pleas ng perplexity as to how the lowly, gracious one, the balmy air, does erfume our thoughts. Also, when we pass over the notes in the sale of flowers, from the full flush of floral beauty, with the lesso spread over all, that the deepest significance, after Christ's gos 1, is in the fact that Adam's Bible was in the flowers, trees, dellsd stream of Eden; and we have to read the truths by the re-a quir. nent of that lore in latest days; the radiant tulips, or carr tions oud, rising after the shower as fresh as Thetis out of the waves; tl quivering movements of the lordly blossom, as if seva l, petal, st men, or pistil were intelligently sensible to the life of the moment; the opening of the bud when the birth-struggle is al nost visible to the sight; to the consideration of the mystery of nsummatic in the seed-the presence of the generations yet to e me-of th resurrection and the life.

Beautiful as is all this, and the fluctuations of the months which ever proclain that the dues of nature are paid, if not regularly, ther with golden usury. A, one things wanting, as the orga -close of a golde strain, we obtain it by go, into the croq et-ground and Jeholding the grandeur and the glory of the dyin day. W ther illumine those chambers of the soul hich can only be l ̧ntened by the setting sun, and prepare ourselves or the lushir of the eventide.

lear

1mply enter our garden is the effecting of a miracle. ᎢᏂ pressive cares, the burdensome hopes of the day drop of, like hristia's load before the cross, into what is at once a pit of oblivion and a sepure of light. Our present feeling is all-sufficient. Rich loveliness, rious light and shade, bring only images and thoughts of delight and me.

ur eyes see that miracle on every leaf, as did the King of Sian, when he asserted the boundless charity of Heaven against thei tolerant Christian, by asking him to show two leaves alike. We eel the healing of nature in a new beauty. Our ears may catch the whisper of an insect now and then, but the dark chorus of the world is on the far horizon unheard. Our thick, close lilac edges shut out the very sight of field and road. And then come a deepening and a withdrawing-as great a miracle as augh beneath or in the heavens an overshadowing and a reveali g. The incoming of the evening is a fuller outgoing of the soul. There is a rapturous stillness. The censer of nature silen y sends forth the spirit of sweetness through the twilight air; there is a breathing perfume everywhere. Now, can we possess ourselves of the gift of the evening star. A silvery light diffuses itself over all things: we look, and this evening brightness centres in th throbbing of yonder golden planet. Presently here is a dark ing, and we begin to see the sparkling dust from Heaven's

footstool flying through space. The mind gradually becomes agitated the night of still enchantment is over. Night is here, who "brings as many thoughts as he wears stars." The mind spreads forth her wings-in a few hours the flower of day has been long closed-we retire to our chamber-we wrap night's shroud cloth around us - we prepare for the dying of the life of the world, we take just such space as will serve us in the cemetery -in the dark furrow we lay ourselves down, as we murmur with Novalis, "Thou night's inspiration, thou slumber of heaven, comest over me!" It is already here. The soul has hid away from the sepulchre; the mystery of music has risen from the rod, and gone with celestial song into the heaven of heavens.

Such is the ecstasy, the balm, the vision, the repose. Proteus is in the garden as well as Psyche; the elemental god is here, in earth and æther, water, fire, ever transforming himself; here, too, is Chloris, the fairest goddess of flowers, without whom even Juno, queen of power and beauty, was barren, and who still, by her spiritual flower-forces, quickens the soul, and makes it bring forth progenies of strong, bright thought. These are breathed sometimes from the constellated glory of the whole of the living masses, for the greatest emotion and impression may arise from the complete scene entering the mind; in some moods, as with beauty, sorrow, separation, details defraud us of the grandeur as well as of the splendour and the gloom; the most powerful effect comes from the general, free and flowing figure-thus Milton describes death, and the loveliness of Eve, and the Greek painter depicted grief in the averted, covered face. But the darlings of nature can, with us also, have a sweet individuality and a bright. particular reference.

In their frequent wildness and disorder they present a fine effect, but each flower has also its apartness, its tone, and often its memories. Feelings and scenes are enwrought with the tresses of the flower-beds, and the trailing green of the rockery. That crisp, low creeping-plant recalls the craggy parsley fern-path to Scale Force, the sombre mountains enclosing Buttermere, the cavernous cleft in the rocky side of the hill, the darkness within the long, streaming fall. That bunch of the forget-me-not-sacramental flower of love-carries us to woody shades that lie beneath Romuldkirk, and we see the glitter and hear the murmur of the Tees.

These primroses tell of spring days, fresh meadows and water courses; and those cowslips are pensioners of memory, and bring round us dells and green hills and holiday times long, long ago. The pansy at our feet doth the same tale repeat, of the glory of the dream, which flies not only with the flowers, but ever reappears with them in the quickening spring.

66

No, they pass not away. That which has mingled with our heart's blood cannot die utterly. The tenderness of the flowers finds a lasting-place in our bosoms; our elevated hopes have been nurtured with their loveliness. Mrs. Somerville was wont to say: "Whatever flowers grow in heaven, I think I shall regret our own roses and mignonette." When the gentle, fiery fancy of Jean Paul Richter was passing to the heavenlier world, his last murmur was: 'My beautiful flowers, my lovely flowers." When Tom Hood was ill, it was feared unto death, he said that "He smelt the violets." Keats, in one of his reveries wherein he traversed past scenes and emotions, just before his departure from earth, said that the intensest pleasure he had received in life was in watching the growth of flowers ;" and after a peaceful, forward look, he said"I feel the flowers growing over me." Great has been the love for flowers, and that it passes not away when the spirit of man returns to God who gave it, is testimony to us of the strong foundations on which our own love and trust are built. Their manifestations and admonition in our garden are sources of joy and strength; but the conclusion of the matter is assured in divine fulness when we hear the love of them mingled with the living everlasting hopes, and lingering on the lips of dying saints-when we see them lighten the tomb with rays from the bright kingdom beyond. They never have betrayed a human heart, and the spirit tastes bliss that it knows to be immortal, when it sees them about the coffin-a sprinkling from the eternal spring of the realm of light where the brother spirit now abides.

FRIEDRICH WIECK.

In a quiet street of one of the suburbs of Dresden there rises above the surrounding dwellings a house under the roof of which were spent the last moments of a remarkable life. No tablet attracts the stranger's eye, only the inhabitants of the place show it to their friends, and tell them that for thirty years a man lived there who, by his talent for teaching, acquired a world-wide reputation. Friedrich Wieck belonged to those enthusiastic lovers of music of which every century produces but few; perchance, in time to come, the pen of genius may recognise in him a fitting hero of artist life-another George Sand will write the history of another Prospero.

Thrown upon the world at an early age, Friedrich Wieck grew up amidst great privations. His parents lived in a small Prussian town, when he, their eldest child, was born, August 18th, 1785. The years of his childhood fell thus in the time of the French Revolution and the subjugation of Germany by Napoleon, and our youthful hero experienced many of the miseries and privations inflicted by the conqueror's sword. His love for music and his great talent manifested themselves at an early age; but his parents determined that the life of their child should not be sacrificed to a profession which, at that time, held out little or no prospect of succeeding in the world. They would, on no consideration, bring him up to be a musician. He was to study theology, and in time to embrace a profession which would at least afford him a maintenance. Moreover, this line of study offered considerable advantages in the way of exhibitions, which might he obtained and held at the University during his course of study. He was accordingly sent to the Gymnasium at Torgau ; but with what means of support? He lived on bread and butter, and looked with longing to Sunday, which would bring him at least a hot dinner. With such scanty food he could never become strong, and he was and remained a delicate boy. All the time at his disposal he devoted to the instruments attainable. These were bad enough, and he was a self-taught performer; but he found his chief joy in producing the tones which spoke the language so dear to him. At length he was pronounced ready for the University, and was permitted to go to Wittenberg. The certificate which he received on leaving the Gymnasium contained the censure that he paid more attention to the ars musica than to the sciences; nor did he now

amend in this respect. He completed his studies because his parents wished it, and mounted his pulpit to preach, but only once, having an inward conviction that he was not destined for this calling.

After having maintained himself for a few years as preceptor, he resolved to establish at Leipzig a depôt for pianofortes, for which purpose the Police Inspector Streubel lent him 6000 thalers, taking Wieck's honest face as his only security.

Leipsic had always been the centre of much musical cultivation, stimulated by the celebrated Gewandhaus concerts; and a new life now began for our hero, a revelling in sounds hitherto only heard in dreams. But there likewise grew upon him the sad certainty that it was too late for him to follow the career of an executive artist. He began to teach, to give lessons in music, and made it his object in life to lead his pupils to the high standard of perfection, which he himself was withheld from attaining. He tried to impart to his pupils his own passionate zeal, and in order to incite them to yet more rapid progress, his thoughts were incessantly occupied with the construction of a method that would help the student to get more easily through the tedious work that must be accomplished.

Wieck found himself at length in a position to marry, and chose as his wife Marianne Tromlitz, daughter of the Cantor Tromlitz, at Plauen, in the Saxon Voigtland. On the 13th of September, 1819, his wife became the mother of a little girl-who was destined to surpass his proudest dreams. Little Clara did not at once entitle her father to found any great hopes on her capabilities. Her development was but slow, and it was only with her fifth year that her ear opened to the charm of sounds. As soon as her father discovered that she had understanding for music, he began her musical education; and soon her rapid progress filled him with joy and surprise. Those who were witnesses to the brilliant execution acquired in so short a time blamed the father for tormenting the child and undermining her health. He smiled at these reproaches, for he knew how little were her efforts, how simple and natural the means he employed, and how carefully he avoided tiring her; and, indeed, the little Clara grew up under his treatment to be a bright, healthy, and happy child.

The method of his instruction remained meantime the secret of the father, and was not to be made public until it should be justified by the result. This secret, as it is now known to us, is founded on the simple and natural principle that music is an art, the study of which must be pursued with love. The first endeavour of the teacher should be to awaken in the child a fondness for sounds, to make the music-lesson a pleasure, not an irksome task.