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throne. Poor little soul, she will soon be there herself."
I sat beside her bed one summer's afternoon, and listened to her feeble voice as she told me how much she loved that Saviour who had died on the cross to save her. “I shall be so happy," she said, “ when I see Him, when I hear His voice, when I can sing His praise with the bright beautiful angels; all my tears will be wiped away, all my sorrows; but I want
“ What is it, Letty, that you want ?".
Well, Letty fell asleep, the sleep of death, but her prayers and her tears were had in remembrance before God. Often, on her little couch in the hospital, she had prayed, “ God save my poor mother," and the petition was heard and answered. The change which had come upon Letty, the cheerful confidence which marked the close of her life, had, under God, their right influence, and that abandoned mother was led to the feet of the Saviour, who had taken her child to himself. She forsook her old and vicious courses, gave up that drink which had ruined her, began to frequent God's house, and is now a consistent Christian woman. How different a lot has her other little daughter from that of Letty, and how changed is every thing about the mother and the child since Letty sang her plaintive song in our square!—The Teacher's Offering.
The right of asylum accorded to some churches was one of the most hideous privileges of those of which the revolution of 1789 disembarrassed France. In 1807 this right still existed in Spain, and belonged, I believe, to all the cathedrals. I learnt, during my stay at Farcelona, that there was, in a little cloister contiguous to the largest
| church of the town, a brigand, a man guilty of several assassinations, who lived quietly there, guaranteed against
all pursuit by the sanctity of the place. I wished to assure myself with my eyes of the reality of the fact, and I went with my friend Rodriguez into the cloister in question. The assassin was there eating a meal which a woman had just brought him. He easily divined the aim of our visit, and made immediately such demonstrations as convinced us that if the asylum was safe for the robber, it would not be long so for us. We retired at once, deploring that in a country calling itself civilized, there should still exist such crying, such monstrous abuses. - Autobiography of Francis Arago.
WOODEN NUTMEGS OUTDONE.
There is a Parisian dandy, who, we think, rather outdoes Connecticut. C- had at his residence a complete costume of a groom. When offering an attention to one of the fair sex, he used to say, “ Permit me to send you a bouquet by my black servant.” He then repaired to his garret, took out his blacking bottle, polished his face and hands, put on his livery, and knocked at the lady's door. “Here," he said, “ are some flowers sent by my master to Madame.” He had spent the last five francs in the purchase. Madame was so delighted with the present that she presented a louis to the bearer. That is a clear pocketing of three dollars, and a lady's favour into the bargain.
LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE.
Frown not always; wear not always that look of care, for every moment there are joys wafting past thee, make them thine. All here is not dark and dreary. The glorious sun, with its enlivening rays, the sweet-scented flowers, the sparkling dewdrop, and the melodious song of the birds, all speak to us of one who careth for our present happiness. Appreciate them as his gifts ; and let hope, too, sometimes breathe into thy ear sweet whisperings of a happier time, of a brighter world, of pure and enduring joys; listen to her, and soon will she chase away the frown from thy brow, and leave a smile of calm contentment.
THE RUSSIAN LANGUAGE.
The Russian language is one of the richest and most beautiful in the world; it is soft and agreeable in sound, and has not the defect of the Italian in being too effeminate; it contains many words that express the same ideas. If ever a Sclavonic Milton or Shakspere arise, he will find an inexhaustible treasure in his native tongue wherewith to express his thoughts; but at present there is scarcely any national literature, owing to the deadening influence of the government. The principal Russian authors are Poushkin the poet, Karamsin the historian, and Kriloff the writer of fables.-Leisure Jour,
COOPER AND HIS PUBLISHER.
Mr. Cooper, in the preface to his new edition of the “ Spy," tells us that when the second volume of that work was slowly printing, from manuscript that was barely dry when it went into the compositor's hands, the publisher intimated that the work might grow to a length that would consume the profits. To set his mind at rest, the last chapter was actually written, printed, and paged, several weeks before the chapters which preceded it were even thought of. Few authors could have acted as he has done
The idle man is an annoyance,-a nuisance, He is of no benefit to anybody,-he is an intruder in the busy thoroughfare of every-day life,-he stands in our path, and we push him contemptuously aside! He is of no advantage to anybody, he annoys busy men,- he makes them unhappy,-- he is a unit in society,- he may have an income to support him in idleness, or he may“ sponge on his good-natured friends ; but in either case he is despised. Literary Journal,
When Duchesnosis, the celebrated French actress, died, a person met an old man who was one of her most intimate
friends. He was pale, confused, awe-stricken. Every one was trying to console him, but in vain. “Her loss," he exclaimed," does not affect me so much as her horrible ingratitude. Would you believe it, she died without leaving me anything in her will! I, who have dined with her, at her own house, three times a-week for thirty years ?"
Sublimer in this world know I nothing than a peasant saint, could such now anywhere be met with. Such a one will take thee back to Nazareth itself; thou wilt see the splendour of heaven spring from the humblest depths of earth like a light shining in great darkness.--Carlyle.
The deepest Artesian well in the world is at St. Louis, where, to furnish water to a sugar refinery, a shaft has been sunk to the depth of 2,200 feet, through the rock foundations on which the city rests.
John Wesley being asked by a nobleman, “What is humility ?" replied, “ My lord, humility, I think, consists in a man's thinking the truth about himself."
A POOR PARSON.
6. Oh yes,
“John, what do you do for a living ?” “Oh, me preach." “Preach! and do you get paid for it?" " I sometimes get a shilling,” said the Indian ; "sometimes two shillings.” “And isn't that mighty poor pay?" but it's mighty poor preaching."
DIFFICULTIES IN EDUCATION MASTERED. Alexander Murray was born in the parish of Minnigaff, in the shire of Kircudbright, Scotland, October 22nd, 1775. At that time his father was nearly seventy years of age, and had been a shepherd all his life, as his ancestors for many generations had also been. Fronı his father Alexander received his first lessons in reading. This was in his sixth year, and he gives an amusing account of the process. The old man, he tells us, bought him a catechism, which had prefixed a copy of the alphabet, in large type ;
as it was too good a book,” he proceeds, "for me to
handle at all times, it was generally locked up; and he throughout the winter, drew the figure of the letters to me in his written hand, on the board of an old wool-card, with the black end of an extinguished heather stem, or root snatched from the fire. I soon learned all the alphabet in this form, and became a writer as well as reader. I wrought with the board and brand continually. Then the catechism was presented, and in a month or two I could read the easiest parts of it. I daily amused myself with copying, as above, the printed letters. In May, 1782, he gave me a small psalm-book, for which I totally abandoned the catechism, which I did not like, and which I tore into two pieces, and concealed in a hole in a dyke. I soon got many psalms by memory, and longed for a new book. Here difficulties arose. The Bible used every night in the family I was not permitted to open or touch. The rest of the books were put up in chests. I at length got a New Testament, and read the historical parts with great curiosity and ardour. But I longed to read the Bible, which seemed to me a much more pleasant book ; and I actually went to where I knew an old, loose-leaved Bible lay, and carried it away in piecemeal. I perfectly remember the strange pleasure I felt in reading the histories of Abraham and David. I liked mournful narratives, and greatly admired Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and the Lamentations. I pored on these pieces in the Bible in secret for many months, but I durst not show them openly; and as I read them constantly, and remembered them well, I soon astonished all our honest neighbours with the large passages of Scripture I repeated before them. I have forgotten too much of my biblical knowledge ; but I can still rehearse all the names of the patriarchs, from Adam to Christ, and various other narratives committed to memory.”
Borrowed garments seldom fit well.
often trips up its own heels. Men often blush to hear what they are not ashamed to act. Pride is 'a flower which grows in the devil's garden. More are drowned in the wine cup