Looking toward sunset

by Unknown

THE SPRING JOURNEY.

O, green was the corn as I rode on my way,

And bright were the dews on the blossoms of May,

And dark was the sycamore’s shade to behold,

And the oak’s tender leaf was of emerald and gold.

The thrush from his holly, the lark from his cloud,

Their chorus of rapture sung jovial and loud;

From the soft vernal sky to the soft grassy ground,

There was beauty above me, beneath, and around.

The mild southern breeze brought a shower from the hill,

And yet, though it left me all dripping and chill,

I felt a new pleasure, as onward I sped,

To gaze where the rainbow gleamed broad overhead.

O such be life’s journey! and such be our skill

To lose in its blessings the sense of its ill;

Through sunshine and shower may our progress be even,

And our tears add a charm to the prospect of heaven.

Bishop Heber

MORAL HINTS.
By L. MARIA CHILD.

Probably there are no two things that tend so much to make human beings unhappy in themselves and unpleasant to others, as habits of fretfulness and despondency; two faults peculiarly apt to grow upon people after they have passed their youth. Both these ought to be resisted with constant vigilance, as we would resist a disease. This we should do for our own sakes, and as a duty we owe to others. Life is made utterly disagreeable when we are daily obliged to listen to a complaining house-mate. How annoying and disheartening are such remarks as these: “I was not invited to the party last night. I suppose I am getting to be of no consequence to anybody now.” “Yes, that is a beautiful present you have had sent you. Nobody sends me presents.” “I am a useless encumbrance now. I can see that people want me out of their way.” Yet such observations are not unfrequently heard from persons surrounded by external comforts, and who are consequently envied by others of similar disposition in less favorable circumstances.

No virtue has been so much recommended to the old as cheerfulness. Colton says: “Cheerfulness ought to be the viaticum of their life to the old. Age without cheerfulness is a Lapland winter without a sun.”

Montaigne says: “The most manifest sign of wisdom is continued cheerfulness.”

Dr. Johnson says: “The habit of looking on the best side of every event is worth more than a thousand pounds a year.”

Tucker says: “The point of aim for our vigilance to hold in view is to dwell upon the brightest parts in every prospect; to call off the thoughts when running upon disagreeable objects, and strive to be pleased with the present circumstances surrounding us.”

Southey says, in one of his letters: “I have told you of the Spaniard, who always put on his spectacles when about to eat cherries, that they might look bigger and more tempting. In like manner, I make the most of my enjoyments; and though I do not cast my eyes away from my troubles, I pack them in as little compass as I can for myself, and never let them annoy others.”

Perhaps you will say: “All this is very fine talk for people who are naturally cheerful. But I am low-spirited by temperament; and how is that to be helped?” In the first place, it would be well to ascertain whether what you call being naturally low-spirited does not arise from the infringement of some physical law; something wrong in what you eat or drink, or something unhealthy in other personal habits. But if you inherit a tendency to look on the dark side of things, resolutely call in the aid of your reason to counteract it. Leigh Hunt says: “If you are melancholy for the first time, you will find, upon a little inquiry, that others have been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all those times; and try if you cannot find means of getting over them better.”

If reason will not afford sufficient help, call in the aid of conscience. In this world of sorrow and disappointment, every human being has trouble enough of his own. It is unkind to add the weight of your despondency to the burdens of another, who, if you knew all his secrets, you might find had a heavier load than yours to carry. You find yourself refreshed by the presence of cheerful people. Why not make earnest efforts to confer that pleasure on others? You will find half the battle is gained, if you never allow yourself to say anything gloomy. If you habitually try to pack your troubles away out of other people’s sight, you will be in a fair way to forget them yourself; first, because evils become exaggerated to the imagination by repetition; and, secondly, because an effort made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves.

Those who are conscious of a tendency to dejection should also increase as much as possible the circle of simple and healthy enjoyments. They should cultivate music and flowers, take walks to look at beautiful sunsets, read entertaining books, and avail themselves of any agreeable social intercourse within their reach. They should also endeavor to surround themselves with pleasant external objects.

Our states of feeling, and even our characters, are influenced by the things we habitually look upon or listen to. A sweet singer in a household, or a musical instrument played with feeling, do more than afford us mere sensuous pleasure; they help us morally, by their tendency to harmonize discordant moods. Pictures of pleasant scenes, or innocent objects, are, for similar reasons, desirable in the rooms we inhabit. Even the paper on the walls may help somewhat to drive away “blue devils,” if ornamented with graceful patterns, that light up cheerfully. The paper on the parlor of Linnæus represented beautiful flowering plants from the East and West Indies; and on the walls of his bedroom were delineated a great variety of butterflies, dragon-flies, and other brilliant insects. Doubtless it contributed not a little to the happiness of the great naturalist thus to live in the midst of his pictured thoughts. To cultivate flowers, to arrange them in pretty vases, to observe their beauties of form and color, has a healthy effect, both on mind and body. Some temperaments are more susceptible than others to these fine influences, but they are not entirely without effect on any human soul; and forms of beauty can now be obtained with so little expenditure of money, that few need to be entirely destitute of them.

Perhaps you will say, “If I feel low-spirited, even if I do not speak of it, I cannot help showing it.” The best way to avoid the intrusion of sad feelings is to immerse yourself in some occupation. Adam Clarke said: “I have lived to know that the secret of happiness is never to allow your energies to stagnate.” If you are so unfortunate as to have nothing to do at home, then, the moment you begin to feel a tendency to depression, start forth for the homes of others. Tidy up the room of some helpless person, who has nobody to wait upon her; carry flowers to some invalid, or read to some lonely old body. If you are a man, saw and split wood for some poor widow, or lone woman, in the neighborhood. If you are a woman, knit stockings for poor children, or mend caps for those whose eyesight is failing; and when you have done them, don’t send them home, but take them yourself. Merely to have every hour of life fully occupied is a great blessing; but the full benefit of constant employment cannot be experienced unless we are occupied in a way that promotes the good of others, while it exercises our own bodies and employs our own minds. Plato went so far as to call exercise a cure for a wounded conscience; and, provided usefulness is combined with it, there is certainly a good deal of truth in the assertion; inasmuch as constant helpful activity leaves the mind no leisure to brood over useless regrets, and by thus covering the wound from the corrosion of thought, helps it to become a scar.

Against that listless indifference, which the French call ennui, industry is even a better preservative than it is against vain regrets. Therefore, it seems to me unwise for people in the decline of life to quit entirely their customary occupations and pursuits. The happiest specimens of old age are those men and women who have been busy to the last; and there can be no doubt that the decay of our powers, both bodily and mental, is much hindered by their constant exercise, provided it be not excessive.

It is recorded of Michael Angelo, that “after he was sixty years old, though not very robust, he would cut away as many scales from a block of very hard marble, in a quarter of an hour, as three young sculptors would have effected in three or four hours. Such was the impetuosity and fire with which he pursued his labors, that with a single stroke he brought down fragments three or four fingers thick, and so close upon his mark, that had he passed it, even in the slightest degree, there would have been danger of ruining the whole.” From the time he was seventy-one years old till he was seventy-five, he was employed in painting the Pauline Chapel. It was done in fresco, which is exceedingly laborious, and he confessed that it fatigued him greatly. He was seventy-three years old when he was appointed architect of the wonderful church of St. Peter’s, at Rome; upon which he expended the vast powers of his mind during seventeen years. He persisted in refusing compensation, and labored solely for the honor of his country and his church. In his eighty-seventh year, some envious detractors raised a report that he had fallen into dotage; but he triumphantly refuted the charge, by producing a very beautiful model of St. Peter’s, planned by his own mind, and in a great measure executed by his own hand. He was eighty-three, when his faithful old servant Urbino, who had lived with him twenty-six years, sickened and died. Michael Angelo, notwithstanding his great age, and the arduous labors of superintending the mighty structure of St. Peter’s, and planning new fortifications for Rome, undertook the charge of nursing him. He even watched over him through the night; sleeping by his side, without undressing. This remarkable man lived ninety years, lacking a fortnight. He wrote many beautiful sonnets during his last years, and continued to make drawings, plans, and models, to the day of his death, though infirmities increased upon him, and his memory failed.

Handel lived to be seventy-five years old, and though afflicted with blindness in his last years, he continued to produce oratorios and anthems. He superintended music in the orchestra only a week before he died. Haydn was sixty-five years old, when he composed his oratorio of The Creation, the music of which is as bright as the morning sunshine. When he was seventy-seven years old, he went to a great concert to hear it performed. It affected him deeply to have his old inspirations thus recalled to mind. When they came to the passage, “It was light!” he was so overpowered by the harmonies, that he burst into tears, and, pointing upwards, exclaimed: “Not from me! Not from me! but thence did all this come!”

Linnæus was past sixty-two years old when he built a museum at his country-seat, where he classified and arranged a great number of plants, zoöphytes, shells, insects, and minerals. Besides this, he superintended the Royal Gardens, zealously pursued his scientific researches, corresponded by letter with many learned men, taught pupils, and lectured constantly in the Academic Gardens. His pupils travelled to all parts of the world, and sent him new plants and minerals to examine and classify. In the midst of this constant occupation, he wrote: “I tell the truth when I say that I am happier than the King of Persia. My pupils send me treasures from the East and the West; treasures more precious to me than Babylonish garments or Chinese vases. Here in the Academic Gardens is my Elysium. Here I learn and teach; here I admire, and point out to others, the wisdom of the Great Artificer, manifested in the structure of His wondrous works.” It is said that even when he was quite ill, the arrival of an unknown plant would infuse new life into him. He continued to labor with unremitting diligence till he was sixty-seven years old, when a fit of apoplexy attacked him in the midst of a public lecture, and so far impaired his memory that he became unable to teach.

The celebrated Alexander von Humboldt lived ninety years, and continued to pursue his scientific researches and to publish learned books up to the very year of his departure from this world.

The Rev. John Wesley continued to preach and write till his body was fairly worn out. Southey, his biographer, says: “When you met him in the street of a crowded city, he attracted notice, not only by his band and cassock, and his long hair, white and bright as silver, but by his pace and manner, both indicating that all his minutes were numbered, and that not one was to be lost.” Wesley himself wrote: “Though I am always in haste, I am never in a hurry; because I never undertake more work than I can go through with perfect calmness of spirit.” Upon completing his eighty-second year, he wrote: “It is now eleven years since I have felt any such thing as weariness. Many times I speak till my voice fails me, and I can speak no longer. Frequently I walk till my strength fails, and I can walk no farther. Yet even then I feel no sensation of weariness, but am perfectly easy from head to foot. I dare not impute this to natural causes. It is the will of God.” A year later, he wrote: “I am a wonder to myself. Such is the goodness of God, that I am never tired, either with writing, preaching, or travelling.”

Isaac T. Hopper, who lived to be past eighty, was actively employed in helping fugitive slaves, and travelling about to exercise a kindly and beneficent influence in prisons, until a very short time before his death. When he was compelled to take to his bed, he said to me: “I am ready and willing to go, only there is so much that I want to do.”

Some will say it is not in their power to do such things as these men did. That may be. But there is something that everybody can do. Those whose early habits render it difficult, or impossible, to learn a new science, or a new language, in the afternoon of life, can at least oil the hinges of memory by learning hymns, chapters, ballads, and stories, wherewith to console and amuse themselves and others. A stock of nursery rhymes to amuse little children is far from being a foolish or worthless acquisition, since it enables one to impart delight to the little souls,

“With their wonder so intense,

And their small experience.”

Women undoubtedly have the advantage of men, in those in-door occupations best suited to the infirm; for there is no end to the shoes that may be knit for the babies of relatives, the tidies that may be crocheted for the parlors of friends, and the socks that may be knit for the poor. But men also can find employment for tedious hours, when the period of youthful activity has passed. In summer, gardening is a never-failing resource both to men and women; and genial qualities of character are developed by imparting to others the flowers, fruit, and vegetables we have had the pleasure of raising. The Rev. Dr. Prince of Salem was always busy, in his old age, making telescopes, kaleidoscopes, and a variety of toys for scientific illustrations, with which he instructed and entertained the young people who visited him. My old father amused himself, and benefited others, by making bird-houses for children, and clothes-horses and towel-stands for all the girls of his acquaintance who were going to housekeeping. I knew an old blind man, who passed his winter evenings pleasantly weaving mats from corn-husks, while another old man read to him. A lathe is a valuable resource for elderly people; and this employment for mind and hands may also exercise the moral qualities, as it admits of affording pleasure to family and friends by innumerable neatly-turned little articles. The value of occupation is threefold to elderly people, if usefulness is combined with exercise; for in that way the machinery of body, mind, and heart may all be kept from rusting.

A sister of the celebrated John Wilkes, a wise and kindly old lady, who resided in Boston a very long time ago, was accustomed to say, “The true secret of happiness is always to have a little less time than one wants, and a little more money than one needs.” There is much wisdom in the saying, but I think it might be improved by adding, that the money should be of one’s own earning.

After life has passed its maturity, great care should be taken not to become indifferent to the affairs of the world. It is salutary, both for mind and heart, to take an interest in some of the great questions of the age; whether it be slavery or war, or intemperance, or the elevation of women, or righting the wrongs of the Indians, or the progress of education, or the regulation of prisons, or improvements in architecture, or investigation into the natural sciences, from which proceed results so important to the daily comfort and occupations of mankind. It is for each one to choose his object of especial interest; but it should be remembered that no person has a right to be entirely indifferent concerning questions involving great moral principles. Care should be taken that the daily social influence which every man and woman exerts, more or less, should be employed in the right direction. A conscientious man feels himself in some degree responsible for the evil he does not seek to prevent. In the Rev. John Wesley’s journal for self-examination this suggestive question occurs: “Have I embraced every probable opportunity of doing good, and of preventing, removing, or lessening evil?” Such habits of mind tend greatly to the improvement of our own characters, while at the same time they may help to improve the character and condition of others. Nothing is more healthy for the soul than to go out of ourselves, and stay out of ourselves. We thus avoid brooding over our own bodily pains, our mental deficiencies, or past moral shortcomings; we forget to notice whether others neglect us, or not; whether they duly appreciate us, or not; whether their advantages are superior to ours, or not. He who leads a true, active, and useful life has no time for such corrosive thoughts. All self-consciousness indicates disease. We never think about our stomachs till we have dyspepsia. The moral diseases which induce self-consciousness are worse than the physical, both in their origin and their results. To indulge in repinings over our own deficiencies, compared with others, while it indicates the baneful presence of envy, prevents our making the best use of such endowments as we have. If we are conscious of our merits, bodily or mental, it takes away half their value. There is selfishness even in anxiety whether we shall go to heaven or not, or whether our souls are immortal or not. A continual preparation for eternal progress is the wisest and the happiest way to live here. If we daily strive to make ourselves fit companions for angels, we shall be in constant readiness for a better world, while we make sure of enjoying some degree of heaven upon this earth; and, what is still better, of helping to make it a paradise for others.

Perhaps there is no error of human nature productive of so much unhappiness as the indulgence of temper. Often everything in a household is made to go wrong through the entire day, because one member of the family rises in a fretful mood. An outburst of anger brings a cloud of gloom over the domestic atmosphere, which is not easily dissipated. Strenuous efforts should be made to guard against this, especially by the old; who, as they lose external attractions, should strive all the more earnestly to attain that internal beauty which is of infinitely more value. And here, again, the question may be asked, “What am I to do, if I have naturally a hasty or fretful temper, and if those around me act in a manner to provoke it?” In the first place, strong self-constraint may be made to become a habit; and this, though very difficult in many cases, is possible to all. People of the most ungoverned tempers will often become suddenly calm and courteous when a stranger enters; and they can control their habitual outbreaks, when they are before people whose good opinion they are particularly desirous to obtain or preserve. Constraint may be made more easy by leaving the presence of those with whom you are tempted to jangle. Go out into the open air; feed animals; gather flowers or fruit for the very person you were tempted to annoy. By thus opening a door for devils to walk out of your soul, angels will be sure to walk in. If circumstances prevent your doing anything of this kind, you can retire to your own chamber for a while, and there wrestle for victory over your evil mood. If necessary avocations render this impossible, time can at least be snatched for a brief and earnest prayer for help in overcoming your besetting sin; and prayer is a golden gate, through which angels are wont to enter.

“And the lady prayed in heaviness,

That looked not for relief;

But slowly did her succor come,

And a patience to her grief.

“O, there is never sorrow of heart

That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn and ask

Of Him to be our friend.”

There is a reason for governing our tempers which is still more important than our own happiness, or even the happiness of others. I allude to its influence on the characters of those around us; an influence which may mar their whole destiny here, and perhaps hinder their progress hereafter. None of us are sufficiently careful to keep pure and wholesome the spiritual atmosphere which surrounds every human being, and which must be more or less inhaled by the spiritual lungs of all those with whom he enters into the various relations of life. Jean Paul said: “Newton, who uncovered his head whenever the name of God was pronounced, thus became, without words, a teacher of religion to children.” Many a girl has formed an injudicious marriage, in consequence of hearing sneering remarks, or vulgar jokes, about “old maids.” Poisonous prejudices against nations, races, sects, and classes are often instilled by thoughtless incidental expressions. There is education for evil in the very words “Nigger,” “Paddy,” “old Jew,” “old maid,” &c. It is recorded of the Rabbi Sera, that when he was asked how he had attained to such a serene and lovable old age, he replied: “I have never rejoiced at any evil which happened to my neighbor; and I never called any man by a nickname given to him in derision or sport.”

False ideas with regard to the importance of wealth and rank are very generally, though often unconsciously inculcated by modes of speech, or habits of action. To treat mere wealth with more respect than honest poverty; to speak more deferentially of a man whose only claim is a distinguished ancestry, than you do of the faithful laborer who ditches your meadows, is a slow but sure process of education, which sermons and catechisms will never be able entirely to undo. It is important to realize fully that all merely conventional distinctions are false and illusory; that only worth and usefulness can really ennoble man or woman. If we look at the subject from a rational point of view, the artificial classifications of society appear even in a ludicrous light. It would be considered a shocking violation of etiquette for the baronet’s lady to call upon the queen. The wife of the wealthy banker, or merchant, cannot be admitted to the baronet’s social circle. The intelligent mechanic and prosperous farmer is excluded from the merchant’s parlor. The farmer and mechanic would think they let themselves down by inviting a worthy day-laborer to their parties. And the day-laborer, though he were an ignoramus and a drunkard, would feel authorized to treat with contempt any intelligent and excellent man whose complexion happened to be black or brown. I once knew a grocer’s wife, who, with infinite condescension of manner, said to the wife of her neighbor the cobbler, “Why don’t you come in to see me sometimes? You needn’t keep away because my house is carpeted all over.” Hannah More tells us that the Duchess of Gloucester, wishing to circulate some tracts and verses, requested one of her ladies in waiting to stop a woman who was wheeling a barrow of oranges past the window, and ask her if she would take some ballads to sell. “No indeed!” replied the orange-woman, with an air of offended dignity. “I don’t do anything so mean as that. I don’t even sell apples.” The Duchess was much amused by her ideas of rank; but they were in fact no more absurd than her own. It is the same mean, selfish spirit which manifests itself through all these gradations. External rank belongs to the “phantom dynasties”; and if we wish our children to enjoy sound moral health, we should be careful not to teach any deference for it, either in our words or our habits. Mrs. Gaskell, in her sketch of a very conservative and prejudiced English gentlewoman, “one of the olden time,” gives a lovely touch to the picture, indicating that true natural refinement was not stifled by the prejudices of rank. Lady Ludlow had, with patronizing kindness, invited several of her social inferiors to tea. Among them was the wife of a rich baker, who, being unaccustomed to the etiquette of such company, spread a silk handkerchief in her lap, when she took a piece of cake; whereupon some of the curate’s wives began to titter, in order to show that they knew polite manners better than she did. Lady Ludlow, perceiving this, immediately spread her own handkerchief in her lap; and when the baker’s wife went to the fireplace to shake out her crumbs, my lady did the same. This silent rebuke was sufficient to prevent any further rudeness to the unsophisticated wife of the baker. No elaborate rules are necessary to teach us true natural politeness. We need only remember two short texts of Scripture: “Do unto others as ye would that they should do unto you.” “God is your Father, and all ye are brethren.”

Elderly people are apt to think that their years exempt them from paying so much attention to good manners as the young are required to do. On the contrary, they ought to be more careful in their deportment and conversation, because their influence is greater. Impure words or stories repeated by parents or grandparents may make indelible stains on the minds of their descendants, and perhaps give a sensual direction to their characters through life. No story, however funny, should ever be told, if it will leave in the memory unclean associations, either physically or morally.

A love of gossiping about other people’s affairs is apt to grow upon those who have retired from the active pursuits of life; and this is one among many reasons why it is best to keep constantly occupied. A great deal of trouble is made in neighborhoods, from no malicious motives, but from the mere excitement of telling news, and the temporary importance derived therefrom. Most village gossip, when sifted down, amounts to the little school-girl’s definition. Being asked what it was to bear false witness against thy neighbor, she replied: “It’s when nobody don’t do nothing, and somebody goes and tells of it.” One of the best and most genial of the Boston merchants, when he heard people discussing themes of scandal, was accustomed to interrupt them, by saying: “Don’t talk any more about it! Perhaps they didn’t do it; and may be they couldn’t help it.” For myself, I deem it the greatest unkindness to be told of anything said against me. I may prevent its exciting resentment in my mind; but the consciousness of not being liked unavoidably disturbs my relations with the person implicated. There is no better safeguard against the injurious habit of gossiping, than the being interested in principles and occupations; if you have these to employ your mind, you will have no inclination to talk about matters merely personal.

When we reflect that life is so full of neglected little opportunities to improve ourselves and others, we shall feel that there is no need of aspiring after great occasions to do good.

“The trivial round, the common task,

Would furnish all we need to ask;

Room to deny ourselves,—a road

To bring us daily nearer God.”

THE BOYS.
WRITTEN FOR A MEETING OF COLLEGE CLASSMATES.
By OLIVER W. HOLMES.

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?

If there has, take him out, without making a noise!

Hang the Almanac’s cheat, and the Catalogue’s spite!

Old Time is a liar! We’re twenty to-night.

We’re twenty! We’re twenty! Who says we are more?

He’s tipsy, young jackanapes! Show him the door!

“Gray temples at twenty?” Yes! white, if we please;

Where the snow-flakes fall thickest, there’s nothing can freeze.

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!

Look close,—you will see not a sign of a flake;

We want some new garlands for those we have shed,—

And these are white roses in place of the red.

We’ve a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,

Of talking (in public) as if we were old;—

That boy we call “Doctor,” and this we call “Judge”;—

It’s a neat little fiction,—of course, it’s all fudge.

That fellow’s “the Speaker,”—the one on the right;

“Mr. Mayor,” my young one, how are you to-night?

That’s our “Member of Congress,” we say when we chaff;

There’s the “Reverend” What’s his name? Don’t make me laugh!

* * * * *

Yes, we’re boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen,—

And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?

Shall we always be youthful, and laughing and gay,

Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here’s to our boyhood, its gold and its gray!

The stars of its Winter, the dews of its May!

And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,

Dear Father, take care of thy children, the Boys!

ODE OF ANACREON.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK.

I love a mellow, cheerful sage,

Whose feelings are unchilled by age;

I love a youth who dances well

To music of the sounding shell;

But when a man of years, like me,

Joins with the dancers playfully,

Though age in silvery hair appears,

His heart is young, despite of years.

MYSTERIOUSNESS OF LIFE.
FROM MOUNTFORD’S EUTHANASY.

About the world to come, it ought not to be as though we did not know surely, because we do not know much. From the nearest star, our earth, if it is seen, looks hardly anything at all. It shines, or rather it twinkles, and that is all. To them afar off, this earth is only a shining point. But to us who live in it, it is wide and various. It is sea and land; it is Europe, Asia, Africa, and America; it is the lair of the lion, and the pasture of the ox, and the pathway of the worm, and the support of the robin; it is what has day and night in it; it is what customs and languages obtain in; it is many countries; it is the habitation of a thousand million men; and it is our home. All this the world is to us; though, looked at from one of the stars, it is only a something that twinkles in the distance. It is seen only as a few intermittent rays of light; though, to us who live in it, it is hill and valley, and land and water, and many thousands of miles wide. So that if the future world is a star of guidance for us, it is enough; because it is not for us to know, but to believe, that it will prove our dear home.

* * * * *

We live mortal lives for immortal good. And really this world is so mysterious, that there is not one of its commonest ways but is perhaps sublimer to walk on than we at all think. At night, when we walk about and see at all, it is by the light of other worlds; though we do not often think of this. It is the same in life. There is many a matter concerning us that is little thought of, but which is ours, as it were, from out of the infinite. Yes, our lives are to be felt as being very great, even in their nothingness. Even our mortal lives are as wonderful as immortality. Is the next life a mystery? So it is. But then how mysterious even now life is. Food is not all that a man lives by. There is some way by which food has to turn to strength in him; and that way is something else than his own will. I am hungry, I sit down to a meal, and I enjoy it. And the next day, from what I ate and drank for my pleasure, there is blood in my veins, and moisture on my skin, and new flesh making in all my limbs. And this is not my doing or willing; for I do not even know how my nails grow from under the skin of my fingers. I can well believe in my being to live hereafter. How, indeed, I am to live, I do not know; but, then, neither do I know how I do live now. When I am asleep, my lungs keep breathing, my heart keeps beating, my stomach keeps digesting, and my whole body keeps making anew. And in the morning, when I look in the glass, it is as though I see myself a new creature; and really, for the wonder of it, it is all the same as though another body had grown about me in my

sleep. This living from day to day is astonishing,
when it is thought of; and we are let we are
let feel the miracle of it, so, perhaps,
that our being to live again may
not be too wonderful for
our belief.

Though there be storm and turbulence on this earth, one would rise but little way, through the blackened air, before he would come to a region of calm and peace, where the stars shine unobstructed, and where there is no storm. And a little above our cloud, a little higher than our darkness, a little beyond our storm, is God’s upper region of tranquil peace and calm. And when we have had the discipline of winter here, it will be possible for us to have eternal summer there.

Henry Ward Beecher.

EXTRACTS FROM THE GRANDMOTHER’S APOLOGY. By ALFRED TENNYSON.

And Willy, my eldest born, is gone you say, little Ann?

Ruddy and white and strong on his legs, he looks like a man.

“Here’s a leg for a babe of a week!” says doctor; and he would be bound

There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round.

Strong of his hands, and strong on his legs, but still of his tongue!

I ought to have gone before him; I wonder he went so young.

I cannot cry for him, Annie; I have not long to stay;

Perhaps I shall see him the sooner, for he lived far away.

Why do you look at me, Annie? you think I am hard and cold;

But all my children have gone before me, I am so old:

I cannot weep for Willy, nor can I weep for the rest;

Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

The first child that ever I bore was dead before he was born:

Shadow and shine is life, little Annie, flower and thorn.

I had not wept, little Annie, not since I had been a wife;

But I wept like a child, that day; for the babe had fought for his life.

His dear little face was troubled, as if with anger or pain;

I looked at the still little body,—his trouble had all been in vain.

For Willy I cannot weep; I shall see him another morn;

But I wept like a child for the child that was dead before he was born.

But he cheered me, my good man, for he seldom said me nay:

Kind, like a man, was he; like a man, too, would have his way;

Never jealous,—not he: we had many a happy year:

And he died, and I could not weep,—my own time seemed so near.

But I wished it had been God’s will that I, too, then could have died:

I began to be tired a little, and fain had slept at his side;

And that was ten years back, or more, if I don’t forget:

But as for the children, Annie, they are all about me yet.

Pattering over the boards, my Annie, who left me at two;

Patter she goes, my own little Annie,—an Annie like you.

Pattering over the boards, she comes and goes at her will,

While Harry is in the five-acre and Charlie ploughing the hill.

And Harry and Charlie, I hear them, too,—they sing to their team;

Often they come to the door in a pleasant kind of dream.

They come and sit by my chair, they hover about my bed:

I am not always certain if they be alive or dead.

And yet I know for a truth, there’s none of them left alive;

For Harry went at sixty, your father at sixty-five;

And Willy, my eldest born, at nigh threescore and ten;

I knew them all as babies, and now they are elderly men.

For mine is a time of peace; it is not often I grieve;

I am oftener sitting at home in my father’s farm at eve:

And the neighbors come and laugh and gossip, and so do I;

I find myself often laughing at things that have long gone by.

To be sure the preacher says our sins should make us sad;

But mine is a time of peace, and there is grace to be had;

And God, not man, is the Judge of us all when life shall cease;

And in this Book, little Annie, the message is one of peace.

And age is a time of peace, so it be free from pain;

And happy has been my life, but I would not live it again.

I seem to be tired a little, that’s all, and long for rest;

Only at your age, Annie, I could have wept with the best.

So Willy has gone,—my beauty, my eldest born, my flower;

But how can I weep for Willy? he has but gone for an hour,—

Gone for a minute, my son, from this room into the next;

I too shall go in a minute. What time have I to be vext?