"Twenty peasants of Suedia, robust, vigorous, and in the flower of life, were laboring at the harvest work, when on July 9, at noon, one was suddenly attacked, and the others, in a short time, shewed symptoms of the disorder. In three hours the entire band was exhausted; before sun-set many had ceased to live, and by the morrow there was no survivor!!" Well may it be said, "What is your life? It is even a vapour, which appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

The above statement is awfully interesting. In the progress of this most destructive pestilence, no place, no age, no sex, appears to be respected; if it has entered the abodes of poverty and misery, it has likewise rushed into the harem of the Prince Royal of Persia! As a visitation from the Almighty it ought to be regarded. It is a rod which speaks, and its voice is "Repent, or I will come unto thee quickly." That God has a controversy with us as a nation and as individuals, every reflecting person must perceive and acknowledge. No nation has been so blessed, and what has been our conduct? Much might be said-but, let every one inquire into his own errors. Let us all ask, What have I done? Let the young inquire-What improvement they have made of the instructions they have received, of the sermons they have heard? It is for the young principally that I write; their best interests lie near my heart. O may they know experimentally and savingly the things that belong to their peace before they are hid from their eyes!! R. C.

(To be continued.)

REMARK ON GENESIS iv. 14.

"Every one that findeth me shall slay me."

"IF the word Kol, which we render every one, is rendered every thing, or every creature," says Stackhouse, every wild beast of the field," then the text is rendered clear, that according to Josephus, Cain was afraid, lest in his wandering (which was a part of his punishment) he should fall among some beasts and be slain by them.-See Antiq. Book I. R. C.

To the Editor of the Youths' Magazine.

SIR,-On the first publication of your esteemed work, I was among its readers. "Many years have passed since then," and though no longer young, I read it regularly, and find many of the truths contained in its pages as applicable as formerly. After perusing it myself, I hand it to my young friends.

In my early days an incident occurred which, though not remarkable in itself, perhaps, yet made an indelible impression on my memory. A person respectable in his line of life, and who was regarded by the generality of his neighbours as a friendly, but thoughtless sort of man, and by a few of them as a cheerful companion-one who could raise the laugh, and tell his merry tale in high style—was dying. During this awful interval he was heard to exclaim "Stop the Clock!" This was reported by his attendant. No comment was made on the words, only they seemed to me to be related in a way that implied more was felt than was expressed. Be this as it may, I made my own comment at the time, the substance of which circumstances have, within these few days, induced me to write the following verses.

B. B. B.

ARREST OF TIME, or "STOP THE CLOCK."

"STOP, stop the clock!"-Nay, my poor friend,

Let it not silent be;

Through many a year, from end to end,

It has been true to thee.

Punctual, it call'd thee to arise
And go thy nightly tour ;*

Its constant clickings seal'd thine eyes
In slumber's weary hour.

And when the day of rest was there,
(The best of all the seven,)

Its hand traced out the hour of pray'r-
Of pray'r that leads to heav'n.

Nay, long as when thou first on earth

Didst ope thine infant eye,

To tell the period of thy birth,

The faithful clock was nigh.

He was nightly driver of a mail coach,

Momentous period! vast indeed

In interest unto thee;

For thou wast born, so Heaven decreed,
Heir of eternity!

When manhood came, and hours of care—
Of pleasure-mark'd thy home;

It sounded in reflection's ear,

"Prepare! the last will come!

And now that hour draws on so fast,
Why should it silent be?

Why may it not announce thy last?
It brings eternity!

Say, are thy sufferings so severe,

That softest sounds distress?

Does guilt's huge load, more hard to bear,
Thy trembling soul oppress?

"Ye hasty wheels of time, O stay!

"Stop! or your course retrace;

"O grant me one more year-one day—

"One single hour of grace?'

Thus dost thou speak? Thou speak'st no more

Thy mortal course is run;

Time is with thee for ever o'er,

Eternity begun!—

My youthful readers! hear a friend,

And gain instruction due ;
O pray that such a dubious end
May not attach to you.

Upheld by their lov'd Saviour's pow'r,

And cheer'd with visions bright, There are, who hail earth's closing hour,

With rapturous delight.

O, these solicit no delay,

But, with their quiv'ring breath, Invoke the wheels to speed their way, And, smiling, welcome death,

Do you exclaim "Be mine their end,
"The death the righteous die?

O then be wise! make Christ your friend,
And bid the moments fly.

Redeem the time-Time now is yours

A talent God has given;

Improve it with your mightiest pow'rs,
Then, dying-Yours is heaven.

THE PASSING BELL.

THE passing bell! the passing bell,
It speaks of earth, of heaven, of hell;
To rich and poor, to old and young,
To all it speaks with solemn tongue.

The passing bell! it speaks of earth,
It asks what all its joys are worth;
And shews how little they avail,
When heart, and flesh, and nature fail.

It speaks of heaven,—that glorious place
Where Jesus fills the throne of grace,
Where nothing enters that defiles,
Nor Satan tempts, nor sin beguiles.

It speaks of hell, tremendous name,
Dark region of devouring flame;
Where rages wrath's eternal storm,
Where gnaws the never-dying worm.

The passing bell, the passing bell,
Its awful import who can tell?
It warns the sinner, ere too late,
Approaching death to meditate.

The passing bell, the passing bell,
How many breasts with anguish swell;
And when they hear its hollow tone,
Lost friends and relatives bemoan.

The passing bell, the passing bell,
'Tis guilty pleasure's doleful knell ;
Which speaks of nothing but despair
For those who perish'd in its snare.

The passing bell, the passing bell
Proclaims a long, a last farewell,
To every sorrow and complaint
That harass'd the departed saint.

The passing bell, the passing bell
Should ev'ry rising murmur quell,
Of those to whom free grace hath given
An earnest of the joys of heaven.

The passing bell, the passing bell
Assures the christian-all is well;
Reminds him that a rest remains
From all his labors, cares, and pains.

The passing bell, the passing bell,
Upon the sound I love to dwell;
It leads my thoughts from earth away,
To range the boundless fields of day.
The passing bell, the passing bell,
Doth all my faithless fears dispel ;
And tells me that I soon shall be
With Him who lived and died for me.

Transporting thought, the hour draws nigh,
When I shall quit mortality;

Behold the glories that excel,

And hear no more the passing bell.

J. S. HARVEY.

MOONLIGHT.

THE calm and silent hour of night
Has hushed the world to deep repose;
Fair Moon-thy pale yet welcome light
Illumes the scene, and o'er it throws
Beauty and grandeur. Thy mild beam
Lights on the fairest things of earth,
Sheds lustre o'er the silver stream,
And sparkles in the dewy surf.

On some old tower whose whitened crest,
With many-colored moss o'ergrown,
Stands on the rugged barren waste,

A monument of days by-gone,