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THE DIVINE PROCEDURE. How? - when? - and where? - the gods give

no reply; What they will do, they do: nor heed your

Why?

THE BIBLE.

I am persuaded that the Bible will always appear to us more beautiful, the more it is understood, – that is to say, the more we comprehend that every word in it which we take up in its universal significance, and apply to our own case, had always an immediate and peculiar application connected with the circumstances out of wbich it arose.

With the love and the fear
Of a child in my breast.
For with the gods
May no son of man compare :
If upward he soareth,
Touching with head sublime
Stars that eternal shine,
Nowhere he finds there
Place for his foot to stand,
And with him freely
Sport there the birds and clouds.
When he with strong
And marrowy bones stands
On the well-grounded
Base of the solid earth,
Not even then
He dares with the oak compare,
Or with the vine
That clambers round its trunk.

Say what distinguisheth
Gods from the sons of men.
They are as waves
That rolling on waves flow
In an eternal stream:
Us the wave lifteth,
Us the wave whelmeth,
And we are seen no more.

Small is the ring
That claspeth our life round;
And generations
On generations,
Coming and going,
Add link to link
Of an infinite chain.

CHANCE. That which in the enterprises of human beings transcends all calculation, and which is apt to show its power most precisely when human nature is lifting itself most proudly — what men call CHANCE this is just GOD, who in this incomprehensible way invades our little sphere with his omnipotence, and disturbs our grandest plans, by the intrusion of what to us is a mere trifle, but to him is part of an allembracing bond.

GENUS IRRITABILE VATUM. I know him well; not hard is he to know, Too proud to mask himself. You see him

sink Into himself, as if he held the world In his sole bosom, in himself complete A compact world, and all around him else Vanished in blank indifference. It may rise Or fall or float at large, no whit cares he When lo ! all in a minute, as when a mine Fires at a spark, at touch of joy or sorrow, Anger or whim, he breaks into a flame : And then what he would grasp must own his

hold,
And all things be that he thinks ought to be,
And in a moment to his wisb must rise
What for long years in the slow womb of time
Needs silent preparation. From himself,
He with ingenious wilfulness demands
The impossible, that he may have a right
To ask the same from others. He would bind
The two ends of all things with hasty bond
In his soul, a task which in a million men
One may achieve — and he is not the man;
But, clutching madly at the stars, he falls
Back to the earth, no bigger than before.

LIMITS OF HUMANITY.
When the eternal
Father of gods and men
Soweth with kindly hand
Forth from the rolling clouds
Lightnings of blessing,
Over the fields of Earth,
Humbly, then, I the last
Hen of his garment kiss,

THE VOCATION OF MAN. Noble be man, Friendly and good, For goodness alone Stamps him diverse From all the creatures That walk the earth.

Hail to the unknown
Mightier beings
Whom we anticipate !
What in the human
Typed we behold,
Leads to a faith
In the primal Divine.
For NATURE knows
No feeling for man;
The sun doth shine
On the bad and the good;
On fair and on foul
With indifferent eye
Look moon and stars.

Wind and water,
Thunder and hail,
Rush on their path,
And with hasty clutch
They seize as they pass
This one and that,

Even so FORTUNE
Blindly seizes
Now the light locks
Of innocent boyhood,
Now the bald crown
Of the hoary offender.

Bound by eternal
All-embracing
Iron decrees,
We must accomplish
Each man his fated
Circle of being.

He alone
Rewardeth the good,
Chastiseth the bad,
And all extravagant
Random endeavors
Binds with the bond
Of a common design.
And we wisely
Adore the Immortals,
Deeming them brothered
With what is most human,
In the great cosmos,
Willing and working
What in their small lives
Men may achieve.
The noble man
Be friendly and good,
Shaping unwearied
The useful, the right,
Planting before us
A sensible type
Of those beings unseen
Whom by faith we divine !

But in the human
Range of his action,
MAN, like a god,
May achieve the impossible ;
He distinguishes,
Chooses and judges;
And gives to the moment
The stamp of endurance.

J. S. B.

MORNING WORK. Perhaps, on the whole, sense. Nature wants and calls for physiologi. moderately early rising is now a commoner cal rest. Instead of complying with her reapractice in cities than it was forty years ago. sonable demand, the night-worker hails the It seems strange that the habit of lying in bed "feeling” of mental quiescence, mistakes it hours after the sun is up should ever have ob- for clearness and acuteness, and whips the tained a hold on the multitude of brain-work- jaded organism with the will until it goes on ers, as undoubtedly it had in times past. Hour working. What is the result? Immediately, for hour, the intellectual work done in the the accomplishment of a task fairly well, but early morning, when the atmosphere is as yet not half so well as if it had been performed unpoisoned by the breath of myriads of ac- with the vigor of a refreshed brain working in tively moving creatures, must be, and, as a health from proper sleep. Remotely, or later matter of experience, is, incomparably better on, comes the penalty to be paid for unnatural than that done at night. The habit of writing exertion, that is, énergy wrung from exand reading late in the day and far into the hausted or weary nerve-centres under pressure. night, "for the sake of quiet,” is one of the This penalty takes the form of “nervousness, most mischievous to which a man of mind can perhaps sleeplessness, almost certainly some addict himself. When the body is jaded the loss or depreciation of function in one or more spirit may seem to be at rest, and not so of the great organs concerned in nutrition. easily distracted by the surroundings which to relieve these maladies - springing from we think less obtrusive than in the day ; but this unsuspected cause the brain-worker very this seeming is a snare. When the body is likely has recourse to the use of stimulants, weary, the brain, which is an integral part of possibly alcoholic, or it may be simply tea or the body, and the mind, which is simply brain- coffee. The sequel need not be followed. function, are weary too. If we persist in Nightwork during student life and in after working one part of the system because some years is the fruitful cause of much unexplained, other part is too tired to trouble us, that can- though by no means inexplicable, suffering for not be wise management of self. The feeling which it is difficult if not impossible to find a of tranquillity which comes over the busy and remedy. Surely morning is the time for work, active man about 10.30 or 11 o'clock ought not when the whole body is rested, the brain re. to be regarded as an incentive to work. It is, lieved from its tension, and mind-power at its in fact, the effect of a lowering of vitality con- best. sequent on the exhaustion of the physical

Lancet.

THE OLD YEAR.

GONE SEAWARD. An old man stands at a tavern door,

A MERRY tiresome child, an hour ago, His feeble hands are withered and poor ;

That shouted and made haste for life's mere He looks afar, through sleet and snow,

sake, But there's never a star to see him go.

And knew no why for wanderings to and fro :

A creature boisterously blithe to be ; With tearful eye at the door he waits,

And playtime was all hours when he inight And with many a sigh he hesitates;

wake. For well he knows, when he leaves that door, An hour ago : and now, great river tide, 'Tis for aye he goes, and he comes no more. What mute dead thing is it that thou dost

hide? There's many a light in the tavern halls,

What mute dead thing they cannot win from And the wine is bright, and the music falls;

thee? For a welcome guest is expected soon, And he comes on the crest of the rising moon. An hour ago his laughters broke the sky:

And then, a foot that slipped, a parted wave, He comes ! and the bells ring out glad notes,

And life that was to be has all passed by. And the welcome swells from their brazen A plunge, a struggle, and he has forgot : throats ;

And 'tis a nought they seek and cannot save. While the waif, cast free to the sleet and snow, Give back, great river tide, the thing they seek; Cries, “You rang for me just a year ago !”

Give the unstirring limb, the frigid cheek,

Give back the dead; the child returneth not. 'Tis the way of all breath since the world be. gan;

And 'tis the common tale of life and death; 'Tis the shadow of death on the heart of man; And 'tis the tale that never shall seem true, For nothing will hold, and nothing is true : For life is ours the while we draw our breath, “ It's off with the old, and it's on with the And death we know not save its alien name. new."

A restless child that leaped and laughed and J. T. BURTON WOLLASTON.

grew; Golden Hours.

And sudden there's but silence and a void.
Great river tide, give back the thing destroyed,

And, Greater River, bear him whence he

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came.

AUGUSTA WEBSTER.

Macmillan's Magazine.

IRISH SONG. [Air: “When I rose in the morning.”] OH! my love's an arbutus,

By the borders of Leane, * So slender and shapely,

In her girdle of green ; And I measure the pleasure

Of her eyes' sapphire sheen By the blue skies that sparkle

Through the soft-branching screen.

But though ruddy the berry,

And snowy the flower, That brighten together

That beautiful bower, Perfuming and blooming

Through sunshine and shower, Give me her bright lips

And her laugh's pearly dower.

SNOWFLAKE.
WE parted in the winter;

And from the distant hill,
She watched my ship sail outward

O'er the waters cold and still.
I could not see the teardrop

That glistened in her eye,
Nor her dainty kerchief waving,

Against the frosty sky.
But I knew her heart was breathing

A gentle word of prayer ;
I knew her eye was streaming,

And her kerchief waving there.
I said before I left her,

"Farewell, my love, farewell ;
I am sailing to the sunshine,

And the land where myrtles dwell ;
But still my longing fancy,

Will turn to rest with thee;
My Snowflake on the mountain,

Is more than all to me!”

Alas! fruit and blossom

Shall fade on the lea,
And Time's jealous fingers

Dim your young charms, machree.
But unranging, unchanging,

I know you'll cling to me,
Like the evergreen leaf

To the arbutus tree.
Spectator.

You know how the pure snow melteth,

A. PERCEVAL GRAVES.

When the winter's cold is sped;
Ay, so before that ship returned,
My sweet Snowflake was dead.

All The Year Round.

* “The Lakes of Killarney were anciently, and are often still, called collectively Lough Leane." - Dr. Joyce's “ Irish Names of Places."

“How trag.

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From The Cornhill Magazine.

to me is one put with characteristic force CARLYLE'S ETHICS.

by Carlyle himself in describing his sight I HAVE sometimes wondered of late of Charles X. going to see the portrait what would have been the reception ac- of "the child of miracle." corded to an autobiographical sketch by ical are men once more; how merciless St. John the Baptist. It would, one may withal to one another! I had not the suppose, have contained some remarks least pity for Charles Dix's pious pilnot very palatable to refined society. The grimage to such an object : the poor scoffers indeed would have covered their mother of it, and her immense hopes and delight in an opportunity for lowering a pains, I did not even think of them." great reputation by a plausible veil of vir- And so, the average criticism of that tuous indignation. The Pharisees would most tragical and pathetic monologue – have taken occasion to dwell upon the im- in reality a soliloquy to which we have moral contempt of the stern old prophet somehow been admitted - that prolonged for the maxims of humdrum respectabil- and painful moan of remorse and desola. ity. The Sadducees would have aired tion coming from a proud and intensely their orthodoxy by lamenting his open affectionate nature in its direst agony – denunciations of shams, which, in their a record which will be read with keen opinion, were quite as serviceable as real sympathy and interest, when ninety-nine beliefs. Both would have agreed that of a hundred of the best contemporary nothing but a mean personal motive could books have been abandoned to the moth's have prompted such an outrageous utter

- has been such as would have been apance of discontent. And the good, kind- propriate for the flippant assault of some ly, well-meaning people — for, doubtless, living penny-a-liner upon the celebrities there were some such even at the court of today. The critics have had an eye of Herod — would have been sincerely for nothing but the harshness and the shocked at the discovery that the vehe- gloom, and have read without a tear, withnient denunciations to which they had out even a touch of sympathy, a confes. listened were in good truth the utterancesion more moving, more vividly reflecting of a tortured and unbappy nature, which the struggles and the anguish of a great took in all sincerity a gloomy view of the man, than almost anything in our litera. prospects of their society and the intrin- ture. sic value of its idols, instead of merely Enough of this: though in speaking of getting up indignation for purposes of Carlyle at this time it is impossible to pulpit oratory. They - complacent op- pass it over in complete silence. I intend timists, as kindly people are apt to be — only to say something of Carlyle's teachhave made up their minds that a genuine ing, which seems to be as much misunphilosopher is always a benevolent, white. derstood by some critics as his character. haired old gentleman, overflowing with It should require little impartiality or inphilanthropic sentiment, convinced that sight at the present day to do something all is for the best, and that even the “mis- like justice to a teacher who belonged erable sinners are excellent people at essentially to a past generation. When bottom; and are grievously shocked at Carlyle was still preaching upon questhe discovery that anybody can still be- tions of the day, my juvenile sympathies lieve in the existence of the devil as a such as they were — were always on potent agent in human affairs. If we the side of his opponents. But he and have any difficulty in imagining such criti. his opinions have passed into the domain cisms, we may easily realize them by of history, and we can, or at least we reading certain criticisms upon the “ Remi. should, judge of them as calmly as we niscences of the last prophet — for we can of Burke and of Milton. may call him a prophet whatever we think 1789 you might have sympathized with of the sources of his inspiration — who Mackintosh, or even with Tom Paine, bas passed from among us.

The reflec- rather than with the great opponent of tion which lias most frequently occurred ! the Revolution ; and you may even now

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In the year

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