down thither, has trod its dust with his sacred feet, has endured hunger and thirst, has died. Ah, he will quicken my vision, that I may pierce deeper than heretofore the abyss of his death-pains! There he won me for his own; and that I, his dearlypurchased one, should not again be lost to him, he has from my earliest years given me his ceaseless care. Much that he has done for me have I already learned upon earth; now I know more; and I shall know still more in the future, when together we recount the whole. But now I have no time for this. Emotion within me is too strong; my heart will burst; I must away to him, see him, thank him—if I am capable of thanking him-if in this overpowering bliss thanksgiving be not swallowed up.

W. Thou wilt see him, but not until he comes to thee. Until then be patient. I am sent to thee, to tell thee that such is his will.

W. There below He is constrained to do this with his best beloved. Here, it is no longer necessary; here there is no need that he should do violence to his own heart; He can give free expression to his love. This love is infinite; on earth we could not fathom it, as little can we do so here.

H. Do there exist among you here differences in glory and blessedness?

W. In endless degrees; but then the highest are even as the most lowly, so they stoop down to the humblest. And this does He require of them; for He who ranks above the highest is himself the humblest of all. So, then, these diversities become swallowed up, and we are all one in Him.

H. Lo, I have often thought me, if I only reach heaven, only dwell not with the enemies of the Lord, I shall be content to be the very least of all there. Thou, methought, wouldst soar in a much higher circle, and our children also when they left the earth. But then if only once in a thousand years I might be counted worthy to see the Lord-still methought it would be enough for me.

W. Be trustful. Whom He receives He receives to glory. Knowest thou not by what wonderful way He has called us in His word.

H. Now I know for a certainty that I am in heaven, for my will yields itself implicitly to his without a struggle. I had thought it wholly insupportable not to see him here. Yet I not only bear it, but bear it cheerfully. He wills this, I will it also. Other than this seems now impossible to me. So readily could we not submit below. But if thou art sent to me from Him, then he must have spoken with thee. He has already spoken many words with thee?

H. Well do I know all that, and I see with what glory and honor He has crowned thee. Between thine image in thy last sickness, and that which now stands revealed to me; between that perishable flower and the heavenly blossom-what a difference! No, this bloom upon thy cheek can never fade; this light in thine eyes can never be dimmed; thy form shall never bear the impress of age. Thus ever wilt thou wander about with me here, thou wilt show me the glory of these heavenly mansions, and also wilt lead me to those other blessed ones who are dear

W. Already many.

H. O thou truly blessed one! Canst thou tell how it was with thee when He for the first time spake with thee?

W. As it has been in my heart each following time. I am using an earthly language with thee, in which these things cannot be described.

H. As thou sawest Him for the first time didst thou instantly recognize him? W. Instantly.

H. How? By that particular glory in to me. which he outshines all angels?

W. He has no need to clothe himself in splendor; we know him without that.

H. Dost thou mean that I will immediately recognize Him without any one saying to me, that is HE?

W. Thine own heart will tell thee.

H. How will he really seem to me, severe or gentle? Below, when I cried to Him out of the darkness of my earth-life, he often answered me with sternness.

W. Thou wilt see them as soon as thou hast seen the Lord.

H. How delightful was it of old when we sought our aged father in his cot. Our carriage rolled up, all came running out before the house, and among the whole troop we sought first his dear, honored countenance. How much more delightful to see him here! He whom the smallest favor filled with thanks to the giver, he who could find beauty in a single spire of

W. I knew it well. Look thitherward
What seest thou?

now.

grass, who smiled at a brighter sunbeam, he who went forth so joyfully under the starry heavens, and adored the Creator of these worlds-what must he experience here, where the wonders of Omnipotence lie all open and unvailed before him! He who in silent joy of his heart thanked the Lord for his beneficence, and for the least refreshing which was granted him on his weary earth-way-what thanks will he now pour forth to his Redeemer! "We shall meet again," he said to me in his last sickness, as he pressed my hand with all his remaining strength, "we shall meet again, and together thank God for his grace."

H. Near thy grave another is open. The church-yard gate stands open, a corpse is borne forward, our children follow. Do ye weep, loved hearts, weep so bitterly? Could ye see us as we see you, ye would not weep, or at the most only for longing. The body—my body—is lowered; now they cast a handful of dust upon the coffin. The grave is closed, now rests my dust by thine. Go home now, ye loved ones, and may the foretaste of that heavenly peace which we enjoy glide to your souls! But return hitherward often and seek the grave of your

mother.

W. Thou wilt soon see him and thy old parents. When ye meet and pray there we will be near you, and bring you heavenly gifts from the Lord. Henceforth take his hand as ye go. He will guide you safely; your old parents have proved this! And one day he will bring us all together again.

W. Amen. Thus it will surely be. H. Hear'st thou those sounds? What may it be? Strange and wonderful, like the mingled roaring of the sea, and sweetest flute notes, they come from that quarter and float through the wide heaven. Hark! now from the other side melody arises, a wholly different note, and yet just as strange and enrapturing. What may it be?

W. They are angel choirs, which from immeasurable distance answer one another.

H. What do they sing?

W. Ever of One who is the theme of eternal and ceaseless praise.

H. For some time already a form moves about there.

W. Observe it more closely, and then tell me why it attracts thee so.

H. I who have been so lately called from the earth, will give you an earthly, childish comparison. At the home where I was born, thou knowest it well, though at the time thou wast no longer upon earth, I had planted a garden. As the spring came, I devoted myself to its cultivation, and enjoyed myself over my plants, and their beautiful unfoldings. There were many trees there, much shrubbery and many flowers; yet I know every shoot; I had myself planted and watered it; each in its turn came under my inspection, and when it puts on its bright green, and blossomed beautifully and grew

H. My mother who loved me with such unspeakable tenderness, and whom I have never known! I was but three years old when I lost her. As she lay upon her death-bed, and I was playing in the garden before the house, "What will become of my poor child!" she cried. Good mother! all that a man can be thy son has become -an inhabitant of heaven. Through the grace of God has this been effected, and also by the help of thy prayers. Is it not

so?

W. It is even so. I have often spoken of thee with thy father and mother.

H. Is X

here?

W. Yes.

H. I had not expected it. That, however, was wrong; why am I here? But the dear souls whom I left behind me on earth, I would have some tidings of them; or is the perception of them lost to us until the moment of reunion?

W. This question thou mayest speedily answer for thyself. Look thither.

H. I do so; but I see nothing.

W. Look longer in this direction and you will surely see. Dost thou see

now?

H. Perfectly. The place is familiar to me. It is the church-yard where I placed thy mortal part which was given back to the earth. The place became dear to me; I often sought it, and kneeling upon the grave raised my eyes hitherward to heaven, where we both are now. Among beautiful trees and flowers shall her body rest here. So a flower-garden, and a wilderness of blossoms sprung up, and every beautiful thing which the anniversary brought with it adorned thy grave.

ulance, and a vain love of victory; how they make reason captious and trifling, give undue reins to the imagination, and utterly disqualify the mind for all cool and philosophic researches. This was very eminently the case with the great Newton, as has been justly observed by Dugald Stewart. Quoting from one of the biographers of that illustrious philosopher, he gives us, in his "Active and Moral Powers," the following interesting account:

"He was, indeed, of so meek and gentle a disposition, and so eat a lover of peace, that he would have rather chosen to remain in obscurity than to have the calm of life ruffled by those storms and disputes which genius and learning always draw upon those who are most eminent for them. From his love of peace arose, no doubt, that unusual kind of horror which he felt for all disputes. Steady, unbroken attention, free from those frequent re

coilings incident to others, was his peculiar felicity. He knew it, and he knew the value of it. When some objections, hastily made to his discoveries concerning light and colors, in

duced him to lay aside the design he had taken of publishing his Optical Lectures, we find him reflecting upon that dispute, into which he had unavoidably been drawn, in these terms: I blamed my own improvidence for parting with so real a blessing as my quiet to run after a shadow.' In the same temper, after he had sent the manuscript to the Royal Society, with his consent to the printing of it, upon Hooke's injuriously insisting that he had himself solved Kepler's problem before our author, he determined, rather than be involved again in a controversy, to suppress the third book; and he was very hardly prevailed on to alter that resolution."

erable insult and abuse; and when it is called forth under conditions of provocation that obviously require the assistance of just such a reserve-force, it cannot, of course, be said to possess any other than a purely instinctive character. But there is another kind of malevolent passion which, after it has once been fully roused, is characterized by a bitterness that never ceases to rankle. This is the malevolence that accompanies controversial agitation. Its victim is not brutalized merely for a moment or an hour, but for all time. Under its infernal influence life itself becomes a long phrensy-fit, in which the demoniacal breathings of revenge mingle with the satiric sneers of envy. Angry disputation is the fertile resource from which this passion draws its nourishment. Angry disputation it was that fed the passion under whose malicious promptings Socrates was condemned to drink the poisonous hemlock. Angry disputation it was that created the spirit in which the sectarian Jews stoned Stephen to death. Angry disputation it was that kindled the rage in which the same stiff-necked unbelievers crowned the pure Jesus with thorns, and scourged him, and buffeted him, and spit upon him, and nailed him, at last, to the ignominious cross. Angry disputation it was that fed the excitement, in the terrible fury of which that long age of papal domination was introduced, whose dense darkness was only relieved by martyrfires. There is no form of malevolent feeling like that which angry disputation produces. When once inflamed, there is scarcely any influence or set of influences that can break it up or calm and soften its rough ragings. It admits of no cool moments of self-examination. When he that has felt its fierce fires turns blushingly upon himself with tearful regrets and un

Such was the noble aversion this wonderful man felt to all kinds of antagonizing contention; and the same species of aversion cannot but be experienced in the mind of every truly elevated individual to sharp agitation upon religious questions. To a pure and well-cultivated intellect there is something indescribably burdensome and abhorrent in the selfish ravings of irritable opponents. Malevolent pas-sparing accusations, it is the nature of sion is a brutalizer. Its influence is out of harmony with all that is high and exalted in humanity. And especially is this the case with that form of malevolent passion which invariably accompanies fierce disputation. There is an evolution of angry feeling which is more or less temporary. The excitement attendant upon it is furious, but does not last long. The species of malevolent passion which thus manifests itself was no doubt given to man as a sort of protective ferocity to be vented only on certain occasions of intol

the passion begotten of controversial agitation to swallow up every impulse that would prompt to remorse and concession. The maxim according to which it makes men act is to see no blunders or deficiencies upon their own part, and hence to acknowledge none. It is hard to convince a stiff religionist that he has ever been unduly angry with an opponent. "How preposterous," he will say, "to suppose that so devout a man as I should be angry without just cause!" And if you persist in reasoning the point, he will speedily