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there, I believe, to-night; and I am quite sure Mr. Glosenfane would not go if there were any harm in it: he gets more and more conscientious in these things every day; it was put off for a week solely to please him, because he objected to go on Holy Innocents or the octave of Saint Ischyrion.
Here was another wound, given in utter unconsciousness by poor Emma; for nothing could be farther from her wishes than to pain any one, and especially so dear a friend as her uncle. His suspicions were confirmed, and he sighed unintentionally as he saw, through the medium of these little incidents, the flimsy character of that Galatian heresy, misnamed religion, of which the rector, and apparently his own niece, had drunk deeply.
He looked at Emma. There was nothing like anger in his countenance, but that subdued expression which indicates a conflict between duty and affection. Her heart was already full. The joy of so unexpected a meeting, struggling with a consciousness that her uncle could not be otherwise than grieved at her change of opinions—though she herself was far, very far, from realizing the depth of error into which she had fallen--coupled with the desire to pour out at once all her feelings in explanation of the course she had taken; and the fond but confident expectation lurking in her bosom, that she could satisfy him of the purity of her motives, had completely overcome her, and she could only meet her uncle's earnest look by again bursting into tears.
In the heartiness with which the intimation of her uncle's arrival had been met by Emma, she had flown down stairs, and rushed into the parlor without closing the door. They were still standing together before the fire-place, and whilst the poor girl continued speechless from the intensity of her emotion, Mr. Singleton turned his eyes unwittingly, and in a state of objectless abstraction towards the door. A window in the hall beyond, let in a soft gleam of moonlight, leading the eye insensibly towards it. Through that casement, the cold, misty moon herself, was partially visible, and her rays fell upon the outer gateway and glittered upon the laurel leaves beside it. There was the family crest in its rude stone work, outlined as by some phosphoric finger—the grim lion grasping the heart, and looking still more grim in that pale, cold, hazy atmosphere. What an apt emblem of its owner! There was he, a very brute in his inanity, mind
less and seemingly irresponsible, amongst the giddiest of the giddy, in the whirling maze of folly and fashion, frittering away those hours which he held in trust from God for the benefit of souls ; and here stood the poor trembling victim of his heartlessness, her very soul torn in pieces by his actual, though unsuspected cruelty a heart in the grasp of a ravening beast of prey. To any one, in whose mind the scriptures have taken deep root, it will not appear strange, that Mr. Singleton should have applied to the position of his beloved niece, the words of the distressed Psalmist, “My soul is among lions,” or have breathed the earnest prayer, "Rescue
my soul from their destruction-my darling from the lions!” That he actually did so, we are not prepared to say, though we know that when his eyes again met those of Emma, they were lighted up with such tears, as deep and prayerful sympathy alone could kindle.
Her excess of feeling having to a certain extent wrought its own cure, Emma began to see that she had been wanting in the common courtesies connected with the reception of her uncle. He was still standing, and as he moved, at her instance, towards the table to seat himself, she recollected that on leaving the room when surprised by the first announcement of his arrival, the work on which she was engaged had been hurriedly thrown aside. It was an altar-cloth which she had been embroidering, and fearing that the sight of it would awaken further regret in the mind of her uncle, whose feelings were just now more than usually sensitive, she caught it up hastily, and as she thought, unobserved, and removed it. The quick eye, however, of Mr. Singleton detected her confusion, but he was satisfied by her assurance that he should know more about it at another time.
In catching up the work, however, Emma had overlooked the fact, that she had laid it down upon the book she was glancing at in those intervals which the character of her other task permitted, and she consequently, left that book exposed upon the table, whilst she was engaged in putting it away. Her uncle, less
, perhaps, from motives of curiosity than from a habit, almost intuitive, of looking into books whenever they came in his way, took it up; and as he turned to the title page, his countedance again fell, and he laid it down with a sigh.
And well he might; for that book told a secret fraught with interest of a more intensely painful character, than he was even then prepared to expect. We must not, however, anticipate the melancholy sequel ; but defer its full development until next month.
H. R. E. (To be continued.)
HOW TO MANAGE CHILDREN!
Child.— I know there's some in the cupboard; I saw it when you opened the door.
Mother.—Well you don't need any now; cake hurts children.
Child.—No it don't; (whining) I do want a piece ; mother, mayn't I have a piece ?
Mother.-Be still, I can't get up now, I'm busy.
Child.- (crying aloud) I want a piece of cake ; I want a piece of cake.
Mother.-Be still, I say ; I shan't give you a bit if you do not leave off crying.
Child (still crying)—I want a piece of cake ; I want a piece of cake.
Mother rising hastily, and reaching a piece. There take that and hold your tongue. Eat it up quick; I hear Ben coming. Now, don't tell him you have had any.
[Ben enters] Child (to Ben] I've had a piece of cake ; you can't
Ben.—Yes, I will; mother, give me a piece.
Mother.-There, take that; it seems as if I never could keep a bit of anything in the house. You see, sir, (to the child,) if you get anything another time!
[Another room] Child.— I've had a piece of cake. Younger Sister.-Oh! I want some too.
Child.-Well, you bawl, and mother 'll give you a piece. I did.
Let us see how many errors were committed by the mother during this short conversation.
In the first place, she tells a downright lie, and the child detects her in it: “I hav'nt any cake." “ You have; I saw it in the cupboard."
Secondly, she gives a false reason, “cake hurts children,” for not gratifying the child's wishes,-at least her next reply would lead him to suppose so.
Thirdly, she encourages the child to cry for what he desires, by offering, as a reward for leaving off the gratification which he could not obtain by continued good humour.
Fourthly, she breaks her promise, and rewards the child for crying and disobeying her.
Fifthly, she fosters a spirit of selfish greediness, the lowest and most debasing of all passions, “eat it quick, and don't tell Ben."
Sixthly, she utters a threat she has no intention of acting upon, " see if you get any next time.”
We must mention, also, the spirit by which her conduct through the whole is marked, and which makes the child feel that she has at last yielded to his wishes, not because she loves him, but to save herself the vexation of being teazed any longer. The practical commentary which he made in his advice to his sister, shows that he fully understands the springs of her domestic machinery.
Yet this is probably a mother who loves her offspring, who is toiling early and late for their comfort and respectability; but who will, perhaps, have to complain that her old age is embittered by the neglect and unkindness of her children. They are not wholly in the fault. A mother may sacrifice her health, and even life itself, for her family, and yet not make them happy; they will not value her. A child cannot comprehend the value of that affection which keeps his mother busy from morning till night, when her industry is continually crossing the track of his enjoyment: when it is made an apology for petulance, injustice, and neglect of those little things which make up the happiness of childhood. Nothing but a constant hourly flow of kindness, prompt in gratifying, gentle in refusing,-a kindness which knows no ebb, unruffled by passion, unpolluted by selfishness--can gain the entire confidence of a child. I ought also to add, that a mother who has made herself an object of contempt to her children, cannot justly claim their deference and respect; and such she surely will be, if, in her management of them, she stoop to the meantess of deceit and falsehood. The pure ennobling sentiment of filial piety can spring up only in an atmosphere of truth
and love. In its nature it is akin to that which is exercised toward the beneficent Father of all, and requires for its full expansion the same influences, gratitude, and goodness.- Mother's Monthly Journal.
INSPIRATION. The nature and extent of the inspiration of the Holy Scriptures, forms an important subject of enquiry, especially in the present day.
Before entering upon the question it is necessary to define the terms employed. From a collation of the various definitions given by lexicographers of the word “Inspire,” its meaning appears to be--" To infuse into, and animate, the Mind by breathing."
This explanation is both ideal and critical— it gives the soul and sense of the thing itself, and it explains also the word, which, by an accommodation consequent on the novelty of the idea, has been employed to express it. It is, in fact, the definition of a definition, as well as the representative of a thought. But though the word “ Inspire,” thus strictly interpreted, certainly implies to breathe into, we must not suppose that any thing analagous to the natural process of respiration is intended by it. As the word indicating the idea of inspiration is used simply for want of a better, we ought not to fetter that idea with any conditions consequent on its association with it.
Thus understood, we may define inspiration as the act of infusing into, and quickening, the mental and moral faculties, by some process not exactly understood, though certainly different from the ordinary means of imparting enlightenment or impulse.
Though we often use the term “inspiration" in an inferior sense, when speaking of natural influences, such as the contemplation of a majestic or a lovely landscape ; or when actuated by old remembrances or endeared associations, it may be questioned whether, in such cases, we really derive any new ideas by extraordinary means. The effect of these influences on the mind is the result of natural laws, and all our impressions are received through the medium of the senses. But when we speak of Divine Inspiration, the case appears to be altogether different. In many instances the Spirit of God witnesses with our spirit,