the subjects of them whether we recognize them or deny them.

So also is it with spiritual laws. They are as unchangeable as the Lawgiver, as immutable as the wisdom of the Father, as unconditional and universal as the laws of Nature. Nay, they are the laws of Nature; the laws of Him of whose being and attributes Nature is but a Revelation -of Him of whom all visible things are but "the garment," of whom light is but the "shadow." What, indeed, has our acceptance or acquiescence, when we think of it, to do with the infinite will and majesty of the Omnipotent! Are his ways as our ways, or can we stay his hand, or say, what doest thou? Believe it then, "if we will have nothing to do with religion, religion will have something to do with us." If we will refuse and neglect the means of Christian culture and discipline, we must take the penalty of our disobedience, and soon or late, we must come to this truth, the conviction that the law of Christ is our only guide and safety, our only reliance and salvation. Happy shall we be to learn this blessed truth betimes, for it is a truth which must be learned by all, as all must yield to the Omnipotent will of the Father, and Christ must reign till he hath put all enemies under his feet. Come then to the Table of the Lord. Meditate upon his pure and holy life, and be changed into the same image.

"But the symbols of the body and blood of Jesus awe and repel us," say some, "and we shrink away in fear and sorrow. Gladly do we hear the name of Jesus in the Sanctuary, in our hymns of devotion, in the sacred teaching of the Scripture, in the prayers and services of the Holy day, but there is an undefinable dread about this ordinance, and we cannot feel that we ought to participate in it." Is this dread rational? The symbols surely are not holier than the truths they teach. The bread and wine are but designed as emblems of the body and blood of Christ. The sacred rite is intended to fix attention, to impress the mind by visible means, to lead to devout and serious meditation, and to the realization of the divine ideal in Christ. Let us consider if we are not influenced by the spirit of the false theology we condemn, if it can be true that the blessed name of the Savior is "music to our ears," when we shrink in fear from that service which will so clearly reveal him to us; or do we think that we have enough of the Spirit of Christ within us, and do we rest satisfied with our present partial attainment? If, indeed, as we profess, we love the

holy name of Jesus, then should we rejoice with an exceeding joy to participate in that service which would sanctify us, and by setting before our minds in an especial form, the idea of virtue and truth, elevate us to a purer and holier practice, to a more Christian life. This means is rational and natural. It has an intrinsic excellence as a means. It is peculiarly designed for instruction and discipline. It is a most direct and efficient means. It will powerfully impel us to put forth new endeavors, and reach forward to better and holier aims. And is such a service to be disregarded and set aside by the plea of its fearfulness? The immutable and ceaseless obligation which rests upon every human soul, is fearful indeed, for we are the artificers of our own weal or woe; here is all our danger; here should be all our fear; but aid which will help us in the path of duty, and strengthen us for the trials and sorrows of life, ought to be hailed by us as a blessing and minister of good; and all worldly gains and advantages, learning, wealth, and the abundance the heart desireth, should be reckoned as light and trivial compared to the undying treasure of the imperishable soul.

Consider again, if the fearfulness and solemnity of the act of prayer would be considered a valid excuse for its neglect? and let us calmly examine the matter, and see if the service of Communion is or can be, when rightly viewed, more solemn or impressive-can Communion with the Savior be esteemed a holier act than Communion with the God and Father of our Lord and Savior? Is Jesus then to our thought more inaccessible than the Deity? Are we not yet freed from the blighting mysteries of the unholy creeds of man's device? Besides, if this plea be admitted, what shall be the limit of its validity? Why shall not any and every religious ordinance be disregarded because of its dread significance, because we cannot approach it without fear and sorrow? Life, human life, this every day life of ours, is full of the most vital interests, the most imminent perils, the greatest and most solemn meaning, if we will rightly consider it. The significance of the external world to the soul appears to be all its value; and all other interests sink into comparative worthlessness, when we meditate upon the imperishable and unutterable worth of truth and holiness, of inward peace and purity, of a conscience void of offence, and an humble, thankful spirit of resignation to the will of the Father. Life is full of dread significance and unspeakable awe, when we apprehend it aright. Nothing to

us, can be more fearful, more solemn, more mysterious, or wonderful. What are we ? Whence came we? Why are we here? Whither shall we go, and when? What is our birth? What and why is death? If a man die, shall he live again? Shall there be a recognition of the loved and lost in the spirit land? What is the meaning of sin and sorrow? What is the teaching of loss and pain, disappointment, calamity and bereavement? What is this consciousness within us, this subtle, invisible, ever yearning, questioning spirit in our bosoms? Yes, life is full of deepest moment and most vital interest, full of fearfullest significance, of most blessed hopes and aspirations, of bitterest anguish and unspeakable woe. It is a fearful thing to live, a fearful thing to sin, a fearful thing to die; and shall we be hindered by a feeling of the fearfulness of the act, from coming unto him who was "a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief," that we may learn how to bear all events and trials calmly, submissively and triumphantly, and come off conquerors, and more than conquerors over the world and the hosts of evil? Nothing can be more solemn to us than the unmeasured responsibilities which rest upon us; nothing more fearful than the unsounded depths of our own souls; nothing more mysterious than our own life, than memory and hope, than joy and sorrow, than death and the grave; and shall we who have access to the Father, who aspire to share the secrets of the universe, who would find out the Almighty and learn his wisdom and his wondrous works and ways,-shall we not seek the counsel of his Christ, to whom and through whom the Father has revealed his will, to whom he gave his spirit without measure, who was in the Father and the Father in him,--who bore all sorrows and calamities, and persecutions and denials and treachery, and an agonizing death upon the Cross, that he might triumph over all, and thus be perfected, and redeem and save the world from sin and sorrow? Shall we not come to the table of his commemoration, and commune with him, and obey his affectionate and dying request, who gave his life a ransom for us, that the world might be hallowed by his stainless virtue, and we and those who come after us, be blessed by his guileless life and perfect example?

Let the irrational dread of Jesus be put away; let us obey our Master, and instead of the awfulness and sorrow, there will spring up in our souls a calm and holy peace and gladness, and we shall love to meditate upon the character,

the life and death of Jesus; we shall partake of his filial spirit, his divine trust, his gentleness and meekness, his patience and serenity, his triumphant joy and blessedness. We shall see the Father's love in all the dispensations of life, shall look with Christ's faith through all gloom and sorrow, shall drink the cup the Father giveth, and, like the Master, be perfected through suffering, and wear a crown of imperishable glory. We are too weak and erring to trust in ourselves; Jesus is our great Exemplar, the type of our humanity, and we would not miss his foot-prints to the Father's throne.

Brooklyn, N. Y.

C. C. GORDON, Chairman.

A WINTER NIGHT.

'Tis dark! no moonbeam's silver light
Appears to bless the cheerless night;
But wintry winds a requiem sing,
For Summer's blight and transient Spring,
Yet all is light within my mind,
No clouds, nor tempest, there I find.

I joy when Spring's first smiles appear,
When Summer fruits and shades are here;
I joy in Autumn's beauty bright,
And yet I joy in this dark night,
Because to me it has been given
The faith which makes this earth a heaven.

I'm happy when the sky is fair,
Or when the storm-cloud lingers there;
I'm happy when the stars are bright,
Or tempest veils the brow of night;
I'm always happy when I feel
The joys which faith and hope reveal.
'Tis dark no ray of light I see
Amid the storm's loud revelry;
And winds with anthems, wild and strong,
Beguile the weary soul with song ;
There's beauty in the moon's soft light,
There's grandeur in this darksome night.
Webster, Mich.

M. S. WILLIAMS.

THE DESERTED MANSION.

NOT far from my own loved home, upon the green banks of "Willow Dale Brook," that winds its way gently and beautifully through the vales and meadows of the land of my adoption, there stands a ruinous old mansion, around

whose crumbling walls twines the ivy in its native wildness; and through whose crevices and broken windows, plays the wind in strange, though not discordant music.

The broken arches, decayed and decaying timbers, the moss-covered roof and grass grown paths;-all inform the passer-by, that it is long, very long, since human feet have trod those floors, and the sounds of joyous gaiety and mirth echoed and re-echoed through those halls. Time's indelible stamp of ruin and decay is plainly visible upon every spot that can attract the notice, assuring us that that old structure must soon fall and mingle with the dust. Yet ere it passes into non-entity, would it not be well to chronicle a few events in the lives of its former occupants? to place upon record some memorial, which shall, in future years, remind us, that once a dwelling stood upon that lone neglected spot, and within that dwelling beat hearts as truly great, good and gifted, as ever this fair earth could boast of? My spirit answers "It is well."

Allow me then, dear reader, to present to your imagination a correct portrait of that ancient family. It shall not be adorned with more than earthly beauty and goodness; it shall not be one that sendeth to the heart only bright hopes and unclouded sunshine; neither shall it be shaded with an undue portion of sorrow. No; it shall be a true picture of the life and pilgrimage of those faithful ones who toiled on, manfully and bravely through life's labor and struggles, calmly dwelling beneath the bright sunshine of prosperity, and passing beneath the shades of adversity and sorrow as calmly, leaning trustfully upon the arm of Him who was their Protector, Guardian and Friend.

I have spoken of that "ancient family," and ancient indeed they were, for nearly half a century hath elapsed, since the last and only remaining member thereof, found a quiet resting place in the village church-yard, by the side of those who finished still earlier, their voyage over life's changing sea. But few of the villagers recollect the event, and still fewer are even aware that such people have ever existed, except through the medium of some aged relict, who now and then recounts the many kindnesses that he in his youth received from the occupants of yonder dilapidated and mouldering building.

The circumstances that I am about to lay before you, were related to me by a lady whose limbs are tottering beneath the weight of years, and whose head is white with the snows of more

than eighty winters. She resides but a few yards from the mansion of which I have been speaking, and is ever ready to impart to youthful curiosity, some legend of years long since "passed into the lapse of ages."

"At the time when my acquaintance with the family began," says my informant, "it consisted of an old man, his wife, one son, and two lovely daughters-the youngest about fifteen years of age. The parents formerly resided in one of the New England States, surrounded by loved friends and relatives. But these had de- i parted, one by one, until father nor mother knew of a single individual, beyond their own little circle, to whom they were bound by the ties of relationship. Circumstances compelled them to remove from the place of their nativity, and after much trouble and time spent in seeking a place that henceforth they should call "home," they selected that home upon the banks of our own beautiful rivulet, where merrily gliding waters seem to welcome each stranger to its side. The neighbors did all they could to assist the strangers in establishing themselves in the mansion that had for years stood tenantless, and when all preliminaries were arranged, wished them a long life of happiness and peace, demonstrating by deeds which spoke in louder tones than words, that their wishes proceeded from the heart. Their kindness and hospitality were well repaid. In due time the villagers found in Mr. B― a counsellor, adviser and friend. To him they came in all hours of trial, perplexity and care, and from him received words of comfort and sympathy, and if need was, more substantial tokens of the same. Mrs. B, her son and daughters, were no less favorites than the honored partner and sire. They were frequent | and welcome visitors in the dwellings of the poor, the oppressed and down trodden; at the bedside of the suffering invalid, and in the homes of those who were mourning over the departing or departed spirits of loved ones; and ever by their presence they diffused the gentle sunshine of peace, and the holy influence of a faith whose crown is love-infinite, eternal, unchanging and universal,-love to God as a universal Father, and to all mankind as brethren, -a faith that pointed beyond the narrow boundary of earth to a limitless realm in the eternal world, into which will finally be transplanted every member of the universal brotherhood.

Two years had passed, and nothing had occurred to disturb the quiet of the household, and many already believed their hopes and kind

wishes in behalf of their new friends, would be fully realized. But an over-ruling Providence "who seeth not as man seeth," was about to bring to nothing their imaginings, to sunder the ties of social and domestic love so firmly united by removing from their midst the pride and joy of their hearts. The son had in his efforts to arrest the progress of a fire that lately occurred in the village, contracted a severe cold, which settling upon his lungs, soon terminated his earthly existence. Deep was the sorrow arising from this dispensation, but it was met with meek and trusting hearts, which faltered not in the work given them to accomplish. The bereaved family shed tears of regret that one so young and gifted, so loved and cherished, would no more gladden them by his presence; but they were tears of chastened grief, for they knew his spirit still lived and labored on in a higher and holier sphere, and they were patiently looking forward to the time, not far in the distance, when

beheld the calm and peaceful serenity of soul beaming from the eyes of Mary, as she sat by the bedside of her suffering sister, I felt still more deeply the goodness of that Presence. A glance told me that He who gave to mortality life and breath, was about to take it back unto himself—and clothe it in garments of immortality. And when he had finally accomplished his purpose, there ascended to him from the altar of Mary's heart, the incense of thanksgiving that earth's labors and trials would no more have dominion over her who had so faithfully withstood them,-a prayer that even the slender thread that bound her to earth might be severed, and she, too, find entrance into the Presence of the Holy of holies, yet she united with this prayer that most beautiful of all pray"Father, not my will, but thine, be done." A few more rolling months and the villagers rendered the last sad offices, and paid the last tributes to her memory; and the re-united fami

ers,

We will now pass over a number of years, during which the parents had found their last resting place on earth. Both had well fulfilled the mission God the Father gave them to accomplish, and when he called them home, they calmly bade adieu to earth and the remaining objects that bound them here, and leaning trustfully on the Omnipotent arm of love, entered "the valley of death." We now behold the orphan sisters pursuing alone the journey of life. Their heads too have grown white with years, and increasing sorrows. A saddened, yet cheerful expression rests upon their countenance,-a smile plays upon their lips, but 'tis a smile of heavenly joy,-a bright and holy lustre beams from their eyes, which are radiant with visions of heaven. They pursue their wonted avocations at home, still spending a portion of their time in administering to the wants of the suffering invalid, and smoothing the pillow of the dying. Often are they found holding sweet and holy communion with the Father of all spirits, beseeching Him, if it is his will, to soon gather them back to his fold, where they may again bask in the smiles of loved and loving friends, and drink still deeper at the fountain of his love. A few years more, and their prayers are answered.

One beautiful autumnal evening I entered their abode. The mellow tints of the setting sun, sent down deep into the heart a consciousness of the presence of Omnipotence, and as I

appointed for all living." Above their sleeping dust, for many years, blossomed nature's fairest flowers-and there still waves the gently bending branches of the willow and lotus tree, from which the feathered songsters are ever pouring forth requiems to their memory.

The few remaining relics of this ancient and honored family are fast hastening to decay. The old mansion has well nigh crumbled into dust; a few more years at most will obliterate every vestige of their existence, "and the place that has known them, will know them no more."

My narrator ceased, and I exclaimed involuntarily, Thus is it with all terrestrial things! change, mutation and decay, are written upon all, even upon ourselves, and soon will the ivy wreath of time be broken, and our freed souls encircled in the fadeless wreath of immortality! Hartwich Sem., N. Y.

THE COMING OF KOSSUTH.

L. E. B.

UPON the sea at last! the wide, wild sea,
The sea that mirrors on its heaving breast
A universe of beauty, bright and free,
As is the spirit of our noble guest!

He comes! O winds! be soft as when ye sweep
Upon a bank of Spring's most tender flowers ;
And ye blue skies, smile on, and do not weep,
Or frown upon this hero-friend of ours;
And let each crested wave bow to the man of
power.

"EVERY body," to use a very comprehensive phrase, has heard of the White Mountains. But the difference between hearing and seeing is almost as great as that existing between a dream and its reality. Having long felt a strong desire to visit this home of the mountains, we started one pleasant morning, during the month of August, upon the long anticipated trip. Our company consisted of three highly esteemed and honored clergymen of "our order;" one of them a patriarch in the cause, and whose veneration for and delight in mountain scenery, is only exceeded by his love of and devotedness to that cause which he has for so many years honored and blessed. Another member of our party, was a "cousin," too, but sprung from the maternal stock to which we belong. Take them for all in all "we ne'er shall look upon their like again." We took the cars on the Boston and Maine railroad to Portland, where we tarried the first night. The following morning, having a few hours leisure, we took a stroll over the city. The city of Portland, like most of the cities of the "East," is celebrated for its spacious streets and magnificent elms. We could not but stop to admire this last named feature, as it adds so much to the beauty of its walks and the comfort of its inhabitants. Throughout its entire extent is seen long avenues of noble trees on either side, in many portions their bending branches forming a complete canopy, thus affording a genial shade from the rays of a vertical sun. From the "Observatory" a splendid view presents itself of the harbor, which has been pronounced by critical observers quite equal in point of picturesque beauty to the far famed bay of Naples. But we must "to the mountain away." Taking the cars on the Cumberland road, after a brief ride of fifteen miles, we arrive at Gorham. Thence seven miles by stage to Lake Sebago. Here we formed an acquaintance with a party of ladies and gentlemen from Boston, who by their social and intellectual qualities, added much to the pleasure of the trip. The sail across the lake

was surpassingly fine. A small, but sufficiently capacious steamer, plies over its silver waters. The afternoon was delightful; a refreshing breeze swept over the lake, which together with the charming prospect around and beyond us, rendered this passage over the lake and up the river, one of the most enchanting features in our journey. After crossing the lake, we enter Songo river. This river is deserving of notice. It is very shallow in many parts, so much so, that it is frequently necessary to excavate the channel to admit the passage of the boat. The river is also very narrow and circuitous. We wind along its fringed banks, which we can almost touch on either side, covered with a luxurious growth of trees, whose refreshing shade completely shields us from the rays of an August As we proceed no outlet is perceived, and we are half in doubt whether or no the boat is not going to take the shore, when suddenly an abrupt bend of the stream brings us into a little miniature lake, and soon we are again lost in the tortuous windings of this singular but truly romantic river. After a few hours farther sail we are landed at Denmark.

sun.

A brief stop at this place, and then we start for "Pleasant Mountain," upon whose summit we are to pass the night. This is an elevation situated in the last mentioned town. It rises to a height of nearly two miles from the base to the top. This mountain has recently begun to receive that notice which it so richly deserves. A spacious hotel has been erected upon its summit, and Mr. Sargent, the worthy and excellent proprietor, is untiring in his exertions to render all who may visit him comfortable and happy. We reached the hotel about nine o'clock, P. M. The mountain air was cool and bracing. After partaking of a light supper we adjourned to the parlor, where we were soon joined by the amiable daughters of our worthy landlord; and finding, what we had not anticipated in that far off region in the air, a piano forte, we commenced playing some familiar tunes, accompanied by the young ladies, who poured forth a stream of song that would have done credit to those of far greater pretension. Their melodious voices seemed to gain fresh strength and inspiration from the invigorating atmosphere around us, so clear-so powerful and sweet were they. Those songs are yet ringing in our ears.

In the morning we were awakened to behold the sun rise from this sublime elevation. The morning was cloudless, and as the sun came through the golden gates of the orient, his bright