mentators assert that it is the rhinoceros, or the buffalo, because the cognate Arabic word is sometimes applied to a species of gazelle, and the Arabs frequently speak of oxen and stags as one species. But neither the rhinoceros nor the buffalo can be called a tall animal, and the analogy between them and any species of gazelle with which we are acquainted, would be very difficult to demonstrate. But we find upon the monuments an animal fulfilling all the conditions of the description, and that is the giraffe, which is represented several times among the articles of tribute. brought to the Pharaohs from the interior of Africa. The preceding sketch represents one of these carvings.

A most interesting proof of the accuracy and fidelity of the Bible narration is furnished by the following considerations. The artists of Egypt, in the specimens which they have left behind, delineated minutely every circumstance connected with their national habits and observances from the cradle to the grave; representing with equal fidelity the usages of the palace and the cottage,the king surrounded by the pomp of state, and the peasant employed in the humblest labors of the field. In the very first mention of Egypt, we shall find the scriptural narrative singularly illustrated and confirmed by the monuments.

"And there was a famine in the land (of Canaan,) and Abram went down to Egypt to sojourn there, for the famine was grievous in the land. And it came to pass, when he was come near to enter into Egypt, that he said unto Sarai his wife, Behold now, I know that thou art a fair woman to look upon; therefore it shall come to pass when the Egyptians shall see thee, that they shall say, This is his wife; and they will kill me, but they will save thee alive. Say, I pray thee, thou art my sister, that it may be well with me for thy sake; and my soul shall

then should Abram have been so anxious because the princes of Pharaoh's house saw his wife Sarai? How indeed could they see her face, and discover that she was handsome, if she had been veiled according to the custom of the country now? The question is answered by the monuments, for here is a representation of the manner in which a woman was dressed in Egypt in ancient times.

to give laws in respect to government, but in respect to manners also. The probability, therefore, that the Bible record was made previous to this event, even had we not other testimony, is very strong, from the fact that it relates, in the story of Abraham and his wife, a tale which implies a fashion which probably never existed in Egypt after the conquests of Cambyses. How wonderful it is, that these mute monuments, after slumbering in silence for ages, should now be able to add their indubitable testimony to the truth of that book, which we hold to be the Word of God!

It seems therefore that they exposed their faces; and thus the scripture story is shown to be agreeable to the manners and customs of the country at the date to which the story refers. It is impossible to bring a more striking and conclusive proof of the antiquity and minute accuracy of the Bible record than this.

The period at which the custom of veiling the faces of women was introduced into Egypt, was probably about 500 years before Christ, when Cambyses, king of Persia, conquered that country. It was but natural that the conquered country should adopt the fashions of the conquering one, particularly as at this period Persia was an empire of great wealth and power, and likely not only

A Drunkard's Home.

It was a clear morning in April. The ground, bushes, and fences sparkled with their frosty covering. The bare hills and leafless trees looked as if they could not long remain bare and leafless beneath a sky so bright. A robin here and there ventured a short and sweet note, and earth and sky seemed to rejoice in the scene. The path that led to the village school was trod by happy children, whose glowing cheeks and merry voices testified that they partook of the general gladness.

In the same path, at a distance from a group of neatly-dressed and smiling children, was a little girl, whose pale, soiled face, tattered dress, and bare feet, bespoke her the child of poverty and vice. She looked upon the laughing band before her with a wistful countenance, and hiding behind her shawl the small tin pail she carried, lingered by the fence till the children were out of sight, and then, turning into another road, proceeded to perform her usual errand to a grocery called the Yellow Shop. The bright, calm morning had no charm for her. Her little heart felt none of the

lightness and gayety the hearts of children feel when nature is beautiful around them. She could not laugh as they laughed; and as the sound of their merry voices seemed still to linger on her ear, she wondered that she could not be as happy as they.

And then she thought of the dreariness and poverty of her home, of the cruelty of her father, of the neglect and unkindness of her mother, of the misery of the long, cold winter through which she had just passed, of the hunger which her little brothers and herself often felt; she thought of the neat appearance of the children she had just seen, and then looked upon her own dress, torn and dirty as it was, till the tears filled her eyes, and her heart became sadder than

ever.

Mary, for that was the name of the girl, possessed a degree of intelligence above what her years seemed to warrant; she knew what made those happy children so different from herself. She well knew that they would spend that day in school, learning something useful, while she would spend it in idleness at home, or in trying to quiet the hungry baby, and please. the other children, while her mother was picking cranberries in the meadow. Mary knew she was that very morning to carry home something that would make her mother cross and wholly unmindful of her destitute children.

When she had reached the spirit shop, its keeper was not there, but his son, a bright, intelligent boy of thirteen, stood behind the counter, playing with his little sister. Mary asked for the rum with a faltering voice, and as she offered the jug, our young tradesman, looking upon her with mingled contempt and pity, said, "What does your mother drink rum for?" Mary felt ashamed, and looked so sad that the boy was sorry for what he had said, He gave

her the liquor, and tied up the scanty allowance of meal; and Mary, with a heavy heart and hasty step, proceeded upon her way.

When she reached her dwelling-and who needs a description of a drunkard's dwelling?-her mother met her at the door, and hastily snatching the jug from her hand, drank off its burning contents. She then took the meal to prepare breakfast, and Mary was sent to gather some sticks to kindle the flame. The dough was then placed before the smoky, scanty fire, and the impatient children hovered round to watch its progress. Long, however, before it was sufficiently baked, they snatched it piece by piece away, till nothing but the empty tin remained.

The little boys, with their hunger scarcely satisfied, then left the house, to loiter, as usual, in the streets, while Mary, as she saw her mother become every moment more incapable of attending to the wants of her infant, took the poor little creature in her arms, and in trying to soothe its sufferings half forgot her own. She had just succeeded in lulling the baby, when her father entered. He had been in the meadow, picking the cranberries which had been preserved during the winter under the snow, and which could now be sold for a few cents a quart. Though once a strong and active man, so degraded had he become, that few persons were willing to employ him, and he resorted to picking cranberries as the only means left him of obtaining what his appetite so imperiously demanded.

On entering the room, and seeing the state his wife was in, he uttered a loud curse, and at the same time bade Mary leave the crying child and put on her bonnet, and hasten to the village to sell the cranberries, and call at the Yellow Shop on her return.

Mary put on her bonnet, and with a

trembling heart commenced her walk. On her way, she met her brothers, and stopped to tell them that, as their father was then at home, they had better keep away from the house till her return. She then called from door to door; but at every place her timid inquiry, "Do you want any cranberries here?" met the same chilling answer, "No."

At length, wearied out, and fearful that she could not dispose of them at all, she sat down by the road-side and wept bitterly. But the sun had long past his meridian, and was gradually lowering in the western sky. She must go home, and what would her father say if she returned with the cranberries unsold? This she could not do; and she deter mined to try to exchange them at the shop for the spirit her father wanted.

After waiting some time at the counter, till the wants of several wretched beings were supplied, she told her errand, and after much hesitation on the part of the shop-keeper, and much entreaty on her own, the cranberries were exchanged for rum. Mary then rapidly retraced her steps homeward, and with a beating heart entered the cottage.

Her father was not there, but her mother was, and upon inquiring where Mary had been, insisted on having the spirit. Mary refused as long as she dared, for she knew how terrible the anger of her father would be, if he found the quantity of rum diminished. But the mother, regardless of everything but the gratification of her appetite, seized the Jug and drank a large part of its con

tents.

It was scarcely swallowed before her husband entered; and, enraged at see ing the spirit so much lessened, he reproached Mary first, and then his wife, in the most bitter terms. The provoking replies of the latter excited his rage almost beyond control; and Mary, fearing for the safety of herself and her

brothers, crept with them into an empty closet, where, with their arms round each other, they remained, almost breathless with alarm, trembling at their father's loud threats and their mother's fearful screams.

At length the discord was hushed, and all was silent except the low groans of the suffering wife, and the cries of the helpless babe. The children then crept from their hiding-place to seek for some food, before they laid themselves down upon their wretched bed to forget their fears for a while in sleep. But in vain did they look for a crust of bread or a cold potato. Mary could find nothing but the remainder of the meal she had procured in the morning, but it was too late to attempt baking another cake. The fire was all out upon the hearth, and it was too dark to go in search of wood. So the hungry children, with their wants unsupplied, were obliged to lay themselves down to sleep.

In the village in which Mary's parents lived, the wretched condition of the family had often attracted attention; but the case of the parents seemed so hopeless, that little exertion was made to persuade them to abandon their ruinous habits, till Mr. Hall, an energetic agent of the temperance cause, visited the place. The husband and wife were then induced to attend the temperance meeting and listen to his address. Whispers and significant looks passed between the acquaintances when Thomas and his wife entered the church, and scarcely one among the number thought they could be at all benefited by what they might hear. But they did not see Thomas' heart, or know what a wretched being he felt himself to be. Through necessity, neither he nor his wife had now tasted spirit for several days, as their means of obtaining it had failed. The cranberries were all gathered from

the meadow, and persons of their character could not obtain employment. Thus situated, Thomas knew he must take a different course, or himself and family would be sent to the work-house. It was on account of these circumstances that he this evening consented with his wife to attend the meeting.

When the speaker commenced, Thomas, feeling himself uneasy, wished himself away. But by degrees he became more and more interested, until his eye fixed upon the speaker, and the tear, rolling down his bloated face, proved the depth of his feeling. He heard his own case so well described, the remedy so plainly pointed out, so affectionately urged, that new light seemed to break upon his mind, and he inwardly exclaimed, "I can do it-I will do it, if I die in the attempt ;" and at the close of the service, going boldly up to a group of temperance men, he requested that his name and the name of his wife might be added to the temperance list. A murmur of approbation followed his request, and hand after hand was presented for a shake of congratulation. Nancy pulled her husband's coat as she heard her name mentioned, and said, faintly, "Not mine, not mine, Thomas." But the words were unheard or disregarded, and he bent steadily over the shoulder of the secretary, till he actually saw the names of Thomas and Nancy Millman among the names of those who pledged themselves to abstain from all use of ardent spirits.

As he turned to leave the church, William Stevens, a sober, industrious man, a friend of Thomas in his better days, but who had long abandoned the society of a drunkard, took him by the hand, and after expressing his satisfaction at the course he had pursued, invited him to call at his house on his way home. After some hesitation, Thomas and Nancy consented; the latter being ex

ceedingly pleased at being invited again to call on Hannah Stevens.

As William opened the door, Hannah rose from her seat by the cradle, and glanced first at her husband, and then at his companions, with a look of astonishment and inquiry, which yielded, however, to one of kind welcome and glad surprise, when her husband said, "I have brought you some friends, Hannah." "Yes," said Thomas, " and may we henceforth merit the title." Nancy hung down her head, as if ashamed of the thoughts that were passing through her mind. Hannah, noticing her appearance, feared she did not sympathize much in her husband's feelings. "I must encourage the poor woman," thought she, "or her husband will be undone. If Nancy does not encourage him by her example, all will be lost."

The company then seated themselves round the cheerful fire, and while Thomas and William were engaged in conversation, Hannah threw aside the quilt to let Nancy see the baby. It was just the age of her own, but oh! how different. The rosy, healthy little creature before her, in its clean nightgown, sleeping so soundly, recalled to her mind her own pale, sickly, neglected child at home, in its ragged, dirty dress, so seldom changed, and tears started into her eyes at the recollection. Hannah saw the effect produced upon her feelings, and wishing to increase it still more, asked her to walk into her bed-room to see her other children. Hannah was a kind, careful mother, and knowing the strength of a mother's love, she wished to make use of this strong principle to recall the wretched wanderer before her to a sense of duty.

Nor was she disappointed at the success of her experiment. Nancy was evidently affected at a view of the neat, comfortable appearance of her neighbor's house, and Hannah seized this op