to strengthen the hands and comfort the hearts of ministers and private Christians, to fill our Churches with spiritual worshipers, to multiply converts to Christ, and to extend his peaceful reign over the hearts of rebellious sinners, and bring them to the obedience of faith and the enjoyment of his salvation.

Genuine revivals of the work of God are best promoted by a proper use of the means of his own appointing-such as a faithful exhibition of the plain, practical truths of the Gospel; a regular attention to the sacraments, baptism, and the Lord's supper; public prayer and praise, with reading the holy Scriptures in the congregations; faithful pastoral visitation; punctual attendance at the social meetings of the Church, for the promotion of Christian experience and the communion of saints; together with family and private devotion; and also, when occasion requires, a faithful but prudent administration of moral discipline upon the incorrigibly delinquent. Relying upon the God of our fathers in the stated use of these means, with the spirit of prayer and faith, and in the use of extraordinary and protracted efforts under corresponding circumstances, and proving ourselves personally faithful to our boly calling, we may confidently expect the rich blessings of his saving grace in a plentiful harvest of souls. In our own Church we have for sonie years past been favored, not with a very large, but steady increase of members and ministers, a large proportion of whom appear to be well endued with the spirit of the Gospel, and earnestly pressing to the mark of holiness, for the prize of eternal life. Various speculations have gone forth respecting the late increased demand for ministers, most of which are groundless. To us, who have surveyed the work generally, it is evident that our deficiency of laborers arises, not so much from a reduced number of candidates for the ministry, as from the multiplication of ministerial charges and open doors to new and inviting fields of Gospel enterprise; which we regard as a fact highly encouraging. Upon the whole, we do not know any reason why the course of our glorious Methodism should not be onward, and still onward, with a wider range, a deeper influence, and an increased momentum, till it shall have accomplished the object of its mission-the spread of Scriptural holiness over all lands. May the Lord hasten it in his time! Amen.

SCIENCE

PICTURES OF LIFE.

BY PHOEBE PAINE.
MORNING.

"Do what he will, he can not realize Half he conceives-the glorious vision flies; Go where he may, he can not hope to find

The truth, the beauty, pictured in his mind." "My eyes make pictures when they are shut: I see a fountain large and fair,

A willow and a ruin'd hut,

And thee, and me, and Mary there. O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow; Bend o'er us like a bower, my beautiful green willow." HE mind of man is artistical. It has its po

etry, its paintings, its sculpture. It draws its materials from the deep recesses within and the extended universe without. It ascends the loftiest mountains, and walks amid the most distant stars, gathering into its treasure-house their varied beauties. From the marble and granite of earth it rears within its walls temples and palaces of architectural beauty; carves statues with more than Pygmalian skill, breathing into them its spiritual life, shedding over them its inward light, till they move, speak, and live. It unrolls the annals of the past, retouching with its warm pencil scenes grown cold and dim by the lapse of years. It transfers the changing present into its image-chambers, and sketches in bold perspective the shadowy future. Thus it has its own studios, and galleries filled with the pictures and images which imagination forms from its own creations, or memory traces from the scenes of life and nature.

It requires the hand of a Guido and a Shakspeare, a Dante and a Raphael, to embody these living pictures in words, to transfer these breathing images on canvas, or rear these architectural buildings into tangible forms. Yet are they daily developed in the drama of life, rendering it at once poetry and painting. The bold conceptions which the pencil can not portray, the burning thoughts that language can not clothe, are stereotyped in deeds. Some active principle, absorbing passion, or conflicting interest gives an impetus to action, and life presents to us scenes grand in their design, brilliant in their coloring, powerful in their execution; while its still, quiet pictures are frequently more thrilling, touching, beautiful.

"Life is to us a battle-field, Our hearts a holy land."

may alone can guide us to felicity,

beneath a southern residence. Early had this

monarch of the year assumed his regal power, and spread over nature his wintery armor. Mountains and valleys were clothed in helmets of frost and draperies of snow; torrent, lake, and river were hushed in silence beneath his icy seal.

While Nature, robed in the court-dress of her sovereign, lay thus impassive yet beautiful at his feet, his kingly scepter was extended over the mind and heart, and all who touched it lived. It imparted vigor and activity to the mental powers; changed the latent heat of the social virtues and tender charities of life into sensible, whose genial warmth pervaded the moral mosphere of our world.

The morning was clear and cold in the month of February, 18-. A hot breakfast of coffee, rolls, and numerous other substantials, which never fail to grace a New England table, had strengthened the outer being, relaxing the nerves of its physical system, which the extreme cold had drawn up to their highest tension. A grate of burning anthracite was diffusing its heat throughout the parlor, giving it an agreeable summer temperature; books, work, friendly words, and more friendly looks, all invited to a fireside lounge instead of exercise in the open air.

I hesitated, when the merry tinkling of sleighbells, the quick footsteps crushing the frozen snow, the glad laugh of childhood without, and, above all, the still small voice within, reminding me of duties to be performed beyond my own family circle, decided me. Throwing on my winter wrappings, in a few moments I was breathing the keen, frosty air, and feeling its invigorating influence, in the streets of P.

It was one of Winter's richest gala days, when, it would seem, he had disrobed himself of his gorgeous apparel, and taken every gem and jewel from his kingly diadem to adorn the cold but fair form of Nature. I paused in the broad opening of street, to take in the scene, which, far as the eye could reach, was spread out before me, closing on one side by a blue line of hills-on the other by the still deeper blue of the ocean, the voice of whose many waters was distinctly heard.

The bright skies poured forth their fullest light around the far-off mountain-tops, over the leafless forest, the open country, and crowded city. Earth in her robes of whiteness, the glittering roofs and spires, the shining atmosphere of silvery net-work, gave back each dazzling glance to the clear heavens. The trees waved their crystallized branches and pendant brilliants in the sunlight; and the islands-emeralds in the greenness of summer-were now pearls in the

I threaded my way, giving and receiving many a friendly greeting, till I arrived at a humble dwelling, which for more than a half century had been the Widow's Home. I entered a small room. Beside the warm fire sat the grandmother, the mother, the daughter, and prattling grandchild. The old lady held her knitting in her hand; before her lay the open Bible, which she was reading aloud to her daughters, who were silently plying their needles, while the little girl played by their side.

Their countenances were expressive of patient endurance, quiet resignation, and cheerful hope. There was even an expression of meek triumph in the eyes of the aged one, as she raised them from the word of life, as if she rejoiced that with her the contest was nearly over, the victory almost won; while the suffering, subdued looks of the youngest showed it had only commenced with her, and time had but partially healed the deep wounds of her heart. They were widows. "Bless me!" exclaimed each kind voice, "you here, my dear Miss this cold winter morn

ing!"

"Yes, I am here this delightful, bright morning. Came to see how you are; come to warm my heart among you—”

"Right glad are we to see you; but here, sit down and warm your feet.”

And I found myself in the warmest corner of their perfectly neat and well-arranged apartment.

"It is unnecessary for me to inquire, my dear Mrs. Crosby, how you are getting on this long winter, for I perceive you are comfortable."

"O yes," replied she, "so many kind friends has our heavenly Father blessed us with. To be sure, in the fall it did look dark; Susan's

us.

great affliction, grandmother's increasing weakness, the little one's sickness, all pressed upon 11s. But I knew even then we should be sustained; that He who had so often taken from us our earthly props would not leave nor forsake We have not trusted in vain. How many helps we have had! Our dear pastor has not only poured the wine and the oil of the blessed Gospel into our sorrowing hearts, but he has ministered to our temporal wants. He gave us money. As I placed it in my purse, 'This is good seed,' said I to Susan; 'our purse will not be empty this winter.' Even so. A plenty of work, the kindness of friends, or, rather, the goodness of God, has made it unto us like the meal and oil of the woman in Scripture." The good woman's gratitude made her eloquent; and what eloquence surpasses that which flows from a grateful heart! One of the most interesting features of life is woman-her position and its relations, her character and its results. Her physical organization and natural instincts place her in dependence, from which flows all those social endearing ties that receive their authority alike from nature and revelation. The weaker vessel, her station on the waters of life is by the side of the stronger, to whom she looks up for support and defense as they buffet together the stormy waves; while her quick perceptions, active energy, power of endurance, and watchful tenderness render her, in the emphatic language of Scripture, a helpmeet. Sometimes, in the providence of God, the stronger one, with sails full set, in all the might and strength of manhood, is suddenly wrecked, and her little bark is left to struggle by itself on the wide waste.

Thus had it been with this humble family. They were associated with my earliest recollections. When quite a child, a friend, in one of her frequent visits, took me to the "Widow's Home." The grandmother, mother, and three children were its inmates. They were invalids; appeared sick and suffering; but I remember the song of praise and thanksgiving was then on their lips. On going out my friend exclaimed, with suppressed emotion, “Never did a door close upon such suffering, good, and happy hearts!" I wondered. I could not then perceive the connection between goodness, happiness, and suffering. Their history is neither strange nor new in the annals of domestic life. The maturity and old age of the grandmother had passed in the loneliness of widowhood. She struggled with its poverty and its sorrows, but, with a believing, hopeful heart, rested on Him who is the widow's God and the Father to the fatherless; and her

home, like her own bosom, was filled with peace and joy.

In this home a daughter grew up to womanhood, married, and removed from its sheltering roof. A few brief years of happiness succeeded, and she returned stricken, bereaved. The husband of her youth, the father of her children, was cut down by the hand of death, leaving to his offspring no earthly heritage than his prayers and Christian example. With these rich treasures garnered in her heart, and her helpless infants, she sought again the maternal roof, where she found practical use for the beautiful lessons of patience, faith, and hope she had seen exemplified by her mother in her long years of widowhood.

That mother welcomed her with all the love and sympathy of one who felt the measure of her grief, and knew its remedy. They had passed through the same ordeal of affliction, and were sustained by the same faith and hope. United by affection and suffering, their lives mingled into one stream, which flowed silently onward in its humble course, occasionally agitated by the rough winds of earth, but also enlivened by its sunbeams. There yet remained to them objects of tender love and anxious solicitude— their children, one son and two daughters, for whom they toiled, and whose hands they taught to labor, and hearts to love and pray.

The son grew up, strong and manly; his heart full of filial and fraternal affection, and his mind endued with right purposes and firm principles. He was a sailor; and if his frequent absences cast their shadows on that happy home, his return brought joy and gladness, with many substantial proofs of his thoughtful care. The daughters were affectionate and industri

ous.

Her mother and grandmother watched each incipient step of the disease with fear and trembling. The young girl herself was full of hope. Spring would bring health, and her brother, with all her bright anticipations of future usefulness. The mother smiled through her tears, and said, gently, "My daughter, you are now in the school of suffering and disappointment, preparatory to a home of rest and peace. Is the thought of your removal thither painful?"

"Not painful to me, mother-only for you. I would still live for you-and I shall. Am I not better to-day? When George returns, his presence will make me well. Rest is not for the young; and peace-surely, in this school of suffering, there is peace-the peace which our blessed Savior left to his followers on earth."

The son and brother was expected home in a few days. Every eye brightened in that little household, and new strength was imparted to the invalid. But, alas! a silent messenger alonea letter-brought the tidings of his death!

It were vain to speak of the sorrow of those sorrowing hearts. Its dark folds lay heavily upon their crushed spirits, and could only be lifted by the Hand which had suffered it to fall. And that Hand, which never withholds its aid from the suffering children of earth, put forth its strength to support them under present, and prepare them for future trials.

As light broke in upon their darkness, they perceived all they had lost, and all they were to lose. The shock was too great for the enfeebled frame of the sister, and they girded up their minds, by faith and prayer, for the conflict. She sank rapidly. In a few weeks she breathed out her spirit in the arms of her mother, and the widows were left in their home with their only remaining child.

They were bereaved, but not desolate. They looked upward, where God and their treasures were, and around, and found there were duties to be performed and blessings still to be enjoyed on earth. In meek resignation they prepared themselves to suffer and to do the will of their heavenly Father.

Time passed on; their daughter married, but continued to cheer them with her presence. They were happy in her happiness, when death again entered their dwelling. Her husband was the victim, and the tears of the widow and orphan again flowed in their midst.

As I sat by their fireside, and this picture passed before me, with all its lights and shadows, I felt how various the moral discipline of life. On some the chastening rod falls in open

Eager to spring upon the promised land,
Fair smiles the way where yet your feet have trod
But few light steps upon a flowery sod;

Round ye are youth's green bowers."

Life is a reality. Its features are constantly changing, yet they leave their impress upon its surface-now in light, shadowy lines; then in those darker, heavier ones, which deepen till every lineament is distinct, complete, and you see and feel its truth.

As I returned, I found a winter's noon was not less life-stirring than its morning. My homeward steps were staid by a gentle rap on 2 window, a bright face gleaming through geraniums and rose-trees, and a hand holding up some orange flowers. The door opened.

"O do come in," said a sweet voice, "do come in, and aid me in arranging these flowers for my hair. Are they not beautiful?"

"Beautiful, indeed," I replied, looking at the rich braids of dark hair, which were wound gracefully around her head.

"And they have given me so much trouble to procure them."

"But you are not looking at them.”

I was not. My eyes rested upon the youthful being before me-the image of young happiness. "You are just the one," she continued, "I have been wishing for all the morning. "Give me your severe taste upon this paraphernalia we have here," ushering me into a room where sat her mother quietly sewing amid dresses, ribbons, and laces.

"Do tell me," exclaimed I, "what all this means! Is Clara to be married?"

"No, no, not married myself, but the next thing to it. My friend Martha is to be married to-night; I am to be bridesmaid, and Edward is" Her eyes fell beneath mine; she did not finish. I divined why it was the next thing.

"Now, dear friend, I wish you to decide the momentous question, between this, [holding up a rich white satin,] my father's present, and that, [pointing to a simple muslin,] mother's gift. Mother says the satin in compliment to father's taste. You know her old-fashioned notions of deference to the supreme head. I prefer the muslin, thin, light-light as my own free heart, upon which the folds of the satin would press too heavily."

"This once, dear Clara," I replied, "only this once, I must decide against the graver judgment of your grave mother, in favor of the light muslin and your lighter self. Leave satins till the cares of life enable you to support their weight with dignity."

"Thank you, thank you. Long will it be ere I shall be obliged to incase myself in such stiff robes. Do you know I am very unbelieving in the cares of life? Life is bright, beautiful-it is enjoyment."

"Yes, a holiday, no doubt," said I, “just as long as the sunlight of the soul is clear-"

"But when that is darkened by sorrow, my child, what will it be?" interrupted the fond mother, whose whole soul seemed gushing forth in the looks of love, which rested upon the bright personification of life before us.

"Still beautiful, mother," said the young girl, kneeling and resting her head upon her mother's lap, "if it has that faith in God, that love to man, and hope of heaven, you have taught me here to feel and to know."

A mother's love! who can describe its power to will and to do-its capacity to suffer and to enjoy? It welcomes us on the threshold of existence, and continues with us through its whole pilgrimage. Our infancy is cradled beneath the shadow of its wings, our childhood revels in its sunbeams, our youth is guided by its watchful care, and our maturer years are cheered by its unchanging sympathy. Who can measure its depth or estimate its strength when it expands itself over a large circle, much less when it is concentrated on one, who has nestled alone in its bosom, and drank alone of its deep well-springs? Clara was an only child. In her were centered all the hopes of a proud father and tender mother. She had been to them a new existence-a second life-which, developing itself beneath their paternal care and love, had become the whole of life, uniting the past, the present, and the future. And now, as she stood in their small household, in the first blush of beauteous womanhood, what wonder if with their irrepressible affection were mingled feelings of pride and exultation!

NIGHT.

"Press onward through each varying hour; Let no weak fears thy course delay;

Immortal being! feel thy power,

Pursue thy bright and endless way."

The short twilight of winter soon passed, and night let fall her curtain over the frozen earth. The city sent forth a blaze of light, from hall, and tower, and lowly fireside. If the pulsations of life were less visible than during the day, they were not less strong or deep, as the thronging worshipers gathered around its numerous altars to offer up their evening incense.

A long train of gay carriages, filled with the young and old, wrapped in warm furs, were at the door of Mrs. Meridan. A young gentleman stepped out of an open sleigh, flew up the steps, and entered the parlor.

And

"No, not ill, only a little weak. This sleighriding this cold night makes me nervous. you are in an open sleigh, with your mother?" "O yes, mamma, I begged Edward for an open carriage," said Clara; "these moving houses, which scarcely allow one a peep at the blue sky, are dreadful. Nothing so delightful as a ride in an open sleigh on a winter's star-lit night."

"But the air, my child, is so cold at this season! How long, Edward, are these wedding festivities to continue?"

"Only a few days.”

"We commit Clara to your care. Return her to us in safety."

"As certainly as I return myself. Be at ease, my dear madam; can she be more precious to you than to me?"

"Yes, Edward, there may be another Clara for you in this wide world; but for us, her father and mother, there is only this one," infolding her in her arms as she wrapped her cloak around her.

"Dear mother, if my heart was not brimful of joy, you would make me sad," said Clara. "But I have felt all day

'Joy in every living thing,

Nature's bounty doth bestow,
Good and bad, still welcoming,
In her rosy path they go,
Kisses she to us hath given,'"

imprinting a warm one on her mother's cheek, and then another, saying, "This for dear father when he returns to-night." She gave her hand