astonished; they questioned her again, and asked her what money she had to enable her to undertake so long a journey. She drew from her bosom the little coin given to her by the boatman of the Wolga. 'Is that all?' they inquired. It is all,' she replied. At this answer, delivered with a candor that enforced belief, the robbers looked at each other with amazement. They were not moved: they were not softened. Rendered callous by long habits of vice, an action of such noble heroism as that of Elizabeth had no such influence over their souls; but it excited wonder. They could not comprehend what they felt necessitated to believe; and restrained by a kind of veneration, they dare not harm the object of Heaven's evident protection: so passing on, they said to each other, Let us leave her: some supernatural Power protects her.'

"Elizabeth rose and hastened from them. She had not penetrated far into the forest before four roads crossing each other, presented themselves to her view. In one of the angles which they formed was a little chapel dedicated to the Virgin, and over it, a direction-post inscribed with the names of the towns to which the different roads led. Elizabeth prostrated herself to offer her grateful acknowledgments to the Omnipotent Being who had preserved her: the robbers were not mistaken, she was protected by a supernatural Power."

CARRAVAGIO.

BY MRS. MARY S. WHITAKER.

HY, stern misfortune, dost thou shed

WH

Thy chilling blight on early fame, When genius bows the drooping head, Yet can no kind compassion claim?

Beneath Italia's sunny skies
Neglected merit sadly fell,

When Carravagio closed his eyes,

And bade the ungrateful world farewell.

The meanest peasant to his home

At evening's hour might blest repair;
But see the houseless wanderer roam-
Ah! what had he to bless or cheer?

A galling sense of cruel wrong,

A deep disgust at human pride,
Which left him thus because his tongue

Had no base arts of flattery tried.

Wearied, resentful, wild despair
Seized on the artist's mighty soul;
No pitying friend stood mournful near,
As death's cold tremors o'er him stole.

But by the wayside, faint and worn,
Heaving a deep and bitter sigh,
Feeling that none were left to mourn,
He laid him down forlorn to die.

The master-mind, skilled to portray Strong passion with consummate art, Crushed and o'ermastered there he lay— Hope, man's last friend, forsook his heart.

How shall the muse the tale disclose? "Twill claim compassion's melting tearSad sequel to a life of woes,

Gaunt famine stretched him on his bier!

THE COLLEGE AND THE RECTORY.

BY PROFESSOR ALDEN.

CHAPTER I.

are welcome, my son," said Mr. Winthrop, rising from his seat, and extending his hand

to a young man who had just entered the apartment. The son advanced with the deference peculiar to the times, and having pressed his father's hand, turned to a lady who had also risen to receive him, and addressed her by the name of mother. Her warm embrace and tearful eye, revealed the overflowing tenderness of her heart.

"Sit down, my son," said the father, with courtly politeness. "I am thankful that a kind Providence permits us to see you in health. How are our friends at Cambridge?"

to

"They are all well. Dr. Sibbs commends his regards my father."

"I am grateful for his remembrance. The excellent

Doctor is still instant, in season and out of season, in his Master's work?"

"He is diligent as usual in his calling."

There was that in the manner of young Winthrop, which indicated less reverence for the famous Puritan master of Catharine Hall than was grateful to his worthy parent.

"He is a godly and learned man," said the father, gravely, "and a most fitting model for the young."

"He is, indeed, a good and an able man, and I trust I have profited by his instructions; still," (the young man spoke with hesitancy,) "there are those who think he yields too readily to the encroachments of power."

"He is a wise man, and it becomes not the young to sit in judgment upon their elders."

There was an implied reproof in those words of the mild and affectionate father, which fell heavily upon the heart of the son. He could scarce remember the time even in boyhood, when that father's censure rested upon him. The peculiarly affectionate, dignified, and devout bearing of the father, and the warm-hearted gentleness of the mother, had controlled the impulsive nature of the son, and caused his early life to be singularly free from blame. The sanctifying influence of the gospel was added to that of parental counsels and example, and thus Henry Winthrop grew up to manhood beloved and honored by all who knew him.