"Has not sold her ?" "Yes."

"I am sorry for that-who is the owner?" "Mr. Bradford-the young man whom you see reading the newspaper."

The stranger stepped into the house, and inquired of Henry whether he would sell the

brig.

Bradford had an increase)-Henry was wont to exclaim, "Luck is everything."

Some years after that, twenty-five at least, as I was riding into Plymouth, with Bradford and his granddaughter, I referred to the anecdote, and the conclusion, that "luck was everything."

"There may be something in luck, but

"At what price?"

"At the peace price."

"Stage is ready," said Mr. Woodward, the driver.

"We will ride over to the village," said Henry, "and converse on the matter as we go along."

"You look cheerful," said Mary.

"I have drawn another prize!"

"Not another, I hope!"

"Yes, and a large one; I have sold the brig for twenty thousand dollars to a Boston house, and I am to be in Plymouth at four o'clock, to get my pay at the Bank."

"But the brig was not yours, Henry. Surely you are not deranged-you could not hold the brig after the mistake of the prize was corrected."

"There is just where you are mistaken, Mary. There is a bill of sale which allows of forty days from date for the payment. Say nothing to any one," cried Henry, “and I will be with you before I sleep."

"What's the matter with Henry ?" said Mrs. Carver, as she entered the room; "has he drawn another prize?"

"I guess not, mother," said Mary; "only dreaming again, perhaps."

At nine o'clock Henry arrived from Plymouth, with an accepted draught for ten thousand dollars, in favor of Mr. Holmes, and a bank book in which he had credit for an equal sum; and the brig Mary made some of the most profitable voyages that were ever projected in Boston.

She was in the East India trade, and, as her return was noticed in the papers (and it was usually announced about the same time that the very respectable family of

me add, friend C., that you and I owe more to woman than the world credits to her. Let us, at least, do her justice."

DOUBT NOT.

BY J. M. KNOWLTON.

HEN the day of life is dreary,

WHEN

And when gloom thy course enshrouds; When thy steps are faint and weary,

And thy spirits dark with clouds,-
Steadfast, still, in thy well-doing,
Let thy soul forget the past;
Steadfast still, the right pursuing;
Doubt not, joy shall come at last!
Striving still, and onward pressing,
Seek not future years to know;
But deserve the wished-for blessing;
It shall come, though it be slow.
Never tiring, upwards gazing,

Let thy fears aside be cast,
And thy trials, tempting, braving;
Doubt not, joy shall come at last!
Keep not thou thy soul regretting;

Seek the good; spurn evil's thrall,
Though thy foes thy path besetting;
Thou shalt triumph o'er them all.
Though each year but bring thee sadness,
And thy youth be fleeting fast,
There'll be time enough for gladness;
Doubt not, joy shall come at last!
His fond eye is watching o'er thee;
His strong arm shall be thy guard;
Duty's path is straight before thee,
It shall lead to thy reward.
But thy ills thy faith made stronger,
Mould the future by the past;
Hope thou on a little longer;

Doubt not! joy shall come at last.

THE CHRISTIAN STANDARD OF MORAL EXCELLENCE.

THE

BY REV. P. BERGSTRESSER.

THE end of man is his moral perfection. That this is not his present condition,

is too evident from the discord in his moral agency, and from his daily actions. Yet with all his imperfections, he is the most interesting object that can engage our attention. He is not to be regarded as altogether fiend, but as still possessing large capacity for moral improvement. Influenced by motives bearing on his original dignity, and on his sense of moral obligation to God, and softened by the influences of Divine grace, the asperity of his nature may become exceedingly refined. But his own standard of morals varies from one degree to another; sometimes from a lower to a higher, and again from a higher to a lower, just as the truth has entered into his mind. But the Christian standard of moral excellence, is man's normal condition, and consists in a sanctified diposition, which flows from the soul acting in unison with the Divine law. When he stands in complete loyalty to his God, he has reached his end in morals, and attained the goal. How far beneath such a standard does he continually fall! With the heterogeneous elements of his nature, rushing and roaring through his interior man, like the dashing cataract, and with | his sinful affections tending to the world, he finds it exceedingly difficult to effect an entrance into the temple of holiness, where he may worship the Deity in a suitable manner. To that temple he often wistfully looks, but is unable to enter it, until assisted by another. Yet even in his ruin, and amid the deep darkness which hangs over him like a pall, he possesses a glimmering view of his paradisiacal state, and to that ever longs to return. His efforts, however, to regain this without a specimen of perfect humanity to direct him, must ever remain fruitless. Without such a specimen conjoined with Deity, the one nature showing what man should be, and the other what God is, it would be absolutely impossible for man to regain his original dignity, and the end of his existence. Such a model, thank

gress had the world made in morals previous to its appearance? How was it exhibited? And what is its efficacy in restoring man?

The first of these questions becomes evident to the inquirer in proportion to his examination into the moral condition in which fallen humanity necessarily remained · prior to the appearance of its heavenly guide. It is a subject of no ordinary interest to behold, during the various stages of history, the numerous efforts of the human mind to combine the few elements of morals which were in its possession, into systems of religion, or patterns of virtue. The great and difficult problem of heathen philosophers, which, being put in the form of a question, seems to be this, "What is truth?" The answer to this question was variously attempted. But, before its solution could be satisfactorily given, it was supposed to be absolutely necessary to find some peculiarity as essential to all truth. This, of course, was an absurd attempt; for no such criterion could be found in fallen humanity. But, without something more than their own corrupt sense of morals to guide them, how were they ever to find out God, their moral obligations to Him, and their way back into the unsullied fields of virtue? Prodigious were the efforts which the master-minds of Greece and Rome put forth, to obtain these happy objects, and their last great effort was to rear an altar to the unknown God. Dazzled by the excessive light of reason, and intoxicated by the giddy heights to which it is the prerogative of that faculty to lead man, they stepped forth like blind giants, fell, and died weltering in moral darkness. When Diogenes, the celebrated cynic philosopher of Sinope, had evolved from the pure reason an ideal of moral excellence, he went through the streets of the city, in daytime, with a lighted lamp, seeking its correlative in human form, but found not the man. And another was of the opinion, that if virtue could be embodied, all men would become enamored with the sight. This, however, was doubtful; for where such was the case, that Divine personage was crucified.

The greatest difficulty in the way towards man's restoration, has always been found

in his sinful affections. The heart is the source of all moral defilement. Like an impure fountain, it is continually welling forth its poisonous waters, which embitter all the streams of happiness. Its withering effects are seen in the desolation of the world, and heard in the cry of misery misery which makes the angels weep. If its outward manifestations are so calamitous, who is competent to describe its inward workings? It has intricacies which no creature can penetrate-depths which God alone can fathom.

Heathen philosophers, who were most illustrious for their virtue and probity, ar rived no higher in their attainments of true virtue, than to a knowledge of their forlorn condition, and to a deep and abiding impression that there was need of supernatural guidance.

Truth and error mingled together, and embodied in the form of poetry and philosophy, were incompetent means to turn the base affections of heathen worshippers from their sins. Although some of them were thus induced to invoke Jupiter, Apollo, or some inferior deity, and, to a certain extent inspired with faith in the power and providence of these deities, yet were their hearts left unchanged and unsanctified. How could it be otherwise? For the standard of morals as gathered from the general characters of the heathen deities, was but a reflection of that which was found in their worshippers, and which could never elevate them to a higher. The standard of virtue in their gods and in themselves was similar in every particular; one answered to the other "as face answereth to face in water." The same is true of heathen religion nowadays. The world sighed then as now for something better. Consequently the heathen Magi who were feeling after God, were compassioned, and led even by the errors of astrology to seek the daystar of hope in the land of Israel. So also the aged Simeon and Anna, who in like manner, and, no doubt, more clearly saw their spiritual wants portrayed in the bleeding victims on their altars, were directed to the same pattern of moral excellence, which none but the Archi

tect of heaven could prepare. Accordingly, as Clemens of Alexandria says: "Philosophy led the Greeks to Christ, as the Law did the Jews."

But how was Christ, the Christian standard of virtue, exhibited? In his divine and human nature he embraced all that was excellent in the two worlds. Enveloped in moral darkness as man was previous to Christ's appearance, his conceptions of the divine character and of holiness, were quite feeble, and therefore needed strength and illumination. None but Christ could satiate that feeling of want, that ardent longing after something definite, which the human mind could lay hold of and apprehend. Ever since he has been deprived the privi lege of conversing with God in the garden, man has wandered like an erring child; but in Christ he again beholds his original benefactor and teacher. In him he sees the truth, the way to holiness. Having come forth from the bosom of the Father, and tabernacled in our nature as the incarnate Word, Christ revealed the excellency of virtue, and stamped it with heaven's signet.

In his human nature, Christ was perfect humanity. His pure-mindedness, the simplicity of his manners, his sweet and frank sincerity, which spread an inexpressible charm over his countenance, and beamed from his clear, calm, and full eye, were but faint representatives of the lofty and virtuous spirit that dwelt behind the veil of his flesh. His character, therefore, as seen in the mirror of his whole life, has given us a new and complete view of the destiny of humanity, a vivid and perfect conception of virtue and morals; for he has sanctified human nature, and impressed anew upon it a sense of its original worthiness, and of the ultimate rule of morals.

His benevolence was unbounded. Having placed his cross midway between heaven and earth, he took hold of weak and sinking humanity, and said, "Look up and live." Like a mighty stream did his love gush forth on the fallen race. It came down as if the eternal fountain of God's compassion, retarded for ages, had at length found a channel through Christ. In Christ,

in short, were embodied all the gems of virtue, but one principle ran through them all, and that principle was love.

What is his efficacy in restoring man? His energy is the omnipotence of love. He penetrates the secret recesses of the human soul, dislodges the monster sin, and with the sword of his Spirit cuts the ligaments which bind the sinner's affections to the pursuit of sin. Behold fallen humanity lying in moral darkness! How the sacred light of the Gospel warms and exercises its feeble powers! How its rays illuminate the darkened chambers of the soul! And now the light having come, and the glory of the Lord having risen upon it, what beauty and splendor shine around it! Heaven and earth become vocal, and one grand panorama of moral beauty pass on forever before the enlightened mind and sanctified heart. By faith in Christ man becomes engrafted into a new stock of humanity, and brings forth fruit accordingly, viz., "Love out of a pure heart and of a good conscience and of faith unfeigned."

NIPPENOSE, May 15th, 1857.

ELL

A DOSE.

BY T. HOOD.

LLEN, you have been out."
Well, I know I have."

"To the King's Head?"

"No, John, no. But no matter. You'll be troubled no more with my drinking."

"What do you mean ?"

"I mean what I say, John,” replied the wife, looking very serious, and speaking very solemnly and deliberately, with a strong emphasis on every word. "You-will-be troubled-no-more-with-my drinkingI have took it at last."

"I knew it !" exclaimed the wretched husband, desperately tossing his arms aloft, as when all is lost. "I knew it !"-and leaving one coat-flap in the hand of his wife, who vainly attempted to detain him, he rushed from the room-sprang down the stairs three steps at a time-ran along the passage, and without his hat, or stick, dashed out at the street door, sweeping from the step two ragged little girls, a quartern loaf, a basin of treacle,

and a baby. But he never stopped to see if the children were hurt, or even to see whether the infant dripped with gore or molasses. Away he ran, like a rabid dog, straight forward down the street, heedless alike of porter's load, baker's basket, and butcher's tray.

"Do that again," growled a placard man, as he recovered the pole and board which had been knocked from his shoulder.

"Mind where you're going," bawled a hawker, as he picked up his scattered wares, whilst a dandy suddenly thrust into the kennel, launched after the runner one of those verbal missives which are said to return, like the boomerang, to those who launch them.

But on, on, scampered the teetotaller, heedless of all impediments-on he scoured, like a he Camilla, to the shop, numbered 240, with the red, blue, and green bottles in the window-the chemist's and druggist's-into which he darted, and up to the little bald man at the desk, with barely breath enough left to gasp out "My wife !" "Poison !" and "Pump!"

"No!" But remembering the symptoms over-night the teetotaller ventured to say, on the strength of his dream, that she was turning all manner of colors like a rainbow, and swelling as big as a house.

"Then there is not a moment to lose," said the Esculapius, and accordingly clapping on his hat, and arming himself with the necessary apparatus, a sort of elephantic syringe with a very long trunk-he set off at a trot, guided by the teetotaller, to unpoison the rash and ill-fated bacchanalian, Mrs. Burrage.

"And did he save her?"

"My dear madam, be contented to let that issue remain a little, and accumulate interest, like a sum in the savings bank."

Now, when the teetotaller, with the medical man at his heels, arrived at his own house, Mrs. Burrage was still in her bedroom, which was a great convenience; for, before she could account for the intrusion of a stranger, nay, even without knowing how it was done, she found herself seated in the easy chair; and when she attempted to expostulate, she felt herself choking with a tube of something, which was certainly neither maccaroni, nor stick-liquorice, nor yet peppermint.

To account for this precipitancy, the exaggerated representation of her husband must be borne in mind; and if his wife did not exhibit all the dying dolphin-like colors, that he had described; if she was not quite so blue, green, yellow, or black, as he had painted her, the apothecary made sure she would soon be, and consequently went to work without delay, where delays were so dangerous.

Mrs. Burrage, however, was not a woman to submit quietly to a disagreeable operation against her own consent; so with a vigorous kick, and push at the same time, she contrived to rid herself at once of the doctor and his instrument, and indignantly demanded to know the meaning of the assault upon her.

"It's to save your life, your precious life, Ellen," said the teetotaller, very so lemnly.

by a desperate struggle. "What am I to be pumped out for?"

"",

66

Oh, Ellen, Ellen," said the teetotaller, "you know what you have taken." "Corrosive salts and narcotics," put in the doctor.

"Arsenic and corrosive sublimity," said the teetotaller.

"Oxalic acid and tincture of opium," added the doctor.

"Fly water and laurel water," said Mr. Burrage.

"Vitriol, prussic acid, and aquafortis," continued the druggist.

"I've took no such thing," said the refractory patient.

"Oh, Ellen, you know what
"Well, what?"

you said."

"Empty a fiddle," retorted Mrs. B., who would have added, "stick ;" but the doctor, watching his opportunity, had dexterously popped the tube again into her open mouth -not without a fresh scuffle from the patient.

"For the Lord's sake, Ellen," continued the teetotaller, confining her hand, "do, do, pray do sit quiet."

"Poh, wob, wooble," said Ellen, "hub, bub, bubble," attempting to speak with another pipe in her throat besides her windpipe.

"Have the goodness, ma'am, to be composed," implored the doctor.

"I won't," shouted Mrs. Burrage, having again released herself from the instrument

time proprietor.

New Hampshire was the name given to the territory conveyed by the Plymouth Company to Captain John Mason, by patent, Nov. 7, 1639, with reference to the patentee, who was Governor of Portsmouth, in Hampshire, England.

Vermont was so called by the inhabitants in their Declaration of Independence, Jan. 16, 1777, from the French verd, green, and mont, mountain.

Massachusetts was named from a tribe of Indians in the neighborhood of Boston. The tribe is thought to have derived its name from the Blue Hills of Milton. "I have learned,' says Roger Williams, "that Massachusetts was so called from the Blue Hills."

Rhode Island was so called in 1644, in