We tell no story, because story-telling is neither our object nor our forte: but think you two such beings ever were, or ever could be, with an individuality so marked, with virtues, faults, and follies so obvious in each, yet so unlike withal; think you they could have lived in this world, enjoyed its joys, suffered its sorrows and its sins, without leaving behind them in the record of their earthly lives a story-a story full of such interest and deep pathos that, as you run your eager eye along its pages to the volume's close, till the death-curtain drops, and there you read "To be continued," you start up surprised, and, 'gazing with strained eye into that dark Futurity, seek to know the issue in the great Hereafter of such lives, such doings, and such thinkings HERE? "It is not all of life to live, Nor all of death to die." The lives of Annie and her sister Laura tell you why. MY DIADEM. BY J. F. OH who would seek the meteor crown Give me the wreath of fadeless bloom, The proud and scornful now may boast A fadeless chaplet is the prize That Jesus gives his own; The coronal the graces weave, May the fair scenes beyond the skies WOMAN'S SPHERE. BY DR. J. H. HANAFORD. In this age of innovation and of real progress, it is important to consider in what respects the condition of any class in the community may be improved. This consideration, in reference to those who wield a mighty influence over the germs of the future republic, is a matter of vital importance. It has been well remarked that the "child is the father of the man ;" and if true, momentous consequences must result from the kind of training such a "father" may receive from its natural guardian, the mother. As are our mo thers, so will be our children, at least in a considerable degree. Whatever tends to improve the condition of woman, or, in other words, to secure to her her "rights," must necessarily result favorably in the formation of national char acter. The condition of woman has long constituted an index to the true state of society. She has been enslaved, the mere chattel of man, subject to his caprices, and she has been almost, or quite adored, the ruler instead of the ruled, all depending on the degree of advancement in civili. zation at these respective periods. It should also be remarked that Christianity has rescued woman from much of her degradation, and restored her to her legitimate companionship with man, made her a co-laborer with him in renovating the world, instead of his menial. Wherever its blessed influences are felt, chains are broken, bands sundered, and the "oppressed go free." She has abundant reason to bless the light of truth, that has beamed on a world of sin and wretchedness. Though adapted to the condition of all grades of society, it comes to her as a peculiar blessing--“ glad tidings" indeed. It is therefore not surprising that we are shocked when she ridicules inspired truth, as some fallen ones may, and impiously defies the Omnipotent. Woman seeks her appropriate sphere. It is indeed true that some pseudo reformers magnify her wrongs, and loudly clamor for a redress of imaginary grievances, but such can never merit the dignified name of woman. They are decidedly masculine, and seek a sphere of action in accordance with their peculiar characteristics. A woman never pants for the sanguine field of battle; no aspiration in her bosom responds to the clangor of the war trump, or the phrensyinspiring roll of the drum. She seeks not the forum, with its tumult, its contentions, and its vitiating tendencies. The halls of legislation present no charms to such; she can obey the "law of love," but does not wish to enact the laws of the State. Nor can she be persuaded to leave her appropriate heaven-constituted sphere, even by those who claim to belong to the same sex but who have almost lost their identity. But woman has a far more important mission, a far more elevated position and more sacred duties, than those connected with these boisterous avocations of man. She is most beloved and respected when she is in her own sphere of action. It is there that her virtues shine; it is there that her loveliness is most apparent, com manding the admiration of her constituted protector and friend. It is by her kind offices, where she can most efficiently labor, that the asperities of man's rougher nature are made less prominent, and his moroseness softened. She is here as an angel of mercy, subduing rising passions, quelling outbursts of excitement, when man grapples with his fellow-man in the contests of public life, cheering him in the hour of adversity, with her more hopeful traits of character. It is here that her moral superiority is felt, and when exerted in all its native strength, it becomes potent indeed. Equality in physical and intellectual powers is not requisite to establish woman's claim to an elevated position in society. Many of the most important offices, especially those dependent on man's social nature, do not require profundity of thought, or unusual mental power. The most intellectual are not necessarily the most useful members of society, however desirable mental culture may be in the abstract. The development of all of the powers of man, both physical and mental, will be most in accordance with the original design of our creation. Woman, therefore, to respond to the natural impulses of her soul, and to exert the greatest possible influence for good, need not devote her entire energies to mere intellectual development. Intellectual strength, though desirable, is inferior to moral power. That individual who softens the heart of man, who wins affection, who allures from the paths of vice to those of virtue, who scatters broadcast holy offerings of love, kindness and sympathy, does more for the renovation of fallen man, than the mightiest geniuses of any age. To live in the memory of the grateful, is a higher honor than to shine on the page of classic lore. Woman is designed to perform her labor in comparative quiet, more in the domestic circle than in the arena of public strife. For such of fices she is designed by her Creator, as her physical and mental organism would indicate. In the family circle, as directress of domestic relations, and as the moulder of plastic minds committed to her charge, her influence is almost omnipotent. None besides her can effect so much in the formation of future character; none can so effectutlly modify national character. Her labors are scarcely observable, yet the future destiny of many is often controlled by apparently unimportant instrumentalities. In this circle, and still beyond it, her influence is felt. At the couch of the dying, where suffering humanity groans beneath the burden of woes, she proffers the balm of consolation, soothes the troubled bosom, and often lights up the "valley of the shadow of death," by pointing a fellow-mortal to the "Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world." Say not, therefore, that woman is degraded while fulfilling her destiny in a more limited circle, rather than mingling in public strife. Say not that she is oppressed when she is more potent for good than the "lords of creation." Urge her not to destroy her influence, to palsy her arm, and descend from her elevated position, by assuming the offices of man. WATCHED BY AN ANGEL. BY U. L. STOUGHTON B. WATCHED by an angel, he walketh the street; Over his pillow, when daylight is done, Struggling still on toward the better land's bliss, THE DIARY OF A CLERGYMAN. A LOOK AT MY LIBRARY. YE publishers! enemies of a man's peace, tempters of the poor mental inebriate! when will ye cease issuing your prospectuses, projects, and schemes, your advertisements, extracts, reviews, and recommendations? Is there no law to prevent you from inflicting torture upon such as myself! Our paternal government have prudently imposed the stamp and advertisement duty, but nothing will check your culture of "the tree of knowledge," as you call it. I would have you all pressed, bound, lettered as CAPITAL criminals, and literally translated to some Juan Fernandez, where it should baffle your ingenuity to drink champagne out of human skulls. Most cordially do I hate you all, ye Blacks, and Blackies, and Browns; ye Hamiltons, Halls, and Hunters; ye Johnsons and Jacksons; ye Murrays and Nisbets; ye Gilberts and Groom 28 THE DIARY OF A CLERGY MAN. bridges; ye Snows, and Simpkins, and Shaws! O that some "Constable" would put you all into "Ward," until a literary "Oliver" taught you "Virtue," and brought you out of press, a greatly improved edition illustrated by "Painter!" And yet truth compels me to acknowledge that I hate you only in the "abstract!" for when, by purchase, gift, or borrowing, I lay hands on a volume bearing your ugly names, I regard them with a degree of affection, fitted to melt even your stony hearts into sympathy with the privations of poor parsons! will serve to explain my feelings. Books! books! but hold, I have one book which teaches me to be content with such things as I have, and instructs me to let patience have her perfect work. Doubtless, it is well that there are but few books on my shelves to divide my love with this one. What a wonderful thing is the generation of books, or rather the history of intellectual productiveness! Would that some one competent to the work would write that history! what marvels would it not unfold! After its perusal, many a man would exclaim with Dominie Samp son, Prodigious!' It would reveal a mental heroism at which the dull world would stand amazed. It would show the throbbings of the inner heart of many whose names are now covered with laurels by the hands of a grateful posterity; the struggles of the mind against stern difficulties; the indomitable resolution not to be overcome by them; the settled determination to conquer or to die; the soul travailing to be delivered of immortal thoughts; working in the stillness of midnight, to give shape and form to its starry conceptions, whilst the poor body, ill-fed, ill-clad, and ill-housed, was also denied necessary sleep; the immortal spirit exciting the brain with an ardor bordering on delirium; the temples aching with feverish heat; and the whole man so entranced by the action of the mental powers, as to resemble an inspired prophet receiving "visions of God." It would show the poet, whose brilliant outpourings are translated into every living language, repeatedly in want of a crust of bread; and the philosopher whose sublime discoveries have corrected the science of a world, and poured uncounted treasures into the lap of commerce, forcing his way through opposition which would have crushed a nation of ordinary men; and the divine, whose contributions to theology have been hailed by the schools of the prophets-whose deep researches into the mines of inspired truth, have brought to the surface unthought of glories— and whose clear expositions of the redeeming doctrine have been owned by the regenerating Spirit in the conversion of thousands of immortal And what would the "pressgang" do without us? Are we not the teachers of the adult population? Do we not in a thousand instances create, and in ten thousand foster, the taste for reading, without which these worthy gentlemen would go to the workhouse? Do we not help to refine the feelings and elevate the conceptions of the multitude? Is not every fresh order from the country for a relay of books, a clear argument for the value of the pulpit? Is not our judgment on this or that new publication, in numberless cases, the final test of its value or worthlessness? THE BOOK, heaven's volume, God's wonderful library, out of which we feed our people, and from which we ply them with arguments for the acquisition of light and understanding, is the power that moves the press, and inspires the author, and enriches the publisher. Withdraw that book, its teaching and its teachers, and the gentlemen in question may emigrate. But when I look at my library, I hope they won't just yet! Alas, it is soon looked over, for it is small-too small for my wants, and by far too small for my wishes. It is sad to see a man with a large appetite, without the means of satisfying its cravings. I would have my study surrounded with the intellectual memorials of the mighty dead. I would fain sing with the poets, and scale the topless heavens with the astronomers, and fathom the dread mysteries of creation with the philosophers, and tread with shoeless foot upon the holy continents of revelation with the divines of past generations. I would have a splendid selection of friends to dwell continually within these walls, and enjoy, like the Honorable Emanuel Swedenborg, familiar inter-souls-commencing life amidst storms and darkcourse with the world of departed spirits. I would have at my table daily the intellectual giants, the moral masters, the mental gods of humanity. Sir Joshua Reynolds' literary parties should be as nothing compared to mine. I would --but I look at my library, and lo! Tantalus on the rock, or Pharaoh's lean cattle, or Shacabac's feast, or a hungry man dreaming and behold he eateh, but he awaketh, and his soul is empty,' ness, disease and poverty, and struggling on through youth and manhood amidst difficulties unknown to a shopkeeper's clerk, until premature age, the result of anxiety and toil, hastened his mellowed spirit home to the palace of his adored Master, when the prayer he had often uttered on earth, received its wondrous answer: "I beseech thee, show me thy glory!" Little know the gay and the opulent, as they read the delicious thoughts that "breathe and burn" in the elegant volume, and on the illuminated page, the crushing process by which these mental odors were evoked! The flowers that give them out may have been trodden under the feet of a bloated worldling, or torn by the ruthless hand of some wealthy idiot! It has been so, it is so still. It is easy to say that literary men are always complaining. But I think they have never complained enough. Their modesty is an injury to themselves, and to the world. A man of courage and perseverance liberates the bread that feeds the body from needless fetters, and he receives and deserves a nation's thanks. But, though I take little part in politics, I record here my settled conviction, in the sight of Him who sees all things, that to retain the smallest particle of taxation on anything connected with the food of the mind, is at once fearfully impolitic and morally wrong! Books taxed, and Bread-stuffs free in England in 1850! Incredible! The Lord the godly man hath chosen ever, THE SPIRIT'S TOKEN. A LEGEND OF A FALLING STAR THE Angel of Death was brooding over a human Home. On the outer world was poured the dazzling effulgence of a cloudless moon, yet to those on whom rested the solemn overshadowing of his Presence, it seemed but the sombre light of evening. The Angel's brow was stern -for long had he awaited the bidding of the Holy One-his Conqueror-to fulfil his mission. The shades of twilight have thrice gathered around the earth, and still this swift winged messenger of Heaven stays his flight. Yet he closes not his eye in slumber, for the inhabitants of the upper world need no sleep. Roving in anxious search over the abodes of men, the keen vision of the spirit-watcher discerns that in other homes he has missions to accomplish. From one, he must bear away the tender infant, ere its soul has known the taint of sin and sorrow, to a Land where "The only air the blessed breathe Is purity and peace." In another, the strong man must yield himself— a powerless victim-into his relentless grasp, and, laden with guilt and shame, he must descend from the noonday of an unhallowed life, to the mi Inight of a dishonored death. In still another-and the Angel smiled as his eye rested upon this an aged Christian calmly and patiently awaits his coming, that she may "enter into rest." But again he turns his glance within the home that is darkened by his Presence, and the setting sun pauses in his going down, to look upon an Angel's Tear. . . Beside the dying couch of her child, sits a mother. On her noble brow are traces of deep sorrow, while her stately form is bowed beneath its weight of woe. Her dark eyes are dimmed, and their long lashes are laden with the gushing tears that burst from her burdened heart, In the quietness of the hour, when no sound breaks the stillness save the labored breathing of the sleeping girl, the Past has been speaking in solemn tones to the weary watcher of life's parting hours. It has spoken of a human soul—a priceless jewel-entrusted to that mother's care. The casket in which it reposed was beautiful, and en 30 THE SPIRIT'S TOKEN. riched with the treasures of mind and intellect. Oh! what a gem was this, with which to deck a Saviour's crown! Often had the mother vowed that such should be its glorious destiny, and that, unspotted from the world," she would present her Gift to the Divine Bestower, whenever He should see fit to recall it. But alas! for the frailty of human nature, which is content to cherish the casket, while the jewel lies trodden in the dust of neglect. Dazzled by the fair beauty of the one, the mother ceases to remember the priceless value of the other. Tears of fond indulgence, and careless ease-misused talents, and wasted time, are spent-and now, leaving to these added guilt and remorse, the child returns to her early home to die. Dimmed and defiled, by its contact with an evil world, is the gem-worn and faded is the casket. But dweller of the other world, she yearns for some token that her child shall indeed have reached "the better Land." "Strait is the gate" of "the city of our God." Will one so laden with sin find an entrance there? The "dark river" is deep and fearful, can she stem its torrent, and tread safely the other side? The anthems of Heaven reach not now the mother's mortal ear, can she discern if one more golden harp is swept with its melody-may she catch the ringing music of the golden pavement, as another crown is cast before the Throne? The "innumer. able company" of the redeemed are ever hidden from her view, and can she mark if one other form is added to that shining host, "clad in white robes, and with palms in their hands?" Her beloved one is going to "the Land that is very far off,"-oh! might she but follow the trackless the hour has come-the Giver claims His gift-flight of the immortal spirit! Again her eye, and the sufferer awakes from a fitful slumber, only to sleep that "sleep that knows no waking." Her mother gently raises her on the couch, and sitting there, in the grim shadow of death they strive, by the solemn twilight, to penetrate the realities of the future. Its shadowy vistas open before their earnest gaze, and they feel that to one at least will its mysteries be soon revealed. They look forth on the calm night, whose veil is bright with countless stars, and their troubled hearts are stilled to quietness. Beyond that veil they discern the eye of a Saviour's love, watching over them in this hour of agony. Again their prayers ascend, as they have so oft ascended, for pardon to the All-Merciful, and with eyes fixed on "things above," they plead the atoning blood of a crucified Redeemer. Earnestly has their strong cry of penitence gone up to Heaven, and now the accusing voice of conscience is hushed, and, in its stead, is heard in louder, sweeter, tones a voice from above saying: "Fear not, I have redeemed thee; thou art mine. Thy sins, which are many, are forgiven." Thus, in that awful hour, in the presence of the dread Angel of Death, they repose with peaceful trust on the everlasting arm of Infinite Love. which for a moment has sought to scrutinize the Invisible, rests on the form which the Angel of Death has already folded in his chill embrace. The faltering lips of the dying girl murmur faintly: "Peace "-"Jesus "-" glory!" and the words are echoed in Heaven, by the song and harp of "A ransomed soul" Borne in the strong arms of the "dark-winged Angel," the young spirit rises upward from earth. Swiftly she passes the blue veil that has bounded her mortal vision, and enters upon the realms of space. She pauses not in her flight as myriads of bright worlds are unfolded to her view, but, wrapped in intense wonder and awe, the redeemed spirit "mounts as on eagle's wings," to the very throne of its GOD. Already has her ear caught the melody of Heaven, and as its glories open before her, a “fulness of joy" thrills her being. Forth from the pearly gates come bands of "ministering spirits," who welcome her, with louder strains of rapture, to their eternal home. Placing in her hand a golden harp, and on her brow a crown of pure gold, they bear her to the Saviour's feet. There, plucking from it one sparkling gem, she casts her radiant diadem low before the Redeemer's Throne, and sweeping the chords of her golden harp, she strikes the first note of that new song, which shall echo "day and night," along the courts of Heaven, throughout all Eternity. Once more the mother looked forth upon the night, and as the pale, calm moon came stealing up the sky, a star-as 'twere a gem plucked from a seraph's crown-fell from Heaven. |