devotion, melting sympathy, and rapturous eloquence, stood up among us, and spoke to us of love, and of hope, and of heaven. Then we mingled our tears in sweet communion, and talked over the virtues of our departed mother. And virtues many and great she had. Her heart was a fountain of kindness, and her whole character, an embodiment of meekness, gentleness, and benevolence. poor rose up and called her blessed. The orphan called her mother, and all called her friend.

The

Gentle reader, you will, doubtless, agree with me that the virtues of domestic life, and those of quiet, unobtrusive, unostentatious benevolence, are those which most adorn the female character. A woman may, it is true, be a useful and efficient public agent. She may exert influence in politics. She may make public addresses on moral reform, and public lectures on science. She may be excellent in exhortation, and in public prayer, and she may even preach. But all these things can be done a great deal better by men than by women.

I cannot say that I value a woman much more highly for being particularly active in public matters, and for being able fluently to discuss politics and theology, though I would like to have her understand such subjects. I never could like the heroic woman, in whatever way she might choose to act the hero. I am aware that my notions on this point may seem heresy; but no matter, since you are to consider them as only my private opinions, designed only for your ear. So far as the public is concerned, the editor may, if he pleases, put in a caveat.

But there are, however, scenes in human life, in which woman is the only proper actor. There are positions in society, which she only can properly occupy. In the domestic circle she holds a charm. She needs no words of incantation to make it work. Her own sweet voice of domestic love is enough. She needs call no "spirits from the vasty deep." Her own gentle spirit is all powerful. She throws enchantment over the scene, and holds all about her in a spell. Her virtues may best be exercised in making home pleasant, and comfortable, and peaceful, and happy; in training and educating the children, and in diffusing a gentle, and benevolent, and gracious influence all along her path. As a monber of society, she may exercise the benevolent virtues in visiting the sick, in distributing to the necessities of the poor, and especially in educating the young. The cause of education is one particularly appropriate to her genius, taste, and habits. Constituted as society is, much, very much of the education of the young must devolve on her.

It is, however, a sad reflection after all, that no virtues, however eminent, can, for a moment, redeem one from death.

"With noiseless step death comes on man;
No plea, no prayer delivers him;
From midst of life's unfinished plan,
With sudden hand it severs him."

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Go to the grave-yard of your native village, and you will be deeply affected at the rapid increase of population in that village of the dead. I remember the opening of a new grave-yard in the rural neighborhood, which was my home when a boy. It was a neighborhood of industrious, healthy, moral, and, as I then supposed, long-lived people, scattered over a beautiful agricultural district. I was present at the interment of the first tenant of that cemetery. It was an old man. For many a year he had occupied the same seat every Sabbath at Church, his white locks falling in ringlets over his shoulders, and his form, once tall, erect, and manly, bent forward with old age and decrepitude. Standing apart from the company around the grave, and looking on the scene, I wondered how long the old man must lie there alone. Soon I left my boyhood's home, and amid the interest of new scenes thought no more of the grave-yard and the lonely old man. A quarter of a century passed, and I returned. I was surprised to find the grave-yard become so strangely populous in so short a time. There I found inscribed on slabs of marble the names of many, and many a one whose face I sadly missed in my wanderings over the neighborhood. I found I had more acquaintances among the dead than among the living; and I felt more at home among this quiet congregation of the dead, on the open hillside, than among the stirring congregation of the living, in the old church.

Many and mournful are the changes which time works among familiar things. Returning after years of absence to the home of your childhood, the very face of nature seems changed. The field, which seemed a domain worthy a king, has contracted to a few paltry acres. The brook, which to childhood's eye seemed a great stream, has almost dried up. The house, which seemed to you a palace, has dwindled to a small cottage. And that house, too, is occupied by strangers, and no familiar face meets you at the door; or, what is worse, it is not occupied at all, but is left deserted, desolate, and decaying. You wander through the vacant rooms, and hear no sound, except that of the cricket beneath the hearth-stone, and see no living thing, except the little mouse scudding off at your coming. deserted house, especially if that house has ever been your happy home, is the most desolate of all desolate places, and the most gloomy of all gloomy objects. I once had a pleasant little cottage, which had for years been my home, and the home of my little children. I had rendered the spot beautiful, by ornamental and useful culture, and I really loved it, for its own sake, and for its associations. Often, in my busy life, after a long and dreary ride, I had reached, after dark, the top of the hill, and looked down on the lights streaming forth from the window. The lights of home-the lights of home falling on the eye of the benighted, way-worn, and weary traveler-nothing but the lights of heaven, that stream

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By these, God teaches us that there is, beyond the stars, a world which knows no change-that there are things which are eternal. Happy, then, is he who sets his affections on things above-on things heavenly and divine-on goodness, and on truth, and on God.

I

There are seasons, however-seasons of sorrow and sadness, when the heart instinctively turns to the scene of its former associations, however far removed by time or distance, and however desolate and forsaken the place may be. There are moments when the sensations of the past are revived with such distinctness and freshness, as to appear real. Familiar sounds, long since forgotten, are echoed back, and familiar sights, long since faded from the eye, reappear to the imagination. It is said by a late traveler in the east, that after journeying many a day in the Arabian desert, as he was riding along beneath the burning sky, under the scorching sun, and over the hot sands, weary, hungry, thirsty, and sick, thinking of his home and his mother far away, he suddenly heard the merry peal of the church bells of his native village. He stopped and listened. Those merry peals still rang on as they used to do in his childhood, of a Sabbath morning, ending in the sweet and solemn toll, that calls the wanderer to the house of God.

After all, it may be well that the heart, though it searches incessantly for it, should find nothing on earth on which it may surely, and with unfailing confidence, rest. God designs not earth for our permanent resting-place. He has stamped mutability on all tangible things, that we might raise our souls to things above. While change comes over all our relations, and "decay's effacing finger" is on all around us, God yet kindly permits us to look, even with mortal eye, on some objects which seem to change not. The sun, the glorious sun shines on the eye of age as on that of youth. The moon, the fair silvery moon, looks forth in the heavens, fair as she did to the eye of man in paradise. The stars, the brilliant constellations in the heavens, unchanged and unchanging, maintain, from age to age, the same place in the sky. The heavens exhibit the same appearance to us, as they did to Newton, and to Galileo, and to old Abraham, when, on the Chaldean plain, God told him to number them, if he could. There are, also, immaterial ideas, or conceptions of the soul, which are immutable-ideas of the

A BOOK FOR THE CENTRE-TABLE. A LITTLE time since, upon entering the parlor of an intelligent and literary lady, I laid my hand upon what I supposed an elegant copy of the holy Scriptures, but upon opening, I was surprised to find I had mistaken for the word of God, what proved a novel, by Cooper, "The Spy." A few days subsequently, I made a similar mistake at the centretable of a pious gentleman of rank. What I supposed a beautiful Polyglot Bible, was, splendidly illuminated "Shakspeare." In either instance, I would rather have met, if elegance were the object, with a richly bound, and highly illustrated Bible.

in reality, a

In this age of books and authors, the press teems with works of imagination, taste, and utility. Quite too great a portion is unfit to be read at all; many demand but a hasty perusal; but a precious few are well worth our closest and most serious study. At the head of such a list must stand the Bible. Of its excellence, it would seem, one need hardly to speak in our land of Bibles, and age of moral and intellectual light. There is, perhaps, no other volume in existence which is capable of presenting to view every variety of style, and treating upon every known subject. There is, probably, no character or situation to which some portion of this volume may not particularly apply. There is no other which bears the impress of divine origin-no other which conveys to his subjects a copy of the laws by which the universal Sovereign governs his creatures-none beside which treats so fully of the primal origin, whole duty, and final destiny of man. The first circumstance which recommends this book to our most candid attention, is that of its coming from an infinitely high source. It has for its author an allpowerful and everywhere present Being, whose existence is from eternity to eternity. To various classes of readers it has much to recommend it. To the lovers of story it presents some of the most thrilling tales ever published, among which is the affecting narration of the prodigal son. For her who dwells on the marvelous with peculiar interest, there are startling accounts of the sick healed, the dead raised, and evil spirits cast out. As an instance of this kind of reading, let her note the well-pictured terror of the conjuring woman, who "saw gods ascending out of the earth." Is the reader delighted with the soft lays, the easy numbers of the poet?

Let her listen to the majestic muse of Moses, David, Asaph, Job, Isaiah, or Jeremiah. Where will she find a more sublime specimen of epic poetry than the triumphal song of Moses and Miriam? or a more beautiful duet than that of Deborah and Barak? Where will she look for more elegant lyrics than those of the "sweet singer of Israel," or a more sentimental allegory than the songs of Solomon? Where will she find a more highly metaphoric composition than those of heaven-inspired Isaiah? or more pathetic tenderness than weeping Jeremiah sings in his Lamentations over his country's captivity? And what a theme for the poet's pen! Search where you will, you will find the noblest subjects of song contained in holy writ. Cowper, in his "Task," considers such topics as "The Sofa." Homer, in his chef d'œuvre, sings of the quarrels of two petty chiefs. But inspired writers have used their pens on the most exalted subjects.

One of the most admired among the British poets employs his muse upon the "Merry Wives of Windsor," "Love's Labors Lost," &c.: the eastern poets of inspiration, on the contrary, sang of God and his people, his goodness and their frailty. The Grecian poets, who were the most sublime among heathen nations, employed their rare talents upon ridiculous sports, vain warfare, and a false religion, which taught men to sacrifice to gods more beastly than themselves; but the Hebrew poets proclaim the works and attributes of a God who is all purity, beauty, and sublimity.

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event, the creation of the world, and a history of Adam's race down through a subsequent period of about four thousand years, to that still greater act of Divine goodness, the redemption of fallen, guilty man. Where shall we look for so extensive and comprehensive a narrative as that given by the illustrious "son of Pharaoh's daughter," the prince of historians? He records the lives and daring exploits of distinguished individuals, the rise and fall of nations, and the important and absorbing events of future ages. The style of sacred history is various. Sometimes it is animated poetry; at others, sober prose; but always in simplicity, not incompatible with grandeur. At one time the style of this inimitable work is epic, at another dramatic. Now it is a touching pastoral, then a flowing lyric.

Has the eloquence of the logician, or the simplicity of the evangelist led her captive? Under the logical reasonings of St. Paul, the listener is enchained. Even of the Roman governors, one trembles as this man of God reasons, another fancies, "Much learning doth make thee mad," and a bigoted king is almost persuaded to be a Christian by his eloquence. Follow him to Athens, and hear him successfully preaching "Jesus and the resurrection" to the literary, the patriotic, the chivalrous, but idolatrous. Pagan warriors, statesmen, poets, and philosophers, were among his edified listeners. Although he was a "setter forth of strange Gods," the learned and idolatrous hearkened to the Gospel he preached from the spot where they had been accustomed to hear the harangues of heathen philosophers. He quoted their own poets, as he declared the thrill

Does the reader look for moving eloquence? Let her peruse Judah's speech to Joseph, and if her heart be untouched, then indeed is nothing, to her, truly eloquent. Does she study the annals of painting, sculpture, or architecture? There is the accurate description of the tabernacle, or the temple, constructed for glory, and for beauty. Is the intellect interested, and the heart improved by biography? That of Abraham is unparalleled; that of Joseph, replete with thrilling adventure; that of Christ, matchless in interest. Is she aided in her researches by the regularity of chronology? Let her admire the beautiful order of "The Acts."

Does she pore over the living pages of history with riveted attention? Where is the history of such amazing interest as that penned by Moses? He wrote the earliest and most authentic narration of events ever published. With the other sacred historians, he gives us an account of that first great

did he speak, that among others, under the first sermon, a man of high rank and education, an Areopagitæ, was converted. What modern pulpit oratory can compare with this? Does any seek for a perfect code of morals? Moses and Solomon have given for our instruction a wise and practical system of laws and proverbs. Add to these the unique and spiritual sermon on the mount from the lips of the Divine instructor, and she has a perfect and explicit rule of M. J. A. life-a recipe for holy living.

THE SNOW-BIRD.
THERE is a bird, God bless its feet,
That chirps a music very sweet
Upon the snow.
Let other warblers come in spring,
Amid the flowers their notes to sing,
And plumage show;

But give me yet that little bird,
Whose cheerful voice is often heard
In winds that chill:
Blest emblem of God's child of grace,
Whose soul the storm of woe can face,
And carol still.

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PLANETARY SYSTEM-MERCURY.

BY PROFESSOR WATERMAN.

BEFORE entering upon a description of the individual members of the solar system, a few statements may not be inappropriate in reference to them, viewed as a whole.

In the first place, they all move within a narrow zone or belt of the heavens, extending, with the exception of the asteroids, only to about seven degrees on either side of the ecliptic. Hence they are never seen north of the zenith in this country.

Again, the surfaces of all the planets are diversified by hills and vales. This is evident from the fact that they appear with a face like the moon, when seen through the telescope. That this appearance proves that their surfaces are uneven, may be easily illustrated by holding any perfectly smooth surface, as a polished metal ball, in the sun. If the surface be perfectly smooth, the ball will appear simply as a luminous point. If, however, it be rough, it will reflect light to the eye from every point, and, hence, present an entire hemisphere illuminated.

The plane in which the Earth moves around the sun is called the ecliptic; and although all the planets revolve also around the sun, none of them move in the same plane with the Earth: in other words, the planes of their orbits are all inclined to the plane of the ecliptic. The angle of inclination varies in each case; or, no two make the same angle. Thus, the angle included between the plane of the ecliptic and that of Mercury's orbit is about seven degrees. Venus' orbit makes an angle of three degrees and twenty-three minutes; Mars', one degree and fiftyone minutes; Jupiter's, one degree and eighteen minutes; Saturn's, two degrees and twenty-nine minutes, and Uranus', only forty-six minutes. The inclination of the orbits of the asteroids is considerably greater, one of them (Pallas) being no less than thirty-four degrees and thirty-four minutes! These planets, however, are not visible to the naked eye.

The apparent motions of all the planets are very irregular. Sometimes they appear advancing among the stars, sometimes stationary, and again retrograding. These motions are not uniform. Sometimes some appear advancing, while others are retrograding, and vice versa. The question may well here be asked, to what is this apparent irregularity owing? Have they a real orbital motion? If so, is it so irregular? or what causes this irregularity? The answer to this is two-fold. It arises from their own real change of position, and from the change of position of the observer. That the planets have a real motion of their own, is a fact now well ascertained. A different theory for a long time prevailed, previous to the time of Copernicus. This we shall have occasion to refer to more at large in the next number, when we come to speak of the Earth

as a planet. If, now, the position of the observer were stationary in reference to other bodies, their motions would appear regular, continually advancing until they had completed the entire circuit of the heavens and returned to the same point to renew their course. (This applies only to the superior planets, or those more distant from the Earth than the sun. Those between the Earth and sun would appear advancing and then retrograding regularly.) If, however, the bodies themselves were stationary, and the position of the observer only should change, this of itself would effect a change in the apparent position of the planets as seen among the stars. This change would be regulated entirely by the law of change in the position of the observer, and the relative situation of the two bodies in respect to each other. A simple fact will illustrate this: if a person riding along a road, should select any object close by, to which he could make reference, all objects around it would appear in motion, those beyond moving in a direction opposite to his own, and with different velocities, owing to their relative positions in respect to the observer and the object of reference. Now if we suppose the planets to remain stationary, and the Earth to move around the sun, the stars beyond each planet would all appear moving in a direction contrary to the one the Earth was taking; or, which amounts to the same thing, the planet would appear moving among the stars, in an opposite to the Earth's annual motion around the sun. Let us suppose both of these causes in operation at the same time; that is, that the bodies themselves are in motion, and the position of the observer continually changing, the result would be, that while each, acting separately, would produce regularity in the apparent motions, the two acting conjointly, or at the same time, must necessarily produce very great irregularity. Thus does theory correspond with observation. And we can here see the reason of one fact which is often difficult of comprehension, viz., that the planets may really be moving in a direction contrary to that in which they appear, to an observer on the Earth, to be moving.

The real motions of the planets are in orbits around the sun. Copernicus supposed these orbits to be circular, and that the sun was situated at the centre. Newton ascertained that some were ellipses or ovals. But it was reserved for Kepler to demonstrate to the world the great laws of planetary motion, and which have since borne his name. The first of these is, that the planets might move in any one of the conic sections; that is, their orbits might be either circles, or ellipses, or parabolas, or hyperbolas. Subsequent discoveries have shown that nearly or quite all the planets move in elliptical orbits, having the sun in one of the foci. The shorter the distance between the centre of the ellipse and either focus, the nearer does such an ellipse approach to a circle. This distance is called the

eccentricity. The eccentricity of the planetary orbits varies, being in some only about six tenthousandths of the longer semi-axis of the orbit; while in others it amounts to one-fourth of the semiaxis The second great law of Kepler is, that the squares of the periodic times of any two planets is proportional to the cubes of their mean distances from the sun. For example: we know, from observation, that the periodic time of the Earth is a little more than 365 days; its mean distance from the sun is about 95,000,000 miles. By observations we ascertain that the periodic time of Jupiter, or the period occupied in passing from any point of its orbit to its return to the same point, is little more than 4,332 days, or nearly twelve years. Now, by the law of Kepler just named, we can readily ascertain, to a very near approximation, the true distance of Jupiter from the sun. Thus: as the square of the Earth's periodic time (365 days) is to the square of the periodic time of Jupiter, (4,332 days,) so is the cube of the Earth's mean distance (95,000,000 miles) to the cube of the mean distance of Jupiter. This mean distance is found to be a little more than 494,000,000 miles. This result has been verified by other methods, particularly by that of parallax, which we shall notice presently. By knowing, therefore, the distance of any one of the planets from the sun, and its periodic time, we can readily ascertain the distance of any other, if its periodic time be only known; and this is easily obtained by observation. The third law of Kepler is, that the radius vector, or the line joining the centre of the planet and the centre of the sun, passes over equal areas in equal times.

The chief use of this law, we shall have occasion to notice and explain more fully hereafter.

There is one singular fact in reference to the periodic times of all the planets, which deserves particular notice. Between no two does an exact ratio exist! The periodic times of Jupiter and Saturn are nearly in the proportion of two to five. Jupiter's being 4,332.5848 days, and Saturn's, 10,759.2198. The ratio of no other two are as nearly expressed in whole numbers. La Place has demonstrated, that were it otherwise, no stability could exist in the system! Who, but an omniscient being could have known this beforehand, or have so exactly adjusted the different parts of this complex whole, as to insure its continued stability? Verily the heavens declare the wisdom of God, and the firmament shows his handiwork.

We have already stated that if the distance of one of the planets from the sun be accurately ascertained, the distances of others may be calculated by the second law of Kepler. But the query may arise, how is

*365*=133,225. 4332-18,766,224. 95,000,000=857,375,000,000,000,000,000,000. Then 133,225: 18,766,224 :: 857,375,000,000,000,000,000,000: 120,771,111,111,111,111,111,111,111; the cube root of which is 494,296,590. It should here be noticed that the nearest whole numbers in every case have been used.

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the distance of this first one to be ascertained? This introduces to our notice the subject of parallax. If any object be seen from two different points not in the same straight line, the angle formed by joining the points of sight with the object, or the angle formed by the two visual rays, is called the angle of parallax, or, more simply, the parallax. This angle will depend upon the distance of the points of sight from each other, and from the object itself; for any given distance, the farther apart the points of sight are, the greater the parallax; and for any given distance between these points, the more remote the object the less the parallax. In viewing the heavenly bodies, the distance between the points of sight is generally the diameter of the Earth, and then only half of the observed angle is taken, to which the same name is applied. If the body be in the horizon, the angle of parallax is called the horizontal parallax. These things being premised, a slight knowledge of trigonometry only, is necessary to make the whole subject clear and intelligible. If we suppose the spectator, the centre of the Earth, and the centre of the body then in the horizon, all to be joined by right lines, we shall have formed a right-angled triangle, the base of which will be the distance between the spectator and the centre of the distant body; the altitude, the radius of the earth; the hypotenuse, the distance sought between the centres of the two bodies; and the angle at the base, the horizontal parallax. If this angle were only known, the hypotenuse could easily be found. Now, to find this angle, let us suppose two spectators on opposite sides of the Earth, viewing the same object, which, for illustration, we will suppose to be the planet Jupiter. Owing to its nearness to the Earth compared with the stars, the spectator at one point will see it in a different position with reference to those stars near it, from that in which it appears to the spectator on the opposite side of the Earth. If these positions be accurately noticed, the portion of the arc of a great circle comprehended between them, can be readily ascertained. This arc measures the double parallax, from which we can easily obtain the parallax itself. From the principles of trigonometry we have the proportion: as radius is to the sine of the horizontal parallax, so is the distance of the two bodies to the radius of the Earth. Thus the distance becomes known. And having been thus ascertained for one body, it may be found for others by the method of calculation before stated.

One thing still remains to be elucidated. We can readily ascertain the diameter of the Earth, the Earth itself having been repeatedly circumnavigated. But how are we to discover the magnitudes of the planets, after we have become acquainted with their respective distances from the sun? This gives rise to a new series of observations and calculations. Let us take the moon for an illustration. If we direct the telescope successively to the upper and