vating thyself by patient and constant toil. Artist, understand henceforth that it is the Lord's work thou art doing, in playing the creator, after the fashion of thy Maker, with the stuff which he has given thee, forming images in which dwell spirits of thy begetting. Thy art may be mimicry; see thou make it worship, through reverent use of the godlike faculty, embreathed by the first artist, GOD. Woman! mother! understand henceforth that it is the Lord's work thou art doing; in training body, soul, temper, character, affection, intellect, spirit, for earth, for heaven. Maiden, understand henceforth that it is the Lord's work thou art doing; in making homes happy, light, and joyful; softening the hardness, smoothing the ruggedness, which incrusts the brother's soul, overbusy with this world's work; preparing thyself, too, for the higher duty of making a home for children, which shall tell them early, by its mute lessons, of the home of God. Boy, understand thou, too, that it is the Lord's work thou art doing, in threading the mazes of thorny studies, mastering dull rudiments, and framing skeletons of knowledge; learning, by discipline, fortitude, and patience, bravery, and chastity; for the Lord has need of heroic workmen, and out of such stuff as thou art, by such work as thou art doing, his heroes are made. Such a vision of the Lord among his children is the advent for which we pray and watch! AMEN! EVEN SO, LORD JESUS, COME QUICKLY! "THY KINGDOM COME; THY WILL BE DONE ON EARTH, AS IT IS IN HEAVEN." AMEN AND AMEN.-Ibid.

YOUR DUTY AND MINE.

It was a noble instance of Christian heroism, during the time of Oliver Cromwell, when he sent an armed soldier to church with orders to stop the preaching of Bishop Halket, who with dignified mildness forbade any interruption to the reading of prayers; and when the soldier announced that he had the Protector's orders to shoot him if he persisted in finishing the service, the good bishop calmly proceeded, saying, "You may do your duty, and I shall do mine."—Sinclair.

LIBRARIES IN THE HEAD.

A Spanish poet tells us of an illiterate man, who, having amassed a large fortune and built a spacious mansion, wished, among other appurtenances, to have a library; and, accordingly, calling on a bookseller, gave him an order to furnish him with one. "Pray, sir,” asked the tradesman, "how will you have the library made up?"

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'Why, you ignorant blockhead," answered the other, "do you know no more about your own trade than that? I will have the library like every other: rows of large books at the bottom, then smaller ones above them, and others diminishing in size to the top."

Now, absurd as this mode of characterizing a library may seem in regard to its material construction, it is true respecting the moral library which should be carried in the head. There must be large books, folios, below-a substratum of solid learning to build upon, without which all will be unsteady and fragile that is built up. The architect will tell you, that when he wishes to erect one of his splendid churches, he tries to lay large compact masses below, on which to rest with security the ornamental parts of the building. And so it is here: those small lighter books of elegant literature which occupy the higher tiers of your library are as the pinnacles, the finials and crockets of the temple of learning; they will be utterly misplaced if used in the foundation or otherwise than as embellishments and crowning ornaments to a massive and useful structure. In fact, we must not ever flatter ourselves that we shall ever produce a small work that shall live beyond the day without making it the essence, the distillation of many larger and more learned which we shall have deeply studied. Cardinal Bellarmine used to say that it cost him more anxiety and labor to draw up the little catechism used by the children in Italy than to compose his folios of controversy, because he had to condense in the former all the substance of the latter; and it is recorded of a learned man that, having written a long letter to a friend on an important matter, he added this postscript,-"Excuse the length of this letter, for I had not time to write you a short one;" intimating that meditation and expression of thought was a heavier task than prolixity of composition.-Rev. Dr. Wise

man.

ALL SOULS AT ROME.

I remember well, when journeying in the north of Italy, we arrived towards dusk at a small village. As was our custom, we paid an early visit to the church; for, having been nurtured in a protestant land, we rejoiced in the strange novelty of being able to worship before the altar in every temple we approached. It was a small, though chaste and elegant structure, shedding an air of peace over the village. We entered, and beheld the whole of the interior hung with black and silver. In the centre stood a cataphalt, covered with black cloth, on the top of which was embroidered a large silver cross. Tapers stood on either side; but they were extinguished, for the offices of the day were now finished. A solitary lamp burnt before the altar, ‘and a little girl was praying before the cataphalt. The twilight was fast gathering into gloom around the sable draperies, broken by the pale gleam of the silver fringe. The festival of All Souls had been celebrated there that day; but the priests and their flock had now retired to their homes, and we felt the stillness which succeeds the departure of the many.

But I spoke of Rome. It is there—in that eternal city of the living and the dead, where one should behold this feast. During the octave of all souls there is only one voice heard in her temples, crying, "Give rest to the souls of the faithful departed." This same voice echoes along her streets, is reiterated by the mendicant who ask his alms in the name of the dead, and unceasingly does it ascend from the depths of her cemeteries. Her chambers of the dead are now laid open to the living, and all descend that they may hear the voice of the tomb. During the eight days on which the festival is celebrated, it is the custom for the catholics to visit the cemeteries; there to meditate on death and to pray for the dead. In one you may behold the representation of Christ's descent into Limbo; in another St. Jerome in the desert, listening to the clangour of that trumpet which, he declared, ever resounded in his ears. Would you know, gentle reader, what is the effect of these communings with the dead upon the mind, bear with me while I describe to you my visit to the cemetery of the Carthusians, which is opened every year at this season for the edification of the faithful at Rome.

It was in the evening, an hour before the Ave Maria, when we sought the entrance of the monastery, and, following the track of the people, descended into the cemetery below. We arrived in a small compartment, which was truly the chamber of the dead. The walls which enclosed us were wholly covered with a mosaic of skulls and bones, and the lamp which hung from the roof was formed of human bones. To our right, this cell was partitioned off by a low railing, and within the railing a number of short black wooden crosses stuck in the new turned earth, marking the graves below; and around the enclosed partition were the representations of half opened tombs, out of which leant, in various attitudes, the skeletons of monks, clad in their brown habits, with the cord girt round their fleshless waists, and peering from beneath their cowls as they held up their bony fingers in warning from the tomb. The scene was beyond expression, awful. We had just quitted the busy street, where all was the noise and hurry of the ever-busy, ever-idle world, and here we were on the sudden in the presence of death, literally preaching from the tomb. I am aware that there are minds in these degenerate days who would turn away shocked and even scandalized at such a scene. These are they who, like the Pagans of old, love not to mention name of death, for fear of offending ears polite. But the true Christian loves to impress on his mind its awful aspect, for he knows that "we all come apprentices not masters unto death." To such an one the scene I now beheld might be tragic indeed, yet infinitely mild.

so much as the

We heard the bell tolling above us, and monks, pale with fasting, passed by us, receiving alms for the dead. On we passed to a second chamber like the first, and from thence to a third and fourth. The same scene met us everywhere: the mosaic walls, the lamp of bones, the monumental crosses, and the cowled skeletons leaning from their tombs. They were in various attitudes, yet was there nothing theatrical or assumed in their positions. Some stood with skull bent down and buried in the cowl-some with their arms folded in humble guise, as if absorbed in meditation-some, with uplifted finger, seemed to warn us of eternal truths-and others pointed to the graves below. Deep silence reigned within the sepulchre, for

no one dared to speak in the presence of such awful monitors. But there was one-I tremble now when I recall his presence— a skeleton, who seemed more potent than the rest, so terribly did he glare upon us through his eyeless sockets. One could not say there was no speculation in his look. He bent not half forward from the tomb like the rest, but stood upright in the full gauntness of his lofty shape. His cowl was thrown back, and his polished skull and fleshless features seemed instinct with the fire of eloquence. His arm was stretched forward with a mighty energy, and the deep sleeve of his habit having fallen back, revealed the marrowless bones. Terribly did he point his bird-like finger towards us, and his silence seemed to echo like words of iron through my heart, "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return."

At length we arrived at a small door, which was closed. One of the fathers stood by it, and immediately opened it upon our requesting admittance. We entered, and behold, stretched on a bier, lay a monk who had died but the night before. Two of his brethren sat by him, and so emaciated were their features, so calm was the corpse, that, in the dim light, there seemed little difference between the dead and the living. "He died a little after midnight,” said one—“He was a saint,” related the other; "during the last eleven years he has not tasted meat."* We knelt down, and, as I gazed on those placid features, which, even in death, still seemed full of penitence and meek humility, I almost expected to hear the corpse breathe that sentence,-"To-day for me, to-morrow for you."

We returned through the sepulchre, full of unworldly thoughts. There were the silent monks, already dead to the earth; there was their brother who had just finished his pilgrimage; there were the cowled skeletons still preaching from the grave, the bell tolled above us, and there was that awful form, ever pointing his fixed denunciation, "Remember, man, that thou art dust, and unto dust thou shalt return." He who has witnessed such a scene may not easily forget the grave.

The Catholics have strange notions of saintship, and this account is written by one of their body. As Protestants, we believe that "abstaining from meats," so far from being a mark of sanctity, is, under many circumstances, blameworthy.-Editor.