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blunted the knives on purpose, so regularly did they bring them to him to sharpen.

Little Bessie grew up as tall and straight as a poplar, and as beautiful as an orange-tree; and how pleasant to the knife-grinder to watch her growth and opening loveliness; but he could hardly define the happiness that thrilled him, when the truth dawned upon his observant spirit that she was like unto him in her ways. Every little delicate kindness that ever he had shown to this poor outcast, she strove by some spiritual impulse to reciprocate; she loved him with a strong and passionate earnestness that he knew not of; and every smile he gave her, every happy word he spoke, fell on her heart like heavenly music; and it was because of the refined and delicate manners which she observed in him, and which she so assiduously strove to imitate, that she loved him. He had never hinted at the link which bound him and Bessie together; she was old enough when he found her to know that he was no relation of hers; and she had so distinct a remembrance of the vice amongst which she had dwelt, that the gentle words which he constantly spoke, and the little prayers and hymns which he taught her to repeat, gave her at first a dim idea of maternal care, and then of human goodness, which she was constrained to love and venerate, and to which she had some indefinite affinity; but she had no sense of charity, no feeling of dependence, for he had consulted her about every little household act, and had so identified her with himself in all he said or did, that she, too, had no thought of doing anything beyond his knowledge.

Bessie would go out of the afternoons to meet her modest protector at some appointed place, and the knife-grinder looked so happy and so brave, and Bessie looked so beautiful and smiling, that the folks began to take notice of the cheerful pair, and to declare that that knife-grinder and his pretty sister deserved to be encouraged. And so he was encouraged; for, when he opened his cutler shop, customers came pouring on him; and, assuredly, Bessie had a busy time of it serving them. Dinner sets of knives and forks for the quiet, calculating dames, who were queens in their way, for each ruled a home; long, black scalpels for physicians; large carvers for keepers of cookshops; pruners and hedgebills for agriculturists; and hooks and scythes for reapers; together with penknives for students of law and divinity; these constituted part of the stock of Williams, and these were the class of his ready-money, constant customers.

In twelve years from his finding Bessie, Williams was a man of standing and importance.

He was esteemed wise, and good, and rich which last was perhaps the most important consideration of the whole in the eyes of some. But he esteemed himself especially blessed of heaven in Bessie, and she was the chief of all his earthly treasures. And what a treasure of grace, and beauty, and affection, had that young child become! It was a picture far finer than any of the paintings in the city gallery; it was a finer sight than them all to behold Bessie seated behind the counter of the well-filled shop on the fine summer afternoons, when the sunbeams

streamed through the little panes, and fell upon her fine ruddy cheeks, smooth brown hair, and blue eyes, as she bent thoughtfully over a book, or wrought away with her needle. Williams, grown a thoughtful man, with a dignified air that became him wonderfully well, would stand and gaze upon the maiden from his back workshop, and bless her from his heart; and then he would wonder if any one could envy him of this jewel of his home. Was it envy, or that most selfish of all the passions, sometimes misnamed love, that prompted Robert, the skinner, to come so often to the shop. He was a gallant man, who was ambitious of illumining the world; for, like many other people whose money had accumulated in their coffers, he, with great modesty, and no doubt truth, felt assured that his intellect had brightened and expanded too. He came to the shop day after day, finely done up in broad cloth and linen, with his beaver stuck up a little at the side, to give it a rakish air. He was a very large specimen of the human frame, and spoke very loudly and authoritatively upon everything and even nothing, and few thought themselves so high and killing as Robert.

Robert would ask Bessie to accompany him to the various amusements and sights of the city, and Bessie, who had been at them all already, would refuse, and declare that she had sufficiently seen them; and then Robert would appeal to Williams, who, remembering how happy she had been with him, would urge her to go for her own sake, but always in such tones, that she would still refuse three times out of five. And what was it that stirred the knife-grinder when Bessie would reluctantly go with Robert. Was it the old sensation of hi poor and lonely years-his sense of friendlessness that came back upon him? It was a strange, vague feeling-a dread of nothingness, that stole over his heart, as if to extinguish it. Ah, if Bessie were to leave him now! and then the tears would rush into his manly eyes, and the knife-grinder knew that he loved her. It is a truth, and an almost universal one, that the strongest and most beautiful minds feel most sensitively

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the oppression of corporeal infirmities. Williams was lame, and he knew that Bessie was surpassing beautiful. He was only twelve years her senior, and he had known, loved, and tended her longer than any other mortal had; but though he had deemed himself fit to be a father and instructor to Bessie, he was convinced that she would hardly reckon him a fit companion to brighten and sustain her life-a worthy object, to whom she might apply the name of husband. “Ah, well, I shall tell Robert to walk by himself henceforth," said Bessie, gravely, as she threw off her cloak and hood after one of her walks. "I am done with him."

"And why, dear Bessie ?" said Williams. "For various weighty reasons," said she, smiling; "but chiefly on my own account."

"And how on your own account?" said he, earnestly.

"Lest I should fall in love with so stupid a creature," said Bessie, laughing; "and then you know, according to your theory, I should become like him."

Williams was silent a few moments, and then he said, "So you would prefer some other companion to Robert, Bessie ?"

“Ay, that I would. Do you think that I am happy when I am in the gardens with Robert ? Ah, if you do, how mistaken you are!"

Williams was troubled, and quietly said, "Robert is a man of substance and of honest fame"

"Oh, fame!" cried Bessie, interrupting him; "that he blows forth most lustily himself; they should put a trumpet in his hand when they erect his statue on the top of the city hall."

"I have asked you to go with Robert merely because I thought it would be pleasant for you to see the green trees, and to inhale the fragrance of the flowers."

"Then you should come with us, if you wish them to be beautiful in themselves, or agreeable to me," said she, with charming naïvete.

Williams looked at his protégé in amazement, and then a sweet smile overspread his face, as he replied, "And so you prefer to talk to me, and to walk with me, although I am not the finest talker or walker in town."

"This hearth is the brightest spot I know, or have ever known on earth," said Bessie, in low, tremulous, earnest tones. "This face is the handsomest to me in the world," she continued, as she leant upon the knife-grinder's breast and spread back the dark curls from his brow. "These lips have ever been the sweetest exponents of wisdom and goodness that I have known. Ah! what should poor Bessie do, if you were to bid her leave you?"

The knife-grinder caught the earnest, tearful girl in his arms, and he gazed into her face. Was he dreaming? Was this some passing illusion, too bright to last? Ah! no; for truth in its integrity and purity was reflected in her eyes. Through the vista of a few years he saw himself a poor and ragged youth, friendless and almost spiritless, plodding the streets of his native city for the precarious bread derived from a precarious calling. He saw a little girl thrown in his path, even more friendless and wretched than he. The political economist, who draws conclusions only after casual reflections and with arithmetical precision, would inevitably have seen in the adoption of this child by the knife-grinder, an addition to his misery; but, by a law which political economists and philosophers have never been able to write down, the blessing had come with the burden. A good deed more than rewards itself; the deed is but the action of a moment; the reward begins on earth, and goes on increasing through eternity. From a drooping, almost satisfied, son of poverty, Williams, by the stirring of the nobler impulses of his nature, had grown slowly and gradually into a refined and honored man; and Bessie, from a beggar and an outcast, had been trained into beauty, goodness, and virtue.

"Well, I considered it but right, as a matter of courtesy, and what not?" said Robert. Robert always finished his sentences with the words, "and what not." "I considered it right," said he, "to let you know that it is time Bessie was

married."

"I was thinking so myself," said Williams, as he leant over his counter, and smiled in the face of Robert.

"And I consider it but right to let you know that I mean to have her, which, I dare say, will be as agreeable to you as to her, and what not?" said Robert, cocking up his beaver and swelling out his cheeks.

"As agreeable to the one as to the other, doubtless," replied the other, quietly.

"You are a man of substance," said the skinner, looking more important than ever he had done; "and it is to be hoped that you will be liberal to the girl."

"I have never laid by a stiver, but her share was in it," said the cutler, seriously; "she shall have my all when she marries."

"I always said that you was a good fellow, and a liberal fellow, and what not ?" said Robert, grasping the other's hand, and slapping him on the shoulder with the other. "How glad we shall be to see thee in the evenings!"

"I shall keep at home in the evenings, as

INTO the woods, into the woods! this fret And bustle of the big o'er-anxious world Likes me not: hither, gentle winds, and let Your blue and rustling pinions be unfurled To bear my vexéd spirit far away Into the bosom of yon dusk old wood, Winding as the valley winds for many a rood; Westward the burning chariot-wheel of day Is in the chrome-dyed ocean axle deep; Haste! ere the twinkling dews o'er the green earth shall creep!

"Tis featly done! Oh, now at length repose Shall find me, here, where nothing is that breathes

The spirit of unrest. How richly those

Rays that come streaming where the king-oak wreathes

His warped and gnarled bows, make the moss
floor

Of this vast temple seem mosaic-wrought;
Each knoll's an altar whence ascends untaught
The willing incense of the flowers, that more

Than all mute things on earth their homage pay To the dear love that keeps their fair forms day by day!

Here would I worship too, listening the note That ripples out upon the stirless air, In sweet, wild gushes from the ruffled throat Of some winged minstrel! how that music rare Brimfills my sense with stillest quietude! Alack, 'tis past, and silence and repose Reign in twin sisterhood; yon meek, wild rose Her silken leaves, with softest tints imbued, Hath folded in the shade, and now appears When wet with dew more sweet, like Innocence in tears.

Dear dreamy wood! Ha! the small aspen leaves

Are quivering in a white and misty beam; In the deep-shadowed foliage it weaves A silver-tinselled tissue, that doth seem Meet for the bridal robing of the fay That queens it in this forest; upward see The clustered stars that glitter witchingly, That shed o'er many a lone ship's ocean way Their soft dispassioned lustre; oft when care Hath fevered and harassed, I've blest their radiance fair.

I would not wish a sweeter home than this, Since man his brother still will vex for naught; Even here, where rival flowers entwining kiss, And all things yield their beauty, Heaventaught,

To bless each other. Tremulously faint

Gleams by the river brink yon glow-worm's lamp,

Where now he banquets him on rank weeds damp

With beaded dew; while, simply sad and quaint,

Night-winds a low and dirge-like cadence bring

Where, cloistered in dim shade, the owl sits sorrowing.

Oh, sure there is a wordless eloquence

Breathed freely forth within these leafy glooms, The odor which all verdurous things dispense, The birds soft nestled in the drooping plumes Of the all-muffling ivy, and the clear Unhindered glory of the moon, that makes A glittering heaven of dew-stars in the brakes, Whisper my sorrow-burthened heart that here For every woe there is a gracious balm, For all its o'erwrought fears a hushed and holy calm.

MAN is in ruins--the wreck is melancholy and universal. Yet he is mighty still, and great in his ruins. We are often amazed at the wrecks of former greatness, and instinctively ask, whether all that is grand might not be recovered, and the powers restored? As the pensive traveller who leans on the broken fragments of a column, amidst the ruins of Palmyra or Thebes, asks, whether all the ancient grandeur of such a city might not be recovered, and still greater magnificence might not rise from these ruins? That man may be restored to primeval dignity and elevation of character, has been the almost universal belief of the world. It has been, and must be believed, that his shattered intellect might be repaired and somehow the balance be restored to the moral feelings. And the attempt has been made. One class have sought it by philosophy and science; one by active enterprise; vast numbers by the stimuli of ambition and the love of eminence. Somehow it has been almost universally felt, that some scheme of religion was adapted to the case, and fitted to recover fallen man. Our belief is, that religion under the Christian scheme, is fitted to make the most of the human powers.

Let us first remark the influence of piety on the intellect. The intellectual powers may be called forth by other means, than by a reference to the honor of God. It may be done through the influence of ambition. It may be done by a contemplation of the great names of the past, and by holding them up to admiration. It may be done by the hope of office; or, it may be, by certain ever-active principles in the mind itself, proclaiming its high origin. But can a man ever make as much of his intellectual powers in any other way, as by bringing them under the influence of Christian piety? Can any substitute be adapted to the lapsed condition of human affairs, which shall fill up the place made vacant by the want of love to God? Here let it be remembered, that the first influence of piety on the understanding, is, to produce the love of truth. Truth is the nourisher of the intellectual powers. Error paralyzes, perverts, destroys. It is a poison as deadly to the intellect, as

any poison can be to the body. The mind of man is made, originally, susceptible of being expanded by the contemplation of truth. The book of revelation is the expression of such truths as are adapted to man in his fallen condition, and in all the periods that may attend the process of recovery here. Other truths may be in reserve for a higher state of being; but Christianity has expressed those truths which are adapted to our present state, and fitted to make the most of fallen mind. In paradise, the mind would have been expanded and matured by truth; in the fallen condition of man, God contemplated his recovery by the instrumentality of truth; in paradise regained, mind is still to be expanded and matured by the presentation of truth.

The truth of God is adapted to the end in view. It is exactly fitted to make an impression on the mind, though that mind is in ruins. Piety restores the mind to the original love of truth, than which there is no surer mark or index of intellectual advancement. Is there a man, whose aim is truth, truth always-truth pure like its author in him you see a man whose understanding is advancing with the utmost rapidity to its farthest growth. In a man like Newton, intent on truth in astronomy-like Locke, intent on truth in mental science, or like Bacon, intent on truth in all sciences, you see a man whose intellect is expanding to its utmost dimensions. Or is there a person, who is aiming at other subjects, seeking applause; who strives for distinction, reckless of the means? in such a one you have found a man, who though his mind may sparkle, and dazzle, and confound, may yet be doing that which shall destroy the balance, and produce disorder of his intellectual powers, as well as perverseness in his heart.

Piety will produce true independence of thinking and investigation. He who fears God is the man who is in a fair way to be an independent thinker. He who feels that he is responsible to a higher than any earthly tribunal, is the man who will be in a suitable condition to make any proper use of his understanding. He who is timeserving, or who feels it to be for his interest to keep in with certain systems and parties; who

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makes it a point of conscience never to swerve from a system ready to his hands; or who has adopted it as a maxim, that the intellect has been taxed on all subjects to its utmost powers, and that no new and hitherto unseen view of truth is yet to greet the human mind; will lose the stimulus to exertion, and will pursue a course which tends to paralyze all his powers.

It is by fearing God more than man, and venerating the system of truth in the Bible more than the system of the schools, that the human powers are put forth to appropriate action, and called out into the severest discipline. What is it which cramps the intellect of man? From whence arises the remarkable fact, that so few men in any profession or party ever think for themselves? Prejudice; reverence for the authority of venerable names, living or dead; pride of party; the domination of a leader; the interest of station; indolence and vice. To counteract these, to expand the intellect, and produce true independence of judgment, there must be the fear of God; not a daring and reckless self-confidence, misnamed holiness; not that feeling which denounces past or living wisdom; which scorns instruction; but that which surmounts passion, humbles pride, isolates man from his party; which prompts to the invocations of heavenly wisdom, and which leads him in sincerity and prayer to the Bible.

Piety produces a sober and just practical estimate of things. Some men accomplish nothing, because their faculties are called into action in great disproportion. He who seeks to dazzle and confound the world, may give the reins to his imagination. He who would control his fellow-men, may study the arts of intrigue and the mazy policies of ambition. He only who fears God, will aim to make the most of all his faculties and powers of mind. That powerful principle will prompt the mind to humble and earnest investigation. It will summon a man to the legitimate use of all its powers; and this may open the mind on truths, even in religion, which the human mind, since the days of inspiration, has not clearly contemplated. It will not be doubted, that the profound mind of Edwards contemplated some truths, which uninspired intellect had not before so clearly seen; or that Robert Hall fixed his gaze on ever-living truth, with an intensity which, perhaps, had seldom if ever before, been vouchsafed to mere mortals. We are, it may be, often in danger of error, in the supposition that the human mind has reached the utmost limit in investigating moral subjects; and that that limit has been fixed with infallible accuracy in the venerable symbols which express and embody

INTELLECT.

the belief of other ages. But it is possible, that the Bible may be better understood; that the principles of moral government there developed may be better explained; that the character of the human mind, the laws of its action, and the ever-varying forms of human guilt; that the way of access to the hearts of men by truth, and the subject of morals and duties, as adapted to the new development of things on earth, may be better investigated and comprehended. It is true, that the system in the Scriptures was perfect, when they were written. But so was the system of astronomy perfect, when the morning stars sang together; nor have the revolutions of ages, nor the wear of the vast machine, made any changes or suggested any improvements in the mechanism of the heavens. It is true that the system of botany was perfect, when God penciled the flowers in paradise; of chemistry, when the air, and waters, and earths of the early creation were formed; and of anatomy, when the first man trod the green earth of Eden. Successive ages have detected no fault, and made no improvement, in these systems. But this does not prove, that the toils of Newton, and La Place, and Linnæus, and Cuvier, and Davy, and Harvey, and Bell, have been without advantage to mankind. Nor is it demonstrated, that the limit of advancement is yet reached; or that the human mind must here pause, and hope to proceed no farther. These men have just opened illimitable fields of thought;

it

may be so too in theology. The system in the Scriptures was as perfect as astronomy was before Newton lived; yet it is possible, that there are truths, and relations of truths, which the mind has not yet contemplated. And it is certain, that there is no pursuit of truth so adapted to expand the mind, as the contemplation of the character of the Creator of all, of the relations which we sustain to him, of the wonders of the incarnation and atonement, and of the immortal destiny that opens before us in an advancing eternity.

One remark may be made here, respecting truth as revealed in the Bible. It is that the expressions which occur in the Scriptures are adapted to cover all the ground which the utmost investigations of the mind can make. Penned, indeed, in an obscure age, and amidst a people the reverse of those eminent for science, and by persons, too, evidently ignorant of many truths now perfectly familiar to us; yet the language which they employ meets the utmost discoveries of future times. A man whose mind is imbued with the sublimest views of the modern astronomy, will peruse the glowing language of David, in the nineteenth psalm, as if it had been written under the freshness of the discoveries of Newton. There