too much. God does not intend that we should exercise it alone. We ought to be in our families vicegerents, not sovereigns. God is the sovereign. We ought to rule under him.

This idea, then, that the master of a family is God's vicegerent, and that in his household he has to administer the government of God, not his own, lies at the foundation of his duty. If he feels this, and acts on this principle, he is safe. He will be humble. Feeling under a law himself, he will set an example of submission, which will be readily followed. The captain who obeys his general best will in turn be best obeyed by his soldiers. If, however, you the master rebel against your own Sovereign, how can you expect your own children will be submissive to you!

Weak, frail,

His authority will be sustained. and ignorant as man is, if he rules his house in the name of God, and not in his own name, he will have authority. But he must do it really in the name of God. He must feel that he acts as the representative, the lieutenant of his Master in Heaven; and if he feels this really, he will be clothed, in the eyes of those under him, with power from above.

He will have a guide. Should he act for himself alone, in his own name, and guided by his own wisdom, he will be almost continually in difficulty, if he feels any sense of responsibility at all. Emergencies will often arise when he will be beset with difficulties, and scarcely know what to do. If, however, he will undertake to administer God's government in his family, instead of his own, there is One above him to give him full direction, and to take all the responsibility of consequences.

But if the master of a family concludes to come and surrender himself and his family to God's care, making himself the vicegerent, not the sovereign, he must do it in earnest; and while he performs his duties in the name and under the authority of God, he must feel that his children and friends, and all his possessions, and all his hopes, are really in the hands of God, to be disposed of according to his good pleasure. If such a surrender is really and honestly made, and the master after it exercises his power over his household not as principal, but as the steward of God, he may feel safe and happy, whatever may be the circumstances in which he is placed. And yet some fathers and mothers strangely prefer to live in open irreligion; to commence their union without committing themselves to God; to receive their children-trusts so valua

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ble-without recognizing the hand which bestows them; to bring them up in impiety; to give up their families to discord and sorrow, knowing too that the time is approaching when they must part for ever. And how miserable must these partings be! A father bending over the dying-bed of a child whom he has never attempted to prepare for eternity, and now he sees that he is going before his Judge, and his wretched parent dares not even inform him of his danger; a child bidding adieu, a final adieu, to the parental roof where no prayer has been offered, the blessing of Heaven never invoked, and God never acknowledged; parents going down to the grave in old age, with children scattered over the earth confirmed in sin, and some, perhaps, already gone to their final home of sorrow, where the miserable father and mother must soon join them;--these are bitter cups, but they must be drunk by those who incur such responsibilities as come upon parents, and yet do not acknowledge God and seek his guidance and care.

"I must, I will acknowledge God in my house; I must commit my family to his care, and act under him in the management of it. I must have his guidance, his protection; I must have him to fly to as a shelter, when trials and afflictions come upon me in future." Who can refrain from saying this, and acting accordingly!"

"FRONTI NULLA FIDES."

BY ROSE RAMBLE.

Down in the heart glows many a gem
That never is seen by eyes of men,
Yet shines most pure in its cell so deep,
Where angels holy their bright watch keep.

In the garden of heart blooms many a flower,
Shedding its fragrance in sorrow's hour;
It has dew, and sun, and sky of its own,
That flower in the heart so fair and lone.

Oh, there's many a star in the heart's pure sky, Unseen and unwatched by the careless eye; Yet brightly i glows and radiant it gleams, That star in the heart with celestial beams.

Bright thoughts find home in the soul despised,
They cling not to earth, they mount to the skies:
Ay, thoughts too pure for unhallowed earth
In souls forgotten oft have birth.

The flowers and gems and stars of soul,
No trace may have on an earthly scroll.
Veiled flower, lone star, and hidden gem,
May grace a Saviour's diadem.

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WEEPING FOR THE DEAD.

BY MRS. MARIA C. TRACY.

INSCRIBED to the bereaved relatives and friends of a young man, suddenly called from earth while prosecuting his studies, preparatory to the gospel ministry and the missionary work.

It is "a time to weep :" the loved is gone!

He sleeps the long, long sleep of death, nor more
Will waken till the resurrection morn.

His eye is closed-his gentle voice is hushed-
His hand is cold-his throbbing heart is still--
His form, that cherished form, lies motionless
Within the dark sepulchral vault, where voice
Of parent, sister, friend, can never reach.
The worm doth riot in his senseless breast,
And death's cold damps are gathered on his brow.
Flow on, ye briny tears; gush out afresh;
God's hand lies heavy on my stricken soul!
Would I alone were called to weep; but, no,
For many hearts are bleeding, many hopes
Are blighted by the fell destroyer--Death.

Ye parents, weep! Yes, ye who gave him birth;
One of the plants ye nurtured tenderly
With prayer and love, till it was vigorous grown,
Has sickened, drooped, and to the earth has fallen;
A worm preyed at the root, and ere ye thought
It there, your gourd was blighted, withered, dead.

The chain of love, within whose filial bond

Ye would have passed the remnant of your days,
Is broken, for 'twas frail and perishing.
He from whose lips ye fondly hoped to hear
A Saviour's messages of love to man,
Has fallen. Into your windows death has come,
And darkness broods o'er all your pleasant things.
'Tis meet that ye should mourn, ye chastened ones!

Brothers and sisters, weep! Our band, so long
Unsevered, now is broken; one is dead!
Might we have gathered round his dying-bed
And seen his face once more, and heard his voice,
Though faint in death, and whispered in his ear
The words of consolation, which must come
From Calvary at that dread hour when flesh
And heart are failing, and receive the word
Of blessing from his faltering lips, ere yet
The spark of life went out, e'en this would now
A solace prove, mournful, yet sweet.

'Twas long

Since we had seen him, and we hoped
To mingle soon our voices with his own,
In the sweet vale, our childhood's happy home.
It could not be ! Relentless Death passed by
And touched the flowing current at the fount;
The wheel stood still-the life-stream ceased to flow !
He came indeed, but silent, breathless, pale;
His greeting but the still, hushed voice of death;
His welcome but a stifled wail of woe !
He came, but shrouded, coffined for the grave!
Death, death! how deep and fearful is the chasm
His icy hand can make among our joys!
Our brother! oh, our brother! meet it is
That we should mourn.

Flow forth afresh our tears!

Thou brother, weep! for thou art left alone.
He, thy companion long, thy counsellor,
Who often knelt with thee in classic halls,
And led thy supplications up to heaven.
He who, when sickness laid thee low, nor hand
Of sister dear, nor that blest one who bears
To us the name of mother, could sustain
Thy droooping head, or bathe thy burning brow,
Stood near thy couch, and words of comfort spake,
And gave to thee the healing oil; even he,
The loved, is dead, and thou art desolate !
To thee alone of all the kindred band
'Twas given to stand beside the bed of death,

To mark the progress of disease; to know
And tell him he must die; to quell his fears
With words of peace written with Jesus' blood,
Receive his parting breath, then close his eyes,
And yield his spirit up to Him who gave.

And weep, ye little ones, who hoped so soon
To clasp again your brother's hand-the hand
That made for you the toy that childhood loves;
That often, when ye asked, would guide the sled
Upon the glittering crust of winter's morn,
Or join your merry sports in sun.mer's eve
Upon the green before our father's door ;
And when away, with thoughtful love would send
The sweet "companion," on whose page unite
Pleasure and truth. That hand is cold in death!
Ye saw his pallid corse; ye laid your hand
Upon his marble brow; ye saw them close
The coffin's lid that hid him from your sight,
And then ye followed slow the mournful train
That bore him to his low, dark bed of rest.
Why was he taken and ye weeping left?
Why he go down to death and ye remain?
Ah! 'twas in mercy, for ye were not meet
To die and go to dwell with God in heaven.

And weep, ye children of the Sabbath-school,
Where once he sought and where instruction gave.
Ye brought your little store and gave it him
That he might bear the Word to dying man;
Ye'll not regret that thus ye showed your love
To him who prayed for you, though now he's dead.
Yet
ye may weep-ye'll see his face no more;
No more he'll mingle with you as ye sit

To learn the blessed Word: no more ye'll hear
His voice as erst to heaven he raised the prayer
That ye might be the lambs of Jesus' fold.

And weep, ye classic band, with whom he strove,
And nobly strove, to climb the hill whose top
None ever reached. He's gone who often quaffed
With you rich draughts from the perennial spring
Of wisdom's full, unfailing, crystal fount.
No more his footsteps shall within your halls
Resound. His long, his last farewell is given.
Ye'll wear the laurels for his brow entwined;
But, oh, remember that ye too must die,
And seek the praise which comes from God alone.

And ye may weep, ye band of praying ones!
The golden cord of love that bound you close
In one fraternal, soul-communing bond,
Is severed, yet ye will remember him:
Ye'll not forget the pleadings of his heart
For dying men; nor how with burning words

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He led the kindlings of your grateful praise

To Him who saved you by his tears and blood.
When on the bed of death he suffering lay,
Your wrestling prayers to heaven in union went

That God would heal. And when ye saw 'twas vain,
And death had placed his signet on his brow,
Ye sorrowing wept as for a brother dead.

Pray on, ye mourning ones: ye have not long
To pray, and mourn and weep. One after one

Ye'll slumber with the dead. And though your bones
Shall moulder far from him who last has fallen,
And from each other-some on heathen soil,
And some beneath the ocean's swelling wave-
Yet shall ye meet again where pain and death
Come not, and partings are a sound unknown.

Weep, Hindoo mother! He who would have borne
To thee and to thy babes the bread of life,
Poured on thine eyes the pure and living light,
Taught thee the path to heaven, and led the way,
Shall ne'er his footsteps press on heathen ground.
Oh, may his mantle, falling as he rose,
Rest upon many a kindred soul, inspire
Such zeal, such high and holy purpose, love
To souls for whom Christ died, as shall inspire
Obedience to the Saviour's last command!

Kindred and friends beloved, although we weep,
Tis not as those who sorrow without hope;
For them that sleep in Jesus, God shall bring
With him at that great day. On that blest name
His hope relied; and when the golden bowl
Was breaking, and the silver cord unstrung,
Bright seraphim, unseen by mortal eyes,
Hovered around his dying-bed, to bear
To heaven his ransomed, blood-bought soul.

And art thou, brother, now an angel pure?
Nay, more, a soul redeemed, a sinner saved;
And thou dost tune thy harp to words of praise
The angels fain would learn.

Oh for an eye of faith
To leave below thy sleeping dust, and view
Thy raptured soul, freed from its mortal elogs,
Soaring on wings of light and love and joy,
To the third heaven where God the Triune reigns.
There dost thou cast thy glittering, starry crown,
Beaming with radiance from the Saviour's face,
Down at the feet of Him thou lovest; and now
Thou takest up the song, that wondrous song,
And with seraphic voice dost roll it on,
Till heaven's eternal arches echo back
The ecstatic, soul-entrancing melody!

Then let us dry our tears, for one by one
We'll meet him on that bright, celestial shore,
And he shall teach us there the song he's learned
From him of Patmos, his companion now.

Mighty Redeemer! we begin to learn
The greatness of the ransom thou hast paid,
That we may share with thee thy glorious throne.
We bless thee, Lord! we magnify thy name!
But when we see thee as thou art, and learn
The height and breadth of thine exhaustless grace,
Will praise thee in a nobler, loftier strain !

From the German of Zschokke.

THE EVENING BEFORE THE WEDDING.

"WE shall certainly be very happy together!" exclaimed Miss Louise to her aunt, the evening previous to her marriage; and her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with inward delight. Every one may easily imagine, when a bride says "we," whom, in the whole world, she

means.

"I don't doubt it, dear Louise," replied the aunt; "only take care you remain happy together."

"Who ever can doubt our remaining happy! I know myself, and if I am not quite perfect, yet my love to him will surely make me so; and as long as we love each other we cannot be unhappy. Our love shall never grow old."

'Dear me!" sighed the aunt; "you talk just like a young girl of nineteen will talk on the eve of her wedding, in a paroxysm of charming hopes and expectations. My dear girl, remem ber what I say: even the heart grows old. There are days in which the charm of the senses must die away; and that delusion once gone, then only it becomes manifest whether we are truly amiable or not. When habit makes what is most captivating an every-day affair; when youthful vigor fades; when more and more troubles crowd among the pleasures of domestic life, then, Louise, and not before that time, is the wife able to say of her husband, 'He is amiable,' and the husband of his wife, 'Her gracefulness is imperishable.' But, really, on the eve of marriage such assertions seem, to my thinking, ridiculous."

"I understand you, dear aunt. You mean to. say we shall only learn the value of our mutual virtues in future years. But he to whom I belong, is he not the noblest, worthiest of all young men in the whole town! Does he not show, in all his doings, that goodness and nobility which always procure happiness?"

"Dear Louise," replied the aunt, "you are right; and I may say without flattery, that you both certainly have virtues. But, my darling, they are but blooming, and will take some time. yet before they have ripened, under sunshine and showers. No blossoms deceive more than these. It is never known in what soil they take root. Who knows the secrets of the heart?"

"Oh, dear aunt, you frighten me, indeed!"

"So much the better, Louise; it is well that you should be wakened to such reflections on

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THE EVENING

the eve of your marriage. You know I love you sincerely, and therefore I tell you my thoughts. I am not yet an old aunt. At the age of thirty-seven one still hopes and looks joyfully towards the future. Nor am I a bigot. I have an excellent husband, I am happy; and therefore I think I have a right to speak to you thus, and to draw your attention to a secret of which pretty young girls know little or nothing, and young gentlemen trouble but little about; but nevertheless it is of the greatest importance in every household, and can alone produce enduring love and indestructible happiness."

Louise took her aunt's hands in her own. "Darling aunt," said she, "you know I believe every thing you say. You mean to tell me that constant happiness and everlasting love are not insured to us by mere casualties, by passing charms, but by the virtues of our souls, which we bring each other as the best dowry, and which never grow old."

"That depends, Louise. Virtues also grow old, and with old age become, like the charms of the body, unattractive."

"Dear aunt, you don't say so. Pray tell me a virtue that can grow ugly with old age.”

"When once they have become so, we no longer call them virtues; the same as with a pretty girl, who is no more spoken of thus when Time has turned her into a shrivelled old woman."

"But, dear aunt, virtues are not temporal or perishable."

That depends."

"How can good-nature become ugly!"

"The very moment it changes into effeminate Jaxness."

"And manly courage!"

"Becomes rough insolence."

"And modesty !"

"Changes into servility."

"And noble pride !”

"To mean haughtiness.”
"And politeness?"
"Acting the parasite."

"No, dear aunt, no. You make me almost angry. Thus my future husband can never degenerate. He has one virtue which will keep him from all wrong paths; he has a sound mind, and an indelible passion for all that is great, good, and beautiful. And this tender sentimentality for all that is noble lives in me as well as in him. Thus there is within us a born guaranty of happiness."

"And should it grow old with you, it would

become unpleasant susceptibility, which is the arch-destroyer of matrimonial felicity. Sensibility I do not wish to deny you, but God forbid that the graceful girl should become, in advanced life, a fastidious and querulous woman! You know the Countess Stammern ?"

"Who, about a year ago, was divorced from her husband!"

"You know the true cause of her divorce?" "There are many different reports about it." "The Countess herself told me the whole affair, and now I will tell it to you. It is instructive as well as ludicrous, and may, indeed, be serviceable as an example."

Louise being very anxious to hear the story, her aunt straightway related it:

Count Stammern and his wife passed for the most amiable and most enviable of couples. Their union resulted from mutual inclination of affection, after several years' acquaintance. They loved each other with enthusiasm. Each appeared to have been created for the other; handsome, kind, and regarded; of perfect agreement in graces, sentiments, and ideas. I remember well the scenes that occurred when they were first formally betrothed, and their parents, happening to disagree, desired the union to be annulled. The Countess fell dangerously ill, and the enthusiastic lover threatened to terminate his life like Goethe's Werther. To save, however, the life of the young and beautiful Countess, and to prevent the Count committing so rash an act, the parents were obliged, nolens volens, to become, at least apparently, reconciled. The reconciliation prevented the untimely end of the betrothed pair. Scareely, however, was the Countess out of danger, when the parents again flew out at each other, and endeavored to postpone the marriage for a term of years. But this did not suit our young couple; so one fine night they eloped, passed the frontier, got married, returned as man and wife, and forthwith established for themselves a paradise on earth. From this moment the union of that couple was looked upon as one of the happiest, and as a model pattern of harmony and peace. From morning to night they seemed to think of no thing else but how to please each other. They addressed poems the one to the other, and the other to the one, the most amiable, the most affectionate imaginable. Winter as well as summer, each embellished the other's rooms with the most beautiful flowers. Each separate piece of furniture became endeared to them by some sweet reminiscence or other. The second year

these excesses of sentimentality became a little relaxed, and they went abroad. But at all parties, balls, and places of amusement, they saw but themselves, looked but for each other, cared only for each other. It became almost offensive. The third year they gave up their amiable naughtiness in public. At home, however, they remained much the same. The fourth year they seemed to recover from this paroxysm of love, and, so far as they were able to, separately-he here, she there-passed an evening, and sometimes a whole day, in company, without feeling homesick. Thus time went on, and each succeeding twelve months reduced the egotism of their affection; until, in the tenth year, they were like ourselves, or rather like all good and excellent people who have been married ten years. Now they had become ten years older, so had their love, and, alas! their virtues also. Their sentimentality had made them the proverb of the whole town, and everybody liked them for it, and sympathized with them.

The seventeenth year, misunderstandings occurred, and nothing was easier than to make one suspect the expressions of the other; but this they ascribed to the sincerity of their affection, for no wound is so poignant as the dark look of

a beloved person During the eighteenth year, frequent disputes took place, but without serious consequences; and such happen in the bestregulated families. They looked cold for a day or two, and then smiled again. The nineteenth year, their mutual susceptibility made them resolve to avoid too frequent contact.

"You are

susceptible," said the Count, "and irritable. So am I, sometimes. That won't do. You may become violent; so may I. I think, therefore, it will be best for me to let you do as you like, while I do as I like. Thus we can live happily together, without worrying each other. We love each other, of course; we must not, however, allow our love to torment us to death."

The Countess thought the same. Thenceforward they kept a double household, and only Neither asked the other, you been?" or "Where are you

met at dinner.

"Where have

going?" Peaceful days returned, and harmony prevailed. If one objected to the other's proceedings, one or two compliments set all to rights again.

One evening, during the nineteenth year, after returning from the theatre, they supped together, and afterwards sat chatting before the

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fire. They were yet full of emotion produced by one of Iffland's splendid dramas. The happiness of conjugal and domestic life, the description of which delighted them so much on the stage, seemed to be vivified and advanced to actuality, now they were at home.

"Dear me!" said the Countese, “it's all very well, if one could but remain young."

"I am sure you have no reason to complain. Where is there a woman looking so well as you do? I cannot see the least difference between my wife of to-day and my wife of twenty years ago. A few whims, perhaps; but these one must submit to. Our union is, nevertheless, one of the most enviable on earth. Were I a single man, and happened to see you, upon my word, to none other would I offer my hand and heart." "Very polite, I must confess," said the Countees, sighing. "But, my dear friend, consider; already twenty years! What am I now, and what was I then!"

"Now a pretty little wife; then a pretty little girl. I would not exchange the one for the other!" And he pressed her to his breast, and kissed her fondly.

"We should be happy, quite happy, but for one thing, my dear, dear friend. One blessing, which completes the happiness of marriage, is denied us-"

"I understand you; you mean an heir or an heiress-a being to inherit thy gracefulness and virtue. But," added the Count, kissing his wife's hand, "you are only thirty-eight, and I a few years past forty. Who knows? perhaps-"

"Oh, how happy I should be! Although one child gives not less care and trouble than joy. The least mishap may take it from us."

"Therefore, two children. You are right. And not only two, but three; because, with two, if one should die, you are still in the same dilemma. I am sure Heaven will hear our prayers, and three children will yet play around

us."

"Dear friend," said the Countesa, smiling, "it is almost too much. If they happen to be boys?"

"Well, we have twenty thousand a yearenough for us and for them. The eldest shall enter the army; the second shall be a diplomatist. Expensive professions-but they will

rise in rank. You know we have relatives and influence-"

"You forget the youngest, my dear Charles.” "The youngest not at all. We'll prepare