IDOLATRY OF THE SAXONS.

THE Saxons, who conquered Great Britain about A. D. 450, were pagans, and they brought with them from northern Germany their false gods, and required the people to worship them. Many, who refused, were put to death, and some were driven into Wales and Cornwall, and others to that part of France which, in consequence, was thenceforward called Brittany.

The above is a picture of the first of these Saxon gods, the idol of the sun, to whom sacrifices were offered.

The Saxons had many temples, and idols of silver, brass and stone. One of their temples was so large that the army of Charlemagne was employed three days in rifling it of its treasures, and demolishing its structure. Among their religious customs was that of human sacrifice to their idols. On their return from war, they sacrificed one in ten of the captives they had taken, as a thank-offering for their

success.

It is an interesting fact, that the mass of the English race, at this day, have descended from the Saxons who conquered England. We use, in a great measure, the same language (Low German) which they then used. It has been much changed in its form, but a great part of it is essentially the same. Every word in the first verse in Genesis, except "created," is a Saxon word. The first ten verses of the gospel are composed entirely of Saxon, except the word "comprehended," in the fifth verse.

"SHE MADE ME WHAT I AM."

BY E. W. A.

"No, my child," said a professedly Christian mother, "I shall not allow you to stay out of school. You can obtain religion just as well there."

This was a mother's reply to a daughter's earnest request to be allowed to stay at home one week, that she might attend the religious meetings to be held in the neighborhood. A revival was in progress in that part of the town, and many of the youth were anxious for their souls' salvation. Inquiry meetings were held; and at last, to our great joy, Eliza joined the little circle who met together with the important inquiry on their lips, "What shall I do to be saved?"

Never shall I forget the last time I saw her. It was a Sabbath noon, and a few of the young ladies retired to a barn to enjoy a season of prayer. Eliza asked permission to join us. We saw at once that she was no longer the gay and thoughtless girl she had been. As we knelt upon the hay, and each in turn besought the Lord for mercy, she seemed in great distress, and begged us again and again to pray for her. Said she, "I feel as if I should never have religion if I do not obtain it now! Something tells me that this is my last opportunity to make my peace with God!"

The afternoon service served to deepen her convictions, and she obtained permission to stop with us and attend the evening meeting. No alteration in her feelings, however, took place. When we parted, she said her parents had made arrangements to send her to school in a distant city; but, said she, "How can I, with my present feelings, spend my precious time in music, dancing, painting and embroidery, and all the fine things which a fashionable lady is expected to learn? No, I cannot attend school until this great question of my soul's salvation is settled, and, by the grace of God, I am prepared to combat the temptations of the world, and the snares of the adversary!" With this resolve she left, saying, "We shall meet again Tuesday evening." She thought her mother would consent to her spending a few days with us, that she might attend the religious meetings, which she could not otherwise do on account of the dis

tance.

Tuesday evening arrived, and again the conference-room was filled with anxious persons, who had set their faces Zion-ward. It was a season long to be remembered. We felt that the Lord was indeed with us. But Eliza was not there. She was compelled to start for school early on Monday morning, notwithstanding her earnest entreaties to be allowed to stay at least one week longer. Her mother said "she need not neglect her soul because she was going to school." And, when a friend hinted to the protection which Christian principle would give to the youthful character, she replied, "I should be ashamed to call her my daughter if she has not mind enough to withstand temptation, in whatever form it may be presented."

Thus was a darling child launched forth by a mother's hand on the fearful voyage of life, without anchor or rudder to guide her amid the shoals and quicksands of the stormy ocean!

What wonder, should she be drawn within the charmed circle of pleasure's maddening whirl? And upon whom would the blame rest, should her frail bark be dashed on the rocks, or foundered amid the heaving billows? Would it not rest on her who sent her forth alone to stem the storms of life, and unsuspicious of the dangers which surrounded her? Where was that mother's heart, that she could allow that inexperienced one thus to quit the peaceful harbor of her childhood's home, all unfurnished with the only chart which could have guided her safely to the haven of rest?

After an absence of six months, Eliza came home on a visit. But O, how changed! She was no longer the docile, affectionate, tenderhearted child she had once been. Her religious impressions had left her, and her love of dress was equalled only by her passionate attachment to novel-reading. Again she left, but not till she had planted a thorn in that mother's heart, which embittered every future hour of her life. She was grieved to the very soul that her daughter should prove thankless and unkind. But she never asked herself" How might this have been prevented?". She had "sown the wind," but, when she came to "reap the whirlwind," she wondered that divine Providence should send her such a bitter harvest.

A few months passed by, and again her tears flowed afresh. It was said that Eliza kept bad company. They sent for her; but she came home reluctantly. The peaceful joys of that quiet fireside had .no longer charms for her. There was no romance, no excitement

there; and she had now no relish for the dull, uninteresting realities of life. She remained with them a few months, and then, in a fit of passion, bade farewell forever to home and friends! And that, too, when she well knew her mother lay upon her death-bed! In justification of the act, she said, "When I wished to stay she drove me away. She made me what I am, and now she must make the best of me!"

And so that rude, imperious girl left her dying mother, to all the anguish of a breaking heart; left that grief-stricken father to mourn over his ruined idol, and lament that he had ever permitted her to leave his own hearthstone!

Christian mother! ponder well the fact we place before you, for the time may come when that child of yours will likewise say, "My mother made me what I am!"

SWEET THOUGHT.

WHENEVER we find our temper ruffled toward a parent in the family-circle, a sister or brother, we should pause and think that, in some few months or years, they will be in the spirit-land, watching over us; or, perhaps, we shall be there watching over them. The intercourse of life, during a season on earth, should be like that between guardian angels. As the poet Hunt sings:

WHAT A CONTRAST!

BY E. W. A.

A GENTLEMAN was recently urging the claims of religion upon a young man in whose welfare he was deeply interested. The youth listened for a moment, and then suddenly interrupted him by saying,

"Don't speak to me in that strain, I pray you. I value your advice in all other things, but I want nothing to do with your religion. It is all fraud, imposition and artifice, from beginning to end!"

"Why, Frank!" exclaimed the gentleman, "do you believe that all who profess religion are impostors ? "

No. I know very well that some sincere, upright persons are drawn into it, as they are into the "spiritual rapping" delusion. But I speak of the mass. There is my mother, for instance. She is a great Christian, talks a great deal about religion, attends all the meetings, and prays long and earnestly. But, I tell you, sir, if she is a Christian, I do not wish to be one. If she has religion, I will have nothing to do with it!"

As I heard this fact related, memory presented another scene, which transpired in the city of Boston a few years since.

A young woman lay upon her death-bed, and she earnestly prayed for death, as her only comforter. What had she to live for? She had broken her parents' hearts, and brought down their gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. And he who had lured her from her mountain-home, to whom she had given all the wealth of her young heart's priceless love, even he had tempted her to sin, ruined and then forsook her. Yea, he had driven her in anger from his door, and even "wished her dead." And, as those harrowing, maddening words fell upon her ears, she turned away, and, rushing to the wharf, would have plunged into the dark waves, had not a watchman arrested her movements.

Finding her completely exhausted by cold, hunger, fatigue and anguish of spirit, he bore her to his home, and kindly provided for all her wants. He had known her in early life, and it gave him pleasure to be able to smooth her dark pathway to the grave.

But