In the grand result will show,

As the nations,

Kings and stations,
Upward, downward,
Hither, thither,

As in mystic dances, go.

In the PRESENT all is mystery; .
In the PAST, 'tis beanteous history.
O'er the mixing and the mingling,
How the signal bells are jingling!
See you not the weaver leaving
Finished work behind, in weaving?
See you not the reason subtle,
As the web and woof diminish,
Changing into beauteous finish,
Why the Weaver makes his shuttle,
Hither, thither, scud and scuttle?

GLORIOUS WONDER! what a weaving!
To the dull beyond believing!
Such, no fabled ages know.--
Only Faith can see the mystery,
How, along the aisle of History
Where the feet of sages go,
Loveliest to the purest eyes,
Grand the mystic tapet lies!
Soft and smooth, and even spreading
As if made for angel's treading;
Tufted circles touching ever,
In-wrought figures fading never;
Every figure has its plaidings,
Brighter form and softer shadings
Each illumined,-what a riddle!
From a Cross that gems the middle.

'Tis a saying some reject it,
That its light is all reflected;
'That the tapet's hues are given
By a Sun that shines in Heaven!
'Tis believed, by all believing,

That great God himself is weaving-
Bringing out the world's dark mystery,
In the light of Truth and History;
And as web and woof diminish,
Comes the grand and glorious finish ;
When begin the golden ages

Long foretold by seers and sages.

I'D been away from her three years-about that-
And I returned to find my Mary true;
And though I'd question her, I doubt not that
It was unnecessary so to do.

'Twas by the chimney corner we were sitting: "Mary," said I, "have you been always true ?" "Frankly," says she,-just pausing in her knitting "I don't think I've unfaithful been to you; But for the three years past I'll tell you what I've done then say if I've been true or not.

MM

"When first you left, my grief was uncontrollable,
Alone I mourned my miserable lot,

And all who saw me thought me inconsolable,

Till Captain Clifford came from Aldershott;
To flirt with him amused me while 'twas new;
I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you?

"The next-oh! let me see-was Frankie Phipps,
I met him at my uncle's Christmas-tide;
And 'neath the mistletoe, where lips meet lips,

He gave me his first kiss❞—and here she sighed ;
"We stayed six weeks at uncle's-how time flew!
I don't count that unfaithfulness. Do you?

"Lord Cecil Fossmore, only twenty-one,

Lent me his horse. Oh, how we rode and raced!
We scoured the downs-we rode to hounds-such fun !
And often was his arm around my waist-
That was to lift me up or down. But who
Would count that unfaithfulness? Do you?

"Do you know Reggy Vere? Ah, how he sings!
We met-'twas at a picnic. Ah, such weather!
He gave me, look, the first of these two rings,
When we were lost in Cliefden woods together.
Ah, what happy times we spent, we two!
I don't count that unfaithfulness to you.

"I've got another ring from him. D'you see
The plain gold circle that is shining here ?”
"I took her hand: "Oh, Mary! can it be
That you"-quoth she," that I am Mrs. Vere.
I don't count that unfaithfulness? Do you?"
No," I replied, "FOR I AM MARRIED, TOO."

HARDSHELL SERMON.

TEXT.-"WHERE THE HEN SCRATCHES THERE SHE EXPECT? 10 FIND A BUG."

Fellow sisters, brethern, men, women and children; generally and particularly speaking. You needn't hustle any pages for the text, for it ain't there. It is a special dispensation to your appointed pastor; and he hurls it at you for what it is worth. "Where the hen scratches,

NUMBER SIX.

there she expects to find a bug." Did you come from the race track of the world to parade your "trotting harness" before the meek and lowly? Have yon dropped the dazzling rattles of business and pleasure to while an idle hour away, listening to the mournful melody that is rung by angel-hands from the sacred harps that hang, forgotten, upon the drooping willows of mortality? Or are you tusseling for the almighty dollar? Verily I say unto you, "where the hen scratches, there she expects to find a bug." My drowsy hearers, we are a lot of damaged goods, trying to palm ourselves off upon each other for more than our market value; and that old firm of Time, Death & Co., is doing a heavy commission business upon our stock in trade. I hear the mallet of death with its mechanical tap, tap, and solid" going, going," and the next minute it will come upon some of our unconscious heads, and we shall be folded up like the tents of the Arabs, and as silently borne away to the other side of Jordan, where the dryhas goods man refrains from troubling, and the grocer nothing to say, and the weary hen ceases from scratching, and the precious bug is found. In the midst of life we are in debt, says a noble prophet, who was near kin to your beloved pastor. If any of you are tempted to tarry in the tavern of life, and fail to settle your accounts with the landlord, may the text rise up before you like a fabulous Arabian hero, only to rest from the rough and tumble giant, and deter you from that of utter depravity where bummers lead trustful hens to scratch up the bugs they devour.

Your undivided attention is further solicited to the signification of the text, metaphorically and collectively, in small packages to suit the capacity, from the boy shucking peanuts peacefully in the corner, to the hardened sinner who talks so proudly in your pastor's presence. And woe unto you, young woman, sea-sawing up the broad aisle with your new bonnet, and streamers a flyin', or your fancy neck-cloths! go on until you slip over a bale of cotton, and are left to drift away over the brimstone sea of national disgrace-a by-word and jest that you loved No, beloved, I warn you now, not wisely, but too well. if you manifest symptoms of such cowardice as has been handed down to you from high places, the biggest pair

14

of stogy boots in this congregation will rise up in judg ment against you, and kick you out into the broad road that leads to everlasting ruin.

And finally, when you cut out the crust from your brown-bread loaf and scrape the hard beans from the top of your noon-tide pot, if you cut a little below the crisp for the beggar's and outcast's portion, your conscience and digestion will trouble you less; and as you steal out, as some of you will to-night, where the silver moon of memory hangs over the haunted hills of the past, and bow at some hallowed finger-post that points the way a beloved one went over your broken heart to heaven, may the eternal verdure of the evergreen hope spring up in the barten spots trod hard by the busy feet of the absorbing now, and bring you to the sweetness of that peace and the tenderness of that love that overflows continually in deeds and words for the elevation of the rag-a-muffins who march in the rear ranks of the great army of humanity; for the barbarians are not all in ragged file, but "many a gem of purest ray serene" wants but a lifting from the filth to shine. So mote it be.

Brother Slowfast, circulate the platter for the root of evil, until it is all rooted out of this place. For, verily, I say unto you, the hen that scratches here expects to find a bug. Shell out.

LIGHT.-WILLIAM PITT PAMMER.

FROM the quickened womb of the primal gloom
The sun rolled black and bare,

Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast
Of the threads of my golden hair;

And when the broad tent of the firmament
Arose on its airy spars,

I penciled the hue of its matchless blue,
And spangled it round with stars.

I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers,
And their leaves of living green,

And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes
Of Eden's virgin queen;