tion, not the destruction of principle. I thought more favorably of Mrs. Merlin; for with characteristic dexterity, when conversing with me, she has suited herself to my taste. Even now, however, I would not speak with severity; she has been brought up under much disadvantage, and possibly persuades herself that these subterfuges are harmless, polite, and ingenious. I trust one day she will judge more correctly; but in the mean time I should grieve to subject you to such familiarity with deceit as might lessen your abhorrence of it. I can never consent to any future intimacy with Mrs. Merlin, till I have reason to regard her as a recipient of that grace, which teaches truth in the very heart. You remember the hymn, Emma,

'Let those who bear the Christian name
Their holy vows fulfil;

The saints, the followers of the Lamb,
Are men of honor still.

Still with their lips their hearts agree,
Nor flattering words devise;
They know the God of truth can see
Through every false disguise.

They hate the varied hosts of lies,
In all their crooked lines;
Firm to the truth until they rise

Where truth resplendent shines.'

"And now, my child," continued Mr. Robinson, "let us turn our inquiries upon our own hearts.

'Does no dark sign, no ground of fear, In practice or in thought appear?'

"How strange it is that we, who have such high notions of integrity in our intercourse with our fellow-creatures, should so often fail in our transactions with Him before whom all things are naked and open, and who will accept only the worship of the heart. O, my child, when our prayers, our praises, our duties, are laid in the balance, what must be said of them all?"

They are found wanting," replied Emma, with deep and solemn feeling. "Most wanting," said her father emphatically; "corrupt fruits from a wild and poisonous tree. Let us then take those hearts which God's word and our own experience declare to be deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked

let us take them to the fountain opened for sin and uncleanness, even the blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin. Without his precious atonement and perfect obedience to the divine law, how ruinous must have been our guilt; how utterly naked and destitute our souls! But can we hope that they are pardoned and accepted? Let us seek, also, their daily renewal; continuing instant in prayer, and watching thereunto with all perseverance, let us unsparingly detect all their crooked ways, and pray that the spirit of holiness and truth would work in us to will and to do of his good pleasure. O, how can we sufficiently magnify that complete and great salvation, which redeeming mercy offers to our fallen race? Blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for He hath visited and redeemed his people! And blessed be his glorious majesty forever; let the earth be filled with his glory, and let the whole world say, Amen!"

"I do say Amen, papa," rejoined Emma, fervently; "and I do hope I am truly thankful for those instructions which have shown me the value of spiritual blessings, and taught me also that in simplicity and godly sincerity I ought to have my conversation in the world."

S. S. S.

"That's a very bad cough you 've got, friend Smith."

"Yes, neighbor Jones, but it's the best I've got!"

The man who is guilty of the theft is frequently the first to cry, "Stop thief!"

The Hyena.

I AM a very good-natured person; apt to see things in a favorable light; fond of picking out pleasant objects to contemplate, and am usually able to find agreeable qualities in every body and every thing. But I must confess, that, with all my disposition to be pleased, I can see very little that is pleasant in the countenance of the hyena. What a horrid fierce look he has! His countenance seems to bespeak perpetual hunger and thirst for blood; he looks as if his supper would taste all the better if it were attended by the agonized struggles and cries of the victim upon which he feasts! He really looks as if pain and distress would be but as pepper and spice to his meal.

But the fact is, no animals are cruel; that is, fond of inflicting pain from mere malice. Even the tiger slays but to eat, and the hyena, ill-favored as he is, has his part assigned to him by nature, and this is a useful one to man and beast. He is a native of the warm parts of Africa, and the southern part of Asia. He seldom kills an animal except when pressed by want, preferring to feed upon the carcasses of those he may find slain. It is a horrid part of the story of this creature, that he will sometimes go into a grave-yard and dig up the remains of people buried there; and he will, also, follow the march of an army to feast upon the slain after a battle.

Living in hot countries, and feeding upon the decayed flesh of animals, the hyena is useful by removing putrid masses of flesh that would otherwise infect the air with pestilence. He is thus a scavenger, and shares with the vulture the task of delivering the countries they inhabit from fruitful causes of fatal disease. Though we may not admire the face of the hyena, still we perceive that the world could not well do without him.

There is a common notion that the hyena is so wild in his nature as to be untamable; but this is a mistake. The creature is frequently tamed in India, and then lives quietly about the house like a dog. He is attached to those who are kind, but is spiteful and revengeful to those who abuse him.

This change in the character made by training, is a strong proof of the force of education; for not only is the tamed hyena made gentle in reality, but his countenance is actually rendered mild and inoffensive. This shows that the character is written in the face, and bids young people beware how they let their passions mark themselves upon their countenances.

Jewish Women.

WE do not read that a Jewess was to be seen among the crowds of priests and the rabble who insulted the Son of man, scourged him, crowned him with thorns, and subjected him to ignominy and the agony of the cross. The women of Judea believed in the Savior; they loved, they followed him; they assisted him with their substance, and soothed him under afflictions. A woman of Bethany poured on his head the precious ointment which she kept in a vase of alabaster; the sinner anointed his feet with a perfumed oil, and wiped them with her hair. Christ, on his part, extended his grace and mercy to the Jewesses; he raised from the dead the son of the widow of Nain, and Martha's brother Lazarus; he cured Simon's mother-in-law, and the woman who touched the hem of his garment. the Samaritan woman he was a spring of living water. The daughters of Jerusalem wept over him; the holy women accompanied him to Calvary

To

brought balm and spices, and, weeping, sought him at the sepulchre. His first appearance, after his resurrection, was to Mary. He said unto her, "Mary!" At the sound of that voice, Mary Magdalene's eyes were opened, and she answered, "Master!" The reflection of some very beautiful ray must have rested on the brow of the Jewesses.

Story of Philip Brusque.

CHAPTER VI.

Serious Adventures.

It might seem that, under the circumstances described, Emilie would have been surprised and alarmed as the dark figure emerged from the shadow of the rock, and stood forth in the full light of the moon; but she betrayed no such emotion. On the contrary, she proceeded directly towards the person, and was soon clapsed in his arms. The meeting was evidently one of affection; yet apparently there was more of grief than joy-for sobs and sighs seemed to choke the utterance of both. When at last they spoke, it was in broken sentences, yet in a low and subdued voice, as if they were apprehensive of discovery.

After remaining here for nearly half an hour, Emilie bade her, companion a hasty farewell, and climbing up the rock, with a light and hurried step proceeded toward the tent which had now become her home. She was still at some distance, however, and as she was passing through a thicket of orange trees, she was abruptly accosted by a man, who placed himself in her path, and calling her by name, took hold of her arm, as if to arrest her progress. Emilie saw at a glance that it was Rogere, and her eye did not fail to re

mark, at a little distance, a dark group of men, whom she readily conjectured to be his companions.

Emilie felt that she was in danger, but she lost not her self-possession. Shaking off the grasp of Rogere, and standing aloof, she said-"Is it possible that this rudeness is offered by M. Rogere? It is a poor occupation for a gentleman to insult a woman, because she is alone and unprotected!"

"A gentleman!" said Rogere, sneeringly. "I am no gentleman, thanks to the gods-no, no, fair Emilie-I am something better-I am a freeman and a lover!"

"Indeed!" said Emilie. "Is he a freeman who takes advantage of the strength that nature has given him, to injure and distress one who is weaker than himself? Is he a lover, who wounds and insults the pretended object of his regard?"

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Nay, fair lady," said Rogere; "this sounds mighty pretty, and in France would be heroic; but remember that we are not now under the tyranny of artificial laws and despotic fashion. We are now restored to the rights and privileges of nature. There is no government here, save that which is established by the God of nature."

"I will not stay to hear you," said the young lady, indignantly. "Every word you utter is an insult, every moment you detain me you are guilty of insolence and wrong. Shame, shame upon a Frenchman who can forget to be woman's protector, and become woman's tyrant!"

"Mighty fine all this, certainly; but remember that I repudiate France and the name of Frenchman: I am a man, that is enough, and I shall assert man's privileges. You must listen; you shall hear me.

Look around, and everywhere you see that in the dynasty of nature all is regulated by force. There

is a power of gravitation, which controls matter, and bids the earth roll round in its orbit. Even matter, then, the very soil, the inanimate clod, the senseless stones, obey the law of force. And it is so with the animal tribes: among birds, the eagle is master of the raven; with quadrupeds, the lion is lord of the forest; with fishes, the whale is monarch of the deep.

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Then, in communities of animals, we see that everything is regulated by power; even among a band of wolves, the strongest has the first choice: privileges are exactly proportioned to power. It is so throughout nature-might is right. It is on this universal principle that I claim you as my own. I am the strongest man on the island; I have therefore a right to whatever I desire. Nay, lady, start not! you must, you shall listen! I have those near at hand who can and will aid me, if I do but utter the word. You shall listen-you shall obey! Why is woman made weaker than man, but that she is to be the servant of man?"

"M. Rogere," said Emilie, sternly, "it is humiliation for me to be obliged to remain for one moment in your presence; it is degradation to be obliged to speak with you. For all this you will be made to answer."

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By whom, pray? Who is there that can call me to account? There is no law here, remember, that can restrain or punish me. Nature has given me power, and I shall use it for my own pleasure."

"I fear not that power; I fear neither you nor your menaces; and if I remain a moment here, it is not from respect to your strength. You dare not lay your hand upon me, for there is another power than that of limbs and muscles. If you are a man, you have a soul, and that soul has power over the body. Before you can, like the wolf, become a

mere creature of selfishness, before you can act upon the principle that might is right, you must rid yourself of that soul, that thing within called conscience. Even now it is at work; it is this which makes you resort to false philosophy and shallow argument to justify an act that your humor dictates, but which your soul and conscience condemn. The wolf stops not to reason, but M. Rogere, who pleads the example of the wolf, cannot wholly shake off reason. He cannot imitate the brute, without offering an apology. The wolf is no coward, but M. Rogere is a coward; there is something within that tells him that he must not, shall not, dare not exert his strength against a woman!"

As Emilie uttered these words, she rose to her full height, her eye flashing with indignation. Rogere looked upon her with astonishment. As she moved to depart, his feet seemed riveted to the ground, and it was not till she had already proceeded a considerable distance towards her home, that he recovered his self-possession. He then set out in pursuit, and had no difficulty in soon overtaking the fugitive; but at the moment he was about to lay his hand upon her shoulder, his arm was arrested, and the well-known form of Brusque stood before him. "Hold!" said the latter, fiercely; "touch not that gentle being, or, by heaven, your audacity shall be punished. I have been near, watching over the safety of this lady, and I have heard your unmanly words to her. I now know your designs. Beware, or even your boasted strength shall be insufficient to protect you from the chastisement which an insolent coward deserves!"

Brusque waited not for reply. Leaving Rogere fixed to the spot and overwhelmed with confusion, he hastened forward, drew Emilie's arm within his own, and proceeded with her to her

house. The poor girl was almost fainting with agitation, and Brusque could do no less than enter the tent. After leaving her in her mother's charge, and giving a few words of explanation, he departed. On the morrow he called to see her, but he found her feverish, and

unable to leave her bed.

The next day, Emilie sent for Brusque, and the two friends had a long interview. She thanked him tenderly for his protection from the rudeness of Rogere; and although something seemed to weigh heavily upon his mind, he still seemed cheered and softened by her tenderness. It is indeed most welcome to me, Emilie," said he, "to hear you say these things-would that I were more worthy of your esteem."

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"Nay, dear Philip," said Emilie, "do not be forever indulging such a feeling of humility-I might almost say of selfabasement. What is it that oppresses you? Why are you always speaking in such terms? It was not so once, my dear friend."

"It was not indeed," said Brusque. "Let me speak out, Emilie, and unburthen my bosom. I was at St. Adresse your happy lover. I then dared not only to love you, but to speak of my affection, and seek its return and reward. But I am changed."

hands have not indeed been dyed in the blood of my fellow-men, but yet I assisted in many of those executions, which now seem to me little better than murders. It is in your presence, Emilie, that I most deeply realize my delusion. There is something in your innocence and purity, which rebukes and reproaches my folly, and makes it appear as unpardonable wickedness. I once lovednay, I love you still, Heaven only knows how truly; but I should ill act the part of a friend by allying your innocence to my degradation.'

Emilie was now in tears, and Brusque became much agitated. Speak to me, my friend," said he; "dry up those tears, and let your sense and reason come to our aid. I will be guided in all things by you; if you banish me, I will depart forever."

"No, no indeed," said the weeping girl. "You must stay-you must stay and protect my poor parents; you must stay and be my protector also, for Heaven only can tell how soon I shall stand in need of protection from violence and wrong."

Brusque was evidently touched by this appeal, but the gleam that seemed to light up his face for a moment was instantly followed by a cloud upon his brow. Emilie saw it, and said, "Why this doubt? Why this concealment ? What is it, Philip, that disturbs you ?"

"I will be frank," said he. "Since we have been upon this island, I may have seemed distant and indifferent towards you; but my heart has ever been with you, and indeed often, when you knew it not, I have been near you ;-this night, I was on the rocks by the sea-shore, and witnessed your meeting with some one there. Tell me, Emilie, who was that person ?"

Emilie was evidently disconcerted, but still she replied, firmly, "That is a secret, and must remain so for the pres