When upon the St. Lawrence, gliding swiftly through the charming scenery of the Thousand Isles, that like emerald gems adorn the bosom of that noble river, now passing one with cultivated fields and quiet farm-house, another low and level bathed in the rays of a setting sun, others rocky and precipitous, crowned with cedar and fir; again a little quiet spot where one would like long to tarry, or one with shrubbery and light-house so peaceful in its rural beauty you almost envied the occupants their retirement; even here, as I turned from the scene at the whispered exclamation of a friend, "O, how beautiful!" my eye fell upon two ladies bending over the pages of newly issued novels, their countenances glowing--not with holy emotions awakened by the enjoyment of a summer's sun-set upon the St. Lawrence, but with feverish excitement, kindled by the overwrought pictures of the novelist. Fair, young girls, how could you linger over the unreal when passing through such scenes of God's own work? How could you shut out that gorgeous sunset, turn from all the pure and heavenly feelings such scenes must awaken, to sympathize with imaginary beings and descriptions? And now I tarried at Niagara, wonderful, sublime Niagara-- ----"Speaking in voice of thunder Eternally of God--bidding the lips of man Keep silence, and upon the rocky altar, pour Incense of sweet praise." Rambling along the shore of Iris Island, every step presenting a new scene, impressing the mind with the greatness of God and the insignificance of man, while "the voice of many waters" proclaimed to erring reason "there is a God:" also, here, under the shade of a noble oak, in full view of the great Cataract, sat a small group of ladies; in their midst, a gentle girl reading aloud from one of the many works that "charm the greedy reader on, till done, he tries to recollect his thoughts and nothing finds--but dreamy emptiness." I lingered, and learned this was the tale of a young authoress, whose writings are now winning golden opinions from a portion of our religious press. Yet how unsuitable the place for delighting in the extravagant and improbable blending of truth and fiction, though it may have a _moral_ and _religious_ under-current. At the side of that young reader sat her _mother_. The favorable moments for impressing that immortal mind committed to her guardianship, with right views of the Infinite Supreme, were swiftly passing away, the opportunity of awakening in her young heart while beholding His wonderful work emotions of humility and reverence was alike forgotten; with the daughter just entering upon womanhood she gave all thought and feeling, alone to the ideal. Could I have aroused that parent to a sense of her obligations, of her neglected opportunities, of the priceless value of her child's soul, stranger though I was, I would have earnestly besought her, to take away that romance, to step with her to the point but just before them--open the