THE NIGHTINGALE. THOUGHTS BY THE DEAD SEA. 211 destiny. The above are some of the descriptions of heaven; and who that reads them is not impressed with a sense of the desirableness of this celestial city as a place adapted to the highest physical enjoyment possible to conceive? This is the palace of God, the great centre whence radiates throughout the universe his glory. Around, above, below, far as the most enlightened and purified thought can travel, scenes of grandeur and glory will invite the study and increase the knowledge and bliss of the inhabitants. Heaven is not to be regarded as a place of mere physical enjoyment, but as a state of the purest and most exalted spiritual and intellectual happiness. The most delightful society is there. The good and great of all ages and countries are there. Many have sighed for an eclectic society on earth, and have labored to found communities composed of individuals possessing elective affinities; but, alas! sin has thrown man out of harmony with his Author, and holiness can alone restore that blessed state. There every thought, and feeling, and action, shall blend in the most delightful unison. Every mind and heart will be as harmonious as the song of the hundred and forty and four thousand, whose strains of sweetness and sublimity shall surpass infinitely far the softest, sweetest, most impassioned notes that ever fell on mortal ear, or ever heart conceived. In heaven there will be an infinite progression in knowledge as well as glory. We can now but "know in part." In regard to the mysteries of earth, and the sublimer mysteries of heaven, we can, at best, but "see through a darkened glass;" but when the perfect state has come, we shall no longer have our intellectual perceptions obscured, or our powers of reason limited. In the pure light of truth, that which was occult shall be revealed, and that which was mysterious shall be solved. "There we shall see, and hear, and know All we desired or wished below; THE NIGHTINGALE. BY MRS. H. C. GARDINER. LISTEN! From those deep shadowy trees On-on it comes, borne on the breeze; Rich in its melody, Delights the ear, and then again Sinks to low harmony. Its beauty cannot fail; THOUGHTS BY THE DEAD SEA. BY MISS HARRIET RICKARD. I STAND upon the shore of the Dead Sea-name of a thousand memories! I look around me, and behold naught but a long, rocky shore, stretching away on either hand, and the still water sleeping in the clayey basin. No shady palms wave in the breeze-no olive is there to speak of peace-no willow hangs its gentle boughs to tell of the departedno vine creeps over the rocky cliff, or gently twines around some firmer stem, to add beauty to the scene-no modest blossom lifts its lovely head, or dares give fragrance to a spot so dreary. The water itself, as if fearful of awaking the slumbering thousands beneath its turbid depths, forbears to movethe breeze that speeds by on its errand of gladness, ruffles not its leaden surface. How plainly are loneliness and desolation stamped on every feature of the landscape! and the mind, tuned by the hand of Him who first strung its chords, can but wake to mournful musings. There comes a voice of loneliness from the sterile cliff, the naked shore, and sullen waters, which strikes with a chill upon the heart. In the land of nature's wealth, the land of palms and vines, of rich perfumes, and life-inspiring breezes, it bursts upon the view like the dark grave yawning suddenly in the midst of life and revelry. Inspired by the natural features of a scene so indescribably desolate, melancholy musings inevitably possess the mind; but here, added to, and almost overpowering every emotion raised by the scene itself, is the tide of memory and association. The dark wave of time rolls back; the moldering record of buried ages opens before me. The dark scene brightens; the present vanishes, and centuries long buried spread their busy picture before me. I stand upon the spot whither the God of Israel directed the wandering steps of his chosen servant, when he called him forth from his country-his kindred-his father's house. spreads a rich and fertile valley. Every thing in natural scenery that can charm the eye, or captivate the mind, is here freely presented. The music of Jordan's waters falls on the ear as it leaves its verdant banks, sparkling and dancing amid the beauty, nourished by its own bright waters. The streamlet ripples through the grove. The cool fountain, as it gushes from its gravelly bed, attracts the thirsty passer-by. The leaves tremble in the breeze. The verdant meadow spreads its tempting richness on either hand, while the fair daughters of Lot, beneath the cool shadows of overhanging palms, watch their grazing flocks, or gather them to their folds, as the cool shades of evening fall upon the quiet valley. The low notes of the nightingale float upon the air, mingling their mellow music with the voice of prayer and praise, which ascends from the tent of the man of God to the Author of the many blessings that Here cluster here. But blended with this quiet picture, I trace the dark lines of sin and pollution. Even here man forgets the source of all these bounties, and plunges into luxury and extravagance, and, jarring harshly with all this melody of nature, raises the song and shout of unholy revelry. With hearts grown bold in sin, beneath the continued droppings of Heaven's favor, they dare to tempt his vengeance, as well as to despise his mercy. Proud towers raise their lofty spires, to mock the clouds, but point not the souls of those who crowd their portals to Him whose seat is in the heavens. Still Heaven was mindful of some who dwelt in this sweet vale; and angels, to whom it ever has been delegated to minister to the faithful, have here been wont to take visible forms, and commune with righteous Lot, amid the trials and sorrows which beset his path while he mingled with that God-forgetting people. Here Abraham entertained the heavenly visitants, when they left their own pure abode, to warn him of the cloud that hung heavy with God's righteous judgment over that devoted valley. And across the very spot where I now stand, perchance, angels conducted the household of trembling Lot, in haste, from the fiery death which awaited those upon whom the gentle dews of God's mercy had so long fallen in vain. But here the pic-customed to look upon as of no moment, as being ture changes. The calm dews of evening have fallen upon the tree and flower for the last time. The birds have sung their final farewell to bower and stream within that vale for ever. unchanging monument of Heaven's vengeance! great sepulchre of God's own building! death is thy province the dead thy treasure! life has no gift for thee; it stirs not in thy sunless depths, nor the waves upon thy shores! No dipping oar, no floating sail, breaks thy deep repose. Here hast thou watched, and here shalt watch, till Earth herself grows old with ceaseless mutations, above the gathered dead that sleep in thy embrace. No voice of busy commerce-no call of avarice-no shout of victor's trumpet shall rouse thee from thy vigil. Dark-voiceless—changeless, thou shalt still guard thy treasure, till He who gulfed it there, shall bid the "sea give up its dead." Those guilty men, reckless in their iniquity, have polluted the ear of Dark TRIFLES. BY MISS ELLEN RICKARD. THE Voice of the wise and prudent has been often and earnestly raised, to warn the world against attaching undue importance to trifles; nor would we gainsay this warning: unquestionably there is broad ground for it. But what are trifles? There are all about us what we call such-things that we are ac entirely unworthy of our attention; but let us pause and examine. The Almighty looks with interest upon all that he has made upon all that has a bearing upon the destiny of mortal man, temporal or eternal; and in the volume given for our instruction, he has not omitted to show that, amid the immensity of his works, he is not unmindful of those which, in our pride, we look on as the veriest trifles. Even the hairs of our head are all numbered by him; the sparrow falls not without his notice; he clothes the grass in its mantle of green, and spreads the rich robe upon the lily of the field; his watchful eye notices the insect which we so heedlessly trample under our feet, his ear attends to the cry of the young raven, and his hand supplies its wants; for he sees greatness in what we despise. Aught that has occupied the care of Omnipotence in its formation and preservation, may man presume to call trifling? And has human existence trifles? Is that which pertains to the moral nature of less importance? Life is made up of trifles-of little moments, even as atoms compose the universe, and seconds fill the circle of eternity. The sluggard, as he pleads excuses for himself, says it is only a minute; 'only an hour," says the idler, "a mere trifle; it would amount to nothing if ever so well improved; one moment will make no difference." But is it thus? No; for a few, a very few of these trifles, make the grand sum of life: each as it lapses from us leaves the number less, till at length, moment by moment, all are gone. Why, every thing depends on the trifles-the little things! A drop from the ocean would not be missed, and yet it takes the drops to make the ocean. 66 TRIFLES. A thread to the floating sail would not appear to add to its length, but take away the threads and all is gone. A sand upon the sea shore is nothing, and yet it helps to form the great whole. The tiny drops make the summer shower, and by their genial influence call forth the wealth of the vegetable world. Let the drops, conscious of their individual insignificance, refuse their aid, and the pleasant grove would no longer spread its embowering canopy-the rivers would cease to flow-the cool water would no longer gush from its gravelly bed. Should the sunbeam, because its feeble light alone cannot illumine the universe, refuse to shine forth from its fountain, where would be life and light to us? Every ray helps to warm and cheer the earth, and every moment in life tells on the scroll of time. Where can we find a person who is not busy every day with what are called trifles? Abstract each moment's work, or thought, from all the rest, and it seems a trifle; but on these, yea, on some one of these may turn our usefulness-our happiness-our all. 213 Is it wise, then, to despise trifles? No; for there is nothing so small that may not produce great effects-small steps from the strait path may lead eternally astray. The reputation we enjoy in society depends much on trifles, and they who would, and do enjoy a fair name, procure and preserve it more by trifles than by acts which the world esteem great. With woman this is especially the case. She is the one to be looked upon with a scrutinizing eye-all are critics upon her course-all are judging of the propriety of her dress, her talk, her walk, her smiles, and her frowns. Indeed, if she is not awake to every trifle, she may soon find herself carried down by the tide of public prejudice. A thoughtless expression, some little misstep, a smile given in the plenitude of kindness, where propriety would dictate a reproving look, may cost her that confidence and regard which are her richest treasures. The sum of human enjoyment depends not less upon trifles. The stream of small pleasures fills the ocean of happiness, and the anguish of life is but the repetition of trifling pain. Even so, little kindnesses how much they speak! how pleasant and desirable do they make life! Every dark object is made light by them, and every tear of sorrow is brushed away. When the heart is sad, and despondency sits at the entrance of the soul, a trifling kindness, a gentle word, or even a sympathizing look, may drive de It is folly to scorn a small thing either for evil or for good; for a look may work our ruin-a word may make our wealth and happiness. A single step, more or less, this way or that, hath often saved life, or destroyed it-built up fortune and reputation, and cast them down. Surely it is the trifles that move the world-it is the trifles that speak for us in words of praise or disapprobation-it is the trifles that formspair away, and make the path of life cheerful and the character. The mother looks upon her darling infant, and smiles to see it strike its brother, or snatch away its toy; it is a trifle-a petty, pleasing trifle, and she forgets that the character is made up of trifling acts-that errors now inculcated poison not one cup alone, but the fountain, whence flows an ever-widening stream from which thousands are to drink. Each indulgence of wrong-each lesson of good is a seed for future weal or woe. The acorn may seem trivial-the tender shoot may look fair and pliable; but when it becomes the unyielding oak of evil passions or principles, then may be seen the influence of apparent trifles-little indulgences in youth. pleasant: it rises from misery and degradation, and throws around the soul those hallowed joys that were lost in Paradise. To the eye of affectionate remembrance, too, how much of the coloring of the past is made up of trifles! The memory of a little word unkindly spoken to one beloved, may come back upon the heart when it is too late for repentance, and burn with a fire which not all our tears can quench. The last look of recognition-the smile that gilds the soul's departure-the last faint breath upon the lip "The tender farewell, on the shore Of this wide world, when all is o'er, each is a gem in the treasury of affection, too rich for If we seek for the cause of the troubles and afflictions of mankind, we shall hear of a thousand little trifles which have conspired to render life a burden. Could we cast off from us the little troubles, momen The inebriate, if not wholly lost to a sense of good and evil, looks back with an almost overpowering sense of sorrow to the first drop-the first glass. Ah! that first offer told his ruin; and how many proofs in every walk of life are to be witnessed of the effects of trifles! The youth bent on doubtful pleasure says, "Yet this once-it is a trifle-only another hour of folly; what is one among so many?tary trifles, and prevent their sting from entering the whom shall I harm? a little ill has much pleasure in it." Fatal mistake! those trifles-those single hours of foolish indulgence fasten on the soul-they leave their mark, which may never be erased; and long, in after life, it may harass the soul, and, in spite of every effort, bring it into ruin. Again and again, trifle after trifle he transgresses, till, urged on by the accumulated trifles, he finds himself in despair. heart, we should avoid the great cause of our anguish. And, on the other hand, it is wisdom to study our pleasure in trifles. We shall find a comfort in it unperceived by restless aspirants for wealth and fame; for trifling joys oft-repeated fill up the cup of happiness, and, while they fall like heaven's dew upon the heart, seem to exhale a sweetness and freshness even to heaven. Give me the mind that I was born in Unterstorch, grand-dukedom of Hesse, and brought up in the Roman Catholic Church. In my twelfth year, I was admitted to confession and to communion, and absolved of all my sins. I was a Roman Catholic Christian, like all my neighbors-went regularly on Sabbath morning to the church, and the rest of the day to the coffee-house, ball-room, and card-table. The huge rock that wrecks whole navies, and protects the shipwrecked from an ocean's grave, is but the work of an insignificant worm. The aged sire, as he bends over the grave, looks back along life's journey, and beholds the long future that spread out before his youthful fancy, shrunk to the short past-readily and easily absolved me. At other times, he a point amid the gathered waves of that shoreless sea, and himself on life's utmost verge, about to cast anchor in the silent grave. So is the happiness or misery of human beings: the mind can suffer or enjoy but a single moment at a time, and the aggregate of these moments, trivial in themselves, constitutes the whole life of bliss or anguish; and the mind that is prepared to trust all trifles to God, and gather the fruit of joy from them, is in the path of wisdom, while the mind by folly led will make every present moment, each passing trifle, trouble in itself, and the seed for a future harvest full of bitterness. While we look for the lion in our path, the little foxes may destroy the vines. The general who has braved a thousand swords, has fallen by the needle; and the saint who has withstood even the fires of martyrdom, has perished by an evil thought. In short, throughout the visible universe-in all the intercourse of society-in the operations of the moral and intellectual nature, we find such an untold tide of influence flowing from causes which we are wont to regard as trifles-such a weight of responsibility growing out of the most trivial acts, the least important relations, that thought baffled flows back upon its source; and, with a feeling of awe, in view of the mighty mysteries which crowd upon every avenue of mortal life, we ask, as at the beginning, what of all we see and know, shall we dare to pronounce trifles? ENGAGING MANNERS. To be amiable in society, be mild and affable in your demeanor. Let that courtesy which springs not so much from studied rules as from a gentle heart, characterize your deportment. Affectation is certain ruin; while the practice of forming one's manners on fantastic models will insure the contempt and ridicule of every sensible and well-informed mind. By studying Chesterfield, and others, it is possible to obtain an artificial ease, which will pass for good manners; but it is only by a generous disposition that you can secure the esteem of the virtuous and intelligent. { Three or four times a year we confessed our sins. The priest was, at times, in very good humor, and was in bad humor, and even angry; and he laid upon me heavy penances. To say the litany of all the saints, to go through the stations of suffering, and to pray the rosary, were the most frequent of them. The rosary was my easiest and most welcome penance; for very often I let two beads fall at once. O, blind Popery! thou art always running counter to God's will. God calls upon us, in his word, first to repent, and then to receive the remission of sins; but the Pope and his priests absolve first, and then force the people to do penance. While walking with my associates in the broad road of sin, it pleased God to put it into my heart to emigrate to this country. Coming, by this direction, to America, I settled at Cleveland. Having visited the several Protestant churches in that city, and finding no masses said in them, I did not like them; since I had been taught, by my priests, to consider the mass above every other religious service. Hearing, by a young man, that there was a Catholic priest in the neighborhood of Sandusky City, I went to see him. Having made my confession to him, he laid so heavy a pecuniary penance on me, that I told him I could not pay it. Seeing my inability, and giving me a severe castigation, he pardoned my sins freely. About this time, an impression began to weigh on my heart, that I was not prepared for death and heaven. Not long afterward, I married a Protestant lady, and settled in Toledo. Having again an inclination to confess, I feared the priest would be angry at my connection with a Protestant. Falling in, at another place, with a Methodist preacher, Rev. Christopher Hævener, who preached so searchingly that my heart was laid open, and pungently convicted, I invited him to dine with me. His conversation, at the table, gave me a deeper interest in his doctrine. On a second visit to my house, he discovered himself to be my old blacksmith at Sandusky. In him I saw the power of God. His third sermon, accompanied by the grace of God, gave me to see * Translated from the German. THE HOUR OF PARTING.-BETTER DAYS. my whole condition. I went home to pray, but was ashamed to let even my wife know my state of mind, although she was wrought upon in exactly the same manner. We, however, both saw the danger of the unconverted heart, and, thanks to God, the preacher directed us to the right source of safety and salvation. After a penitential struggle of three months, we received, from no earthly priest, but from Jesus himself, a full absolution, and perfect rest to our souls. All things old have now passed away; and behold all things are now become new. O, that all Roman Catholics might know how good it is to live with Jesus! We then joined the Methodist Church, and, every day, we feel more and more thankful that we did so. We were the first members; but there is now a little society of eighteen; and our daily prayer is, that God may multiply the number of his children. It is a wonderful blessing to us Germans, that the Methodist Church has seen fit to send us religious shepherds, who go searching out the lost sheep, and who bring them back from their wanderings to the fold of Jesus. Alleluiah! My heart sighs, my lips pray, my eyes weep, that God may soon have mercy, dethrone the false vicar in Rome, and bring my dear kindred, now shrouded in darkness, to the light of revelation, and to the feet of Jesus! It is unavoidable. However long our life may be, it must have an end. Its last scenes will be viewedits last deeds will be performed. The hands must cease to work; the feet to move; the heart to beat; the cheeks to glow, and the eyes to sparkle. All must lie down alike in the grave, and be food for corruption and the worm. It cannot be far off. For what is our life? A dream-a vapor-a tale that is told-a ripple in the stream. What is beauty? While we stop to gaze and admire, the grace thereof perisheth. What is power? We just take it by the hand, and it bids us adieu for a successor. What is fame? She just crowns us with her wreath of joy, then plucks it off to sport with others. What is wealth? While feasting us, and rolling us in his car of pleasure, he dismisses us to tempt some other pilgrims on their way to eternity. Every thing reminds us that the city of our rest is not here, but that we, with all who have lived before, must arise and depart. It may be very near. The body of man-how frail-how weak-how liable to disease and death! "Our life contains a thousand springs, 215 "Man that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble. He cometh forth like a flower, and is cut down: he fleeth, also, as a shadow, and continueth not." Yes, the hour is coming, and it is a fearful and solemn hour to the wisest and the best, when we must bid adieu to the scenes we love, the friends we cherish, and the kindred we adore. We may strive to banish the thought of our human weakness-we may mingle in the strife and business of the world-we may drink of its streams of pleasure, and be sated with its joys and delights; but the reflection haunts us still. The decree has gone forth it is irrevocable: Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return. BETTER DAYS. BY AMANDA F DRMOTT. TIME, like an angry, rolling tide, Though morning disappointment brings, How oft the path of life I've found 'Tis mine to mourn misfortune's shock, My erring heart has sorrows borne, The friendless heart that harbors there, If not on earth, there is in heaven Then if on earth I ne'er can gain |