copper

66

color could not be obliterated from the skin of the savage, and yet more money!" was his cry. Some of his flock presumed to enquire why he would have more money when the experiment had so long been tried in vain. The Rev. gentleman used a reply which Tom Hood had prepared for him.

"Why," replied Kindheart," with an accent bland,

And gentle waving of his dexter hand,

Why must we have more dross, and dirt, and dust,

More filthy lucre, in a word, more gold 1

The why, sir, very easily is told,

Because humanity declares we must;

We've scrub'd the” 'Indians' “till we've nearly killed 'em,
And finding that we cannot wash them white,

But still their" 'copper looks' "offend the sight,
We mean to gild'em !"

Now we would not breathe a syllable against Mr. Kindheart. If we should, a thousand mopsticks in the land would impend over our devoted head, and a thousand treble voices would exclaim, "How dare you, sir, how dare you say a word against Mr. Kindheart, and he so amiable, so tender hearted and so good!!"

It is rather embarrassing, dear reader, to listen to a sermon of about the stupidity and consistency of a jelly fish-extending up to "tenthly " -and then when you get home to have the parson's wife's pretty sister ask how you like their preacher. Venture, if you dare, to say you don't like his preaching! Ten to one she, and all the old women in the room, will look "I could tear your eyes out." All at once will exclaim, “He is such a good man, though, so gentle in his manners-such a comfort in the sick room—always cheerful-and then he visits so much he cannot be expected to preach the best of sermons-but he is so good! The Rev. Dumps, then, palliates his opaque intellect with a stolid smile and with a torrent of inept tears over the tailed men broiling in the interior of Africa. His head is as obtuse and spongy as the butt end of a pin-oak rail, and yet you must submit to three hours of sermons sung once a week, and avoid all interjections when widow Grimbles thrusts a pin into your neck for fear you will fall asleep; you must admit him whenever he chooses to call, and listen to two hours of senseless twaddle, and all because he is so good?

Young intellectual paupers find an asylum in some theological school (poor) house, and come out so good that all the old women wonder why they prove unmitigated bores to men with souls.

Did you ever feel as though you were boiling in a caldron of indigo!

If not, you can procure the delightful experience by dropping in where four old maids and a lanthorn-jawed white cravat are forever droning over human depravity, forgetting the maxim that there is a time to laugh as well as a time to weep. The Rev. Mr. Glumkin is in an agony of solicitude for Sam Stokes' soul, because he ventured a smile when the Rev. Dumps took his text, "From the forty-first to the forty-second verses inclusive," and then talked about the "annual, diurnal and nocturnal revolutions of the sun, moon and stars."

Mr. Glumkin advises that young men should be educated to walk a sort of moral tight-rope through the world, and never to "lie down in green pastures," never to list to the melody of warbling fountains, never to pluck the blushing fruit that grows thick and ripe by the wayside. He advises the parent to beat the sensitive heart of his confiding child from its little throne, and plant in its stead a stoical theory-an empty semblance of soul, indifferent to abuse and devoid of genial sympathy. He would give the parent a sole-leather tenderness; he would freeze and embitter the warm and balmy spring-tide of childhood. At sixteen a smiling face is both undignified and unholy. A righteous youth should put stays in his face, and brace his head with spiritual martingales. Too many parents, alas, follow his advice, lock their brimming salamanders, and send forth their sons into the world in rags-good, pious rags.

But the Rev. Glumkin loves his enemies, and bitterly hates the man who can't swallow his cast-iron creed. He is benevolent. A poor man asks his charity. In the fulness of his philanthropic soul he asks, “Are you orthodox?" The starving man replies, "No." Mr. Charity says "Well, then, I'm out of change. Let us give thanks!"

Mr. Glumkin preaches hospitality, locks his millions in a fortress, starves his family, and kicks the exile out of doors.

Yet we must suffer the dear, excellent Mr. Glumkin, nor ever breathe a syllable to his discredit, because he is so good.

Out upon such theory-riding monsters. Their theories are a kind of moral iceberg, splendid with their domes and pinnacles glittering in the sun. But wo to him who is allured upon the gleaming mass. His features shall never relax with human sympathy again; nor shall he ever reck as his ice-berg plunges down the tide, crushing to miserable waste the souls who cross its path.

There are diseases enough in life without the doctors killing us.

We have reason to congratulate ourselves that there are many, very many Christians, who are truly so good as to merit our esteem and love. Would the residue were like unto them.

H. K. 8.

Growl.

"The world is not so bad a world
As some would like to make it;
Though whether good, or whether bad,
Depends on how we take it.
For if we scold or fret all day,

From dewy morn till even,

This world will ne'er afford to man

A foretaste here of Heaven."

HARDLY anything is more intensely disagreeable to one walking along the street, than to hear near his path a low savage growl-the expression of a surly dog's opinion and purpose. The pedestrian instinctively quickens his pace, desiring no further acquaintance with the premises or their occupant. The bark of a dog-earnest and loud-is not an unpleasant sound. There is music in it. It rings through the air, clear and full, waking the echoes all around, varying from the shrill, piercing treble of the veriest puppy, to the deep, bass baying of the mastiff. There is honor in it. It is a frank, open statement of the posture of affairs. It gives fair warning of pending hostilities. The dog that barks, says, "If you come on to my ground, where you have no right, you do it at your peril." The dog that growls, says, "I'll bite, tear and mangle you, if I can, anywhere, on any occasion, under any circumstances." The barking dog we respect; the growler we hate, despise, dread. The tiger growls, and the bear. The baser part of the canine species, the uncivilized of the feline, and the whole of the ursine, are addicted to this ungracious propensity of growling. But there is still another animal prone to the same. He is a biped, carnivorous, of the genus homo. He is not kept chained, generally, but is avoided as much as possible. He is not, like the wild cat, carried about in a cage for exhibition. It is unnecessary. Specimens of his kind are everywhere. His sole habitation is not the forests of Maine, nor the fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains. The reason is obvious. The bears and wolves would not tolerate in their society, a spirit so destitue of geniality. This character is in every sphere of life; but let us consider him as he is in college, as the representative of his kind. The life of the man who growls, is the most cross-grained existence imaginable. It is like dragging a tree top foremost. all his powers, he catches hold of everything, little and great, within his reach, and holds back. Putting the worst possible construction upon everything, looking at it through all the darkness he can bring to cloud.

If on a

his vision, his view and opinions are worth no more than an idiot's. The man who sees wrong habitually, is little better off than one who does not see at all. Perpetually, over every occurrence, trivial and important, this man growls. That is it exactly. That old Greek, Flemish, Dutch word, describes him precisely-GROWL. The first thing in the morning, he growls; he keeps it up at noon; he growls the last thing at night. His days are protracted, unintermitting growls. It is fortunate he sleeps during the night. It would be more fortunate if he slept all the time. The weather is a constant theme for his lugubrious discourse. summer's day the sun shines, it is too hot. If clouds gather, it is "mighty mean." If it rains, it is "perfectly insufferable." Meet him before recitation, and the lesson is too long by half; meet him afterwards, and old called him up in just the worst place, and bored him abominably. His acquaintances form another subject for his Bruin-like consideration. Hear him talk about them. Not a mother's son of them has a single excellence. He thinks everybody is hateful, and that everybody hates him. The latter opinion is probably correct-the only one of the kind he has.

Perhaps he pretends to belong to the church; perhaps not. If he does, he growls about the sinners. If he does not, he growls about the saints. The world in general is bad-becoming worse. Nothing is right, everything wrong. No hope. "O, tempora, O, Mores!!!" We verily believe that if he ever stand within Heaven's gates, he will growl that the celestial battlements are not higher, and that the streets are not paved with purer gold.

Now we do not intend to spend much time on such a character; a very carbuncle on the face of society, to hold him up to view, even though it be done imperfectly, is enough for our purpose. Fool that he is, he is a nuisance to others and his own worst enemy. The faults he sees in things, all dwell within himself. He is out of harmony with nature and the world. In the illimitable orchestra of creation, wherein continents and oceans, mountains and valleys, rocks, rivers and trees, beasts and birds, together with innumerable stars, are lifting up to their Creator one grand, united Hallelujah chorus, from eternity to eternity, his soul is merely a single discordant string, whose vibrations are annoying mainly to himself. His philosophy is without foundation; his practices are in defiance of facts. In spite of his doleful assertions, we believe that the world which, when created, called forth from the Infinite Soul the deep and joyful utterance, "Very Good," is better than could be devised by the man who growls, and all his kindred. So we

are content that the sun should shine on in his glory, that the showers should fall to make the grass grow and the flowers bloom, and that the winds should forever breathe through the trees their Eolian music. In a world of such light and joy, we beg to be delivered from the man who growls. "Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished." Give us the headache, earache, toothache, backache, sideache, heartache, and "the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to," but deliver us from the man who growls. We will

"bear the whips and scorns of time, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,"

but will ever beg to be delivered from the man who growls.

S. H. L.

Book Notice.

THE LIFE OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE.-Whoever has read "Jane Eyre," will take deep interest in the life of its remarkable authoress. Here we have it, drawn out excellently by Mrs. Gaskell. The writer has collected the events in the life of "Correr Bell," so as to bring out clearly the rise and growth of every feature in the character of her subject. Having read Jane Eyre, one perusing this book will see how a living soul—a genius—throws its own interior life outward-making the subjective, objective-and thus holds the mirror up to other souls. Whoever would study this-the highest phenomenon of the mind-will do well to read the Life of Charlotte Bronte. For sale by T. H. Pease.

Memorabilia Valensia.

OBITUARIES.

DIED, at Westport, Conn., on Tuesday, April 14th, Arthur Disbrow, a member of the Sophomere class in Yale College.

At a meeting of his classmates, held May 7th, the following preamble and resolutions were adopted:

WHEREAS, God in his infinite wisdom, has called us to mourn the loss of our classmate, Arthur Disbrow, by death; therefore, be it

Resolved, That in this sad bereavement we have lost a much beloved associate, the influence of whose modest deportment and Christian character still lingers with us, and whose memory will ever be affectionately cherished.

Resolved, That we deeply sympathize with the parents and other relatives of the deceased,