one sympathising mind which could comprehend his doctrines. Yet he put no borrowed dress on Truth; he did not fear to speak wisdom even to the foolish; he declared all which he had heard from the Father, to his ignorant, prejudiced, narrow-minded, superstitious countrymen, although he knew that it would be a sealed book to them, and that many long ages must pass by before the brightness of its pages would be revealed. To this simplicity and boldness in uttering the truth, he fell a martyr. How easy would it have been for him to conciliate his doubting countrymen, and make himself their favored prophet, by accommodating himself to their prejudices, by concealing parts of the truth which they could not learn, by lowering the tone of his moral precepts, so as to come nearer their debased ideas, by whispering in gentle words, the "woe" uttered against hypocrisy and sin. If the thought of acting thus, could have entered his divinely inspired soul, he would have shuddered at the possibility of so great unworthiness. He knew that he was sent not to the generation in which he lived, but to the world; and he was willing to bear the contumely which the ignorance of his countrymen cast upon him, for the sake of the salvation which he wrought out for future ages. How idle is it then, for a religious teacher to withhold what he believes to be truth, because men are not prepared for it! If the great master spoke the whole truth, although there was not one mind to receive it gladly, and although it was so far above the comprehension of the world, that now, at the end of 1800 years, we cannot see its full grandeur, what folly and arrogance it is for us to darken the few rays of truth which reach our minds, lest they may dazzle the eyes of those whom we imagine more ignorant than ourselves!

But to return. We were saying that men do not often stand at great distances from each other as regards the perception of truth. It would better express our meaning, to say, that a man seldom stands alone in this respect. The light of truth generally reaches many minds nearly at the same moment; or if it reaches one before it does those around, they probably are ready to receive and point it out, in order to rejoice together with him in its beams. Men almost always move in masses; those who are the farthest forward can be distinctly seen, and easily followed by the succeeding ranks. We suppose that there is no man living, who is so far in advance of the world, that there are not hundreds and thousands who can understand all that he can say, and discriminate with considerable justness as to its truth or falsehood. And it is

generally the effect of a bold declaration of convictions of truth, that he who makes them, will gather round him a crowd of sympathising spirits, who will eagerly, and understandingly go on with him, step by step, in his most rapid march.— Many men are useless, because they fear to speak boldly, but very few because they cannot find any to understand all which they clearly see themselves. Those who pine in mental solitude, are the obscure thinkers, not the far-reaching and clear thinkers. Let them speak fully all they know, and if they are not understood, it will be not because they are so far before their age, but because their views are either unreal, or they are ignorant of their own aim. Even great men are more commonly the representatives of their age, than the prophets of future times; that is, they represent the grand ideas, they embody in themselves, whatever is greatest and best in their own time, rather than reach forward to the idea of a future epoch; and therefore when they express themselves boldly, they do not so much impart new ideas to their contemporaries, as give greater definiteness and strength to ideas which have already been dimly conceived. They are, therefore, easily understood, and the obligation upon them, to speak boldly, is impatiently strong. Their very mission is to speak strongly what other men feel feebly, and if they accommodate themselves to the half-formed ideas of the majority, they at the same time forfeit their claim to greatness, and spend themselves in vain. If this is true of those who stand at the highest elevation, it is childish, beyond measure, for those who hold more humble stations as teachers, to fear to speak their convictions of truth, because they think that men are not prepared to receive them. It is a presumption which great men are never guilty of.

Besides the presumption which is implied in the unwillingness to speak boldly one's convictions of truth, because the public are not ripe for them, there is also a want of confidence in the truth itself betrayed, which is altogether unworthy of any one who professes to value it himself, or offer it to others. We will, in our next number, speak more fully of this unworthy distrust of truth, which is so common, and of some kindred subjects.

I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAYS AWAY FROM THAT WORLD.

BY OTWAY CURRY.

"I would not live alway.”—JOB.

I would not live always away from that world
Where the bark of life lies at the last;

Where the voyager's sails are forevermore furled,
When the winds and the waves are passed.-

I would not live always away from that shore

Where the stream of life flows when the storms are all o'er.

'Tis sweet in this wildwood to wander, and muse

Of the regions of story and song,

Where diamonds and flowers, and the fadeless hues

Of all things brilliant belong:

But I would not live always away from that shore

Where the stream of life flows when the storms are all o'er.

'Tis sweet to go forth all alone in the wild,

And list to the sound of the breeze,

That comes like the voice of a song-loving child

From the leaves of the ancient trees:

But I would not live always away from that shore

Where the stream of life flows when the storms are all o'er.

'Tis sweet in this wild, when the singing birds soar,

To win the first beams of the sun,

To read in the volume of sacred lore

How the crowns of the skies are won:

But I would not live always away from that shore

Where the stream of life flows when the storms are all o'er.

Oft times in this wild, when the evening's breath

Is scattering the moss leaves gray,

I dream of the waves of the Jordan of death,

And the loved-ones who call me away;

I dream of that morn when the solemn sleep

Of the unknown ages will end,

When the millions untold, of the earth and the deep,

Their waking hosannas will blend:

Oh, I would not live always away from that shore

Where the stream of life flows when the storms are all o'er.

We have said, that the spirit of fashionable criticism has destroyed the music of our churches, and substituted for it, certain incomprehensible performances, which have neither the merit of feeling, or of science. We ask, in what church in the Western country, is this choir music entitled to the name of scientific? If any where, it ought to be in Cincinnati. But we presume the choirs in that place will hardly lay claim to this character. There is not one of them in which even time is preserved. In the middle of a semibreve, they are all together-but the semibreve has as many separate beginnings, and as many endings, as there are voices; each one feels his way for himself. They are like men groping in pitchy darkness, and holding on to each other's skirts, to avoid separation. The anxiety and confusion of such scenes the discomfort to the singers, and to the congregation, particularly that portion of them who happen to be afflicted with musical irritability, and notwithstanding that discomfort, the perseverance with which they are repeated Sunday after Sunday, might cause a suspicion that the churches were then and there actually doing penance. It was for this reason, we said, that in abandoning music as a part of worship, and retaining a little of it for forms sake, they had sufficiently punished themselves.

I have said nothing of harmony, expression, or a proper selection of tunes. They come after time; and we suppose they will come, when time shall be no more.

As to the tunes themselves, nothing can be said against them. Most of them, if sung properly, are very beautiful; and some of them possess a richness, dignity, and grandeur, which hardihood itself can scarce disguise. Too much praise cannot be given to the Handel and Haydn society of Boston, for their exertions in behalf of American church music. But we have an observation to make here, which we shall make with as much caution as possible, notwithstanding we believe it to be substantially correct. It is, that the late editions of their "collection," as well as other late publications of church music, have tampered too much with good old tunes, under pretence of improving them. Tunes which have commanded the admiration of the whole protestant world, for hundreds of years, must now yield their proportions and change their forms, to suit the taste of a modern amateur; a new note here, says A, would make the harmony

fine-a pause there, instead of a bar, or a bar instead of a pause, says B, would sound better. In short, the ear that has been accustomed from infancy, to hearing the rich and noble harmony of some fine old tune, must now be pained and puzzled by an interpolation, which, without improving it, from its novelty, sounds almost like a discord. No wonder that choirs are slow in taking up the improvement, and that some sing it the old way, and some the new. There is one tune in particular, called Devizes, which contains a few notes more in the old edition than in the new; the writer has heard a lusty voice from a choir, harping most sonorously upon these notes, after all the other voices had ceased-a mistake, which, though it would be hardly noticed any where else, is almost sure to provoke a laugh in church.

There is another, and deeper evil attending choir performances, and that is the separation of a small part of the congregation from the rest, taking them away from the observation of their older friends and relatives-and thus removing part of that restraint which becomes a place of worship.Choirs, as we said, consist, generally, of the younger and gayer part of the congregation-and it cannot be disputed that they almost always indulge in laughing and talking during service. They often forget that they are a part of the congregation. They forget that they came for any purpose but to sing-they forget that to the stranger and children who frequent this part of the church, their manners, closely observed, are a bad example, or a cause of reproach to the church. We have frequently observed the younger members of choirs reading, laughing, talking, assuming negligent postures, or scribbling in the books. The practise of some, of busying themselves with the music books during prayer or sermon, is also bad in itself, and calculated to set a bad example.

All these evils, not to speak of occasional jealousies and bickerings among musicians, exist at present in choirs; whether necessarily or not, is not the question. The question for churches to answer is, whether they have gained anything to the cause of religion by the institution of choirs? If the cause of religion is injured by this institution in the least degree, it is a sufficient reason for abandoning it. If choirs can be so regulated as to avoid the evils we have mentioned, it is very well, so far; but these evils, though each of them should be esteemed small by itself, in the aggregate are of serious moment. To deny their existence, would be to deny the most notorious facts. To laugh at them, is to evince indifference