she hopes that in that little seed is wrapped a flower that will one day smile in freshness and beauty. It is on this principle that we find the Son of God, after the severe labours of the day, sitting down and enlightening the darkened minds of his humble followers. With one of those strokes of which he alone is master, Christ had uttered a single parable, which was so comprehensive, that it embraced every hearer who will ever hear the gospel preached. And now, after a laborious, wearisome day, the Lord sits down in the midst of his disciples, and goes over the ground again, and explains to them the parable, just as he would to little children. They meekly and gladly receive the instruction of their Teacher, not knowing that it would ever be of any more use to them than the present satisfying of their curiosity; but Christ well knew that he was doing more than pouring a few rays of light into those darkened minds. He was preparing them to be his ambassadors to a world lying in sin. In after years, who can tell how many times they recalled this parable and its explanation, and went forth with hope, sowing by the side of all waters? and who can tell into how many minds N they poured the same light? How many have since read the story, and have felt encouraged to teach the ignorant, to enlighten the darkened, to sow the seed of life, hoping and believing that some would fall on good ground, and bring forth fruit, some thirty, some sixty, and some an hundred fold. It was not what the disciples then were, that led Christ to teach them with so much patience; and so it is with all his dealings and teachings now. The little child now beginning to lisp his name shall have his protection, his care, and his love, because he may hereafter become a messenger of life to men, and may turn many from darkness unto light, and thus shine as the sun in the firmament for ever and ever. So we all sow seed in the vineyard of the Lord. We do not see it germinating to-day, but we shall hereafter. We cast our bread on the waters, knowing that we shall find it after many days. Labour plants the seed, and Hope, Patience, and Love, watch over it till it hath become a tree, bearing precious fruit. Thus may we plant trees in the garden of the Lord; thus may we rear up instruments of good to earth, and prepare souls for the crowns of heaven, never forgetting to instruct the lowly. I pray thee come, for even now she dieth: Lay but thy hands on her, and she shall live." While yet he spake, there came one from the city: "Thy daughter's dead;-thy prayer is now too late!" But Jesus heard, and turning, said, with pity, "Be not afraid;-only believe, and wait." He went and hushed the tumult unavailing: "Why make ye this ado," he said, "and weep? Refrain thine eyes from tears, thy voice from wailing; The maiden is not dead, but fallen asleep." Then, all the God in majesty appearing, He put out those who scorned what he had said, And led the parents, trembling, hoping, fearing, Into the room where lay the sleeping dead. And gently by the hand he took the maiden, And at his word, with life and strength full laden, "Damsel, arise!" she sprang from off her couch. He who could bid the spirit-world obey him, Christ was the Life, and he the Resurrection; The keys of heaven and hell were in his hand, Pain lost its power, disease its dire infection, And Death gave up the dead, at his command. XXVII. CHRIST PUTTING TO SILENCE THE PRIESTS AND ELDERS. MANY years ago, the hoary-headed men who composed the rulers and the priesthood of the nation had met in the temple a child, who was so advanced in divine knowledge as to fill them with wonder and astonishment. Perhaps these same men were now in the temple. It was the right of every Jew to go up to the temple, but Christ went to it as to his Father's house. There he instructed, and thence he drove out the worldly men who made it a place for bargains and cheating. He had just been doing this, when these cavillers came round him, determined, by a single question, to put him to silence. "Tell us," say they, "by what authority thou doest these things." They could not deny his power, for they had seen the sellers of cattle and sheep and doves, as well as the sanctimonious money-changers, driven headlong out of the Temple, and not one dared to resist or refuse. But now these men of hypocrisy would like to turn this against the Redeemer, and disregarding the wonderful miracles he had just performed in that temple, in healing the blind and the lame, they hope to make the people rise up against him. "By what authority doest thou these things?" If he shall say, "I do these things as a man,” then they will appeal to the people if an obscure, private man shall thus come in and disturb peaceable men, and injuring their honest business. If he shall say, "I do it as the Messiah," then they will say, "Lo! this dreamer cometh! This man of Nazareth, whose father and mother we know, comes here and claims the throne of David, pretending to be the promised Messiah;" and the people would have been ready for his crucifixion. How can he escape the snare ? But his hour is not yet come. He must preach one more sermon in that temple; he must once more meet his disciples; and so he takes the only course that seems possible to have preserved peace, -to silence them. "I will ask you a simple question ;-you, teachers of the law, judges in Israel, expounders of what is human and what is divine. The mission of John the Baptist:-was it human or divine? Did God commission and send him, or was he an impostor? Answer me that question, and I will answer yours." Now what glances these men throw upon one another! What whispering and consulting together! How simple the question seems, and yet how far-reaching! "Suppose we say that John was divinely commissioned. This will be very acceptable to the people, and they will extol us; but he will turn and inquire why we did not believe the testimony that John bore for him, when he said, pointing to this man, 'Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world!'? Suppose we say he was not inspired, or sent from heaven. Why, then, the people will stone us upon the spot, for they are all persuaded that John was a prophet from God." Wise men! Hoary sages! Ye scorn the poor, meek one before you, and yet ye cannot, dare not, reply to his question. And so they return to him, after deep consultation, and say, "We are not prepared to decide the question concerning John the Baptist." It was of no consequence what answer they gave, any farther than what was expedient. Expediency was their standard of right and wrong. It seems strange to us that they could see beauty in the smoke of their altars, and in the sprinkling of blood, but could see no beauty in the face of Jesus Christ; that they could walk amid the lofty pillars of God's temple, and admire its greatness and its architecture, but could see nothing lovely in the moral character of God's son! And it gives us a deep conviction of the superhuman wisdom of Christ, that, with a word, he could silence men who were the wisest in earthly knowledge, and put to shame brazenfaced, haughty men. How he read their hearts! And how easy for his hand to strip off the covering which self-conceit and hypocrisy had thrown over them! Thus he came to the temple, and sat as a refiner and a purifier of silver, and thus he detected the dross and threw it aside. THE MOTHER'S CRY. BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE BROKEN BUD." "Not as a child shall we again behold her; For when, with rapture wild, In our embraces we again enfold her, She will not be a child, But a fair maiden in her father's mansion, And beautiful with all the soul's expansion An, no! doth Love implore; But let kind Heaven restore In her own form my long-lost, darling child! Must I then meet with disappointment wild? "A maiden" shall I see, Restored again unto this yearning bosom? My darling bud,-my still unfolded blossom. And if this bud so sweet My eye should never meet, Would my bright cup be brimming o'er with bliss? Even in that happy place, Could I forget that face? No! something,-something still my heart would miss. Oft, in some vision bright, On angel-wings of light, A cherub-child is floating over me; And in a dreamy maze, As still enrapt I gaze, My little Carrie's beauteous face I see. Will not her tresses fair Shade the same forehead there Which oft my lips have pressed with fond caress? If gone is Memory's seal, Ah, what will then reveal My own child in her infant loveliness? LONGFELLOW. My heart to her still turneth,- And if "a maiden" should be called my child, I want to see her wear The same sweet garment there Which in the lonely grave we weeping laid I want to see that face In its own, childish grace. I want to gaze into those very eyes Made all things look so bright;- I want to hear my bird, With many a lisping word, Singing again her childish song of love. Till, in its loving nest, Doth nestle there my own, long-parted dove. I want-But hush, my heart! This throbbing bosom then will be at rest, I shall be satisfied, Let me but clasp my darling to my breast! THE OLD BACHELOR IN PROSPECTIVE; OR, AUNT KATY'S LECTURE TO YOUNG KATE. BY ISABEL JOCELYN. You don't see the signs! I hardly fancied you | while here, nor sighs while away, nor persist would. I did not suppose that your seventeen in considering him as a guest, who is an everysummers would have so ripened your percep- day inmate of the family. tive faculties. You do not discover that Ned Woodhouselee is chiselled out of that "perdurable stuff" of which old bachelors are made, and that old Father Time, day by day, and year by year, is bringing out a capital specimen of his art. Well, go on! Set his brow, his hawking nose, I mean "eyes, his curls, in your heart's table" as fairly as ever the poor Helena did, but do not think that your "bright, particular star" will shine on you more favourably than did hers. Sway your jimpy waist, run your lily fingers over the melody-answering keys, half melt him with the welcoming glances of those dark eyes, touch his mental taste by the pure and classic beauty of your thoughts, and his palate by your dainty little cookery, he will be a friendly, brotherly, parallel line, that will run beside you for any number of ages, nor come to the angle of Love and Proposal. He may become somewhat warmer, a great deal more agreeable, considerate for you, and quite "épris" with your society (for you are one of the best listeners I know), but I say, I, that Mr. Woodhouselee will remain a bachelor to his dying day. Your father thinks well of Ned! Your father's good opinion is worth having, but your father thinks of him only as a student. Compare the two-I do not mean your father's reverend locks, and his jetty curls, or the slim, erect figure of the one, and the feeble bend of the other, but contrast the rich, generous nature, the unsuspicious simplicity, of your dear parent, with the prosaic worldliness of his young pupil. An excellent pious man is our gentle pastor, a faithful shepherd of his docile flock. And much more than he dreams, is his eloquence and ripe scholarship made mention of, and well did Ned Woodhouselee know this, and calculate the advantages to be derived from his training, and connexion with his name, when he came to finish his studies under our lowly parsonage roof. I think he finds it very pleasant here. He said he half regretted to spend his vacation away. (I am sure I do not know what we should have done with him while we were cleaning house.) He knows how to appreciate your father's learning, and your simple kindness, and my good housekeeping; he has, it is true, a very excellent judgment, but I do not see why you should think so much of him. You should not give him so many smiles 238 Perfectly disinterested-Ned has no fortune! Humph, dear, nobody knows that better than your auntie. If I did not, perhaps you would have been spared this lecture; neither do I say you are blinded by love. It's all a mistake about Love's blinding his true votaries: in his mischief, he claps golden specs on some eyes, and hangs the rosy veil of flattery over others; but I do not believe he has meddled thus with your bright orbs, if you are but in the humour to use them. You are young and confiding; and auntie is reasonable and experienced. If Ned had all the perfections in the world it would not do for you to think of him, for, from the first of my acquaintance with him, I have felt assured he would never marry. I have known him a long time, half his life. He was his mother's spoiled darling, a sulky, exacting little plague as ever I did see. Then he grew up a clever lad, and ladies, who wanted his drawings for fire-screens, and his complimentary verses to make their lovers jealous, praised and petted him, till, though he conceals it wonderfully, he has more conceit than any woman I know. He was having his picture taken-there was puppyism about him then; he's taken a better tone now, it's one of his virtues that he is improvable,-having his picture taken, a boy of sixteen, in a flowered dressing-gown, with a guitar by his side. Then in his room he kept flower-vases and a japanned cigar-case. Don't tell him what I say, it would mortify him; and the advantage of this precocity is that now he sees its folly and foppishness, though, to be sure, he only throws it aside for a graver affectation. You believe I am in love with the boy myself! "Kate, I love thee not." What! I, in my summer-tide of life, reaching for unripe fruit, especially fruit that, hard and sour, gives no promise of future raciness? Don't be jealous, dear; the neat plaits of my cap are never stirred by coquettish breezes. Not that I have any hesitation in saying, that, of the two, I would be his choice. He has long ago outgrown you. At this period of his life he cannot appreciate you; in eight or ten years it will be different; then he will begin to admire very young ladies. It is one of the most convincing signs to me, that he now prefers ladies older than himself, gay and chatty widows, and even blue maidens like me. What! I've shown you nothing yet, nothing at all! Well! perhaps there is nothing to show. I am mistaken. There is no preciseness about him, no self-sufficingness, no quiet sneers at the real excellences of woman, no stubborn determination to take his own way, no monopolizing all the luxuries about him, no disposition to make everybody uncomfortable when he is sick and peevish,-oh, no, it is of some one else I am thinking, and perhaps it is St. Clair who is going to be the stagnant-hearted, selfish old bachelor of my prevision. by others, but no one values them so high as himself. He will get on in the world very tolerably. The regulation of his talents will do more for him than his actual exertions. His quietude, and sense of personal honour, will prevent his making a fortune, but his frugal and delicate habits will prevent him exceeding his income. He will always seem richer than he really is. Every one will think him a fortunate, care-free, though fastidious man, but he will be subject to fits of morbid melancholy, and most undigNot he! That's the first good word you've nified fretfulness. Now and then he will take said for your old playmate, and my godson, it into his head to get married, but the fit will this many a day. But trip up stairs with me wear off, unless some heiress, that has also into Ned's sanctum. Look at his shelves, every beauty and wit, should "swim into his ken." book covered with brown paper, and pasteboard He might, under such circumstances, condeslabs above them to keep out dust. Here are scend to propose, but would, of a surety, be his geraniums, with their ingenious supports rejected. I can just imagine the cold, stately of curlicued cane,-the finest plants in the manner of his addresses, and the unmerciful neighbourhood. See his shiny brasses, his treatment he might receive from the hands of double curtains, his Sleepy-Hollow rocking- some coquette, who would, for a while, parade chair, with a patch on its chintz cover. Sure-him in her train, and then civilly dismiss ly, nobody that knows so well how to take care of himself, has any business with a dear little wife to pet and nurse him, and think of all his small comforts. And if so particular now, have you any idea what he will gradually refine himself into? What poor creature could ever encourage all his whims? him. Kate, sweet Kate, thou hast a happy home. The passers-by, on the dusty roadside, bless the humble parsonage-roof, all matted with its flowering vines, and shaded by wide-branched trees; it seems so fair in its lowliness. By the rough-curbed well are showered the spotted helms of the celandine, and the big humblebees are ever beating against the white wall, or diving into the ripe roses. The white lilacboughs of the spring are ever more luxuriantly Well, if I ever! Peep into this closet. Here are his tea-caddy and Etna, a parcel of chocolate, his sugar-bowl, and some mouldy cake. Ah, the folded napkins lie as regularly as in my side-board! Quite a perfect little esta-tufted here than elsewhere, thy father's fablishment! Do you fancy you could be of use in such a one? He can handle that hair-broom as tidily as yourself, and spies cobwebs a deal sooner. You are too flighty to sit still and be looked at, doll-baby fashion; and I have seen you yawn when he spun out his story too unbearably. 'Tis true, that he talks beautifully, tells anecdotes with considerable point, and is never at a loss for a graceful compliment; but it is tiresome, now is it not, to be always listener, or be listened to with an unmeaning, inattentive smile? He has some good qualities, though! Some! he has a great many. Don't quiver that pretty lip so, when I tell you that his acquired accomplishments set him as far above your mark as his real merits place him below you. He has been an indefatigable student, and his mind is one of those compact, memorizing storehouses, which let not a tittle escape. He reads like a play-actor, writes well, though in a didactic vein, he is not really fond of music, but has learned to play artistically on some instruHe draws charmingly-that crayonsketch on the wall has both spirit and correctThese accomplishments may be esteemed ments. ness. vourite flower, which mind him alway of thy graceful prettiness. Thou hast a happy home and an innocent heart. Heaven keep thee from loving one whose heart is older than his years, who has no youthful faults, who has no gushing streams of affection to answer thine. One, whose life is all machinal, and studied, who is too recherché to like us your plain friends, who despises the world's hollow ways, yet bends thereto. You must not love him, for he will not love you. If ever you could pierce the ice around that inane spark he calls his heart, if ever your eloquent lip could teach him that in this earth is a more delicious draught than he has yet dreamed of, his pride, his prudence would array themselves against you, the very action of that intellect you so much admire would assist to dispel your influence. His lot is cast. I read it in his quiet gait, in his cold monotonous speech, in his attention to form, in the service that he demands, in the little need he finds for human sympathy. Ned Woodhouselee, handsome, harmless, gifted, as he now is, will, year by year, harden like the stalactite, and to his dying day be an unloved, unloving, old bachelor. |