aloft. Running in toward it, the skipper, who had cruised on this coast before as a privateer's-man in the patriot service, soon made out our whereabout. We had fallen a little to leeward of our port, owing to a current setting eastward, but were in sight of Cape Frio, only sixty miles from Rio. It was late when we made the landfall, but by beating to windward along the land, we soon regained our lost ground, and before daylight were hove-to off the harbor. There, with your permission, reader, we will lie till our next chapter.

Pittsburgh, Pa.

SPRING.

'I TURNED from all she brought, to those she could not bring.'-PYROs.

Spring hath come back; yet doth it not recall
Things dearer than the flowers that round us wave;
The loved, the vanished, those to whom the pall
Was the last garment, the last home the grave:

Thou givest to melody and beauty birth,

Why keep ye our beloved, insatiate Earth?

1V.

We 've waited for them; we have watched and wept
Through the lone stillness of the dreary night,
When the fierce tempest o'er the hill hath swept,
And when the morn arose with ruddy light;
Mid the bright noontide and the dewy eve,
Till in fond dreams our souls forgot to grieve.

The spring hath come, with all its light and bloom,

Yet come they not, those whom we loved and mourned!
Like withered flowers they sank into the tomb;

The flowers are blooming-have not they returned?
Like in their youth, their beauty, and their death,
Obey they not alike Spring's wakening breath?

VI.

With its fair buds in blushing beauty drest,
Gladly we welcome back the queenly rose;

Yet heaveth not again that gentle breast

O'er whose dread stillness did its last leaves close:
Wo! that the spring the wild rose should restore,
Yet she, our stricken bride, return no more!

VII.

When the meek snow-drop blossomed in the glen,
Two gentle forms we trusted to the earth;
The fair pale flowrets greet our eyes again,

But where are those who cheered our lonely hearth?

We wait in vain, for not by field or grove

Meet we their sunny smiles, their looks of love.

Come not the loved? No! they are with their God!
There rest they in His own eternal smile;

Still must we bend beneath His chastening rod,

Still must we wait, and watch, and weep the while;
O'er our torn souls anguish must have its sway-
They were our idols, wisely called away.

Towanda, Pa.

But from afar there comes a glorious Spring,
When earth shall yield all buried treasures up,
From the dark grave shall our beloved bring,

And full fruition take the place of hope.
Then shall the brightness o'er the fair earth shed
Wake no vain longings for the lost, the dead!

LITERARY NOTICES.

SERMONS, BY GEORGE W. BETHUNE, Minister of the Third Reformed Dutch Church, Philadelphia. In one volume. pp. 301. Philadelphia: MENTZ AND ROVOUDT.

In a late number of the KNICKERBOCKER We mentioned the recent publication of this very beautiful volume, and promised to advert more particularly to its merits, when time and space should serve. The sermons are fourteen in number, and upon various themes; yet there is no one of them that is not marked by the eloquent characteristics of the writer's style; a style which, although greatly heightened by the effective fervent delivery for which Dr. BETHUNE is remarkable, enlists at once and retains the attention of the reader. We admire more than any other feature in these discourses their persuasive tenderness; the fresh, warm feeling which they evince. Denunciations and threatenings are in general far less operative upon congregations than earnest solicitude and affectionate entreaty, and of this Dr. Bethune's own heart seems to have made him aware. But without farther comment of our own, we proceed to select a few passages from the volume before us, commencing with an extract from the opening discourse on 'The Divine Nature :'

'WHAT happiness so pure, so rich as the gushing forth of affection toward those we love? What action so full in its own repayment, as a successful compassion for the wretched, or the winning back of a desolate heart to hopes of peace? This was the refreshment of the SAVIOUR'S Spirit in his sorrowful pilgrimage; for when he was weary and worn, he but stayed his steps to cause a lame man to leap as an hart, or the tongue of a dumb man to sing, to pour light upon a darkened eye, to bid a leper be clean, or to give back to some mourner her recent dead, and he was strong again as though he had drunk a cup of life. But what must be the joy of GOD in pouring forth from the infinite fountain of his heart streams of affection to every holy and happy child? or in sending consolation to bleeding and broken bosoms, which none but He can bind up and heal?'

In the discourse entitled 'Good News for the Poor,' we find this passage, in illustration of the position that the gospel preached to the poor vindicates the providence of GOD toward men:

THE existence of poverty and wretchedness is a sore stumbling-block to one who is inquiring after a GoD of love and goodness. Were we all miserable alike, the difficulty would be less, for we might then conjecture a common cause for the common ruin. But the varieties of human allotment and experience are very distressing to mind and heart; nay, but for the light of revelation, must seem capricious and cruel. We are born into the world with the same cravings and sensibilities, yet to one is given a strong and healthful frame, while another suffers from the cradle to the grave under bodily tortures, that make life a weariness and captivity. One is lapped in affluence and trained for a maturity of honor by the watchful eye and hand of intelligent love; another, stamped in the same image, is cast forth a child of shame and heir of infamy. One lolls in easy luxury, with many waiting at his beck to serve his artificial wants; another, perhaps every way his superior in mental and moral qualities, drudges, a burden-bearer, through the world, with scarce a pittance for food and shelter. One inherits a throne, another lives and dies a slave. Industry, virtue and a pursuit of knowledge may do something to relieve, and even to prevent these inequalities, but not enough. Riches are not always a proof of virtue, nor power the reward of honorable means, and the best talent is often a crippled pensioner upon wealthy and niggard ignorance. Wherefore, then, these

distinctions? Are we not all alike human, creatures of one GOD? We may be told that there is less difference of happiness among men than meets the eye; that every lot has its trials and every heart its bitterness; that luxury has its pains as well as penury its wants, and that, however pros perous vice may appear, virtue has in its own consciousness a far better reward; but such declarations are mockeries, except as they may be found written hy God's own hand in the blood of the New Testament.

'Poverty is a bitter thing. There is no reasoning against hunger and cold and disease; against the shame of debt and the slavery of dependence. The brow may be calm and the eye patient before the world, but the iron is rusting into the soul,' and the heart is dark in the sunshine. The strongest mind quails before its shadow, and the best thoughts fall sickened and sad to earth, as the reality is forced home upon the bleeding sensibilities. What, then, must be the trial to those less strong by nature or education? Tell the famishing mother, as she clasps her famishing child to a bosom whose fountain is dried up, both shivering with a chill worse than death, that they who live in warm houses and fare sumptuously every day, have their troubles as well as she, and she would shriek out her answer, 'O for the crumbs that fall from their tables, the poorest garment in their wardrobes, to feed and to warm my dying babe!' Virtue its own reward? It is so in the christian's heaven, but it is not so on earth, except when the hope of heaven antedates its bliss.'

The Spirit of the World and the Spirit of Christianity' embraces an admirable enforcement of the great fact that the spirit of the world is fear; that those whose gods-children, friends, riches or fame-are upon the earth, are seldom at ease in their possessions :'

'WORLDLY distinction, what is it but a fairer mark for envious calumny to shoot at? Popular applause, what is it but a bubble blown up by the foul breath of fools and knaves, and when at its greatest bigness, bursting into noisome air? Was ever demagogue borne aloft by the rank and sweaty palms of the mob, whose voices he begged with servile meanness, that did not despise himself?

'Or what is posthumous fame, to which genius, disgusted with a present generation, has often turned with fond idolatry? I stood once within the tomb of Virgil. Time, or the human despoiler, had stripped it of every decoration. The niche which had once held the urn which contained his ashes was empty. The rank weed and brier waved around it and over it. The vine-dresser near sang a song in another dialect, and an inscription, at whose barbarous Latinity the Mantuan would have shuddered, was all that guided the classic pilgrim to his doubtful grave, who, living, panted for an immortality of fame. What is fame now to him? Are the dead conscious of the bay or the laurel which crowns their statues? Can the loudest acclamations call them from their sleep to exult in their triumphs? Spirits of the mighty dead, do you hear us when we praise you? They answer not. If in heaven, they are absorbed by its glories; if in hell, their anguish has no relief. What is earth to them?

In connection with this is the counter-position that the spirit of fear is not the spirit of christianity, but rather energy of purpose, indomitable will, and calm confidence. 'The annals of the world's heroism,' says the orator, are poor beside those of christianity. Our martyrology tells us not only of strong men, but of feeble women and youths, scarcely more than children, going to death with hymns of joy, singing till the flame choked their voices; of simple, obscure people, accounted as the offscouring of the earth, standing firm in faith against the might of empires, conquering as they died, and blessing their murderers. Our history speaks of those, who, with a more sublime resolution than that which marched armies across the pinnacled Alps, or turned a prow into unknown seas to find an unknown world, have left home and friends and civilized life, to carry the news of immortality among the most cruel savages in the most unfriendly climes.' The subjoined passage is from a discourse entitled 'The Good Shepherd,' delivered at the commencement of the year:

THE young and the giddy may lose all thought of days to come in the hilarity of the moment, but there are few of graver years and responsibilities who can regard the unknown events before them without anxiety. What will the coming months bring forth? Amidst the changes and uncertainties of the world, will our temporal fortunes be secure, and a comfortable plenty crown our household? Shall we, notwithstanding our moral infirmities, and the frequent lapses of others from virtue, be preserved from the snares of temptation? Is there no heavy calamity approaching, though unseen, which, like a sudden thunder-storm, will darken over our heads, and desolate the scene around us? Will our good name be shielded from the strife of tongues,' evil, busy and venomous? May not death be about to drag us from opportunities of preparation before the judgment-seat? These are questions of awful meaning, not only with regard to ourselves, but to those around whose welfare our own is entwined.'

We are reminded by this passage of the ensuing lines of BRYANT, in An Evening 70

VOL. XXVII.

Reverie,' a poem written for the KNICKERBOCKER, and in our judgment one of the most beautiful of the many beautiful effusions of our chief poet:

heal.

'MAN fortels afar

The courses of the stars; the very hour

He knows, when they shall darken or grow bright;
Yet doth the eclipse of sorrow and of death
Come unforewarned. Who next of those I love
Shall pass from life, or sadder yet, shall fall
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife
With friends, or shame and general scorn of men-
Which who can bear?-or the fierce rack of pain,
Lie they within my path? Or shall the years
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace,

Into the stilly twilight of my age?

Or do the portals of another life

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength,
Impend around me?'

We have often been impressed with the truth of a remark made by our author, and felicitously enforced, namely, that there is a close relation between the graceful and the useful: The stream wanders widely in gentle, ever-varying curves, that it may more widely diffuse its genial influences, or offer its flowing bosom to the assistance of man. The abounding verdure is a refreshment to the eye which it charms, and light (beautiful, most beautiful light!) pours out itself to bless, to gladden, and to The aroma of plants sweetens an atmosphere that else were noisome, while the vulture scents from afar the decay it is his mission to remove. There is not a vibration of the air to a voice of nature, but makes part of a profound harmony, arranged by infinite skill, if we use it aright, to cheer the heart, refine the mind, and uplift the soul in aspirations of praise.' The Dignity of Serving' forms the subject of a discourse in which we find many passages which we pencilled as we read; but with the exception of one, the reader must seek them in the volume which contains them. That exception is the following. Its connection is the declaration of the writer, that if the present judgment of society were like that of the SUPREME, the aspect of the world would be utterly changed; that many before whom we now uncap as to our most respectable and distinguished citizens, would be hissed in the pillory of public contempt. An illustrative sketch is given, which has many a counterpart:

'HERE is a man, to whom God has given a powerful mind. Every door of knowledge has been open to him from his most early years. His fellow-citizens have sought the aid of his talents, and made him rich. They have raised him to office, and made him great. His manners are courteous, and fashion flatters him. He adds to all this the graceful decency of a well-bred religion, and the church solicits his championship. But his heart is cold. He has no fellow-feeling for man as man. He grows in wealth, reputation and influence, only to congratulate himself upon his success. The GoD he worships, the world he serves, is his own self. On a Sunday morning he drives from church, and at the door of his broad mansion he is looked up to by a shivering outcast child, begging for a crumb from his table, scarcely daring to hope for a kind word from his lips. It is an orphan boy, who has no friend to tell him that there is a GoD or a path of virtue, and no shelter but among the vile. There may be within that squalid raggedness a mild, loving heart, a resolute courage, and a determined will, with a generous wish to upraise himself. But the man, who might, by the blessing of God, make him a useful, conscience-guided Christian, spurns him away without a farther thought. Years roll on, and that neglected little one grows up (how could it be otherwise?) a thief and a felon. 'Now, tell me, which will stand fairest before GOD in that day, when he will reckon the omission to do good by those who had the knowledge and opportunity, as most aggravated iniquity? Which is most guilty of crime, the felon, or the selfish contemner of a young immortal soul? Far rather would I be that wretched child, with all the consequences of his untutored life, than the rich, powerful, world-honored man, to whom GOD will say: Igave thee wealth, and talents, and influence, that thou mightest be the stay of the helpless, the light of the ignorant, and an example of goodness to the world; yet hast thou, wicked servant, wrapped it all about thy miserable self."

But we must draw our notice of this excellent volume to a close. It abounds in eloquent and original thoughts, and is very rarely disfigured by mere truisms, so common in kindred collections. Something very like an incontrovertible fact however