‘He is like a refiner’s fire, and like fuller’s soap. And he shall sit as a refiner and purifier of silver: and he shall purify the sons of Levi, and purge them as gold and silver, that they may offer unto the Lord an offering in righteousness.’—Malachi iii. 2, 3.

A few ladies in Dublin, who often met together to read the Word of God, one day occupied their attention with the passage now before the eye of the reader. One of the ladies expressed her opinion that ‘the fuller’s soap and the refiner of silver’ were only the same image to convey the same view of the sanctifying influence of the grace of Christ. ‘No,’ said another, ‘they are not the same image; there is something remarkable in the expression, ‘He shall sit as the refiner and purifier of silver.’’ On going into the town, this lady called on a silver-smith, and desired to know the process of refining silver, which he fully explained to her. ‘But do you sit, Sir,’ she asked, ‘while you are refining?’ ‘Yes, Madam, I must sit with my eye steadily fixed on the furnace; since if the silver remain too long, it is sure to be injured.’ She at once saw the beauty and comfort of the expression. Christ sees it needful to put his people into the furnace, but He is seated by the side of it—His eye is steadily fixed on the work of purifying—and his wisdom and his love are both engaged to do all in the best manner for them. As the lady was returning to her friends, to tell them what she had heard, as she turned from the shop-door, the silver-smith called her back, and said, he had forgotten one thing, and that was, he only knew the process of refining to be complete by seeing his own image in the silver.

When Christ sees his own image in his people, the work of purifying is accomplished.

It may be added, that the metal continues in a state of agitation, until all impurities are thrown off, and then it becomes quite still; a circumstance which heightens the analogy of the case; for how

‘Sweet to be passive in His hand, And know no will but His!’

Does ‘M.’ well to be angry? We ‘referred publicly’ to his query touching our choice of prose or poetry, at his own request, in a playful, but certainly not in an intentionally ‘offensive’ manner. And now, a ‘good that was intended us’ is clean gone forever! Very well—we must submit, with what grace we may.’ ‘My ’spected bredren,’ said a venerable colored clergyman, on a recent occasion, ‘blessed am dat man dat ’spects noth’n, ’cause he an’t gwine to be disapp’inted!’ We solace ourselves with this scrap of Ethiopian philosophy. ••• The experiments alluded to below, in the happiest vein of the amusing ‘Charcoal-Sketcher’ of Philadelphia, have been frequently tried in this city, we understand, but with very infrequent success. Pulling teeth while the patient is asleep is not ‘practised to a very great extent in this community;’ for no sooner is the glittering instrument of torture ‘placed in communication’ with the jaw, than it is found to ‘disturb the Mesmeric function’ to an extraordinary degree:

‘Many who would be valiant in battle, turn pale at sight of the dentist’s chair. To stand up to be shot at in a duel is unpleasant to the nerves, and to storm a breach requires a considerable modicum of determination; but to pull the dentist’s bell and not to run away; to walk boldly in and not to request a postponement, though it gains one no laurels and probably would not help to secure a political nomination on the score of heroism, is pure unadulterated valor; intrinsic—deriving no aid from association or example; nothing from the instinct of discipline or the thirst for glory. In encountering other dangers, there is a large hope, too, of impunity. An expectation of survival, a fond trust to be with the unhurt, always exists. But here, in that morocco throne, so grotesque, so mystical, so strange in all its aspects; your mouth wide open and your head thrown back—what hope can there be? To be hurt is an inevitable thing. We are in the clutches of a fate, and must realize our mortal frailty. To march to this with a whistle; neither to kick the smaller dogs on our route, nor to thrust little children aside spitefully; to take our usual interest in the occurrences of the street as we pass along to execution; to laugh, to jest, to talk of the weather with the identical man as he rattles his glittering instruments and smiles upon their brightness; to shake hands with him and to make a tolerable pretence of being glad to see him, is an effort, though we may have never encountered a war, equal to that which wears medals and puts pensions in its pocket. There is some comfort, however, to the afflicted in the fact that there have been of late symptoms of a combination of animal magnetism with dentistry, which affords a gleam of consolation. The exhibitors in New-York frequently have teeth extracted from mesmerised patients, to prove that in many cases they are insensible to pain—a thing which has been done very often in private in this city, and in many instances with complete success. What a cause for rejoicing would it be then, if the proper degree of ‘impressibility’ were general with those who have failing and recreant teeth, that the dentist and his magnetiser might be one and indivisible? Surgery in all its branches would be benefitted by the same connection; but this strange physical condition is not an invariable concomitant of the mesmeric state; so that valor, such as that to which we have already alluded, cannot go completely out of use, even if all could be subjected to the nervous influence of the magnetiser.’

‘Phazma,’ the cleverest of our western poets, who has written so many beautiful things for the New-Orleans ‘Picayune,’ presents us lately with the subjoined tender sonnet. He has ‘discharged’ it as well as if he had previously read the directions of our eastern ‘manufacturer of the article,’ in our last issue:

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