however strong his intellect, of the necessity for questions of the immateriality and the immortalcharity? or the coward of the necessity for battle?ity of the soul, the freedom of the will, the immu tability of moral distinctions; and to discuss them would be to mine in the depths of theology. You may be willing to skim the superfices, but what shall keep your students from the profundities? Nothing, if only you have educated them. Do you teach the history of philosophy? it must be either in the form of a dry genealogy, or a warm or the sluggard of the necessity for action? or the lover of a wrinkle in the face of his mistress? The heart may also put reason in a wrong relation to truth; may turn it away from the proof; may even silence what it can neither escape nor confute, as Wadsworth's drummer did Fletcher's reader. The heart must be clarified before the intellect can have clear vision on moral mount-genesis of the human mind; if the former, it is a ains. The intellect, moreover, is dependent on the heart or conscience for impulse, without feeling it would act to no purpose; the stronger the feeling the stronger the mental action: hence the superiority of conscience as a motive power. Suppose we pay exclusive attention to conscience: we may make it as tender as the apple of the eye, and yet be miserable offenders. A man may persecute his neighbor, sacrifice his child, expose his father to perish, and take his own life, and in all this think that he is doing God service. The feelings of obligation must be connected with right views of duty before we can go into the path of uprightness; therefore, we must cultivate the intellect the perceiving power. The divisions, strife, enthusiasm, fanaticism, bigotry, etc., in Christendom are chiefly owing to a want of intellectual training rather than a want of religious principle. From this correspondence and dependence of action it follows that you can not educate one part of our nature without influencing others. But, thirdly, from the connection between truths, the scheme appears impracticable. Perhaps there is not an atom, all the relations of which can be described by a human or angelic mind. These relations run backward and forward, upward and downward in a series, the end of which God only knows. So with phenomena: a spark falls upon a shaving, a conflagration ensues; and the whole atmosphere of the globe is so affected that no particle of it sustains the same relation, or will sustain, at any time hereafter, the same relation as if the spark had not dropped; and as to other results, commercial, intellectual, and moral, who shall trace them? So with truths: the most in significant is a member of a great family, to every member of which it stands related. The law that expands a bubble propels a steam-engine; the principle that wafts a feather wheels the planets. Who shall say, when he introduces a truth into the mind, where it shall stop? it may lead that mind onward through related truths forever. But let us apply the remark. How can you teach mental philosophy without affecting the heart, directly or indirectly? You can not dodge the misnomer to style it history of philosophy; if the latter, you must go with your pupils to the depths of heart and conscience. Do you teach rhetoric? what more interesting or fundamental topic does it embrace than the rules of evidence? How can you learn to persuade without learning to convince? and how learn to convince without treating of evidence? and how treat of evidence without bearing upon the very foundations of the Christian faith? According as you instruct upon this point will your pupils be inclined to receive or reject Christ, or prefer this or that creed or Church. You may not intend this result, you may not trace the process; but the result is inevitable, and the process traceable. Do you teach logic? you may easily teach it so as to incline the pupil either, on the one hand, to be a sophist, or, on the other, a reasoner. You may so select his authors and examples, and so arrange his exercises as to give him a bias toward either Bacon or the school-men. Though the principles of the science are invariable, their applications may be very different, and so may the mental habits and moral results to which those applications respectively lead. Perhaps you say that these are not suitable subjects for the common mind. Well, lay them aside. History is certainly fit for any school, but how will you teach it? If you give any thing more than a chronological chart, you must impart much moral and religious instruction. Man is in history, God is in history. You must treat of the rise and fall of religions as well as empires; of dark ages and light ages; of corruptions and reformations. Will you shut out the history of the world, and open only the history of our own country, which can scarce be said to have a history? Even there you must read of paganism, and Puritanism, and ecclesiasticism, and Antinomianism, and Quakerism, and witchcraft, and freedom, and slavery; and can you be silent on all these points, even under the probings of vexatious questions? He who studies history studies to little profit if he merely mark events; he should trace them to causes, should analyze and generalize, should go from effects to agents, through plans and purposes to motives, and through motives to principles. Do so, and where are you, but in the question of Divine providence and speculations concerning its future operations and final results? Every-where images and examples rise upon the heart, and arguments and reasons gather over the mind to teach the inevitable ruin of vice and the final triumph of virtue. Who has not heard of "Butler's Analogy," which proves that providence and religion run side by side? But let us limit the studies of the school to the natural and exact sciences. Even here we may not be able to avoid the conscience and the heart. Moral truth may start up and refuse to "down" at our bidding. Direct your eyes either to the earth or the heavens, you see displays of wisdom, power, goodness: these are abstracts where is the concrete? these are attributes-where is the Being to whom they belong? So grand the demonstrations of God on the pages of modern astronomy, and so simple the process by which the mind may ascend from them to God, that a great man has pronounced a halt in it as proof of insanity. "The undevout astronomer is mad." Who may prevent a child from ascending from creature to creator-from exclaiming, "Great and marvelous are thy works, Lord God Almighty?" or from descending from the general conclusion to specify inferences: such as, "When I consider the heavens," etc.? From masses do you turn to atoms, and from attraction at sensible distances to attraction at insensible. Here, then, is chemistry. One of its first truths is the law of definite proportions-a law deemed by many one of the clearest demonstrations against Atheism that creation affords. To some minds all the fires of the crucible denote the finger of God. Parke's chemical catechism is as full of theology and thanksgiving as of science. Perhaps the dryest of all the natural sciences is anatomy-it is a valley of dry bones-yet to an ancient anatomist, Galen, every bone of the skeleton was a verse, and every joint a stanza in a hymn of praise to God; and a modern anatomist, Sir John Bell, has written a treatise to prove, from the human hand alone, the being and natural attributes of the Almighty. And what shall we say of geology? which, affording evidences of repeated acts of creative power, new illustrations of Divine goodness, enlarged conceptions of Divine plans, conclusive proof of a superintending Providence over the globe, and his special interference from time to time with his general arrangement; and which, teaching that the material universe had a beginning, that fire and water are the chief agents in effecting its changes, that the work of creation was progress ive, that man was the last of the animals created, and that he has been but recently introduced into the world, has important connections with both natural religion and revealed. Indeed, all the natural sciences have relations to theology at all points-they are "Bridgewater treatises." God is the center and circumference of science. Trace any ray of scientific light upward, or trace it outward, to farthest east or remotest west, and you find one law, one God and Father of all, who is above all and in all. What shall prevent the pupil from crying out, "Whither shall I go from thy Spirit, or whither shall I flee from thy presence?" Who shall enable us to imprison our pupils in spiritual diving-bells, by which to shut out Him in whom they live and breathe, while they dive into the boundless ocean of his wisdom, and love, and power? Suppose we lay aside the natural sciences, and confine the studies of the pupil to reading, writing, and arithmetic. Well, what shall we read? what shall we write? what example shall we spread upon the blackboard? Seeing the intimate relations of truth you must draw black lines around almost every page. You must make the Index Expurgatorius as long as the catalogue of books. It were easy to set copies that might set the heart on fire: such as, "All men are born free and equal;" "All men have inalienable rights, among which," etc. Ah! that et cætera might point the hero's sword or form the martyr's heart. It is already undermining all thrones but God's. Dr. Channing's antislavery feeling was kindled by one of his earliest copies, and which was in these words: "All men are free when they touch the soil of England." "Jesus Christ came into the world to save sinners;" this simple line might work like leaven in the heart of the child, and through it in the heart of the nation. So examples in arithmetic and algebra might be so framed, either by accident or design, as to lead to the solution of the sublimest moral problems. (TO BE CONTINUED.) RELIGIOUS INFLUENCE. "A LIGHTED lamp," writes M'Cheyne, "is a very small thing, and it burns calmly and without noise, yet it giveth light to all who are within the house." And so there is a quiet influence which, like the flame of a scented lamp, fills many a home with light and fragrance. Such an influence has been beautifully compared to a "carpet, soft and deep, which, while it diffuses a look of ample comfort, deadens, oftentimes, many a harsh and creaking sound." AN EXCURSION TO THE COCO-MARICOPA INDI- pany with other emigrants, and had with him wagons and merchandise. Against advice, he set ANS UPON THE RIVER GILA. off in advance of his companions from the Pimo NORTY-FIVE miles to the Coco-Maricopa vil- villages. His little son came back among the In Flages. The river Gila bends to the north, dians some days afterward, a child of twelve but will meet us again at the villages, not sooner. Forty-five miles without water and without grass. The trains of wagons, and the weary band of riders must be hurried by the mules as quickly as may be over the desert stage; the forty-five miles must be got through without stoppage during the cool hours of the evening and the night. years old, beaten and bruised, who had returned on foot through seventy miles of wilderness, forty-five of them without water, to report that the Indians had killed his father and his mother, and carried off his sisters. He had himself been beaten and left for dead. When he revived he had seen only the mangled bodies of his parents, and the wreck of their property. His two sisters, girls of from twelve to fifteen years old, were gone. The perpetrators of this outrage were the Apache Indians, and the Maricopas went with the child on a fruitless expedition for the recov be not killed, detained among the savages. The Maricopas covered Mr. Oatman and his wife with stones, for no grave could be dug in those inhospitable rocks, and went on to inform the Major at Fort Yuma. That was once our predicament; namely, the predicament of Mr. Bartlett, the commissioner attached to the United States and Mexican boundary commission, of the surveyors, engineers, soldiers, and other members of Mr. Bartlett's party, engaged in traversing the northern frontier of Mex-ery of the two girls, who are at this hour, if they ico, and of myself. For my own part let me own that I neither hungered nor thirsted, nor was weary by the way, having been carried comfortably stretched upon a sofa through deserts and wildernesses, and among all savages encountered by my fellow-travelers. I was carried about on my sofa by a couple of stout volumes that have played the part of chair-men excellently-let me say so much in a certificate at parting-never wearying or cansing weariness. They have just been equipped by Mr. Bartlett, and are ready to carry any man who will make use of them through many of the half-unknown regions of Texas, New Mexico, California, Sonora, and Chihuahua. The last tributary to the Colorado flowing from the interior is the Gila, which comes to it through an extensive tract of uninhabited desert, broken with isolated mountains, destitute of grass, or wood, or water. The course of the Gila is throughout by rocky wilds and barren plains, in which man can not live. We came every-where, I and the boundary commission, upon the ruins left by parties who had gone on the same road before us. Abandoned wagons here take the place of the dead camels of other deserts; we found them occasionally baking in the sun, or arrived at places where we saw much iron strewn about, with fragments of vehicles, tin kettles, and camp equipage, impediments that had been destroyed by overburdened men, on their way to the gold diggings of California. Upon one spot there was a piece of rocky ground covered with fragments of trunks and wagons, among which were human bones and skulls. That was the scene of the disaster that fell on the family of Mr. Oatman in March of the year 1851. Mr. Oatman was traveling, in com The houses of the Coco-Maricopas look like rabbit warrens. They are dens built of sticks and straw, with or without mud. Forked poles are stuck upright in the ground, poles are laid across them; and about these there are sticks laid so that a rude kennel is formed in which a man can not stand upright, and into which he creeps by a hole some three feet square. Rushes or straw are woven between the poles, and the whole mansion is sometimes stuccoed with mud. In these houses the Indians sit and sleep, and to these they retire when the weather is inclement; but their ordinary life is out of door or under rude arbors attached to their more solid wigwams. The Coco-Maricopas are particular about their hair. In the first place it should be understood, that, except over the eyes, they never cut it, and that, when fully let down, it falls over their backs and shoulders, reaching to the knees; commonly, however, it is knotted up behind with a great club. Just over the eyes it is cut off in a straight line, so that it is quite removed, not merely parted from before the face. These Indians weave for themselves handsome figured belts, which they wear commonly as head-bands, and they usually fill their hair with clay, which is, on the whole, a cleaner dressing than the fragrant fat which is used by some European tribes. The women drudge more than the men, and may be seen carrying on their heads not only baskets of corn, but also, on the top of the corn, cradle and child. They are brave in war, and they are faithful, too, in love. Each man takes but a single wife, 1 and though it is his business to conciliate her parents with gifts, he marries only on receiving the free assent of the fair one, or rather dusky one, whom he is courting. He makes love with a flute. It is rather a cat-courtship. When the Coco-Maricopa, or the Pimo Indian, thinks that the heart of his beloved is inclined toward him he proceeds to a declaration in form, which he makes by taking a flute of cane pierced with four holes, sitting down in a bush near the lady's dwelling, and setting up a dismal too-too-too for hours together, day after day. If the girl takes no notice of his call, he is a rejected suitor; if she be disposed to marry him, she comes and says so. The bridegroom is expected by gifts to compensate, according to his means, the parents of the bride for the loss of her services, the services of a girl being, among these tribes, most valuable, because she does all household work, and | even helps to till the ground. Sometimes, indeed, she also weaves, but generally weaving is the work of the old men. Francisco Dukey, the Maricopan chief and interpreter, was a greedy fellow, with the temper of a Jew. He was the most civilized of his tribe, and appeared in shirt, pantaloons, and hat. To get what pickings he could out of the Americans appeared to be his business; all that he could for himself and the rest of his friends. Francisco sitting down to dinner with the visitors as guest in their camp, occasionally handed bread and meat to his friends who stood around, and after dinner filled his plate with good things which he handed round for them. On a subsequent occasion he went so far as to strip the table, leaving nothing for the cook and servant of the honorable commissioners. Much to his own surprise he was not again asked to stop and dine. Francisco being civilized, knew the potency of whisky. He had got whisky from emigrants, and he desired whisky from Mr. Bartlett and his friends, who were determined never to give intoxicating drink to any Indians. Not having it as a gift, Mr. Dukey hoped to come upon it as a treasure trove, and tried every junkbottle he saw about the tents or wagons. Once he got lemon syrup, then he got vinegar, another time he took a pull at a mixture for diarrhea. After that he was satisfied, and tried no more. Dr. Webb, attached to the Commission, was collecting specimens of the natural history of the districts visited, and the Indians were much edified and amused by the contents of his bottles, and the dried objects hanging about the tent. It was suggested, therefore, that the boys of the village should go out to collect any curious in sects, lizards or snakes they could find, and that they should be rewarded for so doing. Instead of letting the boys go, the men, for hope of reward, marched out themselves, and in a few hours came with a few grasshoppers and crickets. Although useless, Dr. Webb received them graciously, encouraging the captors to make further zoological research. About an hour afterward, half a dozen sturdy men marched to the camp in single file, every man swelling with importance. The leader advanced with a grand air, and the Doctor got his bottles ready. Space was made on a table for the prizes, and the Indian then laid upon it two small and very common lizards without their tails, those having been broken off in the catching. For this contribution to science, the six men required a shirt apiece. Camp being fixed, a friendly message was dispatched to the chief, Cola Azul-blue tail—who was working in the fields. He soon appeared with his interpreter, and came in state wearing several shirts, a blue overcoat, felt hat, and pantaloons. The burden of his state was much too heavy for him, the thermometer then standing at a hundred and twenty. It was a relief to hear that he was seen presently afterward not far from the camp, sitting under a tree in none but the clothes nature gave him, with his dignity at his side tied up in a bundle. The religion of these tribes is not very comforting. They believe that after death their souls will go to the home of their ancestors, and live in the great sandhills on the banks of the Rio Colorado. The souls of their enemies, the Yumas, will go to the same place, and the fighting shall continue evermore between the hostile The limbs of every man's body are to be transformed into those of wolves, bats, and owls. races. THE OCEAN CEMETERY. THE sea, great world of waters, is the largest of cemeteries, and its slumberers sleep without a monument. All graveyards, in all other lands, show symbols of distinction between the great and the small, the rich and the poor; but in that ocean cemetery the king and the clown, the prince and the peasant are all alike undistinguished. The waves roll over all; the same requiem-song, by the minstrelsy of the ocean, is sung to their honor. Over their remains the same storm beats, and the same sun shines; and there unmarked, the weak and the powerful, the plumed and unhonored will sleep on, till awakened together when the sea shall yield its dead. W GHOST STORIES. BY ALICE CARY. HETHER myriads of spiritual creatures do in verity walk the air; whether, in truth, some mortals have been called away by the flitting of a pale bird or a voice on the winds by night, it is not my purpose now seriously to inquire. However thin the vail may be that divides us from the future life, and however much the angels may come and go, if so they do, lessens not the great solemnity, and we all of us stand back from the still entrance of another life, listening for some noise louder than the earth-worm makes some voice of gladder assurance than the sobbing and the farewell. would surprise our father when he should join us with our industry, and make a great flame that should light him along the woods as he came, for the night bid fair to be a dark one. "Heigh-ho, if here ain't a couple of little Indians, as I am alive," called a voice, half kindly and half harshly, as we met on a knoll returning with the last arm-full we had proposed to gather. We stopped suddenly and saw, a little to one side our path, partly concealed in some papaw bushes, and pointing his gun directly in our faces, a tall, bony-visaged man. "O don't, Amos," said Rosalie, shielding her eyes with her hand, "don't hold your gun so, we are afraid of a gun." At this appeal the reckless fellow began snapping the lock of the gun, assuring us that it was full charged, and that if we stood still he would shoot us in the face, and that if we attempted to run he would shoot us in the back, and that in any event we were dead squaws. "If that is the case," Rose said, "we may as well go on. I hate to die by so mean a hand, that's all." The man, whose name was Amos Hill, a reckless, worthless idler of the neighborhood, but guiltless of any real crime, now came out of the bushes and joined us, telling us that his gun was empty, and that for the world he would not harm us, and further to make amends he offered to carry our bark for us, and said if we were afraid he would remain with us for an hour. Rose, who was sadly vexed with him, replied that there was nothing she was so much afraid of as himself, and would greatly prefer that he should How far the lights from the other side of the darkness have been really supposed to shine in upon us, and how often traced to their truth and dwarfed to merely some will-o-the-wisp, would be a curious inquiry; but in these stories I propose only to relate such experiences of the dreamers of dreams and seers of visions, as have, from time to time, been made known to me, some of them grave and some of them gay, trusting in that love of the marvelous, which we all have in a great or less degree, to give to my stories an interest, which, in themselves, they do not possess. First, then, "It is many and many a year ago" that my good sister Rosalie and I were left to tend the fire in the sugar-camp. I was something more than twelve years old, and she thirteen, or thereabouts. We did not expect to be long alone, and at first thought our task a pleas-go his own way. ant pastime. We were nearly a mile from the house and in a great, lonesome woods, but what cared we for all that-we had penetrated every nook a thousand times for buds or berries, moss, pebbles, or plants, and never encountered any thing more fearful than some owl, a stray cow, or a harmless hunter. So our laughter rang across the hills in answer to each other, for we separated now and then and went on what we humorously termed exploring expeditions-in simpler phrase, in search of hickory bark, with which to make our fire bright when the night should fall. A great heap of the shelving strips, peeled from the growing trees, lay before the arch where the flames curled red together, and the steam rose from the boiling sugar-water and drifted along the hillside like a heavy mist; but the work was not relinquished; even when a sufficiency had been accumulated, there was a pleasure in the discovery of a new tree, and with the growth of the bark-heap grew ambition. We VOL. XV.-2 He affected to regard her words as a pleasant jest, and said he would, remain with us whether we wished it or not, for that it was not safe for such children as we to be left in the woods alone. A sort of rude hut stood immediately before the arch where the sugar-kettles were placed, composed of pieces of plank and clapboards that had some years before been a part of a house a little way from where we were of the dry limbs of trees and the like. In this hut, which was open toward the fire, Rose and I seated ourselves on a rude bench, while Amos stationed himself outside to watch for ghosts, as he said, and shoot them if any made their appearance. His gun, primed and cocked, he set up beside him, and, probably, to give his pretenses the greater effect, bared his brawny arms and hauled some blazing firebrands within reach, assuring us that either fire or firearms were available against ghosts, whatever might be said to the contrary. |