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the Allegheny mountains. Its summit, tapering nearly to a point, is covered with shrubs and pine, save where the flinty rock affords no soil. Upon this dizzy height, beneath the evergreen's shade, where zephyrs in summer play and angry storms in winter howl, is found a "city of the dead." Seven tombs are marked with marble slabs. Infancy, youth, manhood, and extreme old age lie silent there. How solemn the thought! How grand the scene around! Shall they, when Gabriel sounds his trumpet, be prepared to accept the Saviour's welcome plaudit, "Well done, good and faithful servant, etc?"
Monumental Mountain is a column of rock 90 feet high, 7 feet square at the base and 18 feet square at the top. It leans nearly 3 degrees towards the east. It has stood the storm and weather of ages, yet it looks as if a boy could topple it over with a slender reed. Its summit can only be reached by means of ropes and ladders. Many ambitious ad venturers, like the Virginia youth, who tried to write his name above that of Washington, have hazarded their lives to cut their names on the side of this flinty shaft, as near the top as possible. Around the base the stone is worn about three inches deep by the anxious tourist's tread.
About half of the distance between the murky Wisconsin and La Crosse city, we pass over the roughest, stoniest road in the Mississippi Valley. Sometimes we are in a deep, narrow ravine, shut in from the outside world by steep, mountainous hills and heavy forests— sometimes slowly climbing along a mountain-side, with its summit above us and an abyss on the opposite side below. In descending a newly-made Norwegian narrow-gauge wagon-road of this region, one afternoon, our coach upset. Had it not been for some saplings and brush on the nether side, and the timely effort of Gath to promptly halt the team, our whole outfit might have been precipitated over the rocky surface ninety feet below. Fortunately, our only damage was a broken plate, the loss of some1 plum butter and ground coffee, and a trifling contusion on the driver's lower left limb. In a few minutes we were on the track again wheeling away towards
La Crosse. Here we stopped a few days to visit friends.
We crossed the " Father of Waters" the third time at La Crescent. Now we are in Minnesota—the great wheat field of America. When we see thousands of acres of golden wheat shocks at one sight, we can easily understand why our country is appropriately called the cornucopia of the world. Large colonies of Europeans, unable to make a comfortable livelihood in their native land, have, after a quarter of a century of toil, become possessors of the soil, and are now living in wealth and luxury.
Southward now we wend our way. One day we are in Norway—eat Norwegian bread and shoot Norwegian game. The next day we travel through Scotland. And who does not appreciate the hospitality of an American Highlander? Another day we pass through Ireland, and then we come to a German settlement. It is noticeable that the Hibernians are not as successful in agriculture as their German neighbors.
At Independence, Iowa, we made a short visit through several wards of the Asylum for the Insane. The building is a fine stone structure, occupying an eminence overlooking the city, situated on each side of the Wapsipinicon river, in whose turbid waters one of our missionaries came near losing his life several years ago, by trying to ford it where a bridge was taken away. Seven miles south of the city is the Joy House. It is no fifth story mansion with mansard roof, bay windows, and all the modern improvements; but simply a huge boulder on the wild prairie, resembling at a distance an ordinary farm residence. On the south side, near its base, we camped one fine night in August, while the mellow light of the moon looked down upon us in all i'8 beauty, and gentle breezes played among the grass and herbage. Tradition informs us that this immense boulder received its name 40 years ago from a man named Joy, who, partially intoxicated one night, approached it, and thinking it a hotel, demanded lodging. Receiving no response, he lay down Dy its side, and when he awoke next morning in possession of his right mind, he soberly considered what rrought him there. He made a faithful vow never to drink intoxicating liquor again, deposited a half dollar in a crevice of the rosk for his night's lodging, and went on his way a better man, and ever thereafter kept his pledge.
At Blairstown, where we occupied the editorial tripod of the Independent during the memorable campaign and centeunial year, of 1876, we halced one day to meet our numerous acquaintances. Thence we went to the Amanitish seltlements in Iowa county. They are composed of seven colonies of Germans, living in an equal number of towns, and numbering about 8,000 people. Their fine, extensive farms surround the villages and comprise an area of ab >ut two miles in widih and nine miles in length. Everything is owned in common. Flour, woollen goods, starch and machinery are extensively manufactured. Eich village is ruled by a king, subject to another officer, who reigns over the entire communities.
During a drenching rain we camped between the rivals—old and new Columbus cities. On the next morning we called on our firmer tutor, the exeditor of the Missionary, but found him absent on mission work.
Through almost impassably muddy roads we moved south till we reached the peach farms, on the banks of the Mississippi, at Ft. Madison, la. Here we reined up, registerel at the eastern penitentiary, and made a thorough canva=s of it. Nearly 400 convicts are at work here. We saw them dine. It gave us an opportunity closely to noticetheir peculiar physiognomies, which clearly show that the animal passions of their nature are largely predominant, and doubtless, in many cases, have been largely developed to their ruin. How sad that thousands of our race, who should be enjoying liberty and all the rights of an American citizen, are either bound in chains, or are eking out a miserable existence at hard labor and solitary confinement! This is a subject that demands the most earnest attention of every teacher in the land. It should be brought before every parent and guardian of youth. The hope of the nation hangs upon the
proper education and training of its young.
Not Worth Coveting.
When some one was relating a little storv to the young son of Louis XVI., the expression was used "happy as a queen."
"Ah. queens are not always happy," said the child; my mamma weeps from morning till night."
The picture of worldly greatness which is so often looked upou with envy, has often a very sombre shading wheu closely viewed.
"Oh crown, more noble than happy!" said a certain king, and no doubt it ii but the common experience of the world's great ones. The recent turnings and overturnings iu the kingdoms across the sea show us how unstable a thing is even a mighty throne. Yet this is felt to be the summit of human glory! And yet of how little worth! M>re happiness often dwells in thi humbl st cot.
Why will we struggle and toil all our lives for such vanishing good, when enduring treasures are within our grasp, unheeded and despised. "Whosoever driuketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst." How many p >or souls are perishing of thirst, who yet will not come to this living well.
Germany's idol-poet, G >ethe, thus writes in his old age: "I have of.en been praise 1 as an especial favorite of fortune, and will not myself complain. But at the bottom there has been no • thing but trouble and labor, and I can well say that in my whole five-andseventy years I have not had four weeks of real pleasure."
Oh, hm different the experience of many a poor, unnoticed saint on earth, who wjnt on all her days singing sweet hyms of overflowing joy, because Oae was ever by her side turning her darkest hours to noonday.
It is not worth our while to covet worldly honors and greatness. There are better gifts, which it is wise to covet, and which may hi ours " without money and without price,"
Oh, how poor must the soul go out of this world who has not secured this enduring treasure!— S. S. Times.
Among the many legends of the early Christian Church, there is scarcely one more beautiful and useful than that of Christopher, the giant saint. His form, in the pictures, is that of a man of huge proportions,with a long pole in his hand, and walking through a flood, bearing a child on his shoulder.
The story of the ages is, that weary of the world and sin, he went into the wilderness and dwelt in a cave near a Japid stream, and spent his life in ferrying travelers across it,'taking them on his back, and steadying his step with the pole in his hand. By such a life of self-denying, humble labor, he hoped to win pardon of sin, and that peace of mind which he had never found in the world he forsook for the solitude of the desert. Many and weary were the burdens he had borne, and hard the struggle he had with the waves. But the billows were more peaceful around him than within him, for his was a soul that, like the sea, was forever tossed and 'casting up mire and dirt." The penance of fasting, or of toil, brought no relief to his burdened spirit- The river washed no stains of guilt from his heart. Whoever came to the bank of the raging stream, found him willing to bear them over, and the heavier the burden, the more swollen the torrent, and the greater the danger, the more willing was he to brave the perils of the way, and land the traveller safe on the other side. And when they came to the shore beyond where he had his shelter, he saw them approaching or heard their call, and went after them, so ready was he always to do the work he had set himself to do.
It was his work, and it was a good work, but it did not help him in working out his salvation.
One eight he was asleep in his lonely
eave. It was a dark and stormy night and the river raged within its banks, and not a star lighted the gloom of the desert. Above the roar of the waters, and the howling of the winds, he heard a cry of distress.
It came from the other side. And it was a child's voice. Me bad never heard the voice before, nor one like unto it. He listened, and this is what he heard: "Come and take me across the river."
He was, for the first time in this desert-life, unwilling to leave his bed, on the ground, and go out into the darkness and storm and rushing stream. But into his hardening heart there came the child's small voice, soft as a flute, but piercing to the dividing asunder of the soul and spirit, and this is what entered his ear:
"Take my yoke upon you and learn of me, and you shall find rest to your soul."
Strange were the words to this giant saint, who spurned every yoke and would not learn of any, least of all of one who spake as a child.
But a new power pulled at his heartstrings, and he rose up with a strong purpose to obey the call. It was only a child, he was sure of that, and the work would be nothing to the loads he had often carried across. He would be doing no great good to bear a little child, and it would not be much of a loss if it remained on the other side, or perished in the stream. But he would go, and take it up, and bear it, in prompt obedience of the voice that he heard continually:
"Come, come, for my locks are wet with the rain, and the night winds are cold; come, come.'
Out into the wild storm he went, and down into the deep and dangerous river; and on the other side, when he had gained the bank, he found standing there a child of wondrous beauty, stretching out his hands and still calling to him:
"Come, come, take me on your shoulder — my yoke is easy and my burden is light."
Around the brow of this speaking babe was a halo, as if his head were crowned with shining stars. The giant stood a moment filled with awe, and then kneeling at the child's feet, and being yet too high for him to tit upon his shoulders, he prostrated himself before him, beseeching him to throw his little arms about his neck,and cling fast while he would bear him safely through the waves.
The storm had risen yet more fiercely, and the night was darker and the dangers of the way more frightful. At times the strong man staggered. His staff" lost its hold in the stony bed of the river. And now and then the struggling saint, just ready to be swept away, would hear a soft voice whispering in his ear:
"Fear thou not, for I am with thee, be not dismayed: I will strengthen thee, yea, I will help thee, yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of My RightEousness."
- And in the storm without and the fiercer storm within his soul, these words," My Righteousness," fell upon his spirit like a calm when the tempest is overpast. Whose Righteousness? The saint had been going about to establish his own, he would have given his life-blood to cleanse his soul; but he had found no rest: and now, now, just as he was plunging into a deeper flood, and the current was too strong for his stalwart arm and staff, he heard the same sweet child voice from the lips that touched his ear, saying:
"When thou passeit through the waters, I will be with thee, and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee. For I am the Lord thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Saviour."
And then he knew it was the Lord! The holy child Jesus- He had taken Him into his arras, set Him on his shoulder, bowed his neck to His service, and with willing heart and tender love had yielded to His yoke. This child was now his Saviour. Cheerfully and in triumph he trod the way over, for now
he had found the Lord. "The Lord my Righteousness." Not my own good works, but the Lord. I took Him and He proved my salvation.
Into the saint's cave the child went, and there made Himself and His salvation known to the giant, who, in saving another, had found a Saviour. And the child gave him anew name, ChristoPher, which means Christ-Bearer. Like the parables of the sweet gospels, some of the old legends have precious truths in them. And I think that at that season of the year, when you are thinking much of the birth and child-life of the blessed Saviour, it is well to remember what is taught in this ancient story.
It is ours to put on Christ. We may bear about in our body even the dying of the Lord Jesus, and so also His life will be manifest in us. When we bear the burdens of others for His sake, we are somewhat like Him who took the load of our sins on Himself. To do good even to one of the least of His little children, is to do it unto Him. And by and by, when we come to walk through the last cold waves, Christ Himself will be our bearer, His staff will stay our steps, till we tread the shining shore beyond.—Irenmus, in N. Y. Observer.
Baptizing the Baby.
At ten o'clock in the morning they started with him. It was a truly grand sight as they went through the broad street of St Petersburg, carrying this very little baby to be baptized in his grandfather's palace, called the Winter I'alace, because the family lives there in winter.
Ye3, it was a very gay show. Nobody could have been more delighted than the baby himself, if he had only been a few months older, and had been outside to see. First there were a hundred men on fine horses, all of the same color, in two rows across the street; then an officer and four grooms in scarlet coats with gilt trimmings; then came three gilt carriages with six bay horses in gilt harness; then men walked beside each carriage holding their long scarlet coats up out of the snow. The coats were lined with white fur. On the coaches, besides the coachmen, there were two men behind, and all were in scarlet and cocked hats. The last and biggest carriage had the baby. The coach before him had in it two princes, who were his " blanket beaeer" and "cushion bearer;" and on either hide of his carriage were four men on horseback with gray uniforms. And all this to take this little baby, who looked just like any other baby, lo be baptized!
But the procession was not all; for when, in half an hour, they came to the Emperor's Chapel, there was a great crowd of priests in gold and white brocade; a choir in red, trimmed with gold; uncles and aunts in gorgeous dress with more wonderful precious stones than any other country owns. The great Emperor himself came, who is the baby's grandfather. Then, after much chanting and reading, this little baby was taken out of all his clotbes, and in spite of his being called in all the papers the "august born," j he was plunged head first into the font three times 1 Not only this, but he was named, not a pretty American name, but "Michael Alexandrovitch!" Besides, the priest closed his eyes and nose with his fingers to keep out the watsr. It seemed very queer indeed to make such a display for only this. Was it 6trange that the baby did not like it at all. and screamed with all his might, just like any other baby? Then his god-mother received him in blankets, while another prayer was said; and he had just dozed off, I dare say, when he was unfolded again, and the priest put oil on his ears, eyes, mouth, hands and .feet, that he might do no harm with them while he lived.
Then he was given back to go to sleep, only to be dragged out again to have his hair cut off and thrown into the font- At last he was safe in his grandfather's arms; and this august man, carrying the august baby and a lighted candle, and the great bishops and the god-mother carrying candles, all walked around the font three times, after which performance the little Michael Alexandrovitch was sent to his nurse, while his father and his grandfather talked with the aunts and uncles and the other great people. All this took over two hours and a half.
After so much trouble, the baby ought to grow up a very good man. But American babies should be very thankful that they were not born Russian princes, and given dreadful names in such an uncomfortable way.— Congregationalid.
How to Grow.
Once I rend of a lively, fun-loving little fellow, who was found standing in the garden, with his feet buried in the soil and his hand clasping a tall sunflowea. His face was aglow with delight: and when his mother said. "Willie, dear, what pleases yon Bo much ?" he repiied, "Mamma, I'm going tobeaman; I've planted myself to grow."
Willie seemed to think that he was a plant, and could draw food for growth from the soil. In this, he was mistaken, as you know. Boys grow into men by means of food taken into the mouth; but to be real, noble men, they must eat tomething more than bread and meat. Tbey must feed on books. They must eat facts.
"Oh? how can we do that?" exclaims some wee Willie.
"By thinking of them, my dear boy. Reading is the spoon with which you get the facts into your head. By thinking, you learn to know what the facts really signify, Now, just as the bread, meats, vegetables, and fruits you put into your mouth make the body grow, so the fucte yon think about make your mind grow. Be a reader and a thinker."
One of themnst remarkable women in the world is Mrs. Schliemann, the woman who helped her husband to explore the ruins of Troy. She speaks five languages, and can repeat page after page of the Illiad and Odyssey in the" original ancient Greek. She does not believe the Illiad and Odyssey were written by the same author. In spite of her learning, she is a very pretty and graceful woman. She worked with her husband in the Trojan excavations from six in the morning till dark. She was first assistant, and helped the diggers work, taking charge of the articles discovered, and marking upon each the depth at which it had been found.