The idea of being bereaved of the wife of his bosom, whom he had loved and cherished for fifteen years with the ardent attachment of a fond husband, had overwhelmed him with all the bitterness of wo; but the thought of transferring that attachment to another object, brought with it a double desolation. His associations before had all clothed his love for his wife with a feeling of immortality. She might be removed from him to another world, but he had not felt as though that would dissolve the holy bond that united them. His love would soon follow her to those eternal realms of bliss, and rest upon her like a mantle for ever. But this new and startling idea, of love for another, came to him, as comes to the wicked the idea of annihilation of the soul-an idea, compared with which, no degree of misery imaginable, is half so terrible. A cloud of intense darkness seemed for a moment to overshadow him, his heart sank within him, and his whole frame trembled with agitation. It was some minutes before he could find power to speak. And when he did, it was only to beseech his wife, in a calm and solemn tone, not to allude to so distressing a subiect again, a subject which he could not think of nor speak of, without suffering more than a thousand deaths.

The strong mental anguish of Mr. Woodsum seemed to have the effect to divert his wife's attention from her own sufferings, and by turning her emotions into a new channel, gave her sys-. tem an opportunity to rally. She grew gradually better, as she had done in like cases before, and even before night was able to sit up, and became quite composed and cheerful.

But her malady was only suspended, not cured; and again and again it returned upon her, and again and again her friends were summoned to witness her last sickness and take their last farewell. And on these occasions, she had so often slightly and delicately hinted to Mr. Woodsum the propriety of his marrying a second wife, that even he could at last listen to the suggestion with a degree of indifference which he had once. thought he could never feel.

At last, the sober saddening days of autumn came on. Mr. Woodsum was in the midst of his "fall work," which had been several times interrupted by these periodical turns of despondency in his wife. One morning he went to his field early, for he had a heavy day's work to do, and had engaged one of his neighbors to come with two yoke of oxen and a plough, to help him "break up" an old mowing field. He was exceedingly desirous not to be interrupted, for his neighbor could only help him that day, and he was very anxious to plough the whole field. He accordingly had left the children and nurse in the

house, with strict charges to take good care of their mother, and see that nothing disturbed her through the day. Mr. Woodsum was driving the team, and his neighbor was holding the plough, and things went on to their mind till about ten o'clock, in the forenoon, when little Harriet came running to the field, and told her father that her mother was "dreadful sick," and wanted him to come in as quick as he could, for she was cer tainly dying now. Mr. Woodsum, without saying a word, drove his team to the end of the furrow; but he looked thoughtful and perplexed. Although he felt persuaded that her danger was imaginary, as it had always proved to be before, still, the idea of the bare possibility that this sickness might be unto death, pressed upon him with such power, that he laid down his goad stick, and telling his neighbor to let the cattle breathe awhile, walked deliberately toward the house. Before he had accomplished the whole distance, however, his own imagination had added such wings to his speed, that he found himself moving at a quick run. He entered the house, and found his wife as he had so often found her before, in her own estimation, almost ready to breathe her last. Her voice was faint and low, and her pillow was wet with tears. She had already taken her leave of her dear children, and waited only to exchange a few parting words with her beloved husband. Mr. Woodsum approached the bed-side, and took her hand tenderly, as he had ever been wont to do, but he could not perceive any symptoms of extreme sickness or approaching dissolution, different from what he had witnessed on a dozen former occasions.

"Now, my dear," said Mrs. Woodsum, faintly, "the time has come at last. I feel that I am on my death-bed, and have but a short time longer to stay with you. But I hope we shall feel resigned to the will of Heaven. These things are undoubt edly all ordered for the best; and I would go cheerfully, if it was not for my anxiety about you and the children. Now, don't you think, my dear," she continued, with increasing tenderness, "don't you think it would be best for you to be married again to some kind good woman, that would be a mother to our dear little ones, and make your home pleasant for all of you?"

She paused, and seemed to look earnestly in his face for an

answer.

"Well, I've sometimes thought of late, it might be best," said Mr. Woodsum, with a verv solemn air.

"Then you have been thinking about it," said Mrs. Woodsum, with a slight contraction of the muscles of the face.

66

Why, yes," said Mr. Woodsum, "I have sometimes

sick.

thought about it, since you've had spells of being so very It makes me feel dreadfully to think of it, but I don't know but it might be a matter of duty."

Well, I do think it would," said Mrs. Woodsum, "if you can only get the right sort of a person. Everything depends upon that, my dear, and I hope you will be very particular about who you get, very."

"I certainly shall," said Mr.Woodsum; "don't give yourself any uneasiness about that, my dear, for I assure you I shall be very particular. The person I shall probably have is one of the kindest and best tempered women in the world."

"But, have you been thinking of any one in particular, my dear?" said Mrs. Woodsum, with a manifest look of uneasiness."

66

Why, yes," said Mr. Woodsum, "there is one, that I have thought for some time past, I should probably marry, if it should be the will of Providence to take you from us."

"And pray, Mr. Woodsum, who can it be?" said the wife, with an expression, a little more of earth than heaven, returning to her eye. "Who is it, Mr. Woodsum? You hav'n't named it to her, have you?”

"Oh, by no means," said Mr. Woodsum; "but, my dear, we had better drop the subject; it agitates me too much."

66

But, Mr. Woodsum, you must tell me who it is; I never could die in peace till you do."

"It is a subject too painful to think about," said Mr. Woodsum, "and it don't appear to me it would be best to call names.'

"But I insist upon it," said Mrs. Woodsum, who had by this time raised herself up with great earnestness, and was leaning on her elbow, while her searching glance was reading every muscle in her husband's face. "Mr. Woodsum, I insist upon it!"

"Well then," said Mr. Woodsum, with a sigh, "if you insist upon it, my dear-I have thought if it should be the will of Providence to take you from us to be here no more, I have thought I should marry for my second wife, Hannah Lovejoy."

An earthly fire once more flashed from Mrs. Woodsum's eyes-she leaped from the bed like a cat; walked across the room, and seated herself in a chair.

"What!" she exclaimed, in a trembling voice, almost choked with agitation-"what! marry that idle, sleepy slut of a Hannah Lovejoy! Mr. Woodsum, that is too much for flesh and blood to bear-I can't endure that, nor I won't. Hannah Lovejoy to be the mother of my children! No, that's

7

what she never shall. So you may go to your ploughing, Mr. Woodsum, and set your heart at rest. Susan," she continued, turning to one of the girls, "make up more fire under that dinner pot."

Mr. Woodsum went to the field, and his work, and when he returned at the dinner hour, he found the family dinner well prepared, and his wife ready to do the honors of the table. Mrs. Woodsum's health from that day continued to improve, and she was never afterward visited by the terrible affliction of hypochondria.

"Lo! mother, see, my shroud is dry,
And I can sleep once more!"
And beautiful the parting smile
The little infant wore.

And down within the silent grave

He laid his weary head;

And soon the early violets

Grew o'er his grassy bed.

The mother went her household ways—
Again she knelt in prayer,

And only asked of heaven its aid,
Her heavy lot to bear.

CHRIST GLORIFIED IN HIS SAINTS

BY PROF. C. A. GOODRICH, YALE COLLEGE.

*When He shall come to be glorified in His saints, and admired in all them that believ.in that day."-2d Thess. 1: 10.

ON earth he dwelt in sorrow's garb,

And bowed to shame that sacred head,
While Rome's young Eagle proudly soar'd,
O'er prostrate nations far outspread.

And now to Zion's hill she turns,

Where God's own people bend the knee;
With stern contempt to death she gives
That suffering man of Galilee.

And thus, in every age, they scorn

His followers, humble, meek, resigned :

While Arts, and Arms, and Learning's toils,
To rapture wake the aspiring mind.

Yet shall it come, the appointed day,

When these brief glories shared, and gone,
In Truth's clear light, these souls shall stand
In countless millions round the Throne.

That Living Throne, before whose blaze
The strongest spirit shrinks and faints;
There shall they see Him glorious sit,

But glorious chiefly in his SAINTS.