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reflect how perishable is the metal which he hammers with such violence; how the kind earth will soon shroud up his bloody foot-prints; and all that he achieved and skilfully piled together will be like his own canvass city of a camp,-this evening loud with life-to-morrow all struck and vanished, a few earth-pits and heaps of straw! for here it always continues true that the deepest force is the stillest; that as in the fable, the mild shining of the sun shall silently accomplish, what the fierce blustering of the tempest had in vain essayed. Above all, it is ever to be kept in mind that not by material, but by moral power, are men and their actions governed. How noiseless is thought! No rolling of drums, no tramp of squadrons, or immeasurable tumult of baggage waggons, attends its movements. In what obscure and sequestered place may the head be meditating, which is one day to be crowned with more than imperial authority; for kings and emperors will be amongst its ministering servants; it will rule not over but in all heads, and with these its solitary combinations of ideas, as with magic formulas, bend the world to its will. The time may come when Napoleon himself will be better known for his laws than for his battles; and the victory of Waterloo prove less momentous than the opening of the first mechanics' institute.

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THOMAS CARLYLE. MILITARY MONUMENTS.-St. Paul's Cathedral, London. To relieve the eye in its dreary range over the unoccupied part of the Church, the government began, about the year 1796, to introduce statues and monuments of illustrious men.

The first was erected to the memory of Howard. The statues of Dr. Samuel Johnson, Sir Joshua Reynolds, and Sir William Jones, next attract attention. But of nearly thirty persons-all the others, from Lord Nelson downwards, are heroes of the sword! and in this great Christian temple, one meets with daggers and great guns! -British lions and Imperial eagles!-with naval captains on their quarter-decks, and generals in the act of dying from wounds received in battle.

One of the last of the monuments, is that of General Brock, who fell at Queen's Town, in Upper Canada, 1812. Over the heads of some of these are hanging the flags taken from the enemy, now reduced by time and dust to

unsightly and filthy rags. What more than this could have been expected to decorate the Pantheon of ancient and Pagan Rome? What, may it not be asked, has pure Christianity to do with deeds of this description? Has the religion of the Author of our salvation any thing in it, that can sanction a feeling at variance with universal benevolence, of "Peace on earth, and good will to men?"-Griscom's Tour in Europe.

Tamerlane's Monument, &c.-Tamerlane, it is said, built a monument of human heads, ninety thousand in number. The Indians in North America exhibit the scalps of their prisoners around their wigwams, and some of the South Sea Islanders, after their wars, set up human bones in fanciful display.

Genseric pillaged Rome, A. D., 457, and loaded his fleet with the spoils. Having stripped the Capitol of its numerous and costly military statues, (the accumulation of ages), as also of the relics brought from Judea, by the Emperor Titus-Genseric had them conveyed on board one of his best vessels. The ship, however, on her voyage to Africa, foundered at sea, and this precious cargo of bronze heroes is stated to have been entirely lost! GIBBON.

When two nations make peace, they promise to forget former differences; but this promise is weakened by erecting military statues to commemorate victories; thus warlike taste is cherished, and national faith called in question. Military statues are of Pagan origin, and are far more allied to Heathen idolatry than to the Christian religion.

It were well if there were fewer heroes, for I scarcely ever heard of any but did more mischief than good. These overgrown mortals commonly use their will with their right hand, and their reason with their left. Their pride is their title, and their power puts them in possession. Their pomp is furnished from rapine, and their scarlet is dyed with human blood. If wrecks and ruins and desolation of kingdoms are marks of greatness, why do not we worship a tempest, and erect a statue to the plague? A panegyric upon an earthquake is every jot as reasonable as upon such conquests as these.

PEARLS OF GREAT PRICE.

HEROISM OF A PEASANT.-A great inundation having

taken place in the north of Italy, owing to an excessive fall of snow in the Alps, followed by a speedy thaw, the river Adige carried off a bridge near Verona, except the middle part, on which was the house of the toll-gatherer, or porter, who with his whole family thus remained imprisoned by the waves, and in momentary danger of destruction. They were discovered from the banks, stretching forth their hands, screaming, and imploring succour, while fragments of the remaining arch were continually dropping into the water. In this extreme danger, a nobleman who was present held out a purse of one hundred sequins, as a reward to any adventurer who would take a boat and deliver the unhappy family. But the risk was so great of being borne down by the rapidity of the stream, of being dashed against the fragments of the bridge, or of being crushed by the falling stones, that not one in the vast number of spectators had courage enough to attempt such an exploit. A peasant, passing along, was informed of the proposed reward; immediately jumping into a boat, he, by strength of oars, gained the middle of the river, brought his boat under the pile, and the whole family safely descended by means of a rope. By a still more strenuous effort, and great strength of arm, he brought the boat and family to shore. "Brave fellow," exclaimed the nobleman, handing the purse to him, "here is the promised recompence." "I shall never expose my life for money," answered the peasant, "my labour is a sufficient livelihood for myself, my wife, and children; give the purse to this poor family, who have lost all.

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WALPOLIANA.

A certain Scotchman being solicited to enter the army and fight for his country, asked the officer who desired to enlist him, these two questions. "Can you tell me if I kill a man that he will go to heaven? or can you say whether, if I am killed myself, I shall likewise go there?" Meeting with no satisfactory reply, he continued, "I dare not send a fellow-creature unprepared into eternity, neither dare I rush thither unbidden." This man was a true hero, he would rather encounter the dangers of life and the contumely of the world, than offend his Divine Master.

THE HEROIC Box.-On the 22nd of September, 1842, as I was passing through one of the streets of Brooklyn, a town on Long Island, opposite the city of New York,

I witnessed the following striking exhibition of the power of that love "that endureth all things."

Two boys, named John and Ralph, about twelve years of age, were walking before me, each with an arm affectionately around the other.

They seemed to be in a merry mood, for they were talking and laughing. Ralph had a tin pail in his hand. As he was swinging it about carelessly, he hit John's hand and hurt him.

"What did you do that for?" asked John.

"I did not intend to do it," said Ralph.

"You did," said John, " you need not deny it." "I did not see your hand," said Ralph.

"You did, and you meant to hurt me," said John. "Indeed I did not," said Ralph, " and I am sorry for having hurt you."

"No, you are not sorry; you did it on purpose; and you are always trying to hurt me," said John; "I won't bear it; I will teach you to take care how you hurt me." And he followed up his words with furious blows.

Did Ralph become angry and beat John in return? No; he obeyed the precept which commands us never to strike those who strike us. He loved John, and endured his hard blows without any retaliation.

John of course felt that he was doing wrong in beating his kind play-fellow, whose patient endurance awakened his better feelings. His anger passed away, he became heartily ashamed of his conduct, and at length he ventured to say, "Ralph, did you really not mean to hurt me?"

"No; I did not," said Ralph. "I hit you as I was swinging the pail about in play, and I am sorry I hurt you.” "Well, Ralph," said John, "I am sorry I struck you ; but I cannot say as you do, that I did not mean to hurt you."

"Never mind," said Ralph. "You would not have struck me at all if you had not been angry. It was your anger that made you beat me."

This was cold consolation to John. He knew it was his anger that led him to beat his generous companion; but he also knew that his anger increased his guilt instead of extenuating it. He felt cut to the heart, when he heard Ralph trying to excuse his wicked and cruel blows, and anger.

"Well," said John, again putting his arm affectionately round Ralph, "You always get the better of me, whenever I become angry with you and beat you."

"How so?" asked Ralph, "I am sure I do not wish to get the better of you."

"Why," said John, "you take all so quietly and kindly, it seems as though you loved me so much, that you could not be angry with me and hurt me, even when I hurt you."

"Well, John," said Ralph, "I do love you; and I do not feel as if I could strike you or be angry with you, whatever you do to me. My father tells me to love you, even if you hate me and beat me. I cannot beat you when I love you."

"That," said John, "is just what my father and mother tell me. Here you always have the better of me, for you can keep cool and quiet when I am angry, and even when I beat you; but I can hardly endure it when boys become angry with me and strike me. I always want to strike them."

"My father and mother," said Ralph, "always told me never to be angry with those who strike me, nor to strike them in return; so I never strike any body."

"Well," said John, "I can never take any comfort in being angry with you and beating you, for you never strike me in return, nor do you ever show any anger whatever I do to you."

This is the substance of the conversation which took place between the two boys as I walked behind them. I then came up to them and said, "How, John, can you take pleasure in being angry with any one, and in striking and quarrelling?"

"I do not," answered John, "but I always feel more unhappy when I strike Ralph than when I strike other boys, because he never strikes me in return."

"Why then did you strike Ralph, if it makes you unhappy to do so?" said I.

"I never do strike him," said John, "when I have time to think how he will receive it, and how he will treat me."

"How do you feel when you strike other boys?" I

asked.

"I never feel so sorry afterwards, when I strike those who strike me.

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