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and warps the decisions of the understanding? Where the history that does not cover the vices and blaze the virtues of its subjects? True, we are not to look for perfection in the historian, nor would we accuse him of designed deception even in his oft over-colored sketches of narration; but when we compare his, with the stern integrity and uncorrupted principle of the Bible, they appear but as the faint, feeble traces of poor mortality in contact with the pencillings of divine Majesty.

The narrative of the Bible may be said to be "sui generis," entirely peculiar to itself; and while it carries us forward delightfully in the track of the narrator, we are insensible to that so common fault of histories-" a crowded recital of facts, or a tedious detail." The Bible abounds in conciseness, precision and perspicuity, rarely found in any history.

Again, there is an adjustment of circumstances (which, when rightly executed, has well been termed the charm of history), that cannot fail to present the most favorable and commanding view of the great principles of the sacred volume. The narrator, be he inspired or not, presents the main features of his subject to the eye of the mind in bold relief. Like a skilful artist who traces upon the canvass the more striking features of the human countenance so prominently that they are sure to secure the eye of the beholder, while the less important are so gracefully traced, fitly apportioned and delicately shaded, as to impart a singular beauty to the whole: so the Bible presents its truths in such a manner, that the all-essential may be read by him who runs, while the less important are so embodied, connected and interwoven, as to add a divine lustre and shed a heavenly radiance around the entire book. Where all other histories are silent, the Bible is most full, and hence to the scholar most invaluable. It overleaps the narrow limits of time and bounds back to the ancients of eternity. It unlocks the secret arcana of the skies, and discloses the hidden things of the past with their attendant mysteries. It leads us back to the time when earth was in chaos, and reveals the circumstances of its origin. At one period it presents the world in scattered fragments; at the next, carpeted with beauty and loveliness; and at the third, teeming with life; when, lo! the morning stars sing together, and all the sons of God shout for joy. It treads upon ground which no other history has dared to explore, and presents the facts with which it is so richly fraught, not only in consonance with reason, but also attested by all the advances of science. For while the Author of the Scriptures fixes the time when the earth was balanced, its mountains settled, rivers channelled, and oceans bounded and stayed, science dates from a period when a change must have come over this planet, similar to that described by Moses.

From the creation of the world it makes known to man his own creation, and explains that harp of a thousand strings. Thence it proceeds in beautiful simplicity with one connected chain of events; the most remarkable ever recorded in any history, and joined with the vital interests of mankind. we may well exclaim, in the words of the poet

"Wondrous Bible,

If not inspired, thy pregnant page hath stood
Time s treasure! and the wonder of the wise."

So that

SWEAR NOT.

"Swear not at all: neither by heaven, for it is God's throne; nor by the earth, for it is his footstool."

(O! SWEAR not by your God, vain man!

The mightiest strength is frail;

Thy longest life is but a span-
A brief, a mournful tale.

Be from thy lips hosannas heard,
Nor oaths nor songs profane;
Remember He hath said the word,
"Take not my name in vain !"

And swear not by the holy heaven!
It is the Almighty's throne;
Nor by the burning stars of even,
For they are all his own.

O man! arise at early day,

Look on the glorious sun;

Swear not! but bow thee down and pray

To him-the Holy One.

Swear not by the earth, the beauteous earth,

The footstool of his power!

He gave its every glory birth,

In the primeval hour.

List to the proud rebukes that roll

From ocean, earth, and air;

Let the deep murmurs move the soul
To worship-not to swear.

O! swear not by the blessed One,
Whom God the Father gave-

His well beloved and only Son,
A sinning world to save.

But weep that thou so oft has bent
A worldly shrine before;
Turn to thy Saviour and repent-
Depart and sin no more.

(And swear not by thine own weak name!
For thou art but the slave

Of pain and sorrow, sin and shame,
Of glory and the grave.

Thy boasted body is but clay,
Born of the dust you tread;
And soon a swift approaching day
Shall lay thee with the dead!

THE MOTHER.

BY REV. EDWARD THOMSON.

'Tis a name that charms the savage ear-that softens the warrior's heart-it is the sweetest name on earth, save "Jesus." How strong a mother's love! How her eye watches at the cradle of her fading babe; and when it dies, how does her heart plunge! Let an angel tell. I have seen her at the coffin, taking her last farewell-lingering, and kissing the cold clay, and kissing it again, and placing her cheek to its marble brow, and breathing between its livid lips, and refusing to give it up, until torn away by friendly hands; and I have almost prayed that she, too, might die, and follow the bright and beauteous little spirit to heaven.

In the circle to which I belonged, when a tenant of the nursery, there were three rosy boys, one younger and one older than myself. The youngest, by a wonderful precocity of intellect, became the central orb the family favorite. He had a body and soul cast in a superior mould. He was one of nature's little noblemen. In our petty disputes, he was umpire-in our sports, he was president and on the reception of common presents, he was distributor, always reserving to himself the least share. The poet has said

"The flower that blooms the brightest,

Is doomed the first to fade

The form that moves the lightest,
In earth is soonest laid."

Thus it was in our family. My eldest brother and I still live; but William "sweet William"-sleeps in the family vaultacross the deep. But how shall I describe the anguish of my mother's heart as she bent over the little sufferer's dying couch? O, God, I cannot! Long after his remains were deposited in the "narrow house," she wept by day, and in the vision of the night her spirit entered the paradise of God, and ranged through

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all its beauties in distress, not caring to see a single rose, or lily, or carnation, until she found her own sweet William" blooming there.

How enduring a mother's love! When all other earthly affections are forfeited and withdrawn, a mother's love still burns. When man has hardened his heart, and crimsoned his hands; and when every eye turns from him, and every heart sickens at him, and every man is impatient to have him removed from the earth, of which he has rendered himself unworthy, a mother's footsteps are heard at the door of the dungeon, and a mother's lips bear the burning message to the wretched culprit, that there is yet one heart that can feel for him, and one tongue that can pray for him. I have often thought it was well that Sarah's faith was not tested as Abraham's. I fear that her heart would have burst when Isaac, ascending the mountain, said, "Here is the wood, and there is the knife, but where is the lamb ?" There is, perhaps, no passage in the Bible that affords more consolation to the penitent than that in which God's love is represented by a mother.

Mother! How many delightful associations cluster around that word!-the innocent smiles of infancy, the gambols of boyhood, and the happiest hours of riper years! When my heart aches at the world's wickedness, and my limbs are weary, and feet bloody, travelling the thorny path of life, I am accustomed to sit down on some mossy stone, and, closing my eyes on real scenes, to send my spirit back to the days of early life. I rock my cradle, and sing my lullaby, and play with my dormouse, and watch my goldfinch, and catch my rabbits-I walk the streets of my native city, and gaze at the show-windows-I walk around the "walls," and look over the green-I listen to the band, and see the nodding plumes and glittering bayonets of the marshaled host-I hear the shrill bugle, and view the prancing cavalry-I go down the dock-yard and view the shipping-I walk along the sea shore, and gather shells and pretty pebbles to fill my pockets -I dip "poor Tray" in the ebbing tide, and laugh to see him swim-I prattle with my brother, and kiss my sweet sister-I feel afresh my infant joys and sorrows, until my spirit recovers its tone, and is willing to pursue its journey. But in all these refreshing reminiscences my mother rises. If I seat myself upon my cushion, it is at her side-if I sing, it is to her ear-if I walk the walls or the meadows, my little hand is in my mother's, and my little feet keep company with hers-if I stand and listen to the piano, it is because my mother's fingers touch the keys-if I enter the King's Tower, and survey the wonders of creation, it is my mother who points out the objects of my admiring attentionif a hundred cannon pronounce a national salute, I find myself

clinging to her knees. When my heart bounds with its best joy, it is because, at the performance of some task, or the recitation of some verses, I receive a present of a tree, or a horse, drawn and painted by a mother's hand. There is no velvet so soft as a mother's lap, no rose so lovely as her smile, no path so flowery as that imprinted with her footsteps.

Mother is a name connected with all my useful knowledge. When I trace a pure thought to its infancy, I find it in my mother's arms. When I follow a refreshing channel of truth to its source, I find her, like Moses in Horeb, smiting the rock from which the fountain flows. I trace my earliest religious impressions to my mother's lap. I well recollect the tearful, prayerful anxiety with which she taught me of Jesus, and salvation, and heaven, and the sweet hymns she used to sing at my pillow. If I have a good principle in my mind, or a holy emotion in my heart, I trace it to my mother. Cherished recollections enshrine our Lord's prayer in my mind, so that infidelity never had power to invade its sanctity. The hymns my mother used to sing come over me like sounds from the upper world. When I hear one I lose my philosophy, and tears unbidden steal down my cheek. I can recollect when God laid his afflicting hand upon me. Who, then, was first at my pillow in the morning, and last at my couch by night? My mother. If I heard one at the hour of midnight carefully open the door, and steal softly over the carpet to my bed-side, and draw aside the curtains gently, as though an angel touched them, I knew who it was; and as she put her head down to my pillow, and whispered, with subdued emotion, " What can I do for you, my dear boy?" my struggling brain radiated a more genial influence over my body, and every little nerve seemed to recover a temporary health; and when my eye was becoming glassy, and my muscles were moving without the will, and my limbs were growing cold, and the silver cord was loosening, and the golden bowl breaking, there was one who could not leave my chamber -whose sunken, sleepless eye, watched over me; and when, at last, physicians had exhausted their resources, and had given me up, there was one who forsook not my pillow, and, as she whispered in my dull ear, "Edward, I have not yet given thee up -I have yet a remedy, and a blessing from God for thee," the fainting heart beat up new courage, and all the little pulses woke up, and the chilled limbs grew warm, and I yet livea monument of a mother's love. I have sometimes thought that, should I ever become a lunatic, I should be an idolator, and drawing my mother's image, kneel down before it. Lay me down (said the poet), when I die, upon the grass, and let me see the sun. Rather, would I say, lay me down to die

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