Wallenstein, that he is a gallant soldier, chivalrous and honourable, but of late rather suspected of wavering in his allegiance to the cause he has espoused, and his services to which have been so splendidly rewarded.

"July 18.-The weather is very hot, but the town continues healthy. There is no actual scarcity of food, though there is much apprehension of it, especially amongst the poorer classes. We hear they are suffering in the camp for want of forage for the horses, but there is still food enough for the men.

THE KING MAKES A PRISONER.

"July 25.-Evil reports of the king's men! They are learning the ways of the Imperialists, and betaking themselves to plunder and outrage. Not the native Swedes however, but the German auxiliaries-the mixed multitude' that have joined them since their great successes. these are fighting under the king's standard, and he must be held responsible for them.

Still

"July 30.-Two victories for our friends. Colonel Deubatel has surprised Freystadt; and the king in person has defeated and made prisoner General Spar.

"August 2.-Yesterday the king rebuked, with a severity no less than tremendous, those officers who had either committed or connived at the depredations which have been bringing his army into disgrace. Not content however with rebuking as a king and a general, he pleaded with them as a man and a Christian to desist from crimes which would ruin themselves and their country. We are told that even hardened veterans were melted into tears by his eloquence. But will it prove effectual? The soldiers have some that they are suffering, not actual hunger indeed, but scarcity. Short rations and nothing to do would try the temper of any army. There is also much sickness in the camp; and we fear that it will spread to the city. We have already a few cases of fever amongst us.

excuse in

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August 4.-The Swede never leaves his work half done. Lieutenant Graham tells us to-day of a severe proclamation addressed to the delinquent Germans. 'If you dare pretend to desert or mutiny,' concludes the king, 'I have enough left of my faithful and valiant Swedes to cut you all to pieces, even in Wallenstein's presence; for, having reason and Christianity on my side, I will be obeyed.' He has hanged a lieutenant for theft, also a private soldier, whose prayer for mercy he answered with these words: Friend, every soldier is my child, yet is it better that thou shouldst die, than that the wrath of God should descend, for this thy sin, upon thee and me, and all this multitude assembled round us.'

'August 6.-I have just learned accidentally that Herr Krausman has been often here to see йugh, but never when Jeanie was at home. It is curious!

But,

"August 7.-Your letter has come to hand, and I hear, with sincere pleasure, of your good health and prosperity, and of that of your worthy husband and your children. I am glad that Hännschen has recovered so well from the measles, and only wonder none of the rest have taken the infection. I see that you reproach me with filling my former letters with matters of publio concern, to the exclusion of those personal details which you say would interest you more. dear friend, I have no such details to give. When I say of myself 'I am in good health,' all is said. Still, what relates to the children, Jeanie and Hugh, does, after a fashion, concern me personally, and you will own I have not spared to tell you of them. Now the post is leaving in all haste, so that I have only time, with hearty commendations for the Herr Doctor and kisses for the children, to subscribe myself thy loving cousin "GERTRUD VON SAVELBURG."

Thanksgiving.

WHEN the glad music of God's angel legions

For half-an-hour is stilled, the undertone

Of praise ascending from His earthly regions
Still echoes round the throne.

Sweet is the sound of rippling waves that glisten
Frosted with sunshine, on a morning sea;

It may be the archangels pause to listen
For that full harmony.

There is blithe music when the south wind passes
Across the fields with buttercups aglow,
When zephyrs toss the lightsome quaking grasses
That for the children grow.

The tiny rapture of the linnet pouring
Its uttermost of gladness forth in song;
The madrigals of skylarks heavenward soaring
Unto both worlds belong.

With these the vast thanksgiving of creation
From human hearts, or insects of the sod,
Thrills through the hush of seraph adoration,
For ever praising God!

MARY ROWLES.

THERE

HERE are some words that have in them a world of pathos,-pathos in the very word. itself. A charming writer of our own day has moralised on one such word, "GONE." But the word, at the head of the essay, seems to epitomize the thoughts that follow it. Even the following beautiful illustration of its pathos, lay already infolded in it, as the blossom lies in the seed:

"There was a man whose little boy died. The father bore up wonderfully. But on the funeral day, after the little child was laid down to his long rest, the father went out to walk in the garden. There, in the corner, was the small wheelbarrow with its wooden spade; and the foot-prints in the earth left by the little feet that were gone!"

And this last straw-weight it was that bowed the strong man down in his agony.

"Lost!" This is another word of pathos, both in English, and in its German form, "Verloren," as it is remarked in "Companions of my Solitude." And another pathetic word, akin to both of the above, is, I think, this which is our present theme. "Yesterday," "That was yesterday," yesterday that the joy was with us, and all was so different. Yesterday that the sorrow came, to change the life.

"To-morrow," there may be apprehension in the word. But it seems more fitly, the word of hope. "To-day," the word of Realization; the common-place present. To-morrow for Hope; Yesterday for Memory. How often it is the first thought of our waking mind, in the earliest morning; "What happened yesterday?" Then the flood-gate of memory is lifted, and a rush of joy or of sorrow pours into the spirit.

To think of yesterday might help us more carefully to deal with to-day. This to-day was once to-morrow; and what was that we intended for it? It ca can never be again to-morrow. It will soon cease its being as to-day. What shall we have made it by that time when we must think of it as yesterday? It will have passed from us for ever, but not without receiving the eternal impression of the die which we are to-day setting upon it. Has it not happened to us, often, to say to our heart, in regret, or, may be, remorse, "O that I might have yesterday over again! That bitter word should not have been said, that unkind act should not have been done. That opportunity should not have passed by unemployed.

"Before the cock crow," that was said once, while it was To-day. But that day has now become yesterday. The cock crew. The look has reached the apostle's heart. And what has it brought? What a flooding in of remorse! "Yesterday I was faithful, and confident." To-day-what is left me but useless repentance, and idle tears?

Though heavy with armed justice, did not lean Their thunders that way. The forsaken Lord Looked only, on the falterer.

And Peter, from the height of blasphemy, 'I never knew this man,' did quail and fall, As knowing straight that God, and turned free, And went out speechless from the face of all, And filled the silence, weeping bitterly."

The

"Before the cock crow." Think of the day, the hour, the moment, before the step is taken which shall cast a sadness, or a blight, over all the life. Conscience gives warning. moment creeps on. You are still unfallen, so far as this temptation is concerned. You are still pure. You are not yet a murderer. You have not yet spoken the word which will for ever part you and your dearest friend. You have not yet proved a coward: or unfaithful in that sacred trust. The wine moves itself aright in the glass. But you have not yet, "put an enemy into your "Before the mouth, to steal away your brains."

cock crow," you may refrain from sin; from shame; you may confess your Lord, you may avert that anguish of remorse.

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While he yet spake, the cock crew."

And then, the thing was done, when to-morrow comes, and the unsympathetic sun shines brightly in at the window, it will awake you from your uneasy sleep, and, as a torrent of rain, the memory of yesterday will rush upon your mind.

"Yesterday"-Ah, it all comes back. My life can now never be the same. Most miserable day, whose shadow must overlie all my life, henceforward. "Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine on it."

Peter could go out and weep bitterly. But he could never undo the past. He could obtain pardon. But pardon is a different thing from praise. Ah, that story of the going back ten degrees of the Dial of Ahaz! Ten minutes ago, if we could turn time back, and we would have been self-distrustful, where we were over confident; strong, where we were weak: brave, where we were cowards!

Of no avail. There is a flavour of remorse, even in the cup of accepted repentance. "Too late," is a word of misery:-sometimes of despair.

"And the Raven, never-flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,

On the pallid bust of Pallas,* just above my chamber door!

And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming,

And my soul from out the shadow that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted-Nevermore!"

*Pallas, the goddess of wisdom :-the mentor of Telemachus.

Well, very grave thoughts may be very useful thoughts, sometimes; and in our lighter reading may not come amiss, now and then;-as among the tender green of the ash, the beech, the lime, and the redder tint of the walnut and the oak; and the hoary grey of the willows, and the silver of the poplar, you are not ill pleased to espy, here and there, the dark of the copper hazle, or of the purple beech. Such a word may prove word in due season,' ," and read "before the cock crows," may avert a fall.

66 a

But we wander from these into the lighter plantations and the sunny meadows of thought.

The way in which the most familiar scenes may speak to us of Yesterday, is depicted in such a scene, for example, as the engraving that accompanies this essay. It is called "After the Rain," and it seems to depict the stir and bustle of life beginning in the morning, after yesterday's rain. A fine old English village is represented: and what prettier sight is there to be seen? Grandeur and sublimity there is none; the scene is homely, and herein lies its charm. "Homely:" it is specially an English word: and the dearer, surely, for that. Homely people, we speak of always with a tender affection. How different the meaning of Vulgar from the meaning of Homely. Homely folk, and homely fare, and homely ways: these are becoming too rare, in this age of lacquer, and false refinement and surface education. In their very misplacing the letter H, these do but, we may say, take something from Heaven, and add it to earth! Homely ways, and a homely welcome, and homely linen, and homely china upon it, and homemade bread, not "a heavy compound of putty and lead," all these we are sure we should find in that home-stead towards which the road leads. And how pretty the thatch (however dangerous, withal) on the cottages; and the rough steps which lead up to them, and the sturdy posts and rails, and doubtless, the fine oldfashioned flowers beside the cottages or in front of them, gilly flowers, white pinks, carnations and old clove pinks; cabbage roses, and their moss-vested sisters: monkshood, and big tumbled peonies; great holly-hocks with white, and rose, and chocolate rosettes: fuchsias that are veritable shrubs: clustered sceptres of pure white, also of freckled tiger, lilies. Then, in the windows, massive geraniums, scarlet, and flushed white; and varied pelargoniums, and crowding calceolarias. The pollard trees stand out of the banks, and give beauty to the street: the brook breaks, here and there, against an obstinate pebble, into a white crest, amid the amber brown of its prevailing tone; and hurries past, instead of loitering by, its cresses. For there has been abundant, soaking rain, yesterday, and indeed, far into the night, after the long time of drought, and there is a race among the brooks as to which shall be the first to carry the welcome tidings to the "shorn and parcelled" river. The cottagers have come to the front of their gardens, to enjoy the coolness after the rain: the dog feels the perkier for its invigorating influence: the carter stops his team to remark on how much good it will do.

The grateful meadows, and the wayside grass

have come in for their full share. The trees and bushes have had the dust washed from their parched foliage; even under the shrubs, under the very thickest, the dry brick-like ground has been saturated with the magnificent and impartial abundance. The hard dry ruts are now reservoirs; there are delicious ponds and puddles about the road; the parched land has become a pool. How refreshed the drenched land looks! How dried up and dust-blighted it all has been for many weeks. But it rained yesterday; and how delicious the face of the landscape is to-day. The sound, the sight, the smell of rain, after a drought, how ecstatic. And the idea of all this seems given in this drawing; concerning which I must not linger longer, having, years ago, given a full essay to this theme of "The Beauty of Rain."

"It rained Yesterday," and we smile, to see nature in tears. The gleaming pools in the road are good in our eyes. The passionate showers of large drops from the trees make to our ears a pleasant sound. The sky was dull, it is true, while the rain fell, and the sunshine had died out. And there had been a funeral, in the quiet churchyard hard by; and all seemed in accord as the slow procession went up the drenched road, and through the white churchyard gate, and the mourners gathered about the sodden heap that indicated the grave, while

* 66

'Right in the mourners' faces swept,

With driving rain, the windy storm;
And, on the cheek of those who wept,

The cold drops mingled with the warm."

But really, the clouds were big with blessings; and the drenching rain in the gloom has refreshed the heart of the earth. And the mourners might have found analogies of refreshment from the tearful and rain-soaked gardens, where

*"Gleaming from the fresh-turned mould,

Rose upright marks, like gravestones white,
Each with a name inscribed, which told

A flower lay buried there from sight.” And yesterday's melancholy sky, and dismal streaks of dark lines over the distant sea, and steady soak, and ceaseless murmur, and intermittent patter, close at hand, that seemed sad while they were with us, and it was yet to day :how sweet these are to remember, now that the sun is with us again, and clear shining after the rain? That was a growing time, that day which was dark and dreary. It seemed a time of sadness, but how gracious and precious a time it really was!

And now, now, even while the tears linger, they are gleaming in sunlight, and are tears rather of joy than of sorrow, of laughter rather than of weeping And presently they shall have passed away. Only the effect of them will

abide.

And that which was, a little while ago, desert and barren, shall revive and blossom as the rose. And that which drooped and seemed lifeless shall raise its head, which fell earthward, towards

Angel visits, etc.

that, in the dull, dead time, were hushed, shall awaken heavy silence again; and the voice of the turtle be heard in the land. And the reservoirs in the womb of the hills shall be replenished; and the streams that crept through deltas of sand shall over-brim, and leap on, with renewed life, from thorpe to thorpe; and the half-stagnant river shall brim up to its banks, and set earnestly towards the great ocean. And "weeping may endure for a night, but joy shall come in the morning."

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So may it be, if we will have it so, with sorrow in this brief life, which now seems to some of us a long and dreary to-day, but which shall, when the everlasting day dawn shall arise, seem as yesterday when it is passed." "It rained yesterday, but to-day it is fine, after the rain." Thus we may say, with a happy gleam in the tears that shall never more fall, when we behold Him and stand in His presence, Who is the everlasting "to-Day." In His presence, "which is, and was,

distinctly before us. There will be dull hours of depression, to remember, in that yesterday and wrung hands of sorrow, and tears that fell as rain, in the hour in which the look of the Lord convicted us of unfaithfulness in our trial: of neglect of some priceless opportunity, that "departed, never to return."

Will it not, we might ask, be intolerable to remember such things? would it not be better that the dark river which, leaving life here, we must cross, should be also the river of Lethe, the waters of Oblivion?

O miserable and sorrowful past:-away with the remembrance of you from the land of delight that knows not of regret.

No, we cannot, in the glories of that glad to-day, afford to forego the memories of that mournful yesterday. I do not know how the thought of what seemed unavailing regret should but sadden even those Happy ones and holy:"

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But those tears, those miserable tears, that, from the depths of a broken and contrite heart,

"Rained, through the sight, its overflow,"these, will have a kindly remembrance clinging to them, in that they watered the seeds of Grace, and, perhaps, called up growths and fruits that else had not been, in the heart, the tilled garden of God.

For the heart is a graveyard. There lie buried bright hopes, eager aspirations, true resolves, strong purposes, holy longings, earnest love. But may not these be even as those seed and bulb sepulchres, of which we spoke just now, each (in the kind remembrance of God).

"Each with a name inscribed, which tells

A flower lies buried there from sight."

And sadder graves there are, in God's Acre, -the heart that is, of the humble saint of God. Buried remembrances of sins,-dire falls-injury (0 intolerable thought!) done to others, by act or neglect:-denials-yes-betrayals.

These are graves known only to God and the heart. But these are the graves that memory most often visits. Beside these she kneels in the silence of the house and of the room, and bends and rocks in her anguish over them; and the tears flood the secret places where they lie; and darkness overglooms all,-with but a gleam of light in the Eastern Heaven.

But who can limit the mercy and the might of God? What if, in some way, beyond our conception, good, even for us, may be raised out of the grave of truly repented evil?

These things are beyond our soundings. But the promises of God do tell us :-even the contrite and broken-hearted,-of sunshine that shall break forth, after the rain. Sorrow is better than

laughter, here and now. But only because of a promised good which shall result from it. And even in the tears, so hopeless and useless, that follow the crowing of the cock,—there seems a whisper, in God's word, of wondrous possibilities, "As from some blissful neighbourhood,

A notice faintly understood,

'I see the end, and know the good.'

A little hint to solace woe,

A hint, a whisper breathing low,
'I may not speak of what I know.'
Like an Æolian harp, that wakes
No certain air, but overtakes

Far thoughts, with music that it makes."

After the rain, drooping hearts may lift them up, as bent lilies do, to the blue sky,-after the rain. Mourner's eyes may glisten with sun-lit tears, after the rain. Fainting hearts may recover strength; hope-forlorn spirits may look upward again; betrayed lives regain faith and trust; loveless solitaries feel love's reviving warmth about them-after the rain. Beauties and glories that else had never had being, may crowd the summer-lands of Heaven, after the rain. Deserts that would have remained desert, may, after the pools of water have subsided, become even as Eden, even as the Garden of God,-after the rain.

"The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.
There is a day of sunny rest

For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide, an evening guest,

But joy shall come, with early light."
For it is inconceivable, the summer-gladness
which God hath prepared for them that love
Him;-after the rain.

the trembling gait of old Peter Matthieu, he invited him to come inside, and to rest a few minutes. Peter accepted the invitation, and the pleasure which he felt at being again in the country awakened old recollections. He talked of the places in which he had been, and of the events of his boyhood. John Borel listened attentively; and when he thought the occasion was favourable, he tried to bring Peter's attention to other more interesting subjects of conversation. But John soon found out that his new acquaintance was entirely ignorant of the truths contained in the Bible, and that he appeared to be incapable of even understanding anything about them; for it seemed impossible to fix his attention on such subjects. The single observation that he made after having heard the history of the crucifixion of the Saviour, expressed something of strange amazement. "It seems to me," said