At first, I thought I would have a talk with Mrs. Norton, and try to enlighten her a little. Then I reflected that she was armed so strong in her own good opinion that anything I could say would not merely fail of doing good, but would be considered the height of presumption. I remembered my conversation with Mrs. Dater, and its unpleasant termination. And after all, why should I fret myself about other people's mistakes? The dream that I might find a pleasant home here had vanished. I would rather live alone in some deserted cabin, than in so cold and cheerless an atmosphere. But I could leave her quietly. That was easy enough; and that I was resolved to do, after a visit of very moderate length. I don't know how it is, but there is something in my temper that always leads me to do just the thing I don't intend to dɔ. My feelings had become quiet, and I had prudently resolved to be silent, but the very next day, I found myself expressing my opinion in the freest possible manner. Mrs. Norton had remarked in her self-satisfied, dictatorial way, that naturally, all children were alike; that all were made and formed by education. I dissented from this, decidedly. I thought there was a great original difference in different minds; and that education should be adapted to the natural bent, if we wished to obtain any thing bright or good. Mrs. Norton, as usual, insisted upon her opinion. We kept upon generals for a while, but presently, she mounted her hobby, her own children and her own mode of training them. "I am so determined," said she, "to form my children myself, that if I perceive any particular inclination, I take special pains to counteract it. Thomas had an extreme desire to be an artist; and since that was forbidden, he is crazy to learn drawing as an accomplishment. He would sit up half the night engaged with his pencil if I would permit him. He would spend every shilling of his money if I did not prevent it. But I do. I insist upon his remaining in the parlor till bed-time; and I don't allow a picture to come into the house. He hates the store, but a merchant he must be and a good one. I make him do several sums in arithmetic every evening. He often makes a mistake, but the trees and cascades with which he fills up every corner of his slate are perfect nature.

་

a

Eliza loves music and fancy work, so I set her to make puddings and pies, and writing out recipes. Ellen is active, and has quite a turn for domestic affairs, but she cannot be taught to make a strait line, therefore I am determined that she shall be taught drawing. The difficulty of doing what they have no mind to do, will sharpen their faculties; and the effort to overcome their natural inclinations will give them self-control I have begun even with Jenny and little Ned. Jenny would be gla to sing, and dance the live-long day; so I keep her on her stool with her needle. Ned would kiss and caress half the time, but I won't permit it. He and Jenny would give away every thing they have if left to themselves, and therefore, I always insist upon the most exact division. No one among them ever has a particle more of a good thing than the others. They would all like to see the house filled with ornaments. They would love to dress, visit and read novels, and spend their evening in gaiety; but I will have no such useless expense, or topsy-turvy doings in my house. I want them to grow up sober, religious people, and good members of society, and I am determined they shall be so.

Mrs. Norton stopped; and with my ideas and feelings, it was not in human nature to hold my peace. "Why cousin," said I, "for a woman of your sense you astonish me. Don't you perceive that you are disgusting your children with their home, and almost with life? That your plan will inevitably repress all beautiful and harmonious development, and leave them crude, unformed, and dissatisfied? Why not let Thomas employ a portion of his leisure in drawing? He delights in it; he would excel in it. It is an accomplishment which would beautify his life and his home; and who knows from what bad companions and what nightly dissipation it might save him? And why should you counteract Eliza's taste for music? It is an art which gives more pleasure to its possessor than any other, and is, more than any other, a gift of nature; and yet, to those who have not this charming gift, it is misery to be forced to it. Why force Ellen against her inclination? Why not let her follow her own bent? With her taste for construction and arrangement, she would make a charming little house-keeper. With the simplest materials, I observe she has made her own chamber the prettiest room in the house. And lit

tle Jenny with her sanguine, active temperament, remember she is a playful little child, and don't for pity's sake keep her so long on that miserable stool. As for Ned, dear little Ned, how any human being, how any mother's heart can resist the caresses of such a sweet little fellow, is more than I can conceive. It really seems to me that it is your, that it is every parent's duty to make home a pleasant and happy place for children. Not to permit them to be asters and mistresses as I confess too many do; but to consider their youth, to give them reasonable indulgences, to enter into their feelings and to sympathize with them. To follow in some measure, the indications of nature in their development and culture, thus giving them a chance to attain excellence in their pursuits and to find pleasure in them. How can a mother who has merely the outward submission of her children, who has never gained their love and confidence, expect to influence them in the highest and most aportant of all objects; how can she lead them to love and gratitude toward a heavenly Parent, if they know not the feeling toward an earthly one? How are they to learn the pleasure of magnanimity and self-denial, when they are not even permitted to yield to a generous, self-renouncing impulse? How can it be expected that they will grow up indifferent to the pleasures of sense, when even in the low gratification of eating, they are taught to consider it an injustice for one to receive the slightest indulgence less than the others?"

Mrs. Norton was confounded, not by my reasoning, but my audacity. A little old-maid cousin from the country to lecture her upon a subject where she considered her own knowledge and practice perfect, a model! It was rather too much. She gave me to understand that she thought so. Perhaps it was. I had been hurried away by my feelings, and the impulsive frankness of my disposition. However, Mrs. Norton was not a woman easily to forgive; and though I was sorry I had offended her, I could not

retract.

My third visit was yet to be made, and I fixed an early day for leaving. The children, particularly Jenny and little Ned, bewailed my departure, but I was not sorry to leave a place so little congenial to my taste. My remaining visit will be described in another chapter.

,

THE PRAYER FOR LIFE.

"It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."

BY MARY GRACE HALPINE.

'Twas morn-the fierce and phrenzied hour had passed; All low and gasping on his couch he lay;

The fever flame, which burned too bright to last,
Had left the cheek and forehead pale as clay;
But, with the calmer pulse, alas! alas!

Came gloomy thought with reason's steady ray,
Thus, to the Lord of life, I heard him pray.

"Father of all created beings, Thou,

Thyself the only uncreated One,

Before thy throne, this radiant morn, I bow,
Whose glory knows no rise, no set of sun.
Behold! that strange, mysterious night draws near,
With rapid, noiseless steps, the night of death;
Before its gloom, the spirit shrinks with fear,

And faint and gasping comes the shortened breath.

Must the decree go forth? To die! to die!
And must I tread alone that gloomy road?
Ah! whither can the trembling spirit fly?
Where will it find its last and sure abode?
Oh! gently still the spirit's wild alarm,

And calm the raging tempest's ceaseless wrath,

For I am weary of the clouds and storm
That ever circle round my onward path.

Oh! spare me yet a little longer, then,

'Till some more lasting good my life has known;

I am not fit to touch Thy garment's hem,

Much less to stand before Thy glorious throne.

Thy strength unto the feeble body give,

And let the mind its wonted powers regain;

Oh! gentle Lamb of God, for sinners slain,
Thou wilt not let me plead with Thee in vain.”

He ceased. No sound the solemn silence broke,
And yet a voice the listening spirit heard,
Like the low thrilling strains, by angels woke,
Fell the soft echo of each soothing word.

It shall be well with thee, in life, or death-
(My child draw closer to thy Father's side,)
For from thy earliest to thy latest breath,

My arm shall guard thee, and my hand shall guide.
When o'er thy head shall roll death's fearful wave,
These solemn words of mine remember well,

I will not leave thee in the gloomy grave,

Nor will I doom thee to the House of Hell."

CHRISTIAN SUBMISSION.

BY REV. THOMAS SHEPHARD D. D.

"The morning cometh and also the night." Great and surprising changes attend the rapid flight of time. The morning light and the evening shades are fit emblems of the joys and sorrows which cast their varied hues across the pathway of life, from the cradle to the grave. The past! How checkered the scene! How quick the transition from the joyous tints of morning to the gathering shadows of night! From the mount of vision all bright and cheering, how rapidly have we descended into the valley of darkness and tears. "In the garden there was a sepulchre." The bow with its variegated colors, upon which we loved to gaze, passed away, and the heavens were overcast with clouds and tempests.

The future! Its destinies are wisely hidden in the sealed book of secret things which belong to God,

Nor dares the favorite angel pry

Between the folded leaves.

One who has often drunk of the bitter cup, and is, therefore, the better prepared to sympathize with those who suffer adversity, would take this opportunity to address a few familiar considerations to the readers of this journal, which may lead them to bear the trials and afflictions of life with a quiet and cheerful submission to the will of heaven.