murmuring brook, beneath the green-decked bows of a towering forest-tree, that may wave in silent grandeur over my peaceful home. No deep-toned knell shall wake the forest birds. No massive block of marble shall tell who slumbers there. The soft, plaintive notes of sweet Philomel shall be my dirge, while the waters of the crystal brook shall chant for me a requiem. I would that the gentle hand of one, whom once I loved, should plant the myrtle, snow-drop, and teach the woodbine and rose-bush to twine above my grave. I would that none but kindred spirits should ever wander there, and, as a token of their remembrance, 'bring flowers to the place where my dust is laid.' O, how sweet is the contemplation of that tranquil, beautiful sleep, when the soul is inspired by the hope of a blissful immortality in the bright mansions of Elysium!"

Whence come these presentiments of approaching dissolution? Does some sister spirit,

"From the land which no mortal may know,"

whisper to the inner ear of the soul "of things which must shortly come to pass?" Or is it true, as the ancient philosopher taught, that the soul on earth is an exile, banished for a time from its native home, yet conscious of its inheritance of immortality, and pining for its rest in heaven? Is there associated with the recollection of our early home, our home of childhood and innocence, inspired suggestions, and spiritual connections of a better home in the paradise of God?

Life is indeed to the good but a pilgrimage-the journey of a day. Our earthly homes are but temporary bowers, in which we may rest from the fatigues of our journey, and gather strength to go on our way. The exile of earth will soon end, and we shall go home. The mansions of permanent rest are fitting up, and the loved

ones who have already arrived are waiting our coming. We are on our rapid way to join the inmates of that heavenly home. And yet with strange inconsistency we are lamenting their early removal. We are yet, though years have passed since she went home, weeping over the departure of the talented, amiable, and beautiful Minerva:

"Yes, there still are bending o'er her
Eyes that weep;

Forms that to the cold grave bore her
Vigils keep.

When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair,

Friends she loved in tears are twining
Chaplets there.

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit,
Throned above;

Souls like thine with God inherit
Life and love."

THE FOREST SANCTUARY

In a charming grove, on a beautiful hill, overlooking a lovely landscape of valley, plain, lake, and river, the people of the Most High were met for prayer and praise. It was an evening of early autumn. The people, quietly seated on the rude benches, with eye intent, and listening ear, were hanging enraptured on the lips of the man of God, whose eloquent tones fell like music on the heart. He was one of the pioneers of the Church-a tall, old man, of form erect, of noble bearing, and of strictly-expressive countenance. His head was gray with years and with toil. Long years ago, he, a mere stripling from the Green Mountain land, had been sent on a mission of salvation to the people scattered over these hills and valleys. He had returned to his mountain home, and labored for many years in his Master's work. Now he had come back to the scene of his early labors; and with a voice even more musical than in youth, and with an eloquence that had lost none of its power, he was speaking the words of truth to a vast multitude of deeply-devout worshipers. There were, in that forest congregation, old men, who, in their youth, had, under the persuasive power of that same eloquent voice, yielded themselves up to holy influences and a life of piety. To hear that voice again seemed to them like the return of youth, bringing back to their hearts the joyous emotions of other days. By their side were their children, and their children's children. The man of God spoke of Jesus, and of the cross, and of redemption. He depicted the

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scenes of the resurrection, of the judgment, and of eternity. He closed with an appeal to the sinner, of such power and eloquence, that the hardest heart seemed melted-the most stubborn will subdued. He closed his sermon, came down from the rustic desk, proceeded to a large, open space, within the inclosure of tents, and, with a voice sweet as the harp of Ariel, sang the following words:

"Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,

Come, at the shrine of God fervently kneel;

Here bring your wounded hearts--here tell your anguish;
Earth hath no sorrow that heaven can not heal.

Joy of the comfortless, light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the comforter, in mercy saying,

Earth hath no sorrow that heaven can not cure."

When he had concluded, there were gathered about him in a large circle hundreds of worshipers. Among them was a multitude of penitents. With gentle words and soothing tones he invited the mourner for sin to come and kneel at the rude altar near him for confession and prayer. A multitude rushed to the devoted spot. They came-the mature man, the comely matron, the sprightly youth, the fair maiden, and the child. They dropped on their knees before the good old man, and he continued telling them of the love of Christ. Then the multitude all kneeled on the ground, and the good man offered up the earnest prayer of faith. He then arose and sang, a hundred voices joining

"Arise, my soul, arise,

Shake off thy guilty fears;

The bleeding sacrifice

In my behalf appears;

Before the throne my surety stands;

My name is written on his hands.”

Struck with the sublimity of the scene, I stood at a short distance, on a little knoll, looking on the place and the

people. The grove was composed of tall maples, and grand old oaks, and gigantic hemlocks, with here and there a tall, straight pine. Lamps were suspended from the branches of the trees, lighting up the whole scene. The trunks of the trees seemed like variegated and massive pillars upholding a canopy whose gorgeous colorings, touched by the brush of autumnal frost, no painter's pencil might imitate. The mingled voices of the immense multitude, all tuned in native melody, rose up amid the forest leaves, like the deep tones of the pealing organ, chanting in some old cathedral the Te Deum in strains of harmony. I looked on the people, and I seemed to see a vision of angels. Among the happy converts was a fair young girl, who stood with her eyes half closed, yet raised toward heaven, and gently clapping her hands in ecstasy. She spoke not a word, but no angel face to human eye ever seemed more heavenly.

An angel hand might paint that scene, an angel tongue might tell it, an angel pen describe it; but no human effort can avail to express either the depth of the emotion, the beauty of the sight, or the harmony of the sounds, that went up to heaven from that forest sanctuary.

That spot seemed holy ground. No Gothic temple could seem half so grand as that primeval house not made with human hands. No costly chandelier, with diamond reflectors, would give so pure a light as those rustic lamps suspended from the green branches, and their rays reflected from the autumn-colored leaves.

It is a glorious place, that forest sanctuary, the place where the Most High delights to meet his people. Not the temple of Jerusalem in its highest glory was more dear to the dweller in Palestine than is the memory to me of the forest temple, on whose rustic altar I have seen the dearest friends of earth bring their gift-the