THE YEARNINGS OF YOUTH.

Aubin. The longing of the soul would be long, long misery, but for hope. O, how my soul used to yearn after I could not tell what! Strange feeling it was! Sorrow, joy, love, worship -it was all these an infinite longing. It was what would have felt wealth like poverty, and what no sceptre would have pleased -a longing, an infinite longing, to which the whole world felt little and nothing. I used to think it was discontentment, and yet I could not tell how it could be. But now I know it was not. Marham. It is the way youth often feels.

Aubin. And rightly; for that feeling is no discontent, but it is the soul prophesying to herself her greatness that is to be. Marham.. But almost always this feeling dies away.

Aubin. Die away it does, though too commonly it is not quenched; but it is not the less natural for that, nor the less meaning. For if this sublime yearning of the spirit is often quenched, so is conscience, so is love, and so is reverence.

Marham. And quite as often, perhaps; for of these affections there is in multitudes a much greater seeming than life. O, but it is sad to think how many souls I have known grow torpid! In youth, they were loving, and thoughtful, and devout. Every great and beautiful truth was welcome to them, and their souls

Aubin. Were like homes of the Holy Spirit, perhaps?

Marham. Almost as open, and clean, and cheerful, as though they were. But now they are the lurking-places of cunning, and the dwelling-places of selfishness and pride. O, how the soul can allow herself to be darkened and polluted! It comes of her false service. For there is the world about her, and she worships some things in it with powers that ought only to have God for their object.

Aubin. Yes, and this youthful yearning of the spirit is an earnestness, which often the man uses for selfish purposes. And so through this feeling, that ought to have made him free of the world, he becomes its slave. This yearning in him he thinks to gratify with money, or luxury, or fame; but he cannot. More, more, it wants more; it wants more than the whole world. And so, with all his gains, the man but gets the more covetous, and not the more contented. For this craving of his soul has in it a something infinite, and is not for the ownership of the earth at all, but for the beauty of it, and what there is of God in it.

Marham. I think your explanation of the feeling is right; but why does it rise in youth first, for in childhood it is not felt?

Aubin. Because it is not till childhood is over, that the soul is

a soul-grown, I mean, into any knowledge of itself or its wants. O, I remember, at first, what a mystery this infinite want in me was! Sublime, and sad, and loving-it was so strange! It tortured me, because I thought it was a fault; but now it does not, for I know its meaning. It is my soul that is come of age, making her claim upon the infinite in her right as a child of God. Marham. Hark! Yes, it is the clock striking.

Aubin. From over every town, east to west, the clocks are striking the hour. One, two, three, four, five, six! And the Christian meaning of the sound is, "Thus far on through Time." And the hopeful thought it makes in us is, "And so much the nigher to Eternity and Heaven."

Marham. So we will hope.

Aubin. And out of pure hearts, confidence in the futrue cannot be too great. Because, what is hope? It is what is most worthy of belief, by its very nature. For in hoping rightly, all that is best in us yearns together for the infinitelove and reverence, and conscience, and the feeling of the beautiful.-Euthanasy.

THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.

THERE is a reaper, whose name is Death,

And with his sickle keen

He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,

And the flowers that grow between.

"Shall I have naught that is fair," saith he-
"Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,

He kissed their drooping leaves;

It was for the Lord of paradise

He bound them in his sheaves.

"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The reaper said, and smiled;

"Dear tokens of the earth are they,

Where He was once a child.

"They shall all bloom in fields of light,

Transplanted by my care;

And saints upon their garments white
These sacred blossoms wear."

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,

The flowers she most did love;

She knew that she should find them all again

In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,

The reaper came that day;

'Twas an angel visited the green earth

And took the flowers away.

VOL. IV.

JUNE, 1853.

No. 6.

YOUNG MEN IN DANGER WARNED.

BY REV. ELIAS HEINER.

WHAT a pity it is that there are so many ruined sons! Young men are the hope of the Church and of the world. And then, for their own sake, and their parents' sake, it is a matter of sincere regret that any of them should throw themselves away. Sad, indeed, it is to reflect that so many of our young men become dissipated, and often end their days in shame and sorrow. The way to ruin is very broad. Thousands tread upon it with firm and determined step. The time of entrance is youth, or early manhood. If we look about us a little we shall see one, another, and another whom we know and love, far onward in their career of sin and shame. Good principles are destroyed; bad habits have become fixed, and all expectation of reform has vanished. Truly lamentable is the condition of him who has yielded to temptation-who has given a loose rein to his carnal and wicked propensities; who loves to revel in scenes of exciting dissipation, and who, by a long course of sin and folly, has gotten a seared conscience, blunted affections, and a heart that is fully bent to do evil. The case of such an one is almost, if not altogether, hopeless. Useless now it is to warn and expostulate. The die is cast, and the young man is given up to "hardness of heart and reprobacy of mind." Unheeded fall the tears and entreaties of fond parents, of affectionate brothers and sisters, and of faithful ministers. Temptations can no longer be resisted. The enemy's triumph is complete. The young man now gives full play to his evil inclinations, and lives as he listeth. Away he dashes on the high road to ruin, alike regardless of warnings and of consequences.

If the following last warning of a mother to a dissipated son, should arrest the attention and win the heart of some young man who heeds not the voice of his parent, and who is just beginning to revel in dissipation, and to enter fairly upon the downward path, an end will be reached, in which some dear, anxious mother especially may heartily rejoice and give thanks to God. "And must you go to-night, Frederick?"

"Mother, I must, I have staked my honor, and it must be redeemed."

"O, Frederick, these companions of yours are leading you astray, be assured they are; and when ruin stares you in the face when you have squandered wealth and health over the gaming table, you will own the truth of my words."

"This is foolish, mother, they have no power to lead me; what I do is my own free will."

"Yon are wrong, my son; they are as Ives to the sapling, gradually twining themselves about you, and, inch by inch, destroying you with their poisonous influence. Would that my words".

"This is the senseless snivelling of old age; I tell you, mother, I will have the money!

"I dare not let you have it, Frederick."

"I will take no denial; it's only a few dollars, and to-morrow I may be able to repay you."

"It is not the parting with my money that I mind, Frederick, but let your evil courses'

"Am I to have whst I want, or must I force it from you?" "There-take my purse; you asked me for ten dollars, it contains twice the sum. But promise me, my son, that this shall be your last night from home."

"I have already promised it."

"See that the promise is kept. How little are we certain that this might not be my last warning."

The young man to whom these words were addressed paused a moment on the threshold-but evil thoughts had gained ascendency, and he departed.

The next scene to which we shall introduce the reader, is a magnificent structure, reared for the amusement of the depraved and dissipated, and for the emolument of the proprietor. Its exterior is not much to view; it is on the interior that the exquisite workmanship of the artisan has been lavished. On either side of the principal room, which is a long, lofty and well ventilated hall-a row of polished mirrors, in massive frames of wood, meet the eye. A small oblong table, with a surface of variegated marble is placed under each mirror, and above, the walls are decorated with naked figures, and exhibit scenes well suited to the lascivious propensities of the frequenters of the place. The ceiling is supported by marble pilasters with bronzed cornices, and is covered with a variety of devices; while at the eastern end of the hall, a platform is fitted up, on which stand several musical instruments for the pleasure of the guests. Further on, in several roomy apartments, are stationed billiard

tables, an alley for bowling, and other objects of a similar nature. Liquors, of every grade and quality, segars, cards, dice and dominoes, and everything that can please the eye, ear and taste, is afforded you.

It was to this place that Frederick Thornton directed his steps. The moment he entered, several young men, on whose face the result of dissipation was indelibly stamped, rose from a table and welcomed him.

"What has kept you so long, Fred? We were about giving you up," said one of the party.

"Some little business at home detained me longer than intended. I am here at last, however. How stands the rhino to-night." "Fairly, fairly," was the reply. "I see you are eager to recover the ground you lost last night. You shall soon have a chance. What say you boys-shall we game it?”

The answer was given by all in the affirmative-punches were called for-dice were already upon the table—and the game was commenced.

For some time the play was even-luck sided with neither of the players. Presently, however, Thornton, who had been anxiously waiting for a chance, began to win. Game after game was played-the heap of silver was accumulating every moment by his side, and success seemed to be his, when a chance throw by his opponent once more changed the tide, and stripped him of all he had won! Then, Thornton's anxiety knew no bounds; stake after stake he made, and glass after glass he drained, as he beheld the money given him by his mother dwindling to the end. At last he started up, and plunging his hand into his pocket, drew forth a five dollar bill-the last he hadthrew it with an imprecation upon the table.

"There is the last I have-you must have that also, I suppose," he exclaimed. Another throw, and Thornton was penniless!

"There is cheating somewhere," exclaimed Thornton, "those dice are loaded!"

"How?" exclaimed his adversary, as the whole rose from the table.

"The last throw was a dishonest one, I expect! you have loaded dice about you!"

"Sir?" was the reply of the winner.

Thornton sprang forward, and with a blow felled his adversary to the ground. The friends of the fallen one then interfered, but it was too late for further injury-he was dead! An unlucky blow, near the temple, had killed him.