at the same time endow us with our high prerogative of kingship over them. South, in one of his sermons, tells us of certain men whose souls are of no worth, but as salt to keep their bodies from putrifying. I fear that the soul is too often regarded in this sutler fashion. Why should men ever be afraid to die, but that they regard the spirit as secondary to that which is but its mere appendage and conveniency, its symbol, its word, its means of visibility? If the soul lose this poor mansion of hers by the sudden conflagration of disease, or by the slow decay of age, is she therefore houseless and shelterless ? If she cast away this soiled and tattered garment, is she therefore naked? A child looks forward to his new suit, and dons it joyfully; we cling to our rags and foulness. We should welcome Death as one who brings us tidings of the finding of long-lost titles to a large family estate, and set out gladly to take possession, though, it may be, not without a natural tear for the humbler home we are leaving. Death always means us a kindness, though he has often a gruff way of offering it. Even if the soul never returned from that chartless and unmapped country, which I do not believe, I would take Sir John Davies's reason as a good one:

"But, as Noah's pigeon, which returned no more,
Did show she footing found, for all the flood;
So, when good souls, departed through death's door,
Come not again, it shows their dwelling good."

The realm of Death seems an enemy's country to most men, on whose shores they are loathly driven by stress of weather; to the wise man it is the desired port where he moors his bark gladly, as in some quiet haven of the Fortunate Isles; it is the golden west into which his sun sinks, and, sinking, casts back a glory upon the leaden cloudrack which had darkly besieged his day.

After all, the body is a more expert dialectician than the soul, and buffets it, even to bewilderment, with the empty bladders of logic; but the soul can retire, from the dust and turmoil of such conflict, to the high tower of instinctive faith, and there, in hushed serenity, take comfort of the sympathizing stars. We look at death through the cheap-glazed windows of the flesh, and believe him for the monster which the flawed and crooked glass presents him. You say truly that we have wasted time in trying to coax the body into a faith in what, by its very nature, it is incapable of comprehending. Hence, a plethoric, short-winded kind of belief, that can walk at an easy pace over the smooth plain, but loses breath at the first sharp uphill of life. How idle is it to set a sensual bill of fare before the soul, acting over again the old story of the Crane and the Fox!

JOHN.

I know not when we shall hear pure spiritualism preached by the authorized expounders of doctrine.

at the same time endow us with our high prerog-
ative of kingship over them. South, in one of
his sermons, tells us of certain men whose souls
are of no worth, but as salt to keep their bodies
from putrifying. I fear that the soul is too often
regarded in this sutler fashion. Why should men
ever be afraid to die, but that they regard the
spirit as secondary to that which is but its mere
appendage and conveniency, its symbol, its word,
its means of visibility? If the soul lose this poor
mansion of hers by the sudden conflagration of
disease, or by the slow decay of age, is she there-
fore houseless and shelterless ?
If she cast away
this soiled and tattered garment, is she therefore
naked? A child looks forward to his new suit,
and dons it joyfully; we cling to our rags and
foulness. We should welcome Death as one who
brings us tidings of the finding of long-lost titles to
a large family estate, and set out gladly to take
possession, though, it may be, not without a nat-
ural tear for the humbler home we are leaving.
Death always means us a kindness, though he has
often a gruff way of offering it. Even if the soul
never returned from that chartless and unmapped
country, which I do not believe, I would take Sir
John Davies's reason as a good one:

"But, as Noah's pigeon, which returned no more,
Did show she footing found, for all the flood;
So, when good souls, departed through death's door,
Come not again, it shows their dwelling good."

The realm of Death seems an enemy's country to most men, on whose shores they are loathly driven by stress of weather; to the wise man it is the desired port where he moors his bark gladly, as in some quiet haven of the Fortunate Isles; it is the golden west into which his sun sinks, and, sinking, casts back a glory upon the leaden cloudrack which had darkly besieged his day.

After all, the body is a more expert dialectician than the soul, and buffets it, even to bewilderment, with the empty bladders of logic; but the soul can retire, from the dust and turmoil of such conflict, to the high tower of instinctive faith, and there, in hushed serenity, take comfort of the sympathizing stars. We look at death through the cheap-glazed windows of the flesh, and believe him for the monster which the flawed and crooked glass presents him. You say truly that we have wasted time in trying to coax the body into a faith in what, by its very nature, it is incapable of comprehending. Hence, a plethoric, short-winded kind of belief, that can walk at an easy pace over the smooth plain, but loses breath at the first sharp uphill of life. How idle is it to set a sensual bill of fare before the soul, acting over again the old story of the Crane and the Fox!

JOHN.

I know not when we shall hear pure spiritualism preached by the authorized expounders of doctrine.

The blissful sound; and in that very place
My lady first me took unto her grace.'

"Another time he took into his head

That every wight, who in the way passed by,
Had of him ruth, and fancied that they said,
'I am right sorry Troilus will die ! '

"And every night, as he was wont to do,
Troilus stood the bright moon to behold;
And all his trouble to the moon he told,
And said, 'I wis, when thou art horned anew,
I shall be glad if all the world be true.'

"Upon the walls fast also would he walk,

To the end that he the Grecian host might see ;
And ever thus he to himself would talk: —
'Lo, yonder is mine own bright lady free;

Or yonder is it that the tents must be ;

And thence doth come this air, that is so sweet
That in my heart I feel the joy of it.

"And certainly this wind, that more and more,
By moments, thus increaseth in my face,
Is of my lady's sighs heavy and sore:

I prove it thus; for, in no other space,

Of all this town, save only in this place,
Feel I a wind that soundeth so like pain;

It saith, "Alas! why severed are we twain? "'"

I venture to say that you know nothing in English, (and, if not in that, surely in no other language,) rarer in its kind than this. I have made only one change in it, a merely literal one, substituting “doth " for "does," in the sixth line of the