merry;' and with Hamilton, "The pearl is of great price; but even the casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt, and exquisite inlaying on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest ore; but even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than the artists of earth could fashion it. The apples are gold; but even the basket is silver.' Yesterday I read some of the noblest passages written in our English tongue; but when I had done so, and had come at evening to the Book, the words my eyes dwelt upon seemed more divinely beautiful than all. I will read them, and then we will sing a hymn:

"Now these be the last words of David. David the son of Jesse said, and the man who was raised up on high, the anointed of the God of Jacob, and the sweet psalmist of Israel, said:

"The Spirit of the Lord spake by me, and his word was in my tongue.

"The God of Israel said, the Rock of Israel spake to me, He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God.

"And he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth, even a morning without clouds; as the tender grass springing out of the earth by clear shining after rain."

The minister closed the Book, and named. the hymn, which the three united to sing:

"Bread of the world, in mercy broken,

Wine of the soul, in mercy shed,
By whom the words of life were spoken,
And in whose death our sins are dead;
Who wast made flesh our souls to cherish,

Who godlike tread'st Time's angry wave;
Who, lest the sons of men should perish,
Became omnipotent to save;

Whose sacred wounds aloud are crying,-
"These bleeding tokens, Father, see!'

Our living Lord, our hope in dying,
We cast our helpless souls on thee!

Look on the heart by sorrow broken,
Look on the tears by sorrow shed;
And be thy feast to us the token

That by thy grace our souls are fed." *

Having finished the singing, they went forth into the open air. The stars were vivid, while yet the full moon rode high in the naked heavens. A peculiar softness and balminess in the air, with a sense of the gracious sublimity of that great house of God, with its roof sparkling over them, constrained them to bare their brows for a moment; whereupon, taking the minister by the hand, with a good-night, his guests departed.

*The first stanza and the last are by Bishop Heber.

Winter on the Penobscot.

I.

"The white glory overawes me;
The crystal terror of the seer

Of Chebar's vision blinds me here."

-Whittier.

A SCATTERED flight of snowbirds. All day the feathery flakes have softly fallen, and before evening the fields and roads are beautifully muffled. The trees and fences are impearled. I think of one poet's spiritual interpretation:

"The troubled sky reveals

The grief it feels."

Silence settles with the night; the earth lies entranced. Afterward comes the rain.

Hark! it is the rising wind! It bespeaks the arrival of change the entrance of a transforming spirit. What a Protean nature is this! The Arctic sculptor is in his studio; this builder is busy with "the frolic architecture"

of the frost. Could we see, we might note how the gray cloud has darkened. By and by the moon is a bright knot in a swirl of frosty vapors. The little moon-people will be dancing down the Sowadabscook, and will hold high revels on the glassy plain of the Penobscot to-night. Yet dreaming mortals little conceive what the daybreak shall disclose.

II.

"O winter! ruler of the inverted year

I crown thee “King” of intimate delights,
Fireside enjoyments, homeborn happiness."
-Cowper, "The Task."

Madam Januarius alights from her coach with more than her usual bustle; with a breezy impertinence she unpacks her wardrobe and spreads her frosty sheets for the night. Cold is the comfort of that traveler she entertains. She is an immaculate termagant; and, turning from the window, I manage to seat myself far enough from her humors to enjoy, in philosophic composure and imaginative comfort, that milder clime-the fireside. Jessica draws the blind-a clean linen veil between light and darkness, storm and calm-that

magic hem separating the garments of fulgent Therma and flinty-hearted Zero, that most unfeeling crystal! I give the fire another poke between the bars, and then take down from its place on the shelf my volume of "Spare Hours," or my Lowell, or Burroughs, at a venture. To-night no guest will come; this is entertainment for an evening. Again I will get to thinking: Who makes Rab the jewel he is; and Marjorie that bright child-shadow undying?

III.

"Return, sweet evening, and continue long!

Composure is thy gift."

-Cowper, "The Task."

I muse over this book of peculiar charm, and venerate an overfamiliar, much-honored name, borne by peoples so diverse. John Brown! At Harper's Ferry it meant war; on Calton Hill it signifies peace. Dear Rab, and dear Marjorie!-how will you resolve me the peculiar subtlety of their spell? The style seems felicity itself. There are no double rainbows, no sun-bursts to dazzle you, but this author sets you down at the feet of quieter