as it is, how vast and innumerable its sources of instruction and enjoyment, how various and variable its objects of interest and delight then I look up into the infinite depths, and gaze in silent wonder at the troops of worlds as they go by in glittering columns. I take up the telescope, and lo! whole hosts, unseen before, come marching into sight from the far-off spaces beyond the reach of the naked eye; great suns, as it were captains, with companies of stars following them, and shining constellations sweeping into the aznre fields, till all the skies, as far as eye or instrument can reach, are filled with the gorgeous array!

Then I say to myself, What are these thronging hosts? For what are they? Why are they placed within reach of our vision, with all their bewildering beauty, if they are not for us? if we are never to visit them? But we never can visit them in this earthly body. Then I am sure, for that very reason, that we shall visit them out of the body! This is to be the work and the joy of the soul. Here is the sphere of its activity, the school of its future education, the temple of its worship; its heaven, in part, assuredly, in the coming eternity!

And what a sphere, what a broad and glorious theatre for action these constellations and suns and moons, planets and earths, compared with some of which our little world is only as a boy's football or marble. And then all these worlds that we can see to the utmost boundaries of telescopic vision, are only the lamps lighting the entrance to the great temple of the Lord God, which still lies beyond, out of sight, infinite in extent, incomparable in its splendors.

-

And what was our brief definition of this earth, so various with its continents and seas, its exhibitions of nature and art, its wonders of life and intelligence! Consider then the treasures of knowledge and joy in these millions of worlds which will call to us, and beckon us on, through all eternity! What ever shifting exhibitions of natural scenery what new fields for science, for study and contemplation-what new forms of being, and new orders of intelligences, and ever-rising ranks of spiritual life! O what a glorious future this is to go to! What an exultant life for the soul, when Death strikes off the fetters of the flesh, and sets it free; when dust returns to dust whence it came, and the spirit returns to God who gave it! What if the path to this do lead down for a little into

the dark, cannot we tread it firmly and fearlessly, when we know that it leads up finally into the eternal splendors?

The soul of man was made to walk the skies;
Delightful outlet of her prison here!
And, disencumbered from her chains, the ties
Of toys terrestrial, there she roves at large;
In full proportion lets loose all her powers;
And wonderful herself, through wonder strays;
Grows conscious of her birth celestial; breathes
More life, more vigor, in her native air,
And feels herself at home among the stars!

[Over the River.

THE WEDDING PRESENT.

W

WHAT a beautiful pair of cut-glass decanters, and a dozen wine-glasses to match! How very kind of Cousin Mary to give us such a pretty and useful present, William," said Harriet Trimly to her husband, as they took possession of their neat little house at Camden Town, a fortnight after their marriage, and were busy unpacking their presents.

"Yes, indeed,” she added, putting the sparkling crystal on the table," they are very good and pretty."

"Not very useful, though, to us," said Mr. Trimly.

"We certainly are not in circumstances to drink wine generally; but when we have our friends to see us, we must of course do as others do, and put something on the table for them to drink health and prosperity to us in; and these beautiful decanters and glasses will look so neat and genteel. So I call them useful."

"It's a foolish custom, Harriet."

"Ah, well, may be so, but it is a custom, and we can't look strange, and be indifferent to others. Everyone, with any pretence to gentility, brings out a little wine, and we must do so too, my dear."

William was not convinced, bat he yielded, for a young husband would scarcely dispute the wishes of his bride about household management at the very beginning of married life. They both knew that very great economy would be needed in order to live respectably and honestly. Mr. Trimly was a clerk in a commercial house in the City, with but a small salary. His wife was an orphan who had inherited a small legacy by the death of a widowed mother

that little sum had furnished their pretty house, and given them a clear start in the world.

The connections of both were in what is called good circumstances. Harriet's mother had possessed a life annuity that enabled her to live in comfort, and out of which the legacy had been saved; the rest of her personal property had gone to a married son in the north of England, to whose house the young couple had been making their wedding trip.

William was one of a large family, the father and sons of which were all engaged in public offices, or commercial pursuits, and though none had a large income, yet while they lived altogether, a very good house and table, and a large circle of acquaintances had been kept up. Neither William nor Harriet were quite aware that they must begin in rather a different way of life to that in which they had moved, and that a more rigorous economy would be required of them.

The skilled workmen of England, realizing many of them their two, three, or four pounds a week, are, if they did but know it, far better off than many young professional men, and those engaged in commercial houses. The working man has not the appearance to keep up, nor the expenses to provide for; and with a moderate economy he may live in comfort, bring up a family respectably, and lay by something for sickness or old age.

The hardest task of household ingenuity is to make a small income provide both the comforts and the gentilities of life. A dreary lot is theirs, who are the slaves of appearances; who want to make a hundred and fifty pounds a year look like three hundred. In nine cases out of ten, all real comfort is sacrificed in the struggle it is well if debt and disgrace, quarrelling and heartache, do not close the scene. Young Mr. and Mrs. Trimly had no sooner settled themselves in their new home, than they resolved to invite their friends, and a very large and pleasant tea-party they might have had at moderate expense, but the bride remembered what young Mrs. So-and-so had at her party, and so of course the wine-decanters and glasses must come forth. "How could wedding-cake come on without wina?" she asked, as her husband, with half a sigh, wished his "salary was raised." That first party was the key-note to the tune the young people had to play. The wine was praised and drank-a great deal more of it than Harriet had at all reckoned on-and then some of the elders complained that wine did not "altogether agree with them." The

cold winter night was commented on, and William, now that prudence was lulled to sleep by his visits to the beautiful decanters, called for spirits and hot water, and there was brewing of punch, and mixing of toddy, and making of hot negus, until eyes that had looked bright began to be misty, and voices sounded thick and loud, and Harriet's smart party separated, some foolish, some cross, all very well disposed next day to say with a sneer, "Young Trimly and his wife came out pretty strong, hope they may be able to keep it up."

Then, of course, there were invitations in return, and a round of visits, which had not half been paid, when William's scruples about drinking, and wishes not to begin with wine, all vanished, and he was as ready as his wife to say, "We must do as others do."

Let us look at this young couple two years after their first party. It is long past midnight, there is the sound of wheels in the quiet street; a cab stops at the door, and the bell is pulled violently. As soon as the street-door opens, the cab driver helps out a young man, who cannot stand, and with the aid of the young woman at the door, he is pulled through the passage into the parlor, and laid on the sofa. My fare is five shillings, ma'am !" says the cabman. The pockets of the helpless drunkard are turned out, there is eighteen-pence found. The young woman searches her own pocket, counts up some sixpences and coppers, routed out of her workbox and writing-desk; she is still a shilling short, and the cabman, by no means sober, begins to abuse her,—in a fright to stop his clamor she gives him a little silver pencilcase, instead of a shilling, and hastens to shut out one torment. She has no sooner done this, than a voice from the staircase calls to her, "Mrs. Trimly, I give you notice, I cannot live in these lodgings of yours with all this disturbance."

"Very well," says the poor baited woman, retreating to the parlor, where her husband is shouting her name, and her child just woke from its sleep, is shrieking with fright. To catch up the poor infant in her arms, to sit down by the side of her husband, and strive to quiet him, to check her own strong impulse of distress, and try to speak calmly while her heart is breaking; is a part, and only a part of the miserable work of that and many similar nights.

Yes, that coarse man, sprawling and cursing on the sofa,—that pale woman, trembling and coaxing in a half-stifled voice, are William and

Harriet. The little parlor, once so neat, has become worn and shabby. They have had to take lodgers to eke out their means, and so they are crowded into the two little rooms, opening into each other, once so smart as a sitting-room. It is winter, and only a few cinders smoulder in the grate. Harriet's gown is torn, her feet in thin old satin slippers, she looks with despair at the mud that covers her husband's clothes. It is his only suit. How is it to be got ready for him to wear with any decency at his employment? How is she to get him to bed? As to thinking of going there herself, that is impossible.

Readers, this is no fancy sketch. You see men reeling in the streets, have you ever thought of the homes they make, of the wives who with aching hearts await their return? Have you ever thought of the strife, the words, the blows, that the dreary night brings to some poor drudge, who, but for her babes, would be thankful to lie down and die?

The wine, and the spirits, and the ale, and the company, have each and all had their part in ruining the young couple. Darker grows their path. One morning after such a night as that described, a note comes to tell him he is dismissed from his employment. Then poverty in all its rigor sets in. Where are the troops of friends who drank the health of the young couple at their house-wring? They are gone They have proved as hollow and as brittle as the bright cut-glass decanters-the fatal wedding present.

A TEMPLE DISCOVERED AT POMPEII.Letters from Naples describe a temple of Juno, just discovered among the recent excavations at Pompeii. Three hundred skeletons were found crowded within the sanctuary, a propitiatory service having evidently been held in the hour they were overwhelmed. The statue of the goddess with its attendant peacock, the tripod in front of the altar, the golden censer, the jewels on the person of the priestess, the rich vessels holding the deposit of animal blood, are the main particulars dwelt on. The dyes of Juno were of the most vivid enamel, her arms and her whole person richly decorated with gold trinkets, her gaudy bird resplendent with a cluster of glittering gems. Aromatic ingredients lay calcined within the censer, while gorgeous lamps and bronzed ornaments strewed the tessellated pavement.

But, gazing down the vanished years
On sweet, sad pictures of the Past,
From the full heart uprises fast
A gracious mist of blinding tears.
As at the beck of memory rise

The forms whose hands we may not press,
And all the old-time tenderness
Beams on us from familiar eyes;

In vain the well-loved names we call,
And vainly bend the listening ear:
The spirit's voice we may not hear;
Our longing cries unanswered fall.
No more the swift-returning day

Shall gather them around the board
Where Friendship's soul is sweetly poured,
And Reason holds serenest sway.

These hallowed walls, this teeming sod,

With happy recollections rife,
Where sweet, swift years of student life
We hand in hand together trod,

No more the manly step shall know,
Or echo to the well-known voice
That made the heart of toil rejoice,
And laggard zeal to burn and glow.
No more for them the Summer flowers
Or Autumn's harvests come and go,
Or Winter spreads his shroud of snow,
Or Spring leads back the rosy hours.
The eye of fire has lost its light;

In death are mute the loving lips;
And, blotted out in blank eclipse,
The noon of manhood sunk to night.
And some from quiet walks of peace
Have passed away on noiseless wing,
Like music from a smitten string,
Whose low vibrations softly cease.
But others, mingling in the strife

Where War his crimson torrent poured,-
Their blood has stained the guilty sword
That thirsted for the nation's life.
We may not mourn, nor with our pain
Torment the sympathizing air;

For Reason's whisper still is there,— "Our loss shall be their greater gain." So fair the fame that they have left,

So bright their forms before us shine,
They seem to glow in light divine,
And we can hardly feel bereft.

So fraught with good the peace restored,
Though purchased with their dying breath,
Behind the pallid mask of Death
We see the angel of the Lord.

When Love the minstrel tunes his lute,

And sweeps the strings with cunning hands,

And all the rosy Future stands
With mingled store of flower and fruit,

"Tis hard to die, to leave the light,

And all the yearning heart holds dear;
To feel the icy fingers near,
And know we cannot fly or fight.

"Tis hard the narrow cell to pace,

And watch the dread impending doom,
And in the solitary gloom

To sit with Famine face to face.

Yet all of this they counted nought,
By great devotion lifted up;

But drained for us the bitter cup,
With death and sternest trial fraught.
Afar in nameless graves they lie,

From the wild conflict passed to rest, On Nature's broad, maternal breast, Beneath the blue dome of the sky. Above their dust no tears outpour,

To deck the sod no flowers are brought; Their shroud the flag for which they fought, Their requiem but the cannon's roar ! The tattered banners, battle-rent,

No more shall lead them to the fight, Where, bravely battling for the Right, Their proud young lives were nobly spent.

No more the bugle's warning blast,

Or roll of sudden midnight drums,
Shall call them where the foeman comes,
And the dim war-cloud rises fast.

Oh, sweetly sleep, where'er ye lie,
Who nobly thus have wrought your part!
In a great nation's loving heart
Ye always live; ye cannot die!

The orphan's cry, the widow's tears,
And the brave blood for Freedom shed,
Knit the green memories of the dead
To all the good of future years.

As a tired watcher sighs for morn,

And, through the thronging gloom, does strain His eager visio 1, that would gain Some promise of the coming dawn;

And though no cheering sign appears, And he can catch no prophet ray, Yet still the night will end in day; For God is master of the years:

So through the Nation's bitter hour,
When earth and sky together clashed,
And all the fiends, to fury lashed,
Assailed the citadels of power,

We wearied of the long delay,

And weakly cried, "Is there no God? Has light by darkness been out-trod? And will the night not end in day?"

We wildly wept above our slain.

And nursed a raven-brood of fears, That croaked, "All useless are these tears; This blood has all been shed in vain."

And then we saw the foremost ray

Of morning scale the walls of night, And, quenched in floods of orient light, War's blood-red planet fade away.

And from the trampled battle-plains
The ghastly faces of the dead
Had vanished, and we saw instead
An altar built of broken chains.

And then there fell an angel-voice

In grandest music down the skies:"Accepted is the sacrifice;

Let the worn land in peace rejoice!"

And now the brave surviving band

We fain would crown with wreathed bays, And grateful songs of triumph raise

To them throughout a rescued land.

But the mute eloquence of scars,

The halting gait, the shattered limb, Make words of praise fall faint and dim, Though ringing to the very stars.

They shall their greatest glory gain,
When, in the happy years to be,
The harvests of their toil they see
Broad-waving in rich fields of grain.

As through the years we meet again,
And turn the hallowed record o'er,
Fond Memory will as oft restore
The missing links to Friendship's chain,
And round us weave the subtle bands
That bind the present to the past,
Till we ourselves have gone at last,
And left the book to other hands.

W

A GOOD JOKE ON SHERMAN. WHILE marching through Georgia, Gen. Sherman travelled with the left wing under Gen. Slocum. After a long and wearisome march, he one day crossed over to the right wing under Gen. Howard. While in Gen. Howard's tent, which had just been pitched, the Medical Director came in, well acquainted with the habits and customs of both. Gen. Sherman sometimes took a "glass," while Gen. Howard was strangly opposed to the indulgence. Knowing this, the medical gentleman, after a short time, wishing to serve his chief without offence to Howard, said:

"Gen. Sherman, you look weary and ill. If you will come over to my tent, I will give you a Seidlitz Powder, which I think will do you good."

"Thank you," readily responded Tecumseh," "I think I will."

The man of physic departed, and Gen. Howard, who took everything literally, ran to his valise and got a powder, which he mixed and handed to Sherman :

"There is no need to go away for one, if that is what you want," he said, and Sherman, inwardly chagrined, but highly amused, drank the cup manfully, to the mirth of several bystanders, who comprehended the whole magnitude of the joke at a glance.-Sat. Eve. Post.