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lisping belles and maneuvering mammas eagerly sought his favor, while the wise and discerning fathers conversed with him of ancient times and modern laws. We saw him, too, in the choice literary circle where the opinion of none other was so eagerly sought. We saw him, too, in the sanctuary of God, where with our choir he chanted the praises of the great Creator.

But he soon left our rural neighborhood for other scenes. The golden fever was raging in all its violence, and among its first victims was the gifted stranger. His last evening in our midst was spent in our village Lyceum, and after an interval of two years, I seem to hear his manly tones, as he spoke earnestly in the debate, advocating the rights of the injured African. I almost fancy I hear again the rich, loud voice, as it resounded through the Lyceum hall. At the close of his remarks, he briefly alluded to his departure, and then, as a shade of sadness gathered upon his brow, I thought that perhaps he was visited with forebodings that he should

not return.

He departed, carrying with him the kindest wishes of our villagers for his health, happiness, and prosperity. For many months his home was upon the deep. Then came letters long, and full of interest, describing minutely his voyage around the Cape, and his own impressions of life upon the ocean. The voyage was long and tedious, and several of his bold comrades found a grave beneath the deep blue sea, ere they reached the far famed San Francisco. Arriving here, sickness soon confined him to his rude boarding house; then came letters in a strain more sad, yet breathing still of hope. He anticipated returning health, and speedy riches, and then he would once more return to dear New England, and enjoy the fruit of all his toil and privation. He was still in possession of books, and he spoke of the enjoyment of corresponding with friends, far, far away. But the flatterer, consumption, was fastened upon his frame, and slowly and silently he passed to the tomb. His last epistle expressed no hope of return, but a regret that he came to die in a strange land; he pined for home, and friends, and the familiar voices which had greeted him in early life.

Then came letters, which said that he had passed away, trusting in the stranger's God, and though stranger eyes gazed coldly upon his coffin, and stranger hands placed the turf upon his breast, yet 'mid fairer scenes we trust he will greet one day the friends for whom he sighed, and be separated no more forever. S. M. C. P.


HADRIAN succeeded Trajan to the empire of Rome. He was an artist and a patron of the Arts and Sciences. The faintest glimmerings of literary merit, were, during his reign, sought out and rewarded. He was an extensive traveler, his life was almost a perpetual journey. No climate was a barrier to his restless curiosity. At one time he was admiring the wild scenery of the remote and inhospitable island of Britan, at another standing upon the shores of the Euphrates, then again beneath the scorching rays of an Afric sun. No province in his empire, but was honored by the presence of their monarch.

The natives of his provinces, his subjects, flocked in crowds to behold their emperor. He was at the same time a skillful general, an accomplished scholar, and an eminent statesman. The soldiers loved and respected him for his kindness and condescension. He instructed the

inexperienced, rewarded the diligent, sometimes disputing with them the prize of superior strength or dexterity. Under his reign the science of tactics was cultivated with success, and his military instructions were respected as the most perfect model of Roman discipline. He possessed a spirit of daring enterprise and restless activity seldom united to the character of an emperor. His reign was for the most part prosperous and peaceful. The Roman name was revered among the remote nations of the earth. The fiercest barbarians respected its power, and frequently submitted their differences to his arbitration.

It is with regret that we turn to the darker side of the character of Hadrian. We are told that he was capable by turns of the meanest, as well as the most generous qualities. His ruling passion was curiosity and vanity. During the first few days of his reign, four consular senators were put to death, merely because they were his personal enemies. He was afflicted with ill health during the closing years of his life, and he became peevish and cruel.

He now bethought him of a successor, and chose one unfit for the station, who survived the honor but a short time. His next choice reflected glory upon his memory, and honor to his penetration and judgment. He selected the two Antonines, whose reign was characterized by justice and moderation superior to his own. It

was the custom with the Romans to deify their emperors at their death, or doom them to everlasting infamy, and pronounce them tyrants. At the death of Hadrian, his ambiguous character was a source of trouble. They knew not whether to pronounce him a god or a tyrant. The prayers of his successor at length prevailed, and he was pronounced a god, and assigned a place among the Roman deities.



How experience has to do with the poet, is finely shown in the following extract from a foreign reviewer's notice of Wordsworth's last work :

"In pathetic stories of humble rural life we know no poet superior to Wordsworth. All the ordinary and, if we may so speak, parochial woes of rural existence in England, seem to have been diligently noted and pondered by him. It is told of Burns, by Dugald Stewart, that as they were walking together one morning in the direction of the Braid Hills, near Edinburgh, where they commanded a prospect of the adjacent country, the poet remarked that the sight of so many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his mind which he did not believe any one could understand that did not know, as he did, how much of real worth and happiness such poor habitations might contain. Now, if the glance with which Wordsworth, in his poetry, looks abroad on the cottage-sprinkled scenery of his native district cannot be said to show that warm familiarity with the daily tenor of humble rustic life which Burns had from experience, it may at least be compared to the kindly glance of some pious and diligent pastor, such as Wordsworth has himself described in his Excursion, surveying from a height the scattered homes of his well known parishioners. At home in the parsonage there are books, pictures, and probably a piano, the care of a gentle wife or daughters; in walking over the fields, too, the pastor, an academic and cultured man, has necessarily thoughts and enjoyments of his own; nevertheless what he has seen and known of the habits of those among whom he labors has given him an eye to perceive, and a heart to appreciate, their lowliest anxieties and sorrows. Almost exactly so is it with Wordsworth. The incidents of rural life that he delights to depict, are precisely those

that would arouse the interest, and occupy the attention, of some good clergyman, active in his duties, and accustomed to store up in his memory the instructive annals of his parish. The death of a poor seduced girl, the return of a disabled soldier to his native village, the wreck of the fortunes of a once thriving family, the solitude of aged widowhood, the nightly moanings of a red-cloaked maniac haunting some dreary spot in the woods-nothing can exceed the pathos with which Wordsworth can tell such simple local stories as these. One can hardly read without tears, some of his narratives of this description; as, for example, that of the poem entitled Guilt and Sorrow, that of the pastoral poem entitled Michael, or that of the widow Margaret and her lonely cottage, as told in the first book of the Excursion. Showing a similar eye for the moral picturesque in humble rural life, though altogether of a more cheerful character, is the fine and hearty tale of the Wagoner, perhaps one of the most perfect of all Wordsworth's compositions. And here we may remark, that if Wordsworth had any such theory as we have supposed, as to the advantage, in the poetical occupation, of a permanent connection on the part of the poet with some one spot or district, then, in such a theory, he must necessarily have had respect, as well to the power of familiar modes of life to form the heart of a poet, as to the influence of familiar scenery in attuning his imagination. And certainly there is much in this. Rarely does one that has removed from his native spot form elsewhere relations that can stand him instead when he wishes to glance into human life at once intimately and broadly.


My thoughts were sad and desolate, for no kind friend was near

To check the rising sigh of grief or wipe the falling tear,

No outstretched hand was there to greet the loved with aspect mild,

Or throw the veil of charity o'er sorrow's mourning child.

With heart opprest I walked amid the woodland's thorny way, Where I had wandered oft with those who could not with me stay,

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THERE is something in the air to-day, my dearest friend, in the sunshine, the color of the sky, and the whole appearance of nature, that reminds me constantly of thee. It is not that I need by outward things to be reminded of thee, or that thou art ever wholly forgotten. To be truly lover-like in addressing thee, I should, perhaps, say that thou art ever uppermost in my thoughts; but no, care, and business, and pleasure, will at times come between me and thee,

and thou art but a shadowy outline in the distance, while they fill with their palpable forms the nearer view. The time has been, when I could not have said this; for then, when our affection was new, when its hopes and fears first established their dominion over us, that dominion was a despotism to which all else bowed down. In those earlier days of passionate devotion, I had no thoughts, no dreams, but of thee. Care, worldly care, haunted me not, business received but the attention of head or hands, while the mind was elsewhere, and there was no pleasure in life but to be by thy side. But now it is not so. I shall not pain thee by this avowal; thou knowest it, knowest by thine own heart the feelings of mine. It is not that we love each other less, but that the waves of time and trial have swept over our affection, and what once rose sparkling to the surface, is now buried deepest of all. Years, long years we have been separated, and outwardly we are changed. We can give our attention to things unconnected with each other; can bear our part in the stir of life; can even be, in a measure, contented with our fate, but we can never be happy. We may wear the appearance of indifference; we may seem to forget; but always, far back in the innermost recesses of feeling, will remain an unconquered regret, and what might have been will be forever contrasted with what is. Vain regret vain comparison! but unavoidable as vain.

I have said that the day brought thee before me; it brings thee in thy bloom as when we first met. It was thy May of life, as it now is the May of the year. The soft blue that now colors the heaven, was in thine eyes, and the peach bloom on thy cheek; thy step was like the step of Spring upon the grass, and thy smile like the sunshine of May. I have not lost my joy in the spring-time. The balmy air refreshes my spirit; I gaze with delight upon the pale azure of the sky and the vivid green of the fields, and feel a sort of rapture as I bend over the early flowers, or look upon the trees with their tender foliage, and boughs thick hung with pink or snowy wreaths. And while I miss thee more than ever, thou art more than ever with me. I seem to take thy hand in mine, and walk with thee through the spicy woods, in the spangled meadows, and by the marge of singing streams. Thou, too, delightest in the freshness and the bloom; thine eye follows and answers mine in its admiration of the beautiful, and our hearts beat as one to the music and gladness of nature.

Then, though alone, I am not lonely; I feel that somewhere the same sights and sounds of Spring are with thee, the same consciousness of a beloved presence; and our souls meet at the altar of Nature as they will surely meet and be united in the presence of God. Oh, my friend! my love! in thy truth, in thy faithfulness, I am blest! How can I be wholly unhappy while I know there is one to whom I am the dearest object on earth, and from whom, though fate may do its worst, I can never be entirely separated.

Though leagues of land and water lie between us, are we not often together? When my heart seems filled with sunshine, and I go to my daily avocations feeling a peculiar lightness and elasticity of spirit; when I soar above the petty things of earth, and nothing perplexes or disturbs me, art thou not then with me? Does not our strong and lasting attachment sometimes give us power to triumph over common obstacles, and though our bodily eyes may not pierce the clouds which surround and separate us, may not our mental vision give us assurance of a nearness to, and of cheer and joy in each other?

Yes, I believe it. It is this which makes our lot less bitter, which prevents our feeling at all times utterly alone. If it were not so, how could my heart leap up as it were with a sudden gladness, when from the earth or sky, decked in spring-tide or summer loveliness, eyes of affection seem looking forth, and low breathed words tenderly calling, till I open wide my arms, in rapture, seeking to enfold the invisible and elusive spirit? And sometimes in the silent wood, or by the lonely waters, my whole soul is filled with an exquisite sense of dear companionship, and for the timeI feel that nothing could disturb my peace or make me again unhappy.

Oh, there is nothing good in humanity, nothing beautiful in nature or in art that does not restore thee to me! If I read the poet's impassioned lay, thou art listening, and when mine eyes kindle with pleasure, thou too dost approve. If I stand in rapt admiration before the lifebreathing canvass, or all but speaking statue, I turn to meet the glow of a kindred enthusiasm on thy cheek and in thine eye; and when heroic deeds are mentioned, or on the written page appears a record of noble and virtuous actions, I see thy brow flushed with emotion, or thy quick sensibility revealing itself in tears. Together we hail the morning advancing over the eastern hills, or watch the gay colors of the sunset fading in the western sky. Thou comest to sit beside me in the twilight, laying thy hand in mine; |

or we pace the lime-tree walk in the silvery evening, when earth smiles like the gardens of Asphodel beneath the moon's purifying beams.

But can thy fancied presence always console me for thy real absence? O, no! It is in these hours that I most need thee, most bitterly regret the fate which keeps us apart. While the delusion lasts I may be less a sufferer, but afterward I must be doubly sad. We meet and we are separated; for a few moments I forget that aught could come between us, and then I live over again that hour of anguish when we bade each other farewell forever. Oh, must it be forever! That saddening word can only apply to the earthly duration of our trial; it may be the forever of time, but not of eternity.

While I write, the sky has become clouded; the herbage is less vividly green; something of ¦ their brightness has departed from the blossoming trees and the early flowers, and sombre shadows fall where so lately rested the beautiful sunlight of May. My thoughts take a desponding hue from the change without, and the gloom of the sky overshadows my spirit. It is as if thou wert gone from me like the sunbeams, and I should be blessed with thy presence no more. Though I never really doubt thy faithfulness, how often does this feeling of desertion oppress me, how painfully contrast itself with the happier delusion dwelt upon before. But it is not alone when the heavens are clouded that I lose thee, it is not the darkness that hides thee from view; for it may be when earth looks loveliest, in her spring or summer guise, that I cannot feel thee near; and closing my heart to the beauty around, it turns inward to brood over its disappointment; and often when autumn's golden haze wraps the valleys and the hills, and in the stillness we seem to hear the slow approaching step of decay, I call thee, but thou dost not come; and I turn from the sadly fair face of nature oppressed with an inexpressible grief and pain. Is it, as I sometimes wildly fancy, that thou art then turned from me? that in interests or affections apart from me, I am for awhile forgotten? O, my friend! my only love! let me not owe this suffering to thee! When my spirit goes forth in search of thine, let it not return unsatisfied! Let not thy heart fail or grow weary in its watchfulness and fidelity; and though we may never meet face to face, or hope for an earthly union, still be thou mine in spirit, as I am wholly thine!

Hartford, Conn.


That from the fondly worshiped one, whose name
I soon shall wear,

A dearer claim than kind esteem I may not hope
to share.


Barnes, in reference to the absurd use of proof texts. It would be useful, amusing, and instructive, to see a list of all the commonly misquoted texts, such as "God out of Christ is a consum

THEY tell me he hath loved before, its mark is on his brow,

hood's vow,

That a dearer and a lovelier received his boy- ing fire," and the like, which not only perverts the Word of God, but express a falsehood; for God is out of Christ in nature, but is not there a consuming fire, but Love: Acts xiv. 17. Here is the article from the London Biblical Review:

I know that from my face the charm of girlhood's bloom hath flown,

That early care hath o'er mine eye untimely shadows thrown ;

Yet as wine with age gains richness to the freshness of its youth,

I bring for girlhood's feeble vows a woman's strength and truth.

"The most serious damage and dishonor are done to the Bible by interpolations, which have gradually crept into many of the passages in common use. These, probably, originated in the desire to make more plain the supposed meaning of the written text, or to express the theological sentiments of the persons adopting it. Nevertheless, these alterations are any thing but improvements, as may be seen in the following examples. The memorable promise of our Savior, Matt. xviii. 20, 'Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them,' is often used with the addition, and that to bless them.' This additional sentence is probably a mutilated fragment of the promise of Jehovah, Ex. xx. 24: 'In all places where I record my name I will bless thee.' But it is a superfluous appendage, not in harmony with the design of the Redeemer's promise, and when attributed to him, as his own word, is incorrect. The wish expressed by the Apostle Paul, 2 Thess. iii. 1, 'That the word of the Lord may have free course and be glorified,' is often quoted with the addition, and run.' This appears to be an incorporation of the proposed marginal reading, for 'free course' is mere tautology, and consequently should be avoided. The cheering declaration, Eph. iii. 20, that God is able to do exceeding abundantly, above all that we ask or think,' has often appended to it, the somewhat unmeaning and un

are hung,


That on his manly generous breast, through fu- scriptural sentence, or at all worthy to receive.'

He may not guess the love that strives to shield
his noble heart,

When malice wounds, or Envy speeds her keen
malignant dart,-
The love that wearies Heaven with prayer to
ward the shaft that's thrown

To reach his heart, whate'er the pang that quiv-
ers in her own.

He dreams not of the stinging jest, the sneer
more keen than steel,
Weapons with which ignoble minds can make
their victim feel;

He cannot see the look estranged, or hear the
altered tone,

The price so freely bartered for the music of his


Yet he may prove the trusting heart that on his own hath flung

Its hopes that on its smile or frown as by a'thread

ture good or ill,

Most blest will swell with joy and pride, orbreaking-love him still.



UNDER this heading the last "Bible Society Record" publishes an excellent article from the London Biblical Review, which treats finely the common misuse of the Scriptures. This article will make a good companion for that given our readers some time since-from Rev. Albert VOL. XX. 9

Now, as salvation is of grace, we are not worthy of any mercy at the hand of God, and this addition is, consequently, incongruous with the passage. The beautiful and affecting declaration, Ps. cxxx. 2, that with the Lord there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption,' is sometimes encumbered with the ungraceful appendage, that he may be sought unto,' which, certainly is not in the text, nor in the ode from

which it is taken.

"All sorts of emendations have been attempted on the Lord's Prayer, and in the apostolic benediction, 2 Cor. xiii. 14, with which our public religious services usually conclude. Indeed,

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