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verbs, where he says," Look well to the state of thy flocks-and thou shalt have goat's milk enough for thy food, for the food of thy household,"&c.

These animals which have been seen by modern travellers, are probably of the same kind that were kept in Judea in the days of the prophet Amos, more than two thousand six hundred years ago. Amos lived in the reign of Jeroboam the Second, and prophesied a little before Isaiah; he was a shepherd, and many allusions in his writings, which are esteemed very beautiful, are drawn from his country employment.


AUTUMN. AUTUMN has come again! One more is added to the list of years that have passed over us, and the ripe fruit and the falling leaf show that many of us have filled our cup of life ; and that as the leaf turns pale, we too must cease our mortal vegetation! The stream runs on—but we cease to be. The moonlight rests upon the hill side-but it will fall upon our graves !-The leaf is renewed and the fruit will be ripened—but man lives not again upon the earth! He leaves only a perishing monument of good or evil, in the memory of surviving friends--a trace in sand, which the returning tide of time will obliterate for ever! The insect on which we tread, the fabled gods of olden time, the wish as yet unwished, are not more frail, feeble, unlasting, than all that man is and must be! Like the meteor, he lights the sky for a moment, passes in darkness and is forgotten There is a melancholy pleasure in contemplating the "sear and yellow leaf.” The autumnal season is one dear to memory. All things die about us, and we remember the departed. The eye naturally looks back upon the vales and mountains of existence over which we have passed, even until distance makes indistinct the occurrences of infancy.-We have ever found it to be the case, that autumn calls up our remembrance of of those who are dead—the playmates of our youth.

The first kindling of the parlor fire--the gathering

around it-the "wheeling of the sofa round”—these ! circumstances alone call up recollections of the past, and turn the tide of thought from anticipation to memory. They will send us slowly back to the bright fountains and green landscape of younger days. The head sinks upon the hand, and visions of early pleasure flit across the brain-the cares of to-day vanish, and we live over in an hour, a life of joy and sorrow.

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CURIOUS PROPERTIES OF THE FIGURE 9. • The following discovery of remarkable properties of

the number 9 was accidentally made by Mr. V. Green,
more than fifty years since, though, we believe, not gen-
erally known.
9 X 1 = 9; , 9 + 0 = 9
2 =

8 = 9
X 3 = 27; 2 + = 9
9 X 4 = 36; 3 + 6 = 9
9 X 5 = 45; 4 + 5 = 9
9 X 6 = 54; 5 + 4 = 9
9 x y = 63; 6 to 3 = 9
9 x 8 = 72; + 2 = 9 .

9 X 9 = 81; 8 + 1 = 9 The component figures of the product, made by the multiplication of every digit into the number 9, when added together make nine. The order of these component figures is reversed, after the said number has been multiplied by 5. The component figures of the amount of the multiplier, (viz. 45) when added together make nine. The amount of the several pro- ducts, or multiplies of 9, (viz. 405) when divided by nine, gives for a quotient, 45; that is 4+5=9. The amount of the first product, (viz. 9) when added to the other products, whose respective component figures makes 9, is 81; which is the square of nine. The said number 81, when added to the above mentioned amount of the several products, or multiplies of 9, (viz. 405) makes 486; which, if divided by 9, give for a quotient 54 ; that is, 544=9. It is also observable that the number of changes that may be rung on 9 bells, is

362,880 ; which figures, added together, make 27; that is 2+7=9. And the quotient of 362,880, divided by 9, is 40,320; that is 4+0+3+2+0=9.

No man can safely go abroad, that does not love to stay at home; no man can safely speak, that does not willingly hold his tongue; no man can safely govern, that would not willingly become subject; no man can safely command, that has not truly learned to obey; and no man can safely rejoice, but he that has the testimony of a good conscience.

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The blossoms are withered !-we tread o'er their form,

On the plain as we pass, without care for them now;
In their frailty they meet the rude shock of the storm,

And they drop, unprotected, uncropt from the bough. But lately we gazed on their beauties, and prayed

That the sun-beam would cherish and ripen their bloom; And we hoped, ah how vainly, for see where they fade!

'Twould be long ere the garden should lose their perfume. Thus often young genius is praised and caressed,

While his morning of promise is splendid and gay; And bright seem his prospects of fame and of rest,

Till the blast of detraction sweeps over his way. Alas! how the world views the fallen with scorn

How it heedlessly tramples the withering mind ! Forgotten the charms which attracted at morn,

All its worth, all its hopes, are to darkness consigned.
How dull and unfeeling the hearts of the crowd,

To the pinings of virtue in misery's hour!
In the reign of her sunshine they greet her aloud,
- But leave her neglected when storms overpower.
The many will tread on the best of their race,

When ruin's sharp blight o’er their prospects bas blown;
Or coldly will gaze on the sufferer's face,

And pass on their way without pity or moan.

Oh, court not the smiles of the world ; they are vain !

Nor trust in its promises-fear not its strife;
But cherish thy conscience through sorrow and pain,

And confide in that Being, whose favor is life.
For he who decrees a new spring to appear

To adorn the sear bough with its splendors once more, Will cause joy to arise from each struggle and tear

And thy leaf to be green when lífe's winter is o'er.


I speak to time. “ WHAT voice may speak to thee, tomb-builder, Time!

Thou wast, and art and shall be when the breath

That holds communion now is hushed in death.
Upon thy tablet earth-a page sublime-
Are cherished the wrecks of buried years!

The cities of the lava-sepulchre

The relics of God's wrathful minister Yield up their hoarded history of tears.

The Pyramid and Mausoleum proud,

Attest of thee and tell of those that were,

Of sounding names now heard as empty air, That once were as the voice of nations loud ;

The Persian and the Greek are kindred there Feuds are forgot when foes the narrow dwellings erowd!.


It is not so, it is not so,

The world may think me gay
And on my cheek the ready smile

May ceaseless seem to play;
The ray that tips with gold the stream,

Gilds not the depth below,
All bright alike the eye may seem,

But yet it is not so.
Why to the cold and careless throng

The secret grief reveal ?
Why speak to one who was, to those

Who do not, cannot feel?
No! joy may light the brow, unknown,

Unseen the tear-drop flow,
'Tis the poor sorrowing heart alone

Responds--it is not so.

There's a language that's mute, there's a silence that speaks

There's a something that cannot be told;
There are words that can only be read on the cheeks,

And thoughts but the eyes can unfold,
There's a look so expressive, so timid, so kind,

So conscious, so quick to impart;
Though dumb, in an instant it speaks out the mind,

And strikes in an instant the heart.
This eloquent silence, this converse of soul,

In vain we attempt to suppress :
More prompt it appears from the wish of control,

More apt the fond truth to express.
And oh! the delight on the features that shine,

The raptures the bosom that melt;
When blest with each other, this converse divine,

Is mutually spoken and felt.


How proudly burst the golden light of day

Upon the temple where Jehovah stood;
How softly twilight flung its parting ray

Upon his altar's holy solitude!
For there, commingling, bright, the sunbeam met

Its essence in the day-spring of the sky,
His fiat warms its golden glory yet,

But thine, my land, was quench'd in agony.

Yet, when from yonder broad blue arch of Heaven

I see the storm-cloud roll its gloom away, Shall I not dream of thee, as free, forgiven,

Thou'lt start to more than glory's primal day.
Oh never does the breeze of ocean bear

The fragrance of thy desolated shore.
But with its sigh, my country, thine is there,

And thy sad murmur sweeps the waters o'er.
I cannot mingle with the breath of flowers

One thought of loveliness not born of thee,
I cannot tread the sweet and laughing bowers

aughing bowers
And e'er forget thee, in their revelry;
Oh no! thy broken shrines, thy blacken'd towers

That rose so proudly by fair Gallilee,
Come coldly on the brightness of those hours,

And from them all, I turn to sigh for thee.

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