suffering and of sacrilege, of the prostration of Christ's followers, the profanation of his name, the pollution of the holy places, tales of Moslem oppression and impiety, were diffused and exaggerated, and believed with fierce and revengeful determination, from one end of Europe to the other. "About twenty years after the conquest of Jerusalem by the Turks," says Gibbon," the holy sepulchre was visited by a hermit of the name of Peter, a native of Amiens, in the province of Picardy, in France. His resentment and sympathy were excited by his own injuries, and the oppression of the Christian name. 'I will rouse,' exclaimed the hermit, 'the martial nations of Europe in the cause;' and Europe was obedient to the call of the hermit.

"Invigorated by the approbation of the pope, this zealous missionary traversed, with speed and success, the provinces of Italy and France. His diet was abstemious, his prayers long and fervent; and the alms which he received with one hand, he distributed with the other; his head was bare, his feet naked; his meagre body was wrapped in a coarse garment; he bore and displayed a weighty crucifix; and the ass on which he rode, was sanctified, in the public eye, by the service of the man of God. He preached to innumerable crowds in the churches, the streets, and the highways; the hermit entered, with equal confidence, the palace and the cottage; and the people, for all were people, were impetu

ously moved by his call to repentance and to arms. When he painted the sufferings of the natives and pilgrims of Palestine, every heart was melted to compassion; every breast glowed with indignation, when he challenged the warriors of the age to defend their brethren, and rescue their Saviour. His ignorance of art and language was compensated by sighs, and tears, and ejaculations; and Peter supplied the deficiency of reason by loud and frequent appeals to Christ and his mother, to the saints and angels of paradise, with whom he had personally conversed."

The practice of making foreign pilgrimages, existed in England, from the seventh till about the middle of the fifteenth century. Few persons of any station or wealth, failed, during that period, to engage in those religious tours; and, in later ages, they were not uncommon among persons in the middle ranks of life.

It is usually observed, that a good reign is the only proper time for the making of laws against the exorbitance of power: in the same manner, an excessive head-dress may be attacked the most effectually when the fashion is against it. I do therefore recommend this paper to my female readers, by way of prevention.

I would desire the fair sex to consider how impossible it is for them to add any thing that can be ornamental to what is already the masterpiece of nature. The head has the most beautiful appearance, as well as the highest station, in a human figure. Nature has laid out all her art in beautifying the face; she has touched it with vermilion, planted in it a double row of ivory, made it the seat of smiles and blushes, lighted it up and enlivened it with the brightness of the eyes, hung it on each side with curious organs of sense, given it airs and graces that cannot be described, and surrounded it with such a flowing shade of hair as sets all its beauties in the most agreeable light. In short, she seems to have designed the head as the cupola to the most glorious of her works; and when we load it with a pile of supernumerary ornaments, we destroy the symmetry of the human figure, and foolishly contrive to call off the eye from great and real beauties, to childish gewgaws, ribands, and bone lace.

EXERCISE CXLIV.

ATTEMPTS AT DOMESTIC EDUCATION.

Mrs. Gilman.

[From "Recollections of a Southern Matron."]

AFTER the departure of our Connecticut teacher, papa resolved to carry on our education himself. We were to rise by daylight, that he might pursue his accustomed ride over the fields, after breakfast. New writing-books were taken out and ruled, fresh quills laid by their side, our task carefully committed to memory; and we sat with a mixture of docility and curiosity, to know how he would manage as a teacher.

to Rome, where his zeal led him to reprove the enormities of the papal court, and the dissoluteness of the Romish clergy. On this, he was imprisoned, tried, and condemned to the flames for heresy: a punishment which he suffered with great constancy in 1434.

Corroding sorrow, -oh! 'mid these, that power
Of holy truth that on me early fell,

Hath it been purely kept? and o'er my path
With steady ray, still doth it light me on?
My spirit-hath it known the grace of mild
Forbearance? And hath resignation kissed
Meekly the rod, - and grateful love adored

The Hand that blessed? The powers God gave—have they
Been nurtured, and, within their humble sphere,
Diffused around love, joy, intelligence?

- the fruits

Where are the golden stores of mind?
Of intellectual and of moral strength?
O inward voice, that must be answered, cease,

Or help my prayers,

or tell my sinking heart That the All-Wise is the All-Merciful!

"WE sail the sea of life;

-a calm one finds;

And one, a tempest; - and, the voyage o'er,

Death is the quiet haven of us all.”

Thus discourses the ocean on the great themes of mortality, -the eloquent ocean, sounding forth incessantly, in its deeptoned surges, a true and dignified philosophy; repeating to every shore the moral and the mystery of human life.

But it does something more. It is so vast, so uniform, so full, so all-enveloping, that it leads the thoughts to a sublimer theme than life or time, to the theme of dread eternity. When contemplations on this subject are suggested by it, human life shrinks up into a stream, wandering through a varied land, — now through flowers, and now through sands, now clearly and now turbidly, now smoothly and quietly, and now obstructed and chafed, till it is lost, at last, in the mighty ocean, which receives, and feels it not.

There is nothing among the earthly works of God, which brings the feeling, for it can hardly be termed a conception, -the feeling of eternity so powerfully to the soul, as does the

"wide, wide sea." We look upon its waves, succeeding each other continually, one rising up as another vanishes; and we think of the generations of men, which lift up their heads for a while, and then pass away, one after the other, — for all the noise and show they make, even as those restless and momentary waves. Thus the waves and the ages come and go, appear and disappear; and the ocean and eternity remain the same, undecaying and unaffected, abiding in the unchanging integrity of their solemn existence.

We stand upon the solitary shore; and we hear the surges beat, uttering such grand, inimitable symphonies as are fit for the audience of cliffs and skies; and our minds fly back through years and years, to that time, when, though we were not and our fathers were not, those surges were yet beating, incessantly beating, making the same wild music, and heard alone by the overhanging cliffs, and the overarching skies, which silently gave heed to it, even as they do now.

In the presence of this old and united company, we feel on what an exceedingly small point we stand, and how soon we shall be swept away, while the surges will continue to beat on that very spot, and the cliffs and the skies will still lean over to hear. This is what may be called the feeling of eternity.

Perhaps the feeling is rendered yet more intense, when we lie on our bed, musing and watching, and hear the sonorous cadences of the waves coming up solemnly and soothingly through the stillness of night. It is as the voice of a spirit, as the voice of the spirit of eternity. The ocean seems now to be a living thing, ever living and ever moving, a sleepless influence, a personification of unending duration, uttering aloud the oracles of primeval truth.

"Listen! the mighty being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder, everlastingly."

Where are the myriads of men who have trodden its shores, and gone down to it in ships? They are passed away. Not a single trace has been left by all their armaments. Where are the old kingdoms which were once washed by its waves? They have been changed, and changed again, till a few ruins only tell where they stood. But the sea is still the same. Man can place no monuments upon it, with all his ambition and pride. It suffers not even a ruin to speak of his triumphs or his existence. It remains as young, as strong, as free, as when

it first listened to the Almighty Word, and responded with all its billows to the song of the morning stars.

"Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow; Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now!"

EXERCISE CXXX.

ODE TO THE FLOWERS.

Horace Smith.

DAY-STARS! that ope your eyes with man to twinkle,
From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation,
And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle
As a libation!

Ye matin worshippers! who bending lowly
Before the uprisen sun, God's lidless eye,
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy
Incense on high!

Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty
The floor of nature's temple tessellate,
What numerous emblems of instinctive duty
Your forms create!

'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth,
And tolls its perfume on the passing air,
Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth

A call to prayer,

Not to the domes, where crumbling arch and column
Assert the feebleness of mortal hand,
But to that fane, most catholic and solemn,
Which God hath planned, –

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,

Whose quenchless lamp the sun and moon supply; Its choir, the winds and waves; its organ, thunder. Its dome, the sky!

There, as in solitude and shade I wander

Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod,