all

world's history, ever young and undying. Only that which may be said to exist in the Lord can partake of His permanency; else is but a vain show. As men and things are embraced in His love, are they possessed of eternal life, even as all time will be swallowed up! 'Anno Domini' at last.

TWO THOUSAND YEARS AGO.

When Lord Lindsey was traveling in Egypt he found a mummy, the inscription on which showed that it was two thousand years old. Unwrapping it, he found in one of its hands a tiny root. He brought the root to England and planted it, when lo! it bloomed and produced a beautiful flower. The following beautiful stanzas by MRS. S. H. BRADFORD, were suggested by this interesting incident:

Two thousand years ago, a flower

Bloomed lightly in a far off land.
Two thousand years ago, its seed

Was placed within a dead man's hand.

Before the Saviour came to earth,

That man had lived, and loved, and died;
And even in that far-off time,

The flower had spread its perfume wide.

Suns rose and set, years came and went:
The dead had kept its treasure well;
Nations were born and turned to dust,
While life was hidden in that shell.

The shriveled hand is robbed, at last :
The seed is buried in the earth,
When lo! the life, long hidden there,
Into a glorious flower burst forth.

Just such a plant as that which grew
From such a seed, when planted low,
Just such a flower in Egypt bloomed
And died-two thousand years ago!

And will not He who watched the seed
And kept the life within the shell
When those He loved are laid to rest,
Watch o'er their buried dust as well?

And will not He from 'neath the sod
Cause something glorious to arise?
Aye, though it sleep two thousand years,
Yet, all this buried dust shall rise!

Just such a face as greets you now,
Just such a form as here we wear,
Only more glorious far will rise

To meet the Saviour in the air.

Then will I lay me down in peace,

When called to leave this vale of tears:

For in my flesh shall I see God,

Even though I sleep-two thousand years!

THAT GREAT GIFT.

BY S. P. H.

Shakspeare, in his beautiful drama of the "Tempest," vividly portrays, under the guise of an imaginary character, the counterpart of one whose existence is but too real, and with that intimate acquaintance with every maze of the human heart, so characteristic of him, he, at the same time, there illustrates one of its saddest traits.

Prospero, Duke of Milan, having been secretly exiled from his dukedom, and transported to a distant island, finds thereon a savage and deformed brute, Caliban. Taking pity on his horrible wretchedness and meaningless gabble, Prospero essays to tame his turbulent spirit, teaches him the use of speech, and gives him intelligible expression to his purposes and will. For this he receives but an ill return, and, compelled to arrest the wretch in the attempt to commit a vile crime, Prospero tells him :

"Abhorred Slave:

Which any print of goodness will not take,

Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,

Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour

One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,

Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like

A thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes
With words that made them known."

To this reminder of the services of Prospero, Caliban, in whom is blended the sensuality of the brute, with the sullen revenge and base ingratitude of the human, bitterly retorts:

"You have taught me language; and my profit on't
Is, I know how to curse: the red plague aid you
For learning me your language."

Ah! how much of woe there is in penitence, nor hope, but abject woe. ing, for he perverts it to a false use.

that reply! Not sorrow, not For Caliban the gift is nothHaving been taught language,

his profit on't is to curse. All gloom and darkness there! No sunlight, no silvery cloud, no moral warmth! Saddest yet, this gift of language becomes a curse to himself, in that it brings with it many another gift likewise to be debased; in that it is made the echo of his own curses to revert on his own ears with deadly and damning force. It might have been to him the interpreter of the kind words, and the vehicle of the better thoughts of men. Yet does it fail in its purpose. With Caliban it is transformed into the bearer of the fiercest maledictions. Beyond all, this gift might have brought him a knowledge of something divine and deathless, of a hope of something to be realized in Immortality, of that Holy Physician, whose words are as balm to the wounded and helpless, and whose name is worthy of praise and adoration. Did Caliban apprehend in his prize these glorious truths and privileges? Nay, in the bitterness of his soul the gift did profit him that he knew how to "curse." As little as fine clothing could add to his physical deformity did this gift add to his moral deformity. Has not the "immortal bard" here drawn a living, real character?

God never created a "Caliban." Yet has he an existence, is amongst us, is moving in the midst of us, casting over us the vicious slime of his foul breath. Into the highways and byways of life, into the palace and into the hut does he force his presence to utter his calumniations. He has been taught a language which he perverts and sinks to his own miry level. There are such of human creatures, "whose natures are so debased and embittered, that everything received into them becomes debased and embittered-for everything must assimilate to the soul that receives it." Perhaps none of all the gifts of God have been so abused as this great "gift of speech."

The slanderer, whose poisonous sting inflicts the ill-healing wound, and whose aspersions ruthlessly blot purity and virtue, has this gift. The mischief-maker-whose ear is ever on the watch for the unguarded word-that word as harmless as unguarded, evanescent as the spark that flies into the air-but for him is made the swift source of hatred and rancor. The seducer-concealing his treachery in honeyed words and guileful pretence of love carrying ruin to his victim, as did the asp, hidden in the leaves, bear to Cleopatra. The blasphemer-who has been taught the awful name of God, by whose impious irreverence and mockery but his own doom is declared. The infidel-armed with all the strength of his rhetoric, commending in glowing terms the cup of unbelief to the young lip, and with his polished steel severing himself and many a poor soul from that written promise, "He that believeth in me.' All these have this gift, and their profit on't is that they "know how to curse "-to curse themselves, their fellow-men, the world.

and their God. And when the great Judge shall come, clothed in justice and righteousness, where shall these stand? Aye, and an awful truth it is, the very gift which might have been in verity a gift, then must be the expression of their own just accusation and condemnation.

All men are taught language. What is their profit on it? It may be the language of derision. Do they use it to scoff at truth, purity and goodness, or to make falsehood, baseness and treachery despicable? It may be the language of eloquence. Do they use it to engender sectional hatred, and to estrange men's affections, or do they woo them to that which is noble and good, and teach them right and justice? Do they preach a Christless religion, or standing on Calvary's Hill, are they inspired by its theme? It may be of logic. Do they with it lure men's reason to false assumptions and their own ideals, or do they make it the beacon to guide to truth and its source and life-principle-God! It may be the language of the market-place, the counting-house, or the work-shop. Is it their profit on it that they know how to deceive and defraud? They are taught the language of every-day life. Does it abound with kind or bitter, good or evil words? Is it the language of her who,

"When she spake,

Sweete words, like dropping honey she did shed:

And 'twixt the perles and rubies softly brake

A silver sound, that heavenly musicke seemed to make?"

Yes! there is indeed another language than that that did profit Caliban. It speaks to us with a forcible appeal by the lilies of the field, by the birds of the air, by the radiant hosts of the starry sky, and by all the varied and beauteous objects of God's universe. It finds expression in a spirit of forbearance of fellow-infirmities, and toleration of humanity's imperfections. It finds expression in that it disarms malice, subdues temper, turns revenge to kindness, and paves the darkened path with gems and sunlight. It finds expression in the word of hope, of encouragement, of sympathy, and of consolation. It finds expression in carrying a genial temper into the busy bustle of life, into the social circle, and even into the calm and silent retreats of solitude. It finds expression in an honest eagerness to pluck out from amongst the many thorns the sweetscented rose, and distil from it the aroma of a contented and kindly disposition. It found its most lovely expression in that sorrowful life that drew its first breath in the manger at Bethlehem, in the end to win on the Cross a triumphant and glorious victory over death-this language of LOVE.

Have we learned this language? If so, then, unlike Caliban, our profit on it is that we know how to BLESS.

One day I approached the gateway of the great Mosque at Hebron, if possible to enter and stand by the dust of the patriarchs resting within. A surly Turkish guard on the steps turned me mutteringly away, and pointed to a small hole in the wall, through which I might get a peep at the tomb of Abraham. It was his cruel way to taunt the Christian "Infidel," for the hole revealed nothing. Within these walls repose the patriarchs, and the wives of two of them.

Abraham had for many years lived in the neighboring plain, or little valley of Mamre. Here Sarah died in "Kirjath-arba, the same is Hebron in the land of Canaan." She is the only woman of whose age, death and burial we have a full description in the Bible. Even Mary, the mother of Jesus, enters into rest, we know not when or where. True, Sarah is the mother of a great race, and deserves all this detailed account of her death. But is not Mary the mother of a greater?

Her age was one hundred and twenty-seven years. At ninety she gave birth to Isaac. At thirty-seven he mourns his mother's death. Thereafter he seeks and sends for one to comfort him in his bereavement and take Sarah's place. It was a long life these two godly people lived together, since their marriage in Mesopotamia. Mutual joys and trials endear and strengthen the ties of wedded life. The longer it lasts, the sorer the parting in the end. In