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the neck of her husband.

“ Said I not so, and is not the blessing cheaply purchased, though it cost the life of our darling ?"

“ Can there be hope for such as I am? O, no, no, no; 'tis only for curses that such as I can look ; but, oh, God! visit not my sins on this young lamh,"

,” said the distracted father. “ 'Tis a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief,” whispered the hoping wife, as she sought to comfort her too deeply desponding husband ; but words of comfort fell unheeded upon him. His thoughts were within, and truly God was dealing with him. Before the day dawned, the spirit of the child had taken its flight to a better land. Its pinions were well plumed for its heavenly soaring, and its voice attuned to celestial melody. The mournful preparations for depositing the last remains in the house appointed for all the living, were soon made.

The father assisted in silence. His inward communings were too deep for expression. He moved among his friends like one whose spirit had forgotten its natural functions. When the corpse was borne to the village church, multitudes swelled the solemn procession. Expectation was excited, but what was to occur they knew not. The bearers paused a moment ere they deposited their burden be. fore the altar. The murmurs passed up the aisle, and placed themselves beside the coffin. The solemn service ended, the body was borne out to its last resting place. The sexton began to mingle ashes to ashes, when, by a word of the father, his labors were stayed. Removing his hat, which had closely shaded his pale brow, he said, “We have come to witness a common ceremony. Death is no unusual thing. One and another have been called hence, and we have paid the last offices to their silent remains. The living have learned from them the lesson of their own mortality, and have gone forth to the world determined to set their house in order, that they too may pass away in peace. To most of you, my early history is not unknown; I have mingled with you in the sports of boybood, and shared with you in the more active pursuits of life. To-day the memory of the past is upon you, and you have come to see how an apostate can sustain himself under the smitings of the Almighty You know my proud refusal to fulfil my baptismal obligations, and doubtless regard this stroke as an

evidence of heaven's anger, at the impious withholding of its lawful sacrifices.

“ This seeming stroke of judgment, however, bears to me the garh of mercy From it I learn the truth of the sacred promise to preserve the children of the just. Yonder old man, my father, whose heart I have well nigh broken, early consecrated me, as ye are living witnesses, at the sacred altar. The thought that I was not my own but the Lord's, was constantly impressed upon me, and to this my proud heart rebelled. I could not bear that a human ordinance should bind me, only so far as my own will had been consulted. Hence my refusal to join you the day of your consecration.

“ From the indulgence of such unholy thoughts, have come the sins that have so fearfully beset me. The past few days of sorrow have been spent in bitter communings with my own spirit; and I trust I have learned to bow to the God of my father. Here, before you all, I confess my guilt, and ask forgiveness for the same. To her who hath borne with patience, and untiring love, the unkindness of one who promised to love and cherish her-”

Nay, husband," said the sobbing wife, “ whatever else thou hast been, thou wert never unkind.”

“Well, Mary, since thou canst so freely forgive, I may surely hope the same from those who have suffered much less from me. From henceforth let us live as becomes neighbors, and by God's grace I trust to redeem my right to be considered as such.” The sexton's task was resumed, and each shovel full of earth, as it rattled upon the coffin, echoed back the monitions of the grave. The wife clung with despairing strength to the arm of her penitent husband, as each rude sound grated upon her ears. The darling she had sheltered in her bosom, through years of loneliness, was thus rudely buried out of her sight, yet from his ashes, a fire had been kindled in her hus. band's heart, that she undoubtingly trusted, would burn on, till its brilliancy should find itself eclipsed only by the pure flame that burns for ever on a heavenly altar. Nor was her faith vain. Years afterwards, as her now penitent husband bore his offspring to the same altar that had witnessed his own vows, he inwardly prayed his remaining ones might be shielded from the temptations that beset his own path, and their faith sealed at a less fearful sacrifice.

THE BOUQUET.

377

“ How much Henry resembles his dead brother, Mary ; have you ever observed it?”

“Yes, husband, often, and sometimes I fancy 'tis his spirit restored to us in another house of clay."

“Does your heart ever reproach me for being the cause of so much sorrow to the poor lad ?"

Reproach thee. No; I daily bless our Heavenly Father, that the sweet boy was taken from us. As for thy being a cause of

sorrow, it is not so. Did not his heart turn to thee even in his last agony ? and was not his last word that of undying love ?"

· Even so, Mary, God grant his last prayer may be granted. So we shall all be gathered in one fold, cared for by one Shepherd.”

Let the hearts of believers be comforted. Learn from this that faith will eventually triumph, though the gates of dark ness array themselves against it.

THE BOUQUET.

99

The prettily entwin'd bouquet,
With floral voice speaks to the gay,
As in the giddy dance they move,
And every word is full of love.
Not love that wastes itself in breath,
But true and lasting, e'en to death;
Far different from the empty word
In fashion's walk so often heard.
If you would hear, ye ladies gay,
What the bouquet to you doth say,
A kind interpreter I'll be,
Without enjoining secresy.
Then hear the flower “ Forget-me-not,-
Perhaps till now you ne'er have thought
It many times hath uttered loud,
When you have mingled with the crowd :-
“I ask that you'll remember well
The words that I am bid to tell;
My Maker, God, in me you see,
'Tis he who cries, · Remember me !! ”
The Rose-bud, also, says to you,
As life's brief journey you pursue :

Like me, before the time of bloom,
You may be hurried to the tomb."
Tis thus the fragrant flowers speak
In lovely accents to the meek;
Forget not, then, ye ladies gay,
What they so sweetly to you say.

AN AFTERNOON ON THE ANAPUS.

cuse.

READER, have you not heard of the River Anapus ? Does not its very name call up the associations of earlier and more classic days? I can assure you that there is much of interest about this ancient stream, which remains unchanged, while all

around has passed through sad mutations; leaving little evidence of the splendor which once adorned its banks and made it celebrated. It will be remembered that nature produced on the shores of this sluggish current, the “ Papyrus,” which, in ancient days, filled the place now better occupied by those numerous paper manufactories, which are the life of several flourishing New England villages. To this interesting spot I propose to conduct you during my ramble of a single afternoon, and the blame is surely mine, if you do not find much to interest you.

Leaving the “ Locanda del Sole,” we emerge into a narrow street, which never knew a sidewalk, presenting to the view as few comforts as we have left within the walls of our hotel. Before we proceed, our home-if an Italian “ Albergo” may be called by so comfortable a name-deserves a passing notice. Its exterior would promise something better than Italian fare. It once furnished all the comforts of the island, until Neapolitan legislation drove from the town its only profitable customers. Owing to the foolish jealousies of the authorities, the American Squadron removed their wintering station to Port Mahon, and left this place to its squalid inhabitants; save when a traveller like us is ready to encounter a ride of forty miles under a Sicilian sky, upon the back of an ambling mule. Having pressed our way through the group of beggars, which never fail to beset us, and passed through several streets, too narrow to admit the passage of a donkey with panniers of wood, we arrive at the opening by the gate. Let us stop, and observe a few of those peculiarities which remind one that he is in a foreign country. See yonder that circle of laughing girls, who, with flowing tresses and careless attire, are dancing around a companion, who produces music wild and strangely sweet, from the siinple tambourine. The crowd of Muleteers, “ Cicerones," and common people, are dressed in a sort of outside shirt, of a light blue color, while their heads are covered with a white

cap, ornamented with a tassel of the same color, like those worn by the country schoolboys at home. Donkeys with various burdens, children of all ages, and beggars of both sexes, soldiers with their muskets, priests in their three-cornered hats, and friars with their shaved heads, cowl, and cord, complete the picture.

We have passed the river-gate with its sentinels armed to the teeth, its quadruple walls, its drawbridges, and its moats--as if any nation desired to assault its feeble fortress, and have reached the shore of the Bay of Syra

What a noble bay? How beautiful appear

the shores of Calabria in the distance? In the still further distance, we see the dim outlines of the island of Malta, and trace in imagination the course by which St. Paul landed near this very spot. But our “ Cicerone" of the morning calls,“ Signor, andiamo"

- let us go. These boats remind us, by contrast, of the beautiful models at Whitehall, while the cadaverous, but sun-burnt countenances, and the bright black eyes of our boatmen, tell of a tropical sky, and a miasmatical atmosphere.

The crowd of idlers are left behind, and we are passing along the city wall. “ But stay, boatmen, what is this?” The waters have suddenly become as pure as if poured from our own Horicon's sacred lake, and our boat appears to be suspended in an element that disdains to mingle with the brackish, darkened waters of the bay. Our guide, accustomed to see this spot attract the attention of strangers, cries out,

Signor, ecco la Fontana dell' Arethusa.” The classical reader will remember that the story of this stream runs thus. The nymph Arethusa had such exquisite beanty, that divine honors were paid her. While bathing in the river, Alpheus, the river.god, became enamored of her, when Diana, in pity, changed her into a fountain. Alpheus at once mingled his waters with hers, when the patron goddess opened a passage through the earth, and the pursued fountain, passing sea and land, rose up in Ortygia—now Syra

The Anapus, the object of our present excursion, is the gallant Alpheus, and fable says, that its waters cross this wide bay, unmingled with its briny flood, to meet these crystal waters. Modern improvements have destroyed much of the romance of this place.

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AN AFTERNOON ON THE ANAPUS.

379

There are places too sacred for modern structures. As I saw this historic fount cramped in and concealed, its pure waters forcing themselves through a crevice in the wall, I would have restored it to its ancient freedom. I would have driven from its silver stream those unpoetical nymphs of the wash-tub, who thus defile its waters, and encumber its banks, that nothing might mar the delightful associations it awakens. Thus have I seen a beautiful glen in our own country defiled by a saw-mill or a carding-mill, and with the same feelings, I found myself born along the base of Vesuvius by a locomotive, at the rate of twenty miles per hour, the road being graded through ancient towns and buried cities, destroying ancient land-marks, with the recklessness of an American speculator.

But we may not tarry here. We have left the walls, and are standing out into the bay, with a fair wind, under a Sicilian lugger sail. Our boatmen are a good specimen of Sicilian ignorance and superstition. Though poorly clad and 'ill fed, there is seen in them the pride of country, and the devotion to priestly exactions, which characterizes the inhabitants of this island. Seeing them look wistfully at our lunch, which we, for the first time, found leisure to eat, I offered some to them. It was refused, with the reply, that this was the second day of their weekly fast. I asked, may not those eat who must work? They replied no, unless they can buy permission. In these enfeebling fasts and countless holidays are seen a reason for the poverty of this island, once the granary of the world.

We have crossed the bay, and entered the broad mouth of the Anapus; our sail is lowered, and the oars have taken its place. The banks are low, and the stream narrows as it winds up the valley : the stream still narrows, and is so filled with floating weeds, that our boatmen are towing us along from the banks.

We have before us several hours of light, and must not pass this interesting little stream, which flows so purely into this clogged stream; it comes from “ Fonte Cyane,” or, in modern language, “ Fontana Pisma,” a spring two hundred and fifty feet in circumference and forty feet deep. This is the passage that the infernal Pluto is said to have made for himself, when he carried off the heautiful Proserpine, who was gathering flowers in these fields. But there are mythological stories connected with every feeling of this vicinage. We are

now surrounded by brakes of bamboo, and the overtowering papyrus. This plant, which forms the great attraction to this spot, is from eight to twenty feet high. It has a stock of triangular shape, tapering from four or five inches to a point. The top is surmounted by a plume, like the feather of a peacock. This looks as little like paper as a heap of rags, or a pile of tarred ropes, or a bale of cotton. Our landlord, Politi, showed us a piece of rude paper, this morning prepared by himself, from this plant, which enables me to conceive that a tolerable article might be prepared from the slices of the triangular stock.

On yonder hill is the ruin of “Olympia.” A visit to it will make a good termination of our jaunt. We must reach it before sun-set. The hill is reached, and as we stand upon this fallen capital, and view the setting sun, we are reminded of the sinking of this portion of the Roman Empire into such a fearful oblivion. See those columns standing in all their majesty, but in dread loneliness. I see by the guidebook, they are thirty feet high, and eighteen feet in circumference, seventy feet apart, and stand on bases ten feet square. What a gigantic temple completed with such proportions ! It requires little imagination, standing on this elevation, to re-people these plains, to rebuild this immense pile, to return to it the splendid statue of Jupiter, covered with a mantle of wrought gold, erected by Hiero II., and despoiled by Dionysius, and to bring again the thousand of votaries that came up to this shrine to pay homage to imaginary deities. We have no time to tarry, a mile must be traversed, that weedy river rowed through, a wide bay crossed, with hunger and fatigue to destroy the romance of the adventure. Well! the bay is sailed over, the quay, with its crowd of idlers, much diminished by the approaching darkness, is fairly reached. We are fortunate indeed in finding the city gates open, for, were they once closed, no interest would be sufficient to open them until daylight. Such a day as this renders sweet even the hard fare of a Sicilian hotel, which consists of bread, in the shape of a biscuit, and as hard as a pavingstone, butter of goat's milk, maccaroni, miserably cooked, and olive oil. But I will not trouble the reader further with personal adventures, but leave him with the assurance that a visit to this country will repay all the toil of such an undertaking.

J. H. C.

PARLOR TABLE.

divine law and the nature of the Christian duty are urged in such terms as reach the conscience and make a deep impression on the heart, Mrs. Fry’s books are in a high degree worthy of being circulated.

CHRISTIAN PARLOR MAGAZINE-BOUND VoLUME.— With this number we close the third volume of this Magazine. The bound volume will be ready in a few days, and will make one of the most attractive volumes of the season. It has been the constant aim of the Editor to adhere to his pledges at the commencement of the work. Of the fidelity with which this object has beerf accomplished our readers must determine. We have been inuch gratified with the numerous testimonials of approbation, not only from the press and private individuals, but from its patronage by the Christian community.

With this volume we also close our labors with the Christian Parlor Magazine, We retire from this field of labor with our hearty thanks to all our patrons, and for past favors from our friends and associates in the literary world. The work will hereafter be edited by Rev. J. T. Headley, whose articles have often appeared in the past volumes, and whose deserved popularity as an author will give to the public a guarantee of its future success. Our friends will hereafter find us in the Editorial departinent of the Home Magazine and Fireside Reader.

TALES AND ILLUSTRATIONS, by Charlotte Elizabeth, form a handsome Juvenile, a new edition of which has just been issued by J. S. Taylor. The gifted writer has rested from her labors and her sorrows, but her works will live, and be a lasting blessing to the home of thousands who will cherish her memory, and admire her genius and spirit.

The Genius of Scotland, by Turnbull, published by Carter, is a charming book; abounding in passages of singular beauty and interest, illustrating the scenery, the literature, and religion of old Scotia's hills, and glens, and dales.

SHANTY THE BLACKSMITH, a tale of other times, from the pen of Mrs. Sherwood, we read years ago with pleasure; and we perceive that J. S. Taylor has now issued a new and very neat edition of it. It will be very popular with the young, and so will another liule volume which the same publisher has just issued from the same author. The Lily of the Valley is a sweet story, that teaches the loveliness of modest worth in language that fascinates, while the sentiment sinks into the heart.

The Sacred MOUNTAINS, by J, T. Headley. This volume has had a wide popularity and great sale. The publishers [Baker & Scribner] have now issued an edition in handsome dress, but at a reduced price, that it may reach multitudes who were prevented from purchasing the costly editions which have appeared before. The readers of this Magazine have had the means of knowing that Mr. Headley has no superior among us in elegant, descriptive composition, and those sublime themes of Scripture furnish the finest field for the display of his graphic powers.

The Harpers have lately issued the Orations of Edward Everett, forming a volume of great value and interest to every scholar. The writer reveals a store of classical and scientific knowledge that marks the close and laborious student, while the flow of his diction, the finished beauty of his periods, and the fertility of his illustration, are the features of the rise and elegant scholar. The volume is a study for all young men.

One of the best books on the Inspiration of the Scriptures that we have ever read, is a work by Gaussen, a distinguished Theological Professor of Geneva, written with the vigor of a strong man, and adorned with an eloquence of diction which commands the admiration of the reader. Some extracts from it have been republished in newspapers as part of the current literature of the day, and no one can rise from a perusal of the volume without a higher appreciation of the truth, and a lofty conception of the beauty and purity of the Bible. The work is translated by the Rev. E. N. Kirk of Boston, and published by J. S. Taylor, New York.

The LORD's Prayer, by A. Bonnet, author of the Family of Bethany, and published by Carter, is a book that the young and old will study with profit and pleasure. It leads the soul out in de vout meditations on the wonderful subjects of petition embraced in that form of prayer which Christ taught his disciples, and introduces it into high and holy communion with him who hears his children when they cry.

As the season opens, the pressure of new books upon the table becomes heavy, and our limits forbid even a passing notice of many that justly deserve attention.

The Great COMMANDMENT, by Mrs. Fry, the author of " The Listener,” has recently been published by M. W. Dodd, a volume of great excellence for the purity and elevation of its moral sentiment, inculcating the law of love in the most simple and striking form, while the force of the

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