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riod, when he became attached to ardent spirits, "remarkably ab stemious, eating but little, and abstaining almost entirely from animal food," his favorite articles being tea, bread and butter, and baked apples. A Mr. Ephraim Pratt, of Shutesbury, Mass., who died at the age of one hundred and seventeen years, lived very much upon milk, and that in small quantity; and his son, Michael Pratt, attained to the age of one hundred and three years, by similar means. Indeed, great longevity has occurred in no instance with which I am acquainted, where the individual was not a pattern of abstemiousness in diet. Great eaters never live long. A voracious appetite is a sign of disease, or of strong tendency to disease, and not a sign of health, as is generally supposed. Ill health as infallibly follows the indulgence of such an appetite, as any other effect its legitimate cause.

THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE CANOE.

In the days of old, long before the deep solitudes of the West were disturbed by white men, it was the custom of the Indian warriors of the forest to assemble at the great cataract of Niagara, and offer a human sacrifice to the spirit of the Falls. The offer ing consisted of a white canoe full of ripe fruits and beautiful flowers, which was paddled over the terrible Falls by the fairest girl who had just arrived at the age of womanhood. It was counted an honor by the tribe to whose lot it fell to make the fearful sacrifice; and even the doomed maiden deemed it a high compliment to be selected to guide the white canoe on its hideous errand. But even in the stoical heart of the red man there are feelings which cannot be subdued, and chords which snap if strained too tight.

The only daughter of a chief of the Seneca Indians was chosen as a sacrifice offering to the Spirit of Niagara. Her mother had been slain by a hostile tribe, and her father was the bravest amongst the warriors; his stern brow seldom relaxed save to his blooming child, who was now the only joy to which he clung on earth. When the lot of the doomed one fell on his beloved daughter, not a muscle of his rigid countenance moved; in the pride of Indian endurance he crushed down the agony which rent his bosom. At length the fatal day arrives; savage festivities and rejoicings are prolonged until the shades of evening close around, and the darkness of night falls like a pall upon the wild funeral feast.

But the pale beams of the rising moon cast a mystic light upon the dark waters; higher and higher she rises in the still heavens, and the foam and the mists from the mighty Falls gleam with a soft and silvery light. Niagara thunders into the dark abyss, but all besides is in a calm repose; the Queen of Night stoops to kiss the laughing waves, and all nature breathes of love and peace, and happiness; the wild songs and the wilder whoops of the rejoicing savages suddenly cease; the dread moment has arrived, and a hush

-an awful and mysterious hush-is upon the eager, listening crowd.

And now the white canoe glides from the bank, and is instantly swept into the fierce rapids. From this moment escape is hopeless. But the young girl dreams not of escape. Calmly she steers her frail bark towards the centre of the stream, whilst the frantic yells and deafening shouts of encouragement and approbation Burst from the savages who line the bank. Suddenly another white canoe leaves the dark shade of the forest, and shoots forth upon the stream. A few powerful strokes from the paddle of the Seneca chief, and the canoes are side by side; the eyes of the father and child meet in one last look of love, as together they plunge over the thundering cataract into Eternity.

VICES OF GENIUS.

Coleridge was such a slave to liquor that he had to be kept an unwitting prisoner by Christopher North, on an occasion when some literary performance had to be completed by a certain time; and on that very day, without even taking leave of any member of the family, "he ran off at full speed down the avenue at Ellerary, and was soon hidden, not in the groves of the valley, but in some obscene den, where drinking among low companions, his magnificent mind was soon brought to a level with the vilest of the vile." When his spree was over, he would return to the society of decent

men.

De Quincey was such a slave to the use of opinm, that his daily allowance was of more importance than eating. "An ounce of laudanum a day prostrated animal life during the forenoon. It was no unfrequent sight to find him asleep on the rug before the fire in his own room, his head on his book, his arms crossed on his breast. When this torpor from the opium had passed away, he was ready for company about daylight. In order to show him off, his friends had to arrange their supper parties so that, sitting until three or four o'clock in the morning, he might be brought to that point at which, in charm and power of conversation, he was so truly wonderful."

Burns was not less a drunkard than Coleridge. It was the weakness of Charles Lamb. And who can remember the last day of Poe without an irrepressible regret? He was on his way to marry a confiding woman, stopped in Baltimore, and was found by a gentleman who knew him in a state of beastly intoxication, unconscious as a log, and died in the ravings of delirium tremens. Douglas Jerrold was a devotee of gin. Byron was a tippler, and his vile Don Juan was the inspiration of rum. Steele, "the bril liant author of the Christian Hero," was a beastly drunkard. Men wrote of him that "he would dress himself, kiss his wife and children, tell them a lie about his pressing engagements, heel it over to a groggery called 'The Store,' and have a revel with his bottle

companions." Rollin says of Alexander the Great, that the true poison which brought him to his end was wine.

The Empress Elizabeth of Russia was completely brutified by strong liquors. She was often in such a state of bacchic ecstacy during the day, that she could not be dressed in the morning, and her attendants would loosely attach some robes, which a few elips of the scissors would disengage in the evening.

CALL ME NOT BACK FROM THE ECHOLESS SHORE.

Reply to "Rock me to sleep, Mother."

I.

Why would you backward with time again turn?
Why do you still for your childhood's days yearn?
Weary one, why through the past again roam?
While in the future the path leads you home.
Oh, dearest child! dry those tears, weep no more,
Call me not back from that "echoless shore,"
Follow me cheerfully, pray, do not weep,
In spirit I'll sooth you, and "rock you to sleep."
Chorus. (Repeat last two lines) Follow me, &c.

II.

Why is your forehead deep furrowed with care?
What has so soon mingled frost in your hair?
Why are you sorrowful, why do you weep?
Why do you ask me to "rock you to sleep?"
Could you but see thro' this world's vale of tears,
Light would your sorrows be, harmless your fears;
All that seems darkness to you would be light,
All would be sunshine where now is but night.
Chorus. Follow me cheerfully, &c.

BOOK NOTICES.

send a copy, by mail, to any one ordering it.

EVANGELISCHE ZEUGNISSE. This Monthly, edited by Rev. Dr. Schaff, and published by Mr. Kohler, 202 N. 4th St. Philadelphia, still pays us its regular visits. The name of the editor guarantees the interest of its contents. AN ADDRESS ON THE EDUCATION OF WOMAN. By A. S. Vaughan, Principal of Mt. Washington Female College. pp. 25.

CHRISTMAS: A story for my Friends. | cents-postage 2 cts-for which we will By Frantz Hoffman. From the German by H. Harbaugh, D. D. Phila. I. Kohler, 1864. pp. 114. We have for years kept an eye on Christmas literature, carefully examining everything of the kind we could procure. Regarding this Christmas story of Hoffman the best of the kind we have yet seen, we translated it. It has now been published by Mr. Kohler, who is the publisher of the stories of Hoffman in the original German. This little book ought to go into every family and Sunday School Library. It possesses richly the naturalness and heartiness which characterizes stories illustrating German social life. In heavy paper cover, 15

An earnest and sensible discussion of the subject of female education. Mr. Vaughan has paid much attention to this subject, and his thoughts as here expressed are valuable.

The Guardian.

VOL. XV.--- JUNE 1864.--- No. 6.

THE OLD CHURCH ONCE MORE.

BY THE EDITOR.

On this beautiful May afternoon we find ourselves once more musing round the Old Church, with which the reader has become somewhat acquainted in the last number of the "Guardian.",

Hither in thoughtful mood
Careless we've wandered;
Mind seeking fitted food
Drawn as it pondered.

We are now reflecting with great pleasure upon the good which, during more than one hundred years, has been accomplished by means of this church. But how shall we measure this? The world has no coin by which we can measure the value of spiritual good. Eternity alone is the measure thereof. Go gaze upon the dialplate, that measures the blissful ages of the redeemed, and endeavor to count the value of but one ransomed soul!-of but one soul, born into the eternal kingdom in this house! No thoughts-not even the boldest flights of fancy can be extravagant, in measuring the value of a sainted soul-a soul made in God's image-a soul for which "God the mighty Saviour died"-a soul that may live in the light of the eternal beatitude, and breathe without end the same blessed air which inspires, with unabated joy, the holy bosom of God himself! No language can be extravagant in speaking of the blessedness which eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor heart conceived.

Go wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as far

As the universe spreads its flaming wall; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of Heaven is worth them all! And has but one soul been redeemed here? Are there not scores now alive, who date their first religious impressions to influences that went forth from the divine power, as manifested in this venerable sanctuary? And how many of those who lie with upturned faces in the tombs around, and elsewhere, if they could rise and testify, would say, "There was the birth-place of my spirit into a heavenly life-there is the place where first I felt that Jesus has power on earth to forgive sin!"

But, in addition to this, it is sweet to think how many times God's people have been comforted here. How many souls came here with burdened hearts, and went away with a new song in their mouths. How often have hearts, stormy and tumultuous as the sea, been calmed by the Saviour's promises in this sacred place.

How many, by the exhortations, instructions, warnings and reproofs, received in this house, have been saved and kept back from sins into which they would otherwise have fallen; by which, if they would not have destroyed their souls, they would, nevertheless, have embittered their lives. How many have been incited to the performance of duties, and to the enjoyment of privileges, which would otherwise have remained unperformed and unenjoyed. In short, how many silent influences for good have filled this house, like the air we breathe, by which souls have been gradually moulded into the image of Christ, and thus fitted for more usefulness here, and for a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory in the life to come.

It is with a joyful gratitude that we can reflect on the benefits which have accrued to thousands in the history of this temple.

It is not that which is around us now, but that which has been around us, which has made us what we are. Our present life has its roots, its beginnings, in the past. We would not be what we are, if our past position and relations had not been what they were. It is true in a deep sense,

"The child is father to the man."

The influences, which have moulded us into our present character, were those many small and silent ones, which have breathed upon us from our childhood, like the soft spring wind breathes upon, and opens, the flowers. And have not these influences, so far as they have been of a religious character, centered in this old church? Is not this the religious Jerusalem to which nearly all the present generation around this church have gone up, ever since they could reach as high as a father's or a mother's hand, and pace, with short and quick steps, by their side. Is not this house, this pulpit, or the one goblet-formed and high which was here be.fore it, this altar, that organ and those bells among the first sacred

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