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success! The longer we live, the longer we sin snd the longer we suffer. We should be intent on short strides. A moment shall bring about our end; we cannot tell what one. Let Ub improve each moment ns though it were our last. The bounds of our life are set; we know not how near they may be. We should feel and act as though their utmost limit were just at hand. We must once take our departure; we cannot tell when. We should nightly take leave of our bodies, as we retire to rest; and when at last they seek repose in the grave, wo can commit our souls into the hands of God; and then shall they be separated, the one from the other.

Let these solemn thoughts sink deep into our minds. Every moment we live is taken from our lives. They increase and decrease by hours. The shorter are their strides, the swifter they i move on. Why should we imagine ourselves so secure against death, when, at the same time, we are always carrying it about with us I Is not our body the body of death f Does not sin dwell therein, and is not this the source of death? Are we not sensible of many infirmities, the forebodings of death? How many animals have we devoured, which have in this way found in us their grave? Are we thus receptacles of the dead, and do not ourselves think of the tomb? Let us prepare for our latter end. Unhappy is he whom death finds unprepared. He does not tarry a moment. As the last moment of our lives leaves us, so will eternity find us. Therefore let us be circumspect; and ever hold ourselves in readiness; for death at best is not far off. This is wholsesome counsel. Let Ub follow it.


It is said that there stands a globe of the world at one end of the library in Dublin, and a skeleton of a man at the other. There it is, that one need not study long for a good lesson. And what lesson is that V—Though a man were lord of all that he sees in the map of the world, yet he must die, and become himself a map of mortality; and therefore, if the Devil tempt him with a view of the glory of the world, he may resist him with the words of our Saviour: What shall it profit a man to win the whole world, and to lose his own

soul I

Every man has in his own life follies enough

—in the performance of his duties, deficiencies enough—in his fortunes, evils enough—without being curious about the affairs of others.

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But prouder mirth was in the kingly hall,
Where, 'midst adoring slaves, a gorgeous band,
High at the stately midnight festival
Belshazzar sat enthroned. There luxury's hand
Had showered around all trensures that expand
Beneath the burning East; all gems that pour
The sunbeam back; alt sweets of many a land,
Whose gales waft incense from their spicy shore;
But mortal pride looked on, and still demanded more.

Peace I It is but a phantom of the brain,
Thus shadowed forth the senses to appal,
Yon fearful vision. Who shall gaze again
To search its cause? Along the illumined wall,
Startling, yet riveting the eyes of all,
Darkly it moves—a hand, a human hand,
O'er the bright lamps of that resplendent hall
In silence tracing, as a mystic wand,
Words all unknown, the tongue of

There are pale cheeks around the regal board,
And quivering lips, and whispers deep and low,
And fitful starts I The wine in trinmph poured
Untasted foams. The song hath ceased to flow,
The waving censer drops to earth, and lo!
The king of men—the ruler girt with might,
Trembles before a shadow I Say not so l
The child of dust, with guilt's foreboding sight,
Shrinks from the dread unknown, th' avenging Infinite!

There fell a moment's thrilling silence round,
A breathless pause! the hush of hearts that beat
And limbs that quiver: is there not a sound,
A gathering cry, a tread of hurrying feet?
'Twas but some echo in the crowded street
Of far-heard revelry ; the shout, the song,
The measured dance to music wildly sweet,
That speeds the stars their joyous course along;
Away 1 nor let a dream disturb the festal throng I

Peace yet again 1 Hark 1 steps in tumult flying,
Steeds rushing on as o'er the battle-field I
The shout of hosts exulting or defying,
The press ot multitudes that strive or yield 1
And the loud, startling clash of spear and shield,
Sudden as earthquake's burst! and, blent with theft*}
The last wild shriek of those whose doom is sealed
In their full mirth 1 all deepening on the breeze,
As the long stormy roar of (ar-advancing seas I





In the halcyon days of youth and inexperience, we think that we are proof against all the forms of allurement, and we listen with no pleasurable emotions to those who would warn us of danger. Experience and aged wisdom find it not easy to get and retain the ear of the young, while they portray the dangers of the youthful course, and warn against the alluring customs of the world. And the reason is plain. Those whom we would admonish have had no experience; and they suspect no danger. They confide in their own powers; they see before them a smooth ocean on which they expect to glide without danger. A gallant ship with her sails all set leaves the port. She is new ; and her virgin sails have not before been fanned by the breeze. The gale springs up, and gently ewells all her canvas. Before her is the vast ocean— spread out as if to invite her. On her deck stands the young mariner, fresh from his home; buoyant with hope; his glad eye looking out on the new scene, as the ship dances from wave to wave, and his heart beats with joy. How chilling, now, how cold, how incongruous is it for the weather-beaten seaman, the man of many voyages, to come and tell of rocks, and quicksands, and whirlpools, and furious tempests 1 How incongruous to suggest that the seams may open, or the canvas be stripped to ribbons, or that some unseen current may drift that beautiful vessel Into unknown seas, where she may lie becalmed,

"Day after day, day after day,
With neither breath nor motion;
idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean."

So we start on the voyage of life. We flatter ourselves that we are able to meet temptation. We confide in the strength of our principles. We trust to the sincerity of our own hearts. Guileless ourselves—I do not mean guiltless in the sense that we have no propensity to evil, but guileless in the sense of sincere and oonfiding—we suspect no fraud in others. Suspicion is not the characteristic of youth. It is the unhappy work of experience; the influence that comes into our hearts, notwithstanding all our efforts to resist it, from long acquaintance with the insincerity of mankind. The world flatters us, and a thousand temptations, adapted with consummate skill to the young, allure us. Professed friends meet us on the way, and as

sure us that there is no danger. The gay, the fashionable, the rich, the winning, the beautiful, the accomplished, invite us to tread with them the path of pleasure, and to doubt the suggestions of experience and of age. We feel confident of our own safety. We suppose we may tread securely a little farther. We see no danger near. We take another step still, and yet another, thinking that we are safe yet. We have tried our virtuous principles thus far, and thus far they bear the trial. We could retreat if we would; we mean to retreat the moment that danger comes near. But who knows the power of temptation t Who knows when dangers shall rush upon us so that we cannot escape? There is a dividing line between safety and danger. Above thundering Niagara, the river spreads out into a broad and tranquil basin. All is calm, and the current flows gently on, and there even a light skiff may be guided in safety. You may glide nearer and nearer to the rapids, admiring the beauty of the shore, and looking upon the ascending spray of the cataract, and listening to the roar of the distant waters, and be happy in the consciousness that you are safe. You may go a little farther, and may have power still to ply the oar to reach the bank. But there is a point beyond which human power is vain, and where the mighty waters shall seize the quivering bark and bear it on to swift destruction. So perishes many a young man by the power of temptation. You may drink a social glass, you think, with a friend and be safe. One more glass, and you may be safe still, and another may be taken, you think, without danger. You may go to the theatre once, you suppose, and be safe. You may be pleased, and think you may go again, and be safe still. You are fascinated with the scenery, the acting the sentiment—and you go again. The acting, the sentiment, is not such as you saw and heard at the fireside of your childhood; not such as a mother would love; not quite such as you would wish a sister to see. You cannot help perceiving that it is indelicate and profane. But you will be sensible of less and less horror at the indelicacy and profaneness there.

There is a point where no young roan is safe, and where no unconverted heart is secure from the power of temptation. I need not describe the result. One allurement does not stand alone. None have been injured by etaying away from such scenes. But oh, how many hearts have been broken as the result of a visit to such a place of allurement!

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Pachacamac and its Ruins, the subject of our second engraving, are situated seven leagues from the capital of Lima, in the vicinity of the pleasant town of Lurin. These ruins are very much dilapidated, and present but little interesting in their architecture, though they are interesting in their extent, and in the particulars of their history.

On a conical elevation near the bank of the sea, four hundred and fifty-eight feet above its level, are found the ruins of the ancient Temple of Pachacamac. At the foot of this hill are seen, at the present day, the decayed walls of the edifices which were intended to receive the strangers who came on pilgrimage from the most distant provinces of the empire, to present their offerings to the Deity. The whole was surrounded by a wall of adobes, nine feet in width, and probably of considerable height, for some parts of it are now twelve feet high, although in its average extent it is not more than four or five. The material throughout the whole fabric is not hewn stone, as in the edifices of Cuzco, but adobes, easily crumbled. The upper part of the high land, or ridge, which is about one hundred feet high, is artificially formed by walls, each one thirty-two feet in height, and from seven to eight wide. In the most elevated parts is seen the Temple, with the Sanctuary of the Deity on the aide towards the sea. Its door was of gold, richly inlaid with precious stones and coral; but the interior was obscure and dirty, this being the spot chosen by the priests for their bloody sacrifices before the idol of wood, placed at the bottom of the enclosure, the worship of which succeeded the pure and abstract worship of the invisible Pachacamac. At present there remain of this temple some niches only, which, according to the testimony of Ciec,a de Leon, contained representations of several wild beasts; and we have detached fragments of paintings of animals, made on the wall, upon the whitewashed clay. We can, however, still distinguish the place of the sanctuary, according to the description of the early chroniclers. The opinion is erroneous which deems these the ruins of the Temple of the Sun; it is one, however, which has been adopted by almost all modern authors, although diametrically opposed to that of the historians contemporaneous with the conquest, as well as to tho account given by Hernando Pizarro, brother of Francisco, and destroyer of the Temple.

Outside of this edifice there were in Pachacamac a Temple of the Sun, a royal palace, and a House of Virgins; monuments erected by the Incas Pachacutec and YeopanquL According to our investigations, the Temple of the Sun extended from the foot of the mountain on which was situated the Temple of Pachacamac, towards the north-east; on the side towards the northwest, as far as the Lake of Sweet Water, and at the foot of the mountain, from the south-east of the Temple of Pachacamac to the House of the Chosen Virgins. The settlement is found all around these edifices, from the side of the estate of San Pedro, of the deserted San Juan, aud of the existing town of Lurin. Near the latter we notice the ancient cemetery, which attests better than any other proof how thickly populated in ancient times was the valley of Pachacamac, in the neighborhood of the Temple. The treasures with which this edifice abounded were such that, according to one author, the value of the nails only, by which they affixed to the walls the plates of gold, amounted to four thousand marks; which, as an insignificant trifle, Pizarro gave to his pilot Quintero. On the haciendas of .l.onio and Nieveria, and on the brow of contiguous mountains, are seen ruins of vast extent, with saloons twenty or twenty-five yards in length, and six or eight in width, of mud walls, forming narrow streets; indicating that here was once a large population, and the palaces of their princes or other great nobles.

"Pkruvian Antiquities" is a very interesting work. We have become so deeply interested in its remarkable facts and descriptions, that we have been induced to present to our readers some of the numerous illustrations. This we do through the kind permission of the publishers, A. S. Barnes & Co., 51 John street. Our second and third engraving", together with all those we insert in our Miscellany, are samples of the embelishments of this work, of which there are upwards of thirty. The following is a view of part of the Convent of St. Domingo in Cuzco, built on the Cyclopean remains of the Temple of the Sun. This temple occupied a large space. "It had," says an ancient author, "a circuit of more than four hundred paces, the whole surrounded by a strong wall; the whole edifice was built of an excellent species of fine stone, very well placed and adjusted, and some of the stones were

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sod double the size of that of the aseond. It was fire yards broad at the bottom, tapered gradually to one at the top, and was fifty in height.

The ruins of Old Huanuco are chiefly interesting from the Six Portals, which are well preserved, one within the other, and of which it is not positively known whether they formed a part of the sumptuous palace of the Incas, or of the immense Temple of the Sun, which was so imposing in the reign of the Sovereigns of Peru, and which "alone had room for the service of more than 30,000 Indians."

Another object of interest is a species of lookout, the use of which, in ancient times, we do not know, but which was, probably, the place where the priests offered their sacrifices to the tun. The architecture of these ruins is singu

larly distinct from that of the other edifices in the time of the Peruvian Emperors, and according to all appearances derives its origin from an era more remote than the dynasty of the Incas. The look-out is quadrilateral, fifty-six paces in length, and thirty-fix in width; the height of the wall is about five yards, and inclined inward from the base. It rests upon two courses of round stone, about a yard and a half high. The walla are a yard and a quarter in thickness, and are of cut stone, terminating in a cornice, which is composed of a blue-shell limestone: the stones are a yard and a half in length, and half a yard thick.

We make one or two more quotations, illustrative of these ancient ruins: The Chulpas which are seen in the engraving upon the hill, which is

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