manifestations; and, by power of his own reverence, to find them where he would otherwise have sought in vain. Providence, that is distant from coldness and doubt, surrounds a reverent spirit, justifies its faith, and makes its life unclouded by mystery, and its immortal future undisturbed by uncertainty.

SABBATH IN THE VALLEY.

THE sabbath dawns; its holy light
Streams o'er the hills afar;

The sun breaks forth in pristine might,
And fades the morning star.

Peace breathes around: the calm of Heaven
Has fallen to earth once more;

Another day God's love has given
From his exhaustless store,

Cool, calm, and bright; as pure, as fair,
As when through Eden's bowers
Strayed the first sinless, happy pair,
And lived their golden hours.

Each moment comes with some new gift
From Heaven's all-bounteous ways;
Each moment should my spirit lift

Some note of grateful praise.

Arouse thee! shake the load of care
Off from thy burdened soul!
'Tis Christ's own day, his cross is here,
Here is thy weekly goal.

Thy weekly goal! alas, how few

Affections cluster there,

Where themes of love, for ever new,
Should make each breath a prayer!

Great God! whose spirit once did move
O'er chaos' formless deep,

And beauty, order, life, and love

Sprang from its mystic sweep,

Oh! breathe upon this troubled heart;
Command the light to shine;
Bid doubting shadows all depart;
Subdue my will to thine.

Then shall my waiting spirit find

New fellowships above;

And thou my wandering heart shalt bind

Fast to thy throne of love.

E. N. N.

RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY LIFE.

MY HOME.

As I look back from mature life upon my childhood, I perceive that the formation of my character was determined, to a considerable extent, by the influence of the wild and beautiful scenery amid which my early boyhood was passed. Many years have gone by since I last saw the little village in which I was born; but every feature of it is still fresh in my remembrance. It rises before me as I write, and my childish feet are once more tripping along the old paths. We had no public buildings except the meeting-house and the school-house, which, I used to think, were wonderfully imposing. I am sorry to know now that an architect would sneer at them. There are few such meeting-houses now; more elegant edifices have taken their place. The square pews, the lofty gallery, the wine-glass pulpit, and its soundingboard, are gone. How I wondered if the minister was not dizzy; and, if he was, if he would not have to end his sermon immediately! But he always preached out his hour twice every Sunday.

Our village consisted of about a dozen houses, a blacksmith's shop, two stores, a school-house, and a meeting-house. Its single street was not very crowded; for these buildings were scattered for half a mile along a wide and rough road, which passed over one of the high, but gently sloping, hills that abound in the mountainous parts of New England. Our neighbors were mostly farmers; quiet, kind, and stern people, well worthy of

their Puritan ancestors.

Some of them I remember now; but

they have gone to seek a better country.

My own home was far up on the hill-side, commanding a wide view of the surrounding country. The house was old, and seemed just ready to fall. In the storms of winter, the winds came through the crevices, to moan dismally up and down the entries. But our bright wood-fires enabled our little household to laugh at the freaks of Boreas. I see now no such fires as blazed in the old fire-place, with its huge back-logs, and stiff-backed settles. What sofa ever bore up more merry boys and girls, than those who sat, during the long winter evenings, on that homely settle? We kept the fire till morning, by covering brands with ashes; but sometimes they would wholly burn out, and many a time have I earned my breakfast by a tour among the neighbors to borrow fire. How thankful boys now ought to be for the invention of lucifer matches!

But my pleasantest recollections are not of the interior of my home. There was a shady yard in front of the house, where, during the early summer, I used to lie for hours on the green grass, and look up to the clouds, wondering at the strange forms they took, as I saw them through the branches of the great elm; or, if I looked away in the distance, my eye rested on the snowy top of Mount Washington, which contrasted pleasantly with the hills nearer me, that were dotted with neat farm-houses amid vast fields of growing crops. That picture always comes before me when I think of Scott's definition of a picturesque country; one "where Beauty lies smiling in the lap of Terror."

Behind the house was a large orchard, where I superintended my little plantation of vegetables. At the bottom of the orchard a little brook ran, very madly to be sure in the spring, but gently in the summer. Its banks were covered with gigantic forest-trees, whose intertwining tops made the channel dark and solemn. There, during the hot days of summer, I would lie on the bank, watching lazily the water rippling over the moss-covered stones, which peered above its surface, or listening to the noisy whirlings of the tiny water-wheel my father had made me. My favorite place of resort was the side of a spring, just on the edge of the brook, in which a glittering little trout lived, and always eluded my touch. I remember with what childish glee and wonder I saw the silvery bubbles rise, as I plunged my little tin pail

into the spring. I have played with other bubbles since, but with an anxiety which overshadowed all gladness.

At the foot of the hill, my brook ran into a little river, whose stream was just strong enough to turn the great wheels of a sawmill and grist-mill. The saw-mill was very attractive to me; and I never grew tired of seeing its steady working, and listening to its hum and clang. A saw-mill is still one of my most prized accompaniments of a home in the country. Besides the natural charms which please the eye, I always find in it a suggestive picture of human life. It tells me that slow and persevering effort will pierce the toughest and knottiest obstacles, and bring the roughest and clumsiest materials into a smooth and plastic form; it tells me also that man's will has the mastery of his circumstances, and can adjust the machinery of action so as to mould his character into any shape. It suggests to me the intimate connection of culture and the useful arts; for the saw-mill is the universal companion and servant of civilization. Certainly, if I were a poet, I would write an "ode to a saw-mill."

But I am lingering too long on these recollections of my early home. Before my life had numbered many years, we moved away from the hills to a large village, in a broad, monotonous plain; and I have seen the old place but once since. Although only a few years had passed since I had last been there, civilized Goths and Vandals had found time to do a most desolating work. The old house had shaken off its antiquity, and looked new and glossy in the sunshine. Ugly stumps were the only remnant of the trees by the brook. An impertinent dam had stopped the rippling of the water, and a pond had filled up my beautiful spring. The din and oil of a factory had destroyed the quietness and fragrance of my old haunts. Nothing is left of my childhood's home but its undying influences. They are beyond the reach of capitalists.

MY FATHER.

If I owe much to the picturesque scenery amid which my boyhood was passed, I owe still more to the graces and excellences of my father's character. Indeed, he taught me to recognize the beauty and sublimity of nature's handiwork, and to trace, in the adaptation of cloud and mountain and river and forest to the gratification of the eye, the goodness and power of the Father

of all. Very many years have gone since his visible presence passed from my sight, and I have lived through hardening experiences; but the glance of his benignant eye, his affectionate smile, his soft voice, the gentle pressure of his hand, are still ever present realities to me. I cannot portray the worth of his character as I would. I dare not trust myself, even after so many years, in attempting to proclaim to others the recollections which are my most sacred inheritance. There are traits of his nobleness which must be for ever shut up within the inmost heart of his son. From my earliest childhood, my intercourse with him partook more of the familiar love of a friend, than of the distant reverence of a son. The chief reason of this was, that he never lost the freshness and simplicity of childhood from his own character; so that he entered with interest into all my boyish sports and toils, and heartily sympathized with my petty joys and sorrows. He found it to be his happiness, as well as believed it to be his duty, to win the love and confidence of his children. Harshness of voice, and coldness of manner, formed no part of his means of discipline. He knew the quickness of a child's sensibility, and the ardor of its affection. He felt that the griefs of children are harder to bear, and need more sympathy and forbearance, than those of men and women. His own affections were strong and quick, and his sensitiveness peculiarly susceptible to pain. He disliked the bustle and publicity of his professional business, and, though eminently successful in it, escaped its calls whenever he could, to enjoy the quiet of his family. Yet, in spite of his selfdistrust, and love of domestic happiness, he always sprang readily to engage any antagonist, and to encounter any obloquy, whenever the cause of virtue and religion was assailed. How often have I listened with filial pride to his eloquent denunciations of vice and its supporters, though he knew, that, in the community in which he lived, such words must provoke the bitterest enmity. Calm and gentle in all other discussions, he was severe in his reprobation of all wrongs and oppression. His fiery zeal in the cause of humanity could make no compromises, though every word was tempered with Christian charity. He was a man of very wide information and most liberal culture. His singular modesty and gentleness, combined with rare mental endowments compelled all who knew him well to love and admire him. Many an evening have I sat on his knee, and looked about at the company whom