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THE CHRISTIAN PARLOR MAGAZINE.

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nent botanists of the present age, in his Flora Londinensis, writes thus concerning the White Water-Lily.

• This truly beautiful plant, which may vie with the most splendid productions of the tropics, is familiar to every one, how little soever skilled in scientific botany, as an inhabitant of still pools and sluggish streams in almost every part of Great Britain. But it is in the little bays and inlets, the quiet recesses of the Alpine lakes, that it is seen in the greatest perfection. On the banks of Loch Lomond, I have beheld acres literally covered with this lovely plant, which almost conceals the water with its large, dark green, floating leaves, these again forming an admirable contrast to the pure white of the blossoms, which rise just above them. In Holland, perhaps, only, does the Nymphæa, there called the White Rose of the Waters, occur in greater profusion, where the canals are bordered and almost choked with it for miles; and its increasing so rapidly as to impede navigation,

is only prevented by the practice of cutting down the stems of the water-lilies twice every year. This plant blossoms in the summer months, and the flowers are fully expanded in the middle of the day, closing in the asternoon, and sinking somewhat below the surface of the water during the night, which last fact, long reported, has finally been verified by Sir James Smith.

• Very similar to this species in the flower, but differing from it in the toothed leaves, is the Nymphæa Lotus, the Lotus of the Egyptians, by which people, as well as by the natives of India, it is held so sacred that the latter were seen to prostrate themselves on entering the study of Sir William Jones, where a flower of it chanced to be lying. The seeds, as well as the roots, are said to be eaten in those coun. tries. From the leaves and flowers, Sturm, in his Deutschland Flora, assures us that the Turkish ladies prepare an agreeable drink."

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Hark! heard ye not that pleasing sound?

It strikes mine car, it seals my breath, A “bright and morning-star" is found,

It rises o'er this vale of death!

Rise, Heavenly Muse! Inspire my song,

The theme is worthy of thine aid ; 'Tis worthy of the radiant throng,

Whose brightness o'er thy courts invade. Tune then my notes, bespeak my powers,

And with thy magic potent sway, Incline my soul to while the hours

In tracing here the sacred lay. The theme I sing surpasses all

That Poet's plume has ever penn'd; It folds us in its circling thrall,

And bids our thoughts to Heaven ascend. Hark! heard I not a swelling cry,

Which rent the spacious globe around, A voice which pierced the earth and sky,

In rapturous and joyful sound? Methinks I heard some voice proclaim

In pleasing strains the wondrous theme, That Love and Mercy's gracious name

United in a glorious scheme !
Yes ! 'twas the song of angels, borne

From distant regions far above;
No longer grieve, no longer mourn-

The burden of their song was Lore!

Ah, yes! the Angel seraphs sing

A song more sweet than tongue can tell ; In praise of Heaven's new-born king,

Their harps they tune, their voices swell. Up then, and strike your tuneful lyres,

This day a nobler theme invites, Rouses our thoughts, our bosom fires,

With ardent hopes and new delights. 'Tis Zion's Lord ! the Prince of Peace!

Who has with glory reconcilid Our lost, degraded, ruined race,

By heavenly love and mercy mild ! Hail, sovereign Lord, and mighty King!

Thy birth's a theme we'll ne'er forget, The Universe our echoes ring,

Since righteousness and peace have met.

Our grateful Pæans high we'll raise,

And boldly sound the trump of fame : We'll chant thy love in hymns of praise, And sanctify thy glorious name!

C. J. B.

nomniany

A LEAF FROM THE PAST.

room.

It is good, it does us good, to retrace our steps and send the memory back along the path of the past, here and there to raise the grateful Ebenezer, and from the retrospect of kindness, unwearied to gather fresh confidence in our heavenly guide and entrust ourselves to Him for all the future. In the life of every one there are scenes, some of joy and some of sorrow, to recall which, is to make us, for the time at least, wiser and better. My own history, as I look back upon a few brief years, saddens, yet refreshes my spirit. It may be, the patient reader will glean from its incidents somewhat of interest and profit too. It was but last week, that I returned to the little village, where for a while the great Master had given me work to do as His Ambassador. I asked for the key of the still untenanted parsonage, that I might shut myself in to commune with the shadowy past. I entered it alone --and yet not so—for memory brought to my side, and hung upon my arm the wife of my youth ; and there were my two boys, bounding from room to room and making the house ring with their boyish glee, just as when six years ago we crossed its threshold, and for the first time called it home. But as I passed through its silent halls I felt myself again alone. Each foot-fall struck sadly on the heart, tender remembrances crowded fast and thick upon me, and through the mist of my tears I gazed on each familiar spot. That snug little room was my “study.” Step in, dear reader. That window looks out upon the busy street and beyond to where the sun goes down in its glory; and that other window, how I have loved there to watch that same sun flushing the eastern heavens with the beauty of its first beaming ! There, against that wall rose, shelf above shelf, my unpretending library. Edwards, and Dwight, and Jeremy Taylor, and Leighton, and Robert Hall, and Foster, and kindred worthies side by side, in just the nearness of companionship with which faith beholds them now ranging the fields of heaven. Baxter and Bunyan listing their unassuming heads, like sweet violets, amid the more gorgeous beauties of Chalmers and Melville. And there were Brainerd and Martyn, and other just such spirits breathing the perfume of a precious píety. Close by it stood my well-used desk, the anvil of many a

And above, from out its gilded frame, looked down upon me the tender eye of the beoved pastor of my boyhood, the devoted Pay

son, with the same anxious brow and earnest expression with which I have often seen him looking from his sacred elevation upon his gathered people. Many a time, as I have gazed upon that sad, still face, his very lips seemed moving, and my soul was hushed as if listening again to his parting charge, when I bade him farewell but a few weeks before his Master called him home. My young brother, you have chosen a blessed service. Had you ten thousand lives to spend, Jesus would be worthy of them all. Be faithful to the end." Such was my “study,” a dear and hallowed

There my tears have fallen, my prayers gone up; and there, the God that heareth prayer, has come down. Thither, in seasons of the gracious outpouring of His Spirit, old and young, the grey-haired sire, the strong man in his prime, the mother with her ever-burdened heart, and the child of unfurrowed brow and curling locks, have come to hear words whereby they might be saved. And there we have wept, and knelt side by side, and prayed, and listened breathlessly to hear the still, small voice, that whispered—“thy sins are forgiven.” What a scene for the angels to look upon, has that room presented! Immortal beings grouped together to do the one great business transcending far in its solemn import every other. Some with their heads bowed like a bulrush, cowering in dread of the storm of Divine wrath ; some pouring a burdened heart out in tears and sobs; some silent and dark with the gloom of a despair, that could not weep; and some with a countenance as serene as the loveliest sky, when the storm is passed, and there is not a cloud over all the sunny blue. Souls, that there were born to God, will ye not remember, yes--and sing over that room from thrones in glory? I doubt it not.

I am thinking now of that gentle tap from a timid hand. It was just at this hushed twilight hour. And as I opened the door there stood a daughter, a dear young disciple of Jesus, holding her grey-haired father by the hand. Poor old man! for more than sixty years he had grievously sinned against his Maker and feared no coming judgment. Scarcely once in all that time, had his shadow darkened the house of God. But in his old age sovereign grace had found hiin out. An arrow from the quiver of God had pierced his heart. For weeks he hid the wound from his praying wife and children, and although he would toss night after night

sermon.

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nent botanists of the present age, in his Flora Londinensis, writes thus concerning the White Water-Lily.

• This truly beautiful plant, which may vie with the most splendid productions of the tropics, is familiar to every one, how little soever skilled in scientific botany, as an inhabitant of still pools and sluggish streams in almost every part of Great Britain. But it is in the little bays and inlets, the quiet recesses of the Alpine lakes, that it is seen in the greatest perfection. On the banks of Loch Lomond, I have beheld acres literally covered with this lovely plant, which almost conceals the water with its large, dark green, floating leaves, these again forming an admirable contrast to the pure white of the blossoms, which rise just above them. In Holland, perhaps, only, does the Nymphæa, there called the White Rose of the Waters, occur in greater profusion, where the canals are bordered and almost choked with it for miles; and its increasing so rapidly as to impede navigation,

is only prevented by the practice of cutting down the stems of the water-lilies twice every year. This plant blossoms in the summer months, and the flowers are fully expanded in the middle of the day, closing in the alternoon, and sinking somewhat below the surface of the water during the night, which last fact, long reported, has finally been verified by Sir James Smith.

Very similar to this species in the flower, but differing from it in the toothed leaves, is the Nymphæa Lotus, the Lotus of the Egyptians, by which people, as well as by the natives of India, it is held so sacred that the latter were seen to prostrate themselves on entering the study of Sir William Jones, where a flower of it chanced to be lying. The seeds, as well as the roots, are said to be eaten in those countries. From the leaves and flowers, Sturm, in his Deutschland Flora, assures us that the Turkish ladies prepare an agreeable drink.”

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Hark! heard ye not that pleasing sound?

It strikes mine ear, it seals my breath, A“ bright and morning-star" is found,

It rises o'er this vale of death!

Rise, Heavenly Muse! Inspire my song,

The theme is worthy of thine aid ; 'Tis worthy of the radiant throng,

Whose brightness o'er thy courts invade. Tune then my notes, bespeak my powers,

And with thy magic potent sway, Incline my soul to while the hours

In tracing here the sacred lay. The theme I sing surpasses all

That Poet's plume has ever penn'd; It folds us in its circling thrall,

And bids our thoughts to Heaven ascend. Hark! heard I not a swelling cry,

Which rent the spacious globe around, A voice which pierced the earth and sky,

In rapturous and joyful sound? Methinks I heard some voice proclaim

In pleasing strains the wondrous theme, That Love and Mercy's gracious name

United in a glorious scheme !
Yes ! 'twas the song of angels, borne

From distant regions far above;
No longer grieve, no longer mourn-

The burden of their song was Love!

Ah, yes! the Angel seraphs sing

A song more sweet than tongue can tell; In praise of Heaven's new-born king,

Their harps they tune, their voices swell. Up then, and strike your tuneful lyres,

This day a nobler theme invites, Rouses our thoughts, our bosom fires,

With ardent hopes and new delights. 'Tis Zion's Lord ! the Prince of Peace !

Who has with glory reconcil'd Our lost, degraded, ruined race,

By heavenly love and mercy mild ! Hail, sovereign Lord, and mighty King!

Thy birth's a theme we'll ne'er forget, The Universe our echoes ring,

Since righteousness and peace have met. Our grateful Pæans high we'll raise,

And boldly sound the trump of fame; We'll chant thy love in hymns of praise, And sanctify thy glorious name!

C.

A LEAF FROM THE PAST.

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all. But they will remember, too, how he loved the Saviour, and that with him the surest argument to win to duty, or deter from wrong, was simply to tell him—this will please, that will grieve the blessed Jesus. To know that he had male the Sıv.qur sorry by his childish misconduct broke his little heart, and sent him to God to tell his trouble there, and sob out a prayer for forgiveness. Dear child, a grieved, reproachful look was all the rod he needed. He had not been with us six years when the Saviour sent for him. He was arrested in his beauty and the rapid expansion of his powers by the scarlet fever in its most malignant form.

The first onset of the disease was so violent, that we trembled for his life, and the dear boy himself anticipated death. He spoke of its approach without a shudder. He said one day to his mo. ther_“I want to go home.”

“ You are at home, my dear,” she replied. “It is your mother who sits close by you." “ No, mother, but I want to go home to heaven.”

But, my son, are you willing to leave your dear father and mother, and not play with your brother any more, and lie down in the dark grave ? ” “ Yes, inother, but I shall not stay in the grave. I shall go to heaven.” And what will you do there?” “I will love the dear Saviour, and praise him always.” “And why do you think you shall go to heaven, if you die?”

- Because I am sorry for my sins, and I love the dear Saviour, and He said — Suffer little children to come unto me, and He will not send me away, will he, mother." “ No, my trusting little one, never. Would that your poor father, with as little of the oversha. dowing of a doubt. could hope for his own acceptance there !"

He had been, when in health, very fond of music, and was himself a sweet singer. He re. membered his infant songs in his sickness, and often tied to sing them. At one time he asked his mother to sing his favorite hymn, beginning “ The Lord is our Shepherd, our Guardian and

Guide, Whatever we want He will kindly provide ; To sheep of His pasture His mercies abound, His care and protection His children surround."

He faintly warbled the first two lines with her, but was too much exhausted; there was too little life in his heart to frame a tune. Dear lamb! he never sung again, till he was laid hushed and happy on the good Shepherd's bosom. One day he sent for his father to come to him. Upon entering his chamber he said to me—“ Papa. I want you to pray a prayer for me.” “

dear,” said I, “ now tell me the very thing you wish me to pray for." Pray that I may be better and be safe.” But,” said I, “suppose God should not wish to make you better and say you must die, what will you say to that?”

That wouldn't be the prayer.” “ Then tell me over again just what you wish me to pray for.” · Pray that I may be better, if the dear Saviour will let me.” I knelt by his side, and prayed, while he lay with his hands folded and his eyes closed. As I arose from prayer, I asked—“Is that what you wished me to pray for ?” “ Yes, papa, now kiss me." I kissed him, then turning a little in his bed, he composed himself for sleep, murmuring broken confessions of sin and words of affection for him, whom he was wont emphatically to call his “ dear Saviour.” For more than a week his mother was herself confined to another room by sickness, and when permitted to return again, for a few moments, to the chamber of her suffering boy, the joy with which he welcomed that beloved parent 10 his bed-side shone in every feature of his pale, sweet countenance. Words could not express it. Holding her close to him and with a most earnest look he said—“Now you wont leave me again. You will stay by me always; wont you, dear mother?” She was obliged to tell him that she was not well enough to take care of him. A shade of disappointment passed over his face, but was soon succeeded by a fond consenting smile. Many an older Christian might have learned from this infant disciple a happy lesson of self-denial. It touched the heart to witness the readiness with which he gave up his own pleasure and even entreated his mother to go back to her room and her bed, lest she should make herself sick again by a longer stay.

In the kind Providence of God she was afterwards permitted to return and minister to him through the closing scene. And many and delightful were the brief conversations between mother and son upon heavenly themes. There was much to make us feel how sweetly the precious boy was fitted for that better world and the purer society of which he loved to speak. During the last week of his life he was at times delirious. And never were his simple love and trust in Jesus more beautiful and touching than in those moments of his unconsciousness. Now and then his lips moved softly—we stooped to listen-it was the Saviour's name he murmured. He melted away gradually like a snow-wreath. He died insensible all around-he sank into a stupor from which he was never aroused until the song of the angels struck on his ear, as he

Well, 1.1

crossed the threshold of eternity. He passed away at the usual hour of our gathering for the afternoon services of the Church. The bell, that summoned my people to prayer and praise on earth, summoned his young spirit to the temple not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. His life was short, but happy: for he loved everybody and everybody loved him.

It is hard even now, to think, that the dear boy, who used to keep dancing all day long, like a butterfly among the flowers, should go down into the grave so early, with his sweet face and rosy smiles and all the gentle affections that made him dear to a parent's heart. But when I remember who “gathers the lambs in his arms and carries them in his bosom,” I rejoice that I am the father of an angel in heaven,

and I had rather lay my other two down by his side to sleep, than have him back to sin and sorrow here again. I love to take my chair and sit in the very spot where he died, that I may look up along the path of light by which he entered into his rest. I never get so near to hea. ven, I never see so much of its beauty and breathe so much of its pure air and feel its spi. rit, as when I am in that room.

I may be a wanderer over the face of the earth, my lot may be cast, my grave dug, far away from the scene of these hallowed associa. tions, but to my latest hour, memory, I doubt not, will linger around that deserted parsonage, nor forget it, when I greet the stars of my rejoicing and fold my boy to my heart again in heaven.

WONDERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY

We have sometimes felt annoyed with what seemed to us a boastful clamor about the progress beyond all past precedent of the 19th century, about its prodigious strides in knowledge of all sorts, and of conquests over all kinds and degrees of power, save that of Omnipotence itself, and have been ready to accuse ourselves and our small but noisy contemporaries of a disposition to enter with an inconvenient extensiveness into the bragging spirit. It seemed as if we said, “Doubtless wisdom is ours, and was born and will die with us;" as if we regarded all past generations as never having got beyond mature boobyhood, despite their attempts to be and to know something, and notwithstanding all that has been said and sung in praise of “old experience.” And yet prone as we are to think more highly of ourselves than we ought to think, and to deem the movements of our own times of absorbing importance, it must be granted that thus far the nineteenth century exceeds in historic interest that of any equal portion of time in the annals of the human race. To this conclusion we think almost any mind would be drawn, that should in deliberate detail recal the events of the last forty or fifty years. The mind of the civilized world, though for a great part of the time apparently in a state of unwonted repose, has in truth been fervidly active, and intensely drawn, and external things only seemed to revolve simply because of the

rapidity of the mind's own movement, as the rapidly drawn traveller sees shores and fields in motion, and himself seems at rest unmindful of the optical illusion. If the length of a life, as the poet teaches, is to be reckoned not by the num. ber of its years, but by the measure of its activity, the man of fifty in the nineteenth century may be older than the antediluvian of nine hundred.

We would ask the intelligent reader of fisty years of

age

to compare in detail, the world as it is in 1845, with the world as it was when he commenced his being, and to mark all the intermediate changes which society has undergone, and, especially, to note the number, magnitude, and rapidity of those changes as compared with those of any other division of history. Where are the sovereigns and cabinets of fifty years ago? All vanished, and not one who was then a monarch, is now more than a handful of dust. The political divisions of Europe have been changed so often, and so materially, that our maps have required entire revision every few years. Within the period in question, is comprehended the career of that great master-spirit of mischief, Napoleon Bonaparte, and the grandest game of war and desolation ever played, is begun, carried on and completed, and the adroit and grim figures that sat at the chess-board of nations in the desperate contest, have nearly all sunk into the long, dull sleep of death. The bronze Cor

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