dog. Thou meritest death, were it but for thy craven heart. But, off from my feet. Will the fool back from my feet? I tell thee it is but a jest, Codrus, it is but a jest; I will save thee, boy. By the immortal Jove! thou art as safe as if in thy own palace. Down with thee, knave!' O, great master! I am young!

'I tell thee, thou unfortunate knave, leave clinging to my feet. Come, time flies; the whole theatre waits; hark to their clamours! they are impatient for their sports. Come, thou who wast so bold and haughty in the portico, let us see thy bearing on the arena. See! the huge beast has actually laid himself down as far from us as he can get. By Mercury! I believe ye are afraid of each other. Come, out with him to the arena.'

'For the love of Jupiter! cried Codrus, clinging to the centurion who had seized him to lead him forth.

And hark thee" cried the emperor, "when thou art fairly out upon the arena, shrink not thou close to my feet here, or thou art gone. I cannot shoot down; take thy place quietly in the centre; dost hear? Smite the knave till he answer.' 'Emperor,' he cried, 'allow me a weap

on !

'No!

'A single arrow!' No! I say! 'But thy club!' 'Nothing. Strip him and hurl him forth!'

As the officers were about to obey, the victim, his eyes starting from their sockets, his face white as death, sprang forward toward the tyrant, gnashing his teeth.

"By the god Hermes! would the desperate knave smite his emperor. Hurl him forth, I say!

And Codrus was literally flung upon the arena. He sprang to his feet, and clasped his hands together. One look he cast around. The huge monster was two hundred feet distant, and he had not yet seen his human victim. Codrus remained motionless. Once again he looked around upon the mighty circle of his fellow-creatures, piled up one above another, a stupendous wall of faces, and all waiting to enjoy the sight of a lion tearing his flesh and crunching his bones. A small arrow from Commodus, sent, not to injure, but to arouse the beast, caused him to start and roar, and then he beheld,|| as he turned, this unarmed, helpless strip

At the sight,

ling totally in his power.
he shook his shaggy mane,—he lashed
his huge sides with his tail-his eyes
kindled like burning coals. He stepped
slowly at first, with a deep awful growl,
as if he suspected either that his victim
was armed, or that some wall of bars or
net-work shielded him from his fury.
Step by step he approached-his tail mov-
ed more swiftly with the quick excited
joy of a cat springing upon a mouse-his
growl deepened to a roar.

6 Now, Commodus! shrieked Codrus. A low laugh of the emperor was heard through the whole concave. On and on, step by step, stalked the gigantic beast. His mighty jaws were extended-he tore the ground with his foot-he shook the very foundations of the amphitheatre with his yet more tremendous roar; glowing faces leaned forward over the balconies, frequent murmurs of intense delight broke from lips beautiful as rosebuds.

'Oh, gods! oh, Commodus! screamed the now husky voice of Codrus as the lion drew nearer, and he stood motionless; for terror had paralyzed his limbs, and turned him to marble.

'Oh, Commodus! thine arrow! thine arrow! He will spring! he will spring" and, as his voice failed him, the wretch sank prostrate on his side and elbow.

'Not yet! not yet!' murmured the sweet voice of a Roman lady, a great eritic in the elegant amusements of the day.

At this instant arose a shout, sudden and deafening. The arrow of the emperor had sped to its mark, and quivered in the broad chest of the beast; but the latter, no more heeding it than a flake of down, had sprung with mighty roar upon his prey; already his claws and hairy jaws were encrimsoned, the head of poor Codrus had disappeared, his limbs were torn from his trunk, and his bowels and gore had left broad marks on the snowy sand. A more successful arrow now laid the lion quivering on his back, rolling, tearing and biting the ground. A third stretched him motionless in death; and, in a few moments more, slaves had borne. off the two carcasses, and had respread the white sand, so as to leave no trace of the event.

'Peace to the last of the Antonines! cried the shrill voice from the gallery; and general laughter, and a peal of goodnatured applause, rewarded the humor of the unseen speaker, and announced the

A Beggar.-Cromwell, &c.

for a warmer clime-the lowing of kine, or the ringing of the hunter's rifle in the distant wood.

Sympathizing with the scene, I sat down and mingled in revery. I was carried back in imagination to the days of depart. ed years, to the time of youth, when free from care and anxiety, I wandered, joyous as the morning breeze, over the fields around my early home. I called to mind the many happy hours I then enjoyed, unconscious of the evils of the world, and promising myself pleasures and happiness in an increasing ratio, when time's revolv ing spheres should usher me into more busy scenes of life. Vain delusive thoughts, how false have they proved! Those days, joys and enjoyments have not only passed away, and are now numbered with the things that were; but the companions of those days too, some tread a distant soil, and others have sunk to rest, and sleep

free from the cares of life in the silent

His

tear-drop over her bier, and plant a flower
upon her grave. How short the days, and
how transitory the hopes of man!
time may pass joyous like the gurgling
brook before me for a season,but soon as the
latter in yonder rolling river, so the former
will lose itself in the ocean of eternity. His
honors, like the foliage of the trees which
crown these hills, may flourish for a time,
but soon will wither and decay. Bright
hopes may over-arch his sky, like the bow
of heaven, with brilliant hues; but the
colors of the one are as evanescent as the

THE STRANGER'S HEART.

The stranger's heart! O, wound it not!
A yearning anguish is its lot;
In the green shadow of thy tree
The stranger finds no rest with thee.
Thou think'st thy children's laughing play
A lovely sight at full of day;
Then are the stranger's thoughts oppress'd,
His mother's voice comes o'er his breast.
Thou think's it sweet when friend with
friend,

Beneath oue roof in prayer may blend ;
Then doth the stranger's eye grow dim,
For far are those who prayed for him.
Thy heart, thy home, thy vintage land,

The voices of thy kindred band-
O, 'midst them all when blest thou art,
Deal gently with the stranger's heart.

GONE, BUT NOT LOST.

Just above the Highlands, the Hudson is widened, into what is called Newburgh Bay; it is a beautiful expanse of water resting against the hills, as if it gathered itself up for strength before it burst away through the mountain barriers into the

tomb. One in particular I remember-in whose loved society I used to spend many of my holy-day hours, and whose smiling face was requisite to complete every social circle in which I moved. With her I used to pluck the wild flowers of nature, and weave with them garlands, which alas, experience has taught, were no more fading than our youthful hopes and joys. With her I spent my youthful days in pleasure, pure as the morning beam. With her I conned my task at the district school, and dreamed of future bliss and future honors: On the eastern shore as it slopes and her I loved with a fraternal love, fan- toward the bay, is a church and churchned by the buoyancy of youth, and burn-yard, as delightfully planted for prospect ing on a heart as yet not soured by disap. as any on the banks of this river. It was pointments. Yes, her gentle form, in all in this grave-yard that I first met, on a the reality of life, now floats before my the head of these lines, and the scene and tomb-stone, the inscription that stands at imagination-again I gaze on those spark- the associations render the mention of the ling, intelligent eyes-that brow of snow, circumstance suitable. overshadowed with curling raven locks, those cheeks blooming with health, and those lips vieing in color with the damask rose; and mark that light elastic step. But

"She is gone, whose lovely face,
Was but her least and lowest grace;"

sea.

'Gone, but not lost.' It was the tribute of affection and faith. It expressed in simple but graphic words the sad truth that one was gone, and also the sublime assurance that the departed was not lost.

Was it a fact? I confess it startled me at first. A few months since and the one whose grave I was standing by, had and I have been called to shed the burning | lived and moved, and filled perhaps no

246

sea.

Robert Jones.

A broad and beautiful stream was before me. Its waters were rolling silently but steadily on towards the mighty There they are-they are gone never, never more to return. Are they lost? Every drop is there, as pure and perennial as when gliding at my feet.

little space in a wide circle of friends. saint. Day by day disease wears away But the place was now vacant; the outer the tabernacle of clay; by and by death man had been seen to fail day by day, || dashes in pieces the golden bowl,' and death finished the work, the grave covthe wheel at the cistern stands still. But ered it up, the worms had their prey.- the freed spirit starts into new existence And not lost! not lost! I reasoned a before the eternal throne, and like an anmoment before I could be satisfied that gel of light leaps in gladness and glory the epitaph was not (like most epitaphs) unutterable and inconceivable. And is mere rhetoric. that saint lost? In a diamond mine is found a clod of earth that contains a gem of great price. It is taken from him that found it, and polished for him who owns the mine and all its gems; and now it sparkles on the bosom of the queen, or shines radiantly in the royal coronet. Is that jewel lost? And if the Monarch of the Universe could find, in the darkness of this lower world, gems that infinite skill can polish for his use, shall we count them lost when he makes up his jewels and takes them to himself? If he should send for these little ones that are this moment laughing in the innocence of their young hearts at my feet, and set them as stars in his crown, shall I break my heart with grief as if my children were lost. So Payson reasoned. I asked a friend whoin I met after a long separation, 'How many children have you?" 'Two here,' said he, 'and one in heaven.' He would not reckon lost the one first found and saved. He was right. Of such is the kingdom.

A white-sailed vessel was just entering the gap of the Highlands; the summer breeze freshened, and bore it out of view. || It was gone, but not lost.

The star that melts away into the light of heaven' when the brighter sun rises on the world or the star that goes down behind the western hills, or the sun itself that sets in glory is gone: but to shine again with equal or brighter lustre. It is not lost. Not a ray of its living light has perished.

A holy man in the early ages of the world, walked with God and was notfor God took him. He was gone. The places that knew him once knew him no more. But he was not lost. He lived; he yet lives.

A certain prophet of the Lord was walking with another whom he tenderly loved; and suddenly there appeared a chariot of fire, and horses of fire, and parted them both asunder: and Elijah went up by a whirlwind into heaven. And Elisha saw it, and he cried, My father, my father, the chariot of Israel and the horses thereof. And he saw him no more.' He was gone, but not lost.

A disconsolate female came to the grave of her best beloved friend, and she saw that his precious remains were gone, she cried, "They have taken away my Lord, and I know not where they have laid him.' She thought in her sorrow, as most of the bereaved are wont to think, that she had lost her all; when one stood before her and said, 'Mary,' and the joy of life from the dead burst in rapture on her soul. It was the voice of her beloved. She had found her Lord. He was gone, but not lost.

This was a natural, if not a proper train of thought. A believer writes this inscription over the ashes of a departed

They are not lost who die in Christ.They live and reign and rejoice in the midst of the throne and the Lamb. Then 'weep not for the dead,' as though they were lost. They are safe where danger, disease or death will never reach them.— In the hope of a joyful resurrection, commit their ashes to their kindred dust, and write over them, 'Gone, but not lost.'— New-York Observer.

Sketches of Real Life.

From the Register and Observer.
ROBERT JONES,

A NEW ENGLAND BLACKSMITH.

Robert Jones was the son of the poorest man in the little village of Dalton, a town among the Green Mountains. His father was one of the many men originally of no mean figure, in his native hamlet, who fought in the war of independence, and brought from it, not only the scars and remembrance of battle fields, but what was well called 'the camp-fever,' that is a disposition to neglect his own affairs, to be oftener out of

his shop than in it (he was a cooper by the cooper's wife, and many such are rade), to tell long stories and drink 'flip' there now. They are the mothers of nd 'toddy,' till even the old war and the men. It is rare that a religious woman Hessians were forgot. With such habits fails to open and bless the spirit of childthe little competence, he had collected and hood. God seems to have sown the fehis wife had saved, by diligence on his male heart more richly with the orient part, and the thrifty economy of New-pearl of religion, that the same bosom England housewifes on hers, was soon may nourish the infant body, and give spent, and the soldier of the Revolution angel's food' to the young soul. Cerbecame the poorest man in the village, tainly the prayers, the religion, the Chrisand what was then rarer than it has since tian faith of Ruth soon became the life become-a confirmed drunkard. of the boy. When the father came sauntering home in '83, the boy in his ninth year was already baptized with the fire of the Holy Spirit.

Robert was born in the famous year '75; the year of Lexington and Bunker Hill. The religious spirit which had come down from the past century, seemed to have reached a higher flood in Dalton, than elsewhere. It remained stationary till the war of Independence caused its healing waters to recede. We little know at what cost our national freedom was purchased. The price was not paid at Bunker Hill, or White Plains,nor yet at Valley Forge, nor in the Jersey campaigns. No, not even in the 'Jersey Prison Ship' where eleven thousand of our countrymen fell martyrs to patriotism and the cruel policy of England. No, the price was paid by the demoralized soldier, by the wife he deserted, the child he ruined, and the companion who caught the infection he breathed.-prentice to his calling. It was paid in the tears of widows whose husbands were still in the body, and orphans that had fathers upon the earth; in the neglect of Religion and the scorn of morality, which long warfare always brings.

We must pass briefly over the actions of years which dragged heavily to poor Ruth, and say in a word, that time in the midst of adversity perfected the work she so happily began. The father went to the tavern, and Robert went to the temple. His small earnings, won by the little services a boy can render in a village, were piously paid in to the support of a mother whom disappointment had bowed down, and of the father abandoned as he was. At a suitable age, the village smith, who was a kind man and loved to encourage merit, and knew that a good turn in youth often determines the direction and the result of a life, took him as ap

But to return. Robert felt early the blessed influence of a mother's religion. She taught him to read the word of God in the Bible, to find it written in the flower under his foot; in the stars that twinkled over his head; in the water-drop which now shone like a topaz in the Rainbow, next toiled at the wheel of the village mill; then moistened the root of a wild brier rose, and at last gave brightness to its fragrant petals. She taught him that Religion is life; that prayer is something real; that God is never far from us; that Christianity, and Love, and Holiness and Heaven, and Rest for the Soul, though often preached up and believed in only as names, both then and now, were something real, and were the best and most beautiful of all things which crown a mortal's lot, or make up the life of an angel. Many mothers were then in New England like Ruth Jones

The opportunities for intellectual improvement were certainly scanty at Dalton then, as they now are, when there is less excuse for the fact. The school kept by a master-not a teacher-lasted but 8 weeks in 52; and that kept by a mistress, who could hardly be called an instructer— seldom more than 16, and then only for the little boys and the girls. Reading and writing, and a small knowledge of accounts were all the fund in themselves, on which master or mistress could draw. So the minds of scholars went hungry and bare. But what is in a man will come out, at least show that it is in him. There was the daily work of his trade, the woods, the grass, the stars, the waters, men and women, from without ;there were Duty and Faith, and Religion and Love, from within-and all these were the educators of Robert Jones, the Blacksmith's 'Prentice boy, the DrunkWe need not say he grew in ard's son. grace.

Years passed over him, as they have over me, and will over you, my young reader. His apprenticeship over, he lived on wages with the smith, and supported