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WALKS IN CHILDHOOD.

BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.

THE years of my childhood passed away in humble and peaceful simplicity. I loved the shadow of high rocks, and the free music of the brooks in summer. My heart was full of gladness, though it scarcely knew why. I found companionship among the beautiful and tuneful things of nature, and was happy all the day. But when evening darkened the landscape, I sat down mournfully. There was no brother into whose hand I might put my own, and say, “Lead me forth, to look at the solemn stars, and tell me of their names." Sometimes, too, I wept in my bed, because there must never be a sister, to lay her gentle head upon the same pillow.

Often, at twilight, before the lamp was lighted, there came up out of my brotherless and sisterless bosom, what seemed to be a companion. I talked with it, and it comforted me. I did not know that its name was Thought. But I waited for it, and whatsoever it asked of me, I answered.

It questioned me of my knowledge. And I said, I knew where the first fresh violets of spring grew, and when the sweet lilly of the vale comes forth from its broad, green sheath, and where the vine climbs to hide its purple grapes, and how the nut ripens in the forest, after autumn comes with its sparkling frost. I knew how the bee is nourished in winter, by that essence of flowers, which her industry embalms; and I have learned to draw forth the kindness of the domestic animals, and to know the names of the birds that build their nests in my father's trees.

But Thought enquired of me, "What knowledge hast thou of those who reason, and have dominion

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over the things that God hath created?' Then I confessed, "Of my own race, save of those who nurture me, do I know nothing."

I was troubled at my ignorance. So, I went forth more widely, and earnestly regarded what was passing among men.

Once, I walked abroad, when the dews of the morning still lingered upon the grass, and the white lilies drooped their beautiful bells, as if shedding tears of joy. Nature breathed a perpetual song into the hearts of even her silent children. But I looked only on those whose souls have the gift of reason, and who are not born to die. I said, if the spirit of joy is in the frail flower that flourishes but for a day, and in the bird that bears to its nest but a single crumb of bread, and in the lamb that knows no friend but its mother, how much purer must be their happiness, who are surrounded with good things as with a flowing river, and whose knowledge need have no limit but life, and who know, that though they seem to die, it is to live for ever.

Then I looked upon a group of children. Their garb was neglected, and their locks uncombed. They were unfed and untaught, and clamoured loudly, with wayward tongues. I asked them why they went not to school with their companions, and they mocked at me.

I heard two friends speak harsh and violent words to each other, and turned away affrighted at the blows they dealt.

I saw a man with a bloated and fiery countenance. He seemed strong as the oak among the trees, yet were his steps more unsteady than those of the tottering babe. He fell heavily, and I wondered no hand was stretched out to raise him up.

I saw an open grave. A poor widow stood near it with her little ones. Yet, methought their own sufferings had set a deeper seal upon them, than sorrow for the dead.

Then I marvelled what it could be, that made the father and mother not pity their children when they hungred, nor call them home when they were in wickedness; and the friends forget their early love; and the strong man falls down senseless; and the young die before his time. And a voice answered, "it is intemperance." Yea, it hath wrought many other evils, and there is mourning throughout the land because of this."

So I returned, sorrowing. Had God given me a brother or a sister, I would have thrown my arms around their neck, and said, "touch not your lips, I pray you, to the poison cup, but let us drink the pure water which God hath blessed, all the days of our life."

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Again I went forth, and attentively looked on what passed around. I met a beautiful boy weeping. I said, Why dost thou mourn?" And he replied, "My father went to the wars, and is dead. He will come back to me no more."

I saw a woman pale and weak with grief. The sun shone upon her dwelling, and the woodbine climed to the window, and blossomed sweetly. But she beheld not their brightness. For she was a widow. Her husband had been slain in battle. There was joy for her no more.

I saw a hoary man. He sat by the way side. His head rested on his bosom. His garments were old, and his flesh wasted away. Yet he asked not for charity. I said, "Why is thy heart sad?" He answered, I had a son, an only one. I toiled from

his cradle, that he might be fed and clothed, and taught wisdom. He grew up to bless me. All my labor and weariness were forgotten. I knew no want, for he cherished me. But he left me, to be a soldier. On the field of battle he fell. Therefore, mine eye runneth down with water, because the comforter that should relieve my soul shall return no more."

I said, "Show me a field of battle, that I may know what war means?"

But he said, "Thou art not able to bear the sight. I will tell thee what I have seen when the battle was done. A broad plain, covered with dead, and those who struggled in the pains of death. The earth trampled, and stained with blood. Wounded horses rolling upon their riders, and tearing with their hoofs the mangled forms that lay near them. And for every man that was there in his blood and agony, how bitter must be the mourning of the parents who reared him, or of the wife whom he protected, or of the young children who sat upon his knee. Yet is this but a little part of the misery that war createth."

Then I said, "Tell me no more, I beseech thee, of battle or of war, for my heart is sick."

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When I saw that the silver haired man raised his eyes upwards, I kneeled down by his side. And he prayed, Lord, keep this child from anger and hatred and ambition, which are the seeds of war. And grant to all, who take the name of Jesus Christ, peaceable and meek hearts, that, shunning the deeds of strife, they may dwell at last in the country of peace, even in heaven."

Review Bepartment.

The School Girl in France. R. B. Seeley, and W. Burnside.

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Ir is related of Alexander the Great that he once said to a namesake who was a cowardly soldier, Either change thy name or mend thy manners.' It was with some such feeling that we rose from the perusal of this book; we felt that the professing Christians whose gross inconsistencies are so powerfully, yet so truly described in its pages, ought either to renounce the name of Protestant, or act more in accordance with the laws of Christ. The object of the work is to point out to parents and guardians the danger arising from the too common practice of sending young women to France to be educated.

"It is not (says the Author) a work of fiction, but a collection of facts, thrown together into one tale, with scarcely any additions, and a few other alterations than those which were absolutely necessary, in order to disguise names, places, and dates."

"It has fallen to her lot, (adds the author in her Preface), to witness many of the evils attendant on the too-common practice of sending young persons to the Continent, at that very period of life when the mind is most unguarded, the feelings most susceptible, and the principles most uncertain. She has seen the snares spread for the inexperienced, the spells thrown over the warm imagination, the fascinations entwined round the youthful hearts, by that most dangerous system of false religion, which, appealing with almost irresistible power to the senses, through them prostrates the reasoning faculties, and thus silently, but surely weaves its fatal net around the unsuspecting victim. She has thus seen the foundation of a Protestant education sapped and undermined, till the promising fabric, reared by parental fondness, has been levelled with the dust, and the deluded parents left to mourn their alienated prey to the seductions of popery, or the not less probable danger of unsettled principles and practical infidelity.

It is, unfortunately, too much the custom with parents to

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