INFLUENCE OF THE BIBLE.

On the bright lake of Thun, at the entrance to the Oberland of Berne, is a pretty large steamer, crossing twice in a day from Thun to Neauhauss. That passage, habitually performed within one hour, is certainly one of the finest sceneries of Switzerland. The boat, gliding upon the pure water of the greatest reservoir of the Aar, goes along a shore beautifully diversified by rich sites, old manors, wealthy villages, or bold and picturesque ranges of hills and rocks; and runs opposite the extensive and imposing panorama of the Stockhorn, the Niesen, the Bumisalp, the Young-frau, and all the other needles of the Alps of Berne.

Visitors and tourists are therefore flocking to that privileged land, and one may suppose how many questions are made to, and answered by the polite and so copiously informed captain of the "Niesen steamer."

It was a mild evening, and the boat had just turned its fore-deck to the west, returning for the second time to Thun, when a young traveller came and sat by my elbow, on the forepart of the ship, and began immediately an interesting account of his just performed excursion among the highest hills of the country.

As I was not a stranger to their names and beauties, I could fully understand, and partake the vivid admiration of the young narrator, in whom I discerned a mind cultivated, and also an affectionate heart.

Then I told him, Sir, you had a great advantage above me, in your visiting those places, and addressing their inhabitants: for, as being a foreigner, of course altogether ignorant of their spiritual position, you could always suppose that their souls were in harmony with their beautiful residence, and therefore enjoy without any secret sadness, both their meeting and the sight of their abode. For instance, look, sir, at that pretty hamlet, so nicely situated above those rocks, and by that little wood. Is not that scenery the very image of a

quiet, retired, and peaceful spot; and could we not suppose that the two or three families who live there, being, as they are, separated from a busy world, and sufficiently surrounded with the comforts of a rural life, enjoy the rest of this earth, and have all opportunity to possess and value the rest of God?"

"So it is, indeed, sir," said the young man, and very sensibly, "and I would really admit that it is so for the modest tenants of those cottages."

Traveller. And yet I must tell you that yesterday morning I was told by a sure informer, that one of the three fathers of a family of that very hamlet had been just led to Berne in irons, as being convicted of theft. And so, in this very hour, that apparently so peaceful spot, is as much troubled as a roaring sea.

Young Man. That makes myself sorry, indeed, and draws a veil upon that splendid scenery. And do you know, sir, what could induce the happy mountaineer to part so sadly with his peace ?

Traveller. I know not the particulars of that gloomy business; but, sir, this I know, that the most quiet place is never a peaceful spot, if the "Prince of Peace" is not obeyed there; and most likely such was the case in that lonely hamlet.

Young Man. Ah, sir! that makes me to understand the remark of an old guide whom I took yesterday, from Grindenwald to Meyringen. You know perfectly the road -you remember, therefore, that above the great plain which borders the Richenbach's-water, near the Rosenlane, there is a pretty farm, or cottage, backed by a dark forest of fir trees. When we were passing by that spot, there was before the house, a family of peasants, the father, the mother, and perhaps five children, all busy in cutting out those pretty works of white-wood, which are the industry of those mountains. Nothing appeared so quiet as that family, and I could but remark it, and say, 'Indeed, here is peace and rest!" Ah, sir!" said my guide, “seek for another peaceful spot! Peace was still here, some months ago, but I fear it is now gone ¡" "How

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is that?" said I. "Ah!" answered the guide, “because the old father Nikalus, whom I knew very well, has died; and, miserably, he has left a blank!" "I understand," was my reply, "they are mourning for his loss." "Ah, sir!" said the old man, that is not the worst; and for it, also, peace should not have gone. But I will tell you that old Nikalus-ah! he was indeed as a saint!-was reading the Bible to the whole family, every evening, once at least, and more than three times on the Sunday. And now, I know it is finished! The book of God remains shut and silent. Now, sir, I speak the truth, and believe me; where is no reading of the Bible, there is no peace."

Traveller. Beautiful, indeed! And pray, sir, what did you answer to the guide?

Young Man. I must confess that I did not answer; but your observation has recalled the fact to my remembrance.

I took down immediately on my pocket-book, the answer of the old guide, and I said solemnly to the young man-"Sir! do not forget that saying; it is worthy of consideration; and I feel quite persuaded that if the poor man whom they have taken up to prison the day before yesterday, would have been a reader of the book of God to his family, his hamlet had never seen the shameful circumstance which now, and for a long while, is troubling that place.

The young man answered nothing again; he rose, walked among the passengers, and when the steamer stopped in Thun, he bowed to me from a distance, and pursued his way. Ah! may the Lord teach him that indeed there is no real peace where there is no reading of the Bible!

C. MALAN.

THE DYING MOTHER.

The following is from the Autobiography of an orphan. I was about four years old, when an event occurred which influenced my whole future life.

I had not seen my mother for several days. I recollect that I cried frequently for her, and that I was put off with the excuses common on such occasions, until one day, on being again denied her, I went into a passion of shrieks and tears. The result was that I sobbed myself to sleep.

When I awoke, my Aunt Sarah was standing over me. It was not long before I remembered the cause of my sorrow, and I began to cry again.

"I want to see my mamma."

"Hush! you must not make a noise," said my aunt. "I want to see my mamma."

"Be still, child," cried my aunt, shaking her finger at me, "be still, I say, and you shall see your mother."

She hastily dressed me in my best white frock.

I thought

it strange, for I knew it was not Sunday, but I supposed, perhaps, there was to be company.

"Now you must be still," said my aunt, as she smoothed down my frock, "and not make the least noise. Your mamma is very ill."

I did not entirely understand her, but I felt that it was something terrible, and my little heart was moved. I wiped the last tear from my eye with my hand.

My aunt lifted me in her arms and carried me to the room. I remember the faces in the room. My uncle was there, and his wife; and I thought I had discovered why I had been dressed up, for as they lived some miles off, and rarely visi ted us, they were considered as company when they did come. Another gentleman was there, whom I had a faint remembrance of having seen before. The whole were standing about at the foot of the bed, the curtains of which were drawn up; and they were looking at something in it. I looked too, and I saw my mother.

She was lying partially propped up with pillows; but so pale and emaciated, that at first I scarcely distinguished her

from the snow-white linen. Her eyes, however, were the same that had so often looked love upon me; I should have recognised them if all else had been changed, though they were now luminously bright and large. I reached forth my hands, and half sprang from my aunt's arms.

"Mamma, dear mamma!" I cried.

Hush," said my aunt, drawing me back-"you must not weary your mother."

I looked at my aunt, and then turned heedingly to my parent. She glanced beseechingly to my aunt, who looked at the strange gentleman-he was the doctor. The latter nod

ded. At this my aunt stooped down, and held me close to my mother, so that I could put my little hands on her face, which I did, stroking it fondly, as I used to when she was lulling me to sleep.

But as she thus yielded, my aunt said—

"You are overtasking yourself, sister. The child will tease you."

Never shall I forget my mother's look-it was partly one of surprise, partly one of melancholy reproof as she said faintly, speaking with short sentences and with difficulty

"It is for the last time, and I think I should have been better if I had seen her oftener-dear, dear Mary! she continued, as with infinite difficulty she put one thin, transparent arm around me, and drawing me gently toward her, kissed

me over and over again.

My mother must have been very beautiful; I have often heard since that she was; but I felt it, on that occasion, child as I was. Her eyes, indeed her whole face, beamed on me with such divine affection, such an outgushing of the entire soul in love, that, for years afterwards, her countenance, as then seen, was to me the type of an angel. It used to haunt my dreams. I often wished, when awake, that I was a painter, that I might embody on canvass that look. It must have been beautiful, and beaming with the highest expression of the soul, to have produced such an impression on a girl of but four years old.

When she complained of not having seen me before, and drew me thus to her, I felt my little heart gush over with