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My sister will know how to understand spiritual conflicts, fiery trials and triumphs, and I doubt not what is of interest to her will be to all who love our Lord and may take the trouble to read these pages. But having made the memoranda at first full of personal incident, and wishing to write with the real identity and warmth of personal affection, I address myself to my much-loved sister, expecting it will also somewhat justify the character and style of these communications. I have dwelt at length on a single spiritual phenomena, so to speak, not that I think it so peculiar or remarkable, but because it is a part of actual life, which, under the circumstances, rendered it exceedingly interesting. and important to me and the missionary work. It also illustrates somewhat the Scriptural idea of spiritual influences; namely, an intelligent agency of malignity and darkness, distorting facts and Scripture on one side, and on the other an agency of truth and love, giving facts their real significance, and the Scripture a blessed power; and that we are brought under these agencies more or less by our volitions and external conditions. This, it seems to me, is philosophical and comprehensible, and certainly established as a fact by the experiences of all who have carefully observed the operations of the life within. Spiritual influence thus Scripturally presented, stands in high and honorable contrast to the inanities of alphabet spellings and table tippings of modern spiritists.

THE SNOW.

BY CLARA DOTY.

OVER the earth the snow lies deep

The white snow-feathers so fair and soft

BURIAL OF SUMMER.

BY MARY E. LOOKER.

I STOOD beside a rushing stream whose waves
Tossed madly at my feet, and sent their tones
Of wailing sorrow out upon the breeze,
Finding an echo, though I knew not why,
Within my heart. The sky was dark with clouds
Of ebon hue, driven tempestuously
By rushing winds across the face of heaven.
Through the tall tree-tops came a moan of grief
So like a human tone that tremblingly I stood
To catch the words that told of woe; and thus
Methought that voice broke sadly on my ear:
"Come forth, thou sleeper pale,

Come to the wood and vale,
Where thy young flowers wait for thee;
Open thy radiant eye,

Warble thy melody,

And with thy smile bid darkness flee.

She lieth still and cold,

Her locks of flowing gold
All motionless around her form;
O, wilt thou not awake?

Will not that slumber break
Amid this dark and mighty storm?"
From the low earth now draped in mourning garb,
A voice replied to the appealing tone:

"She heareth now no more,

Her beauteous life is o'er;
Cease, then, ye wailing winds, your call;
Bring forth the sable bier,

Lay her in silence there,
And strew fresh flow'rets o'er the pall."
The last faint echoes died away, and soft
The evening breezes fanned my cheek; all things
Grew calm, as though in answer to that voice;
And, riding high in heaven, appeared the moon,
Her mild face looking sadly on the scene.

A fluttering sound, as though of moving wings-
A melting strain of chastened grief-and then
A band of mourners, robed in spotless white,

How strange that the broad cloud's swarthy wings Came softly gliding by; upon the bier

Should scatter in their dark flights aloft

Such beautiful plumes-such wonderful things-
When the world is hushed in sleep!
Like the shade of a warrior-chief,

Dusky and tall with lifted hands,

And crest of the purest, longest plumes,
The stately elm-tree shivering stands;
The moon the phantom shape illumes
To the smallest withered leaf.
Under the shelving banks of ice,
Like a glittering serpent black and white,
The river crawls and moans with cold;
The water-fall is a castle bright,

With gleaming domes and turrets bold,
And spires of rare device.

Silent the snow fell from the sky,

And dumb is the earth, no warmth, no breath;
For the mystic weight of the ghostly snow
Lies on her face like the pallor of death;

But the warm heart beats through her trance below,
Throbs ever and will not die.

A fair young maiden lay as if in sleep,
Her pale hands folded meekly on her breast,
Now pulseless, cold, and dead. Around the brow
Were twined fair lilies, pure and pale as she,
Yet not so beautiful; and, like a vail of light,
Her unbound tresses floated o'er her robe.
Silent and slow these mourners passed me by,
And the now gently-moving winds brought back
The chorus of their voices, sweetly blent
In one sad strain their requiem o'er the dead:
"Thou art passing hence, bright Summer, from the
breast of mourning earth,

To a clime of fadeless beauty, to the skies that gave
thee birth;

Thy heart lies chilled and broken 'neath Autumn's ruthless sway;

Mourn we for the gentle Summer, she is passing

hence away.

Chant softly, O thou river, the sad funereal hymn, While we bear her by these scenes, through grove and forest dim;

Breathe lightly, dying flowers, over her beauteous clay,

Mourn for the gentle Summer, she is passing hence away."

CLOUDS.

BY MRS. S. K. FURMAN.

BEAUTIFUL clouds going to and fro,

Draping a couch for the day-king's rest!
Pass'd is the storm from his regal brow
As calm he descends in the golden west,
And with soft pinions of snowy fold,

Bearing the tints of his mellow light,
Border'd with purple and burnish'd gold,
Still all intent on a mission bright.
Now with ethereal fingers fair,

Lo, ye are weaving a diadem, Threadings of silver and amber rare, Blended with jewels and peerless gems.

And I am watching a festal train

Daintily tripping in airy flight; Maiden-like forms on a mystic plain,

Crowning the eve for the bride of night. But in the distance sweet visions gleam, Taking me back through the shaded past, Thrilling my heart with a blissful dream, Holier far and too dear to last.

O, 't was the soft-footed even-time,

Glowing and warm in the smiles of May, When a small hand nestling close in mine, Led me out where the bright young grass lay.

Joyous she lifted her dimpled arms

As the clouds rosy-wing'd lightly swept, Asking if they were the angel forms

Coming to watch while the children slept. And with simple words I aimed to tell

Of the invisible watchers nigh,

And of the home where the white saints dwell,
Radiant more than the gleaming sky.

Eager to hear of that happy place,
Silent she stood, while eternal love
Beam'd on her beautiful upturn'd face,
Gazing as 't were on the bliss above;
Then in a rapturous whisper low,

Tenderly mingled with praise and prayer,
Asked "if we could not make haste and go,
To live with the Lord and angels there."
Tell me, ye clouds o'er the sleeping day,
'Minding me so of your friends before,
As ye sped over the trackless way,

Say, did ye pass near to heaven's door?
For I have lost the dear clasping hand,
Miss'd the deep love of her angel eyes,
And for these long weary years I stand
Seeking my cherub beyond the skies.
Ah, the few bright happy evenings fled,
Crowning the prayer of her heart full soon,
Pillowing lowly her gentle head

Under the blossoms of early June!

And I've been groping these daken'd years,
If I might find but ur shinig track,
Drenching my soul with a mourner's tears,
Yet would not call the fond lov'd one back.
No, I would only her footprints see,
Fragrant with faith and love's trusting flowers,
Knowing such guileless simplicity

Only can lead to the upper bowers.
Voiceless and dim is the gilded cloud,

But there is light for a spirit riven,

When through the shadows of sorrow's shroud Breaketh a smile from the king of heaven.

AT SEA.

BY MRS. ANN M. ANDERSON.

'T was rosy morn, and on the rolling main
A gallant steamer proudly stemmed the tide;
The sky in sapphire glowed, and back again
The answering depths a mirror shone, and wide
The sun his glory poured, till sky and sea

Were blent in one deep maze of gold; in pride
The snow-capped billows danced upon the lee
In many a sportive wreath; and floated there
The music mirth of young, and gay, and fair.
There was the blushing teint of life's first glow;
The sweet babe smil'd as buds that early crown
The brow of Spring; and peerless as the snow
That reigns sublime where Alpine hights cold frown
Fair woman shone; and manhood, like the oak,
Stood in his strength with honors girt around,
With bowl and dance the festal hour awoke-

It seemed the magic sway of some bright dream, Hung o'er the hours that came and fled the scene. But what appalling pow'r deep rends the air, And wrathful breaks the slumbers of the deep? Night whilst 't is yet midday-the heav'ns late fair Are pall'd in pitchy black, and fiercely leap The lightning's fiery barbs athwart the gloam;

In tortuous shapes a fearful sway they keep, Wild heaves the blast, and high the surge in foam Breaks o'er the fated ship; one fearful crashShe struggles-reels-sinks 'neath the wild waves' lash!

And what wild cries of terror and despair

Came from that vessel's hold; with fear dismayed The strong man bowed in agony, and pray'r Came up from hearts that ne'er before had prayed; And he that dared to lift above his eye And say, "There is no God," when he has laid His finger-seal upon the stars stamped high In burning gold, cried out in that dark hour, "Great God, O save! thine is almighty pow'r!" Another morn spread over earth afar

Her golden wings, all nature to renew, And either deep was cloudless; not a mar Obscured the canvas hung in ether blue, Save here a floating spar; and on the shore

Some bleaching form the waves had left to view; No trace of strife remained; the waves slept o'er The mother and her babe; the fair, the brave To ocean's briny depths their glory gave.

HERE AND TRE, OR TIDBITS OF TRAVEL. who, on the invasion of Italy by the Huns, here

THE QUEEN OF THE ADRIATIC.

BY PROFESSOR OLIVER M. SPENCER.

There is a glorious city in the sea;
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets,
Ebbing and flowing; and the salt sea-weed
Clings to the marble of her palaces.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,
Lead to her gates. The path lies o'er the sea,
Invincible; and from the land we went,
As to a floating city-steering in,
And gliding up her streets, as in a dream,
So smoothly, silently-by many a dome,
Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than eastern pride,
Of old the residence of merchant-kings;
The fronts of some, though Time had shattered
them,

Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

As though the wealth within them had run o'er."

THIS

HIS beautiful description of Venice was more than realized as our little Austrian steamer, the Milano, entered the gulf and threaded its narrow and difficult channel to the quay of the Piazetta. For more than an hour the dome and cupolas of St. Mark, and, rising majestically above them all, the great Campanile tower, had been visible in the distance. Gradually the city, with its marble palaces, as if evoked by the magic of an enchanter's wand, arose like Venus from the waves of the sea, a marvel of beauty, while the slanting rays of the sun, who was just retiring to rest upon his crimson couch beneath a canopy of gold, was reflected back from spire and dome, or streamed along a sea of glass, as it were, commingled with fire, till the whole scene became radiant with an almost unearthly splendor. It was a vision of beauty to be seen but once, and then forever.

The steamer had scarcely dropped her anchor before we were surrounded by more than a score of gondolas, that glided hither and thither as if neither air nor water presented a resisting mediam. Our baggage being safely stowed away in one, and our party in another, we were soon landed upon the steps of the Hotel Europa, much in the same manner that the yawl of a Queen City packet would deposit her passengers upon the steps of the Broadway during a freshet on the Ohio. The Europa, formerly the Giustiniani Palace, with its double windows and doors, and its mosaic pavement, still retains an air of its original splendor.

Venice is one of the most unique of cities. Built upon a cluster of threescore and ten isl ands, in the midst of a shallow but extensive lagoon, she owes her origin to a band of fugitives,

VOL. XX.-11

sought refuge from the terrible vengeance of Attila and his barbarian hordes. The city is constructed upon piers or piles driven into the yielding sediment, which has been deposited by numerous rivers for countless ages. It is traversed by narrow land passages, four or five feet wide, called cale, but the principal thoroughfares are the canals. The largest of these is the Canalazzo, or Grand Canal, which constitutes the Broadway of Venice. Its course is serpentine, dividing the city into two irregular and unequal divisions. Most of the finest palaces and some of the principal churches front upon it, while the celebrated bridge of the Rialto spans it with a single arch ninety-five feet in length and seventyfive in breadth. With canals for streets, barges for omnibuses, and gondolas for cabs, the clatter of horses' hoofs and the rumbling of carriage wheels is no where to be heard. The celebrated bronze horses, surmounting the central portal of St. Mark, are the only ones to be seen in Venice. One who is accustomed to the din of a large and populous city is almost oppressed with a silence that is only broken by the occasional plash of an oar, or the monotonous cry of a gondolier, uttered as a note of warning as he glides swiftly under a bridge, or sweeps gracefully around a corner. Nor is the stranger charmed less by the beauty than the novelty of the scene. The city certainly deserves the appellation of "Venice the Beautiful." Emerging, like a sea-nymph, from the waves of the Adriatic, sea-born and sea-encircled, she seems the very impersonation of the Goddess of Beauty embodied in marble.

Our first excursion was upon the Grand Canal. Embarking in a gondola, and being seated under the canopy of black cloth, so constructed that you can not see the gondolier, who is both propeller and pilot, its motion was so gentle and noiseless, or we were so totally unconscious of it, that the long line of palaces on either hand seemed floating rapidly by. To our left is the Academy of Fine Arts, containing among many other interesting relics a porphyry vase, inclosing the right hand and chisel of Canova. Now we are opposite the palace of the Doge Foscari, whose misfortunes are so graphically delineated in Lord Byron's tragedy of "The Two Foscari." Just in its rear rises the tower of the church of the Frari, containing the tombs of Titian and Canova, while a little further on is the palace in which the author of Childe Harold took up his abode during his sojourn in Venice. Now we are passing the Rialto, but strain our eye in vain to catch a glimpse of the cruel Shylock or the good Antonio. We disembark at the bridge, and mingle with the gay and busy multitudes who

throng its passages, or traffic in its numerous shops.

Of the forty public places in Venice, the Piazza of St. Mark is the center of business and attraction. This truly-magnificent square will not compare unfavorably with any in Europe. A long range of buildings, uniform in appearance and palatial in structure, is supported by a series of arches, forming on three sides one continuous line of arcades, of nearly a quarter of a mile in extent. Upon the fourth rises, in oriental splendor, the basilica of St. Mark, which, with its stately domes, spacious porticoes, and variegated columns, is one of the grandest conceptions ever expressed in marble. Immediately to the left stands the clock tower, resplendent with azure and gold, while to the right the Campanile, with its angel weathercock, is drawn in clear and sharp outline upon the deep-blue background of an Italian sky.

At the eastern extremity of the Piazza, and at right angles with it, is the Piazetta. Crossing this in the direction of the quay, our attention is called to the stone of shame, an interesting relic of a most singular custom. Upon this stone pedestal bankrupts were compelled to stand and undergo certain humiliating ceremonies before they were released from their debts. At the other end of the square are the two granite columns supposed to have been brought from Constantinople. One of them is surmounted by St. Theodore, who was the patron of the Republic till the relics of St. Mark were transferred from Alexandria to Venice, when the martyr soldier was supplanted in the popular veneration by the martyr evangelist. Upon the other stands the lion of St. Mark, the genius loci of the city, and which in truth must be considered as one of the veritable lions of Venice. Like the celebrated bronze horses, he has evidently seen something of the world, and has had not a little experience in the fortunes of war. The former were originally transported from the hippodrome at Constantinople to Venice; from Venice they journeyed to Paris, under the auspices of the victorious French, and then on the downfall of the latter city were restored again to their present position. The lion accompanied them on their journey to the French capital, but has since returned, not, however, without the loss of the gospel which formerly supported his right paw.

Fronting the quay is the Palace of the Doge. The interior of this exceeded in splendor any thing we had hitherto seen. One apartment, in particular, the Hall of the Great Council-one hundred and seventy-five feet in length by eightyfour in breadth, and fifty-six in hight-is only inferior to St. Mark in the richness of its decora

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tions. Here are not only some of the first paintings ever executed upon canvas, but the largest one of the kind in the world-the Paradise of Tintoretto. Around the hall near the ceiling are arranged the portraits of the Doges. however, is wanting. A black vail, covering the space which should have been occupied by that of Marino Falieri, with the following well-known inscription, tells the sad and simple story, "Hic est locus Marino Faletro decapitati pro criminibus."

Of deep and thrilling interest to us were the Pozzi or state dungeons, whose history is written in blood. Though they were partially filled up by the Venetians on the approach of the victorious forces of the French, still a descent may be made, by means of a trap-door, through a dark and intricate passage, to the depth of several stories. Whoever has felt their thick darkness, inhaled their rank contagion, or breathed their difficult air, needs no description of their untold horrors. Dante's inscription over the gates of hell would have been a most fitting one over the entrance to those damp and dismal cells—

"Which never echoed but to sorrow's sounds,
The sigh of long imprisonment, the step
Of feet on which the iron clank'd the groan
Of death, the imprecation of despair."

Emerging again into daylight, the trap-door fell, and we began to breathe more freely. We were now conducted to the "Bridge of Sighs," a covered gallery thrown across the narrow canal which separates the prison from the palace. The prisoner, when taken out of his dungeon to die, was led across this bridge into an adjoining cell, and there strangled. Though I was not aware that any of my ancestors had ever incurred the suspicion of the "Council of Ten," yet, for some reason, my teeth chattered, my knees smote together, while great drops of cold dew beaded my brow.

Speaking of Dante reminds us of the Arsenal, whose great caldrons of boiling pitch furnished the fancy of the poet, in his Inferno, with one of his most singular and striking figures. Perhaps no spot in Venice conveys a more vivid idea of the former glory and power of the republic, or the present indications of her decline and fall, than the arsenal. Here the model of the Bucentaur is still shown-the gilded galley, in which the Doge, with his ducal ring, espoused the Adriatic-a ceremony performed annually as indicative of the continued supremacy of Venice over the sea. Under the auspices of the Austrian Government ship-building is still carried on to a considerable extent.

One evening we were attracted by the sound

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of music to the Piazza of St. Mark, the rendezvous not only of the Venetian beau monde, but of all classes during the pleasant summer and antumn evenings. Here a scene presented itself brilliant beyond any thing we had yet seen in Europe, and since have only found its counterpart along the Champs Elysées of Paris. seemed as if all Venice had emptied itself into this square, which fairly overflowed with gayety and enjoyment. For the time being, all distinctions are lost and forgotten in the general excitement. The haughty Austrian relaxes the severity of his aspect, while the enslaved Venetian seems totally unconscious of the presence of his tyrannical lord. White uniforms, instead of standing as sentinels, or parading the square with bristling bayonets, now discourse the most soul-inspiring music, or move freely here and there among the citizens. Here is the turbaned Turk, the graceful Greek, the homely and repulsive Hungarian, the enterprising Yankee, the polite Frenchman, and the imperious Englishman. Brother Jonathan sits cross-legged as usual, but has forgotten his really-formidable jack-knife, while John Bull has so far lost his presence of mind as to lay aside his "noli me tangere" aspect of countenance, and mingle freely with the crowd he affects to despise. Matron and maid, no less than the shameless fille du pavé are here, the representatives of the fair Jessica, the gentle Desdemona, and the Cyprian Bianca. Side by side sit the fair Circassian and the swarthy Moorthe one veneered with ivory, the other with eb

ony.

Here is the noble Antonio, the last of a long line of merchant princes, whose only wealth is his blood, yet still retaining the marked characteristics of the Venetian gentleman. Here, too, is Shylock-the revengeful, usurious, inexorable Jew, as utterly averse to pork as he is avaricious of ducats. And last, though not least, the merry, garrulous, pleasure-loving, mirth-provoking Gratiano, with his free-and-easy manners, who still says an "infinite deal of nothing," while he postpones old age, and propitiates those "vile democrats," its wrinkles, with merriment and laughter. On either side of the square the brilliantly-illuminated arcades are thronged with promenaders. The shops with their rich display of merchandise, reminding you of Venice in her palmiest days, are crowded with customers, while the cafés, filled to overflowing, have emptied themselves out into the Piazza. This is now flanked with long lines of tables, each surrounded with a merry group eating ices or fruit, and sipping their coffee or wine, and, as a Venetian lady rarely enters a café, especially graced with beauty. To enliven the scene still more, a band of music is posted near the center of the square,

while its intervals of silence are filled up by female harpers, whose native grace and naive simplicity make one feel it a privilege to drop a sou or a swansiger into the extended palm of the fair performer.

And yet one who is not a mere superficial observer will not fail to detect beneath the gay indifference of Italian life the worm that is busy at the Italian heart. At first glance it may appear to be a most poetical life-a romantic dreambut a nearer insight will convince you that it is the tragedy of poetry and romance. This is especially true of the Venetians. Their smiles have no emphasis, and their laughter no hearty accent. They deck their brows with garlands of flowers, though their hearts may be encircled with chaplets of cypress. With an outward show of cheerful submission in the presence of their Austrian lords, they clinch their fists and grind their teeth as they mutter their curses in secret. Doubtless they have long looked forward to the hour of their redemption. For a time it seemed to be drawing nigh. The boon of liberty appeared to be almost within their reach, yet it proved to be an illusive mockery. Flattered, deceived, betrayed by Napoleon III, they again afford to the world the spectacle of

"Slaves turned over to the vanquished by the victor." And yet it were better thus than that they should be turned over to the tender mercies of the Pope. This would be the exchange of Glaucus and Diomede-gold for brass. For a powerful, well-regulated government, though tyrannical, is preferable to one that can scarcely be said to be any government at all. May God help the Italians!

But a truce to these sad reflections! We must not leave Venice without enjoying the luxury of a sea-bath in the Adriatic; so, in company with an English friend, we set out in a gondola for the Lido, a long, low, sandy island, separating the Lagoon from the sea. It being a holiday, the western part of the island was thronged with pleasure-seekers. Proceeding directly to the beach we were soon rigged out in our bathing costumes, which, to say the least, did not improve materially our personal appearance. A heavy sea rendered it somewhat dangerous for inexperienced bathers, yet it added indefinitely to the sport, as one after another was tripped up by the waves, and lay floundering in the brine. Though we enjoyed it vastly, a vague, undefined fear of being transformed into a Triton would not allow us to remain in the water longer than two hours. It was now about dusk. As we returned, the gardens along the western shore were thronged with the gay votaries of Terpsichore, the giddy goddess of dancing. Some one has defined

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