lic place, the termini of the railroad, landing-places of the steamboat, and often on board as well, numbers of lads are found vending this trash. The people in general, the ladies especially, are continually seen amusing or exciting themselves by revelling in this world of fancy, often extremely vulgar and foolish. To give an instance: on one of my journeys by railroad, there sat before me a family, consisting of a husband, wife, and child, perhaps two years old. This mother and wife, a very genteel and lady-like person, got hold of one of these novels, and scarcely lifted her eyes from her book the whole of the distance they travelled, which occupied the greater part of the day. The husband, in the meantime, had the entire care of the little boy. It cried, and he patted it into good-humour; it slept on his lap, and he fanned it; it required food, he ransacked the reticule to find cakes and sweatmeats, and, in fact, was a perfect nurse. All this time the mother was completely absorbed in her tale, and took not the least notice of either husband or boy; and, in fact, seemed unconscious that they were present, or that she had any duties to perform towards one or the other. This pernicious habit is eating into the American mind, and will produce sad and deleterious effects on a great scale.-- Dr. Dixon. ABSURDITY OF IMAGE WORSHIP. When the Empress Constantia desired Eusebius to send her the image of Jesus Christ, he expostulated with her on the impropriety and absurdity of her requisition in the following striking words: "What kind of image of Christ does your imperial majesty wish to have conveyed to you? Isit the image of his real and immutable nature?-or is it that which he assumed for our sakes, when he was veiled in the form of a servant? With respect to the form of God, I presume you are not to learn, that no man hath known the Son, but the Father; neither hath any man known the Father but the Son; and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal him.' But you ask for the image of Christ, when he appeared in human form, clothed in a body similar to our own. Let me inform you, that that body is now blended with the glory of Deity; and all that was mortal in it is absorbed in life." CONSISTENCY. He is a bad Christian who cuts the coat of his profession according to the fashion of the time, or the humour of the company he falls into.-Gurnall. SLEEPING FOR SORROW. BY J. K. MITCHELL. Poetry. "And when he rose up from prayer, and was come to his disciples, he found them sleeping for sorrow.”—LUKE xxii. 45. Upon the cold, cold earth they lie, While night-winds wildly o'er them sweep, Their canopy the clouded sky, Yes! the big drops of agony The cold dank limbs of Jesus steep, And they so near him close the eye Of sorrow, and for grief they sleep. How soundly sleep! though nature sighs, And heaven is sad, and seraphs weep, And to his God, in sorrow, cries Their tortured friend, and yet they sleep. And they are sad, and yet they sleep. Oh, what strange anguish must have Their Master, Saviour, Guide, their all, Their Polar-star on life's dark deep, Is soon by traitor hands to fall; They fear it, yet in death they sleep. wrung Their hearts, on Olive's rocky steep, When nature fail'd, and all unstrung, They sank into reluctant sleep! But he, who led them from the shore Assauged their sorrow' oy a sleep; Far, far beyond the realms of sleep. Oh, thus, when I, by sorrows wrung, May he, who felt himself the throes Direct my vision to the skies, Where saints for ever cease to weep, Where seraphs lift unclouded eyes, And sorrow never sinks to sleep! -Scenes in the Lives of the Apostles. I stay to hear the night-winds wail Where is thy spirit flown? I gaze above thy look is imaged there; Oh, come, whilst here I press mild And thrilling tones of tenderness, Yes, bless thy weeping child! And o'er thine urn-Religion's holiest shrine Oh, give his spirit undefiled To blend with thine! The Children's Gallery. CHILDREN. "A little child shall lead them." ONE cold morning, I looked into a milliner's shop, and there I saw a hale, hearty, well-browned young fellow from the country, with his long cart-whip, and a long shag coat, holding up a little matter, and turning it upon his great fist. And what do you suppose it was? A baby's bonnet! A little, soft, blue satin hood, with a swan's-down border, white as the fallen snow, with a frill of rich blonde around the edge. By his side stood a very pretty woman, holding, with no small pride, the baby-for it evidently was the baby. Any one could read that fact in every glance, as they looked at each other, and the little hood, and then at the large, blue, unconscious eyes, and fat, dimpled cheek of the little one. It was evident that neither of them had ever seen a baby like that before. "But really, Mary," says the young man, "is'nt three dollars very high?" Mary very prudently said nothing, but taking the little bonnet, tied it on the little head, and held up the baby. The man looked and grinned; without another word, down went the three dollars-all that last week's butter come to; and as they walked out of the shop, it is hard to say which looked most delighted with the bargain. "Ah," thought I, "a little child shall lead them." Another day, as I was passing a carriage factory, along one of our back streets, I saw a young mechanic at work on a wheel. The rough carriage-body stood beside him and there, wrapped up snugly, all hooded and cloaked, sat a little dark-eyed girl, about a year old, playing with a great shaggy dog. As I stopped, the man looked up from his work, and turned admiringly towards his little companion, as much as to say, " See what I have got here?" "Yes," thought I, "and if the little lady ever gets a glance from admiring swains as sincere as that, she will be lucky." Ah, these children! little witches! pretty even in all their faults and absurdities! winning even in their sins and iniquities! See, for example, yonder little fellow in a naughty fit-he has shaken his long curls over his deep blue eyes-the fair brow is bent in a frown-the rosy lip is pushed up in infinite defiance and the white shoulder thrust naughtily forward. Can any one but a child look so pretty, even in their naughtiness? flashing smiles and tears, as the good comes back all in a rush, and you are overwhelmed with protestations and promises! They are irresistible, too, these little ones. They pull away the scholar's pen-tumble about his papers-make somersets over his books; and what can he do? They tear newspapers-litter the carpets-break, pull, and upset and then jabber unimaginable English in self-defence; and what can you do for yourself? "If I had a child," says the precise man, "you should see." He does have a child; and his child tears up his papers, tumbles over his things, and pulls his nose, like all other children; and what has the precise man to say for himself? Nothing-he is like everybody else; a little child shall lead him!" 66 Poor little children! they bring and teach us human beings more good than they get in return. How often does the infant, with its soft cheek and helpless hand, awaken a mother from a worldliness and egotism, to a whole world of new and higher feelings! How often does the mother repay this, by doing her best to wipe off, even before the time, the dew and fresh simplicity of childhood, and make her daughter too soon a woman of the world, as she has been. The hardened heart of the worldly man is unlocked by the guileless tones and simple caresses of his son; but he repays it in time by imparting to his boy all the crooked tricks, and hard ways, and callous maxims which have undone himself. Go to the jail-to the penitentiary -and find there the wretch most sullen, brutal, and hardened. Then look at your infant son. Such as he to you, such to some poor mother was this man. That hard hand was soft and delicate; that rough voice was tender and lisping; fond eyes followed him as he played; and he was rocked and cradled as something holy. So, of the tender, weeping child, is made the callous, heartless man; of the all-believing child, the sneerThen comes the instant change-ing sceptic; of the beautiful and modest, the shameless and abandoned; and this is what the world does for the little one. There was a time when the Divine One stood on earth, and little children sought to draw near to him. But harsh human beings stood between him and them, forbidding their approach. "Suffer little children to come unto me," is still the voice of the Son of God; but the cold world still closes around and forbids.-Mrs. H. B. Stowe. ANECDOTES OF DOGS. THE PHYSICIAN DOG. DURING a very severe frost and fall of snow in Scotland, the fowls did not make their appearance at the hour when they usually retired to roost, and no one knew what had become of them; the house-dog at last entered the kitchen, having in his mouth a hen apparently dead. Forcing his way to the fire, the sagacious animal laid down his charge upon the warm hearth, and immediately set off. He soon came again with another, which he deposited in the same place, and so continued till the whole of the poor birds were rescued. Wandering about the stackyard, the fowls had become quite benumbed by the extreme cold, and had crowded together, when the dog, observing them, effected their deliverance, for they all revived by the warmth of the fire. SENTIMENTAL DOGS. Dogs have been known to die from excess of joy at seeing their masters after a long absence. An English officer had a large dog, which he left with his family in England, while he accompanied an expedition to America, during the war of the colonies. Throughout his absence, the animal appeared very much dejected. When the officer returned home, the dog, who happened to be lying at the door of an apartment into which his master was about to enter, immediately recognised him, leaped upon his neck, licked his face, and in a few minutes fell dead at his feet. A favourite spaniel of a lady recently died on seeing his beloved mistress, after long absence. A LADY'S-MAID DOG. His mistress always has her shoes warmed before she puts them on; but during the late hot weather, her maid was putting them on without their having been previously placed before the fire. When the dog saw this, he immediately interfered, expressing the greatest indignation at the maid's negligence. He took the shoes from her, carried them to the fire, and after they had been warmed as usual, he brought them back to his mistress with much apparent satisfaction, evidently intending to say, if he could, "It is all right now." AN ENVIOUS DOG. Mr. Charles Davis, huntsman of her Majesty's stag-hounds, informed me that "a friend of his had a fine Newfoundland dog, who was a great favourite with the family. While this dog was confined in the yard, a pet lamb was given to one of the children, and which the former soon discovered to be sharing a great portion of those caresses he had been in the habit of receiving. This circumstance produced so great an effect on the poor animal, that he fretted, and became extremely unwell, and refused to eat. Thinking that exercise might be of use to him, he was let loose. No sooner was this done, than the dog watched his opportunity, and seized the lamb in his mouth. He was seen conveying it down a lane, about a quarter of a mile from his master's house, at the bottom of which the river Thames flowed. On arriving at it, he held the lamb under water till it was drowned, and thus effectually got rid of his rival. On examining the lamb, it did not appear to have been bitten or otherwise injured; and it might almost be supposed that the dog had chosen the easiest death in removing the object of his dislike." AN HONEST DOG. When Shark was first admitted to the house, it chanced that one day he and Smoaker were left alone in a room with a table on which luncheon was laid. Smoaker might have been left for hours with meat on the table, and he would have died rather than have touched it; but at that time Shark was not proof against temptation. I left the room to hand some lady to her carriage, and as I returned by the window, I looked in. Shark was on his legs, smelling curiously round the table; whilst Smoaker had risen to a sitting posture, his ears pricked, his brow frowning, and his eyes intensely fixed on his son's actions. After tasting several viands, Shark's long nose came in contact with about half a cold tongue; the morsel was too tempting to be withstood; for all the look of curious anger with which his father was intensely watching, the son stole the tongue, and con- ! veyed it to the floor. No sooner had he done so, than the offended sire rushed upon him, rolled him over, beat him, and took away the tongue. THE CHILD'S WAY TO HEAVEN. "О, I am weary of earth," said the child, As it gazed with a tearful eye On the snow-white dove that it held in its hand; "For whatever I love will die." And the child came out of its little bower, It came and it look'd abroad, And it said, "I'm going this very hour; I am going to heaven and God." There was a shining light where the sun had set, And red and purple too; And it seem'd as if earth and heaven met, All around the distant blue. And the child look'd out on the far, far west, And it saw a golden door, There was one bright streak on the cloud's dark face, . As if it had been riven; Said the child, "I will go to that very place, For it must be the gate of heaven." So away it went to follow the sun; But the heavens would not stay; For always the faster it tried to run, They seem'd to go farther away. Then the evening shades fell heavily, With night-dews cold and damp; And each little star on the dark blue sky Lit up its silvery lamp. A light wind wafted the fleecy clouds, And it seem'd to the child that they Were hurrying on to the west, while the stars, And wounded its lite feet. And the child kne: down on the damp, green sod, While it said its even ng prayer; And it fell asleep, as it thought of God, Who was listening to it there. A long, long sleep; for they found it there, When the sun went down next day; It look'd like an angel pale and fair, But its cheek was cold as clay. The sunbeams glanced on the drops of dew, That lay on its ringlets bright, Sparkling in every brilliant hue, Like a coronet of light. But the spirit bright had entered the gate, Beyond which angels dwell; And safe from the griefs and chills of earth, Felt joys no tongue can tell. O children, you who its dust weep a'er, Where the evening sun had gone to his Remember that Jesus Christ's the door rest But a little while before. To the world where angels dwell. -Montgomery. London: Printed by William Tyler, Bolt-court. |