TRUTH.

IT used to be said of Fontenelle, that "if he had his hand full of truths, he would be very much afraid to open it ;" and in this world truth is both inestimably precious, and often most dangerous, to those who conscientiously speak it.—Business of Life.

Enquiries and Correspondence.

Wishing to Die.

DEAR SIR,-Will you kindly favor me with your opinion as to whether Christians should wish to die. St. Paul tells us, (Phil. i. 21.) "To live is Christ; to die is gain." Should we prefer gain to Christ? ELIZABETH.

By "gain," in this passage is meant a closer and more intimate and endearing union with Christ, as the apostle tells us in verse 23rd, far better than anything we can hope to enjoy here. It is nevertheless wrong to wish for death. God has work for us to do; and when that work is accomplished will take us home.

Christ bearing his Cross.

DEAR SIR,-In John xix. 17, it is said, that Jesus himself bore his cross, while in Luke xxiii. 26, it is said that Simon, a Cyrenian bore it. Both Matthew and Mark agree with Luke. Can you explain this? Yours most respectfully,

ALFRED M.

These passages admit of an easy reconciliation: they do not, indeed, involve any contradiction if taken in their connection. Jesus was led away from the presence of Pilate bearing his cross, and as they so led him away, they laid hold upon one, Simon, a Cyrenian, coming out of the country, whom they pressed into this ignominious service, for reasons which are not stated, but which it is not difficult to conjecture when we consider the recent intense sufferings of Jesus, and the bodily prostration consequent thereon.

POETR Y.

THE GRINDSTONE OAK.

[This beautiful tree stands on the borders of the once celebrated Holt Forest: it is very old and one of the finest ever seen: a fence protects it from depredation. It is well worthy the attention of the traveller and artist.]

Relic of ages past!

Alone thou stand'st in solitary pride,

Unbow'd by warfare with the storm and blast,
An ancient landmark by the broad road side.

The wild bird of the air

No longer nestles in thy waving bough:
Thy gnarled and spreading branches all are bare,
No green and glorious foliage wreathes them now.
A silence seems to brood

-A solemn silence, in the peaceful glade,
Wherein for many a century thou hast stood
Casting around thy deep sepulchral shade.

But 'twas not always so,

For here would bands of merry revellers chase,
With bounding courser and with well-strung bow,
The antlered herd from their green hiding place.

And joyous laughter too,

Rang out like music in the forest bowers,

From those whose nimble feet brush'd off the dew
In childish dance among the wild wood flowers.

All-all-are gone away;—

Though many lingered on this earth, till age
Had changed their glossy locks to silver-grey,
Yet not one now remains on life's sad page.

The tomb has claimed them all,
The thousand thousands of the times gone by,
O'er many more may spread the funeral pall,
E're thou shalt cease to meet the traveller's eye.

Still is the ivy green,

Round the stark branches of that ancient tree!
This the bright type of what our youth has been,
And that, of change and fall so soon to be!

Yet while we mark thee rear

Thy rigid arms to yon o'er-arching sky,
How shall we not from this sin-tainted sphere,
Reach forward to our better home on high?

ANNIE WHITE.

RUTH.

"And Ruth said, 'Intreat me not to leave thee.""

Intreat me not to leave thee, mother, my soul is knit with thine, Affection's heartstrings with thine own so strongly intertwine; My cherished fatherland, my gods I have forsaken,

With thee, in health or sickness, my portion have I taken.

I know what is a stranger's love, I know the heartless glance—
I know the look of selfish care, of sullen complaisance;

If thou wilt take me home with thee, though there I am unknown,
A stranger with the strangers, uncar'd for and alone,
Yet I shall have a mother's love, for I shall be with thee,
And feel that balsam of the heart, a kindly sympathy.
And well I know in Moab-in this my native land
Where kinsmen circle round me, a near and numerous band,
They disregard the ties of blood, the widowed woman's claim,
And give with niggard grudging hand, although in bounty's

name.

I rather would my humble lot with thee my mother share,
Although, nor easy be the bed, nor dainty be the fare;
The coarsest crust, the frugal store, are sweeter far to me,
When shared between two loving hearts, with kindly sympathy,
Than all the choicest dainties that spread the rich man's board,
Than all the unnumbered treasures that swell his princely hoard.
For there, behind the abundance, there lurks the withering scorn,
Cover'd by film of courtesies, as roses hide the thorn:
Mother, I'd rather live with thee in small and frugal state,
Than crouch behind the tables-the tables of the great.

Intreat me not to leave thee, with thee I mean to go,

In wealth or needy poverty, in happiness or woe:

Thy people shall my people be, oh let them be, I crave;

With thee I mean to die, mother, with thee to make my grave, Intreat me not to leave thee, mother, for nought but death shall part

The tye of deep affection, the yearning of the heart.

THE EMPEROR AND THE FISHERMAN.*

[In the month of February, 1077, Henry IV. Emperor of Germany-the descendant of the Cæsars,-a young and haughty prince, travelled barefoot and unattended through the snows of the Apennines, and for three days and nights knelt without the gates of Canosa, an humble suppliant to the Pope, for his dominions and his life. This contrast between Nero and Peter, and their successors, Henry and Hildebrand, gave rise to the following sonnet.]

Is conquest to the strongest ? Since its youth,
A thousand springs, the monarch of the wood
Unscathed by lightning or the blast, hath stood,—
And might a thousand more-did not the tooth
Of weak and puny insect, without ruth,

Channel crook't pathways with his brotherhood,
And make the oak's firm adamant his food:-
Thus weak things mar the mightiest in sooth.

And who had said that Cæsar on his throne,
Purpled-girt with lictorial majesty—
With the known world dependent on his frown,
Would, ere some few short centuries had flown,
Have knelt abased-compelled the might to own
Of the poor Fisherman of Galilee?

S. X.

* We insert this fine sonnet for the sake of its poetry, though not without some fear that it may be misunderstood. Our correspondent by no means intends to insinuate that the Pope is the rightful representative of St. Peter, or worthy of the supremacy here supposed; but uses the historical fact merely for the sake of shewing that temporal power, however lofty, must acknowledge the "greater glory" of spiritual authority, even though derived originally from a poor fisherman of Galilee.-ED.