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particulars. Many of them still remain to be fulfilled, and therefore cannot be completely understood at present.

Our hearts may be raised to a holy joy, where we read in this book that the holy angels take an unceasing interest in the affairs of men. There is, in this communion of the heavenly host, a magnificence of description which lifts the thoughts beyond this earthly scene. To be an object of watchful care, and a subject of rejoicing and praise to the blessed spirits who surround the throne of God; to know that they are interested for our salvation, and that God's merciful dealings with man have filled heaven itself with joyful hallelujahs; these are considerations which raise our thoughts above this world, and tell us plainly that we are created for a higher.

The Book of Revelations, concludes with a magnificent description of the resurrection of the bless. ed, and of the condemnation of the wicked; forming a most proper conclusion to the volume of the Holy Scriptures, which commences with the beginning of the world, and the creation of man, and, passing through every age of time, ends at last with the destruction of the world, and the exaltation of the faithful people of God, to that future and glorious state of existence, promised to them of old by the Father, and purchased for them by the atoning sacrifice of the ever-blessed Son.


To the Editor of the Cottager's Monthly Visitor.

Sir, I copy the following extracts for the Cottager's Monthly Visitor, and if you judge them worthy of insertion, I should be glad to see them in any future Number.

I am, &c. &c.


A REFLECTION AT SEA. See how beneath the moonbeam's smile,

Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for awhile,

And, murm’ring, then subsides to rest, Thus man, the sport of bliss and care,

Rises on Time's eventful sea,
And, having swelled a moment there,

Thus melts into eternity.

Who shew'd the little ant the way,

Her narrow hole to bore ;
And spend the pleasant summer day,

In laying up ber store ?
The sparrow builds her clever nest

Of wool, and hay, and moss;
Who told her how to weave it best,

And lay the twigs across ? Who taught the busy bee to fly

Among the sweetest flow'rs, And lay his store of honey by,

To eat in winter hours? 'Twas God who show'd them all the way,

And gave their little skill;
And teaches children if they pray,

To do his holy will.


Down in a green and shady bed,

A modest violet grew,
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,

As if to hide from view,
And yet it was a lovely flow'r,

Its colours briglit and fair ;
It might have grac'd a rosy bow'r,

Instead of hiding there.

Yet there it was content to bloom,

In modest tints array'd;
And there diffus’d its sweet perfume,

Within the silent shade.
Then let me to the valley go,

This pretty flow'r to see; That I may also learn to grow

In sweet humility.

The morning hours of cheerful light

Of all the days are best;
But as they speed their hasty flight,
If ev'ry hour is spent aright,
We sweetly sink to sleep at night,

And pleasant is our rest.
And life is like a summer's day,

It seems so quickly past:
Youth is the morning bright and gay,
And if 'tis spent in Wisdom's way,
We meet old age without dismay,

And death is sweet at last.

EPITAPH ON MRS. B. It must be so,-our father Adam's fall, And disobedience, brought this lot on all. All die in bim.-But hopeless should we be, Blest Revelation! were it not for thee. Hail, glorious Gospel! heavenly light! whereby We live with comfort, and with comfort die; And view beyond this gloomy scene, the tomb, A life of endless happiness to come.

The Violet, hiding low its head,
Upon its humble, shady bed,
Seeking to shun the passing eye,
A pattern is for modesty.
Weaving again, (with skill employed)
His web, by carelessness destroyed,
The Spider, hateful in appearance,
A pattern is for perseverance.
By wanton cruelty distressed,
With stripes inhumanly oppressed,
The Ass, contemned on most occasions,
A pattern is to us for patience.
The Birds in gratitude that raise
Sweet songs to their Creator's praise,
As thro' the yielding air they fly,
Are patterns for true piety.
These, as they catch our wand'ring eye,
Seem to reproach us, while they cry
Widely and plainly as they can,
" Come, imitate us, haughty man!”

H. S.



IN Mr. Bowdler's Letters, I have met with a very entertaining and pleasing account of a good woman, at Besançon, whose example may be, in some respects, useful to the readers of the Cottager's Visitor. I have transcribed the passage alluded to, and beg you to use your judgment

with regard to its admission into your useful little Publication.

I am, Sir,
Your constant reader and humble servant,
June 10, 1824.

MARY Extract from “ Letters written during a Journey from Calais to Geneva, and St. Bernard, in the

year 1814. By Thomas Bowdler, Esq. F.R.S. and S.A.”

Here, however, I have seen a character highly interesting; and, as I think an account of the

person to whom I allude will give pleasure to many of the active promoters of benevolence in your neighbourhood, I believe yon will not blame me for en. tering more fully into her history.

Anne Bidget is a poor woman, whose exertions in works of charity are extraordinary. Her whole property consists of a pension of 133 francs, (about six pounds) and a small house with a garden, which she cultivates for the benefit of the poor, with the assistance of an active and zealous companion, named Beatrice. Not an inch of ground is wasted in this precious little garden, and the whole produce is devoted to charitable uses. She has in ber house a large boiler, in which is made the soup, with which, during many years, she has constantly supplied those who were in want of food. Of late, ber attention has been particularly directed to prisoners of war. Besançon having been one of the principal depôts in France, she obtained permission to visit all the wretched places where the unfortunate men were confined. "She took care that they were supplied with clean straw; she washed their linen, if they had any; she mended their clothes, and she constantly brought them food. She went through every part of the town to solicit the assistance of the rich; and she applied to the butchers, and gardeners, earnestly requesting such scraps of meat and vegetables as were not worth producing in the market. With such materials, she contrived to make wholesome soup; and, when any of the prisoners were sick, she became their nurse. During sixteen months shë daily visited a Spanish officer, whose dreadful sufferings found no relief but from the kindness of this excellent woman. The removal in winter of 600 Spanish prisoners, who had been long confined at Besançon, was a real sorrow to her; and when she bad in vain endeavoured to prevent it, her whole attention was devoted to procuring clothes, and every comfort which might enable them to support the se

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