life was full of prayers and addresses to God.

And of Confucius, the Chinese philosopher, another great example of virtue, it is expressly recorded, that-contrary to a fashion now prevailing-he never did eat of any thing, but he first prostrated himself, and offered thanks to the supreme Lord of heaven.

Leave not off praying, said a pious man: for either praying will make thee leave off sinning, or sinning will make thee leave off praying. If we say our prayers in a cold, supine, lifeless manner now and then, I know no other effect they will have but

to enhance our condemnation. In effect we do not pray, we only say our prayers. We pay not the tribute of the heart, but an unmeaning form of homage; we draw near to God with our lips, while our heart is far from him. And without perseverance in prayer, the notions of the amendment of our lives, and a sacred regard to the Deity, will only float for a while in the head without sinking deep, or dwelling long upon the heart. We must be inured to a constant intercourse with God, to have our minds engaged and interested, and to be rooted and grounded in the love of him. But if we invigorate our petitions, which are otherwise a lifeless carcass, with a serious and attentive spirit, composed, but not dull; affectionate, but not passionate in our addresses to God-praying in this sense will at last make us leave off sinning, and victory, decisive victory, declare itself in favor of virtue.

OCCUPATION FOR THE OPULENT.-"For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat." 2 Thess. iii, 10. The apostle's rule, that if any man will not work, neither should he eat, extends to the rich as well as poor; only supposing that there are different kinds of work assigned to each. The reason is the same in both cases; namely, that he who will do no good, ought not to receive or enjoy any. As we all are joint traders or partners in life, he forfeits his right to any share in the common stock of happiness, who does not endeavor to contribute his quota or allotted part to it: the public happiness being nothing, but the sum total of each individual's contribution to it. An easy fortune does not set men free from labor and industry in general; it only exempts them from some particular kinds of labor. It is not a blessing, as it gives them liberty to do nothing at all; but as it gives them liberty wisely to choose and steadily to prosecute the most ennobling exercises, and the most improving employments, the pursuit of truth, the practice of virtue, the service of that God who giveth them all things richly to enjoy, in short, the doing and being every thing that is commendable: though nothing merely in order to be commended. That time which others must employ in tilling the groundwhich often deceives their expectation-with the sweat of their brow, they may lay out in cultivating the mind, a soil always grateful to the care of the tiller. The sum of what I would say is this: That though you are not confined to any particular calling, yet you have a general one: which is to watch over your heart, and to improve your head; to make your self master of all those accomplishments, namely, an enlarged compass of thought, that flowing humanity, and generosity, which are necessary to become a great fortune; and of all those perfections, namely, moderation, humility, and temperance, which are necessary to bear a small one patiently; but especially it is your duty to acquire a taste for those pleasures, which, after they are tasted, go off agreeably, and leave behind them a grateful and delightful flavor on the mind.

Happy that man, who, unembarrassed by vulgar cares, master of himself, his time and fortune, spends his time in making himself wiser, and his fortune in making others-and, therefore, himself-happier;

who, as the will and understanding are the two ennobling faculties of the soul, thinks himself not complete till his understanding be beautified with the valuable furniture of knowledge, as well as his will enriched with every virtue; who has furnished himself with all the advantages to relish solitude, and enliven conversation; when serious, not sullen; and when cheerful, not indiscreetly gay; his ambition not to be admired for a false glare of greatness, but to be beloved for the gentle and sober luster of his wisdom and goodness. The greatest minister of state has not more business to do in a public capacity than he, and indeed every man else, may find in the retired and still scenes of life. Even in his private walks, every thing that is visible convinceth him there is present a being invisible. Aided by natural philosophy, he reads plain, legible traces of the Divinity in every thing he meets: he sees the Deity in every tree, as well as Moses did in the burning bush, though not in so glaring a manner: and when he sees him, he adores him with the tribute of a grateful heart.

TRUE HEROISM.-" Finally, my brethren, be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might." Ephesians vi, 10.

The meanest mechanic, who employs his love and gratitude, the best of his affections, upon God, the best of beings; who has a particular regard and esteem for the virtuous few, compassion for the distressed, and a fixed and extensive good-will for all; who, instead of triumphing over his enemies, strives to subdue his greatest enemy of all, his unruly passion; who promotes a good understanding between neighbors, composes and adjusts differences, does justice to an injured character, and acts of charity to distressed worth; who cherishes his friends, forgives his enemies, and even serves them in any pressing exigency; who abhors vice, and pities the vicious person; such a man, however low in station, has juster pretensions to the title of heroism, as heroism implies a certain nobleness and elevation of soul, breaking forth into correspondent actions, than he who conquers armies, or makes the most glaring figure in the eye of an injudicious world. He is like one of the fixed stars, which though, through the disadvantage of its situation, it may be thought to be very little, inconsiderable, and obscure by unskillful beholders, yet is as truly great and glorious in itself as those heavenly lights, which, by being placed more commodiously for our view, shine with more distinguished luster.

GOD IN ALL THINGS.-" Great in counsel, and mighty in work." Jeremiah xxxii, 19.

A person at dinner with Mr. Newton, of London, remarked that the East India Company had overset the college at Calcutta. "What a pity!" said a gentleman present. "No," said Mr. N., "no pity-it must do good. If you had a plan in view, and could hinder opposition, would you not prevent it?" "Yes, sir." "Well, God can hinder all opposition to his plans: he has permitted that to take place, but he will carry on his own plan. I am learning to see God in all things: I believe not a person knocks at my door but is sent by God."