logical metaphysicians of the schools. With these he mingled some visions of a later mysticism. But his reasonings will seldom bear a close scrutiny."

ON PERFECT HAPPINESS.

I come now to show wherein this perfect happiness does consist, concerning which I do affirm, in the first place, that it is not to be found in anything we can enjoy in this life. The greatest fruition we have of God here is imperfect, and consequently unsatisfactory. And as for all other objects, they are finite, and consequently, though never so fully enjoyed, cannot afford us perfect satisfaction. The objects wherein men generally seek for happiness here are not only finite in their nature, but also few in number. Indeed, could a man's life be so contrived that he should have a new pleasure still ready at hand as soon as he had grown weary of the old, he might then perhaps and for a while think himself happy in this continued succession of new acquisitions. But, alas! nature does not treat us with this variety. The compass of our enjoyments is much shorter than that of our lives; and there is as perfect a circulation of our pleasures as of our lives. The enjoyments of our lives run in a perpetual round, like the months in the calendar, but with a quick revolution. We dance like fairies in a circle, and our whole life is but a perpetual tautology. We rise like the sun, and run the same course that we did before; and to-morrow is but the same over again.

From these and the like considerations, I think it will evidently appear that this perfect happiness is not to be found in anything we can enjoy in this life. Wherein, then, does it consist? I answer positively, in the full and entire fruition of God. He, as Plato speaks, is the proper and principal end of man, the centre of our tendency, and the ark of our rest. He is the object which alone can satisfy the appetite of the most capacious soul, and stand the test of fruition to eternity; and to enjoy Him fully is perfect felicity.

THE SOUL'S ASPIRATION.

How long, great God! how long must I
Immured in the dark prison lie?

Where at the gates and avenues of sense
My soul must watch to have intelligence;
Where but faint gleams of Thee salute my sight,
Like doubtful moonshine in a cloudy night?
When shall I leave this magic sphere,
And be all mind, all eye, all ear?

How cold this clime! and yet my sense
Perceives even here Thy influence.

Even here Thy strong magnetic chains I feel,
And pant and tremble like the amorous steel.
To lower good, and beauties less divine
Sometimes my erring needle does decline;
But yet (so strong the sympathy)

It turns and points again to Thee.

I long to see this excellence,

Which at such distance strikes my sense,

My soul, impatient, struggles to disengage

Her wings from the confinement of her cage!

Wouldst Thou, Great Love, this prisoner once set free, How would she hasten to be linked with Thee!

She'd for no angel's conduct stay,

But fly, and love on all the way.

NORRIS, W. E., an English novelist, born in 1847. He was called to the bar in 1874, but never practised. His first book, Heaps of Money, appeared in 1876; it has been followed by Mademoiselle de Mersac, Thirlby Hall, Matrimony, A Man of His Word, That Terrible Man, Her Own Doing, Adrian Vidal, No New Thing, Chris, Major or Minor, Miss Shafto, The Rogue, My Friend Jim, Misadventure, The Countess Radna (1890), and Billy Bellew (1895).

NEARLY CAUGHT.

He kept silence until he and his companion had reached the outskirts of the town, and then began: "Do you know, Gervis, I have made an everlasting fool of myself?"

"Ah! I can guess what you mean. I saw you doing it, didn't I?"

"I suppose you did. At least, you saw me kissing the girl. But, dear me, that was nothing, you know." "Wasn't it?"

"I mean of course it was all right. I knew you and Nina Flemyng were safe enough; and really it was the sort of thing that might have happened to anybody. But, by George, sir!" continued Freddy, impressively, 66 do you know what that girl did as soon as you were gone?"

"Burst into tears?" suggested Claud.

"Not she! Began to laugh, and said that, now we had been so neatly caught, the best thing we could do was 'to give out our engagement at once.' I thought she was chaffing at first, but she wasn't-deuce a bit. She was as serious as I am now."

"I can quite believe it."

"Well, but my dear fellow," resumed Freddy, im. patiently, "don't you see what a horrid mess I am in? I never meant anything of that kind at all; and how was I to suppose that she did? I don't want to marry anybody; and Miss Lambert of all people! She's a very jolly girl, and a first-rate dancer, and all that; but as for spending the rest of one's life with her!-Oh, I'm simply done for, and I shall go and drown myself in the harbor."

"I don't think I would decide upon doing that quite yet," remarked the other young man, pensively.

"What would you do, if you were in my place?" "I should run away, I think. Have you committed yourself to anything definite?"

"Oh, no. In point of fact, I rather tried to laugh the whole thing off; but she wouldn't have that at any price. And the worst of it is, I'm afraid she has told her mother. The old girl gave me a very queer sort of look when I put her into her carriage, and said she would expect to see me to-morrow afternoon." "And what did you say to that?"

"I? Oh, I said 'Good-night.''

"That was vague enough, certainly," observed Claud, laughing. "Well, I have an idea. I think I can get you out of this. Only you must promise me not to see Mrs. or Miss Lambert till you hear from me again. Most likely I shall be with you before the afternoon."

"My dear fellow, I won't stir out of my bedroom," answered the affrighted baronet, earnestly. "I'll stay in bed if you like. Oh, if only I escape this time, not another woman under sixty years of age do I speak to !" "It is possible to speak to young women without kissing them," Claud remarked, sagely.

"It isn't easy, though," returned the other, sighing. "The safest plan is to let 'em alone."-Matrimony.

14

Rich with some ancient poet's dream,
Or wisdom of a purer age;

Then will I listen to thy sound,

And, musing o'er the embers pale,
With whitening ashes strewed around,
The forms of memory unveil ;

Recall the many-colored dreams

That fancy fondly weaves for youth,
When all the bright illusion seems
The pictured promises of truth;

Perchance, observe the fitful light,

And its faint flashes round the room, And think some pleasures feebly bright, May lighten thus life's varied gloom.

TRUST AND SUBMISSION.

My God, I thank Thee: may no thought
E'er deem Thy chastisement severe;
But may this heart, by sorrow taught,
Calm each wild wish, each idle fear.

Thy mercy bids all nature bloom;

The sun shines bright, and man is gay,
Thy equal mercy spreads the gloom
That darkens o'er his little day.

Full many a throb of grief and pain

Thy frail and erring child must know;
But not one prayer is breathed in vain,
Nor does one tear unheeded flow.

Thy various messengers employ,
Thy purposes of love fulfil;

And 'mid the wreck of human joy,

Let kneeling Faith adore Thy will.