As it neared the pier, Mysie, who was the first to recognize him, unpinned a small shawl she wore, and, running to Rose, threw it over her face; but her senses were mercifully departing. The solid pier seemed to rock under her, as if in a horrid dream; the greedy waves appeared to be surging up to her feet; and she sank slowly down beside the wall to which she had been clinging. Uncle Hugh lifted her up, and they carried her back to her own house; and soon after the body of her husband was drawn from the water, all bruised and broken, and borne into the little town, followed by silent men and sobbing women.

"No there, no there!" cried Isie, as they stopped at his own door; "tak' him intill his mither's house, till we see till the puir young wife."

They carried him up the stair, and laid him on his mother's bed. She had followed the corpse of her son in dumb despair; and now, dismissing all save two of her friends, she proceeded to dress him in his grave-clothes, moaning piteously as she straightened the broken limbs. But grief had frozen words and tears, and, when all that love could do was done, she motioned to the women to leave her with her dead; and they silently withdrew. The old woman sat down in front of her fire, and stared into the embers, while all the sorrows of her long life passed, like a panorama, before her mind: the sunny day when her first-born was carried home to her, without a word of warning, and laid on that bed. He met his death when a mere boy at play; when the sky was clear and the sea tranquil. Like a scene in some play, witnessed long ago, she remembered how she sat gossiping at a neighbor's stairhead, and watched the group of men who came carrying his dripping body into the town, until, to her horror, they turned into her own door. Then came the Winter which brought her widowhood. She recalled the vague uneasiness, the wild anxiety, the lingering hope that died into despair; for her husband had gone to sea, and was never heard of more. Those days of dreary anguish, and still more terrible nights-haunted by dreams from which she woke shrieking, and rose from her bed, afraid to sleep again came vividly back to her mind, and she wondered at the strength that had suffered thus-retaining life and reason. It was over now. She had nothing more to fear, and as little to hope; for, though she went every Sunday to the "kirk," and heard about the New Jerusalem and the plan of salvation, the Great Beyond was an appalling confusion to her; and the heaven concerning which she had been instructed was only less repulsive than the hell. Hugh Elliot, a man of strong though untutored imagination and great piety, reveled in descriptions of the "Bulwarks with salvation strong, and streets of shining gold," where the spirits of just men, perfected and crowned, joined in the harping of angels and songs of seraphim; but on all such subjects, auld Nannie was at feud with him. Her mind was shrewd, narrow, and practical, and she had no imagination at all. For the minister she felt a profound con empt. "I ken he's the Lord's anointed," she said, "an' sae I gang til the kirk every Sabbath, and listen til his blethers; but abune the anointing, he's a' tongue an' stomach."

Hugh tried to impress her with some respect for the reverend man's learning, but without success.

"If he kens muckle about the ither warld, whar neither him nor me has ever been, it's mair nor he does about this ain, whar he has spent fifty years, an' learnt less nuse than ony ither donnert body I ken o'," said she; "when it comes ta ither warlds, and plans o' Providence, I'm no believin' him nor you either. I'm wae ta think o' me, an' my mon Jock, that was aye sae wiselik an' fu' o'smeddum, daun

In thinking of these robed and crowned figures, the old woman lost her sense of personal identity. What were golden streets to her? she had no love of splendor; the presence of the quality daunted her; the company of angels would be still more confusing, and the celestial harmonies were nothing to one who cared for no music, save the bagpipe, and for that, principally because it was exclusively Scotch, and not to be endured by southern or foreign ears. All she asked of heaven was her dead-her husband and her sons. For one week's companionship with these, just as she had known and loved them in life, she would have given a whole eternity of unfamiliar bliss; and the religion sl professed was no comfort to her in this bitter hour.

The night had come again, before any person disturbed her; but, at last, Isie came in, and going softly to Nannie, she laid her hand on her shoulder, and said: "Would ye no like ta gae down the stair an' tak' a look at that puir crater, Rose ?"

"God help her, puir lassie !" she replied, "I had clean forgotten her. Guid forgie me, but I think this death will tak my heed at last. I'm feelin' naething, an' I canna greet; I'm jist dazed wi' misery." She rose slowly, and then sank down on a chair. "What good can I do her? We hae never liked ither. Lord forgie us! What can I say til her, that hae nae power o' speech at ony time."

"Ye can say naething now, for she can tak' naething in ; but I thought, when a' was our, it wad, maybe, be a comfort ta ye ta hae done what ye could for her, at the last. O Nannie!" she cried, bursting into sobs, "if we had kent what the end wad be, we would a' hae been kinder wi’ her."

Nannie started up, and pushing the gray hair from her face, stood for a moment in consternation, as the last interview she had with her son rushed into her mind. She leaned over his body with clasped hands, and cried out :

"Miserable woman that I am! I'll mak' amends-if it's no too late; if it's no too late!"

When she had hurried down-stairs, she found her insensible daughter-in-law surrounded by a group of frightened and weeping women. Prompt and efficient as ever, Nannie cleared the room and took charge of the patient; and, the next morning, she sat by Rose's bed with a little, feeble, puny infant on her lap, of which the mother knew nothing for many weeks, during which Nannie tended her with an assiduity to which, as poor John had said, there was "na tire."

At last, Rose struggled slowly back to life and the consciousness of her position, and she wished that she had died in that blessed period of forgetfulness; for the poor little pining baby seemed very unlikely to linger long in the world, and only Nannie's care and experience kept it alive. It was hard, at first, for her to realize the change in her mother-in-law, whose cares for herself and child were now so constant and tender.

Miss Carnagie came out, and sat for hours with her, supplying every luxury suitable to her condition, and, as soon as Rose was strong enough to sit up, she recurred to John's plan for removing her from the town. Rose assented, without caring, it was all the same now. The cousins, who had been so annoying, were as changed as her mother-in-law; and were eager to serve her in any way; but old Nannie burst into tears, crying:

"O Rose, ye maun let me bide wi' Johnnie's bairn. I ken I hae been ill ta ye, an' ye hae mony a cruel word laid up against me; but I hae mourned wi' sic repentance as ye canna understand, an' prayed for yer life as I never prayed before. I would do ony way, an' thole a' thing ta tend

Johnnie's bairn, an' ye ken, it's but a frail flower, an' me skeely wi' bairns; ye maun let me bide wi the bairn.”

For half a moment Rose hesitated. She had been a mother, indeed, in her affliction, but the idea presented itself that, as time wore on, she might return to her old state of mind, and become an object of terror, both to herself and the child; but, as the old grandmother, trembling with excitement, kissed the babe, and drew it to her bosom, Rose's heart relented, and she replied:

!!

"It's yer ain doings that the bairn's alive. Mother, ye shall be ta me, for Johnnie's sake; an' ye shall bide wi' the bairn as lang as it bides wi' me." And the two women, united by a common grief and a common fear, wept together over the little babe.

Rose's presentiment was fulfilled. The child grew into a lovely, fragile little creature, endowed with a heavenly sweetness of disposition, and a precocious quickness of mind; learning, as it were, by instinct, and startling people by the wisdom and pertinence of its observations—as such children often do. A child which no one expected to be a man, and which those who could understand regarded with a tender reverence. It "bided" with Rose five years, and then died suddenly. When Miss Carnagie heard that it was gone, she dreaded to see the anguish of the mother, and went full of grief to console her; but, to her great surprise, she found Rose, quite composedly, sewing his little shroud, while auld Nannie was crying quietly over her Bible.

"Oh, Rose !" she cried, "you are a strange woman to bear your trial thus. A widow, and now, indeed, desolate. If the child had only been spared to you."

"I never looked on the child as mine," replied Rose. "If it hadna been for it, I should hae died when Johnnie was lost; but I always felt that it was only lent to me."

"Poor Rose ! what will you do ?" asked the mistress. "I will try ta mak' my baby's life an' mine o' some use," she said. "God didna leave him here sae lang for naething; an' after a' is over, I will come an' tell you p' a plan that's in my head."

A few weeks after the child was buried, she came to Miss Carnagie and told her that she had determined to return to the town, and open a school for the little children in her old house.

"The wee bairns are often sair neglectit while their mithers are awa' wi' their fish. My mither will tak' care o' the very smallest, an' I'll teach the bigger ones ta read, write an' count, an' the little lassies ta sew, an' whatever

else I can that's like ta be o' use ta them."

Rose carried out her plan, and the infant school grew and prospered, until it attracted the attention of the minister, and other of the "quality," who established a large school, and assisted to make Rose's effort a permanent benefit. And so, within ten years, there has been a great improvement in Eastport. The little town is much less dirty; the younger girls are more tidy, modest and amiable than the redoubtable Mysie; and Rose toils on patiently, much "looked up to" by her pupils and neighbors, who come to her for comfort and advice in their troubles and difficulties. A dreary life enough, as Miss Carnagie said one day, for a young and still pretty woman.

Rose smiled and sighed. "He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him.' I dinna expect ta gather my sheaves in this worl', Miss Carnagie, but I know my 'morning of joy will come,' and am content ta wait."

GENIUS finds its own road, and carries its own lamp.

CHRIST CRUCIFIED.

BENEATH Thy cross I lay me down,
And mourn to see Thy bloody crown;
Love drops in blood from every vein;
Love is the Spring of all His pain.

Here, Jesus, I shall ever stay,
And spend my longing hours away,
Think on Thy bleeding wounds and pain,
And contemplate Thy woes again.

The rage of Satan and of sin,
Of foes without and fears within,
Shall ne'er my conquering soul remove,
Or from Thy cross, or from Thy love.

1

Secured from harms beneath Thy shade, Here death and hell shall ne'er invade; Nor Sinai, with its thundering noise, Shall e'er disturb my happier joys.

Oh, unmolested, happy rest!
Where inward fears are all supprest;
Here I shall love and live secure,
And patiently my cross endure.

WILLIAM WILLIAMS. 1772.

CHRIST AND ART.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "TWO FRIENDS."

I KNOW not how to express clearly what I mean; but I do feel, sometimes painfully, a contradiction between the brokenness of Christ and the clear perfection of Art. The glory of the Terrestrial is one, and the glory of the Celestial is another, and these stars differ, the one from the other in glory. In Art there is choice, self-pleasing, a drawing-out of that which is obviously best; in Christ, things which are not fair are yet pronounced good, prizeable. Sometimes, after reading such a book, we will say, as Shakespeare, I have been conscious of a strange inner dissatisfaction, which I can only describe as being the sense of an impaired communion; and something has said within me, "All this is not of the Father, but of the world." I do not feel this in reading any book of a sustained philosophical interest, as its scope, if not directly religious, carries you among the deep and elevating realities which are not far from the Kingdom, and indeed belong to it; but I do feel it in that mixed region of wit, and fancy, and feeling which belongs to our mortal state as such, and which seems in no way to bear upon our inner or our future life; and what is this region but a world without souls, a world of sad and ruined beauty, when looked at with reference to man's true destinies, and yet a rich and glorious world? I see in Art and Literature, in the subjects with which they deal, in the absorbing, intoxicating devotion they demand, something which reminds me of the Greek worship of Dionysus, "the God of flourishing, decaying, changeable life," the kindler of a lofty enthusiasm, the intensifier of life, the exalter of its pleasures, the deepener of its pangs, the bestower of an impassioned sympathy with Nature. And by the side of this regal Being, robed in the purple he was born to, with garments not too careful of a stain, I see another form, severe, restricted, also life's deepener, its intensifier, but after how different a spirit! The first is of the earth, earthy; the second is the Lord from heaven.

KEEPING THE HEART YOUNG.-Custom stales the infinite variety of life for most. Whoever would keep their youth must fight the absorbing demons of care and business, which are ever at work to reduce us to mere machines.

BETHANY: A PRESBYTERIAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL.

BY REV. ALFRED TAYLOR.

THERE are many places called Bethany, but there is one Bethany that stands conspicuous among all that bear the name, and foremost of all as a monument of work done for God and humanity. Bethany is about as far from the business centre of Philadelphia as the home of Mary and Martha was from the Jerusalem Temple.

The beginning of Bethany, in 1858, was as a grain of mustard-seed. In February a few active young people, under the leadership of John Wanamaker, and mostly from the church of the Rev. John Chambers, opened a little mission school on the humblest scale in an upper room on South Street, near Twenty-first.

Two

or three dozen children attended, soon bringing so many more that, with the opening of warm weather, larger quarters were needed. On an adjacent lot a tent was erected out of an old sail and some lumber. Into

this temporary building the neighbors, old and young, thronged in great. multitudes, crowding and overcrowding it, and standing

by hundreds outside

of it during the services.

The neighborhood was a remarkable one, and apparently the most unpromising for the maintenance of the means of grace. It was distinguished for its lawlessness. The old-fashioned volunteer fire department of Philadelphia was then in the fullest and most rowdyish force, and

tent, and with the frosts of October shelter was found in a street-car depot. The need was felt of a permanent building. Enterprise, liberality and hard work resulted in the erection of a neat brick chapel on the lot which the tent had occupied. During the building of the chapel the school changed its quarters to a public-school building in the neighborhood.

It was a happy day for Bethany when a chapel, 40 feet by 60, was its own. In January, 1859, this building was dedicated. The roll then numbered 17 teachers and 274 scholars. A new impulse was given to the work. More and more scholars were added, with many and many a conversion. The scholars took the Gospel home with them, and brought parents and friends in great numbers to hear it. Regular preaching services were opened, and in 1864 the

the youthful adherents of the various engine companies had a habit of espousing the cause of their seniors with fist, pistol, bludgeon and slungshot, and of fomenting and perpetrating quarrels enough to make the street unpleasant by day and unsafe at night. Walls and fences were inscribed in conspicuous characters with the names of such gangs as "Tormentors," "Killers," "Bruisers," and "Schuylkill Rangers." It is safe to say that Bethany exerted more influence toward the putting down of this spirit of riotous living than ever was exerted by the nominally strong arm of the law. The Gospel did its work as a civilizer, and the civilizing influence, issuing as it did from such an humble-looking establishment as the Bethany Tent, carried a power with it which was at once felt in all that part of the city, and which is even more visible in the work as it appears to-day. Cold weather and the crowds proved too much for the

the

in 1865, and with his noble and now largely increased band of workers pushed the work magnificently. Now came new building-the second Bethany. The erection of the largest Sundayschool in the city was not rapid work. At last it was completed-a splendid hall-as complete as circumstances would then allow, and as well adapted for its requirements as experience up to that time had suggested. That BethIt held nearly 2,000

any was dedicated in February, 1868. children. It had room for ninety classes in the main hall, with sundry and divers class-rooms around it. With all its excellent features, it proved to be scarcely up to the wants of the immense school. Had its acoustic properties been perfect, it might have stood, with alterations. But the present Bethany contains little besides the rear wall of the Bethany which was dedicated in 1868.

To speak of the growth of Bethany without also speaking of the growth of John Wanamaker, would be to play Hamlet and leave Hamlet himself out. To allade in terms of fulsome adulation to the man who has, in God's hand, been the life and growth of Bethany, would be exceedingly distasteful to him. But, to shed proper light on the history of Bethany, it is necessary to remark that God appointed Mr. Wanamaker for the work of enlightening with the Gospel

this southwestern section of Philadelphia, just as surely as He appointed Gideon to deliver Israel from the Midianites. When Bethany began, Mr. Wanamaker was a young man just beginning his business life on a salary by no means princely, and was not more prominently before the public than Gideon had been prior to his receipt of the Lord's message. The proceeds of a business which has grown in his hands to a degree of prosperity seldom enjoyed by a young man have eagerly been brought into God's treasury, and used for Bethany as needed. His liberality and excellent management have made their mark on the enterprise, bringing it to what it now is. Of course, he has had around him a company of teachers and helpers such as are seldom found together. With a happy combination of enterprise and 'suavity with the most excellent generalship, and yet with an entire freedom from the pomposity which good generalship and wealth generally bring, the Superintendent of Bethany proceeds with his work in the most felicitous way imaginable.

A-Main hall. (Fountain in centre.)
B-Superintendent's office.
C-Secretary's room.
D-Parlor. (Kitchen under.)
E-Entrance for infant and prim-
ary scholars.
F-Primary room.

is said from that point, even if spoken in a low tone of voice.

Looking toward the right from the platform, we see a room 20 feet by 46, for one of the primary departments, and on its left another for its mate, the infant department. These have ceilings more than 20 feet high, with ample ventilation. Movable sashes divide them from the main hall. In the rear of this platform is a lecture-room 32 feet wide and 45 feet long. This is used on Sundays by the Pastor's Bible-class of 240 members. Between this and the main hall is an immense glass sash which rises and lowers noiselessly. This room was intended for the weekly prayermeeting, but already more attend that meeting than the room will hold; the prayer meeting is therefore neld in

series of six gables, with two towers; one, the clock-tower, being 195 feet high. It contains everything that ingenuity can contrive for the amplest accommodation of the school in every detail of its work.

We stand on the platform facing northward. In front is the main hall, with its seventy-five classes busily at work on the lesson. Beyond this, and extending to the Bainbridge Street wall of the building, are the adult class-rooms, to the number of thirty. These are in two stories, the upper one being on a level with the visitors' gallery. These class-rooms are so arranged that three can be thrown into one, or that each can be used separately; each seating, say, thirty adult scholars. Each room is well-lighted and wellventilated. When the sashes which shut them off from the main hall are opened, each seat in these class-rooms affords a view of the desk, with perfect facilities for hearing what

the main hall. Around this room is a commodious gallery at an elevation of about a dozen feet.

The rooms outside the main hall and its immediate surroundings are wonderfully convenient. Adjoining the prayer- room, under the lecture. room, is a complete -kitchen, with dumbwaiter ascending to three parlors above it. These rooms are cozily fitted up for prayer, study, or social purposes. The Mothers' Meeting, Young People's Association, Band of Hope, Class Prayer Circles, Inquiry Meetings, occupy these rooms every evening. There are secretaries' rooms, receiving rooms, toilet rooms, and conference rooms, with a complete office for the superintendent, where the business of the school is at

tended to. Next to the kitchen, down-stairs, is a large room for calisthenics and gymnastic exercises, and for military drill. In the basement, on Bainbridge Street, is a large reading-room, well supplied with papers and books, and furnished with a library adequate to all the requirements of the young men and others who may visit it. This is kept open during the week-day and evening.

Bethany is as complete in its study and its religious work as in its building. The Church of which it is a part has a large and substantial membership. Its pastor, Rev. J. Russell Miller, has been in charge of it about five years, and now has the pleasure with his people of entering the new church building, which is on the lot next to the Sundayschool hall, and which beautifully matches in style and finish.

Bethany has now its mission school, the "Grace Mis

sion," numbering four hundred members and twenty-three teachers and officers, occupying the field a few blocks south of Bethany. Its great prosperity will soon result in the organization of a church of its own. If we were to name the special features of Bethany, the two most prominent things about it are the large and regular Monday-night Teachers' Meeting, not omitted for years, and always at tended by the larger part of the teachers and officers, and the twenty minutes' meeting for prayer, held by the teachers at the close of the Sabbath session. The annual day of fasting and prayer, observed by the Sabbath-school, is an occasion of great interest.

THERE IS NO DEATH.

BY LORD LYTTON.

THERE is no death! The stars go down
To shine upon some fairer shore,
And bright in Heaven's jeweled crown
They shine for evermore.

There is no death! The dust we tread

Shall change beneath the Summer showers To golden grain, or mellow fruit

Or rainbow-tinted flowers,

There is no death! The leaves may fall,
The flowers may fade and pass away-
They only wait through wintry hours
The coming of the May.

There is no death! An angel form

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread, He bears our best belov'd away,

And then we call them "dead".

He leaves our heart all desolate,

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowersTransplanted into bliss, they now Adorn immortal bowers.

The bird-like voice whose joyous tones Made glad this scene of sin and strife, Sings now in everlasting song

Amid the tree of life.

And where he sees a smile too bright,
Or hearts too pure for taint and vice,
He bears them to that world of light,
To dwell in Paradise.

Born into that undying life,

They leave us but to come again; With joy we welcome them-the same Except in sin and pain.

And ever near us, though unseen
The dear immortal spirits tread,

For all the boundless Universe
Is life-there are no dead.

THE WIFE OF JOHN BUNYAN.

Ir has been observed by some one, we cannot recollect who, that there is only one instance in the whole history of England of a woman making her appearance at Westminster Hall, and before the Judges of Assize, in order to make a formal defense in favor of the unfortunate. That woman was the young and interesting wife of John Bunyan, who had become the sacrifice for conscience'-sake. Although Elizabeth stands alone among her sex as an advocate, yet there never was offered a more eloquent and unsophisticated defense than that which she made in behalf of her husband. She, first of all, had the courage to appear before the House of the Lords to ask the Supreme Court of Appeals to relax

the rigors of persecuting laws. Their lordships, it is said, rudely told her to go to the Judges of Assize, who condemned her husband, and without fail she did so. At the Assize Court Sir Matthew Hale presided, and he was accompanied by Judge Twisden, a magistrate of ferocious temperament, whose countenance strangely contrasted with the mildness and placidity of the Lord Chief Justice. We are indebted to John Bunyan himself for a description of the conduct of Judge Twisden on this memorable occasion. He says:

"Judge Twisden snapt at my poor wife, Elizabeth, and angrily told her that her husband was a convicted person, and could not be released unless he would promise to preach

But Elizabeth, however much she loved her husband, was more enamored of the Gospel; and she gave the Court to understand that her husband could not purchase freedom at the expense of keeping silence about the mercy and compassion of God.

"It is false," continued Elizabeth, "to say he has done wrong; for at the meeting where he preached they had God's presence with them."

"Will he leave off preaching ?" roared Twisden. "My lord," said Elizabeth, "he dare not leave off preaching as long as he can speak. But, my lord," she proceeded, with tears in her eyes, "just consider that we have four small children, one of them blind, and all of them have nothing to live on, while their father is in prison, but the charity of Christian people. Oh, my lords, I myself 'smayed at the news when my husband was apprehended; and, being young and unaccustomed to such things, I fell in labor, and was delivered of a dead child."

This was too much for Sir Matthew Hale, who now interposed with the ejaculation: "Alas! poor woman!" He then inquired what was her husband's calling.

"A tinker, please you, my lord," said his wife; "and because he is a tinker, and a poor man, he is despised, and cannot have justice.'

Law is stronger than tears. The Lord Chief Justice told her that her husband had broken it; he told her that there was but one person in the realm who could pardon her husband, and that person was the King. But how was the broken-hearted wife of a tinker to find her way to the footstool of a monarch! "Alas! poor woman!" he said, "I am sorry for your pitiable case."

Elizabeth now became convinced how vain it was to expect justice and mercy from an earthly tribunal; and, with a heroic glory which can only be found in the annals of the Christian faith, she pointed to her tears as she departed, and uttered words which never should die as long as the English language exists.

"See these tears," said she; "but I do not weep for myself. I weep for you when I think what an account such poor creatures as you will have to give at the coming of the Lord."

This scene took place, we will add, not only before John Bunyan was known as the author of a book, but before he had ever conceived the outline of his "Pilgrim's Progress.” He was kept in jail in order that he might not preach; but by this persecution he was enabled to write a book in his prison cell, which has preached to England for many generations, and which will edify and enlighten the world to the uttermost posterity.

STUDY MANKIND.-There is more knowledge to be acquired from one page of the volume of mankind, if the scholar only knows how to read, than in volumes of antiquity.-Oliver Goldsmith.