larly desirable to present this aspect of her character in connection with her spiritual progress, and her final triumph over this melancholy view of life.

Gifted with a mind of a high order, and possessed of the most exquisite sensibility, Henrietta Jackson could not be happy in the ordinary way. For her to fritter away the golden seed-time of life in comparatively unimportant pursuits, was positive misery. A worthy object, which should fully occupy her mind and heart, was peculiarly necessary for one of her temperament. It was for the want of some such definite purpose that life was at times a wearisome tale. In the absence of that occupation which should fully tax her vigorous powers, her mind preyed upon itself, as minds of that cast, under similar circumstances, inevitably do. In the music of her life was wanting some of its most powerful as well as sweetest chords. Thus there was at times a deep undertone of sadness, occasionally so sorrowful as to seem almost like the mournful wailings of grief. This view of her character, in connection with her subsequent history, is by no means an unimportant one. And it is most interesting to trace her progress from this state of self-dissatisfaction and weariness with the world to that peace which afterwards became her blessed inheritance, and which is the unfailing result of trust in the Saviour, and welldirected, beneficent activity.

ness.

There is a tendency in those of a certain temperament to indulge in dreams which are worse than idleAnd this is sometimes the case with those of a high order of intellect, but of an imaginative, romantic turn. To such a mind all is beautiful but unreal, enchanting but visionary. The dreamer in this ideal world meets with repeated and the keenest disappointments. His soul is filled with yearnings which cannot

be thus quieted. Its immortal thirstings will not be quenched at such imaginary streams. He will never

be satisfied till he has found rest in a healthful, heavenappointed activity. Let him learn to look upon life not as an end, but as a means; not as a sufficient good in itself, but as a school for the disciplining of his powers to act in a more exalted sphere. Let him regard this world as a battle-field, whereon he may not dare to dream life away, but where he must be roused for heroic action. On this battle-field must be wrestled for the victor's glorious crown. Here are to be won immortal garlands. Thus viewing life, the soul will buckle on its armor, and nerve itself for the contest.

Is there one, whose eye may trace these lines, that is suffering from the want of a high object of pursuit, or that is wasting the noble energies of the soul in the shadow-land of dreams? Cease thine idle musings, thy pleasant and thy bitter fancies! Arouse thee from thy slumbers ere life's day has closed, and the night of death wraps thee in its leaden sleep!

Life is not an oriental tale, as we regard it in our youthful dreams. It is a stern reality, the rugged seed-field of Time, from which the reapers shall gather in their harvest for Eternity. Imperative, then, to every one is the summons to labor,—constant, unwearied, well-directed labor.

"Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon."

6

AN OBJECT IN LIFE NECESSARY.

"Help, 30me angel! stay this dreaming!

As the birds sang in the branches,

Sing God's patience through my soul !

"That, no dreamer, no neglecter
Of the present's work unsped,
I may wake up and be doing,
Life's heroic ends pursuing,
Though my past is dead as Hector,

And though Hector is twice dead."

MRS. E. B. BROWNING.

THE following letters, discovering something of the ardor of Henrietta's friendships, and also giving a little insight into that part of her character which we have been contemplating, show that constant and inspiriting employment was more and more essential to her health of mind.

"Dorset, Feb. 20th, 1834.

"MY DEAR M.: I have been so in the glooms that I could hardly see, and this is the reason I have not written before. I have felt so little heart to anything that I could not do anything. But I remember the old woman with her rheumatism, and various other aches and ails, and so will stop short with my story.

"Your letter came just in time to be my New Year's present, and was a very precious one, notwithstanding it made me shed a few tears. I had known and felt, ere then, that, next to my own dear brothers and sisters, no one in the world was so dear to me as M. When you pictured our room, in a moment I seemed to be there, and recollection did not soon hurry me

back to my place in our little circle. Indeed, I often steal away even from my 'pleasant home,' to be with you there. And when I sit down to enjoy my favorite hour, the coming on of evening, I almost always visit you. Sometimes that peculiar marble-covered book is produced for my entertainment; again I hear from memory's treasure the choicest of the choice. "There's beauty all around our path,' and 'The electric chain,' are reserved. for special occasions; and when I read them over every tone of your voice is recalled. Many a past scene is present by

• Memory's magical power,

And flings back its light on this far-distant hour.'

"I wish I had something worth while to tell you, but I am occupied with trifles, and you are conversant with important affairs. But, if I cannot tell you what I do, I will venture to tell some things I hear and think of; for I have been hearing of the valley of the Mississippi, and thinking of your going there. I have lately seen a missionary from Illinois, who has his whole soul enlisted. It seems strange to him that there can be so much indifference on the subject in New England. He wonders that the ladies are contented to stay where they can find so little to do, when there is so much work for them in the great West. I told him I knew of one who had had her heart set upon being a teacher in the valley, among the log houses, from her childhood up.

When I think what an object is before you, I feel dissatisfied with my own course, and wish that I could give up everything else, in my desire to be useful. But I cannot trust myself enough even to encourage this wish. Can you tell me of any discipline that will make me such a person as you will dare to take with you when you go? I have asked a hard question, I am well aware, and you shall be excused from answering it, but I do want to go with you.

"And how do you think 1 felt when that other letter arrived? It would not be easy to tell. I laughed and cried both together for half an hour. The feelings of that last sad night were revived in their original freshness.

"And has H gone? And is M. alone? What will she do? I am afra d she will do, do, do, till life is spent to its last spark. And yet I almost envy such activity. I should have offered my services as your humble assistant, if I had been at liberty to do so. But you are better provided for ere now, and my cares hold me fast, and will, until the health of our family is improved, for I am at present the only strong one among them.

"O, M., I want to see you more than I ever did before! How I would like to spend one of those precious sleepless nights with you now! And how I should like to live with Believe me a friend who will love

you!
How can I stop?
you while she lives."

"Dorset, Sept. 18th, 1834.

"And why has not Henrietta written before? Not because she is like the rest of the world. She was never accused of such a thing in all her life. And, my dear M., you will believe there may have been another reason than this when I tell you that sister S. has left us for Bangor, and little Willie, too, has gone to that far-off country. Henrietta is left all alone. And how do you think I feel, and have felt? O, the soul's deep strife! But why should I write about my feelings, when they are like everything else, so transient? To-day strong emotion is my element; to-morrow, and I have almost forgotten I ever had a feeling.

"But I have not quite forgotten my feelings during that third and last month, in which I was waiting for your letter. It was a long month, a month of feverish restlessness, too. I conjectured a thousand things as to the reason you did not write, till I at last settled upon the conclusion that it was to punish me for having sent you such a letter. I could not complain of this as altogether unjust; but I did think it very severe, and was about to send my protest when your letter came. I thank you for the lenient manner in which you treated my abundant expressions of affection. You know it is not like me

to be profuse in such expressions.

“I believe I am improved some of late, or I have at least