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them until one has seen a tear in the eye.
Other countenances there are which are
unexplained enigmas, until a smile, or a
good hearty fit of laughter lights them up.
And thus was it, when Queen Victoria,
laughing and nodding to me, flew past me
light and airy as a fairy queen. I at once
understood the magic power of her per-
son; for, like sunlight breaking through
the cloud, like a flower bursting from its
bud, was the laughter in the queen's coun-
tenance. There was in it a high degree
of natural life, freshness, vivacity, good
humor, and a good deal of peculiar charac-ally
ter. After this, I can easily comprehend
what a noble lady, who often sees the
Queen, said on one occasion, in reply to
my remark, "What a little queen you
have!" "Yes, she is a little queen, but
on a large scale! She seems to me al-
ways like a human being such as God
made her, while the greater number of
human beings seem to be such as God did
not make them!"

A human being such as God made her, natural, true in everything! What a beautiful idea. And the "greater number of human beings such as God did not

make them"-how true!

Alas! educators, establishments for education, books, the world-they take care that we shall not be that which God created us, and that it shall sometimes require half a life, nay, that we shall not succeed sometimes through the whole of life, in discovering what the Creator really

intended us to be.

It is easy to see what a power of fascination a queen, perfectly natural in manner, and who possesses so much that is naturally noble and good in character, may exercise over the human mind in this artificial world.

And if I carry with me, to my beloved home in Sweden, no other knowledge than that of the many good and beautiful homes on earth, it is no small gain for my long wanderings.

On our return from Windsor we passed Runnymede, so remarkable in English history, which lies on a little island in the Thames, where Magna Charta was signed by King John. The sweet idyllian landscape, now illumined by the rays of the setting sun, scarcely recalled the gloomy times, and the bitter contests between the people and the kingly power, which led to the concluding of the contract between the two, and which thus made the place remarkable. When at home, once more in that kind, beautiful home, at — I wrote that which it and its possessors made me feel :"From a good home it is not far to heaven!"

SENSATIONS IN DROWNING.

THE

HE following letter, addressed by Admiral Beaufort to Dr. W. H. Wolof the former when apparently on the very laston, giving an account of the feelings point of death from drowning, was originpublished in the Life of the late Sir It will repay the reader's

John Barrow.

perusal.

"The following circumstances which attended my being drowned have been drawn up at your desire: they had not struck me as being so curious as you consider them, because from two or three persons, who, like myself, have been recovered from a similar state, I have heard a detail of their feelings, which resemble mine as nearly as was consistent with our different constitutions and dispositions.

"Many years ago, when I was a youngster on board one of his majesty's ships in Portsmouth Harbor, after sculling about in a very small boat, I was endeavoring to fasten her

alongside the ship to one of the scuttlerings;

in foolish eagerness I stepped upon the gunwale, the boat of course upset, and I fell into the water, and, not knowing how to swim, all my efforts to lay hold either of the boat or the floating sculls were fruitless. The transaction had not been observed by the sentinel on the gangway, and therefore it was not till the tide had drifted me some distance astern of the ship that a man in the foretop saw me splashing in the water, and gave the alarm. The first lieutenant instantly and gallantly jumped overboard, the carpenter followed his example, and the gunner hastened into a boat and pulled after them. With the violent but vain attempts to make myself heard I had swallowed much water; I was soon exhausted by my struggle, and before any relief reached me, I had sunk below the surface;-all hopes had fled-all exertion ceased-and I felt that I was drowning. remembered after my recovery or supplied by those who had latterly witnessed the scene; for during an interval of such agitation a drowning person is too much occupied in catching by alternate hope and despair, to mark the sucat every passing straw, or too much absorbed cession of events very accurately. Not so, however, with the facts which immediately ensued: my mind had then undergone the sudden revolution which appeared to you so remarkable, and all the circumstances of which are now as vividly fresh in my memory as if they had occurred but yesterday. From the moment that all exertion had ceased-which I imagine was the immediate consequence of complete suffocation-a calm feeling of the most perfect tranquillity superseded the previous tumultuous

"So far, these facts were either partially

resignation for drowning no longer appeared to be an evil-I no longer thought of being rescued, nor was I in any bodily pain. On the contrary, my sensations were now of rather a pleasurable cast, partaking of that dull but contented sort of feeling which precedes the sleep produced by fatigue. Though the senses were thus deadened, not so the mind: its activity seemed to be invigorated in a ratio which defies all description, for thought rose after thought with a rapidity of succession that is not only indescribable, but probably inconceivable by any one who has not himself been in a similar situation. The course of those thoughts I can even now in a great measure retrace; the event which had just taken place -the awkwardness that had produced it-the bustle it must have occasioned (for I had observed two persons jump from the chains)— the effect it would have on a most affectionate father-the manner in which he would disclose it to the rest of the family-and a thousand other circumstances minutely associated with home, were the first series of reflections that occurred. Then they took a wider range-our last cruise-a former voyage, and shipwreck my school-the progress I made there, and the time I had misspent-and even all my boyish pursuits and adventures. Thus traveling backwards, every past incident of my life seemed to glance across my recollection in retrograde succession; not, however, in mere outline, as here stated, but the picture filled up with every minute and collateral feature; in short, the whole period of my existence seemed to be placed before me in a kind of panoramic review, and each act of it seemed to be accompanied by a consciousness of right or wrong, or by some reflection on its cause or its consequences; indeed, many trifling events which had been long forgotten then crowded into my imagination, and with the character of recent familiarity. May not all this be some indication of the almost infinite power of memory with which we may awaken in another world, and thus be compelled to contemplate our past lives? But, however that may be, one circumstance was highly remarkable; the innumerable ideas which flashed into my mind were all retrospective; yet I had been religiously brought up; my hopes and fears of the next world had lost nothing of their early strength, and at any other period intense interest and awful anxiety would have been excited by the mere probability that I was floating on the threshold of eternity; yet at that inexplicable moment, when I had a full conviction that I had crossed that threshold, not a single thought wandered into the future-I was wrapt entirely in the past. The length of time that was occupied by this deluge of ideas, or rather the shortness of time into which they were condensed, I cannot now state with precision, yet certainly two minutes could not have elasped from the moment of suffocation to that of my being hauled

up.

"The strength of the flood-tide made it expedient to pull the boat at once to another ship, where I underwent the usual vulgar process of emptying the water by letting my head hang downwards, then bleeding, chafing, and even administering gin; but my submersion had been really so brief, that, according to the ac

count of the lookers-on, I was very quickly restored to animation.

"My feelings while life was returning were the reverse in every point of those which have been described above. One single but confused idea-a miserable belief that I was drowningdwelt upon my mind; instead of the multitude of clear and definite ideas which had recently rushed through it, a helpless anxiety-a kind of continuous nightmare-seemed to press heavily on every sense, and to prevent the formation of any one distinct thought, and it was with difficulty that I became convinced that I was really alive. Again, instead of being absolutely free from all bodily pain, as in my drowning state, I was now tortured by pain all over me; and though I have been since wounded in several places, and have often submitted to severe surgical discipline, yet my sufferings were at that time far greater; at least, in general distress. On one occasion I was shot in the lungs, and, after lying on the deck at night for some hours bleeding from other wounds, I at length fainted. Now, as I felt sure that the wound in the lungs was mortal, it will appear obvious that the overwhelming sensation which accompanies fainting must have produced a perfect conviction that was then in the act of dying. Yet nothing in the least resembling the operations of my mind when drowning then took place; and when I began to recover, I returned to a clear conception of my real state.

"If these involuntary experiments on the operation of death afford any satisfaction or interest to you, they will not have been suf fered quite in vain by

"Yours very truly, "F. BEAUFORT."

"This letter of Admiral Beaufort, (observes Sir John Barrow,) must give rise to various suggestions. It proves that the spirit of man may retain its full activity when freed from the trammels of the flesh; at least, when all the functions of the body are deprived of animal power, and the spirit has become something like the type and shadow of that which we are taught to believe concerning the immortality of the soul."

It is seldom that we meet with the experience of an individual so near the confines of the eternal world as was the one in the case now before us. If all the acts of transgression, all the deeds done in the body, can thus in a moment be brought back by memory to view, does it not seem to give a foreshadowing of that period when man is to stand at the solemn tribunal of his Creator? How unspeakably important, on such a contemplation, must it be to have an interest by faith in the blood of Christ, which cleanses from all sinnot a mere head-faith, but one which shows its genuineness by loving God and, in the strength of the Holy Spirit, keeping his commandments.

light on hill and dale, its bland airs, and the singing of birds, will yet come. Lift up thy head and journey onward.

A TEXT WITH A COMMENT.

HE present life is sleeping and waking; is
good night on going to bed, and good morn-

"THE
ing on getting up; it is to wonder what the day
will bring forth; it is sunshine and gloominess;
it is rain on the window, as one sits by the fire;
it is to walk in the garden, and see the flowers
open and hear the birds sing; it is to have the
postman bring letters; it is to have news from
East, West, North and South; it is to read old
books and new books; it is to see pictures and
hear music; it is to have Sunday; it is to pray
with a family morning and evening; it is to sit
in the twilight and meditate; it is to have
business to do, and to do it; it is to have
breakfast, and dinner, and tea; it is to belong
to a town, and to have neighbors, and to be one
in a circle of acquaintances; it is to have
friends to love one; it is to have sight of dear
old faces; and with some men it is to be kissed
daily by the same loving lips for fifty years;
and it is to know themselves thought of many
times a day, in many places, by children, grand-
children, and many friends."

of life. But, dropping its poetic tone, let This is not rhapsody, it is the true logic us look more soberly at the subject.

To endure then, to suffer, is to live; but there is more in life. To do is preeminently to live. " Action, action, action," was the reply of Demosthenes to the question, "What is eloquence?" It is a befitting answer to the question, What is life? the most if not the whole of life. Activity is not only the law of life, but especially the law of the happiness of life. Here it is that men, even good and thoughtful men, blunder, some of them practically, most of them theoretically. They long for "retirement." The success which will enable them to retreat from the active pursuits of life is the goal of their endeavors. A shrewder thinker than Mountford, Dr. Chalmers, when entering his sixtieth year, had a beautiful fancy of this kind :—

So writes Mountford, in his delightful book "Euthanasy." A pleasant picture of ordinary tranquil life is this, and not untruthful as far as it goes. But this is not all of life. There is something still better and as common in our common pilgrimage: it is to suffer, and to grow strong and pure by suffering-to conquer by sore conflict our formidable selves, fighting down old prejudices and passions, breaking away from old and fetter-like habits, binding ourselves, in spite of our natural selfishness, to the altar of self-sacrifice; it is forbearing with weakness, forgiving wrongs, enduring evil, standing indomitable amidst calamities, and "having done all, still to stand" at our post with brave heart and calm brow, though everything dear lies in wreck around us. This is life often, and the nobler life-the life that grows in strength and prepares for eternal life. It may not be "happiness," but it is "bless-night, after a wearisome day, he woke up

A fine but thorough fallacy this. Chalmers' instincts were truer than his imagination respecting it. He was in a maelstrom of agitation and labor when he uttered it, and went on, brave man as he was, striking right and left at every evil within his reach, until, going to bed one

edness;" and more ordinary in our average life are these conditions-conditions of self-development and purification-than the pleasant ones in Mountford's pleasant picture. "Whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth." Lift up thy head then, O sufferer, though no other sorrow seems like thine. Think not that life is vain because to thee it is only suffering. The more real, the more holy, and therefore the more noble will it be for that suffering, if rightly sustained. Press on then in thy night-journey, the morning is at hand; streaks of the aurora occasionally cheer thee, and the full day, with its blessed VOL. II, No. 4.—Z

within the gates of heaven. There he found his Sabbatic life in its appropriate place. What sort of a close to such a life as his would that Sabbatic decade he longed for have been? One of downright wretchedness. Can the old war-steed browse calmly in the shade of a tree while the trumpets and the "shoutings of the captains" startle the air from the neighboring battle-field?

"It is a favorite speculation of mine," he says, "that if spared to sixty, we then enter on the seventh decade of human life; and that this, if possible, should be turned into the Sabbath of our earthly pilgrimage, and spent Sabbatically, as if on the shore of an eternal world, or in the outer courts, as it were, of the temple that is above-the tabernacle in heaven. What enamors me all the more of this idea is the retrospect of my mother's widowhood. I long, if God should spare me, for such an old age as she enjoyed," &c.

Not only does an original instinct of our constitution require that we should be active, but habit-especially the habit of a long life-renders this instinct inexorable. The only right rule for the old workman

is to work on, work on manfully, slackening his work only as his faculties slacken, and the instinct which always corresponds with them abates. Fight your way right onward to the very gates of death, and drop not the weapon from your hand till death, "the last enemy," drops under its blow. Then come rest and the "crown of glory."

Thus much for the general law; but there are modifications of it-secondary laws-which should be borne in mind.

One of these is that the activity of life should be sustained by an engrossing purpose a purpose high enough to give life a tendency above its ordinary level, and continuous enough to keep up this tendeney uniformly. This was Goethe's great maxim, his summary philosophy of life. It sustained him through eighty-three serene, healthful, and successful years. He needed higher moral support to render him fully happy, but the engrossing pursuit of literature and fame sustained his life in spite of this want. His poetic sensibilities exposed him to the usual sufferings of intellectual men, and at one time in early life he tells us he did actually fall into "hypochondria ;" but he threw it off by a manly resolution, and kept it off by the maxim we have quoted. Never be without something to do-not merely something ordinary (this you cannot easily escape), but something that would be extraordinary to most men, but which habit will render ordinary to you. And when one such achievement is done, find another and a still nobler one. The difficulty will be not the scarcity, but the multitude of opportunities. Further. The activity of life must be varied. Monotony of life is like the stagnation of water. It breeds perversions narrow views, the prejudices of an exclusive line of thought, petulant whims, morose views, and sometimes outright madness come of it.

With an engrossing aim, forget not to vary life by frequent relaxations; such as shall allow the tasked faculties to recruit themselves for their wonted labor. Bushnell (whatever his imputed heresies in other respects) presented the orthodox postulate under the title of "Work and Play" to the pale-faced Phi Beta Kappa brotherhood of old Harvard. Work and Play; yes, play that you may work; the instinct that will not let you rest if you will not work, will not let you work if you will not play.

Go forth, then, at goodly intervals from your study, O grave man of books; walk among the cheery breezes and the genial sunlight; behold how all nature around you is playing as well as working. The stars sing together, and the sons of God shout for joy. Escape to the vale or the mountain height; take to the oar, on the laughing waters; or to good old Izaak Walton's "Contemplative Man's Recreation,” the angle on the banks of the shaded stream; you will think nobler thoughts for it in your cloister.

Turn often away from the mart or the counting-room, O man of mammon; look up and around you at God's blessed works; they have none of your keen and selfish intensity; they move on joyously and gently, though mightily. Look into good books. Is not knowledge gain as well as golden dust? Enjoy the bounties of God at your table in the midst of your household; eat not as if eating even were a part of your impetuous, never-abating task; and remember that you have an epigastrium, and that hell on earth sometimes finds a lodgment there. He that makes haste to eat, as well as he that "makes haste to be rich, shall not be innocent," or rather "impoverished," as saith the marginal reading. Play, man, play; and work will go the better with thee for it.

And thou, O man of God! come thou also out from even thy closet, at right times, into this every-day world of thy Master. Thy God himself will make thy very closet a mad-house instead of a sanctuary, if thou heedest not the laws of thy body in the study of those of thy soul. The first insane hospital that history records was for religious recluses.* Come down, then, seasonably from the solemn mount of vision, not to join the dance around the golden calf, but to walk with thy God "in the garden in the cool of the day." Cast from thee the "odium theologicum;" narrow not thy purified vision to sectarian lines of thought. Work as well as think, and "play" a little along with both. Regale thyself at times with joyous books, even if they bear not the imprint of Oxford or Rome, of Cambridge or New-Haven. Recall thy childhood amidst thy children. They play, tumble, romp, laugh, and yet " of such is the kingdom of heaven”—play, romp, laugh thou

* Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. ii, cap. 37.

with them; thou wilt say thy prayers the better for it, and come to feel that thy heavenly Father has not only prepared a desirable heaven for thee hereafter, but a quite desirable home for thee here beforehand.

Again and lastly, (for we are becoming too Essayish,) the activity of life must have a moral value in order to have harmony and happiness. We have no preachment for you here, good reader, but a few words of practical common sense. Time and eternity are but complements of the one grand life of man. What, then, in the name of common sense, can be the consciousness of life in a man who habitually lives without the recognition of his eternity? What nobleness, what hopefulness can there be in such a life? Philosophically considered and setting aside entirely the Christian Revelationlife, without reference to a future beyond it, is absolutely a farce, and the world we live in a stupendous sham. If there is no God even-if chance alone produced this marvelous planet and these marvelous lives of ours upon it-then has that chance maintained, in all the process, all the details of the drama, a perfect congruity, a grand dignity even, but ends it, if there is no future life, without a denoûment—the solemn and high-meaning tragedy (for tragedy, alas! it is) becoming a comedy in the last sentence of the last scene. Everything else within the cognition of the human mind has symmetrical relations, and an ultimate and befitting import, except life, if life has not continuance in another world. Our being is no such absurdity. Life is but in its incipience here. He that would bear within him through it a sustaining consciousness of its reality, must live for eternity. Let not the thought dismay thee, O man! It is indeed full of grandeur, but full of consolation also. Look up to the coming and sunlight ages appointed thee, O brother! toiling in the narrow workshop, delving in the mine, pining in the prison-cell, or waiting death in the sick-chamber. Cannot the prospect give strength, and nobleness, and even gladness to thy lot, however humble or weary? Let not merely thy devotions, but thy daily toils, be done for that sublime future; then shall thy daily toils be a continual hymn of thy destiny, and thy hours-more beautiful than the mythic ones of old Greece, circling about and leading forth

the chariot of the sun-will joyously lead thee up brighter and brighter heights of that destiny even unto the perfect day.

And thou, truckler to evil, whose whole life is pelf and self, who can chuckle with self-gratulation over the success of thy sordid aims and circumventions of the unwary and the good, what is life to thee? Thy marble tomb, purchased with fraudulent gains, is perchance in the cemetery; glance into it as its iron door is opened. Within a score of years thou shalt lie down in its darkness and silence. What then, O fool, will this life of thine avail thee? Wilt thou chuckle then over thy victims ?-then when thy history is proved to have been a farce, and all its true purposes, forgotten in health, have come in death to a grand and irremediable failure. Poor wretch! a humble life of virtue, though spent in incessant conflict with disaster, is imperial and sublime compared with the farce of thy self-deluded career. Awake, thou that sleepest

"For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem." after a true life! lift up thy head; the And thou, O weary and faltering seeker heights before thee are steep, but they have been tracked by the feet of old saints and divine heroes; their summits are eternally effulgent, and when the night lowers upon thy path, angel watchers are there ascending and descending.

And thou, whose lot it is no more to act, but only to suffer-even thy life may

be sublimely real. The struggle with pain, the weary days and nights of confinement and languishing, the battle with agony and death-what an occasion hast thou in these for the exercise of the noblest virtues—patience, trust, brave resolution, self-conquest, and the victory over the grave! Thou art living sublimely, even in thus dying daily. Struggle on meekly, but manfully; death is but a transient incident in thy life; the eternal future is still before thee. Lift up thy head and triumph.

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But this is rhapsody? No! It is the true Christian philosophy of this mortal life of ours. There is no dignity nor consolation in our existence without it.

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"Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait."

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