seen so calmly chewing the cud in the meadow, in the summer evening sunshine; and when the sermon was ended, and the preacher gave out the hymn, to the tune "Mariner's," did not the people sing lustily, and as though they meant it?

'Tis religion that can give

Sweetest pleasures while we live;

"Tis religion must supply

Solid comfort when we die.

After death its joys will be
Lasting as eternity.

Be the living God my friend!

Then my bliss shall never end.

Langston was surprised, disturbed, half-amused, slightly vexed, but more pleased. He knew no more than he knew before, but he felt something new; and he had a belief, which made him glad, that some of these people-the preacher surely-could give him the clue he had been seeking for, for they seemed to have something that he had not. The singing was rude enough, in all conscience, and yet there was a something in it which made it more like worship, more like reality, than the singing of the surpliced choristers in the college chapel, or than the full cathedral service at Christ Church, which he had so often gone to of an afternoon in those pleasant old Oxford days. It was as though in his dark sky the first little faint twinkling promise of a star had appeared. He determined he would join the preacher on his way home, and see if there was in him the living light he was pining for. So leaving the little chapel, he strolled apart, till he should see which way the preacher would take. But outside the place, which he saw was called "Ebenezer," there were so many hand-shakings, and so many little kind things to be said to one and another, that some minutes elapsed before the good man was clear of them all, and then he started off at a sturdy pace to go to the neighbouring town. Langston then joined him.

(To be continued.)

11

THE NEW-YEAR'S EVE OF AN UNHAPPY ONE. TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF JEAN PAUL FR. RICHTER.

ONE New-year's Eve an old man stood at the window, and looked up with a glance of anxious despair at the immovable and ever-beautiful sky, and down at the still, pure, white earth, upon which none was at this moment so joyless and sleepless as he, for his grave lay near him. It was bare with the snow of age, not covered with the verdure of youth, and he brought with him out of his whole long life nothing but errors, sins, and diseases, a wasted frame and a desolate soul, a breast full of poison and an old age full of remorse. The beautiful days of his youth hovered around him like apparitions, and drew him again towards the lovely morning when his father had, for the first time, placed him at the parting of the ways-the one to the right, leading along the sunny path of virtue into a broad peaceful land, full of light and harvests and angels; and that, to the left, conducting, in the mole tracks of vice, down into a black cavern full of dropping poison, full of serpents ready to strike, and of dark, sweltering damps.

Ah! the snakes hung upon his heart, and the poison-drops upon his tongue; and he now knew where he was!

Senseless and with unspeakable grief he called aloud to heaven, "Give me my youth again! Oh, father, place me again at the parting of the ways, that I may choose differently." But his father and his youth were far, far off. He saw wandering lights dancing upon marshes, and become extinguished on the graveyard, and he said, "They are my foolish days!" He saw a star fall from heaven, glittering as it fell, and become extinguished on the earth. "That am I," said his bleeding heart, and the snakelike teeth of remorse buried themselves deeper into the wounds. thereof.

His burning imagination showed him fleeing night-wanderers upon the roofs, and the windmill threateningly raised its arms to dash him in pieces, and a mask remaining in the empty charnelhouse gradually assumed his features. Suddenly, in the midst of the conflict, the New-year's music floated down from the tower like a distant anthem. He was more softly moved. He looked

around the horizon and over the wide earth, and he thought of the friends of his youth, who, happier and better than he, were the teachers of the earth, the fathers of happy children, and blessed men; and he said, "Ah! I also, like you, might have slumbered through this New-year's night with unweeping eyes,

if I had willed it so! Ah, you dear parents, if I had fulfilled your New-year's wishes and teachings, I might have been happy!"

In the feverish remembrances of his youth it seemed to him as if the mask with his features rose up in the charnel-house; at last, by means of the superstition, which on a New Year's night beholds the spirits of the future, it became a living youth.

He could see it no longer; he covered his eyes; a thousand hot tears streamed upon the snow, till their very source was dry. He only sighed forth, softly, disconsolately, and unconsciously, "Oh, days of my youth, return; only return!"

And they returned, for on this New Year's Eve it was only a dream that he had so fearfully dreamed.

He was still a youth, only his errors had been no dream. But he thanked God that he, still young, could retrace the miry paths of vice, and return to the sunny path of virtue, which leads into the rich harvest lands.

Turn with him, young man, if thou standest in his path of error. This fearful dream will be thy judge hereafter; but if on some future day, full of anguish, thou shouldst exclaim, “ Return, beautiful days of my youth," they will return no more.

DIVINE ORDINATION OF NATURAL AND SPIRITUAL WINTER.

GOD's covenant with men, his ordinance of heaven and earth, is that "while the earth remaineth, seed-time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, shall not cease." This is an illustration of His general method of procedure. The processes of His government are symbolized, not by the straight line, but by the wave; He accomplishes His purposes, not by the uniform progress of the same conditions, but by the constant recurrence of conditions, quite opposite in character and manifestation. Winter is as much a "good gift and perfect gift" as summer; for all the higher forms of life, and for the completeness of God's order of the world, winter is useful, needful. Winter's rest is as necessary as the activities of spring; to be fertile, the clod must stiffen and be pulverized by the rigid frost; and the brooks must sometimes be locked up, if they are to preserve a healthful flow. Germs ripen during the long months of cold as well as under the sun's genial rays; all the

winter through, the trees are consolidating into firm wood the tender branches and flowing sap that summer has elaborated. Consolidation is as necessary as growth; life has to harden into force, in order to new and larger activity. To men, relaxed by a sultry sun, winter comes with an invigorating, tonic power; out of winter, as out of a cold bath, they come refreshed, glowing, strengthened.

All this is as true in the spiritual, as in the natural world. Spiritual growth proceeds under the same conditions of change and temporary contrast as bodily growth. The life of the soul, the life of the church, has each its seasons; so long as this lasts on earth, "seed-time and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night, do not cease." Nor is spiritual winter a season for mourning, as though it were all evil, all due to our own faultiness. Winter is part of God's order in spiritual life, and He has blessed purposes to be served by it.

The words "summer in the soul," "winter in the soul," carry their own suggestions; they call up images rather than stand in need of definition. Summer is distinguished by manifest fulness of life; active life; life growing and increasing; life proclaiming itself to all the senses, and rejoicing them all, putting itself forth in shapes of loveliness and rich colours, in sweet odours and pleasant sounds. "The winter is past, and the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land; the figtree putteth forth her green figs, and the vines with their tender grapes give a good smell." Summer is marked by tender calm, by beauty and delight. The earth is clad with soft verdure, relieved by brilliant hues, and breathing sweets. The seas are hushed to rest; the brooks, that once were swollen to hoarseness, now ripple peacefully. There are cheerful heavens and a smiling sun; zephyrs breathe, and rains are gentle; under the joyous skies there is a joyous earth; "the pastures are clothed with flocks, the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing." Summer brings also awakened and quicker sensibilities; feeling is in harmony with external aspect; and all living creatures receive delight from nature's wealth. Sentient life is full and peaceful; birds warble their gladness; sheep gambol and goats skip; the heavy oxen luxuriate in rich pasture. Men forget their sorrows and lay down their burdens; health is borne on summer breezes, and peace is whispered from summer skies; to breathe is to be happy, and life is bliss.

The difference between summer and winter is, however, one of feeling, not of life; the contrast is rather that of opposite manifestations of life, than of life and death. Endurance is as much

a quality of life as growth is; the power of living creatures to resist the operation of the elements is as truly a measure of their vitality, as is their power of increase. Compare a tree in summer with the same tree in winter; in contrast with its myriad leaves, its delicate blossoms and glowing fruit, the barren branches and dry twigs might seem to speak of death. Yet the tree remains firm, under frosts that would turn a log to touchwood. The amount of moisture contained in a tree, if it existed in the crevices of monstrous crags, would, under the action of the freezing winter, rend cliff after cliff, and hurl their fragments thundering down. Yet the tree stands unmoved by frost; the force of life preserves it still a tree. At the first touch of cold, innumerable insects bury themselves deep in the earth, where their vital energies maintain them, while fallen leaves and twigs are being converted into mere mould. The dormouse, the squirrel, and the bear could not slumber peacefully away the weeks of cold, but for the power of life within them: their energy of life is seen in the maintenance of their bodily warmth and the continuance of their bodily functions, while the snow covers them and the frost crisps the surface of their lair. A change in the aspect of life is not a loss of life itself; the God of life is present in winter as in summer. Present, and active too; the energies of the ever-working Father not only sustain life during winter, but by winter are also preparing for renewed activities, more healthful growth, and lustier increase.

The true spiritual analogue of winter, then, is not spiritual death, not even feeble spiritual life; nor needs the words "winter in the soul" suggest dismay and despondency, as though, at such a time, we were lacking the inspiring presence of the living God. It may have some of the appearance of death-to thoughtless observers it may seem to be death; but even in its winter, the regenerate differs from the unregenerate soul by a difference that is infinite, eternal.

When we speak of "summer in the soul," we think of elevated emotions, and quick spiritual sensibilities. We recognise the time when we are full of liveliest zeal; when adoration is spontaneous, when prayer rises in our hearts, and praise is ever sitting on our lips; when ardent ejaculations come unbidden, and we are sensitive to every prompting of the indwelling spirit, responsive to innumerable divine appeals. There are such times in Christian experience; when Christian activity needs no effort, and Christian affection is instinctive; when all the impulses tend to Christ, and to live is to be godly. There are times when the reverse of all this is found-when external influences and internal impulses seem alike devoid of spiritual savour; when Christian feeling has to be cultivated, with all-carefulness; when