none in anything that concerns the welfare of the community.

The Sunday-school is one of the most interesting of all the occupations of the schoolhouse, but it would require the graphic power of a Hogarth to describe it worthily. As there is no rod, and no authority but one founded on sentiment, the erratic genius of the West has full scope. The youth who would on week-days tell his teacher—"Scoldin' don't hurt none— whippin' don't last long — and kill me you darsn'tP' would not probably be very lamblike under the instructions of the Sabbath; and the very proposition to teach for love, and not for money, puts every one on his guard. They cannot exactly see the trap, but they arc pretty sure there is one! Something very like bribery is necessary, in order to secure the attendance of the class of scholars whom it is most desirable to persuade—the children of parents who do not frequent the schoolhouse. Some of these hardly know the Bible by name, and others have heard it only scoffed at. But religious teaching often exerts a wonderful power even over such, and they are apt to be converted to a faith in disinterested benevolence at least. The labour of teaching them is quite equal to that required for teaching in Ceylon, according to Dr. Poor; and the good missionary's whole description of the mission schools in that far land, reminded us very much of certain western experiences.

Besides the uses we have mentioned, the schoolhouse is the theatre of the singing-school, so dear to country beaux and belles; of the spelling-school, as exciting as a vaudeville; of all sorts of shows and lectures, expositions and orations. Even the ceremonies of the Catholic Church are found possible within those rude walls, and incense has won its way through the chinks of warped oak shingles to the sky. The most numerous sects are the Baptists and Methodists; but there is hardly one unrepresented. We remember a Quaker sermon on a certain occasion, which produced perhaps as great a sensation as any doctrinal discourse of them all, though it partook very little of theology.

We had occasionally met for public worship, in a lonely schoolhouse on the border of the forest, where four roads crossed, and where, in winter, a flooring of chips showed that the seekers after learning were not behindhand in consuming the woods as fast as their great stove would assist them. This primitive temple, with its notched desks and gashed benches, was used in turn by religionists of every shade of belief and no belief; even the Mormons had expounded their Golden Bible (by some of the neighbours, believed to have been typified by the Golden Calf which led the people astray in old times),

from its crazy platform, and a rough-looking gentleman, in a plaid neckcloth, had during a whole evening thumped the teacher's desk till it quivered again, in his endeavours to prove all religion a device for the better subjection of the people. A Sunday-school had been maintained here for some time, at no small cost to the good laymen who conducted it; for they were obliged, in winter, to precede their scholars by at least an hour, and make the fire and arrange the room, lest some petty discomfort should prove an excuse for absence on the part of those whom they were most desirous of benefiting. Here, too, were singing-schools held, and spelling-schools, and other solemnities requiring space and benches; and the log schoolhouse, spite of its rough aspect, was, as usual, a building in much request and high esteem.

There was no "stated preaching" in it on Sundays, but clergymen of different denominations seemed to know by intuition or magnetism when it would be available, and their appointments dovetailed so nicely that its socalled pulpit was seldom unoccupied at the hours of divine service. Once only, within the memory of "the oldest inhabitant," did ten o'clock, Sunday morning, find the people assembled,—the wagons tied outside, with their seats turned down as a precaution against falling skies, and their patient steeds chewing "post-meat" for recreation—and no preacher forthcoming. A sort of extempore, self-constituted deacon, after much solemn whispering with the grave-looking farmers who sat near him, gave out a hymn, which was sung with a sort of nervous slowness, and much looking at the door. A restless pause followed, and then the deacon gave out another hymn, in six verses, with a repeat; this occupied a convenient portion of time, and then came another fidgety silence, during which, some of the lighter members slipped out, and several of the children went to the pail outside the door for a drink. The deacon then offered to read a chapter, and proposed if the clergyman did not arrive at that time, that some of the brethren should "make a few remarks." The chapter was read, and the remarks duly invited; but this only made the silence deeper; indeed, it was such that you might have heard a pin drop.

Nobody belonging to the town seemed to have anything on his mind, and after a little pause, there were evident symptoms of a natural dissolution of the meeting; when a Quakeress, who was on a visit in the neighbourhood, laid aside her close bonnet, and standing up, presented to the view of the assembly a fair and calm face, on which sat the holy smile of Christian love and confidence. All was hushed, for such a look has an irresistible charm.

"My friends,'' she began, with a sweet, solemn tone, between entreaty and reproof,'' since you are disappointed with regard to your minister, perhaps you will be willing to hear a few words from one who, though personally a stranger, feels a true interest in you, and who would fain help you forward, even ever so little, in the religious life. Your desire to have tho gospel preached to you, shows that you are, at least in some measure, seeking that life, and my mind has been drawn towards you as I observed the dependence you seemed to feel on the ministrations of the person expected. It has certainly seemed strange to mo that so much uneasiness and commotion should have been occasioned by the failure of a particular person to conduct your worship. 'God is a spirit, and they that worship Him must worship Him in spirit.' Now you, every one of you, brought with you to this house this morning a spirit, in and by which alone you can worship acceptably. You have here before you the book containing the revealed word, in which you could find wherewithal to direct and govern your thoughts on this occasion; why then should the absence of any mere man in

terfere with your purpose of worship, and leave your minds unquiet and your thoughts wandering?"

Thus the gentle monitor opened her truly extempore sermon, and, passing from one topic to another as she proceeded with her remonstrance, she touched on many points of scripture and of practical religion, until her audience forgot their disappointment, or remembered it only to rejoice at it. The prejudice against a woman's pretending to teach in publie, though peculiarly strong among coarse and unlettered people, melted before the feminine grace and modesty with which the speaker was so largely endowed; and when she finished, and resumed her scat and her bonnet, there were few present who would not gladly have agreed to hear her every Suuday. How they would have relished her silence, or whether her arguments had done anything towards convincing them that the heart may worship though no word be spoken, we can only conjecture; for before another Sabbath, the persuasive eye and voice had departed on some mission to the farther West, and we never again enjoyed her ministry of love in The Loa Sciioolhocsr.

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Lipk-breathing spirit! why thy spell delay,
Veiling thv radiant form in mist and cloud?

How, through the winter hours so numb and gray,
My gasping heart for thee has called aloud—
Struggling in sick despair beneath the shroud

Already binding up my limbs in death,
While yet my veins, with life's rich blood endowed,

Tingle with exquisite sensation, and my breath

With its voluptuous pants my brain bewildrrelh!

Oh, Spring, come breathe on me! I cannot die—
So young—so loving this bright world—Bo full

Of hope's heart-incense all unshed I Oh why,
Like tender tlowers that wayside truants pull,
Whom sunny paths allure too long from school,

And barter them for kisses—must my bloom,
False emblem of a lifo all beautiful.

Fade in the coldness of Death's icy gloom,

And my just budding being wither in the tomb!

Ah. fragile frame, that once was fair and strong-
Thrilling with life as brave cathedral aisles

Tremble beneath the ilood of mighty song—
Fail me not yet! Till spring creative smiles,
Balmy with odorous health from thousand isles,

Still the faint warfare hour by hour delay I

Perchance the power that wins with sweetest wiles

The rose from winter's spell, and bids replay

Its perfume-haunted life, will let me also stay.


Oh, Oodl that I should die and love not!— paas,
With the full fountains of my heart all scaled.

Into the realm of nothingness. Alas,
That life to me should e'er have been revealed,
If unenjoyed the grant must be repealed!

Alas, that I must die, while alt around
I see, protected by some viewless shield.

The middle-aged, the old, with white hairs crowned.

Amid Death's arrowy storm stand safe without a wound'

'Tis but a horrid dream— some phantom fiend,
Beckoning with grisly hand my frighted soul

To thoughts of madness. Henceforth I am weaned
From such wenk baby-visions, that once stolo
The colour from my cheek, and the control

Of my own being from myself. Away!

For me not yet the clamorous bell shall toll —

Death's pulse, whose beating heralds but decay—

For mo still throbs the life of many a goldon day.

Ah me! what sudden pang darts through my frame.

Wrenching each wasted nerve to torture! Slow
Along my veins, like an expiring tlame,
I feel the thick blood scarcely comp and go,
While o'er me, like sharp flakes of stinging snow,
A choking vapour falls. My eyes arc dim—

My weary heart stands still—and faint and low
With dying agony my senses swim-
Farewell, oh earth and life! God calls me unto Him I





Did my reader ever sec an "Indian summer," as we, in all the northern parts of the United States, witness it every autumn? It comes late in autumn, after the rich glories of summer are past—after the trees have yielded their fruits, and their foliage is either gone or touched and painted by the frosts. The sky wears a robe of softest blue, and the most delicious haze rests upon the landscape; the winds sleep, and the clouds float like piles of pearl, crested and fluted and polished; and though the green of nature is faded, yet Nature herself is robed in a loveliness, calm and indescribable. It is Summer, giving us her last smiles, ere she falls into the cold grave which Winter will dig, covering up her children in a winding-sheet of snow, and transfixing her streams with his cold, icy spear. This short period used to be seized upon by the Indian to complete whatever might be necessary about his wigwam or traps, or preparation for winter. Hence it has always been called "the Indian summer." The squirrels come out and do their last foraging; the wild fowls take their last looks upon the northern lakes beforo leaving, and the timid deer comes out of the forest to graze in the warm sun, ere he exchanges his summer diet for bushes and shoots.

It was early in the morning of the 1st of November, 1705, on one of these lovely days, that a canoe was seen coming down the Piscataqua River, in New Hampshire, and making towards the then little town of Portsmouth. The canoe was made of a single pine tree, and though she moved slowly and heavily, yet she was not ungraceful. In her bow was stuck the waving branch, fresh from a young piuc; and in the stern sat a youth alone, about twenty years old. He was dressed in homespun and home-made clothes, with a beaver-skin cap, around which was a black piece of crape, which hung streaming out behind. On his arms, just above each elbow, was another huge strip of old crape. It was evident that he was in deep mourning, or at least affecting to be. He landed just above the village, drew his canoe out of the water, ajid made his way into the town. Hardly had he entered it, before he met a girl about sixteen years of age, tripping her way hastily along the street, with a largo

portfolio in her arms. He? hardly noticed her, till she half paused, and with a comical look said,

"So, Henry Duel, you have come to be a fool with the rest of us!"

"Why, Kitty! is that you?"

"It's me, or my ghost. But what are you here for?"

"Why, to attend the funeral, to be sure. I have come down out of the woods to bury the dead," and then added in alow voice, "maybe to see a resurrection, too!"

"What a strange fellow you are! I suppose you would go further to see this mock funeral, than if all the rest of us should die, or even kill ourselves for your sport!"

"Now don't be trying that to see, Kitty. But where are you going so early?"

"Oh! Iam going with my father. But you are such a whig that I'm afraid to tell you anything. But my father is going to his 'log cottage,' as he calls it, till these times have gone past, and the people are ready to obey the Bible and honour the King, as you Puritans might read, if you chose!"

"Well, we won't quarrel now, dear Kitty, because I know you think just as I do about these things—and—"

"You don't know any such thing, Mr. Henry Buel," and she tossed her pretty head most scornfully. "Whether I do or not," she added after a pause, "I am glad thaj my poor father is going where he won't be so vexed, and where none of you naughty whigs can find him."

"He must go a great way off, if he means to get rid of one—at any rate."

The beautiful girl blushed, stammered something, shook her little hand and went on her way. Just then the sun began to peep from the east, and the moment his golden form was seen, the bells from the town began to toll slowly and solemnly. Black ribands were hung on the door handles, and muffled drums began to beat. At an early hour the crowds began to assemble near the old court house, and long before noon, it seemed as if "everybody" was there. It was the day appointed by Royal Proclamation, for the first distribution of the stamp paper, forced upon the Colonies by the British Parliament, and so indignantly rejected

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