The gardener appeared to be as much interested in us as we in him. When he led us to the greenhouse, and showed us the orange, lemon, and other trees loaded with fruit, besides various rare shrubs, among them an aloe fifty years old, he very gently intimated to us that gentlemen and ladies could be accommodated with oranges or lemons at a shilling apiece, and that they could be taken (if green) to our wives and daughters, and, moreover, that they would perfume our trunks on our journey and our bureaus after we returned home. The old orator! he knew just when to strike the wanderer's heart. Having provided ourselves with green limes, oranges, and lemons for our wives and daughters, as mementoes of the father of his country, and having sealed up the fountain which the impudent gardener had dared to unseal, we passed out.

As we left the garden, we passed a hut, whitewashed and apparently clean and comfortable, on the door-way of which squatted "one of God's images cut in ebony." Time had wrinkled her cheeks, and frosted her temples, and chilled her blood, and palsied her limbs, and put out her eyes. She was one of the most wretched looking objects I ever beheld. Her arms were like drum-sticks, her whole frame like a skeleton covered with skin, and her face destitute of expression-a mere blank; or, as Mrs. Royal said of Dr. C.'s, "like the buttend of a log of wood." By an invisible attraction, and without any consultation, we were drawn in a semicircle around the old woman, when the following colloquy occurred:

Mr. X. "Old woman, did you know General Washington?"

Negro. "Yes, sir, I knew him well."

Mr. X. "How old are you?"

Negro. "I don't know my age; but I was a smart girl at the time of Braddock's defcat."

Mr. X. "Have you any children?" Negro. "Yes; but they are all down the river." The old woman now turned querist, and raising her drooping head, she said, with a firm voice and a deep solemnity and interest, "Are any of you soldiers of Christ?" There was silence in heaven. That must have been a still silence. Well, the silence which ensued reminded me of it. One looked at another for an answer. At length Mr. Y. replied, with evident and perplexing embarrassment, "We don't know." As he stammered out his reply, I thought of King Agrippa before Paul. Mr. Y. is an intelligent, amiable, honorable man; but he stands confused before old Quashee. “O, | yes," rejoined the old woman, with a voice of commanding tones and flute-like melody, "O, yes, if you are soldiers of Christ you know it. The Lord does not do his work so poorly that his creatures don't know when it is done!" Another dead pause, and more embarrassment, increased by

ance.

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mutual sympathy. The old woman, as she waited for an answer, seemed to assume a new appearHer ebony countenance beamed with pene trating intelligence and Christian sympathy. I understood Solomon's declaration, "A man's wisdom maketh his face to shine." My heart, as I gazed upon her, whispered, "Glory to God!" and I verily believed had my companions been "cedars of Lebanon," I should have tried a shout. Brother P. was the first to break the silence by saying to me, "Brother T., that is good doctrine." Mr. X. "Old woman, are you blind?”

Now he need not have asked this question. She had no eyes. Turning her sightless eyeballs toward heaven, she exclaimed, with emphasis, "No, blessed be God! though I am blind to the things of this world, I am not blind to the things of the Spirit."

Methought the old woman's soul sustained the same relation to the world that her body did to her cottage. She was sitting at its door-way, her spirit's feet already resting upon the green of heaven, and her soul's eyes opening on its rainbow hues. Mr. X. "Old woman, you are very old, and must soon die."

Negro. "Yes, blessed be God!"

Mr. X. "Well, you are old, and sickly, and feeble, and blind, and your children are gone, and you are a slave. I should think that, with your hopes of heaven, death would be desirable. Are you not anxious to die?"

Negro. "O, no, I wait God's time: I learn to suffer as well as do his will. I shall gladly go when he calls for me."

Mr. X. "What Church do you belong to?"

Negro. "In the language of this world, I belong to the Baptist Church; but when we get to heaven, I suppose my answer will be, I am a member of the Church of Christ."

Now, when you talk of moral sublimity, don't point to Alexander conquering the world, to Hannibal surmounting the Alps, to Cæsar crossing the Rubicon, to Wolfe dying in the arms of victory, to Lawrence wrapping himself in the American flag, and crying, "Don't give up the ship!" Here is a specimen of moral sublimity far superior to all that was ever exhibited upon earth's battle-fieldsa poor, old, blind, discased slave, sitting upon the rock of truth, while the waves of affliction dash in mountains at her feet; yet, looking up into heaven, and clinging to some beautiful promise, she gives glory to God, and smiles upon the world.

We departed silently from the old saint. I said within myself, as I took my place in the carriage, "This, blessed Christianity, is thy triumph. Philosophy may teach man to endure excruciating torment without a murmur: it belongs to the Gospel alone to teach him to rejoice in his affliction."

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Original.

PRACTICAL RELIGION. MOST individuals, we presume, acknowledge the importance of correct views in regard to the doctrines and precepts of religion. Such views lie at the foundation of all that is good in life and character. Some truths there may be, concerning which a mistake does not result in fundamental error; yet there are others that enter into the very soul of piety, any misconceptions as to which must be productive of consequences the most lamentable. Else why has God seen fit to make unto man a revelation of his will? If religion consist exclusively in leading an honest life, and in discharging those duties which grow out of our social relations, the Bible can be dispensed with, as being in itself but little superior to some other code of morality. But if it teach love toward God as well as toward man-if it inculcate the principles of righteousness, peace, and holiness-if it open up the way by which salvation and eternal life can be attained—then it would be as absurd for us to expect to live holy, while indifferent to its teachings, as for an individual to attempt to guide a vessel across the ocean, while he contemned the use of chart and compass, and was ignorant of the first principles of navigation; or to determine the orbits and to measure the distances of the planets and fixed stars, while he is incredulous in regard to the truths of mathematics.

Still, correct opinions are comparatively of little importance, unless permitted to exercise their legitimate influence in forming and elevating the character. We may have speculative belief without a particle of vital godliness; we may have every thing that Pharisaism and Sadducism enjoin; we may live peaceably and deal equitably with mankind; we may have "all faith and all knowledge;" we may be unswerving in our maintenance of the truth, and able at all times to confound gainsayers, and yet, if there be in all this nothing but the desire to appear well before men, our character, in the sight of heaven, will not be far removed from that of the unbeliever and hypocrite. We may seem Christians, and it is possible to succeed in deluding ourselves into the belief that we are such; but the hour of affliction, the hour of death, and above all, the light of eternity, will prove that our professions have been in vain, and that our religion has been nothing but a scheme of the intellect-an inefficient, unsustaining, worthless principle.

It is a sentiment somewhat current in modern times, that religion consists in the susceptibility of a warm glow of feeling, in the power to weep profusely under the preaching of the Gospel, and in the faculty to discourse fervently respecting the state, the rise and fall, or the fluctuations of piety among surrounding friends and neighbors. Entertainers of such doctrine generally are indifferent to

the every-day duties of the Christian life: because these duties, in their estimation, are among the less weighty matters of the law. There is another school, which denies the necessity of having the heart engaged in religious concerns, yet demands acts of justice and mercy. Its advocates are regarded, and very properly too, as those who have the form of godliness without its power. Both views, in part, we doubt not, the reader will discover to be incorrect. Action is required to accompany feeling. The affections and the outward conduct alike must be controlled. We are to love the Lord our God with all our heart, and with all our soul, and with all our strength, and our neighbor as ourselves. It is not enough simply to assent to the Divine origin of Christianity, and occasion. ally to observe its injunctions; nor is it enough for us to believe that God is: we must believe that he is a rewarder of all those that diligently seek him. Our belief must have such an influence over us as to produce holy affections; and these affections, in turn, must lead to a holy life. Any thing short of this is, as we have already intimated, religion only in part-a species which, whatever may be its assurances, can never secure acceptance with God.

Practical religion, to employ a metaphor, is a deep river, unaffected by temporary rains-ever flowing and ever full, having its rise in the great fountain, God, and partaking, to some extent at least, of his purity and unchangeableness. It is not at one time a torrent, leaping wildly from the mountain's brow, tearing up and merging every thing in its course, and anon becoming a rivulet, with so scanty a supply of water as to seem almost dried up at its head. It is the quickening power, planted amidst the sensibilities of our nature by the Holy Spirit. It is the source, the only source, whence flows all true joy. Riches take to themselves wings and fly away; the breath of human applause is fitful and delusory, changing oftentimes into the blight of slander; worldly pleasure terminates in bitterness and disappointment:

"Grief, like a shade, on all its footsteps waits:
Scarce visible in joy's meridian height,
But downward as the blaze declining spreads,
The dwarfish shadow to a giant grows."

It is not thus with religion. Let the change of ex-
ternal circumstances be what it may, let the fate
of our possessions be what it will, this still abides
with us.
As the Psalmist said, so may the Chris-
tian say, "In the time of trouble the Lord shall
hide me in his pavilion-in the secret of his taber-
nacle shall he hide me; he shall set me upon a
rock. Mine head shall be lifted up above mine
enemies round about me: therefore will I offer in
his tabernacle sacrifices of joy; I will sing, yea I
will sing prais✪ unto the Lord."

There are two distinct views which may be taken of the subject of practical religion, as it stands connected with the trials of life-as triumphing over them, and as being advanced by them. The experience of every individual living, affords ample and irrefutable testimony that this world is a vale of tears. It is possible, indeed, to find those who for ever seem to wear the smile of joy and gladness; yet the heart may be full of grief and mourning. Few, very few, escape being buffeted with adversity's blast; and fewer still, we may add, can withstand its shocks, unless supported by the Divine influence of religion. Let wealth depart; let poverty, with its train of evils, come; let detraction point its arrows at the blameless breast; let sickness steal away the hue of health, and stamp upon the check the look of death; let one or all of these calamities come upon the Christian, and he will meet them in unruffled serenity and triumph. Like the rock in the raging current, with sunshine ever on its brow, so stands the witness for God in the evil day: his heart full of peace in Christ, when all without is tribulation and gloom; his spirit mourning more for the sins it has committed, than for the outward sorrows it endures; himself more concerned about having his crosses sanctified, than about having them removed; and turning his tranquil eye unto Him who doeth all things well, he says, "I know, O Lord, that thy judgments are just, and that thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me." Not only, however, does religion enable us to overcome the trials of life, but the varied principles of the Christian character are developed and strengthened by them. Nothing, in fact, is so well adapted to purify and brighten the graces bestowed by the Spirit, as the furnace of affliction. And hence, as the pious Leigh Richmond remarks, we look for the noblest specimens of Christian attainment, not among those who have always been surrounded by the sunshine of prosperity, but among those who have had to struggle hard with the world. Every Christian who has been severely tried, may, and ought to be, the better for it; and if he be not so, we do not say that he may not be saved, but let him take heed lest it should be so as by fire.

It is at the close of life that religion exhibits a still more glorious triumph. Death, with great propriety, has been termed "the king of terrors.” There is something inconceivably awful, in standing on the shore of time and endeavoring to pene. trate the vailed certainties of eternity. We look backward on life: it is but a shadow, a dream, a vapor; yet it has been the source of countless joys -of ten thousand delightful recollections. Many have been our friends-many our associations-but now we are to bid them all adieu, and must know "And feel, alas! that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress;

Yet still our trembling hearts complain, Nor will we mourn one moment less."

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In the hour of death nothing but religion can hush the voice of grief and check the tide of woenothing but it can irradiate the darkness of the tomb, and open up the vista to everlasting life.

But the highest triumph of religion is in eternity. The religion which we here enjoy is but the prelude of that exceeding and eternal weight of glory, which is in reversion for the faithful at God's right hand. In the present life we know only in part; in the future life we shall know even as we are known. Here we are often called to weep, but there, “to dim the radiant scene, the tear of sorrow never flows." There there is no more curse, neither pain nor death. There, with the ransomed of the Lord, shall we, if counted worthy, return and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon our heads; we shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. Here our converse with friends is short, and embittered with the thoughts of disunion; but there we shall form friendships that shall never be riven-there we shall be with an innumerable company of angels, and with the spirits of just men made perfect-and there, unto Him that loved us and gave himself for us, will we sing "Hallelujah, and power and dominion for ever." Yes, and more than this,

“There we shall see our Father's face,

And never, never sin :

There, from the rivers of his grace,

Drink endless pleasures in.""

Original.

II.

THE SPIRITUAL MARINER.

BY D. WELBURN.

THROWN upon the ocean of existence, without his own counsel or consent, man becomes the sport and prey of a thousand dangers. Though the voyage of life is to make, and the port of endless bliss to gain, he, in blindness and folly, trusts all his treasures and confides his every hope to the frail bark of human expectation. With nothing but the weaker than waxen cement of mortality, to protect him from instant and remediless ruin, he smiles at the gloom which gathers over his destiny, and fondly dreams of smoother seas, softer gales, and fairer skies. Roused from his fancied security by the thunders of Divine justice, all seems lost: for the vivid flashes of wrath discover the yawning waves of despair, and reveal to the wretched voyager all the horrors of his desperate situation. the darkness and distress of that melancholy hour, he turns his anxious eye to catch some gleam of light from the far off regions of unfading day. But,

In

alas! in vain. Another moment, and his every hope is lost-he sinks to rise no more. When, far in the distance, a speck upon the ocean appears: it draws nearer and nearer-and the life-boat of the Gospel, with the Savior of sinners at the helm, wafted onward by the gales of grace, approaches the miserable wreck. The silver trumpet is heard in heaven's own accents, proclaiming, "The Son of man is come to seek and to save that which was lost. Whosoever will, let him come." And while the ladder of Gospel promises is suspended, Jesus extends the help of his Spirit. But the weary wanderer, paralized with fear, seeing the step is so long, dreads to make the effort necessary to secure his salvation. He estimates the probabilities of safety by other means, until learning that "there is no other name given under heaven, among men, whereby we may be saved," he casts his cares on Jesus, and one step of obedient confidence lodges him safely in the arms of his adorable deliverer. Now, though storms may howl and waves beat high, the voice of the celestial Pilot is heard say. ing, "In the world ye shall have tribulation, but in me ye shall have peace." Though rough the passage, the coasts of glory soon heave in view. The tall spires and glittering domes of the heavenly Jerusalem are seen through the telescope of faith: the anchor of hope is cast within the vale. One wave of death-one gale of love-and the port of peace is gained-the weather-beaten mariner is landed in the haven of eternal repose:

"There all the ship's company meet,

Who sailed with the Savior beneath;
With shoutings each other they greet,
And triumph o'er sorrow and death.

The voyage of life's at an end,

The mortal affliction is past."

And anon the tomb

Of age came o'er him.
Called for its prey. He went, prepared to die.

The moral is, prize well a mother's love,
It tells of joys on earth, and joys above.

Original.

MINOR MORALS.

CHAPTER II.

FROM the side-walk our youthful reader proceeds probably to the door, calling to see a friend. Let us be careful even of the manner in which we pull the bell, no less on account of the bell-rope, that it be not done with the startling abruptness of a roue, than of our own gentility and propriety. If our acquaintance be not at home, we will quietly place our card in the hand of the waiter and depart. It is best-even most discreet-to send as few verbal messages as possible-our pencil and card sufficeand all is done politely-and we have exactly our own words, neither more nor less.

Loud talking and laughter in the street are particularly unbecoming, and out of place. Let your recognition, in look and gesture, be as animated and cordial as you please. The different degrees of acquaintanceship will prescribe their appropri ate salutations. But, even with intimates, bandy not familiar words in public, lest some waggish rejoinder, or sympathetic laugh from the crowd, put you to the blush for the freedom you have seemed to invite. And whether this result occur or not, the thing is equally improper. Much laughter and loud talking, or any roistering demonstrations, are improper and ungenteel any where, oppressive to hearers, and positively disrespectful in the presence of elders.

Never, when passed out of the nursery, be betrayed into romping. Even in partaking the lively exercise of the country at picknicks, in playing at battle-door, &c., let decorum preside over your sports. You may still play with gusto and animation without enacting the romp. Especially on the Sabbath, in walking to and from church, do not permit any young companion or irreverent admirer to revert to the amusements of the week, to use light words, or to betray you also into frivolous conversation. Let your silence, and a decided manner, mark your disapprobation. This is so exccedingly improper that it should be hardly classed in rebuke with other acts of levity.

Try upon all occasions to restrain a volatility of spirits. It is an excess which, if not unnatural, is at least an unwholesome waste of vitality, and which frequently results in self-mortification and chagrin, often causing misunderstandings and affronts; for remember that those whose animal spirits are not pitched to the same key with your own, cannot harmonize with them, nor understand their latitude. This excess, too, destroying that equilibrium so salutary in nature, is sure to have its answering cbb and lowness, subjecting you to the imputation of a moody, capricious, and uncertain character. But don't mistake me. Be as cheerful as you please. Have as much emotion, sensibility, and