=

ead!"

vincing symptoms of exhaustion; though, when she reached
ome, she fainted repeatedly, and it appeared as if her wed-
ing-day was to be her last. Next day she was better; and a
omentary delusion came over Harry's mind that she might
ill live. But the "wife" felt that it was a delusion; she
as done with this world, she said, and contented to be done
ith it-"Harry, my own husband, remember me when I am
Two weeks after the wedding, it appeared evident that her
eparture was at hand. Harry and her mother sat up during
e night, reading at intervals portions of the New Testament.
he light of morning had begun to penetrate the window-
inds, when Eliza said, in a whispering, but not complaining
ne," Mother, my feet are very cold-oh, mother, I am be-
ming so cold!" and then the mother, whose heart was too
ry for tears, made a sign to Harry that Death had of a cer-
inty entered the chamber, and was hovering over the bed.
"Where is Harry ?" she murmured, and he took her hand
his. "Harry, read a verse to me;" and he repeated from
emory, "Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth
ot yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when He
all appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as
e is."

"Ah, that is good." she said; "science is very good,
arry, but that is worth all your science to me just now.
arry, come near me; I cannot see you-where are you?"
"I am here, dear Eliza."

And mother?"

May God bless you both-Harry, call me 'wife' before I

He leaned forward to whisper the affectionate word in her r, and heard her muttering, "What we know not now, we all know hereafter." Then a few incoherent expressions llowed; a gentle sigh, and one or two sobs; and just as the ys of the sun illuminated the apartment, the spirit of a noble eature departed.

A HYMN.

Oh, Unseen Spirit! now a calm divine

Comes forth from thee, rejoicing earth and air;
Trees, hills and houses all distinctly shine,
And thy great ocean slumbers every where.
The mountain ridge against the purple sky

Stands clear and strong with darkened rocks and dells,
And cloudless brightness opens wide on high

A home aerial, where thy presence dwells.
The chime of bells remote, the murmuring sea,
The song of birds in whispering copse and wood,
The distant voice of children's thoughtless glee,

The maiden's song, are all one voice of good.
Amid the leaves' green mass, a sunny play

Of flash and shadow stirs like inward life; The ship's white sail glides onward far away, Unhaunted by a dream of storm or strife. Upon the narrow bridge of foot-worn plank

The peasant stops, where swift the waters gleam,
And broods as if his heart in silence drank

More freshening draughts than that untainted stream.
The cottage roof, the burn, the spire, the graves,
All quaff the rest of seasons hushed as this,
And earth enjoys, while scarce its foliage waves,
The deep repose and harmony of bliss.

O thou, the Primal Fount of life and peace,
Who shedd'st thy breathing quiet all around,
In me command that pain and conflict cease,
And turn to music every jarring sound.
How longs each gulf within the weary soul
To taste the life of this benignant hour-
To be at once with thine untroubled Whole,
And in itself to know thy hushing power!

TO-MORROW.

This would be a happy world enough were men more con tent with to-day, and less anxicus about to-morrow. One-half the misery in the world is not real, but anticipated misery. A concern for this bugbear 'to-morrow' is at the bottom of the majority of our troubles. And yet if a man will but glance over his yesterdays, he will at once see how foolish it is to fret oneself about the time to come; for he will find in every yesterday a miniature grave, as it were, dug by a too fearful imagination, in which is buried all his little store of daily happiness. A prudent thoughtfulness for the future every man should entertain; but it is worse than folly to permit the breath of a to-morrow, like a mildew, to blight the flowers that bloom around our pathway. Let us enjoy the sunshine while it is about us; and if beneath the horizon clouds are concealed, why anticipate the gloom in which they will enshroud us? Truly has the poet asked

"What avails it that indulgent heaven
From mortal eyes has wrapped the woes to come,
If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,
Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?
Enjoy the present; nor with heedless cares

Of what may spring from blind misfortune's womb,
Appal the shortest hour that life bestows.
Serene, and master of yourself, prepare

For what may come; and leave the rest to heaven."

This is the only true philosophy. It is often the case tha an imaginary evil is productive of more mischief than the real

So of the minor evils of life

The truth is, men

calamity. It has frequently been observed in times of great
mortality, that where disease carried off its one thousand fear
destroyed its ten thousand.
where the happiness of one is affected by real misfortune that
of ten is destroyed without any just cause.
are not content with their every day happiness. They slight
the good they have in their anxiety for the good to come.-
They waste their daily supply of oil in fruitless attempts to
procure a supply for the merrow, forgetting that He who re-
plenishes the cruise is inexhaustible. Every man has oil
enough in his lamp to light him to contentment-that better
name for happiness-if he will but use it aright. But he will
not use it aright, and that is the mischief of it.

Some men seem to act as though there were not evils
enough already in the world, besetting us on every hand, and
so they go to work piling up men of straw, converting them
at once into so many giants, and then waste their strength and
spirits in battling them. There is hardly a man who has not
a lion in his path, roaring like all possessed. And yet the
growl is all that is known of the lurking danger.
While to some this same to-morrow
of which we are
writing is pregnant with nothing but direful evils, to others it
is the great store-house of hopes and enjoyments. The past
is nothing-the present nothing-the future every thing.-
Neglecting all the means of enjoyment scattered profusely
around them, they press on to the attainment of some unat-
tainable good. To them happiness, like the bird, Huma, is
ever on the wing-flitting tantalizingly before them, but never
perching so that they can lay hold of it. And so they wear
But why pursue
away their lives in one vain endless chase.

the theme? We might spin out our thread-bare morality until doomsday and nobody the better for it. We will close our very desultory thoughts with the following lines so applicable and so truthful we cannot weli omit them.

"To-morrow, didst thou say?

Methought I heard Horatio, say, to-morrow.
Go to-I will not hear of it-to-morrow!
'T is a sharper that stakes his penury

Against thy plenty-who takes thy ready cash,

And pays thee nought but wishes, hopes, and promises.

The currency of idiots. Injurious bankrupt,

That gulls the easy creditor! To-morrow!
It is a period no where to be found

In all the hoary registers of time,
Unless perchance in the fool's calender.
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those that own it. No, my Horatio,

'T is fancy's child, and folly is its father:
Wrought on such stuff as dreams are; and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening."

not of loose desire. The man, whose eyes and soul are open to the beauty there is around him, sees every where encouragement. To him the touch of nature's hand is warm and genial. The air does not seem to pinch him, as it does most narrow-minded ones, who can see no good in any thing but gaia; to whose utilitarian vision most that is natural looks hostile. He is not contracted into himself by cautious fear and suspicion, afraid to let his words flow freely, or his face relax in confidence, or his limbs move gracefully, or his acions come out whole and hearty. He trusts nature; for he as kissed her loveliness; he knows that she smiles encouragement to him. Now think what it is that makes virtue so uch shunned. Partly, our depravity, if you please. But artly, also, her numerous ungraceful specimens. For it is ae instinctive expectation of all minds, that what is excellent sall also be beautiful, lovely, natural, and free. Most of the sety, we see about us, is more or less the product of restraint ad fear. It stands there in spectral contrast with nature.pprove it we may; but we cannot love it. It does not bear e divine stamp; it chills, not converts. The love of nature akes in us an ideal of moral beauty, of an elevation of charter which shall look free and lovely, something that shall se its place naturally and as matter of course in the centre nature, as the life of Jesus did.

Again, the love of beauty awakens higher aspirations in us. e, who has felt the beauty of a summer like this, has drunk an infinite restlessness, a yearning to be perfect, and by He can never more rest contented with at he is. And here is the place, to attempt some account the true significance of beauty, and of what is its office to

edience free.

soul.

POOR JACK.*

BY CAPT. MARRYAT, AUTHOR OF 'PETER SIMPLE,''JACOB FAITHFUL,' &c.

PART VII.

CHAPTER XXVIII...........Some little difference in the proceeds of the
Chapter, and my former "Copper for Poor Jack, your honor."
On our arrival at my mother's, I found a letter from Bram-
ble, stating that he would be at Greenwich in two days, and,
further, informing me that the Honorable Company had been
pleased, in consequence of the report made of our good beha-
vior, to award to him the sum of two hundred pounds, and to
me the sum of one hundred pounds, as a remuneration for our
assistance in the capture of the privateer.

This was news indeed. One hundred pounds! I never thought that I should possess such a sum in my life. One hundred pounds! what should I do with it? My mother was astonished, and then fell into a very grave mood. Virginia was pleased, but appeared to care less about it than I thought she would have done. My father came in as usual with Ben the Whaler, and I read the letter.

Why, Tom, that's about as much prize-money as I have made in all my sarvice," said my father, "and you 've been afloat only four months. Come, missis, send for some beer, and let us drink Tom's health, and success to him. God bless you, my boy; the papers say you deserved it, and that 's better than your getting it. I'm proud of you; I am indeed, my boy: your father's proud of you, Tom,"-and here my father showed more emotion than ever I witnessed in him before; however, he put his lips to the porter pot, and when he had drained it nearly to the bottom, he had quite recovered him

self.

"Well, Tom," said Ben, after he had finished the small modicum of beer left him by my father, "and what do you mean to do with all that money?"

"I'm sure I do n't know—I have no want of it-I have every thing I wish for."

"Come, missis," said my father, "we must have another mother very graciously sent for another pot of porter, which, pot, for I drank deep, and Ben has been shared out." My with the newspaper, occupied Ben and my father till it was time for us to break up and go to bed.

The next morning when I went down I found Virginia alone, my mother having returned to her room.

Beauty always suggests the thought of the perfect. The allest beautiful object is as infinite as the whole world of ars above us. So we feel it. Everything beautiful is emematic of something spiritual. Itself limited, its meanings d suggestions are infinite. In it we seem to see all in one. ach beautiful thing, each dew-drop, each leaf, each true rk of painter's, poet's, or musician's art, seems an epitome the creation. Is it not God revealed through the senses? not every beautiful thing a divine hint thrown out to us? es not the soul begin to dream of its own boundless capaies, when it has felt beauty? Does not immortality then, the first time, cease to be a name, a doctrine, and become present experience? When the leaves fall in autumn, they rn golden as they drop. The cold winds tell us of coming nter and death; but they tell it in music. All is significant decay; but the deep, still, harmonious beauty surpasses all it in summer or spring before. We look on it, and feel that cannot die. The Eternal speaks to us from the midst of cay. We feel a melancholy; but it is a sweet, religious elancholy, lifting us in imagination above death-since above e grave of the summer so much real beauty lingers. my The beautiful, then, is the spiritual aspect of nature. By aerishing a delicate sensibility to it, we make nature preach sa constant lesson of faith; we find all around an illustration the life of the spirit. We surround ourselves with a contant cheerful exhortation to duty. We render duty lovely nd inviting. We find the soul's deep inexpressible thoughts written around us in the skies, the far blue hills, and swelling

vaters.

But then to this desirable result one stern condition must be observed. If the sense of beauty disposes to purity of heart; so equally purity of heart is all that can keep the sense of beauty open. All influences work mutually. One hand must wash the other,' said the poet. The world is loveliest to him, who looks out on it through pure eyes.

Sweet is the pleasure,
Itself cannot spoil!

Is not true leisure

One with true toil?
Thou that woulds: taste it,
Still do thy best;
Use it, not waste it,
Else 't is no rest.
Wouldst behold beauty
Near thee? all round?
Only hath Duty

Such a sight found.
Rest is not quitting
The busy career;

Rest is the fitting

Of self to its sphere.
'T is the brook's motion,
Clear without strife,

Fleeing to ocean
After its life.
Deeper devotion
Nowhere hath knelt;
Fuller emotion

Heart never felt.

'Tis loving and serving

The Highest and Best!
'Tis ONWARD! unswerving,
And that is true rest. D.

"Tom," said she, "what do you think my mother said to me when we were going to bed last night? "Tell me."

"She said, 'Tom says he do n't know what to do with his money. I only wish I had it; I would turn it into three times the sum in three years, and have a oetter home for you, dear.'" "Did she say how?"

"Yes, I asked her how; she said that she should take a new house with a shop up the town, and set up as a milliner, with apprentices; that, as soon as she was fairly employed, she should give up getting up fine linen, and only take in laces to wash and mend, which was a very profitable business."

"Well," says I, "Virginia, my mother is a hard-working woman, and a clever woman, and I dare say she would do very well, and, as she says she would have a better home for you, I think I shall let her have the money; but I won't say so yet. I must talk about it to Peter Anderson, and if he don't say no, she shall have it with pleasure."

"That will be very kind of you, Tom; and I hope mother will feel it, for you do n't owe her much."

"Never mind that; after breakfast I'll see Peter Anderson: do n't say a word about it till I come back."

At breakfast-time my mother still appeared to be very thoughtful: the fact was, that the idea of what advantage the money would be had taken possession of her mind; and perhaps she thought that there was no chance of obtaining it. Perhaps she felt that, had she treated me better, she would have had it without difficulty-it was impossible to say exactly.

After breakfast I walked with Virginia to her school; and then set off to Anderson, to whom I immediately imparted what had taken place. His answer was decided

"I think, Jack, you can't do better; but, at the same time, let us go to your father and hear his opinion." * Continued from page 400.

NAUTILUS.

Far o'er the waves, when the winds are asleep,
And hushed is the cry of the sea-bird' wild note,
And the sunshine of Heaven plays over the deep,
There the Nautilus glides in her beautiful boat. [flight!
How she spreads her broad sail! how she speeds on her
All alone on the billow, she feels no alarm-
A vision of beauty! a creature of light!

She dreams not of danger-she dreads not the storm.
Should a tempest arise, swiftly furled is the sail-

One moment she lingers-we see her no more-
She is gone where she hears not the blast of the gale,
To sleep till the storm and the tempest are o'er.
In that beautiful creature an emblem I see

Of a spirit redeemed-of a soul that's at rest,
Embarked on the waves of Life's treacherous sea,
While the sunshine of glory plays over her breast.
All unfurled is the sail, for the breathings of Love
Waft her swiftly away from the troubles of Time;
She fears not the billows while gazing above,

As she steers her frail bark to Heav'n's beautiful clime.
Should the storm roll around-should the waters prevail,
She flies to the haven of safety and peace;

In the depths of His mercy she hides from the gale,
And sleeps till the storm and the tempest shall cease.

THE RELIGION OF BEAUTY.

FROM THE DIAL.'

us.

pines and sickens, or grows hard and contracted and unbe lieving, when it cannot have beauty. The love of nature ends in the love of God. It is impossible to feel beauty, and not feel there is a spirit there. The sensualist, the materialist, the worshipper of chance, is cheated of his doubts, the mo ment this mystery overtakes him in his walks. This sur sounding presence of beautiful nature keeps the soul buoyed up for ever into its element of freedom, where its action is cheerful, healthful, and unwearied; where duty becomes lovely, and the call to worship, either by prayer or self-sacrifice, is music to it. He, in whom this sense is open, is put, as it were, in a magnetic communication with a life like his own, which flows in around him, go where he may. In nature we forget our loneliness. In nature we feel the same Spirit, who made it and pervades it, holding us up also. Through the open sense of beauty, all we see preaches and prophesies to Without it, when no such sensibility exists, how hard a task is faith! how hard to feel that God is here! how unlovely looks religion! As without the air, the body could not breathe; so without beauty, the heart and religious nature seem to want an element to live in., Beauty is the moral atmos phere. The close, unseemly school-house, in which our infancy was cramped,-of how much natural faith did it not rob us! In how unlovely a garb did we first see Knowledge and Virtue! How uninteresting seemed Truth, how unfriendly looked Instruction; with what mean associations were the names of God and Wisdom connected in our memory! What a violation of nature's peace seemed Duty! what an intrusion upon the mind's rights! What rebellion has been nurtured within us by the ugly confinements to which artificial life and education have accustomed us! How insensible and cold it! has made us to the expressive features of God's works, always around us, always inviting us to high, refreshing converse!

I hold, then, that without a cultivation of the sense of bear ty, chiefly to be drunken from the open fountains of nature. there can be no healthy and sound moral development. The man so educated lacks something most essential. He is one sided, not of a piece with nature; and however correct, however much master of himself, he will be uninteresting, uner couraging, and uninviting. To the student of ancient history the warm-hearted, graceful Greek, all alive to nature, wh made beauty almost his religion, is a more refreshing object. than the cold, formal Jew. And here around us, resist it as we may, our hearts are always drawn towards the ope graceful children of impulse, in preference to the stiff, inse sible patterns of virtue. The latter may be very unexcep tionable, but at the same time very unreal. The former, though purposeless and careless they play through life, yet have trusted themselves to nature, and been ravished by her beauty, and nature will not let them become very bad. Consider a few of the practical effects upon the whole char

THE devout mind is a lover of nature. Where there is beauty it feels at home. It has not then to shut the windows of the senses, and take refuge from the world within its own thoughts, to find eternal life. Beauty never limits us, never degrades us. We are free spirits when with nature. The outward scenery of our life, when we feel it to be beautiful, is always commensurate with the grandeur of our inward ideal aspirations; it reflects encouragingly the heart's highest, brightest dreams; it does not contradict the soul's convictions of a higher life; it tells us that we are safe in believing the thought, which to us seems noblest. If we have no sense of beauty, the world is nothing more than a place to keep us in. But when the skies and woods, reveal their loveliness, then nature seems a glorious picture, of which our own inmost soul is the painter, and our own loves and long-acter of a growing love of beauty in the young mind. ings the subject. It is the apt accompaniment to the silent song of the beholder's heart.

The greatest blessing, which could be bestowed on the weary multitude, would be to give them the sense of beauty; to open their eyes for them, and let them see how richly we are here surrounded, what a glorious temple we inhabit, how every part of it is eloquent of God. The love of nature grows with the growth of the soul. Religion makes man sensible to beauty; and beauty in its turn disposes to religion. Beauty is the revelation of the soul to the senses. In all this outward beauty, these soft swells and curves of the landscape, which seem to be the earth's smile;—this inexhaustible variety of form and colors and motion, not promiscuous, but woven together in as natural a harmony as the thoughts in a poem; this mysterious hieroglyphic of the flowers; this running alphabet of tangled vine and bending grass studded with golden paints; this all-embracing perspective of distance rounding altogether into one rainbow-colored sphere, so perfect that the senses and the soul roam abroad over it unsated, feeling the presence and perfection of the whole in each part; this fect accord of sights, sounds, motions, and fragrance, all tuned to one harmony, out of which run melodies inexhaustible of every mood and measure;-in all this, man first feels that God is without him, as well as within him, that nature too is holy; and can he bear to find himself the sole exception?

It disposes to order. It gives birth in the mind to an instinct of propriety. It suggests imperceptibly, it inclines gently, but irresistibly, to the fit action, to the word in season. The beauty which we see and feel plants its seeds in us.Gazing with delight on nature, our will imperceptibly becomes attuned to the same harmony. The sense of beauty is at tended with a certain reverence; we dare not mar what looks so perfect. This sense, too, has a something like conscience contained in it; we feel bound to do and be ourselves something worthy of the beauty we are permitted to admire.This feeling, while it makes alive and quickens, yet is eminently conservative, in the best sense. He, who has it, is al ways interested on the side of order, and of all dear and hai lowed associations. He, who wants it, is as destructive as a Goth. The presence of beauty, like that of nature, as soon as we feel it at all, overcomes us with respect, and a certain sensitive dread of all violence, mischief, or discord. The beautiful ideal piece of architecture bears no mark of wanton pen-knife. The handsome school-room makes the children neat. perThe instinct of obedience, of conciliation, of decorum, reverence, and harmony, flows into the soul with beauty.The calm spirit of the landscape takes possession of the humble, yet soul-exalted admirer. Its harmony compels the jangling chords within himself into smoother undulations.— Therefore "walk out," like Isaac, "at even-tide to meditate," and let nature, with her divine stillness, take possession of thee. She shall give thee back to thyself better, more spiritual, more sensible of thy relationship with all things, and that in wronging any, thou but woundest thyself.

Does not the season, then, does not nature, does not the spontaneous impulse of an open heart, which has held such sublime worship through its senses, more than justify an attempt to show how the religious sentiments may be nourished by a cultivation of the sense of beauty?

This should be a part of our religious education. The heart

Another grace of character, which the sense of beauty gives the mind, is freedom-the freedom of fond obedience,