WORDS OF CHEER FOR The Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing. EDITED BY T. S. ARTHUR. PHILADELPHIA 1856. PREFACE. AS we pass on our way through the world, we find our paths nowsmooth and flowery, and now rugged and difficult to travel. The sky, bathed in golden sunshine to-day, is black with storms to-morrow!This is the history of every one. And it is also the life-experienceof all, that when the way is rough and the sky dark, the poor heartsinks and trembles, and the eye of faith cannot see the bright sunsmiling in the heavens beyond the veil of clouds. But, for all thisfear and doubt, the rugged path winds steadily upwards, and thebroad sky is glittering in light. Let the toiling, the tempted, and the sorrowing ever keep this inmind. Let them have faith in Him who feedeth the young lions, andclothes the fields with verdure--who bindeth up the broken heart, and giveth joy to the mourners. There are Words of Cheer in the air!Listen! and their melody will bring peace to the spirit, and theirtruths strength to the heart. CONTENTS. AUNT MARY THE DEAD DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR? WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON THE GARDEN OF EDEN HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM WEALTH HOW TO BE HAPPY REBECCA LIFE A TREADMILL ARTHUR LELAND THE SCARLET POPPY NUMBER TWELVE TO AN ABSENTEE THE WHITE DOVE HESTER THISTLE-DOWN THE LITTLE CHILDREN WHAT IS NOBLE? THE ANEMONE HEPATICA THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT BABY IS DEAD THE TREASURED RINGLET HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST "BE STRONG" THE NEGLECTED ONE THE HOURS OF LIFE MINISTERING ANGELS OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE" OUTWARD MINISTERINGS BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY THE DEAD CHILD WATER BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED "EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING" AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE A HYMN OF PRAISE AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE ANNIE MOTHER GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES "OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN" THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH "THE WORD IS NIGH THEE" AUNT RACHEL COMETH A BLESSING DOWN THE DARKENED PATHWAY LOOK ON THIS PICTURE THE POWER OF KINDNESS SPEAK KINDLY HAVE PATIENCE DO THEY MISS ME? WORDS OF CHEER. AUNT MARY. A LADY sat alone in her own apartment one clear evening, when thesilver stars were out, and the moon shone pure as the spirit ofpeace upon the rebellious earth. How lovely was every outward thing!How beautiful is God's creation! The window curtains were drawnclose, and the only light in the cheerful room, was given by anight-lamp that was burning on the mantel-piece. The occupant, whoperhaps had numbered about thirty-five years, was sitting by a smalltable in the centre of the room, her head leaning upon one slenderhand; the other lay upon the open page of a book in which she hadendeavoured to interest herself. But the effort had been vain; otherand stronger feelings had overpowered her; there was an expressionof suffering upon the gentle face, over which the tears rainedheavily. For a brief moment she raised her soft blue eyes upwardwith an appealing look, then sunk her head upon the table beforeher, murmuring, "Father! forgive me! it is good for me. Give me strength to beareverything. Pour thy love into my heart, for I am desolate--if Icould but be useful to one human being--if I could make one personhappier, I should be content. But no! I am desolate--desolate. Whoseheart clings to mine with the strong tendrils of affection? Who everturns to me for a smile? Oh! this world is so cold--so cold!" And that sensitive being wept passionately, and pressed her handupon her bosom as if to still its own yearnings. Mary Clinton had met with many sorrows; she was the youngest of alarge family; she had been the caressed darling in her early days, for her sweetness won every heart to love. She had dwelt in the warmbreath of affection, it was her usual sunshine, and she gave it nothought while it blessed her; a cold word or look was an unfamiliarthing. A most glad-hearted being she was once! But death came in aterrible form, folded her loved ones in his icy arms and bore themto another world. A kind father, a tender mother, a brother andsister, were laid in the grave, in one short month, by the cholera. One brother was yet left, and she was taken to his home, for he wasa wealthy merchant. But there seemed a coldness in his splendidhouse, a coldness in his wife's heart. Sick in body and in mind, thebereft one resolved to travel South, and visit among her relations, hoping to awaken her interest in life, which had lain dormantthrough grief. She went to that sunny region, and while there, became acquainted with a man of fine intellect and fascinatingmanners, who won her affections, and afterwards proved unworthy ofher. Again the beauty of her life was darkened, and with a wearyheart she wore out the tedious years of her joyless existence. Shewas an angel of charity to the poor and suffering. She grew lovelierthrough sorrow. A desire to see her brother, her nearest and dearestrelative, called her North again, and when our story opens she wasin the bosom of his home, a member of his family. He loved herdeeply, yet she felt like an alien--his wife had not welcomed her asa sister should. Mary Clinton's heart went out toward's Alice, hereldest niece, a beautiful and loving creature just springing intowomanhood. But the fair girl was gay and thoughtless, flattered andcaressed by everybody. She knew sadness only by the name. She had nodream that she could impart a deep joy, by giving forth her youngheart's love to the desolate stranger. The hour had grown late, very late, and Mary Clinton still leanedher head upon the table buried in thoughts, when the bounding stepof Alice outside the door aroused her from her revery. She listened, almost hoping to see her friendly face peeping in, but wearied withthe enjoyment of the evening, the fair young belle hastened on toher chamber, and her aunt heard the door close. Rising from her seatat the table, Miss Clinton approached a window, and threw back thecurtains that the midnight air might steal coolingly over her brow. Her eye fell upon the rich bracelet that clasped her arm, a gift ofher brother, and then with a sad smile, she surveyed the pure dressof delicate white she wore. "Ah!" she sighed, "I am robed for ascene of gayety, but how sad the heart that beats beneath thisboddice! How glad I was to escape from the company; loneliness inthe crowd is so sad a feeling. " At that moment the door of her roomopened, and Alice came laughing in, her glowing face all bright andcareless. "Oh! Aunt Mary, " she exclaimed, "do help me! I cannot unclasp mynecklace, and my patience has all oozed out at the tips of myfingers. There! you have unfastened it already. Well! I believe Inever will be good for anything!" And Alice laughed as heartily, asif the idea was charming. "When did you leave the parlours, AuntMary? I never missed you at all. Father said you left early, when Imet him just now on the stairs. " "I did leave early, " replied Miss Clinton. "I chanced to feel likebeing entirely alone, so I sought my own apartment. " "Have you been reading, aunt? I should think you would feel lonely!" "I read very little, " was the reply, in a sad tone. No remark wasmade on her loneliness. "It seems so strange to me, Aunt Mary, that you are so fond of beingalone. I like company so much, " said Alice, looking in her quietface. "But I must go, " she added; she paused a moment, then pressedan affectionate kiss upon her aunt's cheek, and whispered a soft"good night. " Miss Clinton cast both arms around her, and drew herto her heart, with an eagerness that surprised Alice. Twice shekissed her, then hastily released her as if her feeling had goneforth before she was aware of it. Alice stood still before her amoment, and her careless eyes took a deeply searching expression asthey dwelt upon the countenance before her. Something like sadnesspassed over her face, and her voice was deeper in its tone, as sherepeated, "Good night, dear Aunt Mary!" With a slow step she leftthe apartment, mentally contrasting her own position with that ofher aunt. Circumstances around her and the society with which shemingled, tended to drown reflection, and call into play only thebrighter and gayer feelings, that flutter on the surface of ourbeing. She had never known the luxury of devoting an hour to genuinemeditation on the world within--or the great world without. Theearth was to her a garden of joy; she lived upon it only to enjoyherself. Like many selfish people, Alice's mother made an idol ofher beautiful child, because she was a part of herself; and Mrs. Clinton was not one to perform a mother's duty faithfully ininstilling right views of life into her daughter's mind. Thus, witha depth of feeling, and rich gifts of mind, Alice fluttered on herway like a light-winged butterfly, her soul's pure wells of tenderthought unknown to her. How many millions pass through a whole longlife, with the deepest and holiest secrets of their being stillunlocked by their heedless hands! How few see aught to live for, butthe outward sunshine of prosperity, which is an idle sunshine, compared with the ever-strengthening light that may grow in thespirit! How strong, how great, how beautiful may life be, whensmiled upon by our Creator! how weak, how abject, how trampled upon, when turned away from his face! With better and more quiet emotions, Mary Clinton retired to rest. "I can love others, if I am not beloved, " she murmured, and the doveof peace fluttered its white wing over her. Her resigned prayer was, "Lord, into thy hands I commit my spirit. " Tears of earnest humilityhad washed away all bitterness from the wrung heart of that lovelybeing. How beautiful was the angel smile that played over her face, in her pure dreams! A few weeks after, Alice entered her aunt's apartment one drizzling, damp, foggy, uncomfortable day. "Such miserable weather!" sheexclaimed, throwing herself idly into an arm-chair; "I believe Ihave got the _blues_ for once in my life. I don't know what to dowith myself; it makes me perfectly melancholy to look out of thewindow, and nothing in the house wears a cheerful aspect. Mother hasa headache; when I proposed reading to her, she very politely askedme if I would not let her remain alone. She says I always want tosing, read, or talk incessantly if she wishes to be quiet. I can'tding on the piano, for it is heard from attic to basement. I don'twant to read alone, for I have such a desire to be sociable--now, Aunt Mary, you have a catalogue of my troubles, can't you relieveme, for I am really miserable, if I don't look so!" Alice broke intoa laugh, although it did not bubble right up from her merry heart asusual. "If your attention was fully engaged, you would not mind the weatherso much, " remarked Aunt Mary, with a quiet smile. "You are not in amood to enjoy a book just now, so what _will_ you do, my dear?" "Mend stockings, or turn my room upside down, and then arrange itneatly, " said Alice in a speculative tone. "There is nothing in thehouse to interest me; there is Patty in the kitchen, I have justbeen paying her a visit. She is as busy as a bee, and as happy as aqueen. I believe poor people are happier than the rich, in suchweather as this, at least. " "Because they are useful, Alice; go busy yourself about somephysical labour for an hour or two, then come back to me, and Ipredict your face will be as sunshiny as ever. I am in earnest--youneed not look so incredulous!" "What shall I do?" asked the young girl laughing. "I don't know howto do a single thing in domestic matters. Mother says I shall neverwork. It would spoil my fairy fingers, I presume, a terribleconsequence!" "But seriously Alice, you are not so entirely incapable of doinganything, are you?" "I am positively, but I can learn if I choose. I believe I willsweep my room and put it in order, as a beginning. That will besomething new: now I will try my best!" Alice sprang from her chair, and tripped from the apartment quite pleased with the idea. A smilebroke over Miss Clinton's features, after her niece had left heralone. "How easily Alice might be trained to better things, by loveand gentleness, " she said half aloud. "Oh! if she would only loveme, and turn to me fondly. How I would delight to breathe a genialprayer over the buds of promise in her youthful heart, and fan themto warmer life. " More than an hour flew by, as Mary Clinton sat inthought, devising plans to awaken her favourite to a true sense ofher duties--to a knowledge of her capabilities for happiness andusefulness. We may be useful with a heart full of sadness; but wecan rarely taste of happiness, unless we are desirous to benefitsome one besides ourselves. A quietness came over the lonely one asshe mused--a spirit of beautiful repose; for she forgot all thoughtsof her own enjoyment, in caring for another. "You are quite a physician, Aunt Mary, to a mind diseased, "exclaimed Alice, breaking her revery as she came in with a smilingface, after the performance of her unaccustomed labour. "I am quitein tune again now. I believe there is a little philosophy in beingbusy occasionally, after all. " "There is really, " replied Miss Clinton, raising her deep blue eyesto Alice's face, with their pleasant expression; "and there is alsophilosophy in recreation--in abandoning yourself for a time toinnocent gayety. An hour of enjoyment is refreshing and beneficial. " "Why, Aunt Mary!" said Alice in some surprise, "I had no idea thatyou thought so. You are always so industrious and quiet, I imaginedyou disapproved of the merriment of ordinary people. When we have alarge company you almost always retire early. Why do you do so, aunt, may I ask you?" Mary Clinton was silent a moment, then she said gently, "When Ithink I can add to the ease or enjoyment of any person present, Itake pleasure in staying; but when I feel that I am rather arestraint than otherwise, I retire--to weep. You are yet young andbeautiful, my child, for you have never known such feelings. I amtoo selfish, or I would not be sad so often; it is right that Ishould pass through such a school of discipline. I hope it hasalready made me better. " The look of resignation that beamed fromMiss Clinton's tearful eyes, caused a chord in Alice's heart totremble with a strange blending of love, sweetness, and sorrow. "_You_ should be happy, if any one should, dear aunt, " she said in alow voice, and she partly averted her head, to conceal the tearsthat started down her cheek. "I am happy so often, " she resumed, turning around and seating herself upon an ottoman at her aunt'sfeet. "You deserve so much more than I--to be as good as you are, Aunt Mary, I would almost change situations, for then I should besure of going to heaven. " "You can be just as sure in your own position, as in that of anyother person. But, dear child, the more deeply we scan our hearts, the more we see there to conquer, in order that we may become fitcompanions for the angels. " Alice remained thoughtful for some moments, then she folded herhands over Aunt Mary's lap, and lifted her eyes to the loving facethat bent over her. "Be my guardian angel, " she prayed tearfully, "your love is so pure; a gentleness comes over me, when I am withyou. All tumultuous feelings sink down to repose. I have not knownyou, Aunt Mary; you have shown me to-day how lovely goodness is. Ican feel it in your presence. Oh! to possess it! I fear it will belong years before I grow so gentle in my spirit--so unselfish--solike a child of Heaven!" "Hush, hush!" was Mary Clinton's gentle interruption. "You do notknow me yet, Alice. Perhaps I appear far better than I am. " Alice smiled, and laying her arm around Aunt Mary's neck, drew downher face, and kissed her affectionately, whispering, "You will be myguide, I ask no better. " "Thank you, thank you, " broke from Aunt Mary's lips; she pressedAlice's cheek with the ardent haste of love and gratitude; thenyielding to the emotions that thrilled her heart, she burst intotears, and wept with a joy she had long been a stranger to. She feltthat her life would no longer be useless, if she could live forAlice, and lift up to God her heart. How beautiful in its freshness, is the early day when the light of a good resolve breaks like a haloover the soul, and by its power, seeks to win it from its selfishidols! Earnest and strong is the hopefulness that bids us labourtrustingly to become all we yearn to be--all we may be. Howtremblingly Mary Clinton leaned upon her Saviour! experience hadtaught her the weakness of her fluttering heart; sorrow wasfamiliar, yet she prayed not to shrink from it. How clear andvigorous was the mind of Alice--how shadowless was her unerring pathto be--how all weakness departed before the sudden thought that roseup in her soul! How rich was the light that beamed from her steadyeye--how calm and trusting the slight smile that parted her lips!How meek and confiding she was, and yet how full of strength! Shewas a young seeker after truth, and she realized not yet, that thatsame truth was the power to which she must bow every rebelliousthing within her. Months rolled on, and the quiet gladness in herheart made it a delight to her to do anything and everything itseemed her duty to do. The unexplored world within opened to hergaze, and threw a glory upon creation. Infinitely priceless in hereyes, were the thousand hearts around her, in which the Lord hadkindled the undying lamp of life. One evening, at rather a late hour, Alice Clinton sought the chamberof her aunt and seated herself quietly beside her, saying in asubdued voice as she took her hand, "I am inexpressibly sadto-night, Aunt Mary. There is no very particular reason why I shouldfeel so; no one can soothe me but you. Put your arms around me, AuntMary, and talk to me--give me some strength to go forward in the wayI have chosen. I almost despair--I have no good influence, no moralcourage. Perhaps, after all, my efforts have been in vain to becomebetter, and I shall sink back into my former state. If all who aremy friends were like you, it would be an easy thing to glide on withthe stream. But I am in the midst of peril--I never knew untilto-night that it was hard to speak with a cold rigour to our friendswhen they merit it. If I were despised, or neglected, I could moreeasily fix my thoughts on heaven. I dread so to hurt the feelings ofany one. " "What do you refer to, dear?" inquired Aunt Mary, tenderly. "My friend Eleanor Temple, and her brother Theodore, have beenspending the evening with me. You know how gay and witty they are. In answer to a remark of mine, Theodore gravely quoted a passage ofScripture, which applied to my observation in an irresistiblyludicrous manner. I yielded to a hearty laugh which I could notrestrain; it came so suddenly I had no time for thought. But in amoment after my conscience smote me, and I felt that my respect forTheodore had lessened. I had no right to rebuke him, even if I hadthe moral courage, for my laughter was encouragement. I turned awayfrom him and spoke to Eleanor; I was displeased with myself, and Ifelt a sort of inward repugnance to him. But that was not the end;several times afterwards Theodore did the same thing. "'There are subjects which are not fit food for merriment;' I saidonce in an embarrassed manner. 'If I do wrong, it is notdeliberately done. ' Theodore was silent a moment, and he looked atme as if he hardly knew how to understand me--then smiling, heturned the conversation, and was as gay as ever. When they had takentheir leave, I entered the parlour again, and threw myself in a seatby the open window. I turned the blind, and looked out after them. Eleanor had caught the fringe of her mantilla in the railing of thearea. I was about to speak with her on the little accident, whenTheodore laughed, and said to his sister, 'Alice is as fond oftaking characters, as an actress. She attempted to reprove me, forthe very thing she had laughed at a little while before. Ratherinconsistent in our favourite, Nelly, don't you think so?' Eleanorlaughed, and said good-naturedly, 'Alice is impulsive, she don'tmeasure what she says, before it comes out. ' "I rose, and left the window. I felt sad, and peculiarly discomposedand dissatisfied with myself. I knew that I had tried to do right insome degree, and it grated on my feelings that my effort should becalled 'a taking of character. ' Oh! if I could only live with goodpeople altogether, who would bear with me, and trust my motives! Youhave my story, Aunt Mary, it amounts to nothing, but I am so sad. " "Life is made up of trifles, " said Miss Clinton. "Few circumstancesare so trivial that we may not draw a lesson from them. Do not feelsad, Alice, because you are misunderstood. Do not repine on accountof your position; no one could fill it but yourself, or you wouldnot be placed in it. Be resigned to meet those who call outunpleasant feelings; they teach you better your own nature than everthe angels could. They bring forth what is evil in you, that it maybe conquered. Do not understand me to mean that you should ever seekthose who may harm you. But a day can hardly pass over our heads, that we do not meet with persons who ruffle that harmony of soul weso labour after. It is keenly felt when one is as young in a betterlife as you are. You need strength, and then you will be calm andeven. Time, patience, combating, prayer, good-will to man, mustbring your soul to order, then you will bear upon the spirits ofothers with a still, purifying power which will soothe and softenlike far-off music. You have it in your power to do much good; yourCreator has blessed you with that inexpressible sympathy which mayglide gently into another human heart and open its secret springsalmost unconsciously to the possessor. I have watched you, child ofmy love, and perhaps I know you better than you know yourself. Thereare many latent germs within your being; Oh! Alice, pray God toexpand them to heavenly life. Bear on--and live for something worthya creature God has made. " Mary Clinton paused in an unusual emotion;her cheek glowed deeply, and the burning softness of her eyeschained Alice's look as with a spell, to their angel expression. Theheart of the young girl throbbed almost to bursting, with the worldof undeveloped feeling that rushed over her. It was a moment whichmany have experienced--a moment which breaks over the young for thefirst time with such a thrill--she realized that God had gifted herwith power--with a soul that might and _must_ have its influence. Bowing her head upon Aunt Mary's knee, she wept; and a flood of joy, humility, and thanksgiving came over her, as she more deeplydedicated herself to the holy Lord, and laid her gifts upon Hisaltar. Aunt Mary's words sunk peacefully into her soul, and a clearlight irradiated it and filled it with a calmness that made allthings right. With a look of irrepressible tenderness, and a voicefull of low music, Alice said to Aunt Mary, as she rose to retire, "You have charmed away every discordant note that was touchedto-night, dear aunt. How unaccountable are our sudden changes ofmood! You have now thrown over me your own spirit of peaceful reposeand contentment. Good-night, and think you!" "Well, I am content, entirely content, " soliloquized Mary Clinton, when the loved form of the child of her heart had disappeared. "Totry to bless another, how richly does the blessing fall back upon myown soul! Yes! I have my joys. Why am I ever so ungrateful as tomurmur at aught that befalls me? I am blest--a sunshine is breakingover the tender earth for me; all clouds are gone. " With feelingsmuch changed from what they were a few months previous, Mary Clintonsought the window, and with loving and devoted eyes dwelt upon thenight and stillness of the heavens--so boundless and so pure. Themoon was full; near it was one bright cloud of silver drapery, uponthe edge of which rested a single star. "So shall it be with me, "she murmured, "be the clouds that float over the heavens of my soulbright or dark, the star of holy trust shall linger near, everbringing to my bosom--peace. " About two years after, on a winter evening, there was a largecompany assembled at Mr. Clinton's dwelling. It was in compliment toAlice, for that day completed her twentieth year. As she moved fromone spot to another, her sweet face radiant with happiness, AuntMary's eyes followed her with a devoted expression, which betrayedthat the lovely being was her dearest earthly treasure. The merrygirl was now a glad-hearted, but thoughtful woman. An innocentmirthfulness lingered around her, which time itself would neversubdue, except for a brief season, when her sweet laugh broke outwith a natural, rich suddenness; there was a catching joy in it, that could not be withstood. She was the gentle hostess toperfection; with tact enough to discover congenial spirits, andbring them together, finding her own pleasure in the cheerful homethus made. She possessed the rare but happy art of making every bodyfeel perfectly at home, one knew not why. For a moment, Alice stoodalone with her little hand resting upon the centre-table. Behindher, two rather fashionable young men were talking and laughingsomewhat too loud, and jesting upon sacred things. A look of painpassed over the face of the fair listener as she slowly turnedround, and said in a low but earnest tone, "Don't, Theodore! Excuseme, but _such_ trifling pains me. " The young gentlemen both appearedmortified. "Pardon me! Alice, " exclaimed Theodore Temple, "I willtry to break that habit for your sake. I was not aware that itpained you so much--a lady's word is law!" and he bowed gallantly. "No, no! Base your giving up of the habit upon principle, then itwill be permanent. Much obliged for the compliment"--Alice bowedwith assumed dignity, and her sweet face dimpled into a playfulsmile, "but I have no faith in these pretty speeches. Remember, now, I have your promise to try to break the habit; you will forfeit yourword if you do not; so you see your position, don't you?" Thussaying, and without waiting for a reply, the young lady left them. "I believe Miss Clinton is right, after all, " remarked Temple'scompanion. "What is the use of jesting on such subjects? We neverfeel any better after it, and we subject ourselves to thedispleasure of those who respect these things. I pass my word togive it up, if you will, Temple. " "Agreed!" was Theodore's brief answer. Without saying how mingledthe motive might have been, which induced the young men to forsakethe habit, they _did_ forsake it permanently. Aunt Mary's lonelylife was at last smiled upon by a sunbeam--and that sunbeam was thesoul of Alice, which she had turned to the light. For that cherishedbeing Mary Clinton could have offered up her life, and there wouldhave been a joy in the sacrifice. Strongly and nobly were theirhearts knit together--beautiful is the devotedness of holy, unselfish love! Blest are two frank hearts, which may be opened toeach other, pouring out like lava the tide of feeling hoarded in theinward soul--such revelations are for moments when the yearningheart will not be hushed to calmness. But "there is a moonlight inhuman life, " and there is also a blessing in that subdued hour whichwhispers wearily to the loving one, of weaknesses and sins, with aprayer for consoling strength to triumph yet, leaving them in thedust. Thus was it with Mary and Alice Clinton; their souls were openas the day to each other. They travelled along life's pathway withearnest purpose, fulfilling the many and changing duties that fellupon them, ever catching rich gleams of joy from above. And sorrowscame too! but they purified, and taught the slumbering soul itsrarest wealth--its deepest sympathies with all things good andheavenly. It seemed a slight thing that took away the desolationfrom the heart of Mary Clinton--she turned away from _self_, anddevoted her efforts to the eternal happiness of another. Is thereone human being in the wide world so desolate, that he may not dolikewise? Only a mite may be cast in, but God has made none of hischildren so poor, as to be without an influence. The humblesteffort, if it is all that _can_ be made, is as full of greatness atthe core, as the most ostentatious display. THE DEAD. IT is strange what a change is wrought in one hour by death. Themoment our friend is gone from us for ever, what sacredness investshim! Everything he ever said or did seems to return to us clothed innew significance. A thousand yearnings rise, of things we would fainsay to him--of questions unanswered, and now unanswerable. All hewore or touched, or looked upon familiarly, becomes sacred asrelics. Yesterday these were homely articles, to be tossed to andfro, handled lightly, given away thoughtlessly--to-day we touch themsoftly, our tears drop on them; death has laid his hand on them, andthey have become holy in our eyes. Those are sad hours when one haspassed from our doors never to return, and we go back to set theplace in order. There the room, so familiar, the homely belongingsof their daily life, each one seems to say to us in its turn, "Neither shall their place know them any more. " Clear the shelf nowof vials and cups, and prescriptions; open the windows; step no morecarefully; there is no one now to be cared for--no one to benursed--no one to be awakened. Ah! why does this bring a secret pang with it when we know that theyare where none shall any more say, "I am sick!" Could only oneflutter of their immortal garments be visible in such moments; couldtheir face, glorious with the light of heaven, once smile on thedeserted room, it might be better. One needs to lose friends tounderstand one's self truly. The death of a friend teaches thingswithin that we never knew before. We may have expected it, preparedfor it, it may have been hourly expected for weeks; yet when itcomes, it falls on us suddenly, and reveals in us emotions we couldnot dream. The opening of those heavenly gate for them startles andflutters our souls with strange mysterious thrills, unfelt before. The glimpse of glories, the sweep of voices, all startle and dazzleus, and the soul for many a day aches and longs with untoldlongings. We divide among ourselves the possessions of our lost ones. Eachwell-known thing comes to us with an almost supernatural power. Thebook we once read with them, the old Bible, the familiar hymn; thenperhaps little pet articles of fancy, made dear to them by somepeculiar taste, the picture, the vase!--how costly are they now inour eyes. We value them not for their beauty or worth, but for the frequencywith which we have seen them touched or used by them; and our eyeruns over the collection, and perhaps lights most lovingly on thehomeliest thing which may have been oftenest touched or worn bythem. It is a touching ceremony to divide among a circle of friends thememorials of the lost. Each one comes inscribed--"_no more_;" andyet each one, too, is a pledge of reunion. But there are invisiblerelics of our lost ones more precious than the book, the pictures, or the vase. Let us treasure them in our hearts. Let us bind to ourhearts the patience which they will never need again; the fortitudein suffering which belonged only to this suffering state. Let ustake from their dying hand that submission under affliction whichthey shall need no more in a world where affliction is unknown. Letus collect in our thoughts all those cheerful and hopeful sayingswhich they threw out from time to time as they walked with us, andstring them as a rosary to be daily counted over. Let us test ourown daily life by what must be their now perfected estimate; and asthey once walked with us on earth, let us walk with them in heaven. We may learn at the grave of our lost ones how to live with theliving. It is a fearful thing to live so carelessly as we often dowith those dearest to us, who may at any moment be gone for ever. The life we are living, the words we are now saying, will all belived over in memory over some future grave. One remarks that thedeath of a child often makes parents tender and indulgent! Ah, it isa lesson learned of bitter sorrow! If we would know how to measureour work to living friends, let us see how we feel towards the dead. If we have been neglectful, if we have spoken hasty and unkindwords, on which death has put his inevitable seal, what an anguishis that! But our living friends may, ere we know, pass from us; wemay be to-day talking with those whose names to-morrow are to bewritten among the dead; the familiar household object of to-day maybecome sacred relics to-morrow. Let us walk softly; let us forbearand love; none ever repented of too much love to a departed friend;none ever regretted too much tenderness and indulgence, but many atear has been shed for too much harshness and severity. Let ourfriends in heaven then teach us how to treat our friends on earth. Thus by no vain fruitless sorrow, but by a deeper self-knowledge, atenderer and more sacred estimate of life, may our heavenly friendsprove to us ministering spirits. The triumphant apostle says to the Christian, "All things areyours--Life and Death. " Let us not lose either; let us make _Death_our own; in a richer, deeper, and more solemn earnestness of life. So those souls which have gone from our ark, and seemed lost overthe gloomy ocean of the unknown, shall return to us, bearing theolive-leaves of Paradise. DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR? "WHOSE sorrow is like unto my sorrow?" Such is the language of the stricken soul, such the outbreak offeeling, when affliction darkens the horizon of man's sunny hopes, and dashes the full cup of blessings suddenly from the expectantlips. "Console me not; you have not felt this pang, " cries the spirit inagony, to the kind friend who is striving to pour the balm ofconsolation in the wounded heart. "But I have known worse, " is the reply. "Worse! never, never; no one could suffer more keenly than I now do, and live. " In vain the friend reasons; sorrow is always more or less selfish;it absorbs all other passions; it consecrates itself to tears andlamentations, and the bereaved one feels alone; utterly alone in theworld, and of all mankind the most forsaken. Every heart knoweth itsown bitterness, and there is a canker spot on every human plant inGod's garden. Some are blighted and withered, ready to fall from thestalk; others are blooming while a blight is at the root. What right have you to say, because you droop and languish, thatyour neighbour, with a fair exterior and upright mien, is all thathis appearance indicates? What evidence have you that because yousuffer from want, and your neighbour rides in his carriage, that heis, therefore, more abundantly blessed, more contentedly happy thanyou? As you walk through the streets of costly and beautiful mansions, you feel vaguely, that, associated with so much of beauty, ofmagnificence and ease, there must be absolute content, enviablefreedom, unmixed pleasure, and constant happiness. How deplorablymistaken. Here, where gold and crimson drape the windows, is mortalsickness; there, where the heavy shutters fold over the rich plateglass, lies shrouded death. Here, is blasted reputation, there, isan untold and hideous grief. Here, is blighted love, striving tolook and be brave, but with a bosom corroded and full of bitterness;there the sad conduct of a wayward child. Here is the terribleneglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized husband; there the wilfuland repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here is dread ofbankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is bitterhatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silentand hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, whileit paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undyingremorse in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and thefatherless; there the suffering being the victim of foul slander;here is imbecility, there smothered revenge. The bride and thebelle, both so seemingly blessed, have each their sacred butpoignant sorrow. Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; youhave buried your only child--he has laid seven in the tomb. Seventimes has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; hehas no hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are aChristian. Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost yourall--no, no, say not so; your neighbour has lost houses and lands, but his health has gone also; and while you are robust, he lies onthe uneasy pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menialprepare his scanty meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears thefood to his parched lips. Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night testsyour poverty; you have but money enough for the bare necessaries oflife; your children dress meagerly, and your house is scantilyfurnished; you do not know whether or not work will be forthcomingthe following week. Your neighbour sees not, nor did he ever see, want. House, wife and children are sumptuously provided for; hisbarn is a palace to your kitchen. Step into his parlour and look athim for a moment; papers surround him, blazing Lehigh floods thegrate, velvet carpets yield to the step; luxurious chairs invite torest--check the sigh of envy; there is a ring at the bell--hurryingfootsteps on the stairs--a jarring sound against the polished door, and in bursts the rich man's son, his brow haggard, his eyes fierceand red. He is a notorious profligate; gambling is his food anddrink, debauchery his glory and his ruin. Would you be that father?Go back to your honest sons and look in their faces; throw thebright locks from their brows, and bless God that there the angeltriumphs over the brute; be even thankful that you are not burdenedwith corrupt gold, for their sakes; say not again that you suffermore than your neighbour. Do you toil, young girl, from daylight to midnight, while the littlesums eked out with frowns and reluctant fingers, hardly suffice toprovide for you food and raiment? And the wife of your richemployer, who passes stranger-like by you, may sit at her marbletoilet-table for hours, and retouch the faded brow of beauty beforea gilded mirror; may lounge at her palace window till she is wearyof gazing, and being gazed at; do you envy your wealthier neighbour, young sewing-girl? Go to her boudoir, where pictures and statuary, silken hangings and perfumes delight every sense, and where costlyrobes are flung around with a profusion that betokens lavishexpenditure; ask her which she deems happiest, and she will pointher jewelled finger towards you, and--if she speaks withcandour--tell you that for your single soul and free spirits, shewould barter all her riches. The opera, where night after night thewealth of glorious voices is flung upon the air till its everyvibration is melody, and the spirit drinks it in as it would theincense of rare flowers, is to her not so exquisite a luxury as thechoice songs, warbled in a concert room, to which you may listen butfew times in the year; such pleasure palls in repetition, on thecommon mind, for nature's favourites are among the poor, and gold, with all its magical power, can never attune the ear to music, northe taste to an appreciation of that which is truly beautiful innature or art. Keep then your integrity, and you never need envy thewife of your employer. A round of heartless dissipation has sickenedher of humanity; and if it were not for the excitement of outshiningher compeers in the ranks of fashion, she would lay down her uselesslife to-morrow. Mothers, worn out and enfeebled with work, labouring for those who, however good they may be, are at the best unable to pay you for youunceasing toil, unable to realize your great sacrifices, do you lookupon your neighbour who has more means and a few petted children, and wish that your lot was like hers? You pause often over yourtask, and think it greater than you can bear. "Tell mothers, " said a lady to us a short time since, "who havetheir little ones around them, that they are living their happiestdays; and the time will come when they will realize it. Tell them tobend in thankfulness over the midnight lamp, to smile at theirceaseless work and call it pleasure. I can but kneel in fancy by thedistant graves of my children; they are all gone. Could I but havethem beside me now, I would delve like a slave for them; I wouldthink no burden too hard, no denial beyond my strength, if I mightbut labour for their good and be rewarded by their smiles and theirlove. " Then in whatever situation we are, we should remember that even buta door from our own dwelling there may be anguish, compared withwhich ours is but as the whisper of a breath to the roll of thethunder. We do not say then, let us _console_ ourselves by thereflection that there are always those in the world who sufferkeener afflictions than ourselves, "but let us feel that though ourcup of sorrow may be almost full, there might be added many a dropof bitterness;" and never, never should we breathe the expression, "there is no sorrow like unto mine. " WE ARE LED BY A WAY THAT WE KNOW NOT. WE are to consider the facts and circumstances which confirm thedoctrine that the Lord's providence is at once universal andparticular; and indeed that he leads us by a way unknown toourselves. And who that has reflected upon his own life, or upon the life ofothers, or upon the current events of the day, will not bear witnessto the universal application of this principle? Look to the affairs of the world, to the nations and governments ofall the earth, and tell me, where is anything turning out accordingto the forethought and prudence of man? Look to the movements of our own country, and say whether humanprudence ever devised what we behold? What party or what individualshave ever, in the long run, brought things about as they expected?And how is it in our own city, and under our own eyes? In the societies of the church, and in organizations for churchextension, the same rule applies. And I might ask, where does it notapply? I might give examples. But this is unnecessary, when they areso numerous, and so fresh in the memory of every one. But when we turn to the experience of individuals, we meet with themost unlimited application of our subject. The life of every one isa standing memento of its truth. For who is there, that has come tohis present stand-point in life, by the route that he had marked outfor himself? I will imagine that ten, fifteen, or twenty years agoeach one of you fixed on your plan of life, for a longer or shorterperiod. It matters not what the original plan was. It matters notwhat prudence, sagacity, and forethought were employed in making it. It matters not how much money and power have come to the support ofit. Still its parts have never been filled up as you originallysketched them. Many particulars were altered and amended, from day to day, as youwent along. Some things were abandoned as useless; some as hopeless;some as impossible; some as injurious; some things were neglected, and others forgotten. An unknown hand now and then interposed, turning the tables entirely. An unaccountable influence was foundoperating on certain individuals, changing their tone, and modifyingtheir conduct. An unknown individual has come alongside of you, andhas become your friend. He has mingled his emotions and his planswith yours. You have modified your plans. He has changed his. Business and commerce have taken an unexpected turn. You are thegainer or the loser, it matters not; your plans are changed by theevent. An intimate friend has left you and become your open enemy;an open enemy has been reconciled and has returned to the affectionand confidence of your heart. Your plans in life have to be changedto suit such events as these. Several friends and relatives, thatwere near to you, have been removed into the spiritual world. It maybe that by such providences, your feelings, thoughts, and actionshave been changed--changed utterly and for ever. Darkness of mind, gloominess of life, and anguish of spirit may have come upon you, bysome such unexpected providence, and thus your plans may have beenchanged, or even utterly abandoned. But beyond matters of this description, which are somewhat external, and as we say accidental, and certainly incidental, to a life inthis world, and in all of which we are led in a way that we knownot; there are unexpected changes of another kind, that we all haveexperienced. I now refer to changes in the inner man, and in theinner life. For there is a Divinity within us that shapes our ends, and whilethe things of the outward life remain much the same, we experiencechanges of the inner life, that are at times amazing and terrible. They come like the swelling of the tide, and like the beating of thewaves rolling on from a distant ocean; the deep emotions of the soularise and swell and sweep away; the fire of thought is kindled; theimagination paints the canvas; the tongue stands ready to utter theinflux of love and wisdom; and the hand to illustrate it. As these internal states of the soul change, by conjunction with theLord and communion with Heaven, on the one hand; or by opposition toGod and alliance with Hell, on the other, we see all things of theoutward world in a different light. The changes of our internal man are, to appearance, much moredirectly of the Lord's Divine Providence, than the events of theoutward life. Nevertheless, the two are so related by theconstitution of the mind, that each individual determines, inrationality and freedom, which of the emotions and thoughts of the_inner life_, he will bring forth into _ultimate acts_; and it ishere that the man may ally himself with the good and the true on onehand, or with the evil and the false on the other; and in thismanner determine his destiny for heaven or hell. The practical bearings of our subjects hinge chiefly on this; we areto confide in the Lord; lean upon his great arm; and look to Him, with the assurance that although He leads us by a way that we knownot, nevertheless He is leading us aright; and if we trust to Him, and do His will, He will finally bring us to heaven. Casting our eyes from one extreme of the Lord's vast dominions tothe other, we find the same Divine Providence everywhere operatingand operative. The angels of heaven, from the highest to the lowest, are continually led by the Lord in paths that they have not known;darkness is made light before them, and crooked things straight. Nevertheless they are not led into infinite good nor infinitedelight. For this would be impossible. But constantly they are ledinto a higher degree of good than they would naturally choose; andthey are defended from evil into which they would naturally subside. So also it is with us. Hence we may rest assured, that however meagre may be the good weexperience, it is vaster by far than we should inherit, if we hadbeen permitted to carry out our own plans and to have our own way inthose numerous particulars in which we have been frustrated in ourplans and disappointed in our hopes. THE IVY IN THE DUNGEON. THE ivy in a dungeon grew, Unfed by rain, uncheered by dew; Its pallid leaflets only drank Cave-moistures foul, and odours dank. But through the dungeon-grating high There fell a sunbeam from the sky; It slept upon the grateful floor In silent gladness evermore. The ivy felt a tremor shoot Through all its fibres to the root; It felt the light, it saw the ray, It strove to blossom into day. It grew, it crept, it pushed, it clomb-- Long had the darkness been its home; But well it knew, though veiled in night, The goodness and the joy of light. Its clinging roots grew deep and strong; Its stem expanded firm and long; And in the currents of the air Its tender branches flourished fair. It reached the beam--it thrilled--it curled-- It blessed the warmth that cheers the world; It rose towards the dungeon bars-- It looked upon the sun and stars. It felt the life of bursting Spring, It heard the happy sky-lark sing. It caught the breath of morns and eves, And wooed the swallow to its leaves. By rains, and dews, and sunshine fed, Over the outer wall it spread; And in the day-beam waving free, It grew into a steadfast tree. Upon that solitary place, Its verdure threw adorning grace. The mating birds became its guests, And sang its praises from their nests. Wouldst know the moral of the rhyme? Behold the heavenly light! and climb. To every dungeon comes a ray Of God's interminable day. THE GARDEN OF EDEN. ONE day little Alice hung about her mother's neck covering hercheeks with kisses, and saying in her pretty, childish way, "I love you, you nice, sweet mother! You are good--so good!" But hermother answered earnestly, "Dear child, God is good; if I have any good it is from Him; He hasgiven it to me; it is not mine. " Then the little one unclasped her caressing arms, and putting backher hair with both hands gazed with a look of surprise into hermother's face. Presently she said--"But if He has given it to you, it is yours. " "No, darling, " replied the lady, "you do not quite understand. Listen. Suppose your dear father had a great garden full of all mostbeautiful things that ever grew in gardens, and he should say toyou--'Come and live in my garden; you shall have as much ground asyou are able to cultivate, and I will give you seeds of all fruitsand flowers you love best, as many as you want. Here no evil thingcan ever come to harm you, but every day you will grow happier andstronger, and then I will give you more ground and more seeds, andyou shall live with me for ever!' Suppose you were so glad to hearthis that you lost no time, but went in, at once, and began to plantthe seeds in your little plot, close by the gate--you know it wouldbe a tiny little plot at first, because you are small and weak; andsoon your flowers were to grow up and bloom, so tall, and sobeautiful, and your trees hang heavy with such delightful fruit thatevery one passing by would exclaim, "'Oh, what a beautiful garden! Are these flowers and fruit treesyours?' "Would you not say-- "Oh, no! they are not mine; they are all my father's. This is hisbeautiful garden, but he said if I were willing I might stay herealways, and I have come to live with him because he is good. Nothingat all here belongs to me, though my father likes me to give awaythe fruits and flowers that grow in my plot to all who ask for them. I am a great deal happier, all the time, when I think that even thewild flowers in this grass, and the small berries, and the littlebirds that eat them, belong to him, than I could be if they weremine, and I had no one to love for them. ' "Should you not feel, dearest, as though you were telling a wickedstory, and almost as though you were stealing something, if yousaid, 'Yes, they are all mine, ' so that the people would not evenknow you had a father?" "Oh, yes! that would be very naughty indeed. I would give the peoplesome of the fruit and flowers, and say they grew on my father'strees, and then they would love him too; but tell me more about thegarden. " "I will tell you all I think you can understand, and you must beattentive, for I want you to remember it all your life. Did you everhear of the Garden of Eden?" "Yes; that is where Adam and Eve lived. " "Well, that's the beautiful garden I've been telling you about, andGod is your good father. You can begin your journey there this veryday if you like. " "Is it a very long journey?--and will you go with me? Is therereally, _really_ such a garden? Oh, tell me where it is!" "I desire nothing in the world so much as to lead you there, but thepath is rough and steep; I cannot carry you in my arms along thatroad; you must walk on your own little feet, and I am afraid theywill sometimes get--very tired. " "You know, mother, I never do get tired when I am going to apleasant place; but, oh, dear! I do believe now it is all adream-story; you smiled and kissed me just as if it were. " "No, you need not look so disappointed, little one, for though it issomething like a 'dream-story, ' there is nothing in the world halfso true and real. Think in that little head of yours, and tell mewhat seems to you most like this beautiful garden. " "I cannot think of anything at all like it, except heaven. --Oh, yes!--that is it! Heaven, is it not?" "And what is heaven?" "The place where good people go when they die. " "Think again. What is heaven?" "I have thought again, and I cannot think of anything but the placewhere God and the angels are. I do not know how you want me tothink. " "I want you to think why it is heaven, and why the angels are happy. Do you understand?" "Yes. Being beautiful and so pleasant makes it heaven; and theangels are happy because they are in heaven. " "Then, of course, if you put even such wicked people into abeautiful and pleasant place they would be angels, and happy?" "Oh, now I see! You mean the angels are happy because they aregood. " "Why should that make them happy?" "I don't know why, but I know the Bible says so. I suppose just thesame as when you promise me, in the morning, that if I say mylessons all nicely you will tell me a beautiful fairy-tale aftertea. " "No, my little Alice, not exactly in that way, though at firstthought it does seem to be so. I want you very much indeed, tounderstand the truth about it, but I am afraid you will not find iteasy. You know that God is good, and wise, and happy--ah, dearest!better, wiser, happier than the purest angels will ever know, thoughthey go on learning it to eternity. When I say to you God isinfinitely good, and wise, and happy, you cannot understand that, and neither can I; but one thing about it I can understand, and thisI will tell you. Just as every joyous ray of light and heat comes tous from the sun, so all wisdom, all goodness, all beauty, all joy, flow forth from God, and are His, alone. Our very souls would go outof existence like the flames of a lamp when the oil is spent, if, for the least fraction of a second, He ceased to give us life. Thistruth that I am teaching you now is not mine, nor yours; it is onlya tiny stream flowing from the fountains of His infinite wisdom, andwould be the truth, all the same, if we had never been born, ornever learned to see it. The good and joyous feelings in your heart, too, are also from God, just as the truth is, though they seem toyou more as if they were your own. You must never think of them asyour own, never; but thank God for them very gratefully and humbly, for they are His fruits that grow in the garden of your father, theGarden of Eden. " "Why do you call it the Garden of Eden?" "Because, by the Garden of Eden, is signified the state of those wholive in obedience to God; and by the beauty and pleasantness of thegarden we are taught that, when we receive goodness and truth fromGod, we, at the same time, receive happiness from Him, because He isinfinitely happy, as well as infinitely good, and when His spiritfills our hearts, we are happy too. Happiness comes with goodness, just as the flowers and songs of birds come with summer. " "Then are all good people happy? I thought not. " "It is true, there are many trials in this world, but do you not seethat if we were good we should acknowledge that God sent them asblessings, and should be willing to accept them from him, andshould, therefore, not be made very unhappy by them. You may be surethat people are really, in their heart of hearts, happy exactly inproportion as they are good. I have known persons who had suffered agreat deal in many ways, and who yet said that nothing had been sobitter to them as the consciousness of their own sins. Good peoplesee a thousand things to love and enjoy which the wicked world findno pleasure in; they are sure to make friends, and, what is farbetter, sure to love and do good to all about them. They takedelight in everything beautiful that God has created. They think ofHim, and all His goodness, and, in the midst of sorrow, their heartsare comforted, and filled with heavenly peace. " "Why did you say the road was rough and long to that beautifulgarden?--is it so very, very hard to be good?--and does it take sovery long?" "You must not feel sad because it is not easy to be good; you mustthink of it bravely, and joyfully. Why, my Alice! did you not sayyou never felt tired when you were going to a pleasant place? It isnot always easy to do right; sometimes we are sorely tempted, andthen it seems very difficult; but what of that? It is possible, always, for God never requires of us what we cannot do. When youfeel discouraged, remember that angels in heaven were littlechildren once, and that some of them found it as hard as you do tobe good and true, but they tried over and over again, and areblessed angels now. They love to acknowledge that it was not bytheir own strength they overcame evil, but that all the good andtruth and happiness they have are from God. He does not love youless than He did them, for His love is infinite to all His children, and if you are willing He will lead you also into His Garden ofEden. " HAVE A FLOWER IN YOUR ROOM. A FIRE in winter, a flower in summer! If you can have a fine printor picture all the year round, so much the better; you will thusalways have a bit of sunshine in your room, whether the sky be clearor not. But, above all, a flower in summer! Most people have yet to learn the true enjoyment of life; it is notfine dresses, or large houses, or elegant furniture, or rich wines, or gay parties, that make homes happy. Really, wealth cannotpurchase pleasures of the higher sort; these depend not on money, ormoney's worth; it is the heart, and taste, and intellect, whichdetermine the happiness of men; which give the seeing eye and thesentient nature, and without which, man is little better than a kindof walking clothes-horse. A snug and a clean home, no matter how tiny it be, so that it bewholesome; windows, into which the sun can shine cheerily; a fewgood books (and who need be without a few good books in these daysof universal cheapness?)--no duns at the door, and the cupboard wellsupplied, and with a flower in your room!--and there is none so pooras not to have about him the elements of pleasure. Hark! there is a child passing our window calling "wallflowers!" Wemust have a bunch forthwith: it is only a penny! A shower has justfallen, the pearly drops are still hanging upon the petals, and theysparkle in the sun which has again come out in his beauty. How deliciously the flower smells of country and nature! It is likesummer coming into our room to greet us. The wallflowers are fromKent, and only last night were looking up to the stars from theirnative stems; they are full of buds yet, with their promise of freshbeauty. "Betty! bring a glass of clear water to put these flowersin!" and so we set to, arranging and displaying our pennyworth tothe best advantage. But what do you say to a nosegay of roses? Here you have a specimenof the most beautiful of the smiles of Nature! Who, that looks onone of these bright full-blown beauties, will say that she is sad, or sour, or puritanical! Nature tells us to be happy, to be glad, for she decks herself with roses, and the fields, the skies, thehedgerows, the thickets, the green lanes, the dells, the mountains, the morning and evening sky, are robed in loveliness. The "laughingflowers, " exclaims the poet! but there is more than gayety in theblooming flower, though it takes a wise man to see its fullsignificance--there is the beauty, the love, and the adaptation, ofwhich it is full. Few of us, however, see any more deeply in thisrespect than did Peter Bell:-- "A primrose by a river's brim, A yellow primrose was to him, And it was nothing more. " What would we think or say of one who had inventedflowers--supposing, that before him, flowers were things unknown;would it not be the paradise of a new delight? should we not hailthe inventor as a genius as a god? And yet these lovely offspringsof the earth have been speaking to man from the first dawn of hisexistence till now, telling him of the goodness and wisdom of theCreating Power, which bade the earth bring forth, not only thatwhich was useful as food, but also flowers, the bright consummateflowers, to clothe it in beauty and joy! See that graceful fuchsia, its blood-red petals, and calyx ofbluish-purple, more exquisite in colour and form than any hand oreyes, no matter how well skilled and trained, can imitate! We canmanufacture no colours to equal those of our flowers in their brightbrilliancy--such, for instance, as the Scarlet Lychnis, theBrowallia, or even the Common Poppy. Then see the exquisite blue ofthe humble Speedwell, and the dazzling white of the Star ofBethlehem, that shines even in the dark. Bring one of even ourcommon field-flowers into a room, place it on your table or chimneypiece, and you seem to have brought a ray of sunshine into theplace. There is ever cheerfulness about flowers; what a delight arethey to the drooping invalid! the very sight of them is cheering;they are like a sweet draught of fresh bliss, coming as messengersfrom the country without, and seeming to say:--"Come and see theplace where we grow, and let thy heart be glad in our presence. " What can be more innocent than flowers! Are they not like childrenundimmed by sin? They are emblems of purity and truth, always a newsource of delight to the pure and the innocent. The heart that doesnot love flowers, or the voice of a playful child, is one that weshould not like to consort with. It was a beautiful conceit thatinvented a language of flowers, by which lovers were enabled toexpress the feelings that they dared not openly speak. But flowershave a voice to all, --to old and young, to rich and poor, if theywould but listen, and try to interpret their meaning. "To me, " saysWordsworth, The meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. " Have a flower in your room then, by all means! It will cost you onlya penny, if your ambition is moderate; and the gratification it willgive you will be beyond all price. If you can have a flower for yourwindow, so much the better. What can be more delicious than thesun's light streaming through flowers--through the midst of crimsonfuchsias or scarlet geraniums? Then to look out into the lightthrough flowers--is not that poetry? And to break the force of thesunbeams by the tender resistance of green leaves? If you can traina nasturtium round the window, or some sweet-peas, then you have themost beautiful frame you can invent for the picture without, whetherit be the busy crowd, or a distant landscape, or trees with theirlights and shades, or the changes of the passing clouds. Any one maythus look through flowers for the price of an old song. And what apure taste and refinement does it not indicate on the part of thecultivator! A flower in your window sweetens the air, makes your room lookgraceful, gives the sun's light a new charm, rejoices your eye, andlinks you to nature and beauty. You really cannot be altogetheralone, if you have a sweet flower to look upon, and it is acompanion which will never utter a cross thing to anybody, butalways look beautiful and smiling. Do not despise it because it ischeap, and everybody may have the luxury as well as you. Commonthings are cheap, and common things are invariably the mostvaluable. Could we only have a fresh air or sunshine by purchase, what luxuries these would be; but they are free to all, and we thinknot of their blessings. There is, indeed, much in nature that we do not yet half enjoy, because we shut our avenues of sensation and of feeling. We aresatisfied with the matter of fact, and look not for the spirit offact, which is above all. If we would open our minds to enjoyment, we should find tranquil pleasures spread about us on every side. Wemight live with the angels that visit us on every sunbeam, and sitwith the fairies who wait on every flower. We want some lovingknowledge to enable us truly to enjoy life, and we require tocultivate a little more than we do the art of making the most of thecommon means and appliances for enjoyment, which lie about us onevery side. There are, we doubt not, many who may read these pages, who can enter into and appreciate the spirit of all that we have nowsaid; and, to those who may still hesitate, we would say--begin andexperiment forthwith; and first of all, when the next flower-girlcomes along your street, at once hail her, and "Have a flower foryour room!" WEALTH. THE error of life into which man most readily falls, is the pursuitof wealth as the highest good of existence. While riches commandrespect, win position, and secure comfort, it is expected that theywill be regarded by all classes only with a strong and unsatisfieddesire. But the undue reverence which is everywhere manifested forwealth, the rank which is conceded it, the homage which is paid it, the perpetual worship which is offered it, all tend to magnify itsdesirableness, and awaken longings for its possession in the mindsof those born without inheritance. In society, as at presentobserved, the acquisition of money would seem to be the height ofhuman aim--the great object of living, to which all other purposesare made subordinate. Money, which exalts the lowly, and shedshonour upon the exalted--money, which makes sin appear goodness, andgives to viciousness the seeming of chastity--money, which silencesevil report, and opens wide the mouth of praise--money, whichconstitutes its possessor an oracle, to whom men listen withdeference--money, which makes deformity beautiful, and sanctifiescrime--money, which lets the guilty go unpunished, and winsforgiveness for wrong--money, which makes manhood and agerespectable, and is commendation, surety, and good name for theyoung, --how shall it be gained? by what schemes gathered in? by whatsacrifice secured? These are the questions which absorb the mind, the practical answerings of which engross the life of men. Theschemes are too often those of fraud, and outrage upon the sacredobligations of being; the sacrifice, loss of the highest moralsense, the destruction of the purest susceptibilities of nature, theneglect of internal life and development, the utter and sadperversion of the true purposes of existence. Money is valued beyondits worth--it has gained a power vastly above its deserving. Wealthis courted so obsequiously, is flattered so servilely, is soinfluential in moulding opinions and judgment, has such a weight inthe estimation of character, that men regard its acquisition as themost prudent aim of their endeavours, and its possession as absoluteenjoyment and honour, rather than the means of honourable, useful, and happy life. While riches are thus over-estimated, and hold suchpower in the community, men will forego ease and endure toil, sacrifice social pleasures and abandon principle, for the speedy andunlimited acquirement of property. Money will not be regarded as themeans of living, but as the object of life. All nobler ends will beneglected in the eager haste to be rich. No higher pursuit will berecognised than the pursuit of gold--no attainment deemed sodesirable as the attainment of wealth. While the great man of everycircle is the rich man, in the common mind wealth becomes thesynonyme of greatness. No condition is discernable superior to thatwhich money confers; no loftier idea of manhood is entertained thanthat which embraces the extent of one's possessions. There is a wealth of heart better than gold, and an interiordecoration fairer than outward ornament. -- There is a splendour in upright life, beside which gems arelustreless; and a fineness of spirit whose beauty outvies theglitter of diamonds. Man's true riches are hidden in his nature, andin their development and increase will he find his surest happiness. HOW TO BE HAPPY. OLD Mr. Cleveland sat by his comfortable fireside one cold winter'snight. He was a widower, and lived alone on his plantation; that isto say, he was the only white person there; for of negroes, bothfield hands and house servants, he had enough and to spare. He was aqueer old man, this Mr. Cleveland; a man of kind, good feelings, butof eccentric impulses, and blunt and startling manners. You mustalways let him do everything in his own odd way; just attempt todictate to him, or even to suggest a certain course, and you wouldbe sure to defeat your wisest designs. He seemed at times possessedby a spirit of opposition, and would often turn right round andoppose a course he had just been vehemently advocating, only becausesome one else had ventured openly and warmly to approve it. The night, as I have said, was bitter cold, and would have donehonour to a northern latitude, and in addition to this, a violentstorm was coming on. The wind blew in fitful gusts, howling andsighing among the huge trees with which the house was surrounded, and then dying away with a melancholy, dirge-like moan. The old treerubbed their leafless branches against the window panes, and thefowls which had roosted there for the night, were fain to clap theirwings, and make prodigious efforts to preserve their equilibrium. Mr. Cleveland grew moody and restless, threw down the book in whichhe had been reading, kicked one of the andirons till he made thewhole blazing fabric tumble down, and finally called, in animpatient tone, his boy Tom. Tom soon popped his head in at the door, and said, "Yer's me, sir. " "Yer's me, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "what sort of a way isthis to build a fire?" "I rispec you is bin kick um, sir, " said Tom. "Hey? What? Well! suppose I did bin kick um, if it had been properlymade, it would not have tumbled down. Fix it this minute, sir!" "I is gwine to fix um now, sir, " said Tom, fumbling at the fire. "Well! fix it, sir, without having so much to say about it; you hadbetter do more, and say less, " said Mr. Cleveland. "Yes, sir, " answered Tom. "You _will_ keep answering me when there is no occasion!" exclaimedMr. Cleveland; "I just wish I had my stick here, I'd crack the sideof your head with it. " "Yer's de stick, sir, " said Tom, handing the walking cane out of thecorner. "Put it down, this instant, sir, " said Mr. Cleveland; "how dare youtouch my stick without my leave?" "I bin tink you bin say you bin want um, sir, " said Tom. "You had better tink about your work, sir, and stop answering me, sir, or I'll find a way to make you, " said Mr. Cleveland. "Bring insome more light wood, and make the fire, and shut in the windowshutters. Do you hear me, sir?" "Yes, sir, " replied Tom. "Well, why don't you answer, if you hear, then? How am I to knowwhen you hear me, if you don't answer?" said Mr. Cleveland. "I bin tink you bin tell me for no answer you, sir, " said Tom. "I said when there was no occasion, boy; that's what I said, "exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, reaching for his stick. "Yes, sir, " said Tom, as he went grinning out of the room. Mr. Cleveland was, in the main, a very kind master, though somewhathasty and impatient. Tom and he were for ever sparring, yet neithercould have done without the other; and there was something comicalabout Tom's disposition which well suited his master's eccentric andchangeable moods. Tom evidently served as a kind of safety valve forhis master's nervous system, and many an explosion of superfluousexcitability he had to bear. On the night in question, Mr. Cleveland was particularly out ofsorts. The truth is, he was naturally a generous, warm-hearted man, but in consequence of early disappointment, had lived a solitarylife, and was really suffering for the want of objects of affection. His feelings, unsatisfied, unemployed, yet morbidly sensitive, werebecoming soured, and his untenanted heart often ached for want ofsympathy. He rose and took several diagonal turns across the room. At lengthhe opened a window, and looked out upon the stormy night. "Whatconfounded weather!" he muttered to himself, "it makes a man feellike blowing his brains out! There are no two ways about it, I'mtired of life. What have I to live for? If I were to die to-morrow, who would shed a tear?" Then whispered conscience, "It is thine own fault. A man need notfeel alone because there are none in the world who bear his name, orshare his blood. All men are thy brethren. Thou art one of the greathuman family, and what hast thou done to relieve the poor andsuffering around thee? Will not thy Master say to thee at the lastday, 'I was an hungered, and you gave me no meat; I was thirsty, andyou gave me no drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me not in;naked, and you clothed me not; sick, and in prison, and you visitedme not. Inasmuch as you did it not to one of the least of these mybrethren, _you did it not to me. _'" This was a strong and direct appeal, and it was not without itseffect. Then muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself again, "Well, how canI help it? It has not been for want of inclination. Heaven knows Iam always ready to put my hand in my pocket whenever people call onme for charity. How can I help it if the poor and suffering do notmake their wants known to me?" Then again spake Conscience: "Thou art trying to deceive thyself, but thou canst not deceive nor silence _me_. Thou hast known of theexistence of suffering, and thine indolence has prevented thee fromgoing abroad to relieve it. Did thy Master thus? Did he not _goabout_ to do good? Did he not sit down to meat with publicans andsinners? Can you stand here, and look out upon such a night as this, and not think of those who are exposed to its bitterness? Can thyhuman heart beat only for itself when thou thinkest of the thousandmiseries crying to Heaven for relief? Resolve, now, before thy headtouches its comfortable pillow, that with the morning's dawn thouwilt resolutely set about thy work; or, rather, thy Master's work. " "It is very hard, " still muttered Mr. Cleveland to himself, "thatthese thoughts will continually intrude themselves upon me. Theygive me no peace of my life. Stifle them as I may, they come withtenfold force. People have no business to be poor. I was poor once, and nobody gave charity to me. I had to help myself up in the worldas well as I could. I hate poor people; I hate unfortunate people;in fact, confound it! I hate the world and everybody in it. " Then answered once again the still, small voice: "For shame, Mr. Cleveland, for shame! You will ruin your soul if you thus darken thelight within. You know better than all this, and you are sinningagainst yourself. You want to be happy; well, you may be so. Thereis a wide field of duty open before you; enter, in God's name, andgo to work like a man. What you say about having helped yourself, isperfectly true, and you deserve all credit for it. But remember thatthe majority of the poor are entirely destitute of your advantages. You had the foundation rightly laid. A thousand circumstances inyour early life conspired to render you energetic and self-relying. You had the right sort of education, and Providence also helped totrain you. Besides, once more I ask you, did your Master stop toinquire how human misery was brought about before he relieved it?Away with this unmanly, selfish policy! Follow thy generousimpulses, follow out the yearnings of thy heart, without which younever can have peace; above, all, follow Christ. " Mr. Cleveland shut the window, heaved a deep sigh, and took severalmore turns across the room. "I believe it is all true, " at length hesaid, "and I have been a confounded fool. I'll turn about, and leada different life, so help me Heaven! I have wealth, and not a chicknor a child to spend it on, nor to leave it to when I die, and soI'll spend it in doing good, if I can only find out the best way;that's the trouble. But never mind, I'll be my own executor. " He nowrang the bell for Tom. Tom immediately appeared, with his usual "Yer's me, sir. " "Tom, " said Mr. Cleveland, "put me in mind in the morning, to send aload of wood to old Mrs. Peters. " "Yes, sir, " said Tom, "an' you better sen' some bacon, 'cause I binyerry (hear) little Mas Jack Peter say him ain't bin hab no meat foreat sence I do' know de day when. I rispec dey drudder hab de meatsted o' de wood, 'cause dey can pick up wood nuf all about. " "You mind your own business, sir, " said Mr. Cleveland, "I'll sendjust what I please. How long is it since I came to you for advice?Confound the fellow!" he muttered aside, "I meant to send the womansome meat, and now if I do it, that impudent fellow will think I doit because he advised it. Any how, I'll not send bacon, I'll sendbeef or mutton. " Just at this moment, there was a knock at the door, and Tom, goingto open it, admitted Dick, the coachman. "What do you want, Dick, at this time of night?" inquired hismaster. "Dere's a man down stays, sir, " replied Dick, "and he seem to be ingreat 'fliction. He says dey is campin' out 'bout half a mile below, sir, and de trees is fallin' so bad he is 'fraid dey will all bekilled. He ask you if you kin let dem stay in one of de out-housestell to-morrow. " "Camping out such a night as this?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, "theLord have pity on them! How many are there of them, Dick?" "He, an' his wife, and six little children, sir, " answered Dick. "No negroes?" inquired his master. "Not a nigger, sir, " said Dick. "I ain't like poor buckrah, no how, sir, but I 'spect you best take dese people in, lest dey might dieright in our woods. " Tom, knowing his master's dislike of advice, and fearing that Dickhad taken the surest method to shut them out, now chimed in, andsaid, "Massa, ef I bin you, I no would tek dem in none 't all. " "What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Mr. Cleveland; "you surely mustbe taking leave of your senses. Dick, you'll have to give that boyof yours a thrashing. I'll not stand his insolence much longer. Don't stand there, grinning at me, sir. " "No, sir, " snickered Tom, skulking behind Dick, who was his father. "Let the man come up here, Dick, " said Mr. Cleveland. When the traveller made his appearance, Mr. Cleveland was startledat his wan and wo-begone appearance. "Sit down, my man, " said he. "I thank you, sir, " replied the stranger, "but I must be back assoon as possible to my family. Can you grant us a night's lodging, sir?" "Certainly, sir, " replied Mr. Cleveland; "have you any means ofgetting your family hither? I am told you have six little ones. " "They must walk, sir, " replied the stranger, "for our only horse hasbeen killed by a falling tree; but I have not a word to say. Itmight have been my wife or one of my little ones, and, poor as I am, I can spare none of them. " Mr. Cleveland, whose feelings were at this time in an usuallysoftened state, got up, and walked rapidly to the book-case toconceal his emotion, dashed away a tear, and muttered to himself, aswas his wont, "'Tis confoundedly affecting, that's a fact. " Thenturning to the stranger, who was in the act of leaving the room, hesaid, "If you will wait a few moments I will have my carriage got;your wife and little ones must not walk on such a night as this. " "God bless you, sir!" said the stranger, in a trembling voice; "butI am too uneasy to stay a moment longer. " "Well, go on, " said Mr. Cleveland, "and the carriage shall comeafter you, and I will go in it myself. " The stranger brushed hishand across his eyes, and left the room without speaking a word;while Dick and Tom exchanged glances of surprise at their master'suncommon fit of philanthropy; Tom feeling fully assured that the"poor buckrahs, " as he termed them, owed their good fortune to hisseasonable interference. The carriage was soon in readiness, and Mr. Cleveland rode in it tothe spot. He found the family all gathered around the dead horse, and lamenting over it; while the father, having just arrived, wasexpatiating upon his kind reception by Mr. Cleveland. It took themsome little time to stow themselves away in the carriage, and Mr. Cleveland actually carried two sturdy children on his knees. Yes, there he was, riding through the dreadful storm, in danger everymoment from the trees which were falling all around him, with aninfant in its mother's arms squalling with all its might, and aheavy boy on each knee, and squeezed almost to death into thebargain--for there were nine in the carriage--and yet feeling sohappy! ay, far happier than he had felt for many a long day. Truly, charity brings its own reward. When they arrived at Mr. Cleveland's house, instead of being stowedaway in an out-building, as the poor man had modestly requested, they were comfortably provided for beneath his own roof. That night, as he laid his head upon his pillow, he could not help feelingsurprised at his sudden accession of happiness. "Well, I will goon, " he soliloquized; "I will pursue the path I have this nighttaken, and if I always feel as I do now, I am a new man, and willnever again talk about blowing my brains out. " He slept that nightthe sleep of peace, and rose in the morning with a light heart andbuoyant spirits. His first care was to take the father of the family aside, andgather from him the story of his misfortunes. It was a long andmournful tale, and Mr. Cleveland was obliged, more than once, topretend a sudden call out of the room, that he might hide hisemotion. And the tale was by no means told in vain. True to his newresolutions, Mr. Cleveland thankfully accepted the work whichProvidence had given him to do, and the family of emigrants, to thisday, mention the name of Cleveland with tears of gratitude and love, and, when they implore God's mercy for themselves, never forget toinvoke, for their kind benefactor, Heaven's choicest blessings. Noris that the only family whose hearts glow at the mention of Mr. Cleveland's name. Far and wide his name is known, and honoured, andbeloved. And Mr. Cleveland has found out the real secret of happiness. It istrue that he and Tom still have their squabbles, for Tom is really aprovoking fellow, and Mr. Cleveland is, and always will be, aneccentric, impulsive man, but his heart, which, when we firstintroduced him to our readers, was far from being right with God, orwith his fellow-men, is now the dwelling-place of love and kindness, and the experience of every day contributes to strengthen the newprinciples he has imbibed, and to confirm him in the right. Reader! art thou sad or solitary? I can offer thee a certain curefor all thy woes. Contemplate the life of Him who spake as never manspake. Follow him through all those years of toil and suffering. Seehim wherever called by the sorrows of his human brethren, andwitness his deeds of mercy and his offices of love, and then--"gothou and do likewise. " REBECCA. HER words were few, without pretence To tricks of courtly eloquence, But full of pure and simple thought, And with a guileless feeling fraught, And said in accents which conferred Poetic charm on household word. She needed not to speak, to be The best loved of the company-- She did her hands together press With such a child-like gracefulness; And such a sweet tranquillity Upon her silent lips did lie, And such unsullied purity In the blue heaven of her eye. She moved among us like to one Who had not lived on earth alone; But felt a dim, mysterious sense Of a more stately residence, And seemed to have a consciousness Of an anterior happiness-- To hear, at times, the echoes sent From some unearthly instrument With half-remembered voices blent-- And yet to hold the friendships dear, And prize the blessings of our sphere-- In sweet perplexity to know Which of the two was dreamy show, The dark green earth, the deep blue skies, The love which shone in mortal eyes, Or those faint recollections, telling Of a more bright and tranquil dwelling. We could not weep upon the day When her pure spirit passed away; We thought we read the mystery Which in her life there seemed to be-- That she was not our own, but lent To us little while, and sent An angel child, what others preach Of heavenly purity, to teach, In ways more eloquent than speech-- And chiefly by that raptured eye Which seemed to look beyond the sky, And that abstraction, listening To hear the choir of seraphs sing. We thought that death did seem to her Of long-lost joy the harbinger-- Like an old household servant, come To take the willing scholar home; The school-house, it was very dear, But then the holidays were near; And why should she be lingering here? Softly the servant bore the child Who at her parting turned and smiled, And looked back to us, till the night For ever hid her from our sight. LIFE A TREADMILL. WHO says that life is a treadmill? You, merchant, when, after a weary day of measuring cotton-cloth ornumbering flower barrels, bowing to customers or taking account ofstock, you stumble homeward, thinking to yourself that the moon is atolerable substitute for gas light, to prevent people from runningagainst the posts--and then, by chance, recall the time when, aschool-boy, you read about "chaste Dian" in your Latin books, anddiscovered a striking resemblance to moonbeams in certain blue eyesthat beamed upon you from the opposite side of the school-room. Ah! those were the days when brick side-walks were as elastic asIndia rubber beneath your feet; shop windows were an exhibition oftransparencies to amuse children and young people, and the world inprospect was one long pleasure excursion. Then you drank the brighteffervescence in your glass of soda-water, and now you must swallowthe cold, flat settlings, or not get your money's worth. Long agoyou found out that the moon is the origin of moonshine, that blueeyes are not quite as fascinating under gray hair and behindspectacles, and that "money answereth all things. " You say so, clerk or bank-teller, when you look up from your booksat the new-fallen snow glistening in the morning light, and feelsomething like the prancing of horses' hoofs in the soles of yourboots, and hear the jingling of sleigh bells in your mind's ear, long after the sound of them has passed from your veritableauriculars. You say so, teacher, while going through the daily drill of your A BC regiments, your multiplication table platoons, and yourchirographical battalions. You say so, factory girl, passing backward and forward from thenoise and whirl of wheels in the mills, to the whirl and noise ofwheels in your dreams. You say so, milliner's apprentice, as you sit down to sew gayribbons on gay bonnets, and stand up to try gay bonnets on gayheads. You say so, housemaid or housekeeper, when the song of the earlybird reminds you of crying children, whose faces are to be washed;when the rustling of fallen leaves in the wind makes you wonder howthe new broom is going to sweep; when the aroma of roses suggeststhe inquiry whether the box of burnt coffee is empty; and when therising sun, encircled by vapoury clouds, brings up the similitude ofa huge fire-proof platter, and the smoke of hot potatoes. There is a principle in human nature which rebels againstrepetitions. Who likes to fall asleep, thinking that to-morrowmorning he must get up and do exactly the same things that he didto-day, the next day ditto, and so forth, until the chapter ofearthly existence is finished! It is very irksome for these soaring thoughts winged to "wanderthrough eternity, " to come down and work out the terms of a tediousapprenticeship to the senses. And yet, what were thoughtsunlocalized and unembodied? Mere comets or vague nebulosities in thefirmament, without a form, and without a home. All things have their orbit, and are held in it by the power of twogreat opposing forces. Outward circumstances form the centripetal force, which keeps us inours. Let the eccentric will fly off at ever so wide a tangent for atime, back it must come to a regular diurnal path, or wander awayinto the "blackness of darkness. " And if these daily duties andcares come to us robed in the shining livery of Law, should we notaccept them as bearers of a sublime mission? "What?" you say, "anything sublime in yardstick tactics or ledgercolumns? Anything sublime in washing dishes or trimming bonnets? Theidea is simply ridiculous!" No, not ridiculous; only a simple idea, and great in its simplicity. For the manner of performing even menial duties, gives you the gaugeand dimensions of the doer's inward strength. The power of the soulasserts itself, not so much in shaping favourable circumstances todesired ends, as in resisting the pressure of crushing circumstances, and triumphing over them. Manufactures, trades, and all the subordinate arts and occupationsthat keep the car of civilization in motion, may be to you machinesmoving with a monotonous and unmeaning buzz, or they may be likeEzekiel's vision of wheels involved in wheels, that were lifted upfrom the earth by the power of the living creature that was in them. Grumbling man or woman, life _is_ a treadmill to you, because youlook doggedly down and see nothing but the dull steps you take. Ifyou would cease grumbling, and look up, your life would betransformed into a Jacob's ladder, and every step onward would be astep upward too. And even if it were a treadmill, to which you andother mortals were condemned for past offences, a kindly sympathyfor your fellow-prisoners could carpet the way with velvet, and youmight move on smilingly together, as through the mazes of an easydance. It is of no use to preach the old sermon of contentment with onecondition, whatever it may be, a sermon framed for lands wherearistocracies are fixtures, in this generation and on thiscontinent. Discontent is a necessity of republicanism, until themillennium comes. Yet it is not sensible to complain of the present, until we havegleaned its harvests and drained its sap, and it has become capitalfor us to draw upon in the future. Most of the dissatisfiedgrumblers of our day are like children from whom the prospect of aChristmas pie, intended for the climax of a supper, takes away allrelish for the more solid and wholesome introductory exercises ofbread and butter. What is it we would have our life? Not princely pop and equipments, nor to "marry the prince's own, " which used to form the denouementof every fairy tale, will suffice us now; for every ingenious Yankeeschool-boy or girl has learned to dissect the puppet show ofroyalty, and knows that its personages move in a routine the mosthampered and helpless of all. The honour of being four years in stepping from one door of the"White House" to the other, ceases to be the meed of a dignifiedambition when it results from a skilful shuffling of politicalcards, rather than from strength and steadiness of head and anupright gait. If we ask for freedom from care, and leisure to enjoy life--until wehave learned, through the discipline of labour and care, how toappreciate and use leisure--we might as well petition fromgovernment a grant of prairie land for Egyptian mummies to run racesupon. If one might get himself appointed to the general overseership ofthe solar system, still, what would his occupation be but a regularpacing to and fro from the sun to the outermost limits of LeVerrier's calculations, and perhaps a little farther? A successionof rather longish strides he would have to take, to be sure; nowburning his soles in the fires of Mercury; now hitting his cornsagainst some of the pebbly Asteroids, and now slipping upon the icyrim of Neptune. Still, if he made drudgery of his work by keepinghis soul out of it, he would only have his treadmill life overagain, on a large scale. The monotony of our three-score years and ten is wearisome to us;what can we think then of the poor planets, doomed to the samediurnal spinning, the same annual path, for six thousand years, toour certain knowledge? And, if telescopes tell us the truth, theuniverse is an ever-widening series of similar monotonies. Yet space is ample enough to give all systems variety of place. While each planet moves steadily along on the edge of its plane, thewhole solar equipage is going forward to open a new track on thevast highway of the heavens. We too, moving in our several spheres with honest endeavours andaspirations, are, by the stability of our motions, lifting and beinglifted, with the whole compact human brotherhood, into a higherelevation, a brighter revelation of the Infinite, the Universe ofWisdom and Love. And in this view, though our efforts be humble and our toil hard, life can never be a treadmill. ARTHUR LELAND. ARTHUR LELAND was a young lawyer of some twenty-seven years of age. His office stood a stone's throw from the court-house, in a thrivingtown in the West. Arthur had taken a full course in a Northerncollege, both in the collegiate and law department, and with somehonour. During his course he had managed to read an amazing amountof English literature, and no man was readier or had a keener tastein such things than he. He had a pleasing personal appearance, afluent and persuasive manner, an unblemished character. Everymorning he came to his office from one of the most pleasant littlecottage homes in the world; and if you had opened the little frontgate, and gone up through the shrubbery to the house, you would haveseen a Mrs. Leland, somewhere in-doors, and she as intelligent andpleasant a lady as you ever saw. You would have seen, moreover, tumbling about the grass, or up to the eyes in some mischief, asnoble-looking a little fellow of some three years old as you couldwell have wished for your own son. This all looks well enough, but there is something wrong. Not in thehouse. No; it is as pleasant a cottage as you could wish--plenty ofgarden, peas and honeysuckles climbing up everywhere, green grass, white paint, Venetian blinds, comfortable furniture. Not in Willie, the little scamp. No; rosy, healthy, good head, intelligent eyes, a fine specimen he was of an only son. Full ofmischief, of course, he was. Overflowing with uproar and questionsand mischief. Mustachios of egg or butter-milk or molasses aftereach meal, as a matter of course. Cut fingers, bumped forehead, tornclothes, all day long. Yet a more affectionate, easily-managed childnever was. The mischief was not in Lucy, the Mrs. Leland. I assure you it wasnot. Leland knew, to his heart's core, that a lovelier, moreprudent, sensible, intelligent wife it was impossible to exist. Thrifty, loving, lady-like, right and true throughout. Where was this mischief? Look at Leland. He is in perpetual motion. Reading, writing, walking the streets, he is always fast, in deadearnest. Somewhat _too_ fast. There is a certain slowness about yourstrong man. You never associate the idea of mental depth and powerwith your quick-stepping man. You cannot conceive of a Roman emperoror a Daniel Webster as a slight, swift man. The bearing of a man'sbody is the outward emblem of the bearing of his soul. Leland israther slight, rather swift. He meets you in his rapid walk. Hestops, grasps your hand, asks cordially after your health. There isan open, warm feeling in the man. No hypocrisy whatever. Yet hetalks too fast. He don't give you half a chance to answer one of hisrapid questions, before he is asking another totally different. Heis not at ease. He keeps you from being at ease. You feel itspecially in his house. He is too cordial, too full of effort tomake your visit pleasant to you. You like him, yet you don't feelaltogether at home with him. You are glad when he leaves you to hismore composed wife. You never knew or heard of his saying or doinganything wrong or even unbecoming. You look upon him as a peculiarsort of man--well, somehow--but! He is at the bar defending thatwoman, who sits by him, dressed in mourning--some chancery case. Orit is a criminal case, and it is the widow's only son that Leland isdefending. If you had been in his office for the last week, youwould have acknowledged that he has studied the case, has preparedhimself on it as thoroughly as a man can. He is an ambitious man. Heintensely desires to make for himself a fortune and a position. Hisaddress to the judge, or to the jury, as the case may be, is a goodone. Yet, somehow, he does not convince. He himself is carried awayby his own earnestness, but he does not carry away with him hishearers. His remarks are interesting. People listen to him fromfirst to last closely. Yet his arguing does not, somehow, convince. His pathos does not, somehow, melt. He is the sort of man thatpeople think of for the Legislature. No man ever thinks of him inconnexion with the Supreme Bench or Senate. Wherein lies the defect? Arthur Leland is well read, a gentleman ofspotless character, of earnest application, of popular manners. Whyis not this man a man of more weight, power, standing? Why, youanswer, the man is just what he is. He fills just the position up towhich his force of mind raises him. Did he have more talent, hewould be more. No, sir. Every acquaintance he has known, he himselfknows, that he is capable of being much more than he is--somehow, somehow he does not attain to it! It is this singular impressionLeland makes upon you. It is this singular, uneasy, unsatisfiedfeeling he himself is preyed upon by. "He might be, but he is not, "say his neighbours. "I am not, yet I might be, " worries him as anincessant and eternal truth. It broke upon him like a revelation. He was at work one fine morning in his garden, in a square in whichyoung watermelon plants of a choice kind were just springing. Williewas there with him, just emerged fresh for fun from the waters ofsleep. Very anxious to be as near as possible to his father, who wasalways his only playmate, Willie had strayed from the walk in whichhis father had seated him, and stood beside his father. With aquick, passionate motion, Leland seized his child, and placed himviolently back in the walk, with a harsh threat. The child whimperedfor a while, and soon forgetting himself, came to his father againover the tender plants. This time Leland seized him still moreviolently, seated him roughly in the walk, and, with harsh threats, struck him upon his plump red cheek. Willie burst into tears, andwept in passion. His father was in a miserable, uneasy frame ofmind. He ceased his work, bared his brow to the delicious morningair. He leaned upon his hoe, and gazed upon his child. He felt therewas something wrong. He always knew, and acknowledged, that he wasof a rash, irritable disposition. He now remembered that ever sincehis child's birth he had been exceedingly impatient with it. Heremembered how harshly he had spoken to it, how rudely he had tossedit on his knee when it awoke him with its crying at night. Heremembered that the little one had been daily with him for now threeyears, and that not a day had passed in which he had not spokenloudly, fiercely to the child. Yes, he remembered the heavy blows he had given it in bursts ofpassion, blows deeply regretted the instant after, yet repeated onthe first temptation. He thought of it all; that his boy was but alittle child, and that he had spoken to it, and expected from it, asif it were grown. All his passionate, cruel words and blows rushedupon his memory; his rough replies to childish questions; hisunmanly anger at childish offences. He thought, too, how the littleboy had still followed him, because its father was all on earth tohim; how the little thing had said, he "was sorry, " and had offereda kiss even after some bitter word or blow altogether undeserved. Leland remembered, too, as the morning air blew aside his hair, howoften he had shown the same miserable, nervous irritability to hisdog, his horse, his servants; even the branch of the tree thatstruck him as he walked; yea, even to his own wife. He rememberedhow the same black, unhappy feelings had clouded his brow, had burstfrom his lips at every little domestic annoyance that had happened. He could not but remember how it had only made matters worse--hadmade himself and his family wretched for the time. He felt howundignified, how unmanly all this was. He pictured himself beforehis own eyes as a peevish, uneasy, irritable, unhappy man--soweak-minded! He glanced at the house; he knew his wife was in it, engaged in hermorning duties; gentle, lady-like, loving him so dearly. He glancedat his sobbing child, and saw how healthful and intelligent he was. He glanced over his garden, and orchard, and lawn, and saw howpleasant was his home. He thought of his circle of friends, hisposition in business, his own education and health. He saw how muchhe had to make him happy; and all jarred and marred, and cursed byhis miserable fits of irritation; the fever, the plague increasingdaily; becoming his nature, breathing the pestilent atmosphere ofhell over himself and all connected with him. As he thus thought, his little boy again forgot himself, and strayedwith heedless feet toward his father. Leland dropped his hoe, reached toward his child. The little fellow threw up his hands, andwrithed his body as if expecting a blow. "Willie, " said the father, in a low, gentle voice. Willie looked upwith half fright, half amazement. "Willie, boy, " said the father ina new tone, which had never passed his lips before, and he felt thedeep, calm power of his own words. "Willie, boy, don't walk on pa'splants. Go back, and stay there till pa is done. " The child turned as by the irresistible power of the slow-spoken, gentle words, and walked back and resumed his seat, evidently notintending to transgress again. As Leland stood with the words dying on his lips, and his handextended, a sudden and singular idea struck him. He felt that he hadjust said the most impressive and eloquent thing he had ever said inhis life! He felt that there was a power in his tone and mannerwhich he had never used before; a power which would affect a judgeor a jury, as it had affected Willie. The curse cursed here too! Itwas that hasty, nervous disposition, which gave manner and tone tohis very public speaking; which made his arguments unconvincing, hispathos unaffecting. It was just that calm, deep, serene feeling andmanner, which was needed at the bar as well as with Willie. Arguingwith that feeling and manner, he felt, would convince irresistibly. Pleading with that quiet, gentle spirit, he felt would melt, wouldaffect the hearts as with the very emotion of tears. Unless you catch the idea, there is no describing it, reader. Lelandwas a Christian. All that day he thought upon the whole matter. Thatnight in the privacy of his office he knelt and repeated the wholematter before God. For his boy's sake, for his wife's sake, for hisown sake, for his usefulness' sake at the bar, he implored steadyaid to overcome the deadly, besetting sin. He pleaded that, indulging in that disposition, he was alienating from himself hisboy and his wife; yea, that he was alienating his own better selffrom himself, for he was losing his own self-respect. And here hisvoice sank from a murmur into silence; he remembered that he wasthus alienating from his bosom and his side--God! And then he remembered that just such a daily disposition as helacked was exactly that disposition which characterized God when Godbecame man. The excellence of such a disposition rose serenelybefore him, embodied in the person of Jesus Christ; the young lawyerfell forward on his face and wept in the agony of his desire and hisprayer. From that sweet spring morning was Arthur Leland another man; awiser, abler, more successful man in every sense. Not all at once;steadily, undoubtedly advanced the change. The wife saw and felt, and rejoiced in it. Willie felt it, and was restrained by it everydrop of his merry blood; the household felt it, as a ship does aneven wind; and sailed on over smooth seas constrained by it. You sawthe change in the man's very gait and bearing and conversation. Judge and jury felt it. It was the ceasing of a fever in the frameof a strong man; and Leland went about easily, naturally, the strongman he was. The old, uneasy, self-harassing feeling was forgotten, and an ease and grace of tone and manner succeeded. It was a higherdevelopment of the father, the husband, the orator, the gentleman, the Christian. Surely love is the fountain of patience and peace. Surely it is the absence of passion which makes angels to be thebeings they are. Men can become very nearly angels or devils, even before they haveleft the world. THE SCARLET POPPY. ONE warm morning in June, just as the sun returned from his long butrapid journey to the distant east, and sailed majestically upthrough the clear blue sky, the many bright flowers of one of theprettiest little parterres in the world, who had opened theireyes--those bright flowers--to smile at the sunbeams which came tokiss away the tears night had shed over them, were very muchsurprised, and not a little offended to find in their very midst anindividual who, though most of them knew her, one might havesupposed, from their appearance, was a perfect stranger to them all. The parterre, I have said, was small, for it was in the very heartof a great city, where land would bring almost any price; but thegentleman and lady who lived in the noble mansion which fronted it, would not, for the highest price which might have been offered them, have had those sweet flowers torn up, and a brick pile reared in theplace--their only child, the dear little Carie, loved the garden sodearly, and spent so much of her time there. Oh, it was a sweet little place, though it was in the midst of agreat city where the air was full of dust and coal smoke; for thefountain which played in the garden kept the atmosphere pure andcool, and every day the gardener showered all the plants so thattheir leaves were green and fresh as though they were blooming faraway in their native woods and dells. There were sweet roses ofevery hue, from the pure Alba to the dark Damascus; and pinks, someof the most spicy odour, some almost scentless, but all so beautifuland so nicely trimmed. The changeless amaranth was there, the pale, sweet-scented heliotrope, always looking towards the sun; the purelily; and the blue violet, which, though it had been taught to bloomfar away from the mossy bed where it had first opened its meek eyeto the light, had not yet forgotten its gentleness and modesty; andnot far from them were the fickle hydrangea, the cardinal flowerwith its rich, showy petals, and the proud, vain, and ostentatious, but beautiful crimson and white peonias. The dahlias had yet putforth but very few blossoms, but they were elegant, and the swellingbuds promised that ere long there would be a rich display ofbrilliant colours. Honeysuckles, the bright-hued and fragrant, thewhite jasmine, and many other climbing plants, were latticing thelittle arbour beside the clear fountain, half hiding theirjewel-like pensile blossoms and bright red berries among the smoothgreen leaves which clustered so closely together as to shut outcompletely the hot sun from the little gay-plumaged and sweet-voicedsongsters whose gilt cage hung within the bower. But I cannot speakof the flowers, there were so many of them, and they were all sobeautiful and so sweet-scented. Well, this June morning, as I was saying, when the flowers, as theywere waked from their sleep by the sunbeams which came to kiss awaythe tears night had shed over them, opened their eyes and lookedabout them, they were surprised and offended to see a stranger intheir company. There had been, through all the season, some little rivalries andjealousies among the flowers; but from the glances which they turnedon each other, this morning, it was evident that their feelingstowards the stranger were exactly alike. However, as might beexpected from their different dispositions, they expressed theirdislike and contempt for her in different ways; but at first allhesitated to address her, for no one seemed to find language strongenough to express the scorn they felt for her; until the balsam, whonever could keep silent long, inquired of the stranger, in a veryimpatient tone, what was her name, and how she came there. The poor thing hesitated an instant, and her face grew very red; shemust have known that her presence in that company was very muchundesired, and when she spoke, it was in a low and embarrassed tone. "My name is Papaver, and--" But the Marygold laughed aloud. "Papaver!" she repeated in her mostscornful tone; "she is nothing more nor less than a Poppy--a greatoffensive Poppy, whose breath fairly makes me sick. Long ago, when--" But here the Marygold stopped short, it would not do, to confess toher genteel friends, that she had formerly been acquainted with thedisreputable stranger. They did not heed her embarrassment, however, for every one, now that the silence was broken, was anxious tospeak; all but the Mimosa, who could not utter a word, for she hadfainted quite away--the red Rose who was very diffident, and theDahlia who was too dignified to meddle with such trifling affairs. "You great, red-faced thing!" said the Carnation, "how came you herein your ragged dress? Do you know what kind of company you are in?Who first saw her here?" "I saw her, " said the Morning Glory, who usually waked quite early, "I saw her before she had got her eyes open; and what do you supposeshe had on her head? Why a little green cap which she has justpulled off and thrown away. There it lies on the ground now. Onlylook at it! no wonder she was ashamed of it. Can you think what shewore it for?" "Why, yes!" said the Ladies' Slipper. "She is so handsome and sodelicate that she was fearful the early hours might injure herhealth and destroy her charms!" "No, no!" interrupted another; "she was afraid the morning breezemight steal away her sweet breath!" "You had better gather up your sweet leaves, and put on your capagain, " said the London Pride. "I see a golden-winged butterfly inCalla's cup; your spicy breath will soon bring him here to drink ofyour nectar!" The most of the flowers laughed, but the Carnation still calledout--"How came she here?" The Amaranth, however, who never slept a wink through the wholenight, would not answer the question, though the flowers werecertain that she could, were she so inclined. "I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, canbreathe!" said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poorPoppy. "I do feel as if I should faint!" said the Verbena. "And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!" said the Ice Plant. "That is not strange!" remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up inthe shadow of the hedge, "she carries with her, everywhere she goes, the atmosphere of the place whence she comes. Do you know where thatis?" Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:-- "The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of theStyx. When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried awayto the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven inher garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddessplanted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flowerof Death. She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnusmake her bed their couch. The aching head, which is bound with agarland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul whichdrinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow. Death followswherever she comes!" "We will not talk of such gloomy things!" said the Coreopsis, withdifficulty preserving her cheerfulness. But the other plants were silent and dejected; all but the Amaranth, who knew herself gifted with immortality, and the Box, who was verystoical. But another trial awaited the poor Poppy. The Nightshade had hardly ceased speaking, when soft, gentle humanvoices were heard in the garden, and a child of three summers, withrosy cheeks, deep blue eyes, and flowing, golden hair, came boundingdown the gravelled walks, followed by a fair lady. The child hadcome to bid good morning to her flowers and birds, and as shecarolled to the latter, and paused now and then to inhale the breathof some fragrant blossom, and examine the elegant form and rich andvaried tints of another, the little songsters sang more loudly andcheerily; and the flowers, it seemed, became more sweet andbeautiful. The Poppy, who was as ignorant as was any one else how she had foundher way into the garden, now began to reason with herself. "Some one must have planted me here, " she said; "and though I am notas sweet as that proud Carnation, nor so elegant as that dignifiedDahlia, I may have as much right to remain here as they!" and sheraised her head erect, and spread out her broad, scarlet petals, with their deep, ragged fringe, hoping to attract the notice of thelittle girl. And so indeed she did; for as the child paused before palesweet-scented Verbena, the flaunting Poppy caught her eye, and sheextended her hand toward the strange blossom. "Carie, Carie, don't touch that vile thing!" said her mother, "it ispoisonous. The smell of it will make you sick. I do not see how itcame here. John must bring his spade and take it up. We will havenothing in the garden but what is beautiful or sweet, and this isneither!" The poor Poppy! She had begun to love the little girl, the child hadsmiled on her so sweetly, and the other flowers had seemed soenvious when that little white hand was stretched out towards her;and when she drew back, at her Mother's call, reluctantly, but withlook of surprise and aversion, the Poppy did not care how soon shewas banished from a place where she had been treated so unjustly. However, she was suffered to remain; whether the lady neglectedgiving instructions to the gardener respecting her, or whether heforgot her commands, I am not sure; but there she remained, dayafter day, striving every morning to wake up early and pull off herlittle green cap before the other flowers had opened their eyes, butnever succeeding in so doing. It was no enviable position that she occupied, laughed at, despised, and scorned by all the other flowers in the garden, and in hourlyexpectation of being torn up by the roots and thrown into thestreet--the poor Poppy! One day when the lady and her Carie were walking in the garden, thelittle girl, who had looked rather pale, put her hands suddenly toher head, and cried aloud. Her mother was very much frightened. Shecaught up the little girl in her arms, and tried to ascertain whatwas the matter; but the child only pressed her hands more tightly toher head, and cried more piteously. The lady carried her into thehouse, and the family were soon all in an uproar. The servants wereall running hither and thither; no one seemed to know what was thematter; for the lady had fainted from terror at her child's paleface and agonized cries, and the little girl could tell nothing. "It is that odious Poppy who is the cause of all this!" said theflowers one to another (little Carie was indeed playing in herimmediate vicinity when she was seized with that dreadful distress), "she has poisoned her. " And their suspicions were confirmed when oneof the servants came running into the garden, and seizing hold ofthe Poppy, stripped off every one of her bright scarlet petals, andgathering them up, returned quickly to the house. "You poor thing!" said the Elder, as the Poppy, so rudely handled, bent down her dishonoured head to the ground; but not one of theother flowers addressed to her a single word. Through the long day she lay there--the Poppy--on the earth, tryingto forget what had happened; for she did not know but their wordswere true, and she was the cause of the little girl's suffering--shewould so gladly have soothed her pain. The other flowers thought shewas dead, and the Poppy herself believed that she should never seethe light of another morning; but just before the day was gone, thelady walked again into the garden accompanied by her husband;and--what do you suppose the other flowers thought?--withoutnoticing one of them, the lady walked directly to the Poppy, liftedher head from the ground, and leaned it against the frame whichsupported the proud Carnation, and then, with her white hands, replaced the loosened earth about her half uptorn roots. "Oh, I hope it will not die!" she said to her husband, "I shouldrather lose anything else in the garden, for I don't know but itsaved dear little Carie's life! She had a dreadful headache, andnothing afforded her the least relief, till we bruised the leaves ofthe Poppy, and bound them on her temples, and then she became quiet, and fell into a gentle sleep. Oh, I hope it will live!" Don't you think the Poppy did live, and was proud and happy enough?Do you think she was ever afterwards ashamed of her little greencap, or her ragged scarlet leaves? And do you think the otherflowers ever laughed at her again, or were ashamed of heracquaintance? When the summer had passed away, and the bright blossoms one by onewithered and died before the autumn's cool breath, the Poppycheerfully scattered her little seeds on the earth, and laid herselfdown to die; for she knew that when another spring should come, andher children should shoot up from the ground, they would be nurturedas tenderly, and prized as highly as those of the sweeter and farmore beautiful flowers. NUMBER TWELVE. WHEN I was a young man, working at my trade as a mason, I met with asevere injury by falling from a scaffolding placed at a height offorty feet from the ground. There I remained, stunned and bleeding, on the rubbish, until my companions, by attempting to remove me, restored me to consciousness. I felt as if the ground on which I waslying formed a part of myself; that I could not be lifted from itwithout being torn asunder; and, with the most piercing cries, Ientreated my well-meaning assistants to leave me alone to die. Theydesisted for the moment, one running for the doctor, another for alitter, others surrounding me with pitying gaze; but amidst myincreasing sense of suffering, the conviction began to dawn upon mymind, that the injuries were not mortal; and so, by the time thedoctor and the litter arrived, I resigned myself to their aid, andallowed myself, without further objection, to be carried to thehospital. There I remained for more than three months, gradually recoveringfrom my bodily injuries, but devoured with an impatience at mycondition, and the slowness of my cure, which effectually retardedit. I felt all the restlessness and anxiety of a labourer suddenlythrown out of employment difficult enough to procure, knowing thatthere were scores of others ready to step into my place; that thejob was going on, and that, ten chances to one, I should never setmy foot on that scaffolding again. The visiting surgeon vainlywarned me against the indulgence of such passionate regrets--vainlyinculcated the opposite feeling of gratitude demanded by my escape;all in vain. I tossed on my fevered bed, murmured at the slowness ofhis remedies, and might have thus rendered them altogetherineffectual, had not a sudden change been effected in my dispositionby another, at first unwelcome, addition to our patients. He wasplaced in the same ward with me, and insensibly I found myimpatience rebuked, my repinings hushed for very shame, in thepresence of his meek resignation to far greater privations andsufferings. Fresh courage sprang from his example, and soon, thanksto my involuntary physician, I was in a fair road to recovery. And he who had worked the charm, what was he? A poor, helpless oldman, utterly deformed by suffering, his very name unnoticed, or atleast never spoken in the place where he now was; he went only bythe appellation of No. 12--the number of his bed, which was next tomy own. This bed had already been his refuge during three long andtrying illnesses, and had at last become a sort of property for thepoor fellow in the eyes of doctors, students, nurse-tenders, infact, the whole hospital staff. Never did a gentler creature walk onGod's earth; walk--alas! for him the word was but an old memory. Many years before he had totally lost the use of his legs; but, touse his own expression, "this misfortune did not upset him;" hestill retained the power of earning his livelihood, which he derivedfrom copying deeds for a lawyer at so much per sheet; and if thelegs were no longer a support, the hands worked at the stampedparchments as diligently as ever. But some months passed by, andthen the paralysis attacked his right arm; still undaunted, hetaught himself to write with the left; but hardly had the braveheart and hand conquered the difficulty, when the enemy crept on, and disabling this second ally, no more remained for him than to beconveyed once more, though this time as a last resource, to thehospital. There he had the gratification to find his former quartersvacant, and he took possession of his old familiar bed with asatisfaction that seemed to obliterate all regret at being obligedto occupy it again. His first grateful accents smote almostreproachfully on my ear: "Misfortune must have its turn, but _everyday has a tomorrow!_" It was indeed a lesson to witness the gratitude of this excellentcreature. The hospital, so dreary a sojourn to most of its inmates, was a scene of enjoyment to him; everything pleased him; and thepoor fellow's admiration of even the most trifling conveniencesproved how severe must have been his privations. He never wearied ofpraising the neatness of the linen, the whiteness of the bread, thequality of the food; and my surprise gave place to the truest pity, when I learned that, for the last twenty years, this respectable oldman could only afford himself, out of the profits of his perseveringindustry, the coarsest bread, diversified with white cheese, orvegetable porridge; and yet, instead of reverting to his privationsin the language of complaint, he converted them into a fund ofgratitude, and made the generosity of the nation, which had providedsuch a retreat for the suffering poor, his continual theme. Nor didhis thankful spirit confine itself to this. To listen to him, youwould have believed him an especial object of divine as well ashuman benevolence--all things working for his good. The doctor usedto say that No. 12 had a "mania for happiness;" but it was a mania, that, in creating esteem for its victim, infused fresh courage intoall that came within its range. I think I still see him seated on the side of his bed, with hislittle black silk cap, his spectacles and the well-worn volume, which he never ceased perusing. Every morning, the first rays of thesun rested on his bed, always to him a fresh subject of rejoicingand thankfulness to God. To witness his gratitude, one might supposethat the sun was rising for him alone. I need hardly say, that hesoon interested himself in my cure, and regularly made inquiryrespecting its progress. He always found something cheering tosay--something to inspire patience and hope, himself a livingcommentary on his words. When I looked at this poor motionlessfigure, those distorted limbs, and, crowning all, that smilingcountenance, I had not courage to be angry, or even to complain. Ateach painful crisis, he would exclaim: "One minute, and it will beover. Relief will soon follow. _Every day has its to-morrow!_" I had one good and true friend--a fellow-workman, who used sometimesto spare an hour to visit me, and he took great delight incultivating an acquaintance with No. 12. As if attracted by akindred spirit, he never passed his bed without pausing to offer hiscordial salutation; and then he would whisper to me: "He is a sainton earth; and not content with gaining Paradise himself, must win itfor others also. Such people should have monuments erected to them, known and read of all men. In observing such a character, we feelashamed of our own happiness--we feel how comparatively little wedeserve it. Is there anything I can do to prove my regard for thisgood, poor No. 12?" "Just try among the bookstalls, " I replied, "and find the secondvolume of that book you see him reading. It is now more than sixyears since he lost it, and ever since he has been obliged tocontent himself with the first. " Now, I must premise that my worthy friend had a perfect horror ofliterature, even in its simplest stages. He regarded the art ofprinting as a Satanic invention, filling men's brains with idlenessand conceit; and as to writing--in his opinion a man was neverthoroughly committed until he had recorded his sentiments in blackand white for the inspection of his neighbours. His own success inlife, which had been tolerable, thanks to his industry andintegrity, he attributed altogether to his ignorance of thosedangerous arts; and now a cloud swept across his lately beaming faceas he exclaimed, "What! the good creature is a lover of books? Well, we must admit that even the best have their failings. No matter. Write down the name of this odd volume on a slip of paper; and itshall go hard with me, but I give him that gratification. " He did actually return the following week with a well-worn volume, which he presented in triumph to the old invalid. He looked somewhatsurprised as he opened it; but our friend proceeding to explain thatit was at my suggestion he had procured it in place of the lost one, the old grateful expression at once beamed up in the eyes of No. 12, and with a voice trembling with emotion, he thanked the heartygiver. I had my misgivings, however, and the moment our visiter turned hisback, I asked to see the book. My old neighbour reddened, stammered, and tried to change the conversation; but, forced behind his lastentrenchments, he handed me the little volume. It was an old RoyalAlmanac. The bookseller, taking advantage of his customer'signorance, had substituted it for the book he had demanded. I burstinto an immoderate fit of laughter; but No. 12 checked me with theonly impatient word I ever heard from his lips: "Do you wish ourfriend to hear you? I would rather never recover the power of thislost arm, than deprive his kind heart of the pleasure of his gift. And what of it? Yesterday I did not care a straw for an almanac; butin a little time it is perhaps the very book I should have desired. _Every day has its to-morrow_. Besides, I assure you it is a veryimproving study; even already I perceive the names of a crowd ofprinces never mentioned in history, and of whom, up to this moment, I have never heard any one speak. " And so the old almanac was carefully preserved beside the volume ofpoetry it had been intended to match; and the old invalid neverfailed to be seen turning over the leaves whenever our friendhappened to enter the room. As to him, he was quite proud of itssuccess, and would say to me at each time: "It appears I have madehim a famous present. " And thus the two guileless natures werecontent. Towards the close of my sojourn in the hospital, the strength ofpoor No. 12 diminished rapidly. At first, he lost the slight powersof motion he had retained; then his speech became inarticulate; atlast, no part obeyed his will, except the eyes, which continued tosmile on us still. But one morning, at last, it seemed to me as ifhis very glance had become dim. I arose hastily, and approaching hisbed, inquired if he wished for a drink; he made a slight movement ofhis eyelids, as if to thank me, and at that instant the first ray ofthe rising sun shone in on his bed. Then the eyes lighted up, like ataper that flashes into brightness before it is extinguished--helooked as if saluting this last gift of his Creator; and even as Iwatched him for a moment, his head fell gently on the side, hiskindly heart ceased to beat. He had thrown off the burden of To-day;he had entered on his eternal To-morrow. TO AN ABSENTEE. O'ER hill and dale, and distant sea, Through all the miles that stretch between, My thought must fly to rest on thee, And would, though worlds should intervene. Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks, The farther we are forced apart, Affection's firm elastic links But bind thee closer round the heart. For now we sever each from each, I learn what I have lost in thee; Alas! that nothing less could teach How great, indeed, my love should be! Farewell! I did not know thy worth; But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized: So angels walked unknown on earth, But when they flew were recognised. THE WHITE DOVE. THE little Lina opened her eyes upon this world in the arms of herfather, the good Gotleib. He kissed the child with a holy joy:"For, " said he, "now is a thought of God fixed in an eternal form;"and he felt that a Divine love flowed into this work of the greatGod--this also thrilled his warm, manly heart with a wondrous love. He felt the inmost of his being vibrating as with an electric touch, to the inmost of the little new-born innocent. But the rapture ofthe young father was altogether imperfect, until he had sealed hislips in a love-kiss upon those of the fraulein Anna, who lay thereso white and beautiful in the new joy of a young mother. Like aninnocent maiden, she twined her arms around Gotleib's neck, and grewstrong in the influx of warm life that flowed into her responsivecares of the husband of her heart. Then Gotleib held up thenewly-born Lina, and the mother's lips touched the soft cheek of thetiny little one with a living rapture, as if all of Heaven wereembraced in this heart-possession. And Gotleib knelt by the bedside, and thanked God for the beautifulgift of love with a pious awe and holy joy--large tears stood in theeyes of Anna. As he rose from his reverent posture, he kissed offthe bright tears even as the sun exhales dew-drops from a pureflower, and said, "Dost thou weep for joy, sweet one?" And Anna said, "Once--not long since--I had a dream--a beautiful dream--that thisday has been realized. I dreamed that I was in a quite heavenlyplace--yet the place was as nothing--it was the _state_--for I satwith an infant in my arms--a bright innocent little one--and, thou, dearest Gotleib, knelt beside me; and an angel-woman stood near us, in a soft heavenly glory, and said, in low musical, spirit-words--'Behold the fruit of the union of good and truth. ' Andthen, methought, thou didst embrace me with a new joy of love, andwhispered, 'an angel of God is born of us. ' This little one is thedream-child, dear Gotleib. " Thus beautiful was the birth of the little Lina, who grew, daily, ina pure innocent loveliness. While she is expanding in the first daysof her new, breathing, sensitive life, we will go back to the formerlife of Gotleib and Anna. Gotleib Von Arnheim had first seen the light in this same smallcottage, on the confines of the Black Forest of Germany. He was bornwith a large, loving heart. But the father and mother, and the dearGod, were the only beings on whom his affections were fixed; for hissensitive nature shrank from the contact of the honest-hearted, butrough peasant neighbours, that made the little world of their simplelife. But soon death came, and the good father left the earth forthe beautiful Heaven-world. The little Gotleib missed his kindfather; but his mother told him of the bright inner life, and howhis father yet lived and loved him; and the heart of the boy wascomforted: he felt a sense of elevation in having his father, whomhe had known so familiarly here upon earth, now the companion ofangels, and living in such a bright and beautiful world. Ah, life had to him such an inner beauty; and, when still, dreamymoments of leisure intervened between his work and play, he revelledin such dreams of fancy, as lent light and life and joy to his wholebeing. But the death of the kind father had not only carried theboy's fancy to the other world; it was also drawing the mother'sheart away to the fair spirit-land. Gotleib saw his mother's facegrowing thin and pale; he knew that she was weak--for oftentimes, inthe long winter evenings, as he read to her from the holy word ofGod, her hand would drop wearily with the raised spindle, and she, who was never before idle, would fold her hands in a quiet, meekresignation. At such times a tremour would seize the boy's heart. The mother saw it; and, one night, when his fixed tender gaze restedon her, she raised her spiritual eyes to his, and said, "Dear Gotleib! thou wilt yet have the good God to love. " "Ah, mother! mother!" cried the boy, "wilt thou, too, leave me?" His head was bowed upon her knees in bitter grief, the desolation ofearth was spread like an impenetrable pall over his whole future. Suddenly he looked up, full of a strange, bright hope, and said, "Mother, I too may die. " Then the mother put off her weakness, and long and loving was thetalk she held with her dear boy. She told him that from a little onehe had ever loved God; that the first word he had ever pronouncedwas the name of the Holy One. She had taught him to clasp his tinybaby hands and look up and say "God, " ere any other word had passedhis lips. She had named him Gotleib, because he was the love of Godto her, and he was to be a lover of God. As she talked, the boy grewstrong and calm, and said, "Yet, oh, my mother! God is so great for the heart of a small child. God is so high and lifted up in the far heavens, that I feel myselfbut as a tiny blade of grass that looks up to the far sun--dearmother! the earth will be too lonely; ah, there is no hope but indeath. " "No, my son, " said the mother, "there is a beautiful hope for theearth also. I will tell you what will make you love God more trulythan ever. " The boy was fixed attention. "Thou didst not know, dear Gotleib, that when God created thee astrong, brave boy, He also created a tender, gentle little maiden, like unto thee in all things, save thou wert a boy and she a maiden. Thou wert strong and able to work, and she gentle and born to lovethee. " "Where is she?" inquired the excited Gotleib. "I know not, " replied the mother. "But God knows, and He will watchover the two whom He has created, the one for the other; and, onearth, or in heaven, the two will meet. Is it not better, then, notto wish to die, but to leave all things to the will of God? For whatif thy little maiden is left alone upon the earth, and there is nostrong, manly heart upon which she may lean, and no vigorous arm tolabour for her, how will her spirit droop with a weary, lonelysadness? No, my son, live! and the joy of a most beautiful, lovingcompanionship, may yet be thine. The earth will not be desolate everto thy orphan heart, with this beautiful hope before thee. " Thus, in the cold wintry night of a dark sorrow, did the good motherplant a living seed of truth, that afterwards sprang up into avernal flowery Eden, that bloomed in the boy's heart with an eternalbeauty. When the early spring came, Gotleib looked calmly and lovingly onthe beloved mother, who was leaving for the inner world. Death wasbeautiful to him now; it was simply the new birthtime of a mature, living soul. The spirit of the mother's love seemed to linger over the home ofhis childhood, and it was a great sorrow to leave the cherishedspot; but, his mother told him he was to seek a brother of hers inthe distant town of Heidelberg. As Gotleib turned from the nowvoiceless home of his parents, a fervent desire arose in his heartthat he might again be permitted to dwell beneath this shelteringroof and amidst its living associations. The boy went forth into the unknown world, with a living trust inhis heart in the great God. His was a simple, childish faith, bornof his love--to him God was not a mystery. It was a Divinepersonality he loved. Jesus had walked the earth, and his father andmother also--all were now spirits, none the less to be loved andtrusted than when upon earth; but now they were to him intranscendent states of glory. The Lord Jesus, as being infinitelygreat and glorious, was the alone One to whom he now looked forhelp--though ever as he knelt to pray to GOD, he felt that hisangel-mother bowed with his spirit, and by her prompting beautifulwords of humiliation and praise came to him, that he himself couldnever have thought of; hence the affections of his heart all grew upinto the inner spirit-world. And years passed in the good town of Heidelberg, years that broughtblessings to the orphan boy as they flew. The God in whom he trustedhad provided for him--had awakened a friendly kindness in many warmhearts. And Gotleib, who was at first designed by his relatives tospend his days over the shoemaker's awl and last, at length foundhimself, by his own ardent exertions and the helpful kindness ofothers, a student in the University. This was to him a most puregratification--not because of a love of learning, not because ofambition, to attain a position before his fellow-men. Oh! it wasquite otherwise with the good youth--he had one object in life. Thehope that his dying mother had awakened in his heart was the guidingstar of all his efforts. That little maiden created for him, and tobe supported by him! The image was ever before him. Yes, he was astudent for a high and noble use. Science was to be to him theinstrument of a life of love and blessedness. To do good to others, and thus to provide for the maiden, was what led him to the arduousstudy of medicine. It mattered not that cold and hunger and toil all bound him in anearthly coil. The warm, hopeful heart has a wonderful endurance. Thedelicate, attenuated form of the young student seemed barelysufficient to hold the bright and glowing spirit that looked outfrom his soft eyes, when he received his degrees. The desire of hislife was growing into a fruition; and when he returned to his poorlodgings, a sense of freedom, of gratitude, and of delight, crownedhis yet barren life. To work! to work! seemed now the one call ofhis being; but, whither was he to go? There was the childhood'shome, to which his heart instinctively turned; but, alone anddesolate, he could not dwell there. Gotleib had not forgotten hismother's lessons; he knelt and prayed to God for guidance. Even ashe kneels, and feels his spirit in the sunshine of God's presence, there is a knock at the door, and the good Professor Eberhardenters. He has marked the student in his poverty and toil, and feelsthat he will now hold out a helping hand to the young beginner. Asprofessor of anatomy, he needs the quick eye and delicate hand of anexpert assistant. Gotleib looked upon the Herr professor as Heaven-sent, and in a fewdays was installed in all the luxury of a life of active use. Years passed away, and (sic) Gotlieb Von Arnheim sighed with a man'sfull heart for a woman's sympathy and responsive affection. He hadseen bright eyes gleam and soft cheeks flush at his approach, and hehad looked wonderingly into many a sweet face. But he had not yetseen the little maiden of whom his mother spoke--who was to be thereflex of himself. All these German maidens were altogetherdifferent from--and his heart remained unsatisfied in theirpresence. He felt no visions of eternity as he looked into theirfriendly faces. Sometimes hope almost died out. But his trust in God seemed toforbid the death of this sweet hope. Often he said, "the good Godwould not have created this intense desire in one so whollydependent upon Him, were he not intending to satisfy it. " At allevents, he thought--"If the maiden is not upon earth, she is inheaven. " So he worked and waited patiently. The wintry winds were howling, as it were, a wild requiem over thelordly ruins of the crime-stained castle of Heidelberg. Cold, andbitter, and clear was the starry night, when the weary Gotleibissued out of the Herr professor's warm house to answer the latecall of a sick woman. Gotleib looked up into those illimitabledepths where earths and suns hang suspended, to appeal to thematerial perceptions of man that this is not the alone world--thealone existence. The silent bright stars comforted the earth-weariedheart in which the day's toil had dimmed the spirit's perception. Gotleib stepped on bravely through the frosty darkness, and saidhopefully to himself, "There is yet another world--another life than this. " And now he stood before the house in which his services were needed. He entered a chamber, whose bare poverty reminded him of his studentdays. But far sadder was cold poverty here, for a lady lay on a hardcouch before the scantily furnished grate, and her hollow cough, andthe oozing blood that saturated her white handkerchief, rendered allwords unnecessary. A young girl, with blanched cheek and tearless eye of agony, kneltby the wan sufferer. Gotleib felt himself in the sphere of hislife's use; cold and fatigue were alike gone. The sick and almostdying woman seemed to revive under his touch--it was as if strengthflowed from the physician into the patient. His very presencediffused an air of hope and comfort through the desolate apartment, and the kind serving-girl, Bettina, who had guided him to the humblelodging, seconded all his active efforts to produce warmth andcomfort, and soon returned with one of his prescriptions--anabundance of fuel for the almost exhausted grate. The cheerful blazethrew its strong light upon the young girl, who at first knelt inhopeless grief beside her dying mother. What was it that thrilled the heart of Gotleib, as he looked uponthis young maiden? Was it her beauty? No! he had seen others morebeautiful. Was it her sorrow? No! he had seen others quite as sad. But, whatever it was, Gotleib felt he had met his destiny; thefulness of his being was developed to him; and, all unconsciously, the maiden turned to him as the Providence of God to her. She seemedto rest her troubled heart upon his strong understanding. He saidher mother would not die immediately, and she grew calm. It was very late that night when Gotleib retired; and very ferventwere the prayers that arose from his heart before he slept. He felta sense of gratitude for the uses he was permitted to perform to hisfellow beings, and, in his prayers, he felt that light shone fromthe Divine sun upon that sorrowing maiden, and it was as if sheknelt by his side, and his strong spirit-arms upheld her in thesunshine of God's love. When the morning came, Gotleib awakened with a delicious sense ofenjoyment in life--with a looking forth into the events of the day, that he had never before experienced. He hastened through hismorning duties with an elasticity of spirit and hope that wasaltogether new to him. Though, as yet, his feeling was not definedinto a thought, it was a faint perception, a dim consciousness thatthe elective affinities of his heart had all awakened. And while hethought he was in an excessive anxiety to see after his feeblepatient, he was borne on rather by the attractions of his heart'slove. He paused in a thrilling excitement of hope and doubt beforethe door of the poor chamber--he dreaded to have the agreeableimpressions of the last evening dissipated. But, when he knocked, alight tread was heard; the door was gently opened, and the pale Annastood before him, with such a gentle grace, and so earnest a look ofgratified expectation, that, as she said in subdued tones, "I hoped it was you, " his heart bounded with exultation, to thinkthat the young girl had him in her thoughts. But, as he approachedthe sick bed, his reason told him what was more natural than herwishing for the arrival of her mother's physician. A careful glance, by daylight, around the humble apartment, revealedto Gotleib that Anna worked with her delicate, white, lady-lookinghands, for the support of her dying mother. A table, placed by thewindow, was covered with artificial flowers of exquisiteworkmanship, and, while he yet lingered in the chamber, Bettina, themaid, entered from the street door, with a basket filled with thesame flowers--looked at Anna, and shook her head mournfully. Theyoung girl's lips quivered, and she pressed the tears back when shesaw no purchaser had been found for her labour. Gotleib saw and feltwith the most intense sympathy all that was passing. He lingered yetlonger--he made encouraging remarks to the sick mother, and, atlength, ventured to approach the table, and gazed with admiration onthe beautiful flowers, while his brain was busy in devising how hewas to make them the medium of conveying aid to the suffering motherand daughter. He turned to the faithful Bettina, who clung to thosewhom she served in their hard poverty--he told her that if she wouldfollow him he would find a purchaser for the pretty flowers. Annacast upon him a look of tearful smiling gratitude, and her simple, "I thank you, " as she held out her hand to him, bound him as with amagnetic chain to her being. Bettina thought the Herr Doctor was amost generous man, for he more than doubled the paltry sum she askedfor the flowers; though she did not consider it necessary to mentionthe fact to Anna, she merely stated to her that she had found apurchaser for as many flowers as she chose to make. But Gotleib! what an Eden those flowers made of his chamber! withwhat a joy he returned to it after hours of absence; it seemed as ifthey brought him into contact with the sphere of a belovedexistence. He examined them with delight, and could not avoidcovering them with kisses. Never was patient visited or watched overmore attentively than was Madame Hendrickson; and, as the motherrevived, the daughter seemed to feel new life. Light beamed from hersoft eyes, and oftentimes Gotleib thought that the roses thatbloomed in her delicate face were far more beautiful and bright thanthose that grew under her light and skilful touch. For him she seemed to feel an earnest trustful gratitude. She neverconcealed her glad recognition of his coming; she was too pure, andinnocent, and good, to think it necessary to conceal anything. AndGotleib's visits were so pleasant, they grew longer and longer--forhe and Madame Hendrickson were of the same religious faith--and hehad a peculiar faculty for consoling her. Gotleib spoke of the otherworld with such a definite perception of its existences and modes ofbeing, that the dying woman never wearied of listening to him. Thehigh and true faith of the good Gotleib opened to him a world ofbeauty, which he poured forth in his earnest enthusiasm, more like agifted poet than a being of mere prose. Oftentimes, as he talked, the light of his intelligence seemed to gleam back from theanswering eye of Anna, until his whole being was filled withdelight. While she felt that her hitherto dim and indistinct faithwas growing into form and fixedness, and her intellect awakened to asphere of ideas, to a world of perceptions, that endowed her all atonce with a charmed existence, and flooded her with the light of agraceful beauty that made her appear to the admiring Gotleib like anangelic spirit. Thus were the spirit links being woven through the cold bright daysof winter. Madame Hendrickson was no longer confined to her bed; andon the Sabbath days Anna could attend the public worship of God, ofwhom, now, only she seemed truly to learn. It was to the Holy Suppershe went on that first solemn Sabbath day, after months ofconfinement and sorrow. Oh! how blessed it was to listen to theDivine Word, through which God seemed to her awakened perception toshine, in a veiled beauty! and when she tasted the wine of spiritualtruth, flowing from the wisdom of the Divine One, and ate of thebread of the celestial good of His love, Heaven seemed to open toher receptive heart and mind--and, as her heart's prayers went upwith those of the shining angels round the throne of God, it was notfor herself that she prayed, but for him that had spoken livingtruth to her virgin heart. Oh, the good child! In that holy momentshe rejoiced to reveal her heart's love to the Divine Father; sheknew that her love was born of her knowledge of God, and thus sheknew that it was blessed from above. As she passed out of the church, she encountered the earnest glanceof surprised and delighted recognition from Gotleib. Very soon hewas at her side. In the fullness and stillness of her beautifulthoughts and satisfied affections they walked on. Oh, how happy thedear mother looked, when she saw the two enter her lonely chamber!The heavenly light and warmth of love seemed to be within and aroundthem; and she saw that two beings so exactly created the one for theother, could not but find an eternal happiness in each other. Gotleib was truly in one of his genial, sunny moods; he seemed tosoar into worlds of light; his expanding heart was filling with theglory of Heaven. The teachings of his childhood were all broughtforth; he talked of his beloved mother--now an angel of God--told ofthe beautiful hope she awakened in his heart concerning the littlemaiden created by God for him, when his heart shrunk in such painfrom the isolation her death would leave him in. Then he turned tothe blushing Anna, and said he thought the maiden was now found. Shelifted her love-lighted eyes to his--he clasped her hand and saidsoftly, "Thou art mine!" "I am thine, " fell responsive from the maiden's lips; and aninfinite blessedness flowed into the loving, satisfied heart ofGotleib. The next day brought with it a new and beautiful joy, --a letter fromthe beloved one, conveyed into his hand as he tenderly pressed hers, at parting. For this his thirsty soul had yearned--for someexpression of the maiden's heart-love that had as yet gleamed uponhim but momentarily from her modest eyes. But alone in his chamber, with the dear letter before him! Ah, now indeed he was to lift theveil that hid his life's treasure. To have revealed to him the heartand mind of the beloved one. And his whole being went forth to heras he read the tender revealings. She wrote: "Gotleib! my heart would fain speak to thine. It longs to saygratefully, 'I love thee, thou heaven-sent one. ' And I would tellthee of a dream that came to me last night in my heart's beautifulhappiness. "I was reading aloud to my mother in the book you lent me. I read ofhow the angels ever have their faces turned to the Divine Sun. Ofhow their shining brows are ever attracted to this central point, inwhatever position they may be--even as our feet are attracted to thecentral point of the earth. I was happy in this beautiful truth, andfelt that through my love for thee, my thought was lifted upward, and my face, too, was turned to the Lord; and when sleep came, itseemed as if my happy spirit was conscious of a new and beautifulexistence. I found myself in a large place, and a company of angelicspirits surrounded me; and we were seated at a table, adorned withan exceeding elegance, and having many varieties of food, of whichwe partook, but without a consciousness of taste--only there was agenial delight of mind arising from the mutual love of all thosebright ones. An angel-woman spoke to me and said, 'This is theLord's Supper; appropriate to thyself the goods and truths of Hisheavenly kingdom. ' While she thus spoke, I saw thee, dear Gotleib, approach, with such a smiling and beautiful grace, and thou saidstto me, holding my hand--'Sweet one! how bright thou art! Hast thoulearnt some new truth! for thou art ever bright, when thou dostperceive a new truth!' Then I answered, 'Ah, yes, indeed! I havelearned a beautiful new truth;' and I led thee to an east window andpointed upward to the great Sun, that shone in such a Divineeffulgence--then I told thee how the angels were held by theattraction of love in this centre of being--even as the children ofthe world are held by the attraction of gravitation to theearth--and as we talked, the light shone around thee, dear Gotleib!with so heavenly a glory, that my heart was filled with a new lovefor thee. For I saw, truly, that thou wert a child of God, and inloving thee I loved Him who shone in such a radiant glory upon thee. Oh! was not this a pleasant dream? Gotleib! what worlds of beautythou hast opened to me! Once my thought was so narrow, so bound downto the earth; but thou hast lifted me above the earth. A woman'sheart is so weak--it is like a trailing vine, that cannot liftitself up until its curling tendrils are wound round the loftytree-tops of a man's ascending thought. Gotleib, thus dost thou bearme up into the serene, bright heavens, and like some bloomingflowery vine will my love ever seek to adorn thy noble thoughts. " Gotleib was charmed with the maiden's thoughts. Oh, yes--her flowerswere already flying over his highest branches. She soared above him, and through her heavenly truths were growing clearer to him. Howgrateful he was to his Heavenly Father, that from his own bosom, asit were, was born his spirit's companion. But her life was fromGod--and how holy was her whole being to him! She was enthroned inhis inmost heart, to be for ever treasured as the highest and bestgift of God. It was evening when he next stood beside her. The mother slept, andAnna and Gotleib stood in the moonlit window. Few, and softlywhispered, were his loving words to her. But she smiled in a onenessof thought, when he said, "In heaven, the sun shone upon us; upon earth the cold moonbeamsunite us; but the sunshine will soon come again. " Anna felt that her letter had made Gotleib very happy; and she benther head lovingly on his manly breast. Oh! to him, the desolateforlorn one, how thrilling was the first caress of the maiden! Hislips touched her soft white brows with a delicious new joy. Butbrow, eyes, cheeks, and lips, were soon covered with rapturouskisses. Ah! happy youth and maiden, thus bedewed with life's nectar ofblessedness! What are earth's sorrows to you? Heaven is in you, andeternity only can satisfy the infinite desires of such hearts. But as the days passed, the material body of the mother wasted away, and her spirit was growing bright in its coming glory. She wishedmuch to see her beloved Anna in a holy marriage union before sheleft this world. So a few weeks after the betrothal, Gotleib led hisbride to the marriage altar. It was a festive scene of the heart'shappiness even beside the bed of death. Madame Hendrickson felt thatshe, too, was adorning for a beautiful bridal--and earthly carebeing thus removed from her heart, she was altogether happy. And the good, true-hearted Anna, in white bridal garments and virgininnocence, looked to the loving mother and happy Gotleib like anangel of God. Even the Professor Eberhard thought thus, and quitecertain it is, that the good minister spoke as if a heavenlyinspiration flowed into him, as he bound the two into an eternal_oneness_ of being. "Little children!" said he, "love one another!was the teaching of the great God, as he walked upon the earth. Hence love is the holy of the holies. And it flows from God even asheat flows from the material sun--and as the sun is in its own heatand light, so God is in love. " And taking the marriage ring, he placed it on the soft, white, rose-tipped finger of the bride, and said, "How beautiful and expressive is this symbol of union, showing theconjunction of good and truth, which conjunction first exists in theLord, for His love is the inmost, and His wisdom is like the goldenbond of truth encasing and protecting love. And this love of theLord flowing into man is received, protected, and guarded by woman'struth, until, in her fitness and perfect adaptation to him, shebecomes the love of the wisdom of the man's love, and the twain areno longer two, but one. " The fresh spring days were now coming--Madame Hendrickson went to aneternal spring. But the heart of the loving Anna rose above theearthly sorrow of separation, as if upheld by her husband's strongfaith; her imagination delighted itself in following the belovedmother into her new and beautiful state of being. Gotleib felt that now it was good for him to return to the home ofhis childhood, for it was more delightful to live apart from thestrife and toil of men. In the simple country life much good mightbe done, and yet there would be less of life's sorrow to look upon. It was weary to live in a crowded haunt, where a perception of viceand misery so mingled itself with the blessedness of his heart'slove. Anna was charmed and delighted with the pure country life, andas business increased on the Herr Doctor's hands, it was so great ahappiness to her to minister to his comfort. After the long winterrides, how she chafed his cold hands and warmed his frozen feet, andhow lovingly she helped him to the warm suppers of the good Bettina, no homeless and desolate wanderer of earth can know. But to Gotleib, what an inexpressible blessedness was all this; and how often heleft off to eat, that he might clasp Anna to his heart and cover herwith kisses! Thus went the blessed married life until another springbrought with it the sweet "dream-child, " as Anna called the littleone, whom the angel said, was "the fruit of the union of good andtruth. " The little Lina thus born into the very sphere of love, seemed evera living joy. The father's wisdom guided the mother's tender love, and the little one was good and unselfish--and so gay in theinfantile innocence and grace of her being, that oftentimes theyoung mother, leaning on the father's bosom, would whisper, "Gotleib, she is indeed an angel of God. " One dark and wintry day, as the child thus sported in the inner gladlight and joy of her heart, and Gotleib and Anna as usual werewatching the light of her radiance, a beautiful White Dove flewfluttering against the friendly window. The child grew still in herwondrous joy. But the father quickly opened the window, and thehalf-frozen bird flew in, and nestled itself in Anna's bosom. It wasfed and warmed and loved as bird never was before. For the littleone thought it was the spirit of God come down upon the house, andGotleib loved it because to him it was a living symbol of the peaceand purity of his married life, and Anna received it as a heavenlygift for the loving child. Thus both literally and spiritually theWhite Dove of innocence and peace dwelt in their midst. HESTER. WHILE Hester lived, the day was bright With something more than common light-- 'Twas the moon's difference to the night. As summer sun and summer shower Revive the tree, the herb, and flower, Hers was the gift of warmth and power. She was not what the world calls wise; Yet, the mute language of her eyes Was worth a thousand homilies. She was so crystal pure a thing, That sin to her could no more cling Than water to a sea-bird's wing. Like memory-tones heard long ago, Her gentle voice was soft and low, But plaintive in its underflow. Her life so slowly loosed its springs, Long ere she passed from earthly things, We saw the budding of her wings. She lingered so in taking leave-- Heaven granted us a long reprieve-- That when she went we could not grieve. The very night that Hester died, There came and stood my couch beside, A gentle spirit glorified. And often in my darker mood, When evil thoughts subdue the good, I see her clasp the holy Rood. But when my better hopes illume The narrow pathway to the tomb, My Hester's presence fills the room. THISTLE-DOWN. THERE is no time like these clear September nights, after sunset, for a revery. If it is a calm evening, and an intense light fillsthe sky, and glorifies it, and you sit where you can see the newmoon, with the magnificent evening star beneath it, you must be astupid affair, indeed, if you cannot then dream the most _heavenly_dreams! But Rosalie Sherwood, poor young creature, is in no dreaming moodthis lovely Sabbath night. Her heart is crushed in such an utterhelplessness, as leaves no room in it for hope: her brain is tooacutely sensitive, just now, for visions. The thistle-down, inbeautiful fairy-like procession, floats on and up before her eyes, and as she watches the frail things, they assume a new interest toher; she feels a human sympathy with them. Like the viewless windsthey come, from whence she knows not; and go, whither? none cantell. They are homeless, and she is like them; but she is not asthey, purposeless. If you could look into her mind, you would see how she has nerved itto a great determination; how that, mustering visions and hopes oncecherished, she had gone forward to a bleak and barren path, andstands there very resolute, yet, in the first moment of her resolve, miserable; no, she had not yet grown strong in the suffering; shecannot _this_ night stand up and bear her burden with a smile oftriumph. Rosalie Sherwood was an only child, the daughter of an humble friendMrs. Melville had known from girlhood. _She_, poor creature, hadneither lived nor died innocent. On her death-bed, Cecily Sherwood gave her unrecognised child to thecare of one who promised, in the sincerity of her passion, to be amother to the unfortunate infant. And during the eighteen years ofthat girl's life, from the hour of her mother's death to the daywhen she was left without hope in the world, Rosalie _had_ found aparent in the rigid but always kind and just Mary Melville. This widow lady had one son; he was four years old when her husbanddied, which was the very year that the little Rosalie was brought toMelville House. The boy's father had been considered a man of greatwealth, but when his affairs were settled, after his decease, it wasfound that the debts of the estate being paid, little more than acompetency remained for the widow. But the lady was fitted, by alife of self-discipline, even in her luxurious home, to calmly meetthis emergency. With the remnant of an imagined fortune, she retiredto an humbler residence, where, in quiet retirement, she gave hertime to managing household affairs, and superintending the homeeducation of the children. Her son Duncan, and the young Rosalie, had grown up together, untilthe girl's twelfth birth-day, constant playmates and pupils in thesame school. No one, not even the busiest busy-body, had ever beenable to detect the slightest partiality in Mrs. Melville's treatmentof her children; and, indeed, it had been quite impossible that sheshould ever regard a child so winningly beautiful as Rosalie, withother than the tenderest affection. Under a light and careless rein, the girl had been a difficult one to manage, for there was a lightlittle fire in her eyes, that told of strong will and deep passions;and besides, her striking appearance had won sufficient admirationto have completely spoiled her, if a guardian the most vigilant aswell as most discerning, had not been ever at hand to speak theright word to and do the right thing with her. Mrs. Melville was a thoroughly religious woman, and seriouslyconscious of the responsibility she incurred in adopting the infant. She could not quiet her conscience with the reflection that she haddone a wonderfully good thing in giving Rosalie a home andeducation; the chief pity she felt for the unfortunate orphan, ledher to exercise an uncommon care, that all tendency to evil shouldbe eradicated from the heart of the brilliant girl while she was yetyoung; that a sense of right, such as should prove abiding, might beimpressed on her tender mind. And her labour of love met with areturn which might well have made the mother proud. There had been no officious voice to whisper to Rosalie Sherwood thestory of the doubtful position which she occupied in the world. Shewas an orphan, the adopted child of the lady whom she devoutly lovedwith all a daughter's tenderness; this she knew, and it was all sheknew; and Mrs. Melville was resolved that she should never knowmore. The son of the widow had been educated for the ministry. He was nowtwenty-two years old, and was soon to be admitted to the priesthood. In this he was following out his own wish, and the most cherishedhope of his mother, and it seemed to all who knew him, as though theHead of the Church had set his seal upon Duncan from his boyhood. Hewas so mild and forbearing, so discreet and generous, so earnest andso honest; meek, and holy of heart, was the thought of any one wholooked upon his placid, youthful face. Yet, he had, besides hisgentleness, that without which his character might have subsidedinto a mere puerile weakness; a firmness of purpose; a reverence forduty; a strict sense of right, equal to that which marked his motheramong women. Duncan Melville's abilities were of a high order;perhaps not of the very highest, though, if his ambition were onlyequal to his powers, they would surely seem so to the world. His voice had a sweet persuasive tone, that was fitted to _win_souls, yet it could ring like a clarion, when the grandeur of histhemes fired his soul. With the warmest hopes and the deepestinterest, they, who knew the difficulties and trials attending theprofession he had chosen, looked on this young man. Duncan and Rosalie had long known the nature of the tie which boundthem together--members of one family--and they never calledthemselves brother and sister, after the youth came home a graduatefrom college. For, from the time when absence empowered him to lookas a stranger would look on Rosalie, from that time he saw herelegant and accomplished, and bewitching, as she was, and other thanfraternal affection was in his heart for her. And Rosalie, too, loved him, just as Duncan, had he spoken hispassion, would have prayed her to love him. She had long ago madehim the standard of all manly excellence; and when he came back, after three years of absence, she was not inclined to revoke herearly decision; therefore was she prepared to read the language ofDuncan's eyes, and she consecrated her heart to him. During the years which followed his return from college, till he wasprepared for ordination, as a priest, he did not once _speak_ to herof his love, which was growing all the while stronger and deeper, asthe river course that, flowing to the ocean, receives every dayfresh impetus and force from the many tiny springs that comminglewith it. Duncan Melville never _thought_ of wedding another thanRosalie Sherwood. It was, as I said, near the time appointed for his ordination, whenhe felt, for the first time, as though he had a _right_ to speakopenly with her of all his hopes. He asked her, then, what, in soullanguage, he had long before asked, a question which she had asemphatically, in like language, answered--to be his partner forlife, in weal or woe. He had tried to calmly consider Rosalie's character as a Christianminister should consider the character of her whom he would make thesharer of his peculiar lot; and setting every preference aside, Duncan felt that she was fitted to assist, and to bear with him. Shewas truthful as the day, strong-minded and generous; humane andcharitable: and though no professor of religion, a woman full ofreverence and veneration. He knew that it was only a fear that she should not _adorn_ theChristian name, that kept her back from the altar of the church, andhe loved her for that spirit of humility, knowing that she was "onthe Lord's side, " and that grace, ere long, would be given to her, to proclaim it in doing _all_ His commandments. It was certainly with a joyful and confident heart that, after hehad spoken with Rosalie, Duncan sought his mother, to tell her ofthe whole of that bright future which opened now before him. How then was he overcome with amazement and grief when Mrs. Melvilletold him it was a union to which she could never consent! Then, forthe first time in his life, the astonished young man heard of thatstain which was on the name poor Rosalie bore. He heard the story to the end, and, with a decision and energy thatwould have settled the matter with almost any other than his mother, he declared, "Yet for all that, I will not give her up. " "It would not be expected that you would fulfil the engagement. Rosalie herself would not allow it, if she knew the truth of thematter. " "But she need not know it. There is no existing necessity. Is it notenough that she is good and precious _to me_? She is a noble woman, whose life has been, thanks to your guidance, beautiful and lofty. " "God knows, I _have_ striven to do my duty by her, but I know what Ishould have done if I had ever thought you would wish to change yourrelations with her, Duncan. " "The world has not her equal! It is cruel--it is sinful--in you, mother, to oppose our union. " "She _is_ a lovely woman; but, my son, there are myriads like her. " "No _not one_! Tell me you will never breathe a word of what youhave told me _to her_!" "Never. " "Oh! thank you! thank you, mother! you could not wish anotherdaughter. " "But for that I have told you, I could not wish another. " "Then I say you must not work this great injustice on us. Rosalieloves me. She has promised to be mine. You will break my heart. " "You are deluded and strongly excited, my son, or you would neverspeak so to me, " said the mother, with that persisting firmness withwhich the physician resorts to a desperate remedy for a desperatedisease. Then she spoke to him of all the relations in life he mightyet be called upon to assume; of the misery which very possiblymight follow this union in after days. Hours passed on, and theconference was not ended, until, with a crushed heart, and atrembling voice, Duncan arose, abruptly, while his mother yet spoke, and he said, "If the conclusion to which you have urged me, in God's sight, isjust, He will give me--He will give Rosalie, too--strength to abideby it. But I can never speak to her of this, and I must find anotherhome than yours and hers. You must speak _for me_, mother; and letme charge you, do it gently. Do not tell her _all_. Let her thinkwhat she will, believe, as she must, that I am a wretch, pastpardon; but do not blight her peace by telling _all_. " "I promise you, Duncan, " was the answer, spoken through many tears, and in the deepest sorrow. An hour after, he was on the way from the village that he mightspend the coming Sabbath in another town. And, after he was gone, the mother sought her younger, her dearlyloved child. Rosalie heard that familiar step on the stairway; shehad seen Duncan hurrying away from the house, and she knew theconference was over; but she had no fear for the result. So shehushed the glad tumultuous beating of her heart, and tried to veilthe brightness of her eyes as she heard the gentle tapping at herdoor that announced the mother coming. As for Mrs. Melville, her heart quite failed her when she went intothe pleasant room, and sat down close by Rosalie. In spite of allthe strengthening thoughts of duty which she had taken with her as asupport in that interview, she was now at a sore loss, for it hadbeen a bitter grief to her kind heart when, of old, for duty's sake, she made her children unhappy. How then could sh endure to take awaytheir life's best joy, their richest hope? It was a hard thing; andmany moments passed before she could nerve her strong spirit toutter the first word. Rosalie, anxious and impatient, too, butunsuspecting, at last exclaimed, "What can it be that so much troubles you, mother?" Then Mary Melville spoke, but with a voice so soft and sad, so faintwith emotion, that it seemed not at all her voice. She said, "I want you to consider that what I say to you, dear child, hasgiven me more pain even to think of than I have ever felt before. Duncan has told me of your engagement to marry with him; and it hasbeen my duty, my most sorrowful duty, oh! believe me, to tell himthat such a tie must never unite you. He can never be your husband;you can never be his wife. " She paused, exhausted by her emotion; she could not utter anothersyllable. Rosalie, who had watched her with fixed astonishment asshe listened to the words, was the first to speak again, and shetried to say, calmly, "Of course, you have a reason for saying so. It is but just that Ishould know it. " "It cannot _be_ known. If I had ever in my life deceived you, Rosalie, you might doubt me now, when I assure you that animpediment, which cannot be named, exists to the marriage. Have Inot been a mother to you always?" she asked, appealingly, imploringly: "I love you as I love Duncan, and it cuts me to theheart to grieve you. " "Has Duncan given you an answer?" "Yes, Rosalie. " "And it--?" "He has trusted to his mother!" she said, almost proudly. "Rather than me, " quickly interrupted Rosalie. "Rather than do that which is wrong; which might hereafter prove themisery of you both, my child. " "Where is he? Why does he not come himself to tell me this? If thething is really true, _his_ lips should have spoken it, and notanother's. " "Oh! Rosalie, he could not do it. I believe his heart is broken. Donot look so upon me. Is it not enough that I bitterly regret, that Ishall always deplore, having not foreseen the result of yourcompanionship? Say only that you do believe I have striven to do thebest for you always, as far as I knew how. I implore you, _say it_. " "Heaven knows I believe it, mother. When will Duncan come homeagain?" "Monday; not before. " When Monday morning came, on the desk in Rosalie's room this letterwas found:-- "I cannot leave you for ever, Duncan; I cannot go from yourprotecting care, mother, without saying all that is in my heart. Ihave no courage to look on you, my brother, again. Mother! ourunion, which we had thought life-lasting, is broken. I cannot anylonger live in the world's sight as your daughter by adoption. Iwould have done so. I would have remained in any capacity, as aslave, even, for I was bound by gratitude for all that you have donefor me, to be with you always--at least so long as you could wish. If you had unveiled the mystery, and suffered me to stand beforeyou, recognising myself as _you_ know me, I would have stayed. Iwould have been to you, Duncan, only as in childhood--a proud yethumble sister, rejoicing in your triumphs, and sharing by _sympathy_in your griefs. I would have put forth fetters on my heart; thein-dwelling spirit should henceforth have been a stranger to you. I_know_ I could have borne even to see another made your wife; but ina mistaken kindness you put this utterly beyond my power. Too muchhas been required, and I am found--wanting! If even the mostmiserable fate that can befall an innocent woman; if the curse ofillegitimacy were upon me, I could bear that thought even, andacknowledge the justice and wisdom that did not consider me a fitassociate for one whose birth is recognized by a parent's pride andfondness. "But, dear Mrs. Melville, I must be cognisant of the relation, whatever it is, that I bear you. I cannot, I will not, consent toappear nominally your daughter, when you scorn to receive me assuch. "_Mother_--in my dear mother's name, I thank you for the generouslove you have ever shown me: for the generous care with which youhave attended to the development of the talents God gave me. For Iam now fitted to labour for myself. I thank you for the watchfulguardianship that has made me what I am, a woman--self-reliant andstrong. I thank you for it, from a heart that has learned only tolove and honour you in the past eighteen years. And I call down theblessings of the infinite God upon you, as I depart. Hereafter, always, it will be my endeavour to live worthily of you--to be _all_that you have, in your more than charity, capacitated me to be. Duncan, you will not forget me? "I do not ask it. But pray for me, and live up to the fullness ofyour being--of your heart and of your intellect. There is a happyfuture for you. I have no word of counsel, no feeble utterance ofencouragement to leave you--you will not need such from _me_. Godbless and strengthen you in every good word and work--it shall bethe constant hope of the sister who _loves_ you. Mother, farewell!" This letter was written on the Sabbath eve on which our storyopens--written in a perfect passion--yes, of grief, and of despair. The anger that Rosalie may at first have felt, gave way to thewildest sorrow now, but her resolution was taken, and her heart wasreally strong to bear the resolution out. After the sudden and most unlooked-for disappearance, the mother andson sought long, and I need not say how anxiously, for Rosalie. Buttheir search was vain, and, at last, as time passed on, she becameto the villagers as one who had never been. But never by the widowwas she forgotten; and oh! there was in the world one heart thatsorrowed with a constant sorrow, that hoped with a constant hope forher. He had lost her, and Duncan sought for no other love among women. When all his searching for Rosalie proved unavailing, the ministerapplied himself with industry to the work of his calling, and verilyhe met here with his reward; for as he was a blessing to the peopleof his parish, in time they almost adored him. He was a spiritualphysician whom God empowered to heal many a wounded and strickenheart; but there was a cross of suffering that he bore himself, which could not be removed. It was his glory that he bore it withmartyr-like patience--that he never uttered a reproachful word toher through whom he bore it. As years passed away, the gifted preacher's impassioned eloquence, and stirring words, bowed many a proud and impenitent soul withanother love than that he wished to inspire, still he sought notamong any of them companionship, or close friendship. They said, atlast, considering his life spent in the most rigid performance ofduty, that "_he was too high-church to marry_, "--that he did notbelieve such union consonant with the duties of the cloth! But themother knew better than this--_she_ knew a name that was neverspoken now in Rosalie's old home, that was dearer than life to theheart of her son; and desolate and lonely as he oft-times was, shenever _dared_ ask him to give to her a daughter--to take untohimself a wife. In a splendid old cathedral a solemn ceremonial was going forward, on the morning of a holy festival. A bishop was to be consecrated. A mighty crowd assembled to witness the ceremony, and the mother ofDuncan Melville was there, the happiest soul in all that company, for it was on _her_ son that the high honour was to be laid. How beautiful was the pale, holy countenance of the minister, who, in the early strength of his manhood, was accounted worthy to fillthat great office for which he was about to be set apart! He was aman "acquainted with grief, "--you had known it by the resigned, submissive expression of his face; you had known that the passionsof mortals had been all but chilled in him, by the holy light in histranquil eyes. Duncan _had_ toiled--he _had_ born a burden! A thousand felt it, looking on the noble front where religionundefiled, and peace, and holy love, and charity, had left forthemselves unmistakable evidences: and, more than all, one beingfelt it who had not looked upon that man for years--not since thelines of grief and care had marked the face and form of DuncanMelville. There was reason for the passionate sobs of one heart, crushed anew in that solemn hour; there was pathos such as no othervoice could give to the prayers which went up to God from onewoman's heart, in the great congregation, for him. Poor, loving, still-beloved Rosalie! She was there, her proud, magnificent figurebent humbly from the very commencement to the close of theceremonial; there, her beautiful eyes filled with tears of love, andgrief, and despair, and pride; there, crushed as the humblestflower--the glorious beauty! And the good man at the altar, for whom the prayers and the praiseascended, thought of her in that hour! Yes, in that very hour heremembered how _one_ would have looked on him that day, could shehave come, his wife, to witness how his brethren and the peopleloved and honoured him. He thought of her, and as he knelt at thealtar, even there he prayed for her; but not as numbers thought uponthe name of Rosalie Sherwood that day; for she also was soon toappear before a throng, and there was a myriad hearts that throbbedwith expectancy, and waited impatiently for the hour when theyshould look upon her. Bishop Melville had retired at noonday to his study, that he mightbe for a few moments alone. He was glancing over the sermon (sic)the was to deliver that afternoon, when his mother, his proud andhappy mother, came quickly into the room, laid a sealed note on thetable and instantly withdrew, for she saw how he was occupied. Whenhe had finished his manuscript, the bishop opened the note andread--could it have been with careless eyes? "Duncan, I have knelt in the house of the Lord, to-day, andwitnessed your triumph. Ten years ago, when I went desolate andwretched from your house, I might have prophesied your destiny. Come, to-night, and behold _my_ triumph--at--the opera-house! "Your sister, ROSALIE. " Do you think that, as he read that summons, he hesitated as towhether he should obey it? If his bishopric had been sacrificed byit, he would have gone; if disgrace and danger had attended hisfootsteps, he would have obeyed her bidding! The love which had beenstrengthening in ten long years of loneliness and bereavement, wasnot now to stop, to question or to fear. "Accompany me, dear mother, this evening; I have made an engagementfor you, " he said, as he went, she hanging on his arm, to thecathedral for afternoon service. "Willingly, my son, " was the instant answer, and Duncan kept her toher word. But it was with wondering, with surprise that she did not attempt toconceal, and with questions which were satisfied with no definitereply, that Mrs. Melville found herself standing with her son in anobscure corner of the opera-house that night. Soon all herexpressions of astonishment were hushed, but by another cause thanthe mysterious inattention of her son: a queenly woman appeared uponthe stage; she lifted her voice, and sobbed the mournful wail whichopens the first scene in----. For years there had not been such a sensation created among thefrequenters of that place, as now, by the appearance of thisstranger. The wild, singular style of her beauty made an impressionthat was heightened by every movement of her graceful figure, everytone of her rich melodious voice. She seemed for the time the veryembodiment of the sorrow to which she gave an expression, and theeffect was a complete triumph. Mary Melville and her son gazed on the _debutante_--they had noword, no look for each other: for they recognised in her voice thetones of a grief of which long ago they heard the prelude--and everynote found its echo in the bishop's inmost heart. "Come away! let us go home! Duncan, this is no place for us--for_you_. It is disgrace to be here, " was the mother's passionate plea, when at last Rosalie disappeared, and other forms stood in herplace. "We will stay and save her, " was the answer, spoken with tears andtrembling, by the man for whom, in many a quiet home, prayers inthat very hour ascended. "She is mine _now_, and no earthlyconsideration or power shall divide us. " And looking for a moment in her son's face steadfastly, the ladyturned away sighing and tearful, for she knew that she must yieldthen, and she had fears for the future. A half-hour passed and the star of the night reappeared, resplendentin beauty, triumphing in hope;--again her marvellous voice wasraised, not with the bitter cry of despair that was hopeless, butglad and gay, angelic in its joy. Again the mother's eyes were turned on him beside her--and a lightwas on that pale forehead--a smile on that calm face--a gladness inthose eyes--such as she had not seen there in long, long years; butthough she looked with a mother's love upon the one who stood theadmiration of all eyes, crowned with the glory-crown of perfectionin her art, she could not with Duncan hope. For, alas! herwoman-heart knew too well the ordeal through which the daughter ofher care and love must have passed before she came into _that_presence where she stood now, who could tell if still the mistressof herself and her destiny? who could tell if pure and undefiled? That night and the following day, there were many who soughtadmittance to the parlours of Rosalie Sherwood; they would lay thehomage of their trifling hearts at her feet. But all these sought invain; and why was this? Because such admiring tribute was not whatthe noble woman sought; _and_ because, ere she had risen in themorning, a letter, written in the solitude of night, was handed toher, which barred and bolted her doors against the curious world. "Rosalie! Rosalie! look back through the ten years that are gone; Iam answering your letter of long ago with words; I have a thousandtimes answered them with my heart, till the thoughts which havecrowded there, filled it almost to breaking. We have met--met atlast--you and I! But did you call that a triumph when you stood inGod's house, and saw them lay their consecrating hands upon me?Heaven forgive me! I was thinking of you then--and thinking, too, that if this honor was in any way to be considered a _reward_, theneedful part was wanting--you were not there! Yet you _were_ there, you have written me; ah! but not _Rosalie, my wife_, the woman Iloved better than _all_ on earth--the _acknowledged_ woman, herwhose memory I have borne about with me till it was a needful partof my existence. You were by when the people came to see meconsecrated--and I obeyed your call; I saw _you_ when the peopleanointed you with the tears of their admiration and praise. If youread my heart at all, to-day, you _knew_ how I had suffered--you_saw_ that I had grown old in sorrow. Was I mistaken to-night in thethought that you, too, had not been unmindful of _our_ past; thatyou were not satisfied with the popular applause; that you, also, have been lonely, that you have wept; that you have trodden in thepath of duty with weariness? "There is but one barrier now in the wide world that shall interposebetween us--Rosalie, it is your own will. If I was ever anything toyou, I beseech you think calmly before you answer, and do not letyour triumph, to-night, blind you to the fact which you oncerecognised, which can make us happy _yet_. I trust you as in ouryounger days; nothing, nothing but your own words could convince methat you are not worthy to take the highest place among the ladiesof this land. Oh, let the remembrance that I have been faithful toyou through all the past, plead for me, if your pride should riseup, to condemn me. Let me come and plead _with_ you, for I know notwhat I write. " The answer returned to this letter was as follows:-- "I learned long ago, the bar that prevented our union; it is inexistence still, Duncan. Your mother only shall decide if it beinsurmountable. I have never, even for a moment, doubted yourfaithfulness; and it has been to me an unspeakable comfort to _know_that none had supplanted me in your affections. In the temptations, and struggles, and hardships, I have known, it has kept me above andbeyond the world, and if the last night's triumph proves to be butthe opening of a new life for me on earth, the recollection of whatyou are, and that you care for me, will prove a rock of defence, anda stronghold of hope always. Severed from, or united with you, I amyours for ever. " Seven days after there was a marriage in the little church of thatremote village, where Duncan Melville and Rosalie Sherwood passedtheir childhood. Side by side they stood now, once again, where thebaptismal service had long since been read for them, and the motherof the bishop gave the bride away! THE LITTLE CHILDREN. IT was Sabbath morning. Soft and silvery, like stray notes from thequivering chords of an archangel's harp, floated the clear, sweetvoice of the church-bells through the hushed heart of the greatmetropolis, while old men and little children--youth in its hope, and manhood in its pride--came forth at their summons, setting amighty human tide in the direction of the sanctuaries, beneath whosesacred droppings they should hear again the tidings which come to usover the waves of nearly two thousand years, fresh and full ofexceeding melody, as when the Day-Star from on high first poured itsblessed beams over the mountain heights of Judea, and the song, pealing over the hills of jasper, rolled down to the shepherds whokept their night-watches on her plains; "Peace on earth andgood-will to men. " A child came forth with his ragged garments, unwashed face anduncombed hair, from one of those haunts of darkness and misery whichfill the city with crime and suffering. He was a little child, andyet there was none of its peace on his brow, or its light in hiseye, as he looked up with a strange, wistful earnestness at thestrip of blue sky that looked down with its serene heaven-smilebetween the frowning and dilapidated pile of buildings which rose oneither side of the alley. The sunshine flitted like thesoft-caressing fingers of a spirit over his forehead, and the voiceof the bells fell upon his spirit with a strange, subduinginfluence; and the child kept on his way until the alley terminatedin a broad, pleasant street, with its crowd of church-goers, andstill the boy kept on, unmindful of dainty robe and silken vesturethat waved and rustled by him. He stood at last within the broad shadow of the sanctuary, while farabove him rose the tall spire, with the sunbeams coiling like aheaven-halo around it, pointing to the golden battlements of thefar-off city, within whose blessed precincts nothing "which defilethshall ever enter. " The massive church doors swung slowly open as oneand another entered, and the child looked eagerly up the long, mysterious mid-aisle, but the silken garments rustled past--therewas no hand outstretched to lead the ragged and wretched little onewithin its walls, and no one paused to tell him of the Great Father, within whose sight the rich and poor are alike. But while he stoodthere, an angel with golden hair and gleaming wings bent over him, holding precious heart-seed, gathered from the white plains of thespirit-land, and as the child drew nearer the church steps, theangel followed. Suddenly the little dapper sexton, with his broad smile and bustlinggait, came out of the church. His eyes rested a moment upon theyoung wistful face and on the ragged garments, and then he beckonedto the child. "Shall I take you in here, my boy?" asked a voice kinder andpleasanter than any which the child had ever heard; and as hetimidly bowed his head, the sexton took the little soiled hand inhis own, and they passed in, and the angel followed them. Seated in one corner of the church, the child's eyes wandered overthe frescoed walls, with the sunshine flitting like the fringe of aspirit's robe across it, and up the dim aisle to the great marblepulpit, with a kind of bewildered awe, for he had seen nothing ofthe like before, unless it might be in some dim, half-forgottendream; but when the heavy doors swung together and the Sabbath hushgathered over the church, and the hallelujahs of the organ filledthe house of the Lord and thrilled the heart of the child; he bowedhis head and wept sweet tears--he could not tell whence was theircoming. Then the solemn prayer from the pulpit--"O, Thou who lovestall men, who art the Father of the old and the young, the rich andthe poor, and in whose sight they are alike precious, grant us Thyblessing, " came to the ears of the child, and a new cry awoke in hissoul. _Where_ was this Father? It did not seem true that He couldlove him, a poor little, hungry, ragged beggar; that such a onecould be his child. But, oh! it was just what his heart longed for, and if all others were _precious_ to this Great Father, he did notbelieve He would leave him out. If he could only find Him--no matterhow long the road was, nor how cold and hungry he might be, he wouldkeep straight on the way, until he reached Him, and then he would goright in and say, "Father, I am cold and hungry, and very wretched. There is no one to love me, none to care for me. May I be yourchild, Father?" And perhaps He would look kindly upon him, andwhisper softly, as no human being had ever whispered to him, "Mychild!" and stronger and wilder from his heart came up that cry, "Oh, if I could only find Him!" Again the tones of the deep-toned organ and the sweet-voiced choirfloated on the Sabbath air, and crept, a strange, soft tide, intothe silent places of the boy's heart, softening and subduing it;while during the long sermon, of which he heard little, andcomprehended less, that spirit cry rolled continually up from thedepths of his soul--"_Where_ is the Father?" The benediction had been pronounced, and the house was disgorged ofmost of its vast crowd of worshippers, and yet the boy lingered--hecould not bear to return to his dark and dismal dwelling, to theharsh words and harsher usage of those who loved him not, withouthaving that question, which his soul was so eagerly asking, answered. But that little timid heart lacked courage, and he knewthe words would die in his throat if he attempted to speak them, andso he must go away without knowing the way to the Father--but hisfeet dragged unwillingly along, and his eyes searched earnestly thefigures that, unwitting of his want, passed swiftly before him. "What is it you want to know, little boy?" The voice was verymusical, and the smile on the lips of the child-questioner verywinning. The chestnut-brown curls floated over her silken robe, andthe soft blue eyes that looked into the boy's, wore that unearthlypurity of expression which is not the portion of the children ofthis world. The boy looked into that fair, childish face, and his heart tookcourage, while very eagerly from his lips came the words, "Where isthe Great Father?" "God is in heaven!" answered the little girl in solemn tones, whilea sudden gravity gathered over her features. From lips that burned with blasphemies, amid oaths from the vile, and revilings from the scoffer, had the boy first learned that name, and never before had it possessed aught of import for him. But nowhe knew it was the name of the Great Father that loved him, andagain he asked very earnestly, "Where is the way to God in heaven? Iam going to Him now. " The child shook her head as she looked on the boy with a sort ofpitying wonder at his ignorance, and again she answered, "You cannotgo to Him, but He will come to you if you will call upon Him, and Hewill hear, though you whisper very low, for God is everywhere. " "Come, come, Miss Ellen, you must not stay here any longer, " calledthe servant, who had been very intent at ranging the cushions in thepew, and who now hurried her little charge through the aisle, apprehensive that some evil might accrue from her contiguity with a"street-beggar. " But the words of the little girl had brought a new and preciouslight into the boy's heart. That "cardinal explication of thereason, " the wondrous idea of the Deity, had found a voice in hissoul, and the child went forth from the church, while thegolden-winged angel followed him to the dark alley, and the darkerhome; and that night, before he laid himself on his miserable palletin the corner, he bowed his head, and clasped his hands, andwhispered so that none might hear him, "My Father, will you takecare of me, and come and take me to yourself? for I love you. " Andthe angel folded his bright wings above that scanty pallet, and bentin the silent watches of the night over the boy, and filled hisheart with peace, and his dreams with brightness. Six months had rolled their mighty burden of life-records into thepulseless ocean of the past. The pale stars of mid-winter werelooking down with meek, seraph glances over the mighty metropolisalong whose thousand thoroughfares lay the white carpet of thesnow-king; and Boreas, loosed from his ice caverns on the frozenfloor of the Arctic, was holding mad revels, and howling withdemoniac glee along the streets, wrapped in the pall shadows ofmidnight. Twelve o'clock pealed from the mighty tongue of the time-recorder, and then the white-robed angel of death knocked at the door of twoyoung human hearts, in the great city. The tide of golden hair flowed over the white pillows ofcrimson-draperied couch. Shaded lamps poured their dim, silveryglances upon bright flowers and circling vines, the cunningworkmanship of fingers in far-off lands, which lay among the softgroundwork of the rich carpet, while small white fingers glidedcaressingly among the golden hair; and white faces, wild withsorrow, bent over the rigid features of the dying child, and tears, such only as flow from the heart's deepest and bitterest fountains, fell upon the cold forehead and paling lips, as the lids swept backfor a moment from her blue eyes, and the light from her spirit brokefor the last time into them; the lips upon which the death-seal wasready to be laid, opened; and clear and joyous through the hushedroom rang the words, "I am coming! I am coming!" and the next momentthe cold, beautiful clay was all which was left to the mourners. The other, at whose heart the death-angel knocked, lay in one cornerof an old and dilapidated room, on a pallet of straw. No soft handwandered caressingly among his dark locks, or cooled with its coldtouch the fever of his forehead. The dim, flickering rays of thetallow candle wandered over the features now grown stark and rigidwith the death-chill. No grief-printed face bent in anguish abovehim; no eye watched for the latest breath; no ear for the dyingword; but through the half-open door, came to the ear of the dyingboy the coarse laugh of the inebriate--the jest of the vile, and thefrightful blasphemies of those whose way is the way of death. None saw the last life-light, as it broke into the dark, spiritualeyes of the boy. None saw the smile that played like the lightaround the lips of a seraph, about his blue and cold lips, as theyspoke exceeding joyfully, "Father! Father, I have called and youhave heard me; I am coming to you, coming now; for the angels beckonme;" and the pale clay on that sunken pallet was all that remainedof the boy. Together they met, those two children who had stood together in theearthly courts of the Most High, and whom the angel hadsimultaneously called from the earth, beneath the shiningbattlements of "the city of God. " The white wings of thewarden-angels, who stood on its watch-towers, were slowly foldedtogether, and back rolled the massive gates from the walls ofjasper; and with the great "Godlight" streaming outward, and amidthe sound of archangel's harp and seraph's lyre, the ministeringangels came forth. They did not ask the child-spirits there, iftheir earthly homes had been among the high and the honourable; theydid not ask them if broad lands had been their heritage, andsparkling coffers their portion; if their paths had lain by pleasantwaters, and animals followed their biddings; but alike they ledthem--she, the daughter of wealth and earthly splendour, whoseforehead the breezes might not visit too roughly, and whose pathwayhad been bordered with flowers and gilded with sunshine; and he, theheir of poverty, whose portion had been want, and his inalienableheritage, suffering; whose path had known no pleasant places; whoselife had had no brightness within that glorious city. They placedbright crowns, alike woven from the fragrant branches of thefar-spreading "Tree of Life, " around their spirit-brows; they deckedthem alike in white robes, whose lustre many ages shall not dim;alike they placed in their hands the harps whose music shall rollfor ever over (sic) the the hills of jasper; and alike they pointedthem to the gleaming battlements, to the still skies over whosesurface the shadow of a cloud hath never floated; to the "manymansions" which throw the shadow of their shining portals on therippling waters of the "River of Life, " and to far more of glory"which it hath never entered into the heart of man to conceive of, "and told them they should "go no more out for ever. " WHAT IS NOBLE? WHAT is noble? to inherit Wealth, estate, and proud degree? There must be some other merit, Higher yet than these for me. Something greater far must enter Into life's majestic span; Fitted to create and centre True nobility in man! What is noble? 'tis the finer Portion of our mind and heart: Linked to something still diviner Than mere language can impart; Ever prompting--ever seeing Some improvement yet to plan; To uplift our fellow-being-- And like man to feel for man! What is noble? is the sabre Nobler than the humble spade? There's a dignity in labour Truer than e'er Pomp arrayed! He who seeks the mind's improvement Aids the world--in aiding mind! Every great, commanding movement Serves not one--but all mankind. O'er the Forge's heat and ashes-- O'er the Engine's iron head-- Where the rapid Shuttle flashes, And the Spindle whirls its thread; There is Labour lowly tending Each requirement of the hour; There is genius still extending Science--and its world of power! THE ANEMONE HEPATICA. TWO friends were walking together beside a picturesque mill-stream. While they walked, they talked of mortal life, its meaning and itsend; and, as is almost inevitable with such themes, the current oftheir thoughts gradually lost its cheerful flow. "This is a miserable world, " said one; "the black shroud of sorrowoverhangs everything here. " "Not so, " replied the other; "Sorrow is not a shroud. It is only thecovering Hope wraps about her when she sleeps. " Just then they entered an oak-grove. It was early spring, and thetrees were bare, but last year's leaves lay thick as snow-driftsupon the ground. "The Liverwort grows here, one of our earliest flowers, I think, "said the last speaker. "There, push away the leaves, and you willfind it. How beautiful, with its delicate shades of pink, andpurple, and green, lying against the bare roots of the oak-trees!But look deeper, or you will not find the flowers; they are underthe dead leaves. " "Now I have learned a lesson that I shall not forget, " said herfriend. "This seems to me a bad world, and there is no denying thatthere are bad things in it. To a sweeping glance, it will sometimesseem barren and desolate; but not one buried germ of life and beautyis lost to the All-seeing Eye. I, having the weakness of humanvision, must believe where I cannot see. Henceforth, when I amtempted to complainings and despair on account of the evil aroundme, I will say to myself, 'Look deeper, look under the dead leaves, and you will find flowers. '" THE FAMILY OF MICHAEL AROUT. _September 15th, eight o'clock. _--This morning, while I wasarranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me thebasket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday. For nearly twenty yearsthat I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in her littlefruit-shop. Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but MotherGenevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, andcause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of ouracquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; mypatronage has become her property. She has put the basket upon my table, and as I wanted her husband, who is a joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gonedown stairs again immediately to send him to me. At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of hervoice; but now, that I recall them, it seems to me that she was notas jovial as usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble aboutanything? Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, that she might think she had received her full share already. Were Ito live a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstanceswhich first made her known to me, and which obtained her my respect. It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I hadnoticed her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and beingattracted by its forsaken appearance, made my little purchases init. I have always instinctively preferred the poor shops; there isless choice in them, but it seems to me that my purchase is a signof sympathy with a brother in poverty. These little dealings arealmost always an anchor of hope to those whose very existence is inperil--the only means by which some orphan gains a livelihood. Therethe aim of the tradesman is not to enrich himself, but to live! Thepurchase you make of him is more than exchange--it is a good action. Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lostthat fresh bloom of youth, which suffering causes to wither so soonamong the poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left offworking to become, according to the picturesque expression of theworkshops, _a worshipper of Saint Monday_. The wages of the week, which was always reduced to two or three working days, werecompletely dedicated by him to the worship of this god of theBarriers, The cheap wine-shops are outside the Barriers, to avoid the_octroi_, or municipal excise. and Genevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants ofthe household. One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, Iheard a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voicesof several women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken by sobs. On looking further in, I perceived the fruit-woman, with a child in her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurseseemed to be claiming her wages from her. The poor woman, whowithout doubt had exhausted every explanation and every excuse, wascrying in silence, and one of her neighbours was trying in vain toappease the countrywoman. Excited by that love of money which theevils of a hard peasant life but too well excuse, and disappointedby the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse was launching forthin recriminations, threats, and abuse. In spite of myself, Ilistened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not thinkingof going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door. The joiner had just come from the Barrier, where he had passed partof the day at the public-house. His blouse, without a belt, anduntied at the throat, showed none of the noble stains of work: inhis hand he held his cap, which he had just picked out of the mud;his hair was in disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor ofdrunkenness in his face. He came reeling in, looked wildly aroundhim, and called for Genevieve. She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but atthe sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steadyhimself, she pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it withtears. The countrywoman and the neighbour had followed her. "Come! come! Do you intend to pay me, after all?" cried the former, in a rage. "Ask the master for the money, " ironically answered the woman fromnext door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against thecounter. The countrywoman looked at him. "Ah! he is the father, " resumed she; "well, what idle beggars! notto have a penny to pay honest people, and get tipsy with wine inthat way. " The drunkard raised his head. "What! what!" stammered he; "who is it that talks of wine? I've hadnothing but brandy. But I am going back again to get some wine. Wife, give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me atthe _Pere la Tuille_. " Genevieve did not answer: he went round the counter, opened thetill, and began to rummage in it. "You see where the money of the house goes!" observed the neighbourto the countrywoman; "how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when hetakes all?" "Is that my fault, then?" replied the nurse angrily; "they owe itme, and somehow or other they must pay me. " And letting loose her tongue, as those women out of the country do, she began relating at length all the care she had taken of thechild, and all the expense it had been to her. In proportion as sherecalled all she had done, her words seemed to convince her morethan ever of her rights, and to increase her anger. The poor mother, who no doubt feared that her violence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle. Whether it was that the countrywoman saw in this act a determinationto escape her claims, or that she was blinded by passion, I cannotsay; but she rushed into the next room, where I heard the sounds ofquarrelling, with which the cries of the child were soon mingled. The joiner, who was still rummaging in the till, was startled, andraised his head. At the same moment Genevieve appeared at the door, holding in herarms the baby that the countrywoman was trying to tear from her. Sheran towards the counter, and, throwing herself behind her husband, cried, "Michael, defend your son!" The drunken man quickly stood up erect, like one who awakes with astart. "My son!" stammered he; "what son?" His looks fell upon the child; a vague ray of intelligence passedover his features. "Robert, " resumed he; "is it Robert?" He tried to steady himself on his feet, that he might take the baby, but he tottered. The nurse approached him in a rage. "My money, or I shall take the child away!" cried she; "it is I whohave fed and brought it up; if you don't pay for what has made itlive, it ought to be the same to you as if it were dead. I shall notgo till I have my due or the baby. " "And what would you do with him?" murmured Genevieve, pressingRobert against her bosom. "Take it to the Foundling!" replied the countrywoman, harshly; "thehospital is a better mother than you are, for it pays for the foodof its little ones. " At the word "Foundling, " Genevieve had exclaimed aloud in horror. With her arms wound round her son, whose head she hid in her bosom, and her two hands spread over him, she had retreated to the wall, and remained with her back against it, like a lioness defending heryoung ones. The neighbour and I contemplated this scene, without knowing how wecould interfere. As for Michael, he looked at us by turns, making avisible effort to comprehend it all. When his eye rested uponGenevieve and the child, it lit up with a gleam of pleasure; butwhen he turned towards us, he again became stupid and hesitating. At last, apparently making a prodigious effort, he criedout--"Wait!" And going to a tub full of water, he plunged his face into itseveral times. Every eye was turned upon him; the countrywoman herself seemedastonished. At length he raised his dripping head. This ablution hadpartly dispelled his drunkenness; he looked at us for a moment, thenhe turned to Genevieve, and his face brightened up. "Robert!" cried he, going up to the child, and taking him in hisarms. "Ah! give him me, wife; I must look at him. " The mother seemed to give up his son to him with reluctance, andstayed before him with her arms extended, as if she feared the childwould have a fall. The nurse began again in her turn to speak, andrenewed her claims, this time threatening to appeal to law. At first Michael listened to her attentively, and when hecomprehended her meaning, he gave the child back to its mother. "How much do we owe you?" asked he. The countrywoman began to reckon up the different expenses, whichamounted to nearly thirty francs. The joiner felt to the bottom ofhis pockets, but could find nothing. His forehead became contractedby frowns; low curses began to escape him; all of a sudden herummaged in his breast, drew forth a large watch, and holding it upabove his head-- "Here it is--here's your money!" cried he, with a joyful laugh; "awatch, number one! I always said it would keep for a drink on a dryday; but it is not I who will drink it, but the young one. Ah! ah!ah! go and sell it for me, neighbour; and if that is not enough, have my ear-rings. Eh! Genevieve, take them off for me, theear-rings will square all. They shall not say you have beendisgraced on account of the child. No, not even if I must pledge abit of my flesh! My watch, my ear-rings, and my ring, get rid of allof them for me at the goldsmith's; pay the woman, and let the littlefool go to sleep. Give him me, Genevieve, I will put him to bed. " And, taking the baby from the arms of his mother, he carried himwith a firm step to his cradle. It was easy to perceive the change which took place in Michael fromthis day. He cut all his old drinking acquaintances. He went earlyevery morning to his work, and returned regularly in the evening tofinish the day with Genevieve and Robert. Very soon he would notleave them at all, and he hired a place near the fruitshop, andworked in it on his own account. They would soon have been able to live in comfort, had it not beenfor the expenses which the child required. Everything was given upto his education. He had gone through the regular school training, had studied mathematics, drawing, and the carpenter's trade, and hadonly begun to work a few months ago. Till now, they had beenexhausting every resource which their laborious industry couldprovide to push him forward in his business; but, happily, all theseexertions had not proved useless; the seed had brought forth itsfruits, and the days of harvest were close by. While I was thus recalling these remembrances to my mind, Michaelhad come in, and was occupied in fixing shelves where they werewanted. During the time I was writing the notes of my journal, I was alsoscrutinizing the joiner. The excesses of his youth and the labour of his manhood have deeplymarked his face; his hair is thin and gray, his shoulders stooping, his legs shrunken and slightly bent. There seems a sort of weight inhis whole being. His very features have an expression of sorrow anddespondency. He answered my questions by monosyllables, and like aman who wishes to avoid conversation. From whence is this dejection, when one would think he had all he could wish for? I should like toknow! _Ten o'clock_. --Michael is just gone down stairs to look for a toolhe has forgotten. I have at last succeeded in drawing from him thesecret of his and Genevieve's sorrow. Their son Robert is the causeof it. Not that he has turned out ill after all their care--not that he isidle or dissipated; but both were in hopes he would never leave themany more. The presence of the young man was to have renewed and madeglad their lives once more; his mother counted the days, his fatherprepared everything to receive their dear associate in their toils, and at the moment when they were thus about to be repaid for alltheir sacrifices, Robert had suddenly informed them that he had justengaged himself to a contractor at Versailles. Every remonstrance and every prayer were useless; he brought forwardthe necessity of initiating himself into all the details of animportant contract, the facilities he should have, in his newposition, of improving himself in his trade, and the hopes he had ofturning his knowledge to advantage. At last, when his mother, havingcome to the end of her arguments, began to cry, he hastily kissedher, and went away, that he might avoid any further remonstrances. He had been absent a year, and there was nothing to give them hopesof his return. His parents hardly saw him once a month, and then heonly stayed a few moments with them. "I have been punished where I had hoped to be rewarded, " Michaelsaid to me just now; "I had wished for a saving and industrious son, and God has given me an ambitious and avaricious one. I had alwayssaid to myself, that, when once he was grown up, we should have himalways with us, to recall our youth and to enliven our hearts; hismother was always thinking of getting him married, and havingchildren again to care for. You know women always will busythemselves about others. As for me, I thought of him working near mybench, and singing his new songs--for he has learnt music, and isone of the best singers at the Orpheon. A dream, sir, truly!Directly the bird was fledged, he took to flight, and remembersneither father nor mother. Yesterday, for instance, was the day weexpected him; he should have come to supper with us. No Robertto-day, either! He has had some plan to finish, or some bargain toarrange, and his old parents are put down last in the accounts, after the customers and the joiner's work. Ah! if I could haveguessed how it would have turned out! Fool! to have sacrificed mylikings and my money, for nearly twenty years, to the education of athankless son! Was it for this I took the trouble to cure myself ofdrinking, to break with my friends, to become an example to theneighbourhood? The jovial good fellow has made a goose of himself. Oh! if I had to begin again! No, no! you see women and children areour bane. They soften our hearts; they lead us a life of hope andaffection; we pass a quarter of our lives in fostering the growth ofa grain of corn which is to be everything to us in our old age, andwhen the harvest-time comes--good-night, the ear is empty!" Whilt he was speaking, Michael's voice became hoarse, his eyefierce, and his lips quivered. I wished to answer him, but I couldonly think of commonplace consolations, and I remained silent. Thejoiner pretended he wanted a tool, and left me. Poor father! Ah! I know those moments of temptation when virtue hasfailed to reward us, and we regret having obeyed her! Who has notfelt this weakness in hours of trial, and who has not uttered, atleast once, the mournful exclamation of "Brutus?" But if _virtue is only a word_, what is there then in life which istrue and real? No, I will not believe that goodness is in vain! Itdoes not always give the happiness we had hoped for, but it bringssome other. In the world everything is ruled by order, and has itsproper and necessary consequences, and virtue cannot be the soleexception to the general law. If it had been prejudicial to thosewho practise it, experience would have avenged them; but experiencehas, on the contrary, (sic) mader it more universal and more holy. We only accuse it of being a faithless debtor, because we demand animmediate payment, and one apparent to our senses. We alwaysconsider life as a fairy tale, in which every good action must berewarded by a visible wonder. We do not accept as payment a peacefulconscience, self-content, or a good name among men, treasures thatare more precious than any other, but the value of which we do notfeel till after we have lost them! Michael is come back, and returned to his work. His son had not yetarrived. By telling me of his hopes and his grievous disappointments, hebecame excited; he unceasingly went over again the same subject, always adding something to his griefs. He has just wound up hisconfidential discourse by speaking to me of a joiner's business, which he had hoped to buy, and work to good account with Robert'shelp. The present owner had made a fortune by it, and after thirtyyears of business, he was thinking of retiring to one of theornamental cottages in the outskirts of the city, a usual retreatfor the frugal and successful working man. Michael had not indeedthe two thousand francs which must be paid down; but perhaps hecould have persuaded Master Benoit to wait. Robert's presence wouldhave been a security for him; for the young man could not fail toinsure the prosperity of a workshop; besides science and skill, hehad the power of invention and bringing to perfection. His fatherhad discovered among his drawings a new plan for a staircase, whichhad occupied his thoughts for a long time; and he even suspected himof having engaged himself to the Versailles contractor for the verypurpose of executing it. The youth was tormented by this spirit ofinvention, which took possession of all his thoughts, and, whiledevoting his mind to study, he had no time to listen to hisfeelings. Michael told me all this with a mixed feeling of pride and vexation. I saw he was proud of the son he was abusing, and that his verypride made him more sensible of that son's neglect. _Six o'clock, P. M. _--I have just finished a happy day. How manyevents have happened within a few hours, and what a change forGenevieve and Michael! He had just finished fixing the shelves, and telling me of his son, whilst I laid the cloth for my breakfast. Suddenly we heard hurried steps in the passage, the door opened, andGenevieve entered with Robert. The joiner gave a start of joyful surprise, but he repressed itimmediately, as if he wished to keep up the appearance ofdispleasure. The young man did not appear to notice it, but threw himself intohis arms in an open-hearted manner, which surprised me. Genevieve, whose face shone with happiness, seemed to wish to speak, and torestrain herself with difficulty. I told Robert I was glad to see him, and he answered me with easeand civility. "I expected you yesterday, " said Michael Arout, rather dryly. "Forgive me, father, " replied the young workman, "but I had businessat St. Germains. I was not able to come back till it was very late, and then the master kept me. " The joiner looked at his son sideways, and then took up his hammeragain. "It is right, " muttered he, in a grumbling tone; "when we are withother people we must do as they wish; but there are some who wouldlike better to eat brown bread with their own knife, than partridgeswith the silver fork of a master. " "And I am one of those, father, " replied Robert, merrily; "but, asthe proverb says, _you must shell the peas before you can eat them. _It was necessary that I should first work in a great workshop"-- "To go on with your plan of the staircase, " interrupted Michael, ironically. "You must now say M. Raymond's plan, father, " replied Robert, smiling. "Why?" "Because I have sold it to him. " The joiner, who was planing a board, turned round quickly. "Sold it!" cried he, with sparkling eyes. "For the reason that I was not rich enough to give it him. " Michael threw down the board and tool. "There he is again!" resumed he, angrily; "his good genius puts anidea into his head which would have made him known, and he goes andsells it to a rich man, who will take the honour of it himself. " "Well, what harm is there done?" asked Genevieve. "What harm!" cried the joiner, in a passion; "you understand nothingabout it--you are a woman; but he--he knows well that a true workmannever gives up his own inventions for money, no more than a soldierwould give up his cross. That is his glory; he is bound to keep itfor the honour it does him! Ah! thunder! if I had ever made adiscovery, rather than put it up at auction I would have sold one ofmy eyes! Don't you see, that a new invention is like a child to aworkman! he takes care of it, he brings it up, he makes a way for itin the world, and it is only poor creatures who sell it. " Robert coloured a little. "You will think differently, father, " said he, "when you know why Isold my plan. " "Yes, and you will thank him for it, " added Genevieve, who could nolonger keep silence. "Never!" replied Michael. "But, wretched man!" cried she, "he only sold it for our sakes!" The joiner looked at his wife and son with astonishment. It wasnecessary to come to an explanation. The latter related how he hadentered into a negotiation with Master Benoit, who had positivelyrefused to sell his business unless one-half of the two thousandfrancs was first paid down. It was in the hopes of obtaining thissum that he had gone to work with the contractor at Versailles; hehad an opportunity of trying his invention, and of finding apurchaser. Thanks to the money he received for it, he had justconcluded the bargain with Benoit, and had brought his father thekey of the new work-yard. This explanation was given by the young workman with so much modestyand simplicity, that I was quite affected by it. Genevieve cried;Michael pressed his son to his heart, and in a long embrace heseemed to ask his pardon for having unjustly accused him. All was now explained with honour to Robert. The conduct which hisparents had ascribed to indifference, really sprang from affection;he had neither obeyed the voice of ambition nor of avarice, nor eventhe nobler inspiration of inventive genius; his whole motive andsingle aim had been the happiness of Genevieve and Michael. The dayfor proving his gratitude had come, and he had returned themsacrifice for sacrifice! After the explanations and exclamations of joy, were over, all threewere about to leave me; but the cloth being laid, I added three moreplaces, and kept them to breakfast. The meal was prolonged; the fare was only tolerable; but theoverflowings of affection made it delicious. Never had I better understood the unspeakable charm of family love. What calm enjoyment in that happiness which is always shared withothers; in that community of interests which unites such variousfeelings; in that association of existences which forms one singlebeing of so many! What is man without those home affections, which, like so many roots, fix him firmly in the earth, and permit him toimbibe all the juices of life? Energy, happiness, does it not allcome from them? Without family life, where would man learn to love, to associate, to deny himself? A community in little, is not itwhich teaches us how to live in the great one? Such is the holinessof home, that to express our relation with God, we have been obligedto borrow the words invented for our family life. Men have namedthemselves the _sons_ of a heavenly _Father_. Ah! let us carefully preserve these chains of domestic union; do notlet us unbind the human sheaf, and scatter its ears to all thecaprices of chance, and of the winds; but let us rather enlarge thisholy law; let us carry the principles and the habits of home beyondits bounds; and, if it may be, let us realize the prayer of theApostle of the Gentiles when he exclaimed to the newborn children ofChrist:--"Be ye like-minded, having the same love, being of oneaccord, of one mind. " BABY IS DEAD. "BABY is dead!" How many hearts have throbbed with anguish, and eyesoverflowed with tears at the utterance of these thrilling words! Atender bud is intrusted to a rejoicing family. Very precious does itbecome to them. With what ecstatic joy do they note the first dawnof intelligence as it beams from the starry eyes! How merry theirown hearts now, as they listen to the shouts of childish glee asthey burst from the coral lips! Ay, very, very dear is this littleone, and their cup of bliss seems full without alloy; when suddenlythe relentless destroyer enters their happy home, and sets his sealon that snowy brow, so like a lily's leaf, in its pure beauty. Disease fastens itself upon the loved one, and, like a tender budnipped by the untimely frost, it withers, droops, and dies. Thencome the fearful words, "Baby is dead!" With what a crushing weightdo they fall on the ears of that mourning family! How reluctantly dotheir bruised hearts acknowledge the sad truth! But stern realityavers it so, and the spectre Grief claims them for its own, as theygaze upon the pale face of the little sleeper. Ah! the light of those bright eyes is for ever quenched, and thelids are closed tranquilly over them; the rose tint has fled fromthe round cheeks; the ruby lips are colourless, and the youthfulheart has ceased its throbbings. Yes, "Baby is dead, " and silently they prepare it for the cheerlesstomb. The golden tresses they so oft have wound lovingly over theirfingers, are gently smoothed for the last time, while one fairy curlis severed and placed next the mother's heart; oft will she gazeupon it, as the months of her sorrow come and go, and weep over thememory of her departed treasure. Sadly the little form is robed in the tiny shroud, and the dimpledhands crossed sweetly over the pulseless bosom. Gently he is placedin the coffin--it is a harder bed than he was wont to rest on, buthe will feel it not. With unutterable anguish they follow him to thedark, cold grave; strange hands lower him into its gloomy depths, and the clods fall heavily upon the coffin. Each one seems to sinkwith laden weight into their hearts. It is filled up now, and thegreen turf covers the late smiling cherub, and the mourners turnsadly away. Oh! how dark the world seems now, which was so full ofsunshine a little while ago! How desolate their once joyous house! "Baby is dead--our idol is gone, " is the language of their hearts. Yes, stricken ones, your sunbeam is gone; but where? You have buriedthe beauteous casket beneath the green sods of the valley; but theprecious jewel it contained is beaming brightly in the coronal ofGod. Your treasure is taken from your love-encircling arms, but it issweetly pillowed on the bosom of that kind Saviour who said, "Sufferlittle children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such isthe kingdom of heaven. " The bud is nipped from its parent stem in the springtime of itsexistence; but it hath been transplanted to a milder clime, wherethe rough blasts and chilling storms of mortality cannot harm, andwhere, watered by the soft dew of Divine love, its tiny leaves willexpand and bloom with unfading lustre! Had this bud of life, over whom your souls yearned with suchunutterable fondness, been spared to you, you know not how yourbright anticipations might have been darkened. When it came tothread life's strange, wild paths, mildew and blight might havesettled on the pure spirit, and guilty, desolating passions scathedthe guileless heart. Then weep not, mourning ones, but rather rejoice that He, who doethall things well, hath summoned it, in its pristine purity, to ahaven of innocence, where contamination nor decay cannot defile orenter. And when you miss the childish prattle or silvery laugh whichfell so sweetly on your ears, think of the baby that is dead to you, as a rejoicing angel among angelic hosts that throng the "land ofthe blest. " Baby is dead to earth, but is living in Paradise! "Then mourn not, though the loved one go Early from this world of woe; Upon yon bright and blissful shore You soon shall meet to part no more, 'Mid amaranthine flowers to roam, Where sin and death can never come. " THE TREASURED RINGLET. I AM thinking how, one April eve, Upon the old arm-chair I sat, and how I fondly played With this brown lock of hair; Your head was pillowed on my breast, Your eyes were fixed on mine, I knew your heart was all my own, I know my own was thine. The balmy breath of violets Came floating in the room, And mingling with the rose's sigh, Spread round a rich perfume; Yet sweeter was the warm breath which I felt upon my cheek, Than fragrance from the blushing rose, Or from the violet meek. Upon the oak the mocking-bird Was singing loud and clear, But notes more musical to me Were falling on my ear; For from your noble heart you poured Love's low, yet thrilling tone, And every word your pure soul breathed Was answered by my own. How like a glorious rainbow, then, The future all appeared? No care or sorrow then we knew, No disappointment feared. The world's rude waves had not begun Across our path to sweep, We never--save from happiness-- Had cause to sigh or weep. But many weary years have passed Since that bright April eve, And you have learned since then to weep, And I have learned to grieve; And on thy brow, unfurrowed then, Time, and his sister, Care, Have set their wrinkled seal, and strewed Their silver in thy hair. Nor Time, nor Care, nor world's rude waves, Have had the power to chill The holy love which then we vowed, That is unclouded still; And until Death--the reaper--comes, It ne'er shall flow away-- Our tide of love which first began Upon that April day. HUMAN LONGINGS FOR PEACE AND REST. THERE are few whose idea of happiness does not include peace asessential. Most men have been so tempest-tossed, and not comforted, that they long for a closing of all excitements at last in peace. Hence the images of the haven receiving the shattered bark, of therural vale remote from the noise of towns, have always been dear tohuman fancy. Hence, too, the decline of life away from severe toil, rapid motion, and passionate action, has often a charm even beyondthe kindling enterprise of youth. The cold grave itself repels notaltogether, but somewhat allures the imagination. "How still and peaceful is the grave!" Especially has heaven risen to the religious mind in this complexionof tranquillity. It is generally conceived as free from alldisturbance, broken by not a sound save of harmonious anthems, which, like murmuring water, give deeper peace than could be foundin silence. But man so longs for rest and peace, that he not only sootheshimself with these images from afar, but hopes to foretaste theirsubstance. And what are his views to this end? He means to retirefrom business to some spot where he can calmly enjoy what he has invain panted for in the race of life. Perhaps he tries theexperiment, but finds himself restless still, and learns the greatlesson at last, that peace is not in the landscape, but only in thesoul; and the calm sky, the horizon's circle, the steady stars, areonly its language, not itself. Perhaps he seeks peace in his home. Everything there is made soft tothe feet; each chair and couch receives him softly; agreeablesounds, odours, viands, regale every sense: and illuminated chambersreplace for him at night the splendour of the sun. But here again heis at fault. Peace comes not to him thus, though all the apparatusseems at hand to produce it. Still he may be outshone by aneighbour; or high estate may draw down upon him envy and ill-will;or his senses themselves may refuse the proffered bliss, and achewith disease. Peace is not in outward comforts, which theconstitution sharply limits; which pass with time, or pall upon thetaste. The human mind is too great a thing to be pleased with mereblandishments. Man has a soul of vast desires; and the solemn truth will come homeirresistibly at times, even to the easy epicure. Something iswanting still. There is more of pain than peace in the remnants offeasting and the exhausted rounds of pleasure. Man has sometimes sought peace in yet another way. Abjuring allsensual delights, he has gone into the desert to scourge the body, to live on roots and water, and be absorbed in pious raptures; andoften has he thus succeeded, better than do the vulgar hunters ofpleasure. But unrest mingles even with the tranquillity thusobtained. His innocent, active powers resist this crucifixion. Thedistant world rolls to his ear the voices of suffering fellow-men;and even his devotions, all lonely, become selfish and unsatisfying. All men are seeking, in a way better or worse, this same peace andrest. Some seek it objectively in mere outward activity. They arenot unfrequently frivolous and ill-furnished within, seeking rest bytravelling, by running from place to place, from company to company, changing ever their sky but never themselves. Such persons, deeplyto be pitied, seek by dress to hide the nakedness of their souls, orby the gayety of their own prattle to chill the fire which burnsaway their hearts. The merriest faces may be sometimes seen inmourning coaches; and so, the most melancholy souls, pinched andpining, sometimes stare at you out of the midst of superficialsmiles and light laughter. Others seek rest in more adventurous action. Such are mariners, soldiers, merchants, speculators, politicians, travellers, impelledto adventurous life to relieve the aching void in their hearts. Thehazards of trade, the changes of political life, cause them toforget themselves, and so they are rocked into oblivion of internaldisquiet by the toss of the ocean waves. They forget the hollownessof their own hearts, and cheat themselves into the belief that theyare on their way to peace. Is peace, is rest, so longed for, then, never to be found? Yes! ithas been found, though perhaps but seldom, and somewhat imperfectly. That is a state of rest for the soul when all man's powers workharmoniously together, none conflicting with another, none hinderinganother. This rest is complete when every special power in man'snature is active, and works towards some noble end, free to act, yetacting entirely in harmony, each with all, and all with each. Thatis what may be called self-command, self-possession, tranquillity, peace, rest for the soul. It is not indifference, it is notsluggishness; it is not sleep: it is activity in its perfectcharacter and highest mode. Some few men seem born for this. Their powers are well-balanced. Butto most it comes only by labour and life-struggle. Most men, andabove all, most strong men, are so born and organized, that theyfeel the riddle of the world, and they have to struggle withthemselves. At first they are not well-balanced. One part of theirnature preponderates over another, and they are not in equilibrium. Like the troubled sea, they cannot rest. The lower powers andpropensities must be brought into subjection to the higher. All thepowers must be brought into harmony. This requires correct views oflife, knowledge of the truth, a strong will, a resolute purpose, ahigh idea, a mind that learns by experience to correct its wrongs. Thus he acquires the mastery over himself, and his passions becomehis servants, which were formerly masters. Reason prevails overfeeling, and duty over impulse. If he has lost a friend, he does notmourn inconsolably, nor seek to forget that friend. He turns histhoughts more frequently to where that friend has gone, and so hegoes on until it becomes to him a loss no longer, but rather again--a son, daughter, brother, or wife, immortal in the kingdom ofGod, rather than mortal and perishing on earth. Gradually heacquires a perfect command of himself, an equilibrium of all hisactive powers, and so is at rest. What is more beautiful in the earthly life of Jesus, than this manlyharmony, equipoise, and rest? He enjoyed peace, and promised it toHis friends. And this peace of His, He did not for others postponeto a distant day, or shut up altogether in a future Heaven, but leftit to His disciples on earth. What, then, was His peace? His peace was not inactivity. They must mistake who give a materialsense to the images of Heaven as a state of rest. If Christ's liferepresented Heaven, its peace is not slothful ease, but intenseexertion. How He laboured in word and deed of virtue! He walked incoarse raiment from town to town, from city to city, from thedessert to the waves of the sea. His ministry was toil from the dayof His baptism to the scene upon Calvary. And yet His life waspeace. He expressed no wish to retire to an unoccupied ease. Hisabsorption in duty was His joy. He was so peaceful because soengaged. His labours were the elements of His divine tranquillity. And so active and earnest must we be, if we would have calmness andpeace. An appeal may here be made to every one's experience. Everyone will confess that when he had least to do, when mornings cameand went, and suns circled, and seasons rolled, and brought noserious business, then time was a burthen; existence a weariness;and the hungry soul, which craves some outward satisfaction, wasfound fallen back upon itself and preying upon its own vitality. Arenot the idlest of men proverbially the most miserable? And is notthe young woman often to be seen passing restless from place toplace, because exempt from the necessity of industry, till vanityand envy, growing rank in her vacant mind, makes her far more anobject of compassion than those who work hardest for a living? Theunemployed, then, are not the most peaceful. The labourer has adeeper peace than any idler ever knew. His toils make his shortpauses refreshing. Were those pauses prolonged they would be invadedby a miserable ennui. Perfect peace will be found here or hereafter, not when we sink down into torpor, but only when the soul is wroughtinto high action for high ends. Another element of the peace of Jesus was His sinlessness. And allhuman experience testifies that nothing has so much disturbedtranquillity as conscious guilt, or the memory of wrong-doing. Peaceis forfeited by every transgression. Angry words, envious looks, unkind and selfish deeds, will all prevent peace from visiting ourhearts. We have noticed already another element of peace--mental and moralharmony. There is a spiritual proportion when every power does itswork, every feeling fills its measure, and all make a common currentto bear the soul along to ever new peace and joy. Our inwarddiscords are the woes of life. The peaceful heart is quiet, notbecause inactive, but through intense harmonious working. The cravings of the human heart for peace and rest must seeksatisfaction in the ways indicated, or fail of satisfaction. Theremust be activity, abstinence from guilt, and moral harmony. Thusalone can we receive the peace which Jesus said He would leave toHis true followers. "BE STRONG. " IN the flush, and the rush, and the crush of Life's battle, When the stern blow of Right dashes loud on steeled Wrong, Half-drowning the voice of the babe's holy prattle, Remember the watchword--the motto--"Be strong!" When the clouds of the past gather brooding above thee, And gloam o'er thy pillow the aching night long, Remember who never for once failed to love thee, And in deepest of loneliness thou wilt _be strong_! When the rays of the morning seem slow in their beaming, Overpowered the firm Right--most tremendous bold Wrong, Let not thy Thought's eye grow the dimmer for streaming, Pour thy tears in Faith's bosom--thou yet wilt BE STRONG. THE NEGLECTED ONE. "I never was a favourite; My mother never smiled On me with half the tenderness That blessed her fairer child. " "CHRISTINE, do be obliging for once, and sew this button on myglove, won't you?" cried Ann Lambert, impatiently, throwing a whitekid glove in her sister's lap. "I am in such a flurry! I won't beready to go to the concert in two or three hours. Mr. Darcet hasbeen waiting in the parlour an age. I don't know what the reason is, but I never can find anything I want, when I look for it; whenever Idon't want a thing, it is always in the way. Have you sewed it onyet?" she asked, looking around from the bureau, where she wasturning everything topsy turvy, in the most vigorous manner. Christine was quietly looking out of the window, yawning and gazinglistlessly up at the moon and stars. "O no matter if you have no button on, " was her reply; "I reallydon't feel like moving my fingers just now. You must wait onyourself. I always do. " "I shouldn't have expected anything but your usual idle selfishness, even when I most need your assistance, " replied Ann, in a cool, bitter tone; the curve of her beautiful lip, and the calm scorn ofthe look she bent on Christine, betrayed her haughty, passionatecharacter, and it also told that she was conscious of a certainpower and strength of mind, which when roused, could and would bendothers to her will. A slight, contemptuous smile was on her lip, asshe picked up the glove which had fallen on the floor. "I'll sew the button on, Ann, " said Christine, taking it from her, and looking up seriously, but with a compressed expression about herface. Her cheeks burned; there was a reproof in her steady gaze, before which Ann's scornful smile vanished. "No, Christine, I willwait on myself, " she answered in a rigid tone. "Very well, " and Christine turned to the window again. She had notquailed before her sister's look, but its bitter contempt rankled inher heart, and poisoned the current of her thoughts. Not a word wasspoken, when Ann with her bonnet on, left their apartment. The frontdoor closed; Christine listened to the sound of her sister's voicein the street a moment, then rose from her chair, and threw herselfupon the bed, sobbing violently. "Oh! why has God made me as I am?" she murmured. "No one loves me. They do not know me; they know how bad I am--but, oh! they neverdream how often I weep, and pray for the affection that is deniedme. How Ann is caressed by everybody, and how indifferently am Igreeted! There is no one in the wide world who takes a deep interestin me. I am only secondary with father and mother; they are so proudof Ann's beauty and talent, they do not think to see whether I ampossessed of talent or not. They think I am cold and heartless, because they have taught me to restrain my warmest feelings; theyhave turned me back upon myself, they have forced me to shut up inmy own heart, its bitterness, its prayers for affection, its pride, its sorrow. They have made me selfish, disobliging, anddisagreeable, because I am too proud to act as if I would beg thelove they are so careless of bestowing. And yet, why am I so proudand so bitter? I was not so at school; then I was gentle and gay;then I too was a favourite; they called me amiable. I am not so now. Then I dwelt in an atmosphere of love, only the best impulses of mynature were called out. Now--oh! I did not know I could so change; Idid not know that there was room in my heart for envy and jealousy. I did not know myself!" Christine wept, until her head ached, and her forehead felt as if itwas swelled almost to bursting. "After a storm, there comes a calm, "is a truism well known. In about half an hour, she was sleepingprofoundly, from mere exhaustion of feeling. But her face was pale, and sad to look upon, even in her sleep. When Ann returned home, at a late hour, she glanced hastily at thebed, to see if she had retired, and was sleeping. More than onceduring the evening her heart had reproached her for the part she hadacted. With a noiseless step she approached Christine, and bent overher. The tear-drop upon her pale cheek, revealed the unconsciousgirl to her in a new character. How her conscience smote her, forthe grief upon that countenance, now so subdued by the spirit ofsleep! Its meek sadness and tenderness stirred in her bosom feelingsshe had seldom experienced. She felt and understood better than everbefore, her sister's proud reserve with herself, as well as everyone else. She kissed away the tear, and knelt at the bedside inprayer, a thing she had not done for years. A flood of tender andself-reproachful feelings came over her; the spring was touched, andshe wept aloud. Christine started up, and murmured a few brokensentences, before she was fully conscious of the meaning of thescene. "What is the matter, Ann, are you crying?" she at length asked, asher sister lifted up her face. Ann arose from her knees; shehesitated, she felt as if she could throw herself into Christine'sarms, and weep freely as she asked forgiveness for her conduct. Shefelt that she would be affectionately pardoned. And yet she stoodsilent; her heart brimming with tenderness all the while--somethingheld her back; a something that too often chills a pure impulse, agush of holy feeling. It was pride. She could not bring herself tospeak words of penitence and humility. But she did not turn awayfrom the anxious gaze riveted upon her; she drooped her eyes, andthe tears rolled slowly down her face. "Oh, Ann, dear Ann, this does not seem like you!" said Christine, tenderly approaching her. "I am your sister; if you have any sorrow, why may I not sympathize with you? How can _you_ be sorrowful? younever meet with neglect, and--" the young girl paused hastily, witha suddenly flushed face; she had inadvertently betrayed what she hadpreviously so carefully concealed under the mask of callousindifference--she had shown that she felt keenly her own position, and that of her sister as a favourite. Ann was proud of herintellect and fascinating beauty; she was selfishly fond ofadmiration. She knew that her sister was really as gifted asherself, if not more so; she had heard her converse at times, whenher cheek glowed, and her eye kindled with enthusiasm. She had seenher, very rarely, but still she had seen her, when _expression_ hadlit up her face with a positive beauty--when the soul, the life ofbeauty beamed forth, and went to the heart with a thrill thatacknowledged its power. She knew that she would have been brilliantand fascinating, if she had not been repressed; with all her faults, there was a more feminine yieldingness about her, than aboutherself. There was an affectionate pathos in her voice, a tendergrace in her air, when she asked to sympathize in her sorrow. Annfelt for the first time fully, that she was one to love, and bebeloved in the social circle. She felt that she had been mostungenerous to absorb all the attention of her friends, instead ofbringing forward the reserved, sensitive Christine. The sisters hadnever been much together; they had never made confidants of eachother;--Ann was the eldest, and all in all with her parents, whileChristine was a sort of appendage. Ann felt the unintentionalreproach conveyed in her last words; she marked how quickly shestopped, and seemed to retire within herself again; she scanned herface closely, and generous feelings triumphed. "Dear Christine!" she said in a low voice, passing her arm aroundher. "We have never been to each other what sisters ought to be. Ihave been too thoughtless and careless; I have not remembered as Ishould have done, that you returned from school, a stranger to themajority of our friends and acquaintances. You are so reserved, evenhere at home; you never talk and laugh with father and mother as Ido. " "Do you know why I appear cold, Ann? I am not so by nature. They donot seem to care when I speak, and I am not yet humble enough tohave what I say treated with perfect indifference. " "Why, Christine, you are too sensitive, " said Ann, half impatiently. "Be as noisy and lively as I am; entertain father, and say what willplease mother; then you will be as great a pet as I. " "Even if I should value love, based upon my powers of pleasing, instead of the intrinsic worth of my character, I could not gain it, Ann. I came home, after my long absence, as merry and light-hearted, as full of hope, of love towards you all, as ever a happy schoolgirldid. Then I was seventeen; it seems as if long years had elapsedsince the day I sprang into your arms so joyfully--since father andmother kissed me. Home, sweet home, how musical those words were tome! how often I had dreamed of nestling at father's side, your handlocked in mine, and mother's smile upon us both. It was not longbefore I was awakened from the dream I had cherished so long. Ithought my heart would break when the reality that I was unloved, came upon me. Then I learned how deep were the fountains oftenderness within me. My heart overflowed with an intense desire foraffection, when I saw that I did not possess it. Oh! how often Ilooked upon mother's face, unobserved, and felt that my love for herwas but a wasted shower. At that time of bitterness, how sad was therevelation that came up from the very depths of my soul, teaching mea truth fraught with suffering--that affection is life itself! Ifelt that it was my destiny never to be cheered by its blessed lightand warmth. Months passed away, and I closed up my heart; acoldness, a stoic apathy came over me, which was sometimes broken bya slight thing; the flood-gates of feeling gave way, and I wept witha passionate sorrow--over my own sinfulness--over my own lonelyheart, without one joy to shed a glow on its rude desolation. Oh!then, when I was softened, when I could pray, and feel that the Lordlistened to me, I would have been a different being, if mother'shand had been laid fondly upon my head, if her eyes had filled withtears, and I could have leaned upon her bosom and wept. But I wasunloved, and my heart grew hard again. " "Don't say that you are unloved, " interrupted Ann, pressingChristine to her heart, and sobbing with an abandonment of feeling. "Forgive me, dear, dear sister! my heart shall be your home--we willlove each other always; I will never again be as I have been. Don'tweep so, Christine, can't you believe me? I am selfish, I amheartless sometimes, but a change has come over me to-night; to_you_ I can never be heartless again!" At that moment, few would have recognised the haughty Miss Lambertin the tearful girl, whose head drooped on Christine's shoulder, while her white hand was clasped and held in meek affection to herlips. If we could read the private history of many an apparentlycold, heartless being, we would be more charitable in our opinionsof others. We would see that there are times when the betterfeelings, which God has given as a pure inheritance, are touched. Wewould see the inner life from Him, flowing down from its home in thehidden recesses of the soul, breaking and scattering the clouds ofevil, which had impeded its descent--we would see the hard heartmelted, though perhaps briefly, beneath angel influences. We wouldsee that all alike are the beloved creations of the Almighty's hand, and we would weep over ourselves, as well as others, to feel howseldom we yield to the voice that would ever lead us aright. AnnLambert, as her heart overflowed with pure affection, thoughtsincerely that no selfish action of hers should ever saddenChristine. She felt that she was unworthy, that she had been crueland selfish, but she imagined her strong emotions of repentance haduprooted the evils, which had only been shaken. Christine dried her tears, and looked earnestly and inquiringly inher sister's face, as if she suspected there was some hidden sorrowwith which she was unacquainted. Ann answered her look by saying, "You wonder what I was weeping for, when you awoke, Christine. I hadmet with no sorrow; but when I looked at you, the course of conductI had pursued towards you came up before me vividly: I felt howunsisterly I had been--" "Say nothing about it, " interrupted Christine, with delicategenerosity, "let the past be forgotten, the future shall be allbrightness, dearest Ann. We will pour out our hearts to each other, and each will strengthen the other in better purposes. I am nolonger alone, you love me and I am happy. " That night, the dreams of the sisters were pure and peaceful. Onehappy week passed away with Christine; Ann was affectionate andgentle, and only went out when accompanied by her. They wereinseparable; they read, wrote, studied, and sewed together. For thetime, Ann seemed to have laid aside her usual character; she yieldedto her purest feelings; no incident had yet occurred to mar hertranquillity. One evening, when she was reading aloud to Christinein their own apartment, a servant girl threw open the door andexclaimed, "Miss Ann, there are two gentlemen waiting in the parlour to seeyou; Mr. Darcet and Mr. Burns!" "Very well, " replied Ann, rising, and giving the book to Christine;but she took it away in the instant, and said, "Come, Crissy, go down with me!" "Oh, no matter, " replied her sister, "I am not acquainted with them, and I would rather stay up here, and read. Mother will be in theparlour. " "Suit yourself, " returned Ann, half carelessly, as she smoothed herhair. "When you get tired of reading, come down. " "I'll see about it, " said Christine, as the door closed. Ann looked beautiful indeed, as she entered the parlour, herfeatures lit up with a smile of graceful welcome. After a littleeasy trifling, the conversation turned upon subjects which she knewChristine would be interested in. Under a kind impulse, she left theroom, and hastened to her. "Come down into the parlour, Christine, " she exclaimed, laying herhand affectionately upon her shoulder, as she approached. "Mr. Darcet is telling about his travels in Europe, and I am sure youwill be interested. There (sic) isn o need of your being sounsociable. Come, dear!" Christine raised her face with an eloquent smile; she went with Annwithout speaking, but her heart was filled with a sweet happiness, from this proof of thoughtful affection. When she was introduced toAnn's friends, there was a most lovely expression on her face, breathing forth from a pure joyfulness within. "I was not aware that you had a sister, Miss Lambert, " said Mr. Darcet, turning to Ann, when they were quietly seated after a briefadmiring gaze at Christine. "Perhaps I have been too much of a recluse, " replied Christinequickly, in order to relieve the embarrassment of Ann, which wasmanifested by a deep blush. "I have yielded to sister Ann'spersuasions this time to be a little sociable, and I think I shallmake this a beginning of sociabilities. " "I hope so, " returned Darcet; "do you think being much secluded, hasa beneficial effect upon the mind and feelings?" "I do not, " was the young girl's brief answer. The colour came toher cheek, and a painful expression crossed her brow, an instant. "But sometimes--" the sentence was left unfinished. Darcet'scuriosity was awakened by the sudden quiver of Christine's lip, andforgetful of what he was about, he perused her countenance longer, and more eagerly, than was perfectly polite or delicate. She felthis scrutiny, and was vexed with her tell-tale face. There was asilence which Mrs. Lambert interrupted by saying, with a smile, "We should like to hear more of your adventures, Mr. Darcet, if itis agreeable to you. " "Oh! certainly!" he replied. And he whiled an hour quickly away. Annwas then urged to play and sing, which she did, but there was alittle haughtiness mingled with her usual grace. "Don't you sing, Miss Christine?" asked Darcet, leaving the piano, and approaching the window where she sat, listening attentively toAnn. "I do sometimes, " answered Christine, smiling, "but Ann sings farbetter. " "Let others judge of that. Isn't that fair?" "We often err in thinking we do better than other people, but Ithink we generally hit the truth, when we discover that in somethings, at least, we are not quite as perfect as others. " "Certainly, but it is the custom to speak of ourselves, as if wewere inferior to those whom we really regard as beneath us in manyrespects. There is no true humility in that; we depart from thetruth. " "Custom sanctions many falsehoods; to speak the truth always, wouldmake us many enemies. But we might better have them, than tocontradict the truth; what do you think?" Christine looked up withan earnest seriousness. "Truth, and truth alone, should govern us in every situation, letthe consequences be what they may, " said Darcet, in a tone thatsounded almost stern; then more gently he added, "Before all thingsI prize a frank spirit; for heaven may be reflected there. With all, this upright candour must in a measure be acquired. Yet, I thinkfrankness to our own souls is acquired with far more labour. Weshrink from a severe scrutiny into our tangled motives. " "And when these motives are forced upon our notice, we endeavour topalliate and excuse them. I am sure it is so, " exclaimed Christineearnestly, for her own young heart's history came up before her, andshe remembered that she had excused herself for acting and feelingwrong, on the plea that others had not done right, by her. "But"--she continued after a pause, "you cannot think it is wellalways to express the sentiments which circumstances may give riseto. Such a course might prevent us from doing a great deal of good. " "Certainly it might. The end in view should be regarded. Good sense, and a pure heart, will show us the best way in most cases. " There is a power deep and silent, exerted by good persons; thefolded blossoms of the heart slowly open in their presence, and arerefreshed. A new impulse, a pure aspiration for a higher life, ayearning after the perfecting of our nature, may be sown as a seedin hearts that are young in the work of self-conquest. Thus it waswith Christine. The influence of Darcet strengthened all that wasgood within her; and as they remained long engaged in deep andearnest conversation, the elevation and purity of his sentimentsgave clearness and strength to ideas that had been obscure to herbefore, because unexpressed. Her peculiar situation had made her farmore thoughtful than many of her years. She thought she had lost thegay buoyancy of her childhood, but she was mistaken. She was one toprofit by lessons that pressed down the bounding lightness of herspirit; she was yet to learn that she could grow young in gladfeelings, as years rolled over her head. There was a subdued joy inher heart, that was new to her, and gave a sweetness to her manner, as she poured forth the guileless thoughts that first rose to herlips. It seemed strange to meet with the ardent sympathy whichDarcet manifested by every look of his intelligent face; she couldscarcely realize that it was herself, that anybody really feltinterested in the thoughts and imaginings that had clustered aroundher solitary hours. At parting, he said with warm interest, as heslightly pressed her hand, "I hope, Miss Christine, we may have manyconversations on the subjects we have touched upon to-night. " "Oh! I hope so, " replied Christine, with a frank, bright smile. After the gentlemen had gone, Christine threw her arm around hersister, and said gayly, "Hav'n't we had a pleasant evening, Ann, mydear?" "Pleasant enough, " said Ann, trying to yawn, "but I felt ratherstupid, as I often do. " "Stupid! Is it possible?" exclaimed the astonished girl. "You weretalking with Mr. Burns; well, he didn't look as if he would ever setthe North River afire with his energies, it is true. " Ann smiled very slightly, then rather pettishly disengaged herselffrom the detaining hand of Christine, and taking a light, retiredwithout saying anything, but a brief good-night to her mother. Christine soon followed, wondering what made Ann so mute and sharpin her actions. "Why, Ann, are you angry with me?" she asked, goingup to her, as soon as she entered the apartment. "I don't know what I should be angry for, " was the impatient reply. "Can't a person be a little short when sleepy, without beingtormented with questions about it?" "Oh, yes, I won't trouble you any more. " And making due allowancefor Ann's quick temper, Christine occupied herself good-humouredlywith her own thoughts. The secret of Ann's shortness and sleepinesslay here. Her vanity was wounded to think, that Christine was moreinteresting than her own beautiful self. "Well, he is a sort of a puritan, and now I begin to understandChristine, better, I think she is too, " thought Ann, after she hadmused her irritation away a little. "He is very polite andagreeable, and it was very pleasant to have him always ready to takeme out when I wanted to go, but I never felt perfectly easy in hiscompany; I was always afraid I might say something dreadful;something that would shock his wonderful goodness. But Christineseemed perfectly at home. How bright and lovely she looked! I willnot allow evil thoughts to triumph over me. I will not be vexedsimply because she eclipsed me, where no one ever did before. She isa dear, affectionate girl, and I made a vow before God to love heralways, never to be to her as I was once. " A fervent prayer brought back to Ann all her former tranquillity, and she pressed a kiss upon Christine's forehead, full of repentantaffection. Just before she went to sleep, she thought to herself, "Well, if I may trust my woman's perception, Darcet will beexclaiming, after he has seen Christine a few times more, "Oh! love, young love, bound in thy rosy bands. " Ann's perception proved correct. About a year after thesecogitations, Christine became Mrs. Darcet. The sisters were muchchanged, but Christine the most so. There was a child-likesimplicity and sweetness beaming from her young face, which Annneeded. Yet had much haughtiness faded from the brow of thatbeautiful girl; she had grown better; but as yet her heart had notbeen schooled in suffering as Christine's had. There was deepaffection in the warm tears that fell upon the bride's cheek, aspoor Ann felt that she had indeed gone to bless another with hertender goodness. Christine's warm heart grew yet more sunny in herown happy little home, and her feelings more open and expansive, beneath the genial influence of friendly eyes. THE HOURS OF LIFE. TWILIGHT. --The dewy morning of childhood has passed, and the noon ofyouth has gone, and the gloom of twilight is gathering over myspirit. Alas! alas! how my heart sinks in a wan despair! One by onemy hopes have died out, have faded like the gleams of sunshine thathave just vanished beneath the grove of trees. Hopes! Ah, such warm, bright, beautiful, loving hopes! But, methinks, than lived upon theearth, unlike the gleaming rays of sunshine that are fed fromheaven. The earth's darkness dims not their glory; pure and radiantthey shine behind the black shadow. But human hopes are earth-born;they spring from the earth, like the flitting light of night, andlead us into bogs and quagmires. Yet it is beautiful to realize that we have had hopes; they are thepast light of the soul, and their glow yet lingers in this gloomytwilight, reminding one that there has been a sunny day, andmemories of things pleasant and joyous mingle with the presentloneliness and cheerless desolation. Words, that excited hopes, that awoke thrilling emotions, linger onthe listening ear. But, ah! the heart grows very sad, when the earlistens in vain, and the yearning, unsatisfied spirit realizes thatthe words, so loved, so fondly dwelt upon, were but words, empty, vain words. But, to have believed them, was a fleeting blindness. They served for food to the yearning heart, when they were given, and shall the traveller through the desolate wilderness look backwith scorn upon the bread and water that once satisfied his hungerand thirst, even though it is now withheld? No--let him be thankfulfor the past; otherwise, the keen biting hunger, the thirsty anguishof the soul, will have a bitterness and a gall in it, that willcorrode his whole being. Ah! what is this being? if one could butunderstand one's own existence, what a relief it would be; but tounderstand nothing--alas! Life is a weary burden. I feel weighed down with it, and I do notknow what is in the pack that bows me so wearily to the earth. I doknow that in it are agonized feelings, bitter disappointments, and adesolation of the heart. But there is a something else in it; for, now and then, come vague, vast perceptions of a dim future; but Ishut my eyes. I cannot look beyond the earth. I could have beensatisfied here with a very little; a little of human love would havemade me so happy. Yes, I would never have dreamed of an unknownheaven. Heaven! What is heaven? I remember when I was a littlechild, lying on my bed in the early morning twilight (ah! that was atwilight, unlike this, which is sinking into a black night, for thatwas ushering in the beautiful golden day), but it was twilight whenI looked through the uncurtained window; and through theintertwining branches of a noble tree I saw the far, dim, mistysky--and I wondered, in my childish way, "if heaven is like that;"and all at once it seemed to me that the dim, distant sky opened, and my dead mother's face looked out upon me so beautifully, I didnot know her, for she died when I was an unconscious infant, and yetI did know her. Yes, that beautiful face was my mother's, and myheart was full of delight. That my mother could see me, and love me, from the far heavens, was like a revelation to me. And often, onother mornings, I awakened and looked through the very same branchesof the tree, out into the far sky, and thought to see my mother'sface shining through the window and watching over her lonely, sleeping child. But my fancy never again conjured up the vision. Fancy! What is fancy? If one could but understand, could grasp thephantom and mystery of life! And above all, if one could butunderstand what heaven is! When I was a child, heaven was to me a peopled place, a wonderfulreality; and I remember a dream that I had--what a strange dream itwas! For I went to heaven, and I saw a shining One, sitting on athrone, and many beautiful ones were standing and seated around thethrone, and my father and mother were there; and they had crowns ontheir heads, and held each other by the hand, and looked down uponme so lovingly. I knew that it was my father, because my mother heldhim by the hand, though my father died the day I was born, and Istood before them in the great light of a Heavenly Presence, as sucha poor little earth-child, but I was happy, inexpressibly happy, only they did not touch me; but I was not fit to be touched by suchsoft, shining hands. And what was yet a greater joy than ever to seemy unknown father and mother on the other side of the throne, I sawmy brother, my dear, gentle, beautiful little brother, who, sevenyears older than I, had loved and played with me on the earth. Hewas clothed in white garments, and was grown from a child to ayouth, and was so full of a noble and beautiful grace. He smiledupon me; he did not speak; none spoke. All was so still, and serene, and bright, and beautiful. Next morning I awoke as if yet in mydream, so vivid was the whole scene before me. I could have dancedand sung all day, "I have seen my father and mother and brother inthe heavenly courts. " But what are dreams? Yet, it is wonderful to go back to the dreams and thoughts ofchildhood; they are so distinct; such living realities. I oftenremember a speech I made in those far childish days. I was lying inbed with a friend in the early gray morning. All at once I startedup and said--"Oh, how I wish I had lived in the days when Jesuslived upon the earth!" I was asked why? And I replied, "Because I could have loved Him; Iwould have followed as those women followed Him; I would have kissedthe hem of His garment. " A laugh checked the further flow of my talk; but I lay down again, and then my thoughts wandered off to the mountains of Judea, and Isaw a Divine Man walking over the hills and valleys, and womenfollowing Him. In those days I knew two passages in the Bible, andthat was all that I knew of it, for I never read it. But I learnedat Sunday school, Christ's Sermon on the Mount, and the first fiveverses of the first chapter of John. And I remember how confused Ialways was over the WORD, for some told me it meant "_Logos_. " What was "_Logos_?" I could never fathom it. Now I know what"_Logos_" means. And yet the mystery is not fathomed. Well, let thatgo. I could never understand the Bible. However, in those days itwas something holy and sacred to me; because the Bible that I ownedbelonged to my dear father, and I often kissed it, and loved theBook dearly, but I could not read it by myself. But I did readoccasionally in the Bible, to an old woman; she lived on the way tothe village school, in a dilapidated, deserted country store; sheoccupied the little back room, in which was a fire-place, and I waspermitted to take a flask of milk to her every day, as I passed toschool; and with what a glad heart I always hurried off in themorning, that I might gather broken brush-wood and dried sticks, forher to kindle her fire with. Charitable people sent her wood, but itwas wet and hard to kindle, and the poor old woman, with her bentback, would go out and painfully gather the dried sticks that layaround her desolate home; but when I came, she would take my bookand dinner-basket into her house, and leave me the delight ofgathering the sticks. Ah! I was happy then--when I knelt on the rudehearth and blew with my mouth instead of a bellows, the smoking, smouldering wood into a blaze, and heard the loving words that thegood old woman lavished upon me. She loved me--but not as much as Iloved her. She was my peculiar treasure--something for me to livefor, and think of. I always left my dinner with her, and at noonreturned to eat it with her; though I would feel almost ashamed tospread out the cold meat and bread before her, she looked so muchlike a lady. But she always asked a blessing; that was what I never did, and itgave me an awe-stricken feeling, and my meal would have something ofa solemn and tender interest--what with the blessing, and the oldwoman's love for me, and mine for her--and we ate it in a solemn andgloomy room, for there was no table in the little back room, so weused the counter of the old store; and the empty shelves and theclosed doors and shutters, with only the light from the back-door, made me often look around shudderingly into the gloom and obscurityof dark corners--for I abounded in superstitious terrors, and Ipitied the poor, lonely old woman for living in such a home morethan I ever pitied the cold and hunger she endured. Often when our dinner was over, I read aloud to her in the Bible. She could read it herself. But perhaps she liked to hear the soundof a childish voice, and perhaps she thought that she was doing megood. Did she do me good? heigho!--at all events, she left abeautiful memory to gild this dark twilight that grows upon my soul. But the loving, trusting childhood is gone, and why do I dwell uponit? Why does its sensitive life yet move and stir in my memory? Hasit aught to do with the cold, dark present? The Present! Alas! whata contrast it is to that childish faith! I almost wish that I couldnow believe as I did then. But no. _Reason_ has dissipated thevisions and dreams and superstitions of childhood. It has madeunreal to me that which was most real. In its cold, chilling light, I have looked into the world of tangible facts and possiblerealities. Ah! this cold, cold light, how much of beauty and love it hascongealed! It has fallen like a mantle of snow over the warm, livinglife of the earth; and blooming flowers, that sent up odours on thesoft air, have crumbled to dust, and bright summer waters thatreflected the heavens in their blue depths, and glittered in thelight of stars and moon and sun, have now been congealed into solid, dull opaque masses, which yield not to the tread of man. Alas! nobird of beauty dips its wing in these dead waters, and plumes itselffor an aerial flight of love and joy. But the cold contractionchains down all the freer, beautiful life, into a hopeless, chillinginanity. MIDNIGHT. --The gloom has gathered into a darkness that may be felt;and seeing nothing, I would stretch forth my hands to feel if thereis anything within my mind to stay my soul upon. But, alas! in adeep sorrow, how little do mental acquisitions avail! All thebeautiful systems and theories that delighted my intelligence, andfilled my thought in my noon of hope and life, have sunk intodarkness. How is this? Sometimes I think that all light comesthrough the heart into the mind; and when love is quenched, behold, there is only darkness; the beauty and life and joy are gone. Ah, woe is me! Have I nothing left?--no internal resources--no wealth ofknowledge, with which to minister to this poverty of hope and life?It cannot be that all past efforts, all struggles and self-sacrifices, to attain this coveted and natural knowledge, were useless, vainmockeries. I thought I should live by this knowledge; that when theouter life palled upon me, I could then retire within my own beingto boundless stores of riches and beauty. Well--this time has come, and what do I find? Truly it is no Aladdin-palace, glittering withgold and gems. It is more like a cavernous depth, stored withrubbish, and from its dark deeps comes up an earthy odour, that almostsuffocates my spirit. But this is my all, and I must descend from thelife of the heart to the life of the mind, and scan my unsatisfactorypossessions. Well, here is a world of childish, school-day lumber. Once it was agreat delight to me to learn that the world was round, and notsquare; but I cannot see that a knowledge of that fact affords meany great satisfaction now, for it has shaped itself to me as anacute angle. And the earth's surface! how I used to glow with theexcitement of the bare thought of Rome! and Athens! andConstantinople! and their thrilling histories and wonders of art, and beauties of nature, seemed to me an indefinite world ofunattainable delight and ecstasy. But now, I have lived in all theseplaces, and the light and glory have gone. They have fallen withinthe freezing light of reason. They are no longer like beautifuldreams to me. They are squared down into fixed, unalterable facts. Icannot gild them with any light of fancy; and I cannot extract fromthem anything like the delight of my childhood. So I will turn fromthese fixed facts and look out for those philosophical theories, that gave me a later delight, as more interior mental pleasure. Well, when I first broke through the shackles of the old childishfaith, Percy Bysshe Shelley was my high-priest. Through him Ithought I had come into a beautiful light of nature, vague, shadowy, and grand, filling vast conceptions of the indefinite. He discardedthe God of the Hebrews, who was fashioned after their own narrow, revengeful passions; a Being of wrath and war. And a broodingspirit, an indefinite indwelling life of nature, was a newrevelation to me. I grew mystical and sublime and sentimental, inthis new mental perception. But I wearied of that. I could not walkon stilts always, and I descended to the earth and read Voltaire, and laughed and sneered at all the old forms and superstitions ofman. But this does not afford me any enjoyment now--the unhappy donot feel like laughing at a ribald wit; but, alas! this rubbish isstored here, and here I must live with it. It blackened and blurredthe pictures of the angels, that adorned my childish memories. Itwiped out all heavenly visions, and left only the earthly life. But the human heart cannot live without a God; and I tried hard tomake one, for myself, through German pantheism. But I turn thisrubbish over disconsolately, for it is a material God, and does notrespond to one spiritual nature. It seems rather to react againstit. Alas! alas! I sink down into a Cimmerian darkness here; it seemsas if the Stygian pools of blackness had closed over me, and a cryof anguish goes forth from my inmost soul, piercing the dark depthsto learn what is spirit? and what is God? What manner of existenceor unity of Being is He? Who is He? Where is He? And how can Iattain to a knowledge of Him? But through the echoing halls of mydark mind, there is only a wailing sound of woe, of misery, ofdisappointment, of a yearning anguish of spirit for a somethinghigher and better than I have ever yet conceived of or known. But there is yet more of this mental rubbish. Ah! here is a wholechapter of stuff--and I once thought it was so wise. I called it the"progressive chain of being, " and wove it out of the Pythagoreanphilosophy. I said man's nature begins from the lowest, and ascendsto the highest. _Nature_ gives the impulse to life; and the flowerthat blooms in South America may die, and its inner spirit mayclothe itself in a donkey born in Greece! and so it goes ontransfusing itself from clime to clime, in ever new and higherforms, until man is developed. Well, was there ever such stuffconcocted before? I almost hear the bray of that donkey, whooriginated in a flower. And pray, most sapient self! what is nature?It seems _now_, to me, a _form_, a mere dead incubus of matter. Andcould this inert tangible matter, sublimate in its hard, dead bosom, an essence so subtle, as to be freer of the bonds of time and space?At such a preposterous suggestion even a donkey might bow his earswith shame. So I will hand this "progressive chain of being" over toa deeper darkness, and pass on. Lo! here lie the statues of broken gods, headless divinities. Itried to believe in Greek mythology; to fancy that the world hadgone backwards, and that there were spirits of the earth and air, that took part in the life of man. But these were poetic visionsthat shifted and waved with every fleeting fancy. But _now_ thiswould be a pleasant faith. What if I _could_ appeal to an invisible, higher spiritual being, who sympathized with my nature, to lead meout of this darkness of ignorance into a true world of light, oftruth, of definite knowledge, concerning life and its origin;concerning God and His nature? If I were only an old Greek, how Iwould pray to Minerva for help, and call upon Hercules to removethis Augean dirt, that pollutes and lumbers all the chambers of mymind! But when the old Greeks called, were they answered? Ah, thereis nothing to hope for! Yet Socrates believed in these spiritual existences; he ordered acock to be sacrificed to Esculapius as he was drinking the hemlock. To him, they were not mere poetic creations; he believed to the lastthat he was guided and guarded by his demon. What if we all are?What if even now, in this midnight darkness, stands a beautifulbeing, veiled by my ignorance, who loves me, from a world of light;sees the tangled web of my thoughts, and would draw it out intoform, and order, and beauty? If such there be, oh, bright andbeautiful one! pity me, love me, and enlighten me. Alas, no!--all isyet dark. What would a being revelling in light and beauty, have todo with this poor, faded life of mine? Alas! that was a fleetinghope, that, like a pale, flickering ray, gilded the darkness for amoment. But, here is a something which gives somewhat of joy and life to themind. It is a beautiful thought of Plato, that there is a greatcentral sun in the universe, around which all other suns revolve. What if this be an inner sun, which is the fountain of spirituallife? That is something to believe. Yet the thought sinks appalledfrom it. The heart desires a God that it may love, and trust in, that it may speak to and be heard; and if the fountain of life beonly a sun, what is there to love in it? True, we rejoice in thelight and beauty of the sun that upholds _this_ world in its place;but what is this enjoyment compared to the bliss of human love? Aman--a living, breathing, loving man--is the perfection ofexistence; and one could be happy with a perfect man, if all thesuns in the universe were blotted out. A MAN! what is he, in hisessential attributes? What is it that gives a delight in him? Ah! Iam full of ideal visions--for in all history I find not one man thataltogether fills my vision of what a man should be. From theAlexanders and Caesars I turn with loathing--their fierce, rude, outre life, their selfish, grasping ambition, suggest to me thevision of snarling wild beasts, battling over the torn andpalpitating limbs of nations. These men could never have touched mysoul; they could never have dispelled the darkness of my mind; theycould not be friends. But was there ever a man that could haveanswered the questions for the solution of which my spirit yearns?Plato was beautiful; around him was a pure, intellectual light. But, after all, he _knew_ very little; his writings are mostlysuggestive. But suppose here was a man who could reveal all thehidden things of life? How sudden would be the delight of learningof him, of communing with his spirit? And what if he knew, not onlyeverything relating to this world, and my own intellectual being, but could tell me of all the universe, of all the after life? Oh!what a joy such a man would be to me! How would this midnightdarkness melt into the clearest and most beautiful day! But did such an one ever exist? Why is it that now comes over me thevision of my childhood, of the Divine Man walking over the hills ofJudea? Oh, Christ! who wert Thou? My thought goes forth to Thee;beautiful was Thy life upon the earth. It had in it a heavenlysanctity, a purity, a grace and mercy, a gentleness and forbearance, that seems to me God-like and Divine. Yes--what if God descended andwalked on the earth? I could love Him, that He had lowered Himselfto my comprehension. But God! the Infinite and Eternal! in thefinite human form, undergoing death! I cannot comprehend this. Butwhat is infinity? When I look within myself and realize myever-changing and fleeting feelings, now glancing in expansiveranges of thought from star to star, I realize an infinity in mind, that is not of the body. What if it were thus with the Holy Man, Christ? What if He were God as to the spirit, and man as to theflesh? If this were so, well may I have wished "to live when Jesuswalked the earth, " for He alone could have revealed all things tome. How wonderful must have been His wisdom! And if His indwellingspirit were God, then Christ yet lives--lives in some inner world oflove and beauty. Ah, beautiful hope! for, if immortality is myportion, I may yet see Him, and learn of Him in another existence. Methinks the night of my soul is passing away; upon the raylessdarkness a star has risen; a fixed star of love and hope; what iflike other fixed stars it prove a sun? Oh, Christ! holy and beautiful Man! if Thou yet livest in far-awayrealms of light and blessedness--grant that I may see Thee, andlearn of Thy wondrous wisdom. Enlighten my darkness, and suffer meto love Thee as the Divinest type of man that my thought has yetimagined. THE DAWN OF THE MORNING. --I have gone back to my Bible with the oldchildish love and reverence. I read it with an object now. I knowthat in it, the beautiful Christ-nature was portrayed; and I readwith infinite longings to find Him the "unknown God;" and brightrevealings come to me through this Book. I feel that it is Divine, and the light grows upon me; and sometimes like the Apostles, whoawakened in the night, and saw Christ transfigured before them, Ialso saw a transfiguration. I lose sight of the mere material man, and I perceive an inner glory of being, a radiance of wisdom, andpurity, and love, that clothe Him in a Divine light, and make Hiscountenance brilliant with a spiritual glory. This transfiguration, what was it? My thought dwells upon it so--itwas a wonderful thing. I know that the scoffing philosophersridicule the idea of there being any reality in it; they regard iteither as a fiction on the part of the writers, or as a dream or adelusion of the senses. But I believe that it all happened just asit was narrated. For it is beautiful to believe it. If it did nothappen, I am none the worse for believing it, even if the whole lifewas a fiction, which all history proves to have been true; and hadno Christ lived upon the earth, yet, as a work of art, this fictionwould have been the highest and most beautiful dream of the humanthought. But if it is all literally true; if Christ was "Godmanifest in the flesh, " how much do I gain by believing in him! Ihave attained the highest and best of all knowledge--I know GOD! And this transfiguration becomes a wonderful revelation! It was theSpirit of God shining through the Man. And this spirit was asubstance and a form. And what was its form?--that of a man, with aface radiant as the sun. Now know I how to think of God. He is nolonger a vague, incomprehensible existence; an ether floating inspace. But He is a living, breathing human form, a Man! in whoseimage and likeness we were created. Oh, how I thank God that He hasrevealed this to me! Now, I know what manner of Being I pray to; andlike as the apostles saw Him, in His Divine spiritual human form, will I now always think of Him. I will look through His veil offlesh, I will love Him as the only God-man that ever existed. When I think thus of the inner Divine nature, clothed in a materialbody, how wonderfully do the scenes of this drama of the life ofChrist strike me! Imagine Him, the God of the universe, standingbefore the Jewish sanhedrim, condemned, buffeted, and spit upon. Howat that moment in His inmost Divine soul, He must have glanced overthe vast creation, that He had called into being; and felt that anInfinite power dwelt in Him. One blazing look of wrathfulindignation would have annihilated that rude rabble. But He hadclothed himself in flesh, to subdue all of its evil and vilepassions; to show to an ignorant and sensual race, the grace andbeauty of a self-abnegation--a Divine pity and forgiveness. And thusdid the outer material Man die with that beautiful and touchingappeal to the Infinite-loving soul, from which the body was born:"Father! forgive them, they know not what they do. " Oh, Thou! DivineJesus! make me like unto Thee in this heavenly and loving spirit. How clear many things grow to me now! I smile when I think of theold childish trouble over the word "_Logos_, " for this _Logos_, i. E. Truth, has been revealed to me. In the knowledge that Christ wasthe Infinite God--the Creator of the universe, I see Him as thecentral _truth_. Thus Christ was the _Logos_, --the _Word_; theDivine Truth, and now I read, that "In the beginning was Christ, andChrist was with God, and Christ was God. " And I am happy in thisknowledge--my thought has something to rest upon out of myself; andmy affections grow up from the earth to that wonderful Divine Man, who, after the death of the body, was seen as a man, a living man!Immortality is no longer the dream of a Plato. It is a demonstratedfact. In my mind is the stirring of a new life, as in the light of anearly morning-glory; the voice of singing birds is in my heart, andan odour of blooming flowers expands itself in the delight of my newday. I see the morning sun in a fixed form, yet flooding worlds withthe radiations of its light and heat, and shining in its glory onthe dew-bespangled blade of grass. Oh Christ!--thou art my Sun--andI, the tiny blade of grass, rejoice in Thy Divine wisdom and love. Look down upon me, oh, Thou holy One! from the "throne of Thy glory, and the habitation of Thy Holiness, " and exhale from me, through thedew of my sorrow, the incense of my love. Draw me up from the earth, even as the sun draws up the bowed plants, and let me drink in thebeautiful life of free heavenly airs. NOON-DAY. --How the light grows! In the warm love of my soul asummer's day glows--so serene and bright, so full of ceaselessactivities, that the fruits ripen in a smiling, rosy beauty. The living Christ hath heard my soul's prayer; and books, which Inever before heard of, have revealed to me all those wonderfultruths after which my spirit yearned. First of all, the mystery of the Bible has been made clear to me. Isee it now as a beautiful whole. The Infinite knew from thebeginning that He was going to descend upon the earth, and take uponHimself a human nature, weak and ignorant and vicious; and that Hewas to purify and enlighten, and make Divine this fallen nature, that man might know God in a material form, and love Him. All thisis written out in the Bible. I stand on the threshold of a wonderful science. There areinnumerable things that I do not comprehend in the Bible; but what Isee and understand awakens in me a thrilling delight, and I cannever exhaust this book; for it is full of the nerves of life; and Ican no more number them than I can count the sensitive fibres thatspread themselves from my brain, to the innumerable cellular tissuesof my skin. But as the body is full of a sentient life, so is everyword of the Bible full of an indwelling life. And now do I recognise the good that my patient, suffering oldfriend did me in my childhood; would that I had read the Holy Bibleto her many other days. Doubtless she is now a beautiful angel inHeaven. The angels! and Heaven! now too do I understand the inner existence;and the dreams and visions of my childhood were, after all, blessedrealities; and the dead father and the dead mother, after whom mychildish heart yearned so lovingly, were revealed to me as a livingfather and a living mother, in a wondrously beautiful life. Thus wasa warm inner love kept alive in my soul; and now I know that deathis but a new birth. As a glove is drawn from the hand, so is thebody drawn from the spirit; and, I too, will thus be born again. Life is again crowned with a beautiful hope. Life!--and this mystery too is solved. God is the alone life, andfinite human spirits are forms receptive of life from God. God isthe soul and creation is His body--and from this infinite Divinesoul, life flows forth into every atom of the body. Beautifulthought! The Lord sits throned in the inmost, and is cognisant ofevery nerve that thrills through His boundless universe of being. Every thought and feeling that passes through my heart and mind isas clearly perceived by Him, as are the sensations of my bodyperceived by my soul. Thus are we in God, and God in us. And how vast is the thought that suns, and their peopled worlds, areto the body of God but as the drops of blood to the finite humanbody; and who can count these drops? for as they flow forth, andback to the heart, they ever grow and change, and increase--and whocan measure the Infinite! and this Being, sentient of all things inthe universe, providing for all things; seeing all things;maintaining order, down to the minutest particle, in a system whichthe finite thought of man can never grasp--and loving his creaturesin myriads of worlds, of which man never dreamed. How inconceivablemust be His boundless wisdom, His infinite love! Can we wonder thata Soul so glowing with love, so radiant in intelligence, shouldshine as the sun? Yes--this is the Central Sun, whose spiritualbeams, pouring forth their Divine influences, creating as they goangelic and spiritual intelligences, finally ultimate themselves inmaterial suns, and material human bodies. Thus the garment of dull, opaque matter is woven by the Divine Soul, through the condensationsof His emanations. Thus, were "all things made by Him; and withoutHim was not anything made that was made;" and "in Him was life, andthe life was the light of men. " The thought sinks after this far flight--we worship and adore theInfinite. But the Lord must for ever remain apart from our weaknatures, as far as the sun is above the earth. He lives, in Hisincomprehensible self-existence, at an immeasurable distance fromus. This the Divine Man sees, and in His tender compassion andloving mercy for every human soul He creates, a twin-soul is made, that the finite may find the fullness of delight in another finiteexistence. Oh, blessed and beautiful providence of God! that two human heartsand minds may intertwine in mutual support, and look up to theInfinite. And in the glorious sunshine of life, grow ever young andbeautiful, in an immortal youth. Oh, ye suffering, sorrowing children of earth! turn your affectionsand hopes from the fleeting things of time; from the outside-world, to the beautiful inner spirit-life, where eternity develops ever newand varying joys. Then only can the day dawn upon the human soul, and the midnight darkness be dissipated by boundless effulgence oflight. MINISTERING ANGELS. TIME and Patience! These are Angels By our Heavenly Father sent; Whispering to our restless spirits, "Cease to murmur--be content; God, who is thy truest friend, Doth our aid in trials send. When thy weary spirit faileth, 'Neath the weary cross it bears, God is not unmindful of thee-- He is listening to thy prayers; From His children's tearful pleading He will _never_ turn unheeding!" Heart of mine! Trust thou these Angels; Lean on Patience, and be calm; Trust in Time, who is preparing For thy grief a spirit-balm; God is merciful, and He Gave them charge concerning thee. OURS, LOVED, AND "GONE BEFORE. " The light of her young life went out, As sinks behind the hill The glory of a setting star; Clear, suddenly, and still. --WHITTIER. YOU ask me to tell you of her, the sweet friend we have loved andlost. You impose on me a difficult task; I find it so harrowing tomy feelings, and I also find that my pen is inadequate to thetribute my heart would pay. I would that the privilege of knowing and loving her had been yours, for to know her was to love her. In former letters I told you something of her; how she came to us alovely bride of just nineteen summers; how anxiously we looked forher first appearance in church, for they arrived late Saturdayevening, and no one had seen her. I told you how my heart went outto her as I looked on her sweet, bright, yet somewhat timid face;there was a perfect witchery in her eyes. I felt that I could gazeinto them for ever; there was about them a spell, a fascination thatI have never seen in others; they laughed as they looked at you, andyet they were not merely laughing eyes; perhaps the long, droopinglashes somewhat modified the expression, and helped to give thepeculiarity so strikingly their own. Her dress and whole appearance were captivating; the simple lightstraw hat, with the little illusion veil, and the pure white dressfitting so prettily the slender form. I could hardly wait for thenext day, so anxious was I to see and speak with her, for I lovedher already. I had been prepared to love her, for our young pastor had told usmuch of his future bride. You know our house was one of his homes, and to us he had spoken often and enthusiastically of his Mary. Itseemed to me that first Sabbath, that his prayers were particularlyimpressive, and his thanks to the Author and Giver of every perfectgift unusually appropriate; he seemed overpowered by a weight ofgratitude and love. How I admired the two as I glanced from one to the other! And I knowthat many prayers went up from that assembled congregation for longlife and blessings on them. It was a beautiful home that had been prepared for her. Herfurniture had been sent on previous to their marriage, and ourlittle band had vied with each other in arranging with a view bothto taste and comfort. How we did wish for a peep into her own home, to get a hint with regard to arranging her things, so as to be_home-like_! You know there is often so much in association, and we would haveloved the new strange place to have a familiar look to her at firstsight. Oh! what visions we conjured up as we arranged the room whichwas to serve both as parlour and dining-room; for the house wassmall, and Mr. B. 's study must be on the first floor. _There_ wasthe best place for the piano between the windows, which looked intothe garden; we heard in anticipation the sweet voice which was tofill the little room with melody, as the roses and flowers of Junenow filled the garden with fragrance. The pretty fire-screen muststand in a conspicuous corner, for that spoke particularly of home, and of the hours delightfully passed in the dear family circle whiletracing it stitch by stitch; and I fancied that into each brightflower which stood out so life-like from the canvas some emotion ofher heart had been indelibly wrought. How many lovely homeassociations will the pretty fire-screen bring up! How we arranged, and disarranged, and re-arranged, before all was toour minds; and how we hoped, when all was finished, that it wouldlook as charming to her as it did to us! And we were notdisappointed; for, on the following Monday, when we called to seeher, nothing could exceed the enthusiasm of her expression andgratitude; everything was lovely, perfect; she saw all _en couleurde rose_. She had left indulgent parents, and a home of refinement and luxury, and we feared for her the untried duties of her new position; but anintimate acquaintance proved her eminently qualified for theresponsibility she had assumed. She adapted herself with charminggrace and readiness to her present circumstances. She was a mostdelightful acquisition to our limited circle; a favourite with all;and she blended so beautifully the graces of religion with those ofher natural temperament that she became our idol. The "parsonage" seemed to me a paradise, surrounded by none butbright and holy influences. There the poor always found a welcome, awilling heart, a ready hand, and listening ear; however sad anddesponding on entering, they invariably came out cheerful andhopeful. There seemed a magic spell cast around every one who soughtthe presence of our dearly loved pastor and his wife. With what pleasure I used to watch for their steps as they tooktheir morning walks together that bright first year of their marriedlife! They seemed to have the life and vivacity of children. Shealways accompanied him in his walks, in his visits to the poor, inrelief to the sick, by the bedside of the dying; she was like hisshadow, and always haunted him for good. It might be said mostemphatically of both, "When the ear heard them it blessed them, andwhen the eye saw them it gave witness to them, because theydelivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that hadnone to help him; the blessing of him that was ready to perish cameupon them, and they caused the widow's heart to sing for joy. " Thus several years passed away; new cares and new duties devolved onthem; but all were cheerfully met and delightfully performed; andthey basked in the sunshine of God's love. Beautiful children sprangup around them, and we felt that "earth never owned a happier nest"than that which was placed in our midst. How proud Mr. B. Was of his family, and with what reason, too, forwe all felt it with him; his wife so beautiful, so good, so in allrespects fitted to make home happy, with her never-failing sunshineand light-heartedness; his two little girls, our impersonation ofcherubs; and the youngest a noble boy, so dear to his mother'sheart. Oh! how many attractions within that charmed circle! I shall never forget an evening I passed in the nursery with thatdear one surrounded by her happy little band. Willie, "the baby, " asshe called him, although more than two years old, was sitting in herlap, twirling one of her long, beautiful ringlets round his tinyfingers. "Sing, mamma!" he said. "Oh, do!" joined in Effie and Minnie, putting their bright innocentfaces and soft brown curls close to hers; "sing The Dove, mamma, please. " She laughingly asked me to excuse her, saying, she always devotedthe twilight hour to amusing and instructing the little ones. Ibegged her to allow my presence to be no restraint upon her usualcustom. She then commenced, and I thought no seraph's voice could besweeter, as she sang one of Mary Howitt's beautiful translations:-- "There sitteth a dove so white and fair All on the lily spray, And she listeneth how to Jesus Christ The little children pray; Lightly she spreads her friendly wings, And to Heaven's gate hath fled, And to the Father in Heaven she bears The prayers which the children have said. And back she comes from Heaven's gate, And brings, that dove so mild, From the Father in Heaven, who hears her speak, A blessing for every child. The children lift up a pious prayer-- It hears whatever you say, That heavenly dove, so white and fair, All on the lily spray. " I joined heartily in the thanks and admiration the childrenexpressed when she had finished. As she laid them in their little beds, and kissed their rosy lipsand dimpled cheeks, she said, "I can never thank God enough forthese sweet children. " She then added, "Oh! what an affliction itmust be to lose a child; I think if one of mine should die, I shoulddie too; but, " she added, "I should not say so; could I not trustthem with Him who doeth all things well?" She little realized howsoon she was to be put to the test. I called there a few days after. She was in the garden raising and tying up some drooping carnationswhich the rain of the preceding day had injured. "Willie is not well, " said she. "I have just sung him to sleep, andMr. B. Said I must take a little fresh air, for I was fatigued withholding him, and I thought I would confine myself to the garden, tobe near, if he should wake. " Soon a cry from the nursery was heard; she sprang up the steps innervous haste, while I quite chided her anxiety. I followed her intothe room, and was surprised and shocked to find the dear boy in ahigh fever; his little arms tossing restlessly, and his lips dry andparched. Mr. B. Sent immediately for the physician; we waitedanxiously his arrival, hoping secretly that we were unnecessarilyalarmed; but his coming did not reassure us; he saw dangeroussymptoms; but still, he said, he hoped for the best. I went home, asMr. And Mrs. B. Both declined my services for the night, saying theywould rather attend him alone. The next day I was pained to hearthat his symptoms were more unfavourable; that the medicine had hadno effect, and the physician was becoming discouraged. I flew overto the "parsonage;" the wildly anxious look of the mother distressedme. I begged her to lie down a little while, and allow me to takeher place by the baby. "Oh, no, " she said, "I cannot leave him; who but his mother shouldbe by his side?" It seemed to me that I had never seen greater distress on anycountenance. Mr. B. Endeavoured to soothe her, though his anguishwas apparently as keen as her own. "If our Saviour would remove this little flower to his own garden, shall we refuse to give it up? Shall we not rather bless and thankhim for allowing us to keep it so long?" "Oh, yes!" she said, "He doeth all things well; I know that he doesnot willingly afflict nor grieve the children of men. I know thatwhom He loveth he chasteneth, and I can say, 'Thy will be done. 'Nature is powerful, but my Saviour feels for me, and will forgivethe inward struggle. " All that night they watched his little life fast ebbing away. Towards morning his sufferings seemed to cease; he smiled upon hisparents. Hope for a moment revived in their hearts, but soon to bedisplaced by bitter anguish. Daylight showed the marked change inhis features and complexion that told too plainly the messenger wasvery near. "Speak to me, Willie, " she exclaimed, bending over him in an agonyof grief. "Mamma, " he said, and, with the effort, his little spirit took itsflight. Much has been said and written upon the death of infants, but whenwe see so much of wickedness in the world, so much of sin to blight, so much sorrow to fade, can we wonder that the Lord of Paradiseloves to transplant to a fairer clime these frail buds of earth, there to have a beautiful and unfading development! We saw no more of our precious friends till the day of the funeral. This was their first affliction, and none liked to intrude on thesanctity of their grief, though many tears were shed, and heartswent out to them; but we felt that they knew whom they had trusted, and that under the shadow of His wings they could rest securely tillthe storm was past. A neighbouring clergyman was to perform the last sad office for thedead. Most lovely did little Willie look in his coffin. Thechild-like, beautiful expression still lingered. Rare flowers, thesmallest and whitest, had been placed in the tiny hand, and shedtheir fragrance throughout the room. Oh! how sad and sick appeared the mother, as she bent to take thelast look at the little form she had loved and cherished sotenderly! Her nights of anxiety and watching had left their tracesupon her face; her usually light and elastic step was feeble andslow, and she rested heavily upon the arm of her husband. His formalso was bowed, and his countenance bore traces of the deepestgrief. One of those sudden changes which we so often experience in this ourmost changeful climate, took place that day. At noon it was verywarm and bright, but before we returned from the funeral it wascloudy and cold. The next day Mrs. B. Was quite sick with severe cold, and theeffects of the past excitement and grief. We flattered ourselvesthat rest and quiet, with good nursing, would soon restore her; andyou may judge of our dismay upon learning, the day after, that shewas dangerously ill. "Oh no, " we thought and said a hundred times, "it cannot be so; shewill surely be better to-morrow. " We could not have it otherwise. We could not for an instant admitthe idea that she would not recover. The bare supposition was agony. Oh! how harrowing to me is the remembrance of those long summerdays, and those wakeful moonlight nights, in which, prostrated bydisease, lay that young and lovely being so idolized by us all, butwhom, indeed, we were destined to see no more on earth. The Divine fiat had gone forth, and hearts were agonized, and looksgrew sadder and sadder, as day after day sounded like a knell in ourears the fearful words, "Not materially better. " But we could notgive her up; hope would linger. No one was permitted to see her butthe family and nurses, for the doctor said all excitement must becarefully avoided. We said, "She will not die; God will raise herup. " In our weakness and blindness, we could see no mercy nor wisdomin this terrible bereavement, this scorching desolation of thealready heavily-stricken servant of the Most High. He was naturallyof a most hopeful disposition, and this, notwithstanding thediscouraging words of the physician, buoyed up his soul, and he withus hoped against hope. They could not persuade him to leave her fora moment. Whole nights he watched by the side of her he loved beston earth, anticipating every word and look, and administering to hercomfort. How you would have felt for us, dear Anna, had you been here! Wewould walk by the house, and look up at the windows or door, notdaring to knock for fear of disturbing her, but hoping to see one ofthe physicians or some one of the family, of whom to make inquiries. Oh, the nervousness of those days! the restless, weary nights wepassed, till our fears and apprehensions became a racking torment, and we felt almost that we must die (sic) ourselves ourselves or beout of suspense; but when, on the evening of the tenth day after herillness, a messenger came with pallid face and almost wild look tosay that she was _dead_, we were stunned. I really think we werealmost as much shocked as though we had not heard of her illness;for we felt that, at the eleventh hour, some favourable turn _must_take place. I think we expected a miracle to be performed, socertain were we, or wished and tried to be, that she would recover. But God's ways are not as our ways; truly, they are past findingout. We felt like putting our hands on our mouths, for fear ofrebelling against _His_ most righteous decrees. "Be still, and knowthat I am God, " was all that we could say. It was hard to realizethat the sun was still shining behind the cloud, for this was adarkness that might be felt. There seemed a pall over the earth andsky. Oh, how unsatisfactory seemed all on earth! how dark andstrange! how mysterious and unreal! We could not weep, we werestunned, and it seemed at the time that we could never come back toearth without her. But when the touching relation of her last hourswas made to us, the fountains of grief were unsealed, and we wept, as it were, rivers of tears. I can give you no idea on paper of the beauty and sublimity of thatdeath-scene as it was painted to me. We imagined that the heart mustshrink, or at least draw back before the entrance into the darkvalley. But all was peace; it flowed in upon her like a river, andshe felt that underneath were the everlasting arms. Her husband andtwo remaining children stood by the bed. Oh, the bitterness of thecup he was called upon to drink! He shrank from it. As he bent overher, she said, "Do not weep, love. How good God has been to give us so many bright, happy years together! Surely the lines have fallen to us in pleasantplaces, and I"--raising her beautiful eyes to heaven--"have a goodlyheritage. I go to my Saviour. How should I feel at this moment had Inot a hope in him? Oh, I am going home! I see Willie beckoning me tohasten. I will bear him in my arms to the Saviour's feet, andtogether we shall sing the 'new song. ' I do not love you nor thesesweet darlings less; but I love the Saviour more. I wish you couldlook in my heart and see the love I bear you. Thank you for all yourindulgence, for all your kindness in bearing with my manyinfirmities. If I am permitted, I will be ever your guardian angel. Remember me with much and undying love to all the dear friends whohave been so kind to me. " She appeared buoyed up with unnatural strength, though her end wasso near. She broke into a sweet hymn; and it was, they said, asthough the angel's voice had anticipated the few short momentsbefore she should sing the "new song. " She lay quiet for a littletime, holding the hand of her husband in her own; then, opening hereyes and seeing the last rays of the departing sun, "I shall neverlook upon that bright orb again; but there is no need of the sunthere. I draw near to heavenly habitations, and I would not retreatfor what the world can give. Dearest, be faithful to your trust. "And, imprinting a kiss upon his lips, her pure spirit wentpeacefully home. We draw a veil upon the feelings of that bereaved one; too sacredare they to be looked upon; his house was left unto him desolate. That form, which had been to his eye like the well in the desert orthe bow in the sky, was now cold in death. Oh! thought we, why needed this affliction to be sent upon one sonear _perfection_? Surely, _he_, of all others, needed not thisdiscipline; and then came to our minds, soft, sweet, and soothing, the words, "Every branch in me that beareth fruit, he purgeth itthat it may bring forth more fruit. " We felt that it was hard to lay in the grave the form of our dearfriend; it was hard to part with the casket which had enshrined theprecious jewel. Beautiful in life, she was so in death. Thedeparting spirit had left a ray of brightness on its earthly house, and, in looking at the calm brow and peaceful smile, death seemeddivested of its terror. We had twined the pure white flowers sheloved around and amongst the rich dark masses of wavy hair, and shelooked like a beautiful bride more than a tenant for the grave. Thememory of that day will live ever in our minds. It was the last dayof summer, and there seemed a beautiful appropriateness in theseason; it seemed to us that the summer of our hearts had gone withher. A sad and mournful procession, we followed her remains to the churchso dear to her in life. It was but a few days since she entered itin her loveliness and bloom, and for the last time on earthcommemorated a Saviour's dying love. She will partake with us hereno more. May we be counted worthy to sit down with her at ourFather's board in heaven! Mournful was the sight of the black pallwhich covered the coffin; mournful the drapery which shrouded heraccustomed seat and enveloped the chancel; mournful the badges whichall, as by consent, had adopted as expressive of their feelings onthe occasion; but, oh! most mournful and heart-rending was the sightof that husband and father leading by the hand on either side allthat remained to him of his beautiful family. It was difficult torecognise in him the man of two short weeks before; twenty yearsseemed added to his life; the eyes, usually beaming with light, nowcast down and swollen with weeping--the countenance, index of aheart full of peace and joy, now so sorrow-stricken. Truly, heseemed "smitten of God and afflicted. " We turned our eyes away as hestood by the grave which contained almost his earthly all. It was a beautiful spot where they laid her to rest by the side ofher baby. The sun was just going down in a golden flood of light, betokening a glorious morrow (beautiful emblem of the resurrection, when this perishing body should be raised in glory), and the shadowsof the trees were lengthening on the grass. Every sound was in sweetaccordance with the scene; the soft twittering of the birds as theysought their resting-places for the night, the quiet hum of theinsects, and the sweet murmuring of the brook which flowed at alittle distance. A holy calm pervaded our minds as we wended our way between thetrees and down the slope which bounded this lovely spot; and, as weleft the gate, we involuntarily paused and looked back long andearnestly on the sweet view. Every object was bathed in that goldenhaze so peculiar to the last days of summer and the beginning ofautumn; but at this time it seemed to us that the flood of softlight had escaped from the gate of heaven which we imagined hadopened to receive the form lost to our sight. Oh, we miss her more and more, everywhere! in our walks and visits;in the missionary circle, of which she was so ready and active amember; in the Sunday school; in her accustomed seat in church; andwe miss the soft tones of her voice in prayer, and the richoutpourings of her melody in praise. The poor of the parish have, indeed, lost a friend, as their tearsand remembrance amply testify when they recount her kindnesses, hergentle words, her deeds of charity and love. "Flowers grew under thefeet of her, " said one wretchedly poor, yet, I thought, quitepoetical old woman, whose declining days she had lightened of muchof their weariness. A track of glory seems that which she has leftbehind; and there was so much that was beautiful and consoling inher last hours that it were selfishness to wish her back. She iswith the Saviour she loved; she folds again to her heart the littleone whose loss she had not time to realize on earth; together theyhave entered on their "long age of bliss in heaven. " Does not that death-scene speak volumes in attestation of thereligion she professed, of the Saviour she adored? That young fairbeing, surrounded by all that makes life happy; friends who loved, ahusband who idolized, children who clung to her; with a heart fullof love and sympathy for all, rejoicing with those who rejoiced, andweeping with those who wept; of rare beauty and rarer accomplishments, a sunbeam on the face of the earth; yet she willingly left all whenher Father called her. Is not her faith worth striving after? We have reason (blessed be God!) to see already some good effectsfrom the contemplation of her life and death. The young havereceived a warning, thoughtlessness a check. We have realized thatneither youth nor beauty is a security against the ravages of thespoiler. God grant that our dear pastor may experience the truth of the wordsof the Psalmist: "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy. " Hefeels that his treasure is laid up in heaven, and we know that hisheart is there. To see his dear one happy had ever been his chiefdesire, and he would not call her back, for he knows that she is nowin the enjoyment of a bliss that the world cannot give. Though cast down, he is not destroyed; he has come unscathed fromthis furnace of affliction because one like the Son of God was withhim. With eyes turned heavenward, he waits his appointed time. Thereligion of the cross glistens like a gem on his dark-robedfortunes, and points him to fairer worlds, where the love that grewhere amidst clouds will be made perfect in a light that knows noshadow, where he and his departed ones will again have one home, onealtar, and one resting place. Like his Divine Master, he goes about doing good. Oftener than everis he found amongst the sons and daughters of affliction; more thanever are they objects of his special care; his precept is blessed byhis example, and thus many a prodigal son has he recalled from hiswanderings, many an outcast gathered into the fold, many a waywornpilgrim pointed to his true rest, many a mourner comforted. They sawthat the resignation he preached to others he practised himself;they saw that the hand of the Lord was heavy upon him, but that yethe turned not backward; they saw that he went his way as a pilgrimpressing forward to a better country. Most brilliant will be thediadem which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give him in thelast day, for are not these words of Holy Writ, "They who turn manyto righteousness shall shine like the stars for ever and ever?" OUTWARD MINISTERINGS. EACH owns some secret law;--the flowers that flourish Bloom in their season, in their season die; Dews flow beneath, their feeble strength to nourish, The wind, Earth's angels, life's sweet breath supply. As in the wondrous world of faultless Nature, So in the moral universe of man, Given for the spirit's every form and feature, Are powers fulfilling its immortal plan. Whether its aim be fixed on seeking Pleasure, Whilst draining deep her falsely-sparkling bowl, Or in the light of Love be sought the treasure Whose worth may satisfy the craving soul; Whether it court the applause of listening nations, And toil, with earnest energy, for fame, Or seek with nobler hopes those elevations, Whence from its God with spotless robes it came: All help to lead it on; to Truth or Error, Darkness or Light, as its own pathway lies; Here, seeming seraphs, hidden shapes of terror, There, darksome shadows, angels in disguise. Behold yon miser bend, with palsied fingers, O'er the rich gold around him glittering piled, How, with a father's care, he tireless lingers By life's all-precious hope, his darling--child. Fond wretch! his aim to narrow life is bounded, Yet, true to Nature, all for him hath proved; The glorious gifts that once his path surrounded, Have served to strengthen feelings basely loved! By glittering lights, behold yon splendid palace, See squalid youth and beauty enter there, Eager to drown within the brimming chalice, All pangs of grief--all thoughts of woe or care. Alas! for them, that such a sad fruition Should burst from seeds bright with the hues of Time; These specious splendours fail not in their mission, But spur their spirits on the road to crime! In yonder room, behold a beauteous maiden, Who bright the standard of her hope unrolls; But, oh! that smiling bark, with evil laden, Leads on to fatal depths, or treacherous shoals! Gaze on the gambler, pale with care and sorrow, And mark the dismal shades he long hath trod, Who lives to witness each returning morrow, Sin-burdened, roll before an outraged God! Seest thou the light from yonder casement streaming? Seest thou the shadow on the window cast? There, lost in thought and poesy's wild dreaming, Waits one to hear Fame's loud but fickle blast. This is his life's great aim; but what beyond it? Of Truth's bright treasure though he love to tell, In barren mines of lore he hath not found it, Bowing beneath his idol's deadly spell. But gaze on One, who seeks in all around him, Lessons of good to cheer him on his way, As every golden year through life hath found him Nearer the realms of Heaven's eternal day. With him events of earth are sweet evangels, All meaner things but step-stones hurled beneath; Whilst nobler lead to Eden-realms of angels, With shining robes, and crown, and amaranth wreath. Oh! fellow-pilgrims through this desert dreary, In all the scenes of life God's mercy trace, Then though with grief cast down, with watching weary, Strong shall ye stand in His sufficient grace! Thus sweet, melodious tones and forms of beauty, All glorious sights and sounds may ever prove Angels to lure us on the path of duty, Echoes of symphonies that float above! BODILY DEFORMITY, SPIRITUAL BEAUTY. WHO has not observed in passing through the crowded streets of ourcity, how great, comparatively, is the number of those, who are moreor less deformed? My heart aches for these poor unfortunates, whoare deprived of some of the legitimate avenues of enjoyment whichGod has so bounteously vouchsafed to me. Here is one (and it would seem to me the most unmitigated of all thecatalogue) who is groping his way along in darkness, holding fast bythe hand of a little girl. There is another who has lost a limb, andmakes his way along with the utmost difficulty. Yonder is one soextremely deformed, that his sensitiveness forbids him often toappear in the crowded streets. And there is another still, who isquite helpless, sitting in a little wagon drawn about by a faithfuldog. In the minds of different individuals, these various aspects ofdeformity produce pity, disgust, and horror; but I have oftenthought, could we but look, as God looks--down into the audiencechamber of the spirit--the heart--how differently our minds would beaffected at the sight of these bodily deformities. Perhaps yon poorblind man, grinding away upon his hand-organ, whose natural eyes forlong, weary years, have been closed against the profusion of beautyaround him, has had the eyes of his understanding opened, and thepure light from the eternal throne illumes the depth of his soul. Perhaps he, who hobbles slowly and sadly along upon his crutches, treads with care and unknown joy, the _narrow way_, --and when, life's journey's over, he walks through the valley of the shadow ofdeath, he will fear no evil; for a rod and a staff unknown to hisearthly pilgrimage, _they will comfort him_. Who shall say but he, whose deformity drives him from the public way, walks continuallybefore God and Angels--a perfect man? It may be, that yon helplessone--_so_ helpless that his mother feeds him--has power to move thearm that moves the world; for God hears prayer. It is a most solemn truth that He who is the judge of quick anddead, looks not upon the _outer_ man; but upon his inner, spiritualnature. With His judgment, it matters not, that a man be deformed;that his eyes be blind or his tongue be tied: is the heart allright?--has it become a sanctuary, meet for the spirit's residenceand lighted by the Sun of Righteousness, where every word, thought, and deed, becomes an acceptable sacrifice to God? is it notdisturbed by sin or blinded by passion? These are the things whichhave to do in the estimate which God puts upon every intelligentcreature. Take good care then, my brother pilgrim, that the heart isall right--though the body which covers it for a little season isdistorted and maimed. THE DEAD CHILD. "Though our tears fell fast and faster, Yet we would not call her back; We are glad her feet no longer Tread life's rough and thorny track. We are glad our Heavenly Father Took her while her heart was pure; We are glad He did not leave her, All life's troubles to endure. We are glad--and yet the tear-drop Falleth, for, alas! we know That our fireside will be lonely, We shall miss our darling so!" HOW beautiful a young child in its shroud! Calm and heavenly looksthe white face on which the blighting breath of sin never rested. The silken curls parted from the marble brow--the once bright eyesclosed--once red lips pale--little hands that have ofttimes beenclasped as the lips repeated "Our Father, " now meekly folded overthe throbless heart, tell us that Death, cruel, relentless Death, has been there. Surely, the _soul_ that once beamed from those closed eyes is happy!Hath not the Saviour said, "Of such is the kingdom of heaven?" Robedlike an angel is she now, a lamb in the Saviour's bosom. Couldparental love ask more? Surely not. Cleansed from all earthly taint;secure from all trouble, care, or sin, those eyes will no more weep;but the tiny hands will sweep a golden harp, and the childish voicewill be heard making music in heaven. Often, O, how often had our hearts said, "God bless her!" And hasnot our prayer been answered? The yearnings of love cannot bestifled; for we miss the loving clasp of white arms--the softpressure of fresh lips--the prattle and smile that were music andlight to our world-weary hearts; our hand moves in vain for aresting-place on the golden head; yet we feel, we know that "it iswell with the child, " for we see how much of woe she has escaped;how much of bliss she has gained; a home with the sinless; thecompanionship of angels for ETERNITY. Blessed one! Alone, yet fearlessly, didst thou pass through the "dark valley" andenter into the home prepared for thee. As fearlessly, trustingly may_we_ meet the conqueror, Death, and when the conflict is ended, meetthee in thy new home to dwell for evermore! WATER. GOD is the author of all our blessings. There is no truth, perhaps, to which we are more ready to give our assent than this; and yet, agreat many people seem to act as if they did not believe it, or, atleast, as if they were prone to forget it. A traveller stopped at a fountain, and, letting the rein he held inhis hand fall upon the neck of his horse, permitted the thirstyanimal to drink of the cooling water that came pouring down from arocky hill, and spread itself out in a basin below. While the wearybeast refreshed himself, the traveller looked at the bright streamthat sparkled in the sunlight, and said thus to himself:-- "What a blessing is water! How it refreshes, strengthens, andpurifies! And how bountifully it is given! Everywhere flows thisgood gift of our Heavenly Father, and it is as free as the air toman and beast. " While he thus mused, a child came to the fountain. She had a vesselin her hand, and she stooped to fill it with water. "Give me a drink, my good little girl, " said the traveller. And, with a smiling face, the child reached her pitcher to the manwho still sat on his horse. "Who made this water?" said the traveller, as he handed the vesselback to the child. "God made it, " was her quick reply. "And do you know anything that water is like?" asked the traveller. "Oh, yes! Father says that water is like truth. " "Does he?" "Yes, sir. He says that water is like truth, because truth purifiesthe mind as water does the body. " "That is wisely said, " returned the traveller. "And truth quenchesour thirst for knowledge, as water quenches the thirst of our lips. " The little girl smiled as this was said, and, taking up her pitcher, went back to her home. "Yes, water represents truth, " said the traveller, as he rodethoughtfully away. "The child was right. It purifies and refreshesus, and is spread out, like truth, on every hand, free for those whowill take it. Whenever I look upon water again, I will think of itas representing truth; and then I will remember that it is asimportant to the mind's health and purity to have truth as it is forthe body to have water. " Thus, from a simple fountain, as it leaped out from the side of ahill, the traveller gained a lesson of wisdom. And so, as we passthrough the world, we may find in almost every natural object thatexists something that will turn our minds to higher and betterthoughts. Every tree and flower, every green thing that grows, andevery beast of the field and bird of the air, have in them asignification, if we could but learn it. They speak to us in aspiritual language, and figure forth to our natural senses thehigher, more beautiful, and more enduring things of the mind. BEAUTIFUL, HAPPY, AND BELOVED. WOULDST thou be beautiful? Ah, then, be pure! be pure! An angel's face Is the transparent mirror of her soul. If ghastly guilt on fairest brows you trace, Then do you hear the knell of beauty toll. Let Purity her seal on thee impress, And thine shall be angelic loveliness. The pure are beautiful. Wouldst thou be dearly loved? Then love, love truly all that God has made; For by His name of love is He best known. No damp distrust be on thy spirit laid; And let affection's words and deeds be one. Thy soul's warm fountain shall not gush in vain; From Love's deep source it shall be filled again; For they who love, are loved. And wouldst thou happy be? Then make the truth thy talisman, thy guide. Be truth the stone in all thy jewels set. Into thy heart its opal-light shall glide, And guide thee where are happier spirits yet. For these three rays are in the shining crown: The seraph by the Throne of Light lays down, Truth, Love, and Purity. "EVERY CLOUD HAS A SILVER LINING. " WHAT! can this be true in this dark world of ours, where the thickclouds of sorrow, disappointed hopes, and bereavements arecontinually hanging over us, obscuring even the bright star of hope;where upon every passing breeze is borne deep wailings of woe, bitter sighs ascending from bruised and broken hearts mourning overlost hopes, crushed affections, wasted love; struggling vainly forvictory in the fierce battle of life; groping about in darkness tocatch, if possible, one gleam of sunlight from the heavy clouds--butin vain? "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. " Another shrine robbed of its idol;another hearth left desolate. See, how the black clouds settle downand press more closely around that lonely widowed one. Grim Deathmocks at his grief from the open grave, so soon to receive hisheart's idol. Ay, remove the coffin lid; gaze with all the agonizingbitterness of a _last_ look upon that cold marble face; was aught onearth so lovely? Kiss for the last time the pure forehead. Ah! thosepale white lips give back no answering pressure of love; sealed forever by that last chilling blast from the cold river. And now the damp earth presses heavily over that cherished form; fardown in the darkness and silence of the grave must the loved oneremain, never more to cheer by her gentle words of love andkindness, the heart of him who so needed her sympathy and love. Gone, gone for ever. What on earth is now beautiful or bright since the dearest, besttreasure is removed? Oh, no! there can be no bright spot inaffliction like this; there can be no bright ray to gild this nightof sorrow. Ah! thou erring mortal, repine not. The all-wise Father knew thyfrail heart, saw thy whole life and soul bound up in that onecreature, weak and sinful like thyself; forgetful of the Creator;and wilt thou dare raise thy feeble voice against the Almighty whenHe removed the idol that He alone may reign? Wilt thou not bowmeekly, kiss the rod, and accept the bitter cup of bereavement, offered as it is in mercy? And is this all? Is there no life beyond the grave? Is the spiritwhich held such communion with thine for ever quenched? Can the grave contain for ever the immortal part? Look up, oh!mourning one; thy loved one is not there. Hark! hearest thou not soft, heavenly voices, whispering sweetly ofa life beyond the dark river, where Death can never come; ofglorious mansions where is peace and joy for ever more, and ofanother freed spirit welcomed to the blissful home? Dost thou notfeel upon thy tear-moistened cheek, gentle wavings of angel wingsperfumed with the breath of heavenly flowers? Even now, may the happy glorified spirit of thy loved one behovering around; think you it would return again to that perishingbody of clay? The sweet star of faith is already rising over thy grief; theclouds, all bright and shining with hues caught from heavenly skies, are no longer dark and rayless; and now, even with thy lonelybleeding heart, canst thou humbly receive the chastisement from Himwho doeth all things well. Henceforth will earth seem less dear, heaven nearer, and more to bedesired; thy own cherished companion is there, and who can know butthat her pure spirit may sometimes look down upon thee, still toencourage thy endeavours to battle manfully with life and itstrials, still to cheer and console in thy hours of distress; butnow, with heart and affections all purified from the dross of earth, will not the influence be more blessed than when she walked withbodily presence at thy side? Yes, thanks to our merciful Father, every cloud _has_ a silverlining, however dark the side presented to our view, ladened heavythough it be with sorrows and woes, which almost crush the life fromour hearts as it presses upon us; yet there away, hidden from ourshort mortal vision, gleams the soft silvery lining, ever gentlyshining, perhaps never to be revealed in this world, reserved for usto discover after we too have been called from this to our heavenlyhome, and look back upon our earthly pilgrimage with rejoicings thatwe have been so safely borne through every trial and temptation. Ah! then will our sky be without a cloud. All joyous and happy willwe tune our harps anew to the praise of Him who loved us and hathgiven us the victory! AN ANGEL OF PATIENCE. BESIDE the toilsome way, Lowly and sad, by fruits and flowers unblest, Which my lone feet tread sadly, day by day, Longing in vain for rest, An angel softly walks, With pale, sweet face, and eyes cast meekly down, The while from withered leaves and flowerless stalks She weaves my fitting crown. A sweet and patient grace, A look of firm endurance true and tried, Of suffering meekly borne, rests on her face, So pure--so glorified. And when my fainting heart Desponds and murmurs at its adverse fate, Then quietly the angel's bright lips part, Murmuring softly, "Wait!" "Patience!" she meekly saith-- "Thy Father's mercies never come too late; Gird thee with patient strength and trusting faith, And firm endurance wait!" THE GRANDFATHER'S ADVICE. IT was a golden sunset, which was fondly gazed upon by an old man onwhose broad brow the history of seventy winters had been written. Hesat in the wide porch of a large old-fashioned house: his look wascalm and clear, though years had quelled the fire of his eagleglance; his silver hair was borne mildly back, by the south wind ofAugust, and a smile of sweetness played over his features, breathingthe music of contentment. His heart was still fresh, and his mindopen to receive an impress of the loveliness of earth. The dew oflove for his fellow-creatures fell upon his aged soul, and pureadoration went up to the Giver of every good from its altar. Helifted his gaze to the cerulean blue above him, and dwelt upon hisfuture, with a glow of hope upon his heart--then he turned to thepast, and his beaming expression gradually mellowed intopensiveness: in thought, he travelled through the long vista ofyears which he had left behind him, and his mental exclamation was, "There has not been a year of my life since manhood, that I mightnot have lived to a better purpose. I might have been more usefuland devoted to my race. I might more fully have sacrificed the idolself, which so often I have knelt to, in worship more heartfelt thanI offered the Divinity. Yet have I laboured to become pure in thysight, oh, my God! build thy kingdom in my breast!" A tear trembled in the aged suppliant's eye, and the calm of holyhumility stole over him; the gentle look was again upon hiscountenance, when a young man of about twenty years, swung open thegate leading to the house, and, approaching, saluted the old manwith a cordial grasp of the hand; flinging his cap carelessly down, he took a seat in a rustic chair, and exclaimed with a smile ofmingled affection and reverence, which broke over his thoughtfulfeatures, making him extremely handsome, "Well, grandfather, I believe you complete seventy years to-day!" "Yes, my son, and I have been looking back upon them. I do notusually dwell upon the past with repining, yet I see much that mighthave been better. My years have not always been improved. " The young man listened respectfully; presently he asked, with suddeninterest, "Pray tell me, if there ever was a whole year of yourlife, so perfectly happy that you would wish to live it all overagain?" "I have been perfectly happy at brief intervals, " was the reply, "yet there is not a year of my long life, that I would choose tohave return. I have been surrounded by many warm friends now gone totheir homes in the spirit-world, --I have loved, and have been loved, and the recollection yet thrills me; still I thank God that I am notto live over those years upon earth. I have struggled much for truthand goodness, and there has not been one struggle which I wouldrenew, though each has been followed by a deep satisfaction. " "To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather, " repliedhis companion. "I ask for happiness!" After a pause, he added withimpetuosity, "If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dreamof, and desire, I do not care to live. What is the life whichthousands lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down thestream--the more I _think_, and thought devours me, the morediscontented do I become with everything I see. Why is anoverpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast, if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimesgay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are greatto children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have beenold enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I wascapable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul'sdepths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask formore. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me, involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that risesup, is ever 'No. ' I am young, and this soft air steals over a browof health--I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drinkin the deep poetry of noble minds--I can idly revel in voluptuousmusic, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, thereis still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate therestlessness that presses upon me--I look around, and young facesare bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catchthe buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely, --if I do, it floats on thesurface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow. Yet after Ihave endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of someunfortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended uponme, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and myusual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and forawhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into themotives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirithas proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form ofattachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart ofsociety, and it was there. " "Alfred, you make me sad, " said the old man, in a solemn and deeplypained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart wassuch a temple of bitterness. " "If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughtsrushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave themexpression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in yourexperience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age. Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turnedhis eyes upon his aged friend; he caught the look of kindness uponthat honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul. "It is right to think deeply, " said the revered adviser, "but onemust think rightly, also. You must not look out upon the world, fromthe darkened corners of your soul, or the hue is transferred to allthings which your glance falls upon. Take the torch of truth andheavenly charity to chase away the dimness within you, then powerfulchanges will be wrought in your vision. You will begin to regardyour fellow man with new feelings of interest. I am a plain andblunt old man, Alfred, but you know that my only desire is for yourgood; so bear with my remarks if they be unpalatable. " "Certainly, sir, I value frankness before flattery. " "You may say that you have never been _perfectly_ happy, " continuedthe old gentleman; "that is neither strange nor uncommon, for I havemet with few thoughtful persons of your years, who, upon closereflection, could say that their souls could desire no more than hadbeen granted to them. You must seek for resignation, not entirebliss upon earth, although it is possible that you may enjoy it fora season. " "Why is joy so transitory and unquiet so lasting?" demanded theyoung man impatiently. "The fault is not in the transitoriness of the joy, but in the verysoul itself, --it is in a state of disorder; its nature must bechanged before it can receive for ever only the image of gladness. In a chaos of the elements, can a smiling sky be always seen? Layasleep all unruly elements in the spirit, and a pure heaven ofbrightness will then greet the uplifted glance. " "But how can all this be done, grandfather? hath unruly elements doyou speak of? What can I do; for instance? I certainly am willingand glad to see my kind happy--if my soul be in disorder, I do notknow in what it consists, or how to bring it to order. I am weary ofits unsatisfied desires; it is, continually in search of somethingwhich it has never caught sight of, --and the fear, that thatunknown, yet powerfully desired something may never come to quenchmy thirst, falls with the coldness of death upon my bosom. " "That something may be found by every human being, if sought for inthe right way. Those yearnings are not given us, that they may fallback and wither the fountain from which they spring. But thequestion is, do we seek for happiness in the right way? Do we notrather ask for an impossibility, when we ask for permanent bliss, before we have laid a foundation in our souls for it? You wish totake this life too easy by far, my son; rouse up all your strength, look around you with the keenness of a resolved spirit, and seek toregenerate your whole being, --let that be your object, and let thedesire for happiness be subservient to it. You will clasp joy toyour breast, as an everlasting gift, at the end of the race. Whatare your aims and objects? You hardly know; you are in pursuit ofthat which flees, before you as a shadow, and your restless spiritsinks and murmurs, --you have no grand object in view, to buoy you upsteadily and trustfully through every ill which life has power tobestow. Those very ills are seized upon, and become instruments ofglory to the devoted and heaven-strengthened spirit, --they preparefor a deeper draught of all things dear and desired, and though thesoul droop beneath the weight of human suffering, yet the rod thatsmites is kissed with a prayer. Turn away from your individual self, as far as you can, and regard the broad world with a philanthropiceye--" "Impossible--impossible!" interrupted Alfred, hastily, "I defy anyperson to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a moreinterested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may bephilanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating thedistresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossiblethat our individual selves will not always be first in interest. Asudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but afterthat rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, findthat we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what Isincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case, even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour inthe world!" "Softly, my good friend, " said the grandfather, mildly smiling. "Ialso hold it to be impossible that we can lose either ourindividuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe itpossible that we may love others just as well, if not better thanourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom wemay admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures. " "I cannot even conceive of such a love!" returned the young man, shaking his head. "I cannot see how I could love a person whopossesses no attractive qualities whatever;--I always feelindifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life toone I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, Ithink I might give pain to that same person many times, bygratifying myself. For instance, grandfather, --suppose you were tobe led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow, --I would take yourplace to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add toyour happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in thewoods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be morepleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek andLatin. " "Very true!" sighed the old man. "You prove your own position, whichis that your ruling love is self-love. " Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact. We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to haveold us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, "It isuniversally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it, appear calm and resigned, and often happy--but, to tell the truth, such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom, to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. Ilove, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of anykind. " "Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your ownimposing either. " "What kind of a yoke?" "The yoke of society, --you bow to public opinion in a measure. Youavoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be _approved_, than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that thecase sometimes?" Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was toocandid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided"yes!" but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out ofthe self-evident conviction forced upon him. "Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern thestrongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?" pursued hisgrandfather. "Certainly not degrading, --it is in the highest degree worthy ofpraise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it. " "And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from thisgovernment, tame and flat. " "I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smoothkind which is current, and seems more passive than active, --thatsoft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut upthe soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely toeverything noble and generous, wherever it may be found. " "It was not genuine virtue, you referred to, then, --it was only itsresemblance. " "It was what passes for virtue. But to come at the main point, grandfather;--where is happiness to be found, if we are to bewarring with ourselves during a lifetime, checking every naturalspring in the soul?" "Stop there, Alfred! We only quench the streams, which prevent thespirit's purest wells of noble and happy feelings from gushing forthin freedom. We must wage a warfare, it is true; why conceal it? Butit does not last for ever, and intervals of gladness come to refreshus, which the worn and blunted spirit of the man of pleasure in vainpants for. An exquisite joy, innocent as that of childhood, pervadesthe bosom of truth's soldier in his hours of peace and rest, and helifts an eye of rapture to heaven--to God. " Alfred dwelt earnestly upon the noble countenance of the speaker, and his bosom filled with unwonted emotion, as the heavenlysweetness of the old man's smile penetrated into his inward soul. Goodness stood before him in its wonderful power, and he bowed downhis soul in worship. How insignificant then seemed his individualyearnings after present enjoyment, instead of that celestial lovewhich can fill a human soul with so strong a power from on high. Hereflected upon that venerable being's life--so strong and upright;he dwelt upon his large and noble heart, which could clasp the worldin its embrace. He remembered months of acute suffering, bothphysical and mental, which had been endured with the stillness of amartyr's inward strength; and then, too, he recalled times when thataged heart was more truly and deeply joyful than his own youngspirit had even been. Both relapsed into the eloquent silence ofabsorbing thought. It was evident from the softened and meditativecast of Alfred's features, that his bitterness had given way to thetrue tenderness of feeling it so often quelled; he revolved in hismind all that had been advanced by his grandfather, and he dweltupon every point with candour and serious reflection. A strongimpression was made upon him, but he was entirely silent in regardto it, --he waited to try his strength, before he spoke of the betterresolutions that were formed, not without effort, in his mind. Hefelt a conviction that a change from selfishness to angelic charitymight be accomplished, if he were but willing to co-operate with hisMaker, --the conception of universal love slowly dawned upon hissoul, now turned heavenward for light, --his duties as a responsiblebeing came before him, and a sigh of reproach was given to the past. Then golden visions of delight thronged up to his gaze, and it waswith a severe pang he thought of losing his, hold upon the deardomains of idle fancy, --he had so revelled for hours and hours, inintoxicating dreams, which shut out the world and stern duty. Hefelt his weakness, but he resolutely turned from dwelling upon it. The evening air was refreshing after the warm sunset, but old Mr. Monmouth would not trust himself to bear it. Alfred went into thehouse with him, and made a brief call, then left, and wended his waya short distance to his own home, which was a very elegant mansion, surrounded by every mark of luxury and taste. He immediately soughthis chamber, and took up a neglected Bible which his mother hadgiven him when a child, --he turned over its leaves, and his eyesfell upon the one hundred and nineteenth psalm, "Thy word is a lampunto my feet, and a light upon my path. I have sworn, and I willperform it, that I will keep thy righteous judgments. " He read on, and the exceeding beauty and touching power of the Holy Word hadnever so deeply affected him, --he wept, and all that was harsh inhis nature melted, --he prayed, and the angels of God approached, filling his uplifted soul with heavenly strength. Sweet was thethrill of thanksgiving, that arose from that hitherto restlessspirit--quiet and blest the peace that hushed him to deep, invigorating slumber. Persons of an enthusiastic temperament are aptto fall into extremes; such was the case with Alfred Monmouth. He sofeared that he would fall back into his former states of feeling, that he guarded himself like an anchorite. For three months heabstained from going into company, and even reasonable enjoyment hedeprived himself of. He threw aside all books but scientific andreligious ones; even poetry he shut his ears against, lest it mightbeguile him again to his dreamy, but selfish musings. No doubt thissevere discipline was very useful to him at the time, instrengthening him against the besetting faults of his character; butit could not last long, without originating other errors. Duringthis time he had been, perhaps, as happy as ever in his life; hismind had been fixed upon an object, and a wealth of new thoughts hadcrowded upon him--he rejoiced with a kind of proud humility in hiscapability for self-government. He thought he was rapidly vergingtowards perfection. But "a change came o'er the spirit of his dream"at last, and an unwonted melancholy grew upon him, until it settledlike a pall over his heart. An apathy in regard to what had solately interested him, stole over him, and indeed a cold glance fellupon almost every pursuit he had once prized. Plunged in deep gloom, he one evening sought his grandfather's dwelling, hoping, by aconversation with the cheerful old man, to regain a more healthystate of mind; to his great satisfaction, Alfred found him alonereading. "Well, my boy, I am glad you have come in!" was the salutation, witha most cordial smile, for Mr. Monmouth had silently remarked thelate alteration in his somewhat reckless grandson. He also detectedthe present gloom upon his fine countenance, and the earnest hope ofdispelling it, added an affectionate heartiness to his manner. Alfred made several common-place remarks, then, with his usualimpatience, he flung aside all preamble, and said, "I am gloomy, grandfather, even more so than I have ever been, and Icannot explain it. The last serious conversation I had with you, produced a strong effect upon me, and for a long time after I wasunusually cheerful and vigorous in mind. I seemed to have imbibedsomething of your spirit--I delighted in the hope of regeneratingmyself, through the aid of Heaven; it seemed as if angels hushed myrestless spirit to repose, and I tried in humility to draw near myGod. Yet I feared for myself, and I withdrew from temptation, fromall society which was uncongenial to my state of mind. I was_content_ for a long time, but now the sadness of apathy overwhelmsme. " "Endeavour, without murmuring, to bear this state of mind, and itwill soon pass off, " remarked Mr. Monmouth. "We must not always flyfrom temptation in every form, my boy, but we must arm ourselvesagainst its attacks, otherwise our usefulness will be greatlylessened. If those who are endeavouring to make themselves better, do so by shunning society, they are rather examples of selfishnessthan benevolent goodness, --the selfishness is unconscious, and sucha course may be followed from a sense of duty. But the glance whichdiscovered this to be duty was not wide enough; it took in only theclaims of self, yet I would not convey the idea, that we have anyone's evils to take care of but our own. We need society, and, however humble we may be, society needs us. We need to be refreshedby the strength of good beings, and we must also contribute ourslight share to those whom Providence wills that we may benefit. Thelife of heaven may thus circulate freely, and increase in poweramong many hearts. Go forward, Alfred, unmindful of your feelings, and pray only to trust in Providence, and to gain a deep desire forusefulness. " "Ah! yes, " returned the young man, earnestly. Light broke in uponhis darkness. "I am glad that I have spoken with you, grandfather, for your words give me strength to persevere. I never knew that Iwas weak until lately. " "Such knowledge is precious, my dear son. We are indeed strongestwhen the hand of humility removes the veil that hides us fromourselves. " "Probably such is, the case, but I cannot realize it. It is witheffort that I drag through the day; I am continually looking towardsthe future, and beholding a thousand perplexing situations where mybesetting sins will be called into action. I see myself incapable ofalways following out the noble principles I have lately adopted. " "As thy day is, so shall thy strength be!" said Mr. Monmouth. "Becareful only to guard yourself against each little stumbling-blockas it presents itself, and your mountains will be changed tomole-hills. Never fear for the future, do as well as you can in thepresent. " "But it is so singular that I should feel thus, when I have beentrying as hard as a mortal could to change my erroneous views, andto regard all the dispensations of Providence with a resigned heart. I have cast the selfish thought of my own earthly happiness from mymind as much as possible. " "And yet there is a repining in your gloominess. You are notsatisfied to bear it. " "Well, perhaps not. I am wrong, --I think that I could submit withtrue fortitude to an outward trial, but there seems so little reasonin my low spirits. Have you ever felt so, grandfather?" "Often; and at such times, I devote myself more earnestly than everto anything which will take my thoughts from myself. " "I will do so!" replied Alfred, firmly. "If my purposes are right inthe sight of Heaven, I will be supported. " "True, my son. " Alfred left the home of his grandsire, more at rest with himself andall the world. Fresh peaceful hopes again sprang up within him, andhe began to see his way clear. He reasoned himself into resignation, and, as day after day went on, he grew grateful for the privilegeand opportunity offered to school his rebellious spirit to order. Four years passed; Alfred was engaged in the busy world, and heshrunk not from it, but rather sought to do his duty in it. Onesummer evening, he was called to enter the large, old-fashionedhouse of his grandfather. His brow was thoughtful, but calm andresigned--he sought a quiet room; it was the chamber of death, --yetwas its stillness beautiful and peaceful; he knelt by a dying couch, and clasped the hand of his aged grandsire--then he wept, but theunbidden tears were those of gratitude. The serenity of heaven wasupon the countenance of the noble old man. "My hour has come, Alfred, " he said, placing one hand upon thebeloved head bowed before him, "and I go hence with thankfulness. Ah! even now, there is a heavenly content in my bosom. The angelsare bending over me, and wait to take my spirit to its home: thereis no mist before my sight, all is clear. The Father of love liftsup my soul in this hour--our parting will be short, my son--" theold man's voice trembled, an infinite tenderness dwelt in his eyes, and Alfred felt that there was a reality in the peace of the dyingone. All the good that he had done him rushed before him, and heexclaimed with humility, "How can I ever repay you, dear grandfather! for all your noblelessons to me?" "I am repaid, " was (sic) the the low reply; "they have brought forthfruit, and I have lived to see it. I trust that you will leave theworld with all the peace that I do, and with deeper goodness in yourspirit. My blessing be upon you, my son!" "Amen!" came low from Alfred's fervent lips. The eyes of the aged one closed in death, and his young disciplewent forth again into the world, made better by the scene he hadwitnessed. A HYMN OF PRAISE. I BLESS Thee for the sunshine on the hills, For Heaven's own dewdrops in the vales below, For rain, the parent cloud alike distils, On the fond bridegroom's joy--the mourner's woe! And for the viewless wind, that gently blows Where'er it listeth, over field and flood, Whence coming, whither going, no man knows, Yet moved in secret at Thy will, Oh, God! E'en now it lifts a ring of shining hair From off the brow close to my bosom pressed-- The loving angels scarce have brows more fair Than this, that looks so peaceful in its rest:-- We bless Thee, Father, for our darling child, Oh, like Thine angels make her, innocent and mild! I rise and bless Thee, for the morning hours; Refreshed and gladdened by a timely rest, When thoughts like bees, rove out among the flowers, Still gathering honey where they find the best: And for the gentle influence of the night, Oh, Heavenly Father! do we bend the knee, That shuts the curtains of our mortal sight, Yet leaves the mind, with range and vision free, For dreams! the solemn, weird, and strange that come And bear the soul to an elysian clime, -- Unveiling splendours of that better home, Where angels minister to sons of time! For all Thy blessings that with sleep descend, Our hearts shall praise Thee, God, our Father and our Friend! AN ANGEL IN EVERY HOUSE. IT is a trite saying, and an unique one, that there is "a skeletonin every house. " That every form however erect, that every facehowever smiling, covers some secret malady of mind that no physiciancan cure. This may be true, and undoubtedly is; but we contend that, as everything has its opposite, there is also an _angel_ in everyhouse. No matter how fallen the inmates, how depressing theircircumstances, there is an angel there to pity or to cheer. It maybe in the presence of a wrinkled body, treading the downward path tothe grave. Or, perhaps, in a cheerful spirit looking upon the illsof life as so many steps toward heaven, if only bravely overcome, and mounted with sinless feet. We knew such an angel once, and it was a drunkard's child. On everyside wherever she moved she saw only misery and degradation, and yetshe did not fall. Her father was brutal, and her mother discouraged, and her home thoroughly comfortless. But she struggled along withangel endurance, bearing with an almost saintly patience theinfirmities of him who gave her existence, and then hourlyembittered it. Night after night, at the hours of ten, twelve, andeven one, barefoot, ragged, shawlless, and bonnetless, has she beento the den of the drunkard, and gone staggering home with her armaround her father. Many a time has her flesh been blue with the markof his hand when she has stepped in between her helpless mother andviolence. Many a time has she sat upon the cold curbstone with hishead in her lap; many a time known how bitter it was to cry forhunger, when the money that should have bought bread was spent forrum. And the patience that the angel wrought with made her young faceshine, so that, though never acknowledged in the courts of thisworld, in the kingdom of heaven she was waited for by assembledhosts of spirits, and the crown of martyrdom ready, lay waiting forher young brow. And she was a martyr. Her gentle spirit went up from at couch ofanguish--anguish brought on by ill-usage and neglect. And never tillthen did the father recognise the angel in the child; never tillthen did his manhood arise from the dust of its dishonour. From herhumble grave, he went away to steep his resolves for the better inbitter tears; and he will tell you to-day, how the memory of hermuch-enduring life keeps him from the bowl: how he goes sometimesand stands where her patient hands have held him, while her cheekcrimsoned at the sneers of those who scoffed at the drunkard'schild. Search for the angels in your households, and cherish them whilethey are among you. It may be that all unconsciously you frown uponthem, when a smile would lead you to a knowledge of their exceedingworth. They may be among the least cared for, most despised; butwhen they are gone with their silent influence, then will you mournfor them as for a jewel of great worth. ANNIE. THE grave is Heaven's gate, they say; And when dear Annie passed away, One calm June morning, I saw upon the heavenly stairs, A band of angels, unawares, Her path adorning. The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; And when dear Annie passed away, A music flowing Filled my sad soul with love and light, That made me seem, by day and night, To Heaven going. The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; And when dear Annie passed away, A saintly whiteness O'erspread the beauty of her face, And filled it with the tender grace Of angel brightness. The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; And when dear Annie passed away, An angel splendid Cast his large glories to the ground, While waves of throbbing music-sound In sweetness blended. The grave is Heaven's gate, they say; And when dear Annie passed away, In holy sweetness-- When life's sad dream with her was o'er, Her white soul stood at Heaven's door, In its completeness. MOTHER. WHEN she changed worlds, and before the time, what was she toothers? A small old, delicate woman. _What was she to us?_ Aradiant, smiling angel, upon whose brow the sunshine of the eternalworld had fallen. We looked into her large, tender eyes, and saw notas others did, that her mortal garment had waxed old and feeble; orif we saw, this, it was no symbol of decay, for beyond and within, we recognised _her_ in all her beauty. Oh! how heavy and bitterwould have been her long and slow decline, if we had seen her growold instead of young! The days that hastened to give her birth intoeternity, grow brighter and brighter, until when memory wanderedback, it had no experiences so sweet as those through which she waspassing. The long life, with its youthful romance, its prosaiccares, its quiet sunshine, and deep tragedies, was culminating toits earthly close; and, like some blessed story that appeals to theheart in its great pathos, the end was drawing, near, all cloudswere rolling away, and she was stepping forth into the brilliance ofprosperity. Selfishness ceased to weep under the light of hercheerful glance, and grew to be congratulation. Beside her couch wesat, and traced with loving fancy the new life soon to open beforeher; with tears and smiles we traced it. Doubts never mingled, forfrom earliest childhood we had no memories of her inconsistent withthe expectations of a Christian. Deep in our souls there laygratitude that her morning drew near; beautiful and amazing itseemed that she would never more bow to the stroke of the chastener;fresh courage descended from on high, as we realized that there wasan end to suffering; it was difficult to credit that her disciplinewas nearly over; how brief it had been, compared with the gloriousexistence it had won her. How passing sweet were her assurances thatshe should leave us awhile longer on earth with childlike trust, knowing that our own souls needed to stay, and that the destiny ofothers needed it! But the future seemed very near to her, and shesaw us gathered around her in her everlasting home. She grew weaker, and said her last words to us. Throughout the last day she said butlittle, but often her tender eyes were riveted upon us; they said"Farewell! farewell!" In the hush of the chamber, a faint, eolian-like strain came from her dying lips; it sounded as if itcame from afar; _then_ the angels were taking her to theircompanionship. She softly fell asleep, resigning her worn-out bodyto us, and _she_ entered heaven. Ah! do we apprehend what a gloriousevent it is for the "pure in heart" to die? We look upon the bride'sbeauty, and see in the vista before her, anguish and tears, and buttransient sunshine. The beauty fades, the splendour of life declinesto the worldly eyes that gaze upon her. Deaf and blind are suchgazers, for the bride may daily be winning imperishable beauty, yetit is not for this world. A most sad and melancholy thing it seemswhen children of a larger growth judge their parents by their frailand decaying bodies, rather than by their spirits. And more deeplysad still is it, when the aged learn through the young to feel thatthe freshness of existence has gone by with them. Gone by? when theyare waiting to be born into a new and vast existence that shall rollon in increasing majesty, and never reach an end! Gone by? when theyhave just entered life, as it were! The glory and sweetness ofliving is _going by_ only with those who are turning away theirfaces from the Prince of Peace. Sweet mother! she is breathingvernal airs now, and with every breath a spring-like life and joyare wafted through her being. Mother beautiful and beloved! somesweet, embryo joy fills the chambers of my heart as I contemplatethe scenes with which she is becoming familiar. Dead and drearywinter robes the earth, and autumn leaves lie under the snow likepast hopes; but what of them? I see only the smile of God'ssunshine. I see in the advancing future, love and peace--onlyinfinite peace! GREAT PRINCIPLES AND SMALL DUTIES. IT is observable that the trivial services of social life are bestperformed, and the lesser particles of domestic happiness are mostskilfully organized, by the deepest and the fairest heart. It is anerror to suppose that homely minds are the best administrators ofsmall duties. Who does not know how wretched a contradiction such arule receives in the moral economy of many a home? how often thedaily troubles, the swarm of blessed cares, the innumerable minutiaeof arrangement in a family, prove quite too much for the generalshipof feeble minds, and even the clever selfishness of strong ones; howa petty and scrupulous anxiety in defending with infiniteperseverance some small and almost invisible point of frugality, andcomfort, surrenders the greater unobserved, and while saving money, ruins minds; how, on the other hand, a rough and unmellowed sagacity_rules_ indeed, and without defeat, but while maintaining in actionthe mechanism of government, creates a constant and intolerablefriction, a gathering together of reluctant wills, a groaning underthe consciousness of force, that make the movements of life fret andchafe incessantly? But where, in the presiding genius of a home, taste and sympathy unite (and in their genuine forms they cannot beseparated)--the intelligent feeling for moral beauty, and the deepheart of domestic love, --with, what ease, what mastery, whatgraceful disposition, do the seeming trivialities of life fall intoorder, and drop a blessing as they take their place! how do thehours steal away, unnoticed but by the precious fruits they leave!and by the self-renunciation of affection, there comes a spontaneousadjustment of various wills; and not an innocent pleasure is lost, not a pure taste offended, nor a peculiar temper unconsidered; andevery day has its silent achievements of wisdom, and every night itsretrospect of piety and love; and the tranquil thoughts, that in theevening meditation come down with the starlight, seem like theserenade of angels, bringing in melody the peace of God! Whereverthis picture is realized, it is not by microscopic solicitude ofspirit, but by comprehension of mind, and enlargement of heart; bythat breadth and nicety of moral view which discerns everything indue proportion, and in avoiding an intense elaboration of trifles, has energy to spare for what is great; in short, by a perceptionakin to that of God, whose providing frugality is on an infinitescale, vigilant alike in heaven and on, earth; whose art colours auniverse with beauty and touches with its pencil the petals of aflower. A soul thus pure and large disowns the paltry rules ofdignity, the silly notions of great and mean, by which fashiondistorts God's real proportions; is utterly delivered from thespirit of contempt; and, in consulting for the benign administrationof life, will learn many a truth, and discharge many ant office, from which lesser beings, esteeming themselves greater, would shrinkfrom as ignoble. But in truth, nothing is degrading which a high andgraceful purpose ennobles; and offices the most menial cease to bemenial, the moment they are wrought in love. What thousand servicesare rendered, ay, and by delicate hands, around the bed of sickness, which, else considered mean, become at once holy and quiteinalienable rights! To smooth the pillow, to proffer the draught, tosoothe or obey the fancies of the delirious will, to sit for hoursas the mere sentinel of the feverish sleep; these things aresuddenly erected, by their relation to hope and life, into sacredprivileges. And experience is perpetually bringing occasions, similar in kind, though of less persuasive poignancy, when a trueeye and a lovely heart will quickly see the relations of thingsthrown into a new position, and calling for a sacrifice ofconventional order to the higher laws of the affections; and alikewithout condescension and without ostentation, will noiselessly takethe post of service and do the kindly deed. Thus it is that thelesser graces display themselves most richly, like the leaves andflowers of life, where there is the deepest and the widest root oflove; not like the staring and artificial blossoms of dry customthat, winter or summer, cannot change; but living petals woven inNature's workshop and folded by her tender skill, opening andshutting morning and night, glancing and trembling in the sunshineand in the breeze. This easy capacity of great affections for smallduties is the peculiar triumph of the highest spirit of love. "OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. " How quietly she lies! Closed are the lustrous eyes, Whose fringed lids, so meek, Rest on the placid cheek; While, round the forehead fair, Twines the light golden hair, Clinging with wondrous grace Unto the cherub face. Tread softly near her, dear ones! Let her sleep, -- I would not have my darling wake to weep. Mark how her head doth rest Upon her snowy breast, While, 'neath the shadow of a drooping curl, One little shoulder nestles like a pearl, And the small waxen fingers, careless, clasp White odorous flowers in their tiny grasp; Blossoms most sweet Crown her pure brow, and cluster o'er her feet, Sure earth hath never known a thing more fair Than she who gently, calmly, slumbers there. Alas! 'tis Death, not sleep, That girds her in its frozen slumbers deep. No balmy breath comes forth From the slight-parted mouth; Nor heaves the little breast, In its unyielding rest; Dead fingers clasp Flowers in unconscious grasp;-- Woe, woe is me, oh! lone, bereaved mother! 'Tis Death that hath my treasure, and none other. No more I hear the voice, Those loving accents made my heart rejoice; No more within my arms Fold I her rosy charms. And, gazing down into the liquid splendour Of the brown eyes serenely, softly tender, Print rapturous kisses on the gentle brow, So cold and pallid now. No more, no more! repining heart, be still, And trust in Him who doeth all things well. Oh, happy little one! How soon her race was run-- Her pain and suffering o'er, Herself from sin secure. Not hers to wander through the waste of years, Sowing in hope, to gather nought but tears; Nor care, nor strife, Dimmed her brief day of life. All true souls cherished her, and fondly strove To guard from every ill my meek white dove. Love, in its essence, Pervaded her sweet presence. How winning were her ways; Her little child-like grace, And the mute pleadings of her innocent eyes, Seizing the heart with sudden, soft surprise, As if an angel, unaware, Had strayed from Heaven, here; And, saddened at the dark and downward road, Averted her meek gaze, and sought her Father, God. In her new spiritual birth, No garments soiled with earth Cling round the little form, that happy strays, Up through the gates of pearl and golden ways, Where sister spirits meet her, And angels joyful greet her. Arrayed in robes of white, She walks the paths of light; Adorning the bright city of our God, The glorious realms by saints and martyr trod! THE OLD VILLAGE CHURCH. TWENTY years! Yes, twenty years had intervened since I left thepleasant village of Brookdale, and not once during all this periodhad I visited the dear old spot that was held more and more sacredby memory. Hundred times had I purposed to do so, yet not until thelapse of twenty years was this purpose fulfilled. Then, sobered bydisappointments, I went back on a pilgrimage, to the home of earlydays. I was just twenty years old when I left Brookdale. My father'sfamily removed at the same time, and this was the reason why I hadnot returned. The heart's strongest attractions were in anotherplace. But the desire to go back revived, after a season ofaffliction and some painful defeats in the great battle of life. Thememory of dear childhood grew so palpable, and produced such anearnest longing to revisit old scenes, that I was constrained toturn my face towards my early home. It was late in the evening of a calm autumnal day, at the close ofthe week, when I arrived at Brookdale. The village inn where Istopped, and at which I engaged lodgings for a few days, was not theold village inn. That had passed away, and a newer and largerbuilding stood in its place. Nor was the old landlord there. Why hadI expected to see him? Twenty years before, he was bent with age. His eyes were dim and his step faltered when last I saw him. It wasbut natural that he should pass away. Still, I felt a shade ofdisappointment when the truth came. He who filled his place wasunknown to me; and, in all his household, not a familiar countenancewas presented. But I solaced myself for this with thoughts of the morrow, when myeyes would look upon long-remembered scenes and faces. The oldhomestead, with its garden and clambering vines--a picture which hadgrown more vivid in my thoughts every year--how earnest was mydesire to look upon it again! There was the deep, pure spring, inwhich, as I bent to drink, I had so often looked upon my mirroredface; and the broad flat stone near by, where I had sat so manytimes. I would sit there again, after tasting the sweet water, andthink of the olden time! The dear old mill, too, with its murmuringwheel glistening in the bright sunshine, and the race, on whose bankI had gathered wild flowers and raspberries? I could sleep but little for thinking of these things, and whenmorning broke, and the sun shone out, I went I forth impatient tosee the real objects which had been so long pictured in my memory. "Am I in Brookdale? No--it cannot be. There is some strange error. Yes--yes--it is Brookdale, for here is the old church. I cannotmistake that. Hark! Yes--yes--it is the early bell! I would know itssound amid a thousand!" On I moved, passing the ancient building whose architect had longsince been called to sleep with his fathers, and over whose wallsand spire time had cast a duller hue. I was eager to reach the oldhomestead. The mill lay between--or, once it did. Only a shapelessruin now remained. The broken wheel, the crumbling walls, and emptyforebay were all that my eyes rested upon, and I paused sadly tomark the wreck which time had made. The race was dry, and overgrownwith elder and rank weeds. A quarter of a mile distant stood outsharply, against the clear sky, a large factory, newly built andthither the stream in which I had once sailed my tiny boat, ordropped my line, had been turned, and the old mill left to silenceand decay. Ah me! I cannot make words obedient to my thoughts ingiving utterance to the disappointment I then felt. A brief space Istood, mourning over the ruins, and then moved on again, a painfulpresentiment fast arising in my heart that all would not be, as Ihad left, it in the white cottage I was seeking. The two great elmsthat stood bending together, as if instinct with a sense ofprotection, above that dear home--where were they? My eyes searchedfor them in vain. "Where is the spring? Surely it welled up here, and this is the waythe clear stream flowed!" Alas! the spring was dried, and scarcely a trace of its formerexistence remained. The broad flat stone was broken. The shadyalcove beneath which the waters came up so cool and clear, had beenremoved. All was naked and barren. Near by stood an old desertedhouse. The door was half open, the windows were broken out, thechimney had fallen, and great patches of the roof had been tornaway. Around, all was in keeping with this. The little garden wascovered with weeds, the fence that once enclosed it was broken down, the old apple-tree that I had loved almost as tenderly as if it hadbeen a human creature, was no more to be seen, and in the placewhere the grape-vine grew was a deep pool of green and stagnantwater. My first impulse was to turn and flee from the place, under apainful revulsion of feeling. But I could not leave the spot thus. For some minutes I stood mournfully leaning on the broken gardengate, and then forced myself to enter beneath the roof where I wasborn, and where I grew up with loving and happy children, under thesunlight of a mother's smile. If there was ruin without, there wasdesolation added to ruin within, but neither ruin nor desolationcould entirely obliterate the forms so well remembered. I passedfrom room to room, now pausing to recall an incident, and nowhurrying on under a sense of pain at seeing a place, hallowed in mythoughts by the tenderest associations of my life, thus abandoned tothe gnawing tooth of decay, and destined to certain and speedydestruction. When I came to my mother's room, emotion grew toopowerful, and a gush of tears relieved the oppressive weight thatlay upon my bosom. There I lingered long, with a kind of mournfulpleasure in this scene of my days of innocence, and lived over yearsof the bygone times. At last I turned with sad feelings from a spot which memory had heldsacred for twenty years; but which, in its change, could be sacredno longer. Material things are called substantial; but it is not so. Change and decay are ever at work upon them; they are unsubstantial. A real substance is the mind, with its thoughts and affections. Forms built there do not decay. How perfectly had I retained inmemory the home of my childhood! Not a leaf had withered, not aflower had faded; nothing had fallen under the scythe of time. Thegreenness and perfection of all were as the mind had received themtwenty years before. But the material things themselves had, in thatbrief space, passed almost wholly away. Yes; it is in the mind thatwe must seek for real substance. Slowly and sadly I turned from the hallowed place, and went backtowards the village inn. No interest for anything in Brookdaleremained, and no surprise was created at the almost totalobliteration of the old landmarks apparent on every hand. My purposewas to leave the place by the early stage that morning, and seek toforget that I had ever returned to the home of my childhood. My way was past the old village church where, Sabbath after Sabbath, for nearly fifteen years, I had met with the worshippers; and as Idrew nearer and nearer the sacred place, I was more and moreimpressed with the fact that, if change had been working busily allaround, his hand had spared the holy edifice. That change had beenthere was plainly to be seen, but he had lingered only a moment, laying his hand gently, as he paused, on the ancient pile. New andtenderer feelings came over me. I could not pass the village church, and so I entered it once more, although it was yet too early for theworshippers to assemble. How familiar all! A year seemed not to haveintervened since I had stood beneath that roof. The deep, archedwindows, the antique pulpit and chancel, the old gallery and organ, the lofty roof, but most of all the broad tablet above the pulpit, and the words "Reverence my Sanctuary: I am the Lord, " were asfamiliar as the face of a dear friend. There was change all around, but no change here in the house of God. Seating myself in the old family pew, I gave my mind up to a floodof crowding associations; and there I sat, scarcely conscious of thepassing time, until the bell sounded clear above me its weeklysummons to the worshippers. And soon they began to assemble, oneafter another coming in, and silently taking their places. Consciousthat I was intruding, I yet remained in the old family pew. Itseemed as if I could not leave it--as if I must sit there andhearken once more to the words of life. And I was there when therightful owners came. I arose to retire, but was beckoned to remain. So I resumed my seat, thankful for the privilege. Group after groupentered, but faces of strangers were all around me. Presently awhite-haired old man came slowly along the aisle, and, entering thechancel, ascended to the pulpit. I had not expected this. Ourminister was far advanced in years when we left the village, yethere he was! How breathlessly did I lean forward to catch the soundof his voice when he arose to read the service! It was the sameimpressive voice, yet lower and somewhat broken. My heart trembled, and tears dimmed my eyes as the sound went echoing through the room. For a time I was a child again. I closed my eyes, and felt that mymother, my sister, and my brothers were with me. I can never forget that morning. When the service closed, and thepeople moved away, I looked from countenance to countenance, but allwere strange, except those of a few old men and women. Stilllingering, I met the minister as he came slowly down the aisletowards the door. He did not know me, for his eyes were dim withage, and I had changed in twenty years. But, when I extended my handand gave my name, he seized it with a quick energy, while a vividlight irradiated his countenance. I will not weary the reader with a detail of the long interview heldthat day with the old minister in his own house. It was good for methat I met him ere leaving Brookdale under the pressure of a firstdisappointment. His words of wisdom were yet in my ears. "As you have found the old church the same, " said he, while holdingmy hand in parting, "amid ruin and change everywhere around, so willyou find the truths which are given for our salvation everimmutable, though mere human inventions of thought are set aside byevery coming generation for new philosophies, and the finer fanciesof more brilliant intellects. Religion is built upon a rock, and thestorms and floods of time cannot move it from its firm foundation. " "THE WORD IS NIGH THEE. " DWELL'ST thou with thine own people? are the joys, The hopes, the blessings of "sweet home" thine own? "The Word is nigh thee;" hear the sacred voice! At morn, bow with thy loved ones round the throne; At noon-tide read and pray; and in the hour When evening's shades close round thee, let the truth Subdue thy heart by its transforming power; That thou, whom God has blessed, may'st serve him from thy youth. Affection's ties oft sunder; and the home Of peace and love, sorrow and death can enter. Art thou, indeed, a mourner? dost thou roam Alone and sad, where late thy joys did centre? "The Word is nigh thee!" and though bitter grief Makes all the future seem one day of sorrow, -- Its words of peace shall grant thee sweet relief; The night of pain and fear shall find a joyous morrow "The Word of God is nigh thee!" let it be The lamp that o'er thy pathway sheds its light, Then, through the mists of error, thou shalt see The way of truth, all radiant and bright, In which of old the sons of God did go, Leaning on Him who was their friend and guide; Nor shall thy heart be faint, thy step be slow, Till thou in Heaven, thy home, shalt triumph by their side The Word of God shall bless thee, in the hour When human hopes and human friends shall fail: It was in health thy portion, and its power Is mightiest even in the gloomy vale. No evil shalt thou fear while He is with thee; The sting of death his hand shall take away, His rod and staff shall comfort thee and cheer thee, And thou with Him shalt dwell through heaven's eternal day. AUNT RACHEL. WE remember as it were yesterday the first time we saw her, thoughit was a brief glance, and she was so quickly forgotten that most ofus had passed into the supper-room and the rest had reached thedoor, heedless of the stranger, when one of our party, perhaps morethoughtful than the others, cast her eyes on the quiet little figurethat stood, near the fire as if irresolute, whether to follow orremain. With lady-like politeness she received the excuses which oneof the gentlemen offered for having preceded her, and entered theroom. She was very slight, and thin, and pale, her, eyes were of a lightgray and her hair inclined to redness, but her forehead, was broadand smooth and, about her thin lips there hovered an expression ofsweetness and repose. We have forgotten now what first led us to feel that beneath thatunprepossessing exterior were concealed the pulses of a warm, generous heart, and the powers of a strong and cultivated mind, butwe remember well the morning that she set her seal upon our heart. It was a clear, cold, brilliant morning in March. The whole broadcountry was covered with a thick crust of hard, glittering snow, andevery tree was encased in ice. The oaks and elms and chestnuts andbeeches from their trunks upward and outward to their minutesttwigs, and the pines and firs with their greenness shining through, sparkled like diamonds and emeralds in the brightness of the sun. O, it was a glorious morning, and we have seldom since been so youngin feeling as never we are sure in years, as when we walked forthinto its bracing air. And Aunt Rachel--she enjoyed it; the broad icyfields, the difficult ascent of the steep slippery hills and the"duckies" down them, and the crackling of the icicles as we thrustour way through the bristling under-brush of those diamond-cressedwoods. We loved even to eat the icicles that hung from the pineswith their pungent flavour, strong as though their pointed leaveshad been steeped in boiling water. It was a pleasure to taste aswell as see the trees. As we entered the "Main Road" and were passing along by the "Asylumfor the Insane, " a clear, pleasant voice from one of the cells inthe upper story, accosted us: "Good morning, ladies. " We looked upand bowed in reply to the salutation. "It is a beautiful morning, "he continued, "and I should like myself to take a walk down on 'MainStreet, ' but my folks have sent me here to be shut up because theysay I am crazy, but I am sure I am not crazy, and I can't see whythey should think so. " And we thought the same as we listened to thecalm, pleasant tones of his voice, till he added, "It will soon makeme beside myself to be with this wild, screaming set; and it doesn'tdo them any good either to shut them up here. What they want is theGrace of God, and I'll put the Grace of God into them. " His voice grew wild and excited, but we knew that a whole volume oftruth had been uttered in those simple words: "What they want is theGrace of God. " The Grace of God. How many has it saved--rescued--from madness! howhave prayer and watchfulness been blest in conquering self, insubduing rampant passion and the wild, disorderly vagaries of thebrain! As we listen, the low whispered prayer of a Hall when he felt thebillows of angry passion about to sweep over his soul, "O, Lamb ofGod, calm my perturbed spirit, " we feel that but for suchinterceding prayer and that watchfulness which accompanied it, theinsanity to which he was temporarily subject would have won the samemastery over the mighty powers of his mind as over those of Swift, and the glory of his "wide fame" as well as the peace of his "humblehope, " would have been exchanged for the vagaries of the madman orthe drivellings of the idiot. The Grace of God. We thought of John Randolph, with his sway overthe minds of others, with a "wit and eloquence that recalled thesplendours of ancient oratory, " yet with so little command overhimself that his weak frame sometimes sank beneath the excitement ofhis temper, and gusts of passion were succeeded by fainting-fits;and when the one desire of his heart was denied, when a love mightyas every other passion of his soul failed him, his grief, ungovernable and frenzied as his rage, overwhelmed him, and the"taint of madness which ran in his line, " flooded his brain. Butwhen the atheist became a Christian; when, in his own words, he felt"the Spirit of God was not the chimera of heated brains, nor adevice of artful men to frighten and cajole the credulous, but anexistence to be felt and understood as the whisperings of one's ownheart;" his prayer of, "Lord! I believe, help thou my unbelief, " wasanswered in calm and peace to his soul. "The saddest thought, " said Aunt Rachel, as we turned away from thatgloomy edifice, "the saddest thought connected with that buildingis, that so large a number of its unhappy inmates have brought theirmisery upon themselves, are the victims of their own irregular andindulged passions. " As we turned and looked upon her smooth brow, her serious and sereneeyes and her sweet, calm mouth, we marked a look of subduedsuffering mingled with an expression of Christian triumph; and weknew that she had felt "the ploughings of grief;" that she hadlearned "how sublime a thing it is to suffer and grow strong;" but, though we wondered deeply, we never knew in what form she had beencalled "to pass under the rod;" but we heard a voice that said, "Fear not; when thou passest through the waters, I will be withthee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee. " Nay, fear not, weak and fainting soul, Though the wild waters round thee roll, He will sustain thy faltering way, Will be thy sure, unfailing stay. And though it were the fabled stream Whose waves were fire of fearful gleam, He still would bear thee safely through The fire, but cleanse thy soul anew. COMETH A BLESSING DOWN. NOT to the man of dollars, Not to the man of deeds, Not to the man of cunning, Not to the man of creeds, Not to the one whose passion Is for a world's renown, Not in a form of fashion, Cometh a blessing down. Not unto land's expansion, Not to the miser's chest, Not to the princely mansion, Not to the blazoned crest, Not to the sordid worldling, Not to the knavish clown, Not to the haughty tyrant, Cometh a blessing down. Not to the folly-blinded, Not to the steeped in shame, Not to the carnal-minded, Not to unholy fame; Not in neglect of duty, Not in the monarch's crown, Not at the smile of beauty, Cometh a blessing down. But to the one whose spirit Yearns for the great and good; Unto the one whose storehouse Yieldeth the hungry food; Unto the one who labours, Fearless of foe or frown; Unto the kindly-hearted, Cometh a blessing down. THE DARKENED PATHWAY. "TO some the sky is always bright, while to others it is never freefrom clouds. There is to me a mystery in this--something that lookslike a partial Providence--for those who grope sadly through life indarkened paths are, so far as human judgment can determine, oftenpurer and less selfish than those who move gayly along in perpetualsunshine. Look at Mrs. Adair. It always gives me the heart-ache tothink of what she has endured in life, and still endures. Once shewas surrounded by all that wealth could furnish of external good;now she is in poverty, with five children, clinging to her forsupport, her health feeble, and few friends to counsel or lend hertheir aid. No woman could have loved a husband more tenderly thanshe loved hers, and few wives were ever more beloved in return; butshe has gathered the widow's weeds around her, and is sitting in thedarkness of an inconsolable grief. What a sweet character was hers!Always loving and unselfish--a very angel on the earth fromchildhood upwards, and yet her doom to tread this darkened pathway!If Heaven smiles on the good--if the righteous are never forsaken, why this strange, hard, harsh Providence in the case of Mrs. Adair?I cannot understand it! God is goodness itself, they say, and lovesHis creatures with a love surpassing the love of a mother; but wouldany mother condemn beloved child to such a cruel fate? No, no, no!From the very depths of my spirit I answer--No! I am only a weak, erring, selfish creature, but--" Mrs. Endicott checked the utterance of what was in her thought, forat the instant another thought, rebuking her for an impiouscomparison of herself with her Maker, flitted across her mind. Yes, she was about drawing a Parallel between herself and a Being ofinfinite wisdom and love, unfavourable to the latter! The sky of Mrs. Endicott had not always been free from clouds. Manytimes had she walked in darkness; and why this was so ever appearedas one of the mysteries of life, for her self-explorations had nevergone far enough to discover those natural evils, the existence ofwhich only a state of intense mental suffering would manifest to herdeeper consciousness. But all she had yet been called to endure, was, she freely acknowledged, light in comparison to what poor Mrs. Adair had suffered, and was suffering daily--and the case of thisfriend gave her a strong argument against the wisdom and justice ofthat Power in the hands of which the children of men are as clay inthe hands of the potter. Even while Mrs. Endicott thus questioned and doubted, a domesticopened the door of the room in which she was sitting, and said, "Mrs. Adair is in the parlour. " "Is she? Say that I will be down in a moment. " Mrs. Endicott felt a little surprised at the coincidence of herthought of her friend and that friend's appearance. It was anotherof those life-mysteries into which her dull eyes could notpenetrate, and gave new occasion for dark surmises in regard to thePower above all, in all, and ruling all. With a sober face, as wasbefitting an interview with one so deeply burdened as Mrs. Adair, she went down to the parlour. "My dear friend!" she said, tenderly, almost sadly, as she took thehand of her visiter. Into the eyes of Mrs. Adair she looked earnestly for the glitteringtear-veil, and upon her lips for the grief curve. To her surpriseneither were there; but a cheerful light in the former and a gentlesmile on the latter. "How are you this morning?" Mrs. Endicott's voice was low and sympathizing. "I feel a little stronger, to-day, thank you, " answered Mrs. Adair, smiling as she spoke. "How is your breast?" "Still very tender. " "And the pain in your side. " "I am not free from that a moment. " Still she smiled as she answered. There was not even a touch ofsadness or despondency in her voice. "Not free a moment! How do you bear it?" "Happily--as I often say to myself--I have no time to think aboutthe pain, " replied Mrs. Adair, cheerfully. "It is wonderful howmental activity lifts us above the consciousness of bodilysuffering. For my part, I am sure that if I had nothing to do but tosit down and brood over my ailments, I would be one of the mostmiserable, complaining creatures alive. But a kind Providence, evenin the sending of poverty to his afflicted one, has but tempered thewinds to the shorn lamb. " Mrs. Endicott was astonished to hear these words, falling, as theydid, with such a confiding earnestness from the pale lips of hermuch-enduring friend. "How can you speak so cheerfully?" she said. "How can you feel sothankful to Him who has shrouded your sky in darkness, and left youto grope in strange paths, on which falls not a single ray oflight?" "Even though the sky is clouded, " was answered, "I know that the sunis shining there as clear and as beautiful as ever. The paths inwhich a wise and good Providence has called me to walk, may bestrange, and are, at times, rough-and toilsome; but you err insaying that no light falls upon them. "But the sky is dark--whence comes the light, Mrs. Adair?" "Don't you remember the beautiful hymn written by Moore? It is to meworth all he ever penned besides. How often do I say it over tomyself, lingering with a warming heart and a quickening pulse, onevery word of consolation!" And in the glow of her fine enthusiasm, Mrs. Adair repeated-- "Oh, Thou, who dry'st the mourner's tear, How dark this world would be, If, when deceived and wounded here, We could not fly to Thee! The friends, who in our sunshine live, When winter comes, are flown; And he who has but tears to give, Must weep those tears alone. But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe. "When joy no longer soothes or cheers, And e'en the hope that threw A moment's sparkle o'er our tears Is dimmed and vanished, too, Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, Did not Thy wing of Love Come, brightly wafting through the gloom Our Peace-branch from above? Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright With more than rapture's ray _As darkness shows us worlds of light_ _We never saw by day. _" "None, " said Mrs. Adair, "but those who have had the sky of theirearthly affections shrouded in darkness, can fully understand theclosing words of this consolatory hymn. Need I now answer yourquestion, 'Whence comes the light?' There is an inner world Mrs. Endicott--a world full of light, and joy, and consolation--a worldwhose sky is never darkened, whose sun is never hidden by clouds. When we turn from all in this life that we vainly trusted, and liftour eyes upward towards the sky, bending over our sad spirits, anunexpected light breaks in upon us, and we see a new firmament, glittering with myriads of stairs, whose light is fed from thatinner world where the sun shines for ever undimmed. Oh, no, I do nottread a darkened pathway, Mrs. Endicott. There is light upon it fromthe Sun of heaven, and I am walking forward, weary at times, it maybe, but with unwavering footsteps. I have been tried sorely, it istrue--I have suffered, oh how deeply! and yet I can say, and do say, it is good for me that I was afflicted. But I meant not to speak somuch of myself, and you must forgive the intrusion. Self, you know, is ever an attractive theme. I have called this morning to try andinterest you in a poor woman who lives next door to me. She is veryill, and I am afraid will die. She has two children, almostbabes--sweet little things--and if the mother is taken they will beleft without a home or a friend, unless God puts it into the heartof some one to give them both. I have been awake half the night, thinking about them, and debating the difficult question of my dutyin the case. I might make room for one of them--" "You!" Mrs. Endicott interrupted her in a voice of unfeignedastonishment. "You! How can you give place a moment to such athought, broken down in health as you are and with five children ofyour own clinging to you for support? It would be unjust to yourselfand to them. Don't think of such a thing. " "That makes the difficulty in the case, " replied Mrs. Adair. "Thespirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. My heart is large enoughto take both of them in; but I have not strength enough to bear theadded burden. And so I have come around this morning to see if Icannot awaken your interest. They are dear, sweet children, and willcarry sunshine and a blessing into any home that opens to receivethem. " "But why, my friend, " said Mrs. Endicott, "do you, whose time is soprecious--who have cares, and interests, and anxieties of your own, far more than enough for one poor, weak woman to bear, burdenyourself with a duty like this? Leave the task to others more fittedfor the work. " "There are but few who can rightly sympathize with that mother andher babes; and I am one of the few. Ah! my kind friend, none but themother, who like me has been brought to the verge of eternity, cantruly feel for one in like circumstances. I have looked at my ownprecious ones, as I felt the waves of time sweeping my feet fromtheir earthly resting place, and wept bitter tears as no answer cameto the earnest question, 'Who will love them, who will care for thewhen I am taken?' You cannot know, Mrs. Endicott, how profoundlythankful to God I am, that He spares my life, and yet gives mestrength to do for my children. I bless His name for this tendermercy towards me when I lie down at night, and when I rise up in themorning, I bear every burden, I endure every pain cheerfully, hopefully, even thankfully. It is because I can understand the heartof this dying mother, and feel for her in her mortal extremity, thatI undertake her cause. You have only one child, my friend, and sheis partly grown. 'A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure. 'Is it not so? Take one, or even both of these children, if themother dies. They are the little ones who are born upon the earth, in order that they may become angels in Heaven. They are of God'skingdom, and precious in His eyes. Nurture and raise them up forHim. Come! oh, come with me to the bedside of this dying mother, andsay to her, 'Give me your babes, and I will shelter them in myheart. ' So doing, you will open for yourself a perennial fountain ofdelight. The picture of that poor mother's joyful face, paintedinstantly by love's bright sunbeams on your memory, will be a sourceof pleasure lasting as eternity. Do not neglect this goldenopportunity, nor leave other hands to gather the blessings which lieabout your feet. " That earnest plea was echoed from the heart of Mrs. Endicott. Thebeautiful enthusiasm, so full of a convincing eloquence, prevailed;and the woman in whose heart the waters of benevolence were growingstagnant, and already sending up exhalations that were hiding theSun of heaven, felt a yearning pity for the dying mother, and wasmoved by an unselfish impulse toward her and her babes. Half an hourafterwards she was in the sick-chamber; and ere leaving had receivedfrom the happy mother the solemn gift of her children, and seen hereyes close gently as her spirit took its tranquil departure for itsbetter home. "God will bless you, madame!" All the dying mother's thankfulness was compressed into these words, and her full heart spent itself in their utterance. Far away, in the inner depths of Mrs. Endicott's spirit--very faraway--the words found an echo; and as this echo came back to herears, she felt a new thrill of pleasure that ran deeper down theelectric chain of feelings than emotion had ever, until now, penetrated. There were depths and capacities in her being unknownbefore; and of this she had now a dim perception. Her action wasunselfish, and to be unselfish is to be God-like--for God acts froma love of blessing others. To be God-like in her action brought hernearer the Infinite Source of what is pure and holy; and allproximity in this direction gives its measure of interiordelight--as all retrocession gives its measure of darkness anddisquietude. "God will bless you!" Mrs. Endicott never ceased hearing these words, and she felt them tobe a prophecy. And God did bless her. In bestowing love and careupon the motherless little ones, she received from above double forall she gave. In blessing, she was twice blessed. About them herheart entwined daily new tendrils, until her own life beat withtheirs in even pulses, and to seek their good was the highest joy ofher existence. Still there were times when Mrs. Endicott felt that to some God wasnot just in his dispensations, and the closer she observed Mrs. Adair, the less satisfied was she that one so pure-minded, sounselfish, so earnest to impart good to others, should be so hardlydealt by--should be compelled to grope through life with painfulsteps along a darkened way. "There is a mystery in all this which my dim vision fails topenetrate, " she said one day, to Mrs. Adair. "But we see here onlyin part--I must force myself into the belief that all is right. Isay _force_, for it is indeed force-work. " "To me, " was answered, "there is no longer a mystery here. I havebeen led by at way that I knew not. For a time I moved along thisway, doubting, fearing trembling--but now I see that it is the rightway, and though toilsome at times, yet it is winding steadilyupwards, and I begin to see the sunshine resting calmly on themountain-tops. Flowers, too, are springing by the wayside--few theyare, as yet, but very fragrant. " Mrs. Adair paused for a moment, and then resumed, "It may sound strange to you, but I am really happier than when allwas bright and prosperous around me. " Mrs. Endicott looked surprised. "I am a better woman, and therefore happier. I do not say thisboastfully, but only to meet your question. I am a more usefulwoman, and therefore happier, for, as I have learned, inward peaceis the sure reward of benefits conferred. The doing of good toanother, from an unselfish end, brings to the heart its purestpleasure; and is not that the kindest Providence which leads us, nomatter by what hard experiences, into a state of willingness to livefor others instead of for ourselves alone? The dying mother, whosegift to you has proved so great--a good, might have passed away, though her humble abode stood beside the elegant residence I calledmy home, without exciting more than a passing wave ofsympathy--certainly without filling my heart with the yearningdesire to make truly peaceful her last moments, which led to thehappy results that followed her efforts in my behalf. My children, too; you have often lamented that it is not so well with them as itwould have been had misfortune not overshadowed us, --but I am not sosure of that. I believe that all external disadvantages will be morethan counterbalanced by the higher regard I have been led to take inthe development of what is good and true in their characters. I nowsee them as future men and women, for whose usefulness and happinessI am in a great measure responsible; and as my views of life havebecome clearer, and I trust wiser, through suffering, I am farbetter able, under all the disadvantages of my position, to securethis great end than I was before. " "But the way is hard for you--very hard, " said Mrs. Endicott. "It is my preparation for Heaven, " replied the patient sufferer, while a smile, not caught from earth, made beautiful hercountenance. "If my Heavenly Father could have made the waysmoother, He would have done so. As it is, I thank Him daily for theroughness, and would not ask to have a stone removed or a roughplace made even. " LOOK ON THIS PICTURE. O, IT is life! departed days Fling back their brightness while I gaze-- 'Tis Emma's self--this brow so fair, Half-curtained in this glossy hair, These eyes, the very home of love, The dark thin arches traced above, These red-ripe lips that almost speak, The fainter blush of this pure cheek, The rose and lily's beauteous strife-- It is--ah, no! 'tis all _but_ life. 'Tis all _but_ life--art could not save Thy graces, Emma, from the grave; Thy cheek is pale, thy smile is past, Thy love-lit eyes have looked their last, Mouldering beneath the coffin's lid, All we adored of thee is hid; Thy heart, where goodness loved to dwell, Is throbless in the narrow cell: Thy gentle voice shall charm no more, Its last, last joyful note is o'er. Oft, oft, indeed, it hath been sung, The requiem of the fair and young; The theme is old, alas! how old, Of grief that will not be controlled, Of sighs that speak a father's woe, Of pangs that none but mothers know, Of friendship with its bursting heart, Doomed from the idol-one to part-- Still its sad debt must feeling pay, Till feeling, too, shall pass away. O say, why age, and grief, and pain, Shall long to go, but long in vain? Why vice is left to mock at time, And gray in years, grow gray in crime; While youth, that every eye makes glad, And beauty, all in radiance clad, And goodness, cheering every heart, Come, but come only to depart; Sunbeams, to cheer life's wintry day, Sunbeams, to flash, then fade away? 'Tis darkness all! black banners wave Round the cold borders of the grave; Then when in agony we bend O'er the fresh sod that hides a friend, One only comfort then we know-- We, too, shall quit this world of woe; We, too, shall find a quiet place With the dear lost ones of our race; Our crumbling bones with theirs shall blend, And life's sad story find an end. And _is_ this all--this mournful doom? Beams no glad light beyond the tomb? Mark how yon clouds in darkness ride; They do not quench the orb they hide; Still there it wheels--the tempest o'er, In a bright sky to burn once more; So, far above the clouds of time, Faith can behold a world sublime-- There, when the storms of life are past, The light beyond shall break at last. THE POWER OF KINDNESS. HOW much comprised in the simple word, _kindness!_ One kind word, oreven one mild look, will oftentimes dispel thick gathering gloomfrom the countenance of an affectionate husband, or wife. When thetemper is tried by some inconvenience or trifling vexation, andmarks of displeasure are depicted upon the countenances and perhaps, too, that most "unruly of all members" is ready to vent its spleenupon the innocent husband or wife, what will a kind mien, a pleasantreply, accomplish? Almost invariably perfect harmony and peace arethus restored. These thoughts were suggested by the recollection of a littledomestic incident, to which I was a silent, though not uninterestedspectator. During the summer months of 1834, I was spending severalweeks with a happy married pair, who had tasted the good and ills oflife together only a twelvemonth. Both possessed many amiablequalities, and were well calculated to promote each other'shappiness. My second visit to my friends was of a week's duration, in the month of December. One cold evening the husband returned homeat his usual hour at nine o'clock, expecting to find a warm fire forhis reception, but, instead, he found a cheerless, comfortless room. His first thought, no doubt, was, that it was owing to thenegligence of his wife, and, under this impression, in rather asevere tone, he said, "This is too bad; to come in from the office cold, and find no fire;I really should have thought you might have kept it. " I sat almost breathless, trembling for the reply. I well knew it wasno fault of hers, for she had wasted nearly all the evening, andalmost exhausted her patience, in attempting to kindle a fire. Shein a moment replied, with great kindness, "Why my dear, I wonder what is the matter with our stove! We musthave something done to-morrow, for I have spent a great deal of timein vain to make a fire. " This was said in such a mild, pleasant tone, that it had the mosthappy effect. If she had replied at that moment, when his feelingswere alive to supposed neglect, "I don't know who is to blame; Ihave done my part, and have been freezing all the evening for mypains. If the stove had been put up as it should have been, allwould have been well enough. " This, said in an unamiable, peevishtone, might have added "fuel to the fire, " and this little breezemight have led to more serious consequences; but fortunately, hermild reply restored perfect serenity. The next day the stove wastaken down, and the difficulty, owing to some defect in the flue, was removed. What will not a kind word accomplish? SPEAK KINDLY. SPEAK kindly, speak kindly! ye know not the power Of a kind and gentle word, As its tones in a sad and weary hour By the trouble heart are heard. Ye know not how often it falls to bless The stranger in his weariness; How many a blessing is round thee thrown By the magic spell, of a soft, low tone. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of the sad and lonely, they're dear, how dear, And they nothing cost. Speak kindly to childhood. Oh, do not fling A cloud o'er life's troubled sky; But cherish it well--a holy thing Is the heart in its purity. Enough of sorrow the cold world hath, Enough of care in its later path, And ye do a wrong if ye seek to throw O'er the fresh young spirit a shade of woe. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of joyous childhood, they're dear, how dear-- And they nothing cost. Speak gently to age--a weary way Is the rough and toilsome road of life, As one by one its joys decay, And its hopes go out 'mid its lengthened strife. How often the word that is kindly spoken, Will bind up the heart that is well nigh broken, Then pass not the feeble and aged one With a cold, and careless, and slighting tone; But kindly, speak kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of the care-worn and weary, they're dear, how dear-- And they nothing cost. Speak kindly to those who are haughty and cold, Ye know not the thoughts that are dwelling there; Ye know not the feelings that struggle untold-- Oh, every heart hath its burden of care. And the curl of the lip, and the scorn of the eye Are often a bitter mockery, When a bursting heart its grief would hide From the eye of the world 'neath a veil of pride. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of the proud and haughty they're often dear, And they nothing cost. Speak kindly ever--oh, cherish well The light of a gentle tone; It will fling round thy pathway a magic spell, A charm that is all its own. But see that it springs from a gentle heart, That it need not the hollow aid of art; Let it gush in its joyous purity, From its home in the heart all glad and free. Speak kindly, then, kindly; there's nothing lost By gentle words--to the heart and ear Of all who hear them they're dear, how dear-- And they nothing cost. HAVE PATIENCE. IT was Saturday evening, about eight o clock. Mary Gray had finishedmangling, and had sent home the last basket of clothes. She hadswept up her little room, stirred the fire, and placed upon it asaucepan of water. She had brought out the bag of oatmeal, a basin, and a spoon, and laid them upon the round deal table. The place, though very scantily furnished, looked altogether neat andcomfortable. Mary now sat idle by the fire. She was not often idle. 'She was a pale, delicate-looking woman, of about five-and-thirty. She looked like ones who had worked beyond her strength, and herthin face had a very anxious, careworn expression. Her dress showedsigns of poverty, but it was scrupulously clean and neat. As it grewlater, she seemed to be listening attentively for the approach ofsome one; she was ready to start up every time a step came near herdoor. At length a light step approached, and did not go by it; itstopped, and there was a gentle tap at the door. Mary's pallid facebrightened, and in a moment she had let in a fine, intelligent-lookinglad, about thirteen years of age, whom she welcomed with evidentdelight. "You are later than usual to-night, Stephen, " she said. Stephen did not reply; but he threw off his cap, and placed himselfin the seat Mary had quitted. "You do not look well to-night, dear, " said Mary anxiously; "isanything the matter?" "I am quite well, mother, " replied the boy. "Let me have my supper. I am quite ready for it. " As he spoke, he turned away his eyes from Mary's inquiring look. Mary, without another word, set herself about preparing the supper, of oatmeal porridge. She saw that something was wrong with Stephen, and that he did not wish to be questioned, so she remained silent. In the mean time Stephen had placed his feet on the fender, restedhis elbows on his knees, and his head on his hands. His handscovered his face; and, by and by, a few large tears began to trickledown his fingers. Then suddenly dashing off his tears, as though hewere ashamed of them, he showed his pale, agitated face, and said, in a tone of indignation and resolve, "Mother, I am determined I will bear it no longer. " Mary was not surprised. She finished pouring out the porridge; then, taking a stool, she seated herself beside him. "Why, Stephen, " she said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how manyhundred times before have you made that resolution! But what's thematter now? Have you any new trouble to tell me of?" Stephen answered by silently removing with his hand some of histhick curly hair, and showing beneath it an ear bearing the tooevident marks of cruel usage. "My poor boy!" exclaimed Mary, her tears starting forth. "Could hebe so cruel?" "It is nothing, mother, " replied the boy, sorry to have called forthhis mother's tears. "I don't care for it. It was done in a passion, and he was sorry for it after. " "But what could you have done, Stephen, to make him so angry withyou?" "I was selling half a quire of writing paper to a lady: he countedthe sheets after me, and found thirteen instead of only twelve; theyhad stuck together so that I took two for one. I tried to explain, but he was in a passion, and gave me a blow. The lady said somethingto him about his improper conduct, and he said that I was such a_careless little rascal_, that he lost all patience with me. Thathurt me a great deal more than the blow. It was a falsehood, and heknew it; but he wanted to excuse himself. I felt that I was goinginto a passion, too, but I thought of what you are always telling meabout patience and forbearance, and I kept down my passion; I knowhe was sorry for it after, from the way he spoke to me, though hedidn't say so. " "I have no doubt he suffered more than you, Stephen, " said Mary; "hewould be vexed that he, had shown his temper before the lady, vexedthat he had told a lie, and vexed that he had hurt you when you boreit so patiently. "Yes, mother, but that doesn't make it easier for me to bear his illtemper; I've borne it now for more than a year for your sake, and Ican bear it no longer. Surely I can get something to do; I'm sturdyand healthy, and willing to do any kind of work. " Mary shook her head, and remained for a long time silent andthoughtful. At length she said, with a solemn earnestness of mannerthat almost made poor Stephen cry, "You say that, for my sake, you have borne your master's unkindtreatment for more than a year; for my sake, bear it longer, Stephen. Your patience must, and will be rewarded in the end. Youknow how I have worked, day and night, ever since your poor fatherdied, when you were only a little infant in the cradle, to feed andclothe you, and to pay for your schooling, for I was determined thatyou should have schooling; you know how I have been cheered in allmy toil by the hope of seeing you, one day, getting on in the world, And I know, Stephen, that you will get on. You are good, honest lad, and kind to your poor mother, and God will reward you. But not ifyou are hasty; not if you are impatient. You know how hard it wasfor me to get you this situation; you might not get another; youmust not leave; you must not break your indentures; you must bepatient and industrious still; you have a hard master, and, Godknows, it costs me many at heartache to think of what you have tosuffer; but bear with him, Stephen; bear with him, for my sake, afew years longer. " Stephen was now fairly crying and his mother kissed off his tears, while her own flowed freely. Her appeal to his affection was not invain. He soon smiled through his tears, as he said, "Well, mother, you always know how to talk me over, When I came into-night I did think that I would never go the shop again. But Iwill promise you to be patient and industrious still. Consideringall that you have, done for me, this is little enough for me to dofor you. When I have a shop of my own, you shall live like a lady. I'll trust to your word that I shall be sure to get on, if I ampatient and industrious, though I don't see how it's to be. --It'snot so very bad to bear after all; and, bad as my master is, there'sone comfort, he lets me have my Saturday nights and blessed Sundayswith you. Well, I feel happier now, and I think I can eat my supper. We forgot that my porridge was getting cold all this time. " Stephen kept his word; day after day, and month after month, hispatience and industry never flagged. And plenty of trials, poorfellow, he had for his fortitude. His master, a small stationer in asmall country town, to whom Stephen was bound apprentice for fiveyears, with a salary barely sufficient to keep him in clothes, was alittle, spare, sharp-faced man, who seemed to have worn himself awaywith continual fretfulness and vexation. He was perpetuallyfretting, perpetually finding fault with something or other, perpetually thinking that everything was going wrong. Though he didcease to go into a passion with, and to strike Stephen, the poor ladwas an object always at hand, on which to vent his ill-humour, Many, many times was Stephen on the point of losing heart and temper; buthe was always able to control himself by thinking of his mother. And, as he said, there was always comfort in those Saturday nightsand blessed Sundays. A long walk in the country on those blessedSundays, and the Testament readings to his mother, would alwaysstrengthen his often wavering faith in her prophecies of good in theend, would cheer his spirits, and nerve him with a fresh resolutionfor the coming week. And what was it that the widow hoped wouldresult from this painful bondage? She did not know; she only hadfaith in her doctrine--that patience and industry would some time berewarded. _How_ the reward was to come in her son's case, she couldnot see. It seemed likely, indeed, from all appearances, that thedoctrine in this case would prove false. But still she had faith. It was now nearly four years since the conversation between motherand son before detailed. They were together again on the Saturdayevening. Stephen had grown into a tall, manly youth, with a gentle, kind, and thoughtful expression of countenance. Mary looked mucholder, thinner, paler, and more anxious. Both were at this momentlooking very downcast. "I do not see that anything can be hoped from him, " said Stephen, with a sigh. "I have now served him faithfully for five years; Ihave borne patiently all his ill-humour; I have never been absent amoment from my post; and during all that time, notwithstanding allthis, he has never thanked me, he has never so much as given me asingle kind word, nor even a kind look. He must know thatapprenticeships will be out on Tuesday, yet he never says a word tome about it, and I suppose I must just go without a word. " "You must speak to him, " said Mary; "you cannot leave without sayingsomething; and tell him exactly how you are situated; he cannotrefuse to do something to help you. " "It is easy to talk of speaking to him, mother, but not so easy todo it. I have often before thought of speaking to him, of tellinghim how very, very poor we are, and begging a little more salary. But I never could do it when I came before him. I seemed to feelthat he would refuse me, and I felt somehow too proud to ask afavour that would most likely be refused. But it shall be done now, mother; I will not be a burthen upon you, if I can help it. I'dsooner do anything than that. He _ought_ to do something for me, andthere's no one else that I know of that can. I will speak to him onMonday. " Monday evening was come; all day Stephen had been screwing up hiscourage for the task he had to do; of course it could not be donewhen his master and he were in the shop together, for there theywere liable at any moment to be interrupted. At dinner-time theyseparated; for they took the meal alternately, that the post in theshop might never be deserted. But now the day's work was over:everything was put away, and master and apprentice had retired intothe little back parlour a to take their tea. As usual, they werealone, for the stationer was a single man (which might account forthe sourness of his temper), and the meal was usually taken insilence, and soon after it was over they would both retire to bed, still in silence. Stephen's master had poured out for him his firstcup of tea, handed it to him without looking at him, and begun toswallow his own potion. Stephen allowed his cup to remain before himuntouched; he glanced timidly towards his master, drew a deepbreath, coloured slightly, and then began:-- "If you please, sir, I wish to speak to you. " His master looked up with a sudden jerk of the head, and fixed hiskeen gray eyes on poor Stephen's face. He did not seem at allsurprised, but said sharply (and he had a very sharp voice), "Well, sir, speak on. " Stephen was determined not to be discouraged, so he began to tellhis little tale. His voice faltered at first, but as he went on hebecame quite eloquent. He spoke with a boldness which astonishedhimself. He forgot his master, and thought only of his mother. Hetold all about her poverty, and struggles to get a living. He dweltstrongly, but modestly, on his own conduct during his apprenticeship, and finished by entreating his master now to help him to do something, for he had nothing in the world to turn to, no friends, no money, noinfluence. His master heard him to an end. He had soon withdrawn his eyes fromStephen's agitated face, then partially averted his own face, thenleft his seat, and advanced to a side table, where he began torummage among some papers, with his back to Stephen. Stephen had ceased speaking some time before he made any reply. Thenstill without turning round, he spoke, beginning with a sort ofgrunting ejaculation--"Humph! so your mother gets her living bymangling, does she? and she thought that if she got you someschooling, and taught you to behave yourself, your fortune would bemade. Well, you will be free to-morrow; you may go to her and tellher she is a fool for her pains. Here are your indentures, andhere's the salary that's due to you. Now you may go to bed. " As he spoke the last words, he had taken the indentures from a desk, and the money from his purse. Stephen felt a choking sensation inhis throat as he took from his hands the paper and the money; hewould even have uttered the indignation he felt, but, before hecould speak, his master left the room. Disappointed and heart-sick, and feeling humiliated that he should have asked a favour of such aman, the poor lad retired to his garret, and it was almost time toget up in the morning before he could fall asleep. On the Tuesday, when the day's work was over, Stephen packed up his bundle ofclothes;--should he say good-bye to his master? Yes; he would not beungracious at the last. He opened the door of the back parlour, andstood just within the door-way, his bundle in his hand. His masterwas sitting, solitary, at the tea-table. "I am going, sir, good-bye, " said Stephen. "Good-bye, sir, " returned his master, without, looking at him. Andso they parted. The result of the application told, the mother and the son sattogether that night in silence; their hearts were too full forwords. Mary sorrowed most, because she had hoped most. Bitter tearsrolled down her cheeks, as she sat brooding over her disappointment. Stephen looked more cheerful, for his mind was busy trying to formplans for the future--how he should go about to seek for anothersituation, &c. Bed-time came; both rose to retire to rest. Stephenhad pressed his mother's hand, and was retiring, saying as he went, "Never mind, mother, it'll all be right yet, " when they werestartled by a loud rap at the door. "Who's there?" shouted Stephen. "A letter for you, " was the reply. Stephen thought there was some mistake, but he opened the door. Aletter was put into his hand, and the bearer disappeared. Surprised, Stephen held the letter close to the rush-light Mary was carrying. He became still more surprised; it was addressed to Mrs. Gray, thatwas his mother, and he thought he knew the handwriting; it was verylike his master's. Mary's look of wonder became suddenly brightenedby a flash of hope; she could not read writing--Stephen must read itfor her. He opened the letter, something like a banknote was thefirst thing he saw--he examined it--it was actually a ten pound Bankof England note; his heart beat rapidly, and so did his mother's;what could this mean? But there was a little note which wouldperhaps explain. Stephen's fingers trembled sadly as he opened it. There were not many words, but they were to the purpose. Stephenread them to himself before he read them aloud. And as he wasreading, his face turned very red, and how it did burn! But what wasthe meaning of tears, and he looking so pleased? Mary could notunderstand it. "Do read up, Stephen, " she exclaimed. With a voice broken by the effort he had to make all the time tokeep from crying, Stephen read, "MADAM--Put away your mangle-that son of yours is worth manglingfor; but it is time to rest now. The note is for your present wants;in future your son may supply you. I let him go to-night; but I didnot mean him to stay away, if he chooses to come back. I don't seethat I can do well without him. But I don't want him back if hewould rather go anywhere else; I know plenty that would be glad tohave him. He has been seen in the shop, and noticed, and such ladsare not always to be got. If he chooses to come back to me, he won'trepent. I've no sons of my own, thank God. He knows what I am; I ambetter than I was, and I may be better still. I've a queer way ofdoing things, but it is my way, and can't be helped. Tell him I'llbe glad to have him back to-morrow, if he likes. Yours, "J. W. " "I knew it!" exclaimed Mary, triumphantly; "I always said so! I knewyou would get on!" Stephen did go back to his eccentric master, and he never had anyreason to repent. He _got on_ even beyond his mother's most soaringhopes. The shop eventually became his own, and he lived aflourishing and respected tradesman. We need scarcely add that hismother had no further use for her mangle, and that she was a veryproud and a very happy woman. DO THEY MISS ME? Do they miss me at home? Do they miss me? 'Twould be an assurance most dear, To know at this moment some loved one Was saying, "I wish he was here!" To feel that the group at the fireside Were thinking of me as I roam! Oh, yes! 'twould be joy beyond measure, To know that they missed me at home. When twilight approaches--the season That ever was sacred to song-- Does some one repeat my name over, And sigh that I tarry so long? And is there a chord in the music, That's missed when my voice is away? And a chord in each glad heart that waketh Regret at my wearisome stay? Do they place me a chair at the table, When evening's home pleasures are nigh! And lamps are lit up in the parlour, And stars in the calm azure sky? And when the "Good Nights" are repeated, And each lays them calmly to sleep, Do they think of the absent, and waft me A whispered "Good-Night" o'er the deep? Do they miss me at home? do they miss me? At morning, at noon, or at night, And lingers one gloomy shade round them, That only my presence can light? Are joys less invitingly welcomed, Are pleasures less hailed than before, Because one is missed from the circle? Because I am with them no more? Oh, yes! they do miss me! kind voices Are calling me back as I roam, And eyes are grown weary with weeping, And watch but to welcome me home. Kind friends, ye shall wait me no longer, I'll hurry me back from the seas; For how can I tarry when followed By watchings and prayers such as these? THE END.