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ley, about two miles away, with a larger stream that flows down its length, is clearly seen; and a short distance below the junction there is a mill. The afternoon sun glints upon the waters of the dam, and the Yellow Willows that stand sentinels on its banks, have their silvery leaves gently uplifted by the breeze. We can even see the plash of its large outside water wheel reflected in the light of the sun. There is a gentle murmur, but a little above silence, which seems to come from that direction, which may be the murmur of the mill, though this is, perhaps, fancy, for the distance seems too great.

The mountain range that forms the farther border of the valley hardly rises to the sublime, but it is beautiful. Even from this distance we can clearly see how the wind, though gentle here, makes waves of the treetops, which roll along and up its sides, turning the white lower-side of the leaves to the sun; and the shadows of clouds move after one another along its calm brow, like pleasant memories over the heart. Here and there is a clearing, out of which curls up the smoke of charcoal pits, while other spots heretofore similarly used are overgrown again with fresh young tim


How peacefully the farm-houses, with the buildings belonging to them, repose beside the orchards and gardens, whilst the well-tilled fields that lie around form a suitable back-ground to the picture. Here and there the course of the roads is discernible, especially where they run in nearly a line with the eye, or gradually wind up the gentle slope of a hill. They are not crowded with vehicles, but here and there may be seen a solitary passer, a wagon, a buggy, a team of plow-horses going to the field, or å boy on a bag of grain, riding to the mill.

Yonder are the cattle idly grazing in the fields. Some companies moving over the pasture like fish in shoals, with one ahead that seems to lead the rest. Some drawn out in extended lines like a regiment going into battle. Some in a kind of irregular company, like a crowd of bathers at the sea-shore. But why should we attempt to describe this scene in all its details? It is a thing to be seen, and all descriptions of it must fall short of the reality.

We have acquaintances and relatives here, and shall drive right up to one of their farm-houses, though this relation need not necessarily exist to insure a welcome. Here the old spirit of hospitality still prevails in all its ancient beauty, and the people are not unmindful to entertain strangers” even, for they know that in that way sometimes "angels are entertained.” They have all read—as did their fathers before them—what St. Paul and Peter say about being “given to hospitality," being “ lovers of hospitality,” and “using hospitality without grudging," for they have very large old-fashioned Bibles in which these things are contained. Though they are simple farmers, their memories are sufficiently strong to remember that this grace is therein enjoined as a prominent feature in the Christian character.

These farm-houses are comfortably furnished. The sitting-room—that is, the parlor—is nicely whitewashed, and the windows, doors, and furniture are as clean as a new pin. The old clock, with its revolving month dial, double profile, and bland, fat-faced man of the moon, stands ticking in the corner all day and all night long. The large tin-plate stove is at present at leisure in the corner, having its pipe-hole ornamented with a bunch of asparagus. The looking-glass is in its accustomed place, its lower end braced against the wall, while the top leans out at an angle of forty-five devrees-an idea which the fashionables are at present beginning to adopt in the hanging of their parlor pictures. The rocking-chair, its head-board ornamented with bunches of grapes, occupies its corner of the room. The settee, which is in fact a wood-chest concealed, has its appropriate place along one of the side partitions. In short, every thing corresponds with the spirit of the earnest, honest, industrious and kind-hearted people who live and are useful and happy here.

The kitchen is of such a character, that it may at all times be seen; and after seeing it, one still feels as if he could, without any unpleasant in ward sensation, eat a meal therein prepared; which is said not to be the case with all kitchens. Cleanliness is the order of the day; and the fragrance of the victuals is that which is native with them, and not that odor of foreign smells put into them to hide some smells which are not foreign.

At the table, the good lady of the house never asks you whether you “ take milk in your coffee,” but rather inquires whether you take cream in it. This latter article is of a thick, yellow substance-an article that is never seen near railroads. If you prefer milk to coffee, you can hare it; and this thing which they call milk, has the peculiarity that it is never blue, nor do you ever find a chalky sediment at the bottom of your tumbler. With them, milk and cream both are a liquid produced by cows!

Take a walk through the orchard. How the trees bend under their load of generous fruit! Under the trees you see red, white, and yellow circles of ripe fruit that has fallen. The fences are lined with rows of peach trees, and the delicious fruit turns its red cheek invitingly toward you. And, strange to say, when you look wishfully toward some of those splendid, ripe apples and peaches, no one puts his nose up to your face, and halloos— "Only three cents a-piece!” “Four for a dime!” “Buy some peaches, sir? buy some peaches, sir? four for a dime!" The owner of the premises tells you to eat as many as you please, to fill your pockets, to put some in your travelling-bag, to fill your buggy-box, and to send for as many as you wish after you get home. While you are enjoying yourself amid these scenes of plenty, you may notice half a dozen of mountain boys and girls filling their baskets and bags in different parts of the orchard, without money and without price.

It would give us pleasure to take the reader through the cellars, springhouses, and barns of this country that lies so far from railroads. But we fear he has learned enough to tempt him to a violation of the spirit of the tenth commandment! This, however, is far from being our purpose. Our object will be gained, if we have convinced them that people can live, and live in happiness, contentment and plenty, even in parts remote from railroads. We fear it is a growing evil which induces so many to think . otherwise; and that it would be infinitely better for the thousands of loose, irresponsible, idle hangers-on of these public thoroughfares if they had never seen a railroad, but had learned industry, thrift, and honest living somewhere else. Railroads are good, but there are some things that are good besides railroads.

Be it known, that in many rural regions, where the car-whistle has never been heard, there are scores of happy, thriving, and pious familiesmen who have never gone "to seek their fortunes,” but who have made

their fortunes by industry, honesty, and the fear of God in those places where the providence of God had located them. By so doing, they have not only been happier themselves, but have also made themselves far more useful to others, than those who have gone forth under the false impression that a selfish shrewdness is business tact, and preying upon others, the way to peace and prosperity.

Our young men need to be called back from the race of making haste to become rich. They must be taught and convinced that solid prosperity—such as God and their own uncorrupted consciences can approve like the trees that ships are built of, is of slow and regular growth, and that the things that spring up in a night, are only mushrooms, which cannot endure the searching light of the sun. They must learn the old divine lesson, that it is by serving others, not by over-reaching them by our own shrewdness, that we are to make our own bread and water sure--that by industry we thrive, by honesty and faithfulness we become respectable, and by the fear of God we become happy—and that all this is possible far from the railroad.



Finchale Priory, where the evening pilgrimlistened to St. Godrie's weary cry for mercy from the Lord, (miserere Domine) was beautifully situated on the river Wear, a short distance from Durham. Though built ages since, the ruins are still there, crumbling, like all earthly things, to dust. It was here that the Saxons, more than a thousand years ago, held two Synods, A. D. 792 and 810. Mary Heron thus beautifully writes about the ruins of this Abbey:

“Here, e'er the lark's shrill matin waked the morn,

Roused by the accustomed solemn sounding bell,
Each visionary, pensive sage forlorn,

Left the retirement of his cloister'd cell ;
Midst the deep organ's bold, majestic sound
And vocal choir, the echoing walls rebound.

“Here, by the midnight taper's glimmering light,

Th' enthusiastic, pale recluses pray'd;
Or when bright Cynthia gilded gloomy night,

Romantic, stroli'd along the moonlight glade;
Here, while the thoughtless world regardless slept,
Their orisons, and solemn vigils kept.

“On yonder spot the sacred altar stood,

Whence fragrant columns of ascending smoke,
From incense burning to the hallowed rood,

Mingled with vivid flames, incessant broke;
Here, tutelary saints in painting shone,
And worshipp'd martyrs stood engraved in stone."

St. Godrie, who had performed two pilgrimages to Jerusalem, as directed by vision, came to Finchale, and there built the chapel and hermitage The austerities of this anchorite were extraordinary even in his age. He wore a dress of iron, mingled ashes with the flour of which he made his bread, and passed whole nights immersed in water and engaged in prayer. He died in 1670, and, from the many great miracles he is said to have wrought, was adınitted into the calendar of the Saints. In the poem here inserted, austerities are mentioned which I can find in no record of St. Godrie's life; but the beauty of the poem rests not upon the facts, but rather upon the order of poetic thought, and the fresh, imaginative quiet which is made to surround the whole scene—the peasant wending to his morning work, the weary pilgrim sad at the evening twilight, the summer suns and winter storms, the peasant girls joyously flinging their garlands on May-morning, while age joins in the merry revelry,—all hear the same solemn chant, Miserere Domine." And then, while the organ loudly swells, and Godrie slumbers with the dead, like a lost echo, silent is that miserere. But we must not longer detain the reader from the beautiful poem written on the Anchorite, by James Henry Dixon, Esq.:

“ When the curfew's toll is stealing

Slowly o'er the dew-bent lea-
When the matin chimes are pealing,

Ever, ever prayeth he.
Peasant to his day-work wending,
Sees him on his pillar bending,
Evening pilgrim, sad and weary,
Listens to his Miserere,

Miserere Domine.

* Thirty summer suns have found him

Bowing in the day-star's glow;
Thirty winters dealt around him

Storm and tempest, hail and snow;
On his pillar still he kneeleth,
Fervently to heaven appealeth,
Blessed Mary, I am weary,
Pie Jesu! Miserere,

Miserere Domine.

“Hark! the Abbey bells are ringing,

Joyous is the holy day!
Peasant girls are garlands flinging,

Flowerets deck their Queen of May.
Lo, to village green repairing,
Age, the sports of childhood sharing;
Yet his mood of mind is dreary,
Still he chants his Miserere,

Miserere Domine!

“Hark! the organ loudly swelling:

Sacred, solemn rites are said ;
Soul hath left its earthly dwelling,

Godrie slumbers with the dead!
Morning's glance no more shall greet him,
Evening's kindred shadows meet him ;
He hath rest where rest the weary,
Silent is his Miserere,

Miserere Domine.

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It is a great mistake to suppose that those who are generally engaged in most profound speculations, are, from this reason, destitute of that simple and earnest piety, which warms the heart and sweetens life. On the contrary, it is just those men who have struggled to bring before their consciousness those invisible potences—those ideas which form the base of all the movements of history-whose piety is most simple and earnestmost simple, because nearest the very fountain of religion in the soulmost earnest, because nearest that central energy which gives virtue and force to all activity. In the most profound speculative theologians of the past, no one can fail to observe how simple and earnest are their meditations and prayers. What humility, what fervor of feeling, what breadth of practical application every where are manifest! As an illustration of this, we insert the following paragraph, which we translate from the Prosologion of St. Anselm. It may serve also as an earnest comment upon the second question and answer of the Heidelberg Catechism in their relation to the first showing that, in the sphere of grace, we are more fully qualified and more earnestly challenged to know our sins and miseries.

“Come now, vain man, leave for awhile thy occupations, and hide thyself for a time from troubling thoughts! Cast from thee now thy burdensome, and postpone thy laborious strifes! Devote thyself a little time to God, and rest in Him. Enter into the chamber of thine own mind, and shut out every thing but God, and what in thee may aid thy search, and in solitude seek Him! Say, now, my whole heart, say now to God, Thy face, Lord, will I seek. Come now, therefore, O Lord, my God, and teach my heart where and how to seek Thee!—Where and how to find Thee! It, O Lord, Thou are not here, where shall I seek Thee absent? If Thou art every where, why do I not see Thee present? But surely Thou dwellest in light inaccessible! And where is light inaccessible? And how can I approach unto it? Who shall lead me, or bring me to it, that I may see Thee there? With what tokens, and with what countenance shall I seek Thee? What can the highest, Lord, do, and what this Thy far off exile? What can Thy servant do, anxious with love of Thee, and driven far from Thy face? He pants to see Thee; and Thy face is too far from him! He longs to come unto Thee; and Thy habitation is inaccessible! He desires to find Thee and knows not Thy abode! Thou art my Lord and my God, and never saw I Thee! Thou hast made me, and hast renewed me; and all my good Thou hast conferred upon me; and not yet have I known Thee! In fine, I was made to behold Thee; and not yet have I accomplished that for which I was made. O miserable lot of man, since he has lost that for which he was made! O hard and terrible that

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