it had a wondrous and mysterious power. This they each one knew, and with the knowledge came a tempting voice which said, "Turn to account these silver tongues, and with them gain high worldly ends." Had the four brethren remained together, mayhap they might have strengthened one another; for each knew the terms on which he held his wondrous faculty, but the tempter had scattered them asunder, and each now dwelt far separated from his fellow. Each one was with his tempter, and had no warning voice, save that which ever spake to him from within.

"Oskar Neubert," whispered a messenger of evil, "thou art fitted for a higher post than this poor station where thou scarce hast bread. Less able men have nobler standing. If I were thee, I would not tarry here."

"They all have friends," replied the young man," and without friends but little can be done."

"Thou canst befriend thyself; true nobility will not owe to another, when it has aught to spend which it can call its own."

"I have no friend."

"Thou hast thy voice, which if thou wilt use as thou shouldst will carry thee to fame and power, and put thee in Jassann Offling's seat, where in thy soul thou knowest thou hast often longed to be."

"Why, then, has not my voice done this ere now?" for Oskar Neubert did not deny that to possess earthly power was his highest wish, and that Jassann Offling's post was that to which he had long aspired.

"Because thy voice is weak. It is by concentration that all great deeds are wrought. Thou spendest too much of its wondrous power in singing in the choir."

"I covenanted with myself," responded Oskar, "that if I could but have this voice, I would sing no other music but such as was designed for heavenly praise."

"Thou art not required to sing in round, or madrigal, or serenade. Thou hast only to abstain from psalmody, and, doubtless, with such a voice, the end desired shall be attained."

For some time after this Oskar Neubert still chanted with the choir; but day by day the thought of supplanting Jassann Offling grew more precious in his eyes, and he dropped off, until at length he altogether ceased. At this time the young man had some state papers to arrange, and was directed to attend with them in person be

fore the king. "Now," whispered the Evil One, "use thy voice to some effect, for thou art upon the highroad to power; Jassann Offling's place is nothing compared to that to which thou canst attain." Oskar Neubert appeared before the king, and what marvel if the monarch was smitten with his speech, and took him into his favour, and learned to yield to his persuasions, and chose his counsel before that of others; for that which was so sweetly spoken could not be easily cast aside. Oskar Neubert became great, and the third year from that in which he had received the angel's gift found him high in worldly power.

Johann Meyer had long loved Hans Kleggien's daughter, but loved, alas! in vain. The lovely Josephine was proud, and Hans himself had too much thought for the honour of his old house to wed his daughter with one who could not tell piece for piece with him in silver and in gold. Hans Kleggien was a man who could fit fortunes together, but who cared not for fitting hearts; but Josephine had no love for Meyer, and so all was well. Johann Meyer was proud also, but not withal too proud to love Hans Kleggien's daughter, even though no love was given to him in turn. So, walking by the river's bank one day, he felt something stirring within his soul, and some one said, "Thou mayest marry Hans Kleggien's daughter."

"It is impossible," said the young man; "I am too poor."

"Oh, thou hast a voice!"

"Yes! a voice to sing; but anthems won't win Hans Kleggien's daughter; they cannot of their very nature be addressed to her."

"But hast thou tried her with that anthem voice ?"

"That voice is sacred," said Johann Meyer, "it is pledged for holy use."

"And yet it would win thee Josephine;" and then there was silence in Johann Meyer's heart.

Along the river's bank the young man walked, and much he thought of Josephine's dark eyes, and more of the words which he had just now heard, that Josephine could be won. "Twere worth my while to try," said Meyer; and that night he ventured upon a song beneath the window of her room. It was a song in praise of love; and presently the latticed window opened, and the lovely Josephine asked who the singer

was.

"Johann Meyer," said the young man; for he was bold in the consciousness of the power he held.

"Will Johann Meyer sing again ?" asked Hans Kleggien's daughter.

"He will sing every night when love commands."

"Good !" said Josephine; "sing always."

And every night did Johann Meyer sing, until at length Hans Kleggien's daughter doved; and despite his pride and love of gold, the voice that won the daughter won the old man too, and Johann became his son. And so far as this world went Johann was a happy man, for Johann was bound to him by the harmonious spell of his sweet, soft voice, and day by day he repeated the incantation afresh over her heart.

Carl Dijeck was fond of gold; and as he was one day counting over the rents of his small estate a voice whispered in his ear, "Thou canst improve thy wealth."

"Nay, nay," said Carl; "I have toiled hard, and except by great frugality, by saving from what I have, I cannot hope for more."

"Thou knowest Gaspar Pflug? Well, use thy voice on the old man as thou hast power to do, and he will leave thee all he has."

The thought struck Carl Dijeck as being very good, and every morning and evening he sat by old Gaspar's bed; true, the more he used his voice on the old man the less he cared for singing in the choir, and more than once he found himself chanting irreverent words to the music which was still as lovely as before; but Gaspar Pflug was dying, and he had seen his will, and soon he went away, and left his money behind, and Carl Dijeck took it all, and was the wonder of his neighbours for the good fortune which had fallen to his lot.

Wilhelm Berlenz alone of the four brethren in song had no earthly gain from his wondrous voice. Day by day the vision of the crown and of the sword dwelt with him, and as he rose each morning he saw them plainly in the twilight of the evening that was to come. At times the young man half wished that he had not received the gift, but seeing that he could not divest himself of it, he bestirred himself earnestly to think what was to be done. For many a day when the choir had gone Wilhelm Berlenz used to remain behind, asking counsel from heaven as to what he was to do with his surpassing voice.

'Spend, and be spent, in the service of the angel's King," was the reply vouchsafed at last.

"Spend, and be spent," said Wilhelm to himself; "what shall I do?" and as he thought, light flashed into his mind.

Wilhelm Berlenz was a physician, and day by day he stood beside the beds of the dying, the poverty-stricken, the outcasts, and the sad. The patients of the hospital loved to have him as their physician; for he soothed their pain with the gentleness of his words, and his voice poured energy into the spirits of the listless, and calm trust into the souls of the desponding, and peaceful hope into the hearts of the most wretched, for whom there seemed to be no comfort on the earth. Wilhelm was called the ghostly doctor, for men said he was a physician of the soul as well as of the frame, and that he had cordials for heartwounds, such as none others possessed. Albrecht Thiede had made himself nearly' mad with wine, but Wilhelm Berlenz won him from the deadly drink. Graff Steinberg's daughter had a broken heart, but Wilhelm Berlenz taught her to look above for peace, and the tints of life spread themselves over her face again. Theodore Shrapt denied that there was a God, or heaven, or hell; but Wilhelm Berlenz sent him from the hospital a believing man, and afterward saw him die in peace.

IV.

Thus time sped on, and the third year from that in which the angel's voice was given saw Oskar Neubert possessed of power, and Carl Dijeck rich in gold, and Johann Meyer the husband of the one be loved, and Wilhelm Berlenz living for the good of the bodies and the souls of men. And at the appointed time light brightened once more around the four brethren in song. The crown and the sword again were seen, and she who held them first drew the sword, and marked Oskar Neubert upon the brow, and said, "Thou hast sold thy gift for power, thou art marked with that which will condemn." Then she marked Johann Meyer over the heart, and said, "Thou hast sold heaven's gift for human love, thou also art numbered unto wrath." Then she drew blood from Carl Dijeck's hand, and said, "Thou hast misspent thy talent, thou also art cast away." Wilhelm Berlenz alone, to whom earth had given nothing, did she extend the crown; and seven days after Wilhelm Berlenz died.

To

From the other three of the brethren passed away all the power of song: Wilhelm Berlenz alone was promoted to become perfect amid the choirs of the land where melody has her home. And often did the members of the earthly choir, now shorn of half its splendour, mourn over their loss; and when they grew grey with age tell their children's children as they sat upon their knees, that in their youth they had one amid their choir who sang with an angel's voice.*

THE DEFORMED ONE.

Mary G- was always happy-at least she always seemed so- and everybody said, "It is strange she thinks no more of her misfortune; it is strange she can be blithe and gay when she is so different from other people. One would think she would feel so deeply her humiliation that she would scarcely wish to mingle in society, and would shrink from the gaze of strangers."

Yes, many thought she really ought to be sad, and exhibit a constant sense of suffering, in order to prove that affliction was "accomplishing its designed effect."

If she had made her calamities a subject of continual conversation, and talked of the "mysterious providences of God," and the necessity of being resigned to his will, giving her voice a monotonous tone, and schooling her face to sadness, there would have been few to doubt her piety and her resignation. This is the exemplification which some people wish to see, in order to believe that true religion exists in the soul, and that the heart is under the influence of grace.

But Mary G had a holier, a more exalted view of religion and of duty than this.. She did not think it required of her to talk of her feelings, and expose the wounds of her lacerated heart to common observers. She did not think it necessary, because God had afflicted her, to sacrifice herself upon every profane altar, or that it was right to attempt to exact sympathy by making a parade of her sufferings.

He who could read her heart knew well the pangs which it experienced, and the woes which oppressed it. He knew that if she yielded to the dictates of an unsancti

fied nature, she would screen herself from observation, and hide herself in obscurity. It would have been a comparatively pleasant life, and one that required little selfdenial, to shut herself up and mourn, to wear a long face, and spend her time fasting. This was what, in an hour of weakness and temptation, she often resolved to do. It did seem impossible for her to go into the world and meet its rude, unfeeling gaze; it did seem impossible for her to attempt to do good by active exertion, for this was to take up the cross and carry it daily and hourly, and seemed at times an insupportable burden.

But grace had taken too deep a root in her heart, to permit her to settle down into a gloomy misanthrope. Tears she shedbitter, burning tears, in solitude, and on her knees before God, and then she came forth smiling and happy-happy in the consciousness that she was doing right, and that God would give her strength, not only to endure but to act.

I have seen her tears, and heard her agonizing prayers, and watched her patient. suffering, and I knew that what others called indifference or stoicism, was the exercise of the highest christian principle; and what many deemed heartless gaiety or thoughtless levity, was the attempt to conceal or overcome the heaviness which brooded upon her spirits, and which, if indulged, would have turned her brain to madness.

How often have I thought of her martyrlife, of the solitude and desolation of her woman's heart, for her plain exterior and many infirmities precluded the possibility of her ever listening to the sweet whispers of love; the gentle offices in which she would have delighted, and the sympathies without which life's pilgrimage seemed a pathway through the burning sands of the desert, could never be hers. She must give, give, and receive not, yet her heart was ever full; her sorrows were many, yet she was ever ready to take upon her the burdens of others; to every story of suffering she listened, not patiently, not enduringly, but sympathisingly, and forgetting. herself, or so entirely seeming to, that others thought little of woes, compared with which their own were insignificant; and while her own was breaking, she bound

up the hearts of others, and poured into them the oil of healing, a kingly office which no earthly hand thought it necessary to perform for her.

And so she lived on; and when I knew her she had grown old in the midst of a misjudging world; her raven hair was threaded with silver, and her cheek was furrowed; yet never did I see her sad, with what the world calls sadness.

It was often remarked to her by the thoughtless, that she was indeed just the one to be the victim of such a sorrow, because she was less sensitive, and heeded so little the world's opinions; and she smilingly answered, "It is well;" but her words had a depth which the thoughtless knew not, and which they would not have been able to comprehend. But this was what she often said to me in the fulness of her heart: "Oh, how often it seems to me impossible for a single hour to endure the humiliation consequent upon such an affliction! how can one who possesses human feeling look on me and imagine me indifferent? Long, a long life I have lived; and there has, perhaps, never been a day that words like these, those thoughtless words, which, to a timid and shrinking spirit, are like spears and daggers, have not been uttered in my presence, and pierced my heart; and because I knew them to be thoughtless, and prompted in no unkindness-often, perhaps, spoken in very sympathy, I have never once permitted a shadow to cross my brow, that could betray the anguish under which I writhed. But I have often exclaimed with Job, 'Would that I could write a book,' to teach those who have never suffered, the true nature of sympathy; and tell them, too, the source whence strength is derived to enable one to seem indifferent to what is more terrible than death! I have been ill, and there came to me comforters who talked of the duty of being resigned, if God should see fit to take away my life; they knew not how easy it would have been to lay down. such a life; how bright and glorious would have seemed to me a world where suffering could never enter. Neither did they realize how infinitely more merciful God had been in granting me grace to be resigned to life; in sustaining me through all this dark valley of humiliation, that I should not dishonour him by unchristian repining; that I should not sit down in not less unchristian inactivity, that I might escape the

thorny path which was before me, and refuse to drink the bitter cup which he had prepared for me. I cannot say I have never repined; that sinful thoughts, which made me tremble, have not taken possession of my mind; but there was a Fountain whose waters never failed; there was a Comforter who knew how to apply the balm in Gilead to every wound of mind,, and heart, and soul; there was an Arm on which I could lean, and know that it would never weary; there was a Friend whose love no time nor adversity could ever change, and never for an instant have the clouds gathered to hide his face from me; there has never been a moment when I did not feel that he was near, that his rod and his staff were supporting me. But the censure of those who so little heed that command which Christ made so emphatic, 'Judge not that ye be not judged,' has been the one great cross, the one great trial; but there is a day coming when hearts will be opened, and mystery will no longer brood upon the earth. God has enabled me to be resigned to life; death has never seemed other than a welcome messenger. That I have done all the good I could, I am very far from thinking or feeling; but in no way have I done more than by maintaining a cheerful spirit; and now that I am near the grave, and on the verge of eternity, I am not less confident that the resignation which is best pleasing to God-that indeed the only true resignation-is a cheerful acquiescence in all his mysterious dealings with us; that the trust alone is perfect which does not say only, but acts, It is the Lord, let him do what seemeth to him good.' When he gives and when he takes away, we know the hand that does it; should we not then cheerfully resign what he sees fit to take from us? There is no virtue in merely submitting to what we cannot help. We do not call it obedience in a child to refuse to give up only what is taken by force, or to yield, and then sit down in sullen silence. We call him obe-` dient when he pleasantly and promptly lays. aside what is forbidden, and amuses himself with what is not. He may feel regret and sorrow, but his attempt to enjoy what is freely permitted, proves that he believes those who watch over him know best what is for his good."

I might write a volume of the lessons I learned from her who often tried to impress upon me this; but none seemed to me to

inculcate a more pure and lofty idea of christian principle, of the faith, and hope, and charity of christian experience, than the one I have here imperfectly repeated.

My friend has now gone where she can no longer teach by example; but I would that her influence might extend beyond the little sphere in which she walked, and if there are any whom God has given to drink of the same bitter waters of affliction, may they drink also abundantly at the same fountain of consolation, and let others remember that God sees the heart, and he alone is judge!

THE BARREN FIG-TREE RE

VIVED.

A pious minister, Mr. X, was travelling, one Saturday afternoon, towards a large town, where there were many religious professors of different denominations. Thinking it probable that he might be requested to preach on the following day, he employed the solitude of his journey in meditating on a subject for a sermon. The text to which his thoughts were directed was the language of the dresser of the vineyard, in our Lord's beautiful parable of the barren fig-tree: "Lord, let it alone for this year also, till I shall dig about it, and dung it; and if it bear fruit, well; and if not, then, after that, thou shall cut it down."

At rather a late hour in the evening, he arrived at the town; and it was not known that he had arrived till he appeared on the Lord's day morning as a hearer in a place of worship, where he was well known and highly respected. The minister of the congregation, who was in the pulpit when Mr. X entered the place, conducted the service. Mr. X was struck with his text; it was the awful denunciation of the lord of the vineyard respecting the barren fig-tree in the above-mentioned parable. "Cut it down; why cumbereth it the ground?" The leading idea of his sermon, which he entered into with great seriousness, was, that when the patience of God towards sinners has long been abused and perverted, we are warranted to expect that it will be exchanged for merited displeasure and wrath, if not in this world, yet in the next. Having illustrated his subject in a very impressive and edifying manner, he drew this inference: That the Divine procedure with sinners should be

considered as a pattern for the imitation of Christian churches; and that, although it was their duty to exercise great forbearance towards sinners, and to adopt every mode of expostulation, admonition, and reproof; yet that, when they had withstood all, and appeared incorrigible, it became equally their duty, however painful the task, to cut them off as cumberers of the ground; at the same time recommending them to the mercy of the lord of the vineyard.

After the service, Mr. X was requested by his brother minister to preach in the afternoon, and readily consented. The morning sermon, though founded on the same parable, had not pre-occupied his ground; he did not, therefore, deem it necessary to alter his plan; but considering the coincidence as one of those unforeseen events which Providence often overrules for good, he preached, as he before intended, on the plea of the dresser of the vineyard. On the forbearance and long-suffering of God displayed towards sinners, through the intercession of the great Mediator, he expiated with great affection. In the application of his sermon, he was led to hint at the long-extended forbearance which the disciples of Christ, in imitation of such an example, should exercise towards those who have offended; not knowing but that, by delaying the awful sentence of exclusion, they might be happily instrumental in leading them at length to "bring forth fruits meet for repentance." If so, it would be well indeed; and if not, the excluding sentence would be more obviously and satisfactorily the requisition of duty.

The minister of the place thanked his brother for the sermon, acknowledged the truth and excellence of the doctrine contained in it, but expressed a fear that, undesignedly, it might be the occasion of some trouble to the church. He then proceeded to relate the circumstance which had directed him to his morning subject. A man who, for some years, had been an exemplary member of the church, had now for a considerable time been addicted to the sin of drunkenness, which had been followed by the breach of the Sabbath, the love of irreligious company, the neglect of domestic duties, and, as a result of the rest, an awful hardness of heart, which resisted every effort to produce salutary impressions. He had been admonished" repeatedly by the minister, the deacons, and many of the members; and from the time