with John, who reclined upon the Saviour's bosom? All this is taught, and vouched for, and scattered among those "who have pleasure in unrighteousness;" and it is but in accordance with the prophetic scripture, that, under "the strong delusion sent upon them," many should believe the monstrous lie. We will not allow ourselves to say what we think of the men who get up these exhibitions, and who put money in their pockets by these publications; neither is it in our line of business to take up their reiterated challenge, and show how the trick is done. We are free to admit that the statements of credible witnesses, relative to what they have seen and heard, are wonderful-rivaling, in some instances, the feats of the farfamed Signor Blitz, who swallows tow, sets it on fire in his stomach, and draws forth beautiful ribbons; and of Professor Anderson, whom for twenty-five cents you may see pour half-a-dozen different kinds of liquor from an empty bottle, and with a word restore to perfect soundness a score of gold watches that you have just seen him smash all to pieces. Let those who have no better employment devote their time to the elucidation of these mysteries. It would be far more harmlessly employed than in "sitting in a circle" night after night, and lending the sanction of their names, under the guise of being "friends of inquiry," to the dissemination of absurdities so abominably gross, that the ravings of Boehm appear lucid by the contrast, and, in the comparison, the most blasphemous page in the book of Mormon is perfectly harmless! ANECDOTE OF THE LATE SIR AN DREW AGNEW. REMEMBER an anecdote of him," says an intimate friend, (James Balfour, jun., Esq., W. S.,) “ which I thought very touching. We were speaking one day of the difficulty of confessing Christ before the world. It was affecting to hear him acknowledge this difficulty, who had borne Christ's reproach so manfully and so meekly in all places. He told me, that when he first began to take up the cause of the Sabbath, there were many worldly men who disliked him so much that they seemed anxious to stare him out of their company; and that he had felt this partic ularly at the New Club. One honorable baronet, not satisfied with this species of annoyance, when he saw that Sir Andrew had courage enough to despise it, and to frequent the club regularly every day notwithstanding, began speaking at him, and acting as rudely as he well could toward him. One morning Sir Andrew was waiting for his breakfast at the club, when the baronet to whom I allude came in, apparently in great agitation. Sir Andrew, perceiving this, asked him if anything was wrong; to which he replied that his lady had last night had an attack of paralysis, and that she was dangerously ill. Sir Andrew said he felt for him sincerely, and expressed his sympathy warmly. Next morning he met him again, with his two sons, who had come to see their mother, and he asked for Lady with much interest. The answer was, that he had been sitting up with her all night, and that she was no better. Ultimately, however, she did recover; and on one occasion afterward, the honorable baronet referred to came up to Sir Andrew, and, with feeling that did him great honor, said: 'Sir Andrew, there are many people who like to laugh at you, and abuse you, because of your Sabbath principles, and I confess that I have been among the number; but I trust I shall never so far forget myself again. A man gets a very different view of these subjects when standing beside what he thinks the dying bed of his wife.' Sir Andrew was much affected by this frank acknowledgment, and replied: “I understand you perfectly; for I have experienced all the same feelings myself. I, too, was once opposed to religion. When I first proposed to bring my Sabbath Bill into Parliament, I felt the difficulty I had to encounter; and, after having given notice of the bill, I thought I should never have courage to proceed with it. The day was drawing near on which my motion was to come on. Every day I felt my courage growing less and less; when, just a day or two before, a messenger arrived from the country with intelligence that my mother had had a stroke of apoplexy, and I must hurry down to see her. I went accordingly, and it was while watching beside the bed of my dying mother that I got grace and strength to bring in my Sabbath Bill.' The conversation touched the feelings of both parties, and they ever afterward entertained much respect for one another." IN PIERRE PITOIS. (From the French.) the year 1809, Pierre Pitois was sergeant in the twelfth regiment of the line, then quartered in Strasburg. He was a native of that half-savage, half-civilized, part of Burgundy known under the name of Morvan; and his comrades never spoke of him but as a tough customer." Always the first and the last to fire, he had the reputation of liking but two things in the world-the smell of powder and the whistling of bullets. "Indeed, Captain, I have heard every word, and I thank you with all my heart for your news, which I consider very good news. "I thought you would," said his officer. "But, Captain, is there no chance of obtaining the leave of absence?" "Are you "Leave of absence?-the very day before taking the field!" mad?" was the reply. Now, one fine day, our friend Pierre took it into his head to address a letter to his Colonel, in which he applied for leave of absence to go to see his aged mother, who was dangerously ill. He added that his father, being seventy-eight years of "I never thought of that," said Pierre. age, and suffering under a paralytic affec-"We are then on the point of taking the tion, could not be of any use in nursetending the poor woman; and he pledged himself to return as soon as the health of his mother should be restored. The Colonel's reply to Pierre's application was, 66 that, as the regiment might at any moment be ordered to take the field, no leave of absence could be obtained." field; and at such a time, I suppose, leave is never given?" "It is never even asked." "It is quite right-it is never even asked. It would have the appearance of cowardice. Well, then, I will not press it any more; I will try and get on without it." "And you will do well," replied the Captain. The next day, the twelfth regiment entered Germany; and the next-Pierre Pitois deserted. Three months after, when the twelfth regiment, having reaped in the field of battle an abundant harvest of glory, was Pierre Pitois submitted. A fortnight elapsed; a second letter was received by the Colonel, in which Pierre informed him that his mother had died, without the consolation of giving her last blessing to her only child, and in which he again solicited leave of absence, saying that "he could not state his reasons for this request-making its triumphal entry into Strasburg, it was a family secret," but earnestly Pierre Pitois was ignominiously dragged implored his Colonel not to deny him this back to his corps by a brigade of gens favor. d'armes. A court-martial is immediately called. Pierre Pitois is accused of having deserted at the very moment when his regiment was about to meet the enemy face to face. The court presented a singular spectacle. On the one side stood forth the accuser, who cried,— Pierre's second letter was as little successful as the first. The poor fellow's captain merely said: "Pierre, the Colonel has received your letter; he is sorry for the death of your old mother, but he cannot grant the leave of absence you require, as the regiment leaves Strasburg tomorrow." "Ah! The regiment leaves Strasburg; and for what place, may I ask you?" said Pitois. แ "Pierre Pitois, you, one of the bravest men in the army; you, on whose breast the star of honor yet glitters; you, who have never incurred either punishment or censure from your officers; you could not "For Austria,” replied his officer. have quitted your regiment-quitted it "We are to see Vienna, my brave Pitois; almost on the eve of battle-without some we are to fight the Austrians. Is not powerful motive to impel you! This mothat good news for you? You will be in tive the court demands of you; for it would your element, my fine fellow!" gladly have it in its power-if not to acPierre Pitois made no reply; he seemed quit you, which it ought not perhaps either to do or to desire-at least to recommend you to the Emperor's mercy." On the other side stood the accused, who answered: "I have deserted without any reason-without any motive; I do not repent; if it were to do again, I would do it again-I deserve death pass sentence." And then came some witnesses, who deposed: "Pierre Pitois is a deserter; we know it is a fact, but we do not believe it." And others averred: "Pierre Pitois is mad; the court cannot condemn a madman. He must be sentenced then, not to death, but to the Lunatic Asylum." "And what do you want with me until then ?" "Dost thou not know me, Pierre? No matter,-I know thee well. I saw thee at Austerlitz, and bravely didst thou bear thyself. From that day, Pierre, I have had for thee a regard no less warm than sincere. Yesterday, on my arrival at Strasburg, I learned thy crime and thy condemnation. I have prevailed on the gaoler, who is a relation of mine, to allow me to see thee; and now that I have come, I would say to thee, Pierre,-it is often a sad thought to a man about to die, that he has not a friend near him to whom he might open his heart, and whom he might intrust with some sacred commission to discharge when he should be no more. If thou wilt accept me, I would be to thee that friend." This last alternative had very nearly been adopted, for there was not one person in the court who did not consider the desertion of Pierre Pitois as one of those singular occurrences beyond the range of human possibilities, which, while every one is forced to admit, as a fact, no one can account for, or comprehend. The accused, however, pleaded guilty, most positively; and was most pertinacious in his demand for the just penalty of the law to be inflicted upon him. He so bold-sweetheart-to thy sister ?" ly avowed his crime, continually repeating that he did not regret it, that at length his firmness assumed the character of bravado, and left no room for clemency. Sentence of death was therefore pronounced. "I thank you, comrade," replied Pierre, briefly and coldly. "Why! hast thou nothing to say to me?" Pierre Pitois heard his sentence read with the most steady, unflinching gaze. They warmly urged him to plead for mercy, but he refused. As every one guessed that at the bottom of this affair there was some strange mystery, it was determined that the execution of Pierre should be delayed. He was carried back to the military prison; and it was announced to him, that, as a mark of special favor, he had three days given to him to press for pardon. He shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. In the middle of that night on which was to dawn the day fixed for his execu'tion, the door of Pierre's dungeon turned softly on its hinges, and a subaltern officer advanced to the side of the camp-bed in which the condemned was tranquilly sleeping; and, after gazing on him some time in silence, awoke him. Pierre opened his eyes, and staring about him, said; "The hour, then, is at last come!" "No, Pierre," replied the officer, "it is not yet the hour; but it will soon come." "Nothing." "What! not one word of adieu to thy "A sweetheart?-a sister? "To thy father?" died in my arms." I never Two months ago he "Thy mother, then ?" "My mother!"-and Pierre, whose voice suddenly and totally changed, repeated,-" my mother! Ah, comrade, do not utter that name; for see, how I have never heard that name-I have never said it in my heart without feeling melted like a child, and even now, methinks, if I were to speak of her-" "What then?" "The tears would come-and tears do not become a man . . . Tears!" continued he, "tears when I have but a few hours to live-ah! there would not be much courage in that!" "Thou art too stern, comrade. I think I have, thank God, as much courage as other people; and yet I should not be ashamed of weeping, if I were to speak of my mother." "Are you serious?" said Pierre, eagerly seizing the officer's hand. “You, a man and a soldier, and not ashamed to weep?" "When speaking of my mother? Certainly not. My mother is so good, so kind; she loves me so much, and I, too, out hesitation-without a second thought; love her dearly." and I went straight forward, faced danger without hesitation, and without a second thought. Those who saw me thus, as it were, seek to meet the bullets, said, 'There is a brave fellow!' They might have better said, 'There is a man who loves his mother!' "She loves you? and you love her? O! then I may, indeed, tell you all. My heart is full; it must have vent; and, however strange my feelings may appear to you, I am sure you will not laugh at them. Listen, then; for what you said just now is quite true. A man is glad, "One day a letter brought the tidings when about to die, to have a heart to that she was ill-my own poor mother; which he can pour out his own. Will you I longed to see her. I asked for leave of really listen to me, and not laugh at absence; it was not granted. I rememme?" "Surely I will listen, Pierre,-a dying man must ever excite compassionate sympathy." "You must know that since I came into the world, I never loved but one being, -that being was my mother. But her I loved as none love-with all that was in me of life and energy. While yet a babe, I used to read her eyes, as she read mine; I guessed her thoughts, and she knew mine. She was the heart of my heart, and I the heart of hers. I never had either sweetheart or wife; I never had a friend my mother was everything to me. Well, I was summoned to take arms; and when they told me I must leave her, in a paroxysm of despair I declared that they might drag me limb from limb, but never should they take me from her alive. With one word spoken in her holy fortitude and strong courage, she changed my whole purpose. 'Pierre,' said she, 'you must go-it is my wish.' I knelt before her, and I said, 'I will go, mother.' 'Pierre,' she added, 'thou hast been a good son, and I thank God for it; but the duties of a son are not the only ones a man has to fulfill. Every citizen owes himself to his country, it calls thee, obey! Thou art going to be a soldier; from this moment thy life is no longer thine own, it is thy country's. If its interests demand it, lay it down cheerfully. If it be the will of God that thou shouldst die before me, I should weep for thee my heart's tears, but I would say, 'He gave, and he has taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord! Go now, and if thou love thy mother, do thy duty.' O how precious those holy words! I have never forgotten them. 'Do thy duty,' she had said. Now the duty of a soldier was always and in all things to obey; and in all things, and always, I obeyed. It was to go straight forward, to face danger withVOL I, No. 4.-Z* bered her last words,- If thou love thy mother, do thy duty.' I submitted. A little after I heard that she was dead. O! then my senses forsook me at any risk I determined to return to the country. Whence proceeded so ardent, so impetuous a desire to see once more the place where my mother had just died? I will tell you; and as you have a mother, as she loves you, and as you love her, you will understand me. "We peasants of Morvan are a simple and confiding race; we have not received the instruction, nor attained the knowledge, that they have in the cities; but we have our beliefs, which the townsfolk call our superstitions. What matters the name? Be they superstitions or beliefs, we have them, and clever would be the man that could uproot them. Now one of these beliefs to which we cling the most, is that which attributes to the first flower that blows in the grave-mold such a virtue, that he who gathers it is certain of never forgetting the dead, and of never being forgotten by them. Belief, how dear! how sweet! With it death has no terrors; for death, without forgetting, or being forgotten, is but a sweet sleep-but calm repose after long toil. That flower! I panted to see it bud; I panted to gather it; I abandoned my post, and went on my way. After ten days of a long and weary march, I reached my mother's grave. The earth seemed yet fresh; no flower had appeared: I waited. weeks elapsed; and then one lovely morning I saw a little blue flower- Forget-menot.' As I plucked it, I shed glad tears, Six for methought that little flower was my mother's token; that she had felt that I was near, and under the form of that flower had given herself to my heart once more. "There was nothing now to detain me in the country; for my father had soon fol lowed my mother to the grave, and I had plucked my precious flower: what more did I want? I remembered my mother's charge-do thy duty! I sought out the gens d'armes, and I said, I am a deserter, arrest me.'. . . And now I am to die; and if, as you have assured me, I have in you a friend, I die without regret, for you will do for me the only service I require. The flower, which at the risk of my life I plucked from the grave, is here, in a little case next to my heart. Promise me that you will see that they do not take it from me. It is the link which unites me to my mother; and if I thought it would be broken-O! I should not have the courage to die. . . . Say, do you promise to do what I ask you?" “I promise,” said the officer. "Your hand, that I may press it to my heart; you are very kind to me; and if the Almighty God were in his omnipotence to give me my life a second time, I would devote it to you." The friends parted. The next day dawned. They had arrived at the place of execution; and already had the fatal sentence been read, when the low murmurs which ran through the ranks, suddenly changed into almost deafening shouts,-"The Emperor! The Emperor! Long live the Emperor!" He appeared, dismounted from his horse; then with a short quick step he walked up to the condemned. "Pierre," said he to him. Pierre gazed at him, and made an effort to speak, but a sudden stupor seemed to overwhelm him. "Pierre,” continued the Emperor, "remember your own words of last night. God gives thee life a second time; devote it not to me, but to France! She, too, is a kind and a good mother! Love her as thou didst love thy first-thine own." He then turned to depart, and greeting shouts of admiring love followed him till he was out of sight. Hearing of the mystery of the case, he had sent the officer to the prison for its narration. Some years after this, a captain of the Old Guards fell mortally wounded on the field of Waterloo. A GREAT MAN SELF-WRECKED. "AN OWRE TRUE TALE." ANY years ago—in the summer of the MANY year 1815 it was, or thereabouts-a wealthy merchant of New-York took charge of a little boy who had been left an orphan. The parents of this child had been actors of some slight celebrity in the theaters of the United States; but dying within a short time of each other, they left behind them, in a state of the completest destitution, three young children. The eldest of these was a handsome boy of about six years of age, with a quick eye, an active spirit, and a remarkably intelligent countenance. The merchant of whom we speak had known the parents of the child; and out of pity for its helplessness, he and his wife, who had no children, adopted it as their own. How happily the ardent boy passed his days in the house of his benefactor; how he was beloved by those two childless people; how, in the strength of their great affection, the merchant and his wife took him to Europe; how he spent some four or five pleasant years under the care and teaching of a reverend gentleman near London; how he came back again to the city of his birth to finish his education; and how he was generally looked upon as the rich merchant's heir-it would take long to tell. But we would fain linger on this portion of our story; fain dwell upon his precocious wit and aptness for learning-his feats of strength and agility-his ease and grace on horseback, his dexterity in race and stream, and his success in all that seemed to promise for him a brilliant future. But the truth must be told, no matter how unwilling the teller. He was sent to the college of Charlottesville, amply provided with money. In those days dissipation among the students of colleges was unhappily but too common; and among the most dissolute and extravagant, the wildest rufflers of the town, the hardest drinkers and the most daring gamblers, there was ever to be found one more wild and desperate than they all—and that one was the subject of our story, now a goodlooking, free-hearted young fellow of eigh Amid the din of battle, he was heard to teen. Friends advised with him, and he shout in his death pangs— France "Long live the Emperor! forever! My mother! My mother!" It was Pierre Pitois ! made fair promises in plenty; tutors remonstrated, and he declared that he would amend and win the highest honors yet; companions tempted and wine allured, and |