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himself plunged him. He would now undo what he had so rashly and wickedly done. The youth admired his friend's talents as much as ever, but affected such a pity for his weakness in being religious, as might have been expected from the hoary skeptic of Ferney rather than a boy of eighteen. He had such confidence in his own abilities that he never feared to measure swords with his older and gifted antagonist. A sort of painful presentiment seemed to vrge the converted infidel to strenuous effort to save his own disciple, and accordingly with great

acuteness he had canvassed the entire argu{ ment for Christianity, hoping to secure by

argument a triumph over his heart. He was Foung then in the school of Christ, or he would have had less confidence in merely convincing the intellect, while all the passions of depravity cling to what he knows to be false. The young infidel convinced, was not converted, and the conversation already given proves that he lacked very much yet of being a Christian.

Come with me now to the institution at which these friends are pursuing their studies. Why do we not hear the gay laugh, the quick repartee, the fiery argument, the boisterous amusement, which usually make a college building ring ? Deathlike stillness pervades these halls of learning. Every countenance is sad, and indicative of solemn business in progress, The silence is only broken by the mufiled tread of anxious men who walk carefully, for the King of Terrors is among them. Cholera, flying on the wings of the wind, has shaken his deathpinions over that devoted place. Many pine away under bis pestilential breath, and now in one day three of this little community have perished. But from yonder room issue heart. rending groans. Death makes any room a solemn place, where levity is bid take off her shoes, for the place is consecrate against all such, but when that room holds a dying infidel, words cannot describe the horrible solemnity which pervades it.

The Destroyer has fastened with fearful violence on that young infidel, and in four hours has nearly done his work. The converted infidel, wrought up to intensest agony, is there exhorting the victim of his former sin to repent and believe in Christ. And oh! how sepulchral, awfully sad was his reply :

“ Take care of my body, and my soul will take care of itsell.” He had not yet abandoned hope of life.

But this must close, because an irresistible witness stood by him, Death. By this time the disease had made such strides, that the victim himself no longer doubted the result. Now relations were changed. There was no alternative, and he saw it. He must die. And as the frightful conviction burst on him, his infidelity was consumed like a cobweb in a furnace heated seven times. Christianity was no more doubted, but what a time to meet its mighty claims! He struggled like a lion in the net, as though his enemy wore a visible and tangible form with which to grapple. Now he prayed, now imprecated, and now despaired. His shrieks were heard at a distance, and those who heard, trembled.

And thus it proceeded without hope, and thus it ended in despair. Ile gave no evidence of Lope, but shrieked with his latest breath, “I am lost!" It was a heart-rending termination to a short and brilliant career in infidelity. All who saw it could say, “ Let me not die such a death, nor let my last end be like that!” Realities fast gathering and stern had convinced the young infidel too late, that God still reigns, determined at all cost to vindicate the sacred claims of that religion which was SEALED TRUE in the blcod of Ilis Son. And the victim shrank, wailed, despaired, as lie reached the point where is

“For guilt no plea, to pain no pause, no bound.”

PART III.

Infidelity, cold, cheerless infidelity; where are the hopes with which thou allurest men from the service of their Creator! Thy hopes end in despair! Thy reward a mockery! Thy Paradise a Hell!

Christianity, I love thee, affectionate and soul-sustaining as thou art. Thou are all radiant with blessed hope. Thy heart is love. Thy futurity is kindled into brightness with the light of joy. Glory crowns thee the sweet companion of the penitent transgressor. Thy reward, who can measure it, except he first compute the cost of Thee on the cross of Jesus ? And thy I leaven, who shall comprehend its bliss, until he first comprchend what an Almighty Father of Love is able to do for those children, to ransom whom he freely “ gave Ilis only begotten Son?”

ONKER

LINES BY ONE WHO CAN FEEL THEM. .

Hid deep within this trusting heart, lies unforgotten woe,
That burns, like fires sunk down in earth, sepulchral in their glow;
With not a gleam of latent joy, or magic word of power,
To bless it as it bleeds alone, in sorrow's wildest hour.

'Tis not that poisoned tongues would seek to trace my deeds of shame,
And, with the meanest scorn they feel, breathe curses on my name.
No, if my erring steps were few as angel visits are,
Some venomed shafts would love to blight what little might seem fair.

But it is mem’ry's magic power that rends the slender chain
Which fickle fancy wove, in dreams, around this life, in vain ;
And every chord is quickly stirred beneath a weight of care,
As driven through ruthless storms of fate, I sink down in despair.

Oh! when will all these childish tears and griefs have passed away,
And care that mocks my restless steps no more assert such sway?
When shall I cease to rail at ills, to murmur and rebel ;
To listen to a heart subdued—less prone to proudly swell ?

Far better trusting future good than pining at the past,
That dims the brighter half of life, and shadows o'er it cast ;
Youth's confidence in early bliss must shake with riper years,
And much that seems ecstatic joy, be drowned at last in tears.

So look away, my sorrowing heart, nor yet so wildly throb ;
If friends and all forsake thee here, still have a trust in God;
Remember what a gem is set in Heaven's bright diadem,
To light thee to a long lost love, and give thee bliss again.

This thought alone can stay my soul through all these changing scenes,
And solace every lonely hour, when gladness never beams;
When hearts that now beat warm and true, shall lift their wrecks above
A pyre of crushed affections reared on every shrine of love.

And, Father, let me turn to Thee, while deep oblivion's shade
Shall mantle each eventful year, as hope's fair visions fade ;
And when the last rough storm is o'er, this weary heart may rest

Above the hopes earth loves to crush, upon a Father's breast.
Malone, N. Y.

M. C.

THE FINE ARTS IN AMERICA.

BY AN AMERICAN ARTIST.

To any one but imperfectly acquainted with our character as a people, the rapid advancement that the fine arts are making among us must be a matter of no little surprise. We are possessed of such a spirit of unrest, so fond of excitement and change, throwing down, like a spoiled child, one toy as soon as we have it in our possession, and grasping for another, that he would be ready to conclude the power of concentrating the mind for any length of time on one object, so seemingly necessary, not merely for enabling us to acquire a proficiency in the fine arts, but even a taste for them, was entirely wanting in our composition; and that a country more unfavorable for their cultivation could hardly exist.

In this, however, he would be mistaken. A taste for art does exist among us, but it is for living, not dead art; for art fresh and new as

our own green forest-land,” and presenting pictures of life free and uncontrolled as the life we live. This our artists are beginning to understand; and no longer attempting to stem the tide so apparently adverse to them, they are skilfully turning it in their favor. Instead of going, as formerly, to the masters of a by-gone age in search of the truth, they are going, as these masters themselves did, to Nature, the source of all truth in art. They have discovered that Nature exists even here in as perfect a form as she is to be found elsewhere; that our own mountains, lakes, and rivers afford as fine scenes for landscapes as those of other countries; that our own history abounds in incident, presenting the noblest subjects for the pencil and the chisel; and that our poetry and works of fiction are full of pictures, asking only the aid of the pencil to bring thein vividly before the eye.

But of all the sources of inspiration to which the artist should look, the most fruitful will be the living world around him. On scenes taken from actual life, his reputation will most securely rest; and no country presents a greater variety of character than our own.

The artists of modern Europe, for some cen

turies past, have been doing little more than endeavoring to re-produce the works of their predecessors, or at least attempting to furnish works of a similar character, forgetting that, in order to produce such works, they must be actuated by the same impulses, and surrounded by the same influences, as were the authors of those works. The fact seems to have escaped them, that every work of art, in order to possess the vitality necessary to insure it an enduring reputation, must, so far as it goes, be an expression of the thoughts and feelings of the age which produces it. It will then not only possess a present interest, but be valuable hereafter as a picture of its own times, a pore tion of their history.

The works of the ancients which have come down to us, are the legitimate offspring of the minds which produced them; they are an embodiment of the feelings, the thoughts, the re. ligion, the superstition of their time. In the same spirit were the works of the great masters of modern Italy produced. And in the same spirit must our own artists labor, if they hope to secure a reputation equally enduring. They must carry us forward, not back; they must present us with nature-with life, not as they were,

but as they are, or as they should be. In one word, they must give us the impressions of their own minds, and not, as heretofore, give us little better than imitations of what had already been done by other minds.

But let me not be misunderstood. We do not mean to say that the artist should study to find out the current of public opinion, and then allow himself to be borne away by it; but in order to direct the stream, we must go with it, not against it, else we will be overwhelmed by it. This course, as we have already remarked, our artists are instinctively taking; and although their works may,

for some time to come, be inferior in execution to the best productions of the old world, their vigor and originality will secure for their authors a reputation infinitely more enduring than could have been earned by any' imitation of the antiqne, however perfect.

1

HENRY WILTON.

BY CATHERINE CLEMENT.

Who can describe, yet who has not felt, the gush of pleasure, the thrill of delight with which the first gladsome days of early spring are hailed ? Autumn may be beautiful, with its livery of gorgeous tints, its brilliant sun, and cloudless sky. But spring, sweet spring—so full of hope and promise, fair prophetess of brighter days yet coming—who does not hail thee with delight ? Each sweet songster returned from its wandering in some more genial clime, each bursting leaf, each opening bud, seems modestly to whisper, “ My sister who is coming is fairer than I.” Do not we love spring because it is the emblem of hope and promise ? The flowers of autumn may be gorgeous,

but they are the last. Its sunbeams may be bright and warm, but how soon are they succeeded by the chill winds of winter. But the bud which unfolds in early spring is the first fair harbinger of sweet sister flowers yet to bloom. The brook, just released from its icy shackles, will murmur on through the long summer months. The first songster of the grove will be joined by its sister choir. The laughing child loves spring, for to him it is the mirror of the bright hopes which people the spring-time of his own life. The hoary-headed man loves it also, for to him it is the mirror of hopes still cherished in green old age, but whose fruition shall be enjoyed beyond the grave.

It was a joyous day in the spring of 184, whose evening shades witnessed the nuptials of Henry Wilton and Mary Foster. A fitting time was it for the holy rite which united the youthful pair; for not a cloud, though never so small, could be discerned in the fair horizon of their future prospects. Even those most skilled in discovering presages of coming evil, saw nothing but joy and gladness in the vista of the future, as they offered their hearty congratulations on the present occasion to the lovely bride and happy bridegroom. Well might their opening prospects be thought bright and fair,for the beautiful and gentle Mary Foster, the joy and pride of her native village, had plighted her vows to one, in whose praise, noble and gifted as he was, all

thought no more could be said than that he was worthy of her. From his boyhood up, none had ever coupled aught that was low, or de. grading, with the name of Henry Wilton.

Noble and generous, he was one to win not only the heart, but also that reverence and high esteem with which woman always delights to regard the object of her choice, and without which as a constituent element, we doubt whether anything worthy to be dignified with the name of true love ever exists. None acquainted with Mary Foster could doubt that she would gild with brighter hues the sunshine of life, and make the day of prosperity more gladsome by her presence. Beautiful in person, amiable in temper, with a smile all joy and gladness, and a heart all affection and tenderness, she seemed formed to fulfil this joyous mission, and to bless with smiles and sunshine some domestic Eden-

"The only bliss of Paradise that has survived the fall." Yet was there a holy calmness, a lofty determination in the glance of her deep blue eye, which seemed to say, that if the storm blast of adversity should sweep across her path, she could meet it with woman's all-enduring fortitude.

Amid the warm congratulations of numerous friends, Henry Wilton and his bride established themselves in their new home in the pleasant town of B- If bright hopes gilded the dawn of their married life, still brighter clustered around its early morning. Wilton soon found himself established in a profitable mercantile business, while his noble traits of character won for him the regard of all, and his true-hearted wife rejoiced far more in the honors which were clustering around the husband of her love than in the involuntary homage which was everywhere paid to her own youth and beauty.

Two pledges of their mutual love, a son and daughter, were also granted, to fill to overflowing their cup of earthly bliss. What tempter could enter an Eden so fair, to despoil it of its treasures and bring upon it the

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woe.

blight and mildew of sin and shame? Would not such high and noble aims, and a mutual affection so deep and pure, bar the door against every vile intruder? Yes, all but one. The serpent was more subtle than all the beasts of the field, and in modern times it has remained for one tempter to enter where no other could even approach--to lay waste and destroy what was beyond the reach of every other invader. In the hour of innocent mirth and social hilarity, has lie, transformed into an angel of light, been present, and all unheeded, like the worm in the unfolding bud, planted the seeds of misery and Would

you know his name? Go ask the sorrow-stricken wife-the blushing daughter-and they will answer, “Let it be accursed, and perish from the earth. Let the insidious tempter be siript of his fair disguises, and stand forth a liated monster, loathed by all who love their fellow-men, and seek their welfare.” And verily their prayer is being answered.

It remains for the sparkling wine-cup alone, to aim the deadly shaft which brings down from their high eminence such as llenry Wilton, to grovel with the lowest of their species, in the mazes of sin and shame. Shall we trace bis downward progress ? Shall we describe the agony of the trusting wife, when he whom, till then, she deemed free from thought of evil, or stain of dishonor, lay before her a senseless inebriate! Portray it who can. But alas that so many have but to turn back to a dark page in memory's faithful record, to read it in characters terrific as the hand writing on the wall of the reckless and profane king of yore. Step by step did wealth-character--friends, everything but a true-hearted wife, and helpless children, forsake the now fallen and degraded Henry Wilton. When Mary was urged by the friends of her youth to forsake him too, her only but expressive reply was, “ He is my husband.” Many were the tears shed by Wilton in hours of sobriety, over the wreck of his character and hopes, and many the resolutions made and broken, to retrace his downward steps. But, alas ! in those days the philosopher's stone had not been discovered. We inean not that reputed to possess the power of changing sordid stones to scarce less sordid gold; but that which has done the nobler work of changing the sighs and tears of the more than widow and fatherless to songs of joy and rejoicing ; which has rescued from his deep degradation the victim of the cup, and caused him to wal abroad a man among his fellow-men, loved, respected,

and honored. But those were days when none thought of holding out to his fallen brother a helping hand, but all passed by on the other side, leaving him to what they regarded as his inevitable fate. What wonder, then, that every effort which Wilton made to recover his former position, in its reaction, only plunged him deeper in misery and disgrace ?

He was compelled to part with his home, the combined neatness and elegance of which had often attracted the eye of the passing stranger. Mary Wilton was obliged to leave the plants she had so tenderly reared, and the vines she had so sssiduously cultivated, to the mercies of strangers. But light were these troubles to the sorrows which now daily multiplied in her path, and the new forms of poverty and wretchedness which were encountered at each subsequent removal. Rapid indeed was the descending course of Wilton, and it seemed as if his helpless family were drinking the last dregs of woe.

It was a glorious morning early in the spring of 18–, that Mary Wilton stood in the door of her humble dwelling, engaged in a fearful struggle with the waves of overwhelming despair which threatened to engulf the last hope to which she clung, even in the depth of her misery. The birds carolled forth their morning hymns, making the air vocal with their music, and she seemed to herself the only being that breathed no note of joy. But a yleam of hope lighted her countenance with something like a smile, as she re-entered her dwelling, and addressing lier husband, who was indulging in one of those moods of sullen wretchedness and despair which usually occupied his sober moments, said to him :

Henry, will you not come out and enjoy this lovely morning ?”

Mechanically he followed her, and seated himself in a chair which she placed for him by the door. For a moment she stood by his side, then suddenly left the cottage. His children sporting around him, vividly recalled the days of his own happy childhood, and while softened by the scene his wife approached, holding in her hand a boquet of the earliest flowers of spring

“Dear Henry,” said she, as she placed them in his hand,“ does not this lovely morning remind you of our bridal morn ? And see, is not this sweet boquet very like the one you then presented me? You told me they were the first-that

ate blossom was the harbinger of fairer ones yet to bloom. And you

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