THE PHILOSOPHY OF SCRIPTURE. new friends, with whom she had been educated, to have forgotten her childhood's home, and its familiar names and faces. Yet, as she was entering the spirit land, she exclaimed, "My mother! my mother!" and died with the words yet on her lips. Reader, is the spot where lie your departed friends dear to you? and do you love to go, at early morn, or evening twilight, when the world is quiet, and strew flowers, and shed tears over their grave? And is there any one, that you loved, the place of whose grave no one knows? Some years after the death of the friend, an epitome of whose history I have briefly given, I unexpectedly came to the west. After crossing the Alleghanies, passing down the Ohio, and meandering for many a day up the Wabash, I landed at the beautiful city of the prairie where she died. I could not pass the burial-ground, and not turn aside to look for her grave; but, alas! no one could tell me where it was. The place of graves was a beautiful spot, on a hill-side, on the banks of the Wabash, with the lovely rural city just appearing in the plain on the south, and the prairie stretching away on the east; but not a stone marked the grave of Maria. True, the dead may rest as quietly in a grave unknown and undistinguished, as in one marked by marble or granite; but yet I would that. the spot where lie the loved ones lost from earth might be so marked that affection might distinguish it. And yet of the friends of my early days the resting place of few are known to me. One went to the city of the south-the city of death-the city whose atmosphere, at some seasons, is loaded with miasm so deleterious that the stranger may not hope to escape its deadly influence; and there he was buried among the promiscuous multitude of unhappy adventurers who annually fall in that fated city. Another went to sea, and no tidings of him ever came back. Others are scattered in the rural grave-yards of New England, and I might vainly attempt to find the place where they lie. But there dawns a morning on the night of death. On that morning, that glorious morning, friends separated by death will meet again, to spend an eternal day of joy and glory. And now, kind reader, good night. Next month we shall meet again. A SIMILE. CLOUD after cloud appears in the horizon, darkens our zenith, and passes away. Brightness succeeds it; but the evening, nevertheless, is rapidly approaching. { 43 THE PHILOSOPHY OF SCRIPTURE. DREAMS. WE read, in the fortieth chapter of Genesis, that "the butler of the king of Egypt and his baker had offended their lord, the king of Egypt;" and that "Pharaoh was wroth against two of his officers, the chief of the butlers, and against the chief of the bakers." And we read further, that "he put them in ward," as awaiting their punishment, or the decision concerning it; and, that "they dreamed a dream"-as was natural under circumstances of anxiety-" both of them, each man his dream in one night." Now in this prison was Joseph, the son of Jacob, who had "been stolen away out of the land of the Hebrews." And "the captain of the guard had charged Joseph with these prisoners," and thus they had become acquainted; "and Joseph came in unto them in the morning, and looked upon them, and, behold! they were sad;" and he asked them, "Wherefore look ye so sadly to-day?" "And they said unto him, 'We have had a dream, and there is no interpreter of it.' And Joseph said, 'Do not interpretations belong to God?” Now if the interpretation belongs to God, then is there meaning in the dream, and mercy is, perhaps, vouchsafed in this way; for it was easier for the condemned man to sustain the suddenness of his misfortune with this warning than it would have been without it. And the words, "Do not interpretations belong to God?” though awful in themselves, yet afford a mitigation, as that the issue of this event will not be left to chance, or to the caprice of man, although it may so seem; and even the inevitableness of the thing is, as we are constituted, more tolerable to us than a state of anxious uncertainty; and this the prisoners would seem to intimate when they are so concerned to have their dreams interpreted. Joseph, who goes on, immediately after saying, "Do not interpretations belong to God?" to add, "Tell me them, I pray you," and proceeds forthwith to give the exposition, does not certainly intend a profane arrogance by the act. It is asserted of him, in the preceding chapter, that the "Lord was with him, and that which he did the Lord made it to prosper." Therefore, we may suppose that, perceiving himself to be the deputed oracle of this intimation, he obeyed the behest of the Spirit, and without hesitation pronounced the words which, in their verification, constituted him a seer. Such again, we see, was his office in the interpretation of Pharaoh's dream, in the following chapter. There also notice with what reverence he disclaims all power in himself to this effect. Pharaoh, apply thou canst understand a dream to interpret it." Hear the answer: "It is not in me: God shall give Pharaoh an answer of peace." Thus do our trials and our crosses appear, anding to him, says, "I have heard say of thee, that our dark clouds come over us, and vanish awayallowing, perhaps, a solitary sunbeam to shine upon the heart-but still our life is hurrying past, and the evening of our days coming rapidly to a close. And the chief butler told his dream; and it was all about the "vine" and its branches, and the 44 SARAH S. M'CLINTICK. "clusters," and the "ripe grapes," and the "winecup," and the serving of the wine. This was the butler's dream. In like manner, after the order of his occupation, did the "baker" dream of "baskets," and of "baked meats," for the table of Pharaoh, whom he had been accustomed to serve; for our dreams, though marking a matter distinct in itself, yet naturally take the semblance of our wonted occupations and thoughts; and although there may be some fantastic and "irrelevant" circumstances introduced by the confused nature of our somnolency, yet these are but the sportive vagaries of the fancy, and not allowed to interfere with the mission of our dream. For instance, to have carried three baskets on the head would not have been convenient, nor probably usual; yet it was customary to carry one in this manner. "And it came to pass, on the third day, that Pharaoh restored the chief butler to his butlership again; but he hanged the chief baker." No comment is afforded us as to the propriety of these two opposite decisions. As a record of facts, the narrative is consistent and complete, being a chronicle of King Pharaoh, and not of his servants. Yet the interest we feel in circumstances of moment leads us to wish it had been judicially more full. No comment is afforded but that which the mind of the reader supplies, namely, with how little regard do monarchs dispose of human life, especially amongst the humble! And in this case we are left to doubt whether opposite decision between the two-and there was no difference intimated in their offensewere the award of justice, or the mere arrogance of personal feeling. But "he hanged the chief baker." How perilous is the favor of the great! To go back a little, when Joseph interpreted favorably for the butler, though of a kindly nature, he still thought of himself; he says, "But think thou on me when it shall be well with thee, and show kindness, I pray thee, unto me; and make mention of me unto Pharaoh, and bring me out of this house," &c. And the chief butler was, as has been said, restored. "Yet did not the chief butler remember Joseph, but forgat him." How unvaried are the principles of heman character in all the ages of time! Another argument may be adduced in favor of the divine mission of the dreams. We are told, "they dreamed a dream, both of them, each man his dream, in the same night." Now this is a coincidence too extraordinary to be though merely fortuitous. And, again, it would seem fule to have mentioned it without some bearing. May we not deem that it was intended to mark this conviction? Finally, though it were not profitable to go about dreaming dreams, and too saddening, for the businesses of life, to spend the day in retracing the visions of the night, yet this should not impair our reverence for "what is written"-for what haply may again be shown to some in extremity. Neither should we look after these things, but let them come-even then not deem ourselves sufficient for their interpretation; yet, like the prisoners of old, let us be earnest in seeking it. Consulting the record where these things are kept, we cannot look amiss. And if there remain no seers in our day, it may still be given us to say, "Whom have we upon earth but Thee! thou hast the words of eternal life." Thus haply shall our waking faith be strengthened and reformed by the visions of the night. SARAH S. M'CLINTICK. BY REV. J. M. TRIMBLE. "In the midst of life we are in death." THIS sentiment was forcibly brought to my mind on learning that an amiable and religious young friend of mine had very recently died. When I parted with her in September, little did I think that, before December's snows had fallen, SARAH S. M'CLINTICK would be numbered with the dead. She had just completed her academic studies-just begun to think of enjoying life, when the footsteps of the destroyer were heard. Fortunately for my young friend, (and all who loved her,) she wisely sought and found "the heart's richest treasure," the religion of Jesus, in her fourteenth year. She joined the Methodist Episcopal Church, in which, aided by the godly admonitions and pious example of her parents, she lived, labored, and died. She was fond of the means of grace, and took pleasure in the duties assigned a Sabbath school teacher. When I think of all these things, I am ready to ask, why so soon taken from us? She had talents to be useful-a mind pretty well stored with useful information-a heart renewed by the grace of God. Yet, with all these ties to earth, God took her from us. Could we see the future as God sees it, no doubt we would submissively bow to the stroke, and adore the Most High for his goodness. He is too wise to err, too good wrongfully to afflict. My youthful reader, the ties that bind thee to earth may be suddenly severed. Are you reconciled to God? If not, haste thee to the Savior-delay not, lest you miss of heaven. I was told by those present where and when Sarah died, that she "died in the Lord." She was taken ill with scarlet fever, in a malignant form, November 20, 1845. The next day, her pious parents were apprehensive that death was lurking near. They conversed freely and fully with their beloved child, and bade her cast her all on Jesus. She had a struggle for the baptism from above, but it was short. God mercifully poured upon her the Holy Ghost, and filled her with his love. All fear fled; joy and peace THE DEDICATION OF SAMUEL. had their abode in her heart. She communed most sweetly with her relatives and friends, assuring them that "Not a cloud did arise to darken her skies, Or hide for a moment the Lord from her eyes." All who were in her room on the morning of her departure from earth, felt that God was eminently nigh, giving anew the demonstration of this couplet: "Jesus can make a dying bed Feel soft as downy pillows are." What a comfort to weeping friends, when reflecting And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom: May all who read this, timely secure the pearl of great price, live happy in its possession, and in eternity share all the benefits of redemption through Jesus Christ! 45 the courts of the Holy One. And her heart beat rapturously, when she thought that an offering so bright and beautiful was hers to give to Israel's God. And now she stands before Eli with her precious, her sacred gift. "To the Lord have I lent him; as long as he liveth, he shall be lent to the Lord," were her words. And the man of God, rising from his aged seat, and extending his trembling arms, took the bright-eyed boy from the mother's embrace, and blessed him. But that hour waned to its farewell moment," when the most tender cords "that bind our race in gentleness together" must be severed. She must leave him. The tall pillars that support the embroidered roof of the tabernacle look cold and cheerless, and her child shrinks with terror from the white-robed and venerable priest. The current of maternal pride gives way to the willing stream of love and sorrow. She looks upon her boy, and thinks of the dreary home-road her feet must trace. Coming, it was enlivened by his smile. Now she must tread it alone. How can she retrace that path where, at every step, his little foot-prints will continually remind her of her loss! And when she reclines at noon by the fountain, wearied with the heat of the day, no soft and gentle hand will be there to lave her brow with the pure drops, or pour the cooling water upon her weary feet; and no lips, will greet her with the endearing title of mother, or soothe her disturbed spirit with the innocent outbreakings of infantile glee. THE DEDICATION OF SAMUEL. THE sun was descending the western sky of Pal-impressing upon her cheek affection's fondest caress, estine. His farewell beams fell with a rich and softened lustre upon the lofty turrets of the Holy City, flooding the "earth's one sanctuary" with a bright, transparent vail of light and beauty. The song of the shepherds rose on the still evening air, and its gentle cadences fell soothingly upon the listener's ear. The fertile plains, relieved, here and there, by gentle undulations, were glowing with freshness and beauty. The fig tree was laden with its wealth of fruit; and the mountain sides were garlanded with the light green foliage of the vine, whose rich clusters now peeped from their leafy covering, and hung blushing from the stem. There, too, was the olive, with its deep green foliage, and the pomegranate lifting its shrubby head, with its beautiful scarlet blossoms and refreshing fruit. And there, amid the vales, the broad boughs of the sycamore caught the dews of heaven, while, upon the mountain tops, the cedar of Lebanon waved its evergreen arms, and bowed its stately head to the passing breeze. Such was the scene spread out before the pious Hannah, as she stood upon the mountain side, with her moistened eye fixed intently on him whom she was about to dedicate to Jehovah. The glories of the sunset, and the rich beauties of the surrounding scenery, were naught to her. Her heart was too full, and her mind too much absorbed with the contemplation of other subjects, to be attracted by their loveliness. Maternal pride gleamed from her dark eye, as, in imagination, she saw her boy treading And he! how will he live away from her fostering hand and watchful care? Will he not pine for that mother's warm embrace? Who will lay him down in his little bed, and sing to him the gentle lays of {childhood, till sleep rests on his closed eyelids? No one! no one! He is alone! Disturbed by feverish visions, he will unconsciously reach out his little arms to receive the wonted embrace, and with a cold shudder wake to find himself clasping the unfeeling marble pillars. No mother will be there to give back the tender pressure of that little hand, to smooth his pillow, or soothe him by the assurance that no danger is lurking near. In imagination she hears the silvery tones of his voice, in childish accents, calling her, and echo, as if in mockery, repeats, Mother, mother! And then she sees him shrinking back in terror at his loneliness, to weep bitter tears at the remembrance that it was his own dear mother who had left him thus alone. Who, then, will dry these tears, and comfort him? None! none! With a groan of heart-felt anguish, the agonized mother awoke, as it were, from her painful musings, to find herself on the point of committing a heinous sin-even the withdrawal of her precious gift. Offering up a mental prayer to God for strength to bear this greatest trial, she hastened her preparations 46 CRUELTY TO BRUTES. for departure; "for," she said, "I may not tarry, lest I covet that which is not now my own, and the curse of God rest upon me and mine, rather than a blessing. Having vowed a vow to the Lord, shall I fail to pay it? Then were I unworthy to be called a mother in Israel. Better that my name should be blotted out from the records of my people and my kindred, than that I should commit this great sin." Reproaching herself for her want of confidence in God in committing her precious offering to his care, with tears she exclaims, "What have I said, my child! will He not hear thee, Shall he not guard thy rest, And in the hush of holy midnight hear thee, "To the kind care of Israel's God I will confide thee, my heart's most precious treasure. Beneath his wings thou wilt be safe." Then folding her gentle boy in one long, last embrace, she turns to leave the sanctuary, committing her cherished one to strangers. But ere she quits the spot, with tearful eye and faltering voice, she utters the parting farewell: "I give thee to thy God-the God that gave thee, And pure as dew of Hermon, he shall have thee, And thou shalt be his child. Therefore, farewell! I go, my soul may fail me, But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me: CRUELTY TO BRUTES. EXTRACT FROM A JOURNAL, ETC. THE ASS. He was a beautifully formed creature, of a light, silver gray, and marked on the back, as usual, with a well defined black cross. His skin was smooth and glossy, his head erect, and his eye, though mild, peculiarly penetrating and intelligent. He was evidently a pet, and, as evidently, seemed to know it. He approached the window of the little inn where we sat, with an expression at once gentle, conciliatory, and confiding, and solicited, with all the eloquence he was master of, a better acquaintance with the travelers. On our part, we were not tardy to entertain the visitor with courtesy; so, stepping to the door, I handed him a share of our biscuits. This, as gentlemen of his character are usually in favor of practical benevolence, at once confirmed his trust in our friendship; and entering the door with a look that plainly said, "I thank you heartily for my welcome," he held his head to be patted, and then projected his mouth for more biscuits. In a moment we were as well acquainted as if we had known each other for years. But a scene of a different character was at hand. Whilst with a pensive air, as if meditating on the fleeting joys of life, he took his way toward the lake, a stout Highlander attracted, probably, by the beauty of the animal, but differently actuated by it, laid roughly hold of poor Jack's ears, and endeavored to spring upon his back. The ass struggled to get away; but the hardy mountaineer had otherwise resolved, and the conflict thickened. The ass had the worst of it. Just, however, as our sympathies were raised to the highest pitch, by the apparent mortification the poor animal experienced from his tormentor, by a sudden and unexpected start, (which I presume was an exhibition of the "Highland fling,”) he threw his assailant to the distance of some yards; and, while the merry laugh at the practical joke, rang from the assembled boatmen on the landing, kicking up his heels in triumph, he scampered to the adjacent mountain in ecstasy. As, with a feeling of unfeigned satisfaction at the result of the contest, I closed the window, I was led, involuntarily, into the discussion of the point of the probable future existence of the lower animals. If, independently of the argument founded upon the evident traces of reason in the brute creation, particularly in the dog and the elephant; if, from the fact, said I, that no particle of matter is annihilated, but only variously modified, and that the earth itself shall merely "be changed," it be inferred that the soul is immortal; if, too, the indestructibility of the thinking principle, (call it what we may,) be assumed from its immateriality; if dreams be received as evidence of the separate existence of mind; if "self-preservation," or an innate desire to CRUELTY TO BRUTES. preserve ourselves from destruction; if the suffering at death, when, as it has been remarked, any benefit to be derived from it to human character, (at least so far as the sufferer is concerned,) cannot, in this world, be reasonably expected; and if disease and pain to created beings, no doubt permitted with the gracious design of promoting the advantage or happiness of those beings, either here or hereafter, be available arguments in favor of our existence after death, they will apply with equal force to all the inferior animals as to ourselves. Besides, the inequality of the advantages of this life, as it goes to prove the certainty of future retribution, is an argument still more applicable to brutes than to man; because, not being morally accountable, they cannot suffer in consequence of the violation of any moral law. Yet, of two of those animals, one shall be in a state of enjoyment, according to its nature and capacities, while another shall be the victim of a spinal, or other excruciating disease, that renders it a mercy to deprive it of life; one shall be fed, caressed, and comfortably lodged, while another shall be exposed to cold, thirst, and hunger-to distempers from starvation, neglect, and parsimony; or, perhaps, even to the cruel and wicked sport of children. In fine, one shall almost excite our envy; the other our tenderest compassion; and he who will reflect on the usefulness, the endurance under fatigue and privation, yet, on the often inflicted and poignant sufferings of the poor ass, will perceive enough, all the world over, to produce the latter emotion. Observe even that cat, which, although hungry, carries a morsel of meat to her kitten; and, with the flavor fresh upon her tongue, turns the piece over and over to induce the little one to partake of it, and will not swallow an atom of it herself, until her every effort has failed. This, they say, is instinct; but in those that say so, it would be accounted an evidence, not merely of affection, but of that greatest attribute of a rational creature, SELF-DENIAL! It may be said that I have a sympathy for brutes. Be it so. I would value the friendship of a bear, and think the man who would return it with ingratitude, fit for any treason or treachery on earth. I love the whole of Heaven's unoffending, faithful creatures, and in all their sufferings my bosom bleeds for them. Even for inanimate objects, the heart will form an attachment that suffers violence from the thought of separation. And happy in this, at least, are the brutes, that they suffer not from apprehension; that they anticipate not the trials and separations of the future. Pursuing the subject a little further, I drew, in my mind, the picture of a noble Newfoundland dog. Self-sacrificing generosity was written in every lineament of his joyous face. Twice he had extricated his master's son from the pond, and once he had saved the gardener's boy from a ferocious Pyrenean 47 wolf. His faithfulness and attachment to his master's house and family knew no bounds. But alas for the sequel! At nights he was placed in an outhouse, which being set on fire by the carelessness of the servants, during the absence of the family, the poor dog met a miserable fate. I saw him writhe in agony. * * * * And is it probable, thought I, that a being we believe to be sinless, shall be subject to pain and to torture, and yet, that its existence shall terminate with the last pang it is capable of enduring! Another dog, of the famous St. Bernard breed, passed before my view. If benevolence, meekness, firmness, and fidelity, were not expressed in his countenance and bearing, I know not where to look for them. There he bounded over the glacier with the nourishment intended to revive the traveler overwhelmed in the snow. My heart bounded along with him! Now he solicits that way-worn creature to place his little boy upon his back, and to follow to the monastery of the great St. Bernard. That child was an only one, and penury only, had compelled his mother to consent to his accompany{ing his father in search of a more propitious place of residence. They were now on their return. How, month after month, and year after year, that mother's anxious eye would have scanned in vain the mountain path, in hopes of meeting their much loved forms, had they perished in that snow-drift! But they are saved; and make sixteen human beings that the indefatigable Carlo has rescued from destruc{tion on the mountain. I continued to draw my picture. I saw, on another occasion, a bandit, who meditated an attack upon the monastery, lurking behind a projecting crag. He fired, and wounded, though not mortally, this faithful guardian of its walls, as he flew on his wonted mission of mercy. Carlo groaned and fell over the precipice. And there he lies, unable to save himself, who had saved so many; and, most of all, distressed that he cannot run his errand. He eats up the store that he was bearing to the sufferers on the mountain; and then, as he licks the snow around him, slowly starves. His hardy frame and mountain habits enable him to resist the cold. He lingers in misery, and whines for the friendly hand that used so oft to feed him after his journeys, and caress him for his dutiful exertions. But no friendly hand is near. I see him-but no, it is impossible to witness the catastrophe. O mercy! is there no recompense, or, if the word be preferable, is there no solace for such beings but annihilation? * * * See stretched upon that scorched and sandy common one of the finest animals in existence. Boldness and magnanimity were stamped upon his brow, indomitable resolution flashed from his eye, intrepid{ity and the glory of achievement issued from his nostrils, and the light of romantic adventure and chivalrous daring played upon his neck, and gave |