"Euphemia is Grandmama's name, my dear." The children looked grave. Euphemia sounded very strange and old-fashioned to their ears. "Or Effie," added Mr. Barclay, "if you like that better."

Effie, that prettiest of diminutives, gained all suffrages. Grandmama, who had one of the tenderest as well as kindest hearts in the world, looked, but could not speak, her pleasure. There is something that addresses itself to the passion for immortality, in the transmission of that which is even so extraneous as a name, to one, who in the order of nature will survive us. But it was not this that brought the tears to old Mrs. Barclay's eyes. The name recalled long silent voices, which, in far-gone years, had rung it in her ears in tones of happiness and love. She said nothing, but took the baby in her arms and pressed it to her bosom. It was a pretty picture of infancy and age. As she replaced the infant in its mother's arms, "How kind it was of you," she said, "to give her my name. I thought every body had forgotten it."

Children are most easily impressed through the medium of their senses, and the presence of their baby-sister served to enforce the simple exhortation which followed from their father. He was particularly careful, in talking to his children on religious subjects, to avoid an artificial solemn tone. He spoke as if the subject were, (as it was,) cheerful, dear, and familiar to him.

On this occasion he first called the attention of his children to the physical powers which

God bestows on man, -the marvellous contriv

ance of the eye,

the uses and blessings of all the senses, the construction of the little hand they so fondly kissed, so impotent now, but formed to be so nice and wonderful an instrument. He made their hearts beat quicker as he showed them the benevolence and wisdom manifest in the arrangement of the little frame on which their curious eyes were fixed. He then endeavored to enable them to form some conception of what was meant by man being made in the image of God, of the sublime intellectual and moral faculties; and when their faces beamed with a comprehension of the worth of the spirit, he spoke of the temptations and trials to which it must be exposed, of the happiness or misery that awaited it. And the destiny of this precious little creature, they were told, was in some measure confided to them. They were to lead her by their good example, to shelter her from temptation, to feed her affections from their own loving hearts, so that this new member of their family might be one of the family of heaven.

He spoke to them of the tenderness of the Savior in bidding little children to come to him; and of the certainty, that, if they loved him, and kept his commandments, they would be loved by him,

of all which this beneficent being had done to secure his lambs in the fold, and to bring back the wanderers. His simple eloquence made them realize that there was a glorious nature embodied in the little form before them, capable, if rightly de

veloped and cherished, of becoming the disciple of Jesus, and child of God. Before he had wearied them, and while, as he saw by their moistened eyes and glowing cheeks, their hearts burned within them, he asked them to kneel with their parents and dedicate their little sister to their Heavenly Father, and ask of Him, who was more ready to give than they to ask, grace to perform their duty to her.

When, a few hours after, the rite of baptism was administered in church, the children did not look upon it as an empty or incomprehensible form, but they understood its meaning and felt its value.

How easy it is to interweave the religious with the domestic affections, and how sadly do those sin against the lights of nature, who neglect to form this natural union!

CHAPTER VI.

SUNDAY AT MR. BARCLAY'S.

"The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath."

WE hope not to bring down the charge of Sabbath-breaking on Mr. Barclay, if we venture to inform our readers, that his mode of passing Sunday differed, in some important particulars,

from that which generally obtains in the religious world. His whole family, whatever the weather might be, attended public worship in the morning. He was anxious early to inspire his children with a love of going to the house of God, and with a deep reverence for public worship, which (with one of our best uninspired teachers) he believed to be "agreeable to our nature, sanctioned by universal practice, countenanced by revealed religion, and that its tendencies are favorable to the morals and manners of mankind."

Happily his pastor was beloved by his children, and Mr. Barclay therefore had none of the frivolous pretexts and evasions of duty to contend with, which are as often the fault of the shepherd as of the flock. Mr. Barclay loved to associate in the minds of his children the word and works of God, and after the morning service was closed, the father, or mother, or both, as their convenience served, accompanied the young troop to the Battery, the only place accessible to them where the works of God are not walled out by the works of man. There, looking out on the magnificent bay, and the islands and shores it embraces, they might feel the presence of the Deity in a temple not made with hands, they might see the fruits of his creative energy, and, with sea and land outspread before them, feel that

"When this orb of sea and land

Was moulded by his forming hand,
His smile a beam of heaven imprest
In beauty on its ample breast."

Mr. Barclay certainly would have preferred a more retired walk. On Sunday, more than any other day, he regretted the sequestered haunts of Greenbrook, where he might have interpreted the religious language of nature without encountering observation or criticism. But he would not sacrifice the greater to the less, and he was willing to meet some curious eyes and perhaps uncharitable judgments, for the sake of cultivating in his children that deep and ineffacable love of nature, which can only be implanted or rather cherished in childhood. He was careful in these Sunday walks to avoid the temptations to frivolity in the way of his children, and he never encouraged remarks upon the looks, dress, and gait of those they met.

Restricted as they were by their residence to a single walk where the view of nature was unobstructed, their topics were limited; but children will bear repetition, if the teacher has a gift for varied and happy illustration. A walk on the Battery suggests many subjects to a thinking mind. A few of these would occur to a careless observer. The position of the city at the mouth of a noble navigable river, a position held sacred by the Orientals; Long Island, with its inviting retreats for the citizen, and its ample gardengrounds seemingly designed by Providence to supply the wants of a great metropolis; Governor's Island, with its fortifications and military establishment, a picture to illustrate the great topic of peace and war, on which a child's mind cannot be too soon, nor too religiously enlight