forms may seem mockery to you-but they are sacred realities to them. Those words may wake no echo in your breast, but they play upon their chords, as if the "harp of thousand strings" had been touched by the finger of heaven. Those beautiful paintings, those holy scenes with which the walls are decorated, may be unmeaning to you, but to those who come up hither to worship, they shine with the light of heaven. These ancient walls are written all over with holy lessons, which the eye of faith only can read. Within these walls the imagination is enlisted in the cause of religion, and paints every holy thing with the roseate hues of beauty. Here is nothing stern-nothing repulsive. The dry bones of theology are not hung up, in terrorem, over the heads of this congregation. On this ground are fought no religious duels. No skeleton of a creed is displayed here as a substitute for the "body of Christ."-I know the Catholic theology and its theoretic harshness-but it does not intrude itself within the walls of the church; it sleeps in ponderous tomes, which dare not open their lids within this temple. But hold;-I am departing from my plan, which is not to moralize, but to describe. And as the service is now over, let us go out, and while the worshippers go to their homes, let us tarry and gaze upon this venerable pile. How ancient it looks! It was built-I don't know whenbefore either you or I were, a long time. See, it is gray with age. How wrinkled its old face! See what inroads Time has made upon its sides. The old bell does not speak as it once did.. Its voice is broken. But it is a stately pile yet. It has a portly bearing, and seems almost conscious of its worth. It looks like an old castle which having stood the brunt of many storms, had now become storm-proof. It does not seem to have grown any older these last ten years. Old Time has forgotten it, or has blunted his sickle against its walls. It seems as if Nature had adopted it for her own," 66 "And granted it an equal date Long may it stand. Long may its cloistered aisles resound to the tread of humble worshippers. May the fire never go out upon its altars! But when its time has come, and "perpetual droppings have worn away the rock," when its arches shall have become straightened, and its towers shall have been laid low, when its "restless iron tongue" shall be no more restless, but shall be where "there is no variableness or shadow of turning ;” when those who ministered at its altars have become ministering angels, may this temple, "so curiously and wonderfully made," have an abiding place in the hearts of the people, and the good lessons which were written on its walls, be transferred to the tables of the mind. Every Saturday evening masses are offered in this Cathedral, for the soul of its founder, Don Andre-and accordingly on that evening the bell peals forth its mournful tones to recall his memory. It is a peculiarity of the old residents, the Creoles, of New Orleans, that they treasure up the memory of their religious benefactors with unfailing gratitude. The venerable Pere Antonio de Sedella, the Curate of the Parish for nearly fifty years, is universally remembered, and his lessons handed down from father to son, so that they are as familiar with many as household words. He was universally venerated for his benevolence, and was supposed, during his ministration, to have performed nearly half of the marriage and funeral services in New Orleans. He died at the ripe age of 90, A. D., 1837. His remains lie at the foot of the altar, and I doubt not his memory will be kept green for many years to come. This memory of benefactors, especially religious benefactors, is a beautiful trait in Catholic families, and one which should "cover a multitude of sins." MIDNIGHT MUSIC. BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY. "The Rev. GEORGE HERBERT, in one of his walks to Salisbury, to join a musical society, saw a poor man with a poorer horse, that had fallen under his load. Putting off his canonical coat, he helped him to unload, and afterwards to load his horse. The poor man blessed him for it, and he blessed the poor man. And so like was he to the good Samaritan, that he gave him money to refresh both himself and his horse, at the same time admonishing him, that "if he loved himself, he should be merciful to his beast." So, leaving the poor man, and coming unto his musical friends at Salisbury, they began to wonder, that Mr. George Herbert, who always used to be so trim and clean, should come into that company so soiled and discomposed; but he told them the reason, and one of them said to him, "he had disparaged himself by so mean an employment," his answer was, that "he thought what he had done would prove music to him at midnight, and that the omission of it would have made discord in his conscience, whenever he should pass by that place. For if," said he, "I am bound to pray for all who are in distress, I am surely bound, as far as it is in my power, to practice what I pray for. And though I do not wish for the occasion every day, yet, let me tell you, I would not willingly pass one day of my life, without comforting a sad soul, or showing mercy; and I bless God for this opportunity. So, now let us tune our instruments." What maketh music, when the bird Doth hush its merry lay, And the sweet spirit of the flowers What maketh music, when the frost What maketh music, when the winds When ocean strikes his thunder-gong, The midnight arch to deck, And when the fiercer storms of life And earthquake voices claim the hopes When loud and threatening passions roar, Like lions in their den, And vengeful tempests lash the shore,- The deed to humble virtue born, And tuning high its heaven-strung harp, REST. BY GEORGE S. BURLEIGH. I thank ye, oh ye ever noiseless stars! That ye do move so silent, in your high Eternal marches through the voiceless sky. When Earth's loud clamor on the spirit jars, ---The captive's groans, the victor's loud huzzas, And the worn toiler's deep'ning hunger cry,-Then from your height ye gaze so placidly, That the low cares whose fretful breathing scars Life's holy deeps, shrink back abashed before The love-sad meekness of your still rebuke, And the calmed soul forgets the earth-storm's roar In the deep trust of your majestic look, Till through the heart by warring passions torn, Some pulse of your serener life is borne. A SCRAP OP HISTORY. Thirteen years ago there were in this great country about two and a half millions of chattel slaves. This was the great fact— the "fixed fact"—of its condition. Churches were springing up like mushrooms in every section of the land, dedicated by the most imposing solemnities to the worship of "God:" hundreds and thousands of young men were leaving all secular employments, and consecrating themselves to the preaching of the "Gospel: " revivals were taking place in every city and town: the people were flocking like sheep into the "fold:" Bible Societies, Tract Societies, Missionary Societies, Sunday School Societies, and innumerable minor organizations for "religious" purposes, were multiplying in every direction: the precise cost of seeking out and saving every soul in the known world (barring the aforesaid two and a half millions,) was calculated by evangelical mathematicians to a picayune: there was not a man, woman, or child, in the country, (the two and a half millions again excepted,) who had not the sweet consciousness that at least a dozen persons of undoubted orthodoxy felt a lively interest in the eternal welfare of his (or her) "soul: " and there was scarcely a child but what knew the Westminster (or some other) Catechism by rote, and could prove to a demonstration that every one who did'nt believe its thirty-nine, (or what not) mysterious articles, would be eternally damned. Indeed the evangelical precocity of this nation was the theme of all evangelical lips, and the joy of all evangelical hearts. Prayers went up every morning and evening, thanking God that this nation was not as other nations were,—and the United States were looked upon as foreordained of God to furnish a hitherto benighted world with the model of a "Christian Republic!"—" A CHRISTIAN REPUBLIC!"—these were the magic words; -and it was delightful to see how zealously "Young America " worked to fulfil her high destiny among the nations, by seeking |