they saw not, heard not, till, with a thunder roar, it burst upon them. It passed away. But the ship, with its watching, waiting few; the life-boat with its handful of brave men, no more remained. And when morning came, its bright sunlight gave no token of the lost. The sea gave not up her dead. And still where they went down they sleep; while the sea-gull circles above, and old ocean moans their last sad requiem.

The public prints were full of the disas ter. The sufferings of the saved, and the names and virtues of the lost, were fully recorded. And this was all. On Fame's record-roll no line was traced to tell the wrecker's fate. Posterity will never know the names of the brave men who perilled and lost their lives for the weal of their fellow-men. It will never know how nobly death was faced,-how unflinchingly met. Nor yet the shadow that fell on the humble homes of that wreck-strewn beach, when strangers, not their husbands and fathers, brought the tidings of the storm. But such grief seeks no publicity. The noble men, for whom they mourned, were none the less men, because over their untimely fate the world dropped no tear. Theirs was a truer bravery than that which wins war's bloody laurels. And theirs is a truer fame than that which writes the names of heroes in marble with an iron pen. It was a bravery such as Heaven approves. It is a fame such as Heaven perpetuates.

A TOUCHING INCIDENT.

A TOUCHING INCIDENT.-THE LOVE OF A CHILD.-The Rochester Democrat furnishes the following interesting item. It says:

"The death of a lovely child was mentioned in our paper a few days ago, and we have just heard of an incident connected Iwith that event which touches all the tender feelings of the human heart. Among the many destitute children, who daily seek their food from door to door, is a small girl who frequently went to the house where the little deceased boy lived. Sometimes she lingered for a few moments, and by degrees became acquainted with and attached to this lovely child, until finally she often re

mained a long while, and shared in its amusements. The sequel shows that during this time an attachment was formed, the strength and tenderness of which was only known when the little one was cold in death.

"The evening before the funeral, the little beggar girl went to the kitchen, the place she was accustomed to go to, and remained until after nine o'clock, hoping, as has since appeared, to get a glimpse of the corpse of her little friend. When the procession started for Mount Hope, she was observed by an uncle of the deceased to be near, and sobbing as though her heart was broken, but no one knew the cause of her grief. Arrived at the entrance to the place of burial, she was again seen, having walked and run all the way in a warm day, the sweat pouring from her sunburnt face and brow, and she panting for breath. She followed on to the grave, and after the services and the lowering of the little sleeper to his final earthly rest, the apparently friendless stranger was questioned as to the cause of her grief; and then, for the first time, it was found that she was grieved, as only her sobs could tell, at the loss of the little child, who, when she came upon her daily errand, had entwined itself around her heart. That little girl, the child of poor parents, goes in the plainest garb; it may be soiled and torn, her feet bare, and her whole appearance, so far as dress is concerned, indicating extreme poverty; but under all this, if the incident alluded to is an index to what the eye cannot see, she has a heart containing a jewel, which God himself will give a place in his crown."

NOVELTY has charms that our minds can hardly withstand. The most valuable things, if they have for a long while appeared among us, do not make any impression as they are good, but give us a distaste as they are old. But when the influence of this fantastical humor is over, the same men or things will come to be admired by a happy return of our good taste.

No one can be in a more unhappy circumstance than to have neither an ability to give or to take instruction.

MANAGEMENT OF BOYS.

How greatly do parents and preceptors err in mistaking for mischief, or wanton idleness, all the little manoeuvres of young persons, which are frequently practical inquiries to conform or refute doubts passing in their minds! When the aunt of James Watt reproved the boy for his idleness, and desired him to take a book, or employ himself to some purpose usefully, and not be taking off the lid of the kettle, and putting it on again, and holding now a cup and now a silver spoon over the steam, how little was she aware that he was investigating a problem which was to lead to the greatest of human inventions!

It has been said that we were indebted for the important invention in the steamengine, termed hand-gear, by which its valves or cocks are worked by the machine itself, to an idle boy of the name of Humphrey Potter, who, being employed to stop and open a valve, saw that he could save himself the trouble of attending and watching it, by fixing a plug upon a part of the machine which came to the place at the proper times, in consequence of the general movement. If this anecdote be true, what does it prove? That Humphrey Potter might be very idle, but that he was, at the same time, very ingenious. It was a contrivance, not the result of mere accident, but of some observation and successful experiment.

The father of Eli Whitney, on his return from a journey which had necessarily compelled him to absent himself from home for several days, inquired, as was his usual custom, into the occupations of his sons during his absence. He received a good account of all of them except Eli, who, the housekeeper reluctantly confessed, had been engaged in making a fiddle.

"Alas!" says the father, with a sigh and ominous shake of the head, "I fear that Eli will have some day to take his portion out in fiddles." To have anything to do about a fiddle, betokened, the father thought, a tendency to engage in mere trifles. How little aware was the father that this simple occupation,

far from being a mere fiddle-faddle, was the drawing forth of an inventive genius to be ranked among the most effective and useful in respect to arts and manufactures.

It is related of Chantrey, the celebrated sculptor, that, when a boy, he was observed by a gentleman at Sheffield very attentively engaged in cutting a stick with a penknife. He asked the lad what he was doing, and with great simplicity but courtesy he replied, "I am cutting old Fox's head." (Fox was the schoolmaster of the village.) On this the gentleman asked to see what he had done, and pronounced the likeness excellent, presenting the youth with a sixpence. How many would have at once characterized the occupation of the boy as a mischievous or idle one; losing sight, for the time, of that lesson which every parent should know how to put into use, "Never despise small beginnings."

Of Edward Malbourne, the painter, it is said, the "intervals of his school-hours were filled by indefatigable industry in making experiments, and endeavoring to make discoveries." One of his greatest delights was found in blowing bubbles, for the plea sure of admiring the fine colors they displayed. Thus it appears that even the soap-bubble amusement, idle as some think it to be, may have not a little to do towards leading the young artistic mind to discriminate nicely between delicate shades of color.

The first panels on which William Etty, an English painter, drew, were the boards of his father's shop floor; and his first crayon a farthing's worth of white chalka substance considered nowadays almost invariably ominous of mischief-doing in the hands of a boy, especially on the opening day of the month of April. Now what does the mother of "little Willie" do, on discovering the nicely swept floor disfigured with chalk lines? Of course she scolds, and calls him a mischievous little fellow? No, this is not the course the sensible

mother pursues. In an autobiographical letter addressed to a relative, Etty, speaking of this circumstance in his youthful life, says, "My pleasure amounted to ecstasy, when my mother promised me next morning if I were a good boy, I should use some

colors mixed with gum-water. I was so pleased I could scarcely sleep."

The family tradition says of Edward Bird, that he would, at three or four years of age, stand on a stool, chalk outlines on the furniture, and say, with childish glee, "Well done, little Neddy Bird !" Even at the dawn he would be up to draw figures upon the walls, which he called French and English soldiers. No doubt the question often engaged the attention of the parents, as to how little Neddy should be broken of the habit of sketching so much on almost everything about the house. The father finding, however, that his love of drawing and sketching was incurable, at length wisely ceased to counteract his artistic tendency, and, beginning to grow anxious to turn it to some account, finally apprenticed him to a maker of tea-trays, from whose employ, as every one knows, he advanced into the ranks of acknowledged genius.

When young West first began to display skill in drawing, and learned from the roaming Indians the method of preparing colors, he was at a loss to conceive how to lay these colors skilfully on. A neighbor informed

him that this was done with brushes formed of camel's hair; there were no camels in America, and he had recourse to the cat, from whose back and tail he supplied his wants. The cat was a favorite, and the altered condition of her fur was imputed to disease, till the boy's confession explained the cause, much to the amusement of his father, who rebuked him, not rashly, but as becometh a wise parent, more in affection than in anger. To rebuke such an act wisely, required on the part of the parent a discrimination sufficiently clear to discern that mischief doing had nothing to do in the affair. It was of no small importance that the correction employed should be adapted to the circumstances of the case. So also the mother of West, when she was sent to seek her son by the anxious inquiries of the schoolmaster in regard to his absence for several days from school, did not, on finding him with his box and paints laboring secretly in the garret, vent forth her anger in a passionate way, as though VOL. II. NO. 10. 20

the child were engaged in a "mere foolish piece of business."

Thus we see the necessity of great dis crimination on the part of the parent in the correction of a child. Children do not always necessarily engage in doing things in a sort of perfunctory manner, merely performing them for the sole purpose of getting through, careless whether they are done well or not. Children need not always necessarily act out their manoeuvres in a roguish manner, merely busying their brain for the purpose of working out some means to practise a trick. Chalk does not appear to be used invariably for such purposes as raising laughter and performing mischiev ous acts. Even at the sight of charcoal, so difficult to tolerate, it is not allowable for the parent to disuse discretion, though mischievousness may seem to make use of this exceedingly smutty substance as one peculiarly suited to answer its purposes. It is said that our Copley, at some seven or eight years old, on being observed to absent himself from the family for several hours at a time, was at length traced to a lonely room, on whose bare walls he had drawn, in charcoal, a group of martial figures engaged in some nameless adventure. The artistic tendency in such a case, needs a treatment far different from that which would attri bute it to a love of mere sportive trickpractising. The manœuvres of a boy should be thoroughly studied as to their real nature before recourse is had to rod correction. Rashness on the part of the parent or teacher is never excusable. It should be remembered that in the plays and pursuits of the boy the future man is sometimes seen, and therefore it becomes of no little importance to know how the amusements and games of children may be improved for directing their inclinations to employ. ments in which they may hereafter excel.

THERE is a sort of economy in Providence, that one shall excel where another is defective, in order to make men more useful to each other, and mix them in society.

EATH will come; he will certainly come. He cannot be put back; he cannot be made to take his step any slower. O, he will come! All that live on earth will die; every beast, bird, and creeping thing; the humming-bird, the insect that flutters in the sunbeam; every tree, and shrub, and flower-the oak, the pine, the acacia, the moss that grows over the wall; every monarch, every peasant, every rich man, every poor man, every slave, every master of a slave, every man, every woman, every child, every old man that prides himself on his honors and his wealth; every young man that prides himself on his talents and his strength; every maiden that prides herself on her beauty. O, all will die! I am in a world of death; I am amidst the dying and the dead; I see not a living thing in all my rambles that will not die-no man, no woman, no child, no bird, no beast, no plant, no tree. The eagle that cuts the air cannot fly above it; the monster of the deep cannot dive below it; the tiny insect cannot make itself so insignificant that death will not notice it; the leviathan cannot, with his great strength, struggle against it. The Christian will die, the sinner will die-yea the sinner! Your wealth cannot save you; your accomplishments cannot save you. Death cares for none of these things; they are all trifles-gewgaws beneath his notice. He no more "loves a shining mark" than an ignoble one, he has no more pride in cutting down the rich man than the poor man-the daughter of beauty and fashion than the daughter of ugliness and sin. He loves to level the thistle as well as the rose-bud; the brambles and the magnolia; the briar, as the cedar of Lebanon. He cares as little for the robes of ermine as for the beggar's rags; as little for your richest vestments and gayest apparel as for the blanket of the savage. You will die, and the fear of death will come upon you. Death comes just as he is; pale, solemn, fixed, stern, determined on his work. He hears no cry for pity; he regards no shriek of terror. He comes

steady, certain, unchanged and unchangeable in his purpose, to take you from your bed of down; to hurry you away from your splendid dwelling; to call you out of the assembly-room; taking you away from your companions that will miss you for a moment, and then resume their dance, that you may die. Death will come. He has been advancing to meet you, while you have been asleep or awake; and if we have gone north, or south, or east, or west, he has always put himself in our path; how near or how remote you have never known. Death will come. He has always been advancing, never receding; and soon his baneful shadow will fall upon your path; and that shadow will deepen and become more chilly, like an advancing eclipse; and then his dark form will stand right before you, between you and the light of the living world, and you will be in the dark valley. Death will come; fearful enough under any circumstances, even if you are a Christian; awful, unspeakably awful, if you are not prepared.

TEN RULES OF LIFE.

THE following rules for practical life were given by Mr. Jefferson, in a letter of advice to his namesake Thomas Jefferson Smith, in 1817:

1. Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day.

2. Never trouble others to do what you can do yourself.

3. Never spend your money before you have it.

4. Never buy what you do not want because it is cheap.

5. Pride costs as much as hunger, thirst, and cold.

6. We never repent of eating too little. 7. Nothing is troublesome that we do willingly.

8. How much pain those evils cost us which never happened.

9. Take things always by their smooth handle.

10. When angry, always count ten before you speak.

RAILROAD REFLECTIONS.

BY LEWIS L. HOUPT.

No. 7.

HERE are but few more analogies to be noticed betweeft a railroad and its ap purtenances, and the track of life.

We have seen childhood and age, joy and sorrow, the career of the righteous and the wicked contrasted, and all symbolized in the equipment or speed of a train of cars.

on around them. In another place, are men of business calculating the profits of some new investment. Some are engaged in conversation, others are reading, and taking no thought as to how rapidly they are passing onward, until the whistle announces some new station, and seats are vacated, to be filled again by new-comers.

On one side are several children, whose joyous prattle beguiles the way, and whose innocence laughs at danger. They know no fear, as their father is beside them; their

The distance between stations on life's track, are not measured by miles but by moments: hours and days mark the length of our journey, and show how far we have travelled.

"Ten thousand human beings," says Bishop Burgess, "set forth together on their journey. After ten years, one-third at least have disappeared; at the middle point of the common measure of life, but half are still upon the road. Faster and faster as the ranks grow thinner, those that remained till now become weary, and lie down to rise no

more.

66 "At threescore and ten, a band of some fourscore still struggle on; at ninety, these have been reduced to a handful of trembling patriarchs. Year after year they fall in diminishing numbers. One lingers perhaps, a lonely marvel, till the century is over. We look again and the work of death is finished."

So too with the train, as it passes along, young and old having reached their destination, leave the car, and their places are supplied by others; the train again hurries on -to stop at the next point in life's progress, to take in new passengers and let out those that have arrived at home.

But let us take a look inside the cars, and see who are travelling, and for what. Here, as everywhere in life, young and old, rich and poor, male and female, are promiscuously intermingled-the cars are full!

In one place is a whole family journeying to a distant land, to seek some new home; they are engrossed by their plans for the future, and take no notice of what is going

he will shield them from harm. On the other side is a poor woman, frail and timid, fearful of danger, and trembling continually, lest some unforeseen accident should hurry them into eternity.

Here is a man asleep-oblivious to every. thing, as he pursues his rapid journey. There is a widow, who, clothed in the habiliments of mourning, grieves for the loss of some near and dear friend, the remembrance of whose love sheds a ray of light on her troubled heart; and, as she looks upward, by faith, to the clear sky overhead, she feels that though cast down she is not forsaken.

A little further on is an elderly man, who has had many cares, yet they have made but little impression upon him; he seems, by his bustling activity, to be a man of some consequence, and desires to be regarded as one who lives well and has no trouble, who is satisfied to take the world as it is, without complaining that it is no better.

Near him sits a young man full of impatience; his hopes are buoyant, and, fired with the prospect of successful enterprise, he is anxious to mingle in the arena of life, being conscious of his ability to do great things.

All these and many other persons are crowded together on the train. In life we find the same endless variety; the rich and poor, the righteous and the ungodly, jostle against each other in the thoroughfares of social intercourse, and all are at the same time hurried onward by one irresistible impulse towards eternity. Hours and days and weeks pass by, and one after another drops into the grave, whilst others are born into their places, and thus the vast train is kept ever full.