with energy, and assurance of success; but the day is against them. The Philistines gain a complete victory: thirty thousand of Israel are left dead on the field; and the survivors are scattered in every direction, and flee every man to his tent. The wicked priests who bore the ark, proudly esteeming themselves the deliverers of the people, are slain; and, worst calamity of all! the ark itself has fallen into the hands of the uncircumcised enemy. What a triumph for the conqueror-what a loss for the nation abandoned of their God-and doomed, as it seemed, to hopeless servitude! No such terrible disaster had ever before happened. A fugitive from the army, with his clothes rent, and dust upon his head, ran to Shiloh, to bear the appalling intelligence. The aged high-priest has gone forth, and sits by the wayside, near the gate, waiting for news of the battle; his heart trembling for the ark of God. As the messenger rushes in, and spreads his disastrous news, a cry of wild grief and horror runs through the city. Eli hears the tumultuous lamentation, and eagerly inquires what is the cause. He knows that his sons have perished—that Israel's army is defeated; but what woe more terrible than defeat and slaughter has fallen on the land-to plunge all into mourning!" The ark of God is taken!" With those words the measure of anguish, for the old man, is complete. He had bowed himself to the judgments predicted; but this dishonor to his religion, this loss of that which was the life as well the glory of the nation, this final departure, as he might have deemed it, of Jehovah from the place chosen for his abode! and all in consequence of his own criminal weakness and negligence, has crushed him to the earth. Too much overcome to utter a word of reply or comment, he swooned, and fell backward from his seat; his neck brake, and he died.

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Nothing is said previously of the wives of the sons of Eli; but the incident recorded of the wife of Phinehas, shows the strength of her reverence for the national religion and the sacred ordinances. She pays no regard to the intelligence that she has borne a son; she heeds not the approach of death; even grief for her dead husband and father-in-law seems lost in a deeper emotion. Her dying lips repeat the announcement.--" the ark of God is taken!"--and she only notices her child to bestow the name commemorative of the event—" Ichabod-the glory is departed from Israel."

How impressive and full of instruction is the contrast presented in the history of the two families, thus strangely associated together, though so different in character! The obscure citizen, persevering in his attendance on the religious services; steadfast in redeeming the vows by which his child was devoted, even though he leaves him exposed to the contagion of evil example, has his reward in the piety and usefulness of the great prophet and ruler of Israel; the judge and high-priest sinks under the weight of the calamities his own sin has brought on his country through the iniquity of his sons. In the one instance we see great good, in the other great evil to the state, wrought by the due fulfilment, or the neglect of the fundamental principle in the duty of a parent. The regard of Elkanah and Hannah for the honor of God-the ruling motive of their conduct-cements the family union, and exercises a conservative influence over the children; Eli's weak preference of the pleasure of his sons to the stern performance of his duty as priest of the Most High, not only involves him and them in ruin, but brings unprecedented disgrace on their land and their faith. Pages might be written upon the lesson: but we leave it to the reader's reflection.

Оn, how mysterious 'tis to view

That group by slumber's spell entranced! Where is the merry-hearted crew

That lately laughed, and sung, and danced?

All earth-born frolic's hushed-and now
A holy, heav'nly calm is shed
O'er ev'ry marble, cherub brow.

But whither has the spirit fled?

Each, by its angel led the while

To fairer bowers, and brighter streams?

O, yes! O, yes! that raptured smile

Is kindled by celestial beams.
All of vile earth has passed away—

A glory to each sleeper given;
While soft the Saviour seems to say,

"Of such my kingdom is in heaven." Next to the wish that would restore My innocence when life was new, Give me, kind Heaven, at such an hour, The sleep of innocence to view!

BY CHARLES

MACLAUGHLIN,

THERE are many who will understand me when I say that there is little to interest a boy at school, and particularly if that school be situated in the midst of a pleasant country village, and the time a summer afternoon, when the sun is pouring his glowing beams through the open windows, and every breath of air is laden with the fragrance it has gathered from the gardens which surround the homely temple of learning. There is little, we say, to interest a boy in the dry routine of school-room duties—either in making bad imitations of round-hand copies, or overcoming the difficulties of the multiplication-table. Such at least appeared to be the universal feeling of my fellow-schoolmates, when, on such an afternoon, we cast wistful looks at the green fields beyond, and prepared, as we had previously arranged, to present a humble petition to the master to be permitted to leave a little earlier than usual.

The schoolmaster-poor old Mr. Bray !—was a very worthy person, albeit a strict disciplinarian. He was a little man, with a red face, and wore a wig. If anything, Mr. Bray was a little too much given to flogging, and although this was considered by the parents of the boys his only fault, it was just such a one as no other virtues could redeem, so far at least as they were concerned.

Mr. Bray was a good man though, in every acceptation of the term. He was also a local Methodist preacher, and several evenings of the week, and three times of a Sunday, the schoolroom became a temple of worship, and he edified the people of the village with simple but fervent and sincere exhortations. As a schoolmaster, bating the floggings, he was a very good, kind, painstaking, patient man.

On the afternoon in question I was deputed a committee of one to present the said petition, and with many inward misgivings, slunk up to the side of his high stool, and handed in the important document. If brevity be the soul of excellence as well as of wit, our petition must have been un

qualifiedly good, for it contained only the following words: "If you please, it is so fine, we should like to leave an hour before the time: and, as in duty bound, we will ever pray," &c. We probably intended to say play; and in that case, doubtless, we should have been much nearer the truth.

Mr. Bray adjusted his spectacles, and having quickly digested the contents of the petition, cried out, in a sharp voice, which was a damper to our hopes, "Who desires to leave his studies before the proper time?"

There was a general silence for the space of a minute, when Robert Tremaine rose and replied, faintly, "The sunbeam is on her grave now: may I go?"

Mr. Bray drew forth his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose violently; and, while his lip trembled with emotion, we just caught the words-"Go, my poor boy-go."

Robert disappeared quickly, and a loud rap on the desk gave notice that we were about to know the result of our request.

There are circumstances under which the most repulsive persons will seem, if not beautiful, at least good-looking; and as we looked at the schoolmaster, who, fixing his feet firmly on one of the rounds of the stool, rose to speak to us, his whole appearance seemed to have undergone a change, as though a sunbeam had shone upon his heart, and given to his nature softness and beauty. The tone of his voice was tender and musical, his manner kind and paternal, and with difficulty he prevented the tears from breaking the boundaries he had fixed for them.

"My boys," he said, "I will give you the indulgence you desire this time, and I don't think you will take advantage of the kindness which is excited by the affliction of one of your schoolmates. The poor youth, who is by this time in his favorite place, the grave-yard, is deeply to be pitied, but this you cannot understand; the day come, my boys, when you, like him, may for a sunbeam; may it always come when

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you watch for it. There, go; be good and kind to each other."

The simple earnestness of the old man was not lost upon us; but it did not make our shouts the less energetic as soon as we were beyond the threshold of the school-room. His words left an impression upon the hearts of some of us, and the youthful mind recurred again and again to them. They awoke an interest for Robert Tremaine, whom we regarded therefore as something of a different mould from ourselves; and in truth he appeared to be so, with his pale, thin, sharp features, and attenuated form, and large blue eyes, glistening with a fitful light, as they mirrored the wild thoughts that flitted over his diseased mind. Poor Robert! his was a strange and melancholy fate: a boy of sorrows, the season of his life had been unnaturally changed, and winter had taken the place of spring. His existence was the embodiment of a sunbeam, and when it was darkened life became a blank.

At the time to which we refer, Robert was about thirteen years old. Two years before that he was joyous and happy, and entered with as much spirit into our sports as the veriest madcap among the boys of the village; but all at once we missed him; and the only reply to our inquiries was a solemn shake of the head by our mothers-a mournful look, and a desire to "go and play" a permission we generally improved, so that the mystery did not trouble us much. At length a boy of a more inquiring mind than the rest, excited our curiosity by informing us that his disappearance was in some way connected with the death of little Janette Simmonds. Months passed, away, however—the cold, dreary months of winter-and spring had begun to brighten the face of nature, when it was rumored that Robert had returned home. He did not join us as usual in our games; and we only occasionally got a glimpse of him at the window of his mother's cottage. We were told that he was ill, and cautioned not to disturb him. As the summer opened he was seen sometimes to leave the house and take his way across the fields, always alone, and carefully avoiding the most frequented paths; but as summer wore away he was seen less frequently, and ere the winter commenced he had again disappeared; and thus for two years had he come and gone like the birds that shape their course with the sun; or as those false friends who, in the dark season of adversity, fly the home that cherished them in brighter days.

During this time Robert had been occasionally at school, taking little share in its routine of duties, yet apparently intent upon his book. His disappearance every winter had become so much

a matter of course that it had ceased to excite any surprise; and until the afternoon when Mr. Bray granted the holiday, and exhibited so much emotion when referring to him, we had looked upon him but as a fellow-schoolboy, and his peculiarities, from becoming familiar to us, had cease to be viewed as such. Now, however, a well-spring of thought had been opened, and he was the subject of our boyish conversation, when, as the twilight darkened into night, we sat together in some unoccupied wagon in the quiet street of the village.

The result of these nightly cogitations was an intense desire on our part to learn the nature of this mystery; and, after much deliberation, we determined to seek the resolution from Mr. Bray himself. Accordingly, one day, about a week after the opening of our story, we plucked up courage, and asked him if he wouldn't be so good as to relate the history of Robert Tremaine and Janette Simmonds. He promised that he would do so on the following Saturday afternoon, when he took us, as he frequently did, for a walk through the fields. He was as good as his word, and, sitting down, with his back against the trunk of a tree, and placing us in a semicircle before him, thus commenced:

"I need not tell you, my boys, what a beautiful girl little Janette Simmonds was, for you all remember her well; her graceful form and merry pranks, as she once sported in these fields, her bright eyes sparkling with the exhilaration of exercise, and the ringing laugh, so full of joyousness, gave little indication that she would so soon be laid in the cold church-yard. When I think of her as she was, with the health-glow on her cheek, and her fair ringlets artlessly curling round her head, and as she is, lying there in her shroud, it seems as though I had awoke from a pleasant dream, and that little Janette was only a being of my imagination. She was a good child; not too good for earth, as some persons are apt to say when children die; no, my boys, there is nothing too good for the earth which God made for us. Robert and Janette were brought up together, for she was an orphan, and became the child of the village; she was adopted by us, as it were, and the special charge of her was given to the widow Tremaine. When she could yet scarcely toddle, they were seen, hand in hand, visiting the houses of the neighbors, or rolling on the greensward opposite their own door. As they grew up, their love of each other seemed to increase, and neither of them appeared to be so happy as when together they wandered through the fields, plucking the buttercups and daisies, with which Robert used to form a mimic wreath for her head. Her

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mild, expressive, free, and full blue eye possessed for him, even then, young as she was, an unaccountable witchery. I remember he said to me one day that, when he thought of Janette, strange ideas entered his mind of heaven and of angels, who he fancied must be beings of exceeding beauty, forever singing there. And then he would ask Janette to sing, for, as she would be an angel, he felt sure hers must therefore be the melody of angels; for he was a sensible child-too much so for one of his age. How often have we remarked that his head was too old for his shoulders, or his brain too large for his head! Well, Janette was the star of his destiny, and a fatal destiny it has been; he seemed to live only in her, as though her heart governed the throbbing of his own. But little Janette died-died just when her loveliness began to unfold. We saw that she drooped; that her step lost its lightness-her eye its bright

ness.

Death had commenced his work near some vital part, and ere we could discover the cause of the change, she was gone. I was with her when she died. Robert stood by me, with the little hand of Janette in his own, which was scarcely larger, watching the suffering child. Poor boy! it was his first introduction to a death bed, and he looked bewildered, as though he felt that something dreadful was about to happen-but he knew not what. He could not realize the idea that the loved companion of his childhood was about to leave him forever; and it was only when she gently drew him toward her, and whispered, "Robert, I'm going to die," that he seemed to suspect the truth. He then threw himself on the bed in a burst of sorrow, and when he again looked up she had ceased to suffer. That was a painful and solemn scene, my children, and I can't help weeping now, when I recall it."

Mr. Bray seemed much moved, and it was many minutes before he resumed. We all sat in breathless attention, anxious to hear the remainder of the story, and fearing to change our position lest we should break the charm it had thrown around us. After a while he continued: "We had little difficulty in removing Robert from the room, for he was totally helpless, and remained seemingly uuconscious of everything for several weeks after the funeral. He, however, gradually recovered, and one day surprised his mother by asking her to take him to the grave of Janette. She did so, and from that time until the winter had fairly set in, he visited it daily, planting flowers around and upon it, and making it the parterre it appears at present. It was remarked, however, as the days shortened, that came over poor Robert; his mind was

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and, although for several weeks we sought to console his afflicted mother with the assurance that it was not so, it became at length too evident to be concealed. Erom morning till night he would sit at the porch of the door, as though watching for something, and as evening came on would burst into tears, and saying, ‘There is no sunbeam on her grave now,' creep to a corner of the room and sigh himself to sleep. At this time, you remember, he suddenly disappeared; the physician thought it best to send him to an asylum, as by proper treatment he might recover. So he went to a public establishment, where he was kindly treated; but the nature of his lunacy left little hope of a permanent recovery, for it was a melancholy madness, which is seldom cured; and no treatment could restore his reason. Throughout the dull wintry days he watched for sunbeams, and when they came not, he wept; but as the spring opened, and they became more frequent, he appeared less melancholy, and so continued to improve as the we ther brightened. Then he desired to be at home again, and at length his wish was complied with, and he came back; better certainly, but still a poor shattered thing. Poor Robert! his mind is like the summer flowers-it lives only in the sunshine, and droops when his rays are withdrawn. Such, my children, is the history of your little schoolmate. He is now with us once more, for this is the season of sunbeams; but his health is failing fast, and the flowers he has planted in the church-yard will soon probably bloom over his grave; then the dark shadows of his life will have passed away; and in heaven there is no winter to make poor Robert crazy."

Mr. Bray ceased, and we all remained silent for several minutes; his eyes were closed, and his lips moved as if in prayer. When he at length arose we followed him, and all seemed instinctively to turn toward the church-yard. The grave of Janette was in one corner of it; and for the greater portion of the day lay in the deep shade of some overhanging willows; indeed it was only when the sun had reached a certain part of the heavens in his downward course, that a small opening permitted his rays for a short time to brighten the simple mound. Robert needed no dial to discover the hour when this occurred, and never failed to be there, watching for it with intense anxiety. As we drew near the spot we saw him busily employed with his flowers, trimming some and carefully transplanting others. We remarked, too, that many of them had been removed from the grave of Janette and placed by the side of it; we knew not why, at the time-but it seemed as though he had a presenti