Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourning community immediately after committing the dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They accompanied me to some distance on my journey, and our parting was with mutual tears. Turning to view them, as their forms mingled with the dark green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear voice. It was the lay-reader, speaking of the hope of the resurrection: "If we believe that Christ died and rose again, even so them also, that sleep in Jesus, will God bring with him." Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. I inquired, is Devotion never encumbered, or impeded by the splendor that surrounds her? Amid the lofty cathedral,--the throng of rich-stoled worshippers,--the melody of the solemn organ,--does that incense never spend itself upon the earth, that should rise to heaven? On the very beauty and glory of its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and go no more forth to the work of benevolence, nor spread its wing at the call of faith? Yet surely, _there is a reality in religion_, though man may foolishly cheat himself with the shadow. Here I have beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of "all pomp and circumstance," yet with power to soothe the passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues in daily and vigorous exercise, and to give victory to the soul, when death vanquishes the body. So, I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has languished or grown cold, I have warmed it by the remembrance of the ever-living faith, of those "few sheep in the wilderness." MEMORY AND HOPE. The following beautiful apologue, copied from the New York Mirror, is from the pen of J. K. Paulding. We hope often to enrich our pages with his productions. His style is a model of simplicity, vigor and ease, which we should like to see more generally imitated by our Literary writers. Hope is the leading-string of youth--memory the staff of age. Yet for a long time they were at variance, and scarcely ever associated together. Memory was almost always grave, nay sad and melancholy. She delighted in silence and repose, amid rocks and waterfalls; and whenever she raised her eyes from the ground it was only to look back over her shoulder. Hope was a smiling, dancing, rosy boy, with sparkling eyes, and it was impossible to look upon him without being inspired by his gay and sprightly buoyancy. Wherever he went he diffused around him gladness and joy; the eyes of the young sparkled brighter than ever at his approach; old age as it cast its dim glances at the blue vault of heaven, seemed inspired with new vigor; the flowers looked more gay, the grass more green, the birds sung more cheerily, and all nature seemed to sympathize in his gladness. Memory was of mortal birth, but Hope partook of immortality.