lazy air-no flowery landscape-no kind and sympathetic friends. The darkness, the gloom, the silence of death there reigns, except when disturbed by the rioting of worms. O, what a wreck of worldly hopes, worldly prospects, and worldly feel pious, the indefatigable, the zealous minister of primitive days. There he rests in quietude, undisturbed by the contentions and disruptions with which the Church and the world seem so rife. Ah! methought, could the cold ear of death but hear the plaintive notes of distress which our Zion utters, itings does not the grave present! Youth, beauty, would be responsive with admonition and warning; but these produce no inquietude there. I love to commune with the dead, especially with the virtuous and pious dead. There is a sacredness that reigns around their graves, which forbids the approach of unholy feet, and seems to calm the feelings to rest. It is profitable to step aside from the busy strife of mortals, and behold their end: it is a relief to the mind;, and while it familiarizes us with death, it stimulates us to that course of conduct which will prepare us to meet it calmly, and to become a partaker of the joys and glories into which it introduces us. But O how transient and visionary the world of life and bustle without appears, when viewed from the grave! Here the loftiest and grandest schemes of mortals lie disconcerted-here ambition is quieted-here beauty is faded and withered-here the strongest and most pure affections are severed; yet the living lay not this to heart: death and the grave are kept at a great distance off, and their solemnities but faintly realized. The eye of the mind is fixed upon terrestrial and not upon celestial scenes-the affections bound to sensual and not to spiritual objects. There is, however, something in the grave, which, to the feelings of our nature, seems cold and repulsive. There is implanted in our constitution an innate desire of immortality, and the constituents of an endless existence; but the change, then, which we have to pass, in order to obtain the one and enter upon the other, fills the mind with apprehension and dread. It requires the strongest degree of faith and hope in a happy and glorious existence beyond the grave, to calm the feelings and reconcile them to its gloom. In the untried realities of the future there is an uncertainty, which nothing but the assurances of the Gospel can effectually dissipate. But there is something in death and the grave that is unnatural. It implies violence and derangement. In a perfectly regulated system there could exist nothing of this violence and derangement. The operations of nature would move on in perfect harmony, and our being be a continuation without the changes to which we are now subjected. We open our eyes, and a world of life, and beauty, and variety meets them our ears, and the melody of nature salutes them. The gentle breezes waft to us the fragrance of the flowery vale. The fields and the woodlands are luxuriant with fruits to gratify the appetite. The streamlet issues from the rock to cool and slake our thirst. But in the grave all is closed up and sealed. No variety there-no cheerful breeze to refresh the wisdom, and greatness, all, all lie in ruins. But from this scene of gloom I turned my eye to a brighter one-it was to that fadeless paradise into which the spirit of Paynter had entered, and to which death and the grave were the gate. There decrepid and wrinkled age puts on immortal youththere the strongest hopes are more than realized in the inheritance and bliss of the saints-there a prospect opens out before the eye of the mind, vast and extensive as eternity, rich and varied with the beauties of an endless immortality. O, that I may be enabled, by an eye of faith, constantly to realize those sublime scenes, "until mortal shall have put on immortality, and corruption shall have put on incorruption, and death shall have been swallowed up in victory!" HOPE. BY REV. DAVID R. THOMAS. THE feeling or perception of hope is one of the most wonderful gifts of divine Providence, and manifests, in itself, God's tender regard for the well-being of the creatures he has formed. It is the most active principle of the human mind, and the support of all intelligences in seasons of tribulation. It finds a nestling-place within the breast of the lonely captive, as he contemplates the narrow boundaries of his gloomy dwelling. We see it inscribed upon the schemes of the trader as he rushes into the vortex of speculation. It is found with the affectionate husband, as he toils from day to day, wearing out the energies of the mind and body, in the fond expectation of rendering his home a place of joy and gladness. It lights up the pale and emaciated countenance of the invalid as he reclines upon the uneasy couch of disease. The child at school looks forward with bright hopes and expectations to the period when youth shall have passed away, and he or she shall stand forth in all the glory and beauty of manhood, or womanhood-when the salutary restraints of parental discipline shall no longer hold them in subjection; but when they shall be the guide, the controller, and the director of their own action. Under the influence of hope, the farmer ploughs, sows, and toils-the lawyer pleads, and the warrior strives. It was hope "Which armed the suffering saints of former days With dauntless breasts to brave the tyrant's wrath; 150 KIND WORDS.-SUNSHINE. The ambitious student, in imagination, beholds the temple of Fame, standing on the hill of Exertion, with crowns of honor and distinction glittering in the noonday sun; and Hope whispers, All these may be yours. For these he consumes the midnight oil, scrutinizing page after page, and volume after volume, drinking at all the founts of information, and imbibing the knowledge and experience of former generations, with the expectation that these crowns of unfading glory may encircle their perishable mortality, and render their names as durable as eternity itself. Without hope all things are clothed in the mantle of despondency, sorrow pervades every breast, and life becomes a great burden. But when our paths are lighted by this heaven-born messenger of peace, every thing, animate and inanimate, wears a pleasing aspect. "Hope's vivid form the fancy cheers, As down the hill of life we stray; It drives away the mournful tears, KIND WORDS. - BY MISS M. E. WENTWORTH. becomes necessary and dear-loneliness, disunion with playmates, the idea of neglect or inferiority to others, jealous feelings fostered by evil influences, a desire to do right conflicting with temptation to do wrong a warfare which is begun earlier than is imagined-and, above all, that restless and undefined state of the mind in which the soul is constantly struggling through its mortal chains for the immortality which awaits it. Especially is the latter a mystery to children, who, with every source of happiness, still wonder that they are unhappy. This state induces an inquisitive and thoughtful spirit, that demands a patient attention to proper questions; and an unwearied, watchful, religious influence at this period, would lead many young to the only true source of pleasure. More especially do the unfortunate and erring need the dew of gentle words to refresh their weary hearts. All being alike subject to error, and all possessing human frailty, it might be supposed that the sinner would find, in his fellow-sinner, a pitying friend rather than a severe censor; but, alas, for ingratitude! they to whom much is forgiven forgive little; and it is too true that many, over whose follies charity has thrown a forgetful vail, are the first to condemn those who err and are deceived. Rebuke, gently administered, has double the advantage of severe discipline. Love was the weapon of our Savior-Christ; and this spirit breathes above all others through the New Testament of his life. Are you rich? Be gentle-be kind-especially so to those who wear the badge of honest labor in lowly life. The WHAT the dew is to the flower, gentle words are to the soul; and a blessing so cheap to the giver, and so dear to the receiver, should never be withheld from the lowliest of our race. There are hearts in which the memory of an injury will never die-world will worship you for that wealth, and bow eyes that will never close upon a real or imagined wrong until it is revenged or atoned for. There are hearts, too, in which the remembrance of a kind word is for ever held, and around which the affections will cling with grateful tenderness. To the poor, these messengers of love are inexpressibly dear, coming from the companions of their lowly walks. If we turn from the dreary walls of intemperance or domestic dissension, to the hearth-stone where love and gentle words are the binding ties of families, we may discover and bless the influence that makes such an essential difference. In consonance with St. Matthew's declaration, the sun shines equally upon the just and the unjust-the same blue sky smiles lovingly upon either; but it is the sunshine of the heart that catches and reflects the sun of nature in the one AFTER SO many days of gloom, how animating is home, and, in the other, receives it with an ungrate-the warm light of yonder sun! So long as the cloud down to the golden calf; but when it taketh to itself wings, it will remember you no more; for Ichabod will be written on thy escutcheon. O, then, if you have been kind and gentle, there will be, in grateful hearts, a remembrance of the worth yet left thee in a loving and tender spirit. Are you poor? Be gentle and kind. Let your heart go forth in a channel of love to the whole brotherhood of the race. It will come back to you in ten-fold blessings, pouring into your lot a calm and rich fountain of happiness, which the possessors of twice your worldly wealth could not purchase. SUNSHINE. ful and unthankful temper. Children are, also, grate- was on his disk, my heart was weary and sad. But ful recipients of kind words. They flatter an innocent now all is bright again. And such is the Christian's desire to be noticed, and teach the young the value life. While the cloud of ignorance and sin hover of confidence and friendship. They may soften rude over us, how dark and cold the world! But, when and boisterous manners, chasten exuberant spirits, we stand out in the beaming light of heaven, what a instruct, comfort, or counsel. Trial is our inheri-halo of glory falls upon our path, and surrounds the tance; and, for all of the joyousness and elasticity of world! And, what is still better, the horizon of a youth, children do have trials, real, and, to them, in-good man's life has no cloud which piety cannot surmountable trials, when confidence in older persons LAURA. brush away. LONGINGS AFTER HEAVEN. LONGINGS AFTER HEAVEN. BY REV. D. WISE. "I would not live alway." To love life is natural; and no wonder; for man was born to live. The valley of the shadow of death had no existence until human transgression convulsed the universe, and opened that deep, dark, dreaded pathway to the mysterious empire of the dead. God, at the creation, joined the soul and body of his sinless offspring by a bond of everlasting marriage. Sin entered the world, and the bond was broken. Henceforth, the body must dissolve to dust, and the soul make its dreary pilgrimage to a separate state in widowhood and fear. Is it wonderful that the unnatural disunion is dreaded-that the consecrated pair struggle to maintain their unity to the utmost limit of human existence? It is not wonderful, and yet it is. That the mind, whose whole powers are absorbed in things seen, and which takes no delight in the eternity of the Bible, should love life, is, by no means, surprising; but that a heart, which has laid up treasure in heaven, and foretasted the powers of the world to come, should feel bound and wedded to its earthly tabernacle, and shrink from the hour of disunion, is a fact to be wondered at, because the future contains the blessed and the beautiful, the unchanging { and the true, while the present is uncertain, troublesome, and afflictive. Hence, the man of strong faith heartily adopts the sentiment of Job, and frequently exclaims, "I would not live alway." No, I would not live here for ever! Not that I sympathize with that sour spirit of misanthropy, or morbid sentimentalism, whose dull humors spread sombre shadows over the bright things of earth; for life is pleasant; it has its sunny spots, its fond endearments, its joyous hours; but they are not satisfactory to the divine aspirations-the mighty longings of my immortal soul. Viewed in comparison with my capacity, life is, indeed, vanity and vexation of spirit-it is as ashes offered to the pampered taste of an epicure. This would be true of life, if its sources of enjoyment were stable, and of certain endurance through the period of my present existence; but, alas, how { opposite from stability is every thing human! What source of earthly happiness, which to-day vainly I call my own, will certainly be mine to-morrow? Are not all my possessions as flying clouds or running streams? Is not life itself a moving panorama? Is health certain? Not while the stalwart frame and rosy cheek of to-day, may become the pale, emaciated, breathing skeleton of to-morrow. Is the life of those friends, whose presence makes my all of present bliss, more sure? Not while the child, who climbs my knee, and whom I strain with paternal 151 fondness to my heart to-day, may sleep to-morrow on the breast of earth; nor while she, who, with the mild gravity of the matron, still retains the chaste affection of the bride-my devoted companion-may to-morrow be the bride of Death. Is friendship more certain to endure? is it sure that my Jonathan of to-day will not be my Shimei of to-morrow? Alas! the fickleness of human friendship is proverbial; for even he, with whom I took sweet counsel yesterday, as we walked together to the house of God, passes me to-day with the contempt of the skeptic on his lip. Property is equally uncertain; for he who goes to sleep worth millions, is never sure he may not rise up a beggar in the morning. Can I see this seal of mutability stamped on every human thing, and desire to stay for ever, where nothing else stays long? No, I would not-" I would not live alway." And when I mingle with the sons of men, and see a spirit of unnatural rebellion breathed against my heavenly Father, and my feeble efforts to convert that rebellion into love are almost abortive, then my spirit in its sadness sings, "I would not live alway." So, when the dullness and stupor of my heart, the sluggishness and earthliness of my enfeebled body, and the struggles of a crucified nature, hinder me in the sweet services of Jesus, my Savior, and keep me in combats and fears-in conflicts and dangers innumerable-then, while fighting as for life, I cry, "I would not live alway." But chiefly when I open the eye of faith on the glorious world beyond the grave, do I utter this voice. When, from the death-bed to the throne of Christ, I see a path of light, guarded by angel watchers of surpassing brightness-when I see the city out of sight-my Father's many-mansioned housewhen, entering there, I see HIM-my Savior-robed and diademed, surrounded by myriads of the shining hosts, all happy to the full capacity of their spiritswhen I see myself-my poor soul, once guilty, now blood-washed, and saved as it soon will be-O, when I see myself there, beyond the reach of bodily pain or heart-agony, Christ smiling upon me--crowning me-honoring me with his matchless friendship, and installing me as a chorister in his eternal temple; and when I see that from that glory I am separated only by a point of time, a moment's space, a thin vail, a narrow stream, and angels and friends in heaven beckon me away—O, then I struggle to fly; I pine for freedom from my prison-house--for wings to ascend, to soar away, to be at rest on the bosom of my everlasting Father? O, then, in these sweet moments of faith, "I would not live alway." Blessed truth! It is not God's will to keep me here for ever. He, too, wills I should not live alway. Then let me patiently toil my hour, perform my work, and what now delights, faith shall grow into full fruition. There shall I have the actual enjoyment of eternal life. 152 AN INCIDENT. BY AN OFFICER. AN INCIDENT. wear its summer bloom." "You are certainly correct, doctor, in that opinion, if my own experience is to be any guide," said I, desiring to encourage farther conversation. "But, then," I added, "those complaining are anxious to THE day was cloudy, cold, and disagreeable. I have the spring burst out upon them. They long to had been shut up in my office since the morning, see the fields look green, and the trees put on their toiling away at my laborious duties. But few per-drapery of leaves and flowers, and all the landscape sons had visited me; but those few had uniformly said something expressive of their abhorrence of the weather. One of them, a very low-spirited man in his natural disposition, and much given to complaining, falling into conversation about the cold, dreary season, spoke of it in a manner which seemed to me quite uncommendable. I could not help but reprove him. I remarked that I deemed it a very bad habit to be fault-finding in respect to those natural arrangements, so immediately connected with the Divine administration. He felt my reproof, and soon after left me to my business. Leaving my office a little afterward, and passing down one of the streets of the city, I happened to fall in company with a medical gentleman of rare attainments, not only in his particular profession, but also in natural philosophy, and the cognate sciences. "This is fine weather for the season," said the doctor. "It is rather cold," I replied. "Yes, it is cold," rejoined the medical gentleman, "but it is just the weather suited to our wants and circumstances." I waited a moment to hear him defend, or illustrate his opinion; and he at once perceived the object of my silence. "Why, sir," said the doctor, "I have recently satisfied myself, by some simple experiments, that this dry, cold weather is precisely adapted to the state of the earth-of the soil, at this season. The ground is very wet, and, of course, it needs drying. It would be supposed, on the first thought, that a warm sun and a stiff wind would be the thing for this purpose. But, sir, I am satisfied, from the experiments I have made, that the weather we now have, and of which so many complain, dries the wet soil more rapidly than any other. With a dry, cloudy sky, and with cold barely above the freezing point, the ground hardens and dries up with wonderful rapidity. But this is the very weather which fault-finding people call raw and disagreeable." "But they are thinking of their health and comfort, doctor," I remarked, more to draw him out, than to controvert his statement. "True enough," he replied, "they take only one view of the subject, while the divine Being is looking out for many ends. Nor is this all. Our health is even promoted by this sort of weather at this season. It is far better for us to be let down gradually from the intense cold of winter, than to be rushed from January to June in a single hour." "All of which is very right," responded my friend, "provided they are willing to wait, till the proper time. But to anticipate it, the way many wish, would prove a calamity to the world. The fruit of those early budding trees would be cut off by subsequent cold. The herbs, and plants, and shrubs of May, starting prematurely in March, would soon be stripped of their beauty and their bloom. The autumn would come, without its increase; and dread winter would fall in its fury on us, without bringing with it a solitary gift, to support us through its rage." "The truth of it is," continued the learned doctor, after a moment's pause, "it is our ignorance that makes us complain of what God, in nature, does. Could we see the end from the beginning, and behold the whole breadth of the universe with his eyes, and comprehend all the wants of all the creatures of his boundless realm, we should concur perfectly with his plans. We should then be able, in some degree, to appreciate the Divine skill and goodness, in adapting every arrangement of his glorious providence to the wants of all the world." "And so it is," said I to myself, as I parted from my friend. The less we know, the more we complain. Ignorance is the handmaid to sin. Knowledge opens our eyes to behold the wisdom, and our hearts to revere the benevolence of Him, who sustains and rules the world. The study of nature leads to a comprehension of the true character of God. With a knowledge of his character, we are prepared to submit more willingly to his will. We are then ready to acquiesce in his plans, and trust his goodness, where their wisdom cannot be seen. Whether it be the rain, the snow, or the frost, or the cloudy sky, that confronts our partial views, or whether the sunshine, and the gentle breeze, and the flowering shrub, and the leafy wood, and the smiling plains, and the vocal groves, salute our sense, all is of the Lord, and all is well. Study, then, my reader, to know the goodness and glory of the Creator, in all the work of his hands; and so you will be a better Christian-a more amiable, contented, happy member of the society wherein you move. ANTIQUITY OF SCIENCE. JOSEPHUS, the great Jewish historian, asserts, that the science of astronomy was laboriously cultivated by the sons of Seth. This, certainly, is carrying back the subject to an early date. LADIES' REPOSITORY. LADIES' REPOSITORY. 153 MAY, 1847. LITERARY SKETCHES. A NIGHT WITH THE ASTRONOMERS. ABOUT one year ago, gentle reader, I spent the first part of a very beautiful night in the company of a few distinguished astronomers. Not being an astronomer myself, I felt like a privileged character amongst them. I was at liberty either to ask questions, without being expected to answer them, or to say nothing, but look very wise, and thus maintain my credit, or to wander apart by myself, and enjoy my own reflections on the conversation of my friends. The scene was very animated, at times; and many a meteor of a thought shot across my intellectual horizon. But the great interest of the evening was the mighty telescope, through which we took frequent views of many of the heavenly bodies. The moon, of course, was the object first to be examined; and, though I could not see any cities or towers on the planet, or bring it so near as to hear the people on it talking, its mountains were distinctly visible, and their shadows were projected to a long distance from their bases. There seemed to be deep circular pits in the moon's surface, some of which had little conical mounds within themtogether resembling the craters of vast volcanoes; but, by the nicest inspection, I could discover neither fire nor smoke ascending from them. Perhaps their activity was, for that time, suspended. I could distinguish nothing like a lake, or sea, or river in the moon, though such things were talked of by my more learned, and, perhaps I may say, enthusiastic companions. Professor M. could certainly see a river; and he had even named it, and given it its geographical position. Dr. K. confessed it looked very much like a river, but was not absolutely certain. The assistant at the telescope, who felt bound to confirm the vision of his master, could see it without half looking-he could almost tell us the exact color of the water; and, at one time, so high rose his gratitude for being permitted to say something, he flew off into a wonderful transport; and I expected every moment he would descry the dolphins leaping up in their sporting gambols. So hard did I strain my eyes, to see some of these wonders, that I have scarcely recovered from the visual exertion; and I must have been deemed dull of apprehension, because nothing but a dark stripe, running along on the moon's disc for a very short distance, was visible to my aching vision. Turning my eyes to the ecliptic, and passing them slowly both up and down the bright pathway of the planets, I was deeply disappointed in finding neither of those nearest to us above the horizon. Mercury was lost in the solar blaze, and the larger planets had gone down with their glory. I was very anxious to get a sight of Uranus, and hang a few speculations on the horns of Venus. From my Homeric readings, I had also conceived a strange desire to tie round my waist the belt of old Jupiter, and put my little finger into the rings of Saturn. But Uranus was far away, and Venus was below the horizon. Jupiter, too, was on a very distant excursion; and Saturn, good old monarch that he is, was overseeing his "Saturnia regna," on the other side of the ocean. But there was the bright galaxy spanning the heavens. VOL. VII.-20 Yonder was beautiful Orion. Here stood Arcturus in the midst of his sons. The Pleiades, shedding their sweet influences, were looking down upon me. Several of the ever glorious constellations, rich in their clusters, rose up to declare the principle of universal brotherhood, as it reigns among the stars. The whole canopy was radiant with lights; and I felt, through all that evening, that I was constantly and rapidly enlarging my comprehension of the grandeur and glory of the Creator. Returning, late at night, from the mount of observation, I went stumbling my way along over the rough pavement, with my eyes wandering among the stars. Being, at that time, in the absence of my family, alone in my solitary lodgings, I threw myself into an easy chair, and by degrees fell into a deep reverie. The mind, when thus lost in reflection, and carried away from surrounding objects, by the force of its own feelings, will sometimes experience a vividness of conception beyond the reach of all positive effort. It was so with me at the time of which I am speaking. To whatever mental object I happened to turn my attention, a scene of unrivaled clearness, exceeding all reality, would suddenly rise up before me. For a long time, I could see nothing but stars, and starry regions, and planets dancing to the sound of their own music, and comets whirling up through their elliptic pathways, and the whole universe sparkling in the light of its glory. I beheld with rapt interest the machinery of the solar system-planet after planet wheeling with rapid motion around a common centre. Fixing my mental vision on some distant twinkling luminary, I conceived it to be a sun, surrounded by numerous secondary and self-revolving bodies. From one I passed without effort to another, repeating the same vision, until each fixed star in heaven's broad canopy, became the centre of its own planetary system. Then, conceiving these centres to be in motion, and revolving about a point common to the universal movement, I gazed with wonder on the brilliant spectacle, till I was overpowered by its indescribable sublimity. Recovering, at length, from the first effect of so grand a vision, I began to make inquiries respecting the final source of it. "To whom am I indebted,” said I, in a sort of soliloquy, "for all this pleasure? Who were the men, by whose genius, by whose toil and labor, mankind are now able to take such large flights into the ethereal regions-to comprehend so much of nature's wide dominion, and to obtain such overwhelming views of the majesty of the world's almighty Ruler?" Following up these questions, and calling to my aid a few historical recollections, I soon fell to my old task of making sketches. Running my mind's eye along the track of the past, and making a few discriminating observations in passing, I imagined that the history of this great subject might be properly laid out into three distinct periods, which follow each other in successive order. The first period would begin with the infancy of these astronomical recollections, and might be styled the classic. Within it several of the great names of antiquity would be recorded. It would embrace those early Egyptians and Chaldeans, who once filled the world with the fame of their wisdom. The philosophers of Greece and Rome would here find their places. Thales, who was the first to foretell an eclipse, belongs to this period. Anaximander, also, who understood the |