'All things are yours and ye are Christ's.' He is touched by everything that is beautiful in nature and in art; and his charming songs have, therefore, awakened a responsive chord wherever the German language is spoken."

It was a great privilege to listen to a sermon by this celebrated poet-precher. We had reached Stuttgart on Saturday, and had devoted the afternoon to a ramble about the city and its environs. On Sunday morning we inquired, who was expected to preach in the principal churches. We had longed to hear Prelate Kapff, but were informed that he was not in the city. There would, however, be no disappointment, as Dr. Gerok was to occupy the pulpit of the "Schloss Kirche;" and to hear him, our informant seemed to think, was even a greater privilege.

It was still early, and we lingered awhile under the trees of a little park in the heart of the city. Most of the stores were closed, and the streets were perfectly quiet. It was a good time for reflection; and, with a degree of tenderness which can only be felt in a foreign land, we thought of our dear friends in America.

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I thought, while day was breaking,
My little girls were waking,
And kneeling down, and making
A prayer, at home, for me."

At ten o'clock we took our way to the ancient castle in which religious services were to be held. Entering the massive portal, we found ourselves in a paved court-yard, in which stood a statue of the celebrated Eberhard, the Bearded, Count of Wurtemberg. As strangers, we were admitted to the castle by a private entrance, and ascending a winding stairway found ourselves in the gallery of an ancient church.

After the singing of an anthem, Dr. Von Gerok entered the church and approached the altar. He is a small-featured, old man, with long white hair. He wore a black gown with a purple collar, and had a large gold cross suspended around his neck. With all these external decorations the service was exceedingly simple. The sermon, too, was almost childlike in its simplicity. In beauty of style it was, of course, unapproachable, but the contents were adapted to the humblest capacity.

The text was, "What lack I yet?" Matth. 19: 20. The preacher began by speaking of Paul's appearance before Agrippa, which had been the subject of one of the introductory lessons. He believed that Agrippa was sincere in saying, "Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian." There are plenty like him now, who are half-persuaded to become Christians, and never get any further. In the same way the young man in the text was sincere, but he lacked something. He did not lack wealth, nor social position, nor knowledge of the Scriptures; for he was a scribe. 1. He lacked the power of knowing himselfhis deep sinful condition. It is a dreadful characteristic of the present age that men fail to recognize the sinfulness of sin. 2. The young man failed to see that he could not help himself, and that he needed a Saviour. 3. He failed in self-sacrifice. He could not stand the final test. How few there are who could do it now!

This meagre sketch may give some idea of the manner in which the preacher treated his subject, but it can afford no conception of the tenderness and pathos which pervaded his discourse. He evidently selected the simplest language, and preached with so much earnestness that the whole congregation was edified.

As we left the church, the clock struck twelve. Almost in an instant, the whole appearance of the city was changed. The bands began to play, and crowds of merry pleasure-seekers rushed out into the streets. The sweet stillness of the morning had departed, and we were now called to endure the bustle and confusion of a continental Sunday. We sought a quiet spot where we could feel that, for us, at least, the Lord's Day was not yet ended.

In the hope of enabling those of our readers who do not read German, some idea of the merits of Karl Gerok as a poet, we venture to append original versions of several of his minor poems. It has been said that metrical translations are like specimens in herbariums, whose living grace has fled forever; but surely there can be no harm in thus preserving the flowers of distant climes for the benefit of tho e who are not likely to seek them for themselves.

The following is one of the Sacred Poems:

LEBANON.

Sanctified cedars in Lebanon's glade,
Come, let me rest in your odorous shade!
Over me spread your dark mantle of green-
Let all your ravishing beauty be seen.

Under the oaks of my own native land,
Oft have I listened to melodies grand;
Oft, when the pines of the forest were near,
Harpings celestial were borne to my ear.

Far in the east, on my wearisome way, Under the palm, in the heat of the day, Down from the coronet, waving on high, Sounded the zephyr's melodious sigh.

Now I come hither to rest at thy side,
King of the wilderness, Lebanon's pride!
Trees of Jehovah I fain would behold,
Whence the tall pillars were fashioned, of old.

Veteran summits of storm-shaken trees,
Whispering foliage, kissed by the breeze,
Relics of Hiram's and Solomon's time,
Say, do you sound as you did in your prime?

Tell me, where now is the emerald hall?
Lebanon's mountain, how bleak is thy wall!
Cedars of Lebanon, doomed to decay,
Even your evergreen passes away.

Trembling old sentinels, watching alone,
Witnesses mournful of joys that are gone,
Gnawed by the worm, ye are nearing your fall;
Even an infant might number you all.
(Isaiah 10: 19.)

King of the wilderness, robbed of thy state, Tell me, I pray thee, the tale of thy fate! Syrian axes, perchance, struck thee down, Lightnings of heaven have shattered thy crown.

Symbol art thou of humanity's doom:
All things are passing away to the tomb.
Humbly I bow to Jehovah's command,
Knowing that cedars are reeds in His hand.

Sunk and degraded, the temple became, There on Moriah, a prey to the flame; Lebanon humbled its excellent head, Robbed of its crown, all its glory was fled.

Temples of marble no longer shall stand, Fashioned by men at Jehovah's command; Cedars of Lebanon, fashioned with care, Ne'er shall their beautiful canopies bear.

Souls of the righteous, forever, we know,
Green like the cedars shall flourish and grow;
Softly their fragrance is wafted away,
Gently the winds with their foliage play.

Storms blow in vain-they are sound to the
root;
Aged by the strong, they are laden with fruit,
On through the ages, unshaken and fast-
Gracing eternity's temple at last,

The following piece is of a more playful character. Though at first sight it appears somewhat irreverent, it certainly has no such intention. The author intends to satirize the spirit of self-confidence which was so prevalent after the last war with France, when the German nation rejoiced in its victories, but, too often, neglected to give the glory to God.

THE GERMAN BOY'S GRACE AT TABLE.

No day was ever brighter than
The one that told us, of Sedan :
"Mac Mahon's plans to pieces shaken,
Napoleon and his army taken!"

The news, to South, and East, and North,
Along the lines went flashing forth.
For joy the people shouted loud;

The streets were decked with banners proud;
And, here and there, a cannon's throat
Belched forth its loud triumphant note;
And, while the hills with echoes rang,
With one accord the people sang:
"Dear Fatherland, no danger's thine-
Thy children stand to watch the Rhine."
A little boy was in the crowd,
Whose song, in sooth, was clear and loud.
His cap upon one temple jammed,
And in his boots his trowsers crammed,
Untired he bravely marched along,
And joined in every shout and song.
He felt as though himself were he
As though it was his grand design
Whose arm achieved the victory:
Himself to stand and watch the Rhine;
And thus the morning fled so fast,
That soon the dinner-hour was past.

Of glory tired, at last he came, With tangled hair and cheeks aflame, But took his seat, and seized his plate. Bowed to his father, did not wait, His honest father frowned, and said: "Fritz! Thanks are due for daily bread!" Then Fritz at once rose from his chair; Folded his little hands in prayer; But, as the song still filled his head, He raised his eyes to Heaven, and said: "O Blessed Lord! No danger's ThineThy children stand to watch the Rhine!"

TRUE SOCIAL DIGNITY.

To be ashamed of their origin is just now in American society the weakness of the little minds that compose it. The man that rides in his carriage shrinks from the acknowledgment that the money that enables him to have it was earned by his father, with toil and patience, in a tan-yard, behind the counter of a shoemaker, or by honest industry in some other useful occupation below the (so-called) grade of the

merchant or professional man; as if the man did not honor the work, and not the work the man.

To such let Daniel Webster speak. Hear him: "It did not happen to me to be born in a log cabin, but my older brothers and sisters were born in one, and raised among the snow-drifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early that when the smoke arose from the rude chimney, and curled over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence of a white man's habitation between that and the settlements on the rivers of Canada.

"Its remains still exist-I make it an annual visit-I carry my children to it to teach them the hardships endured by the generations that have gone before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred ties, early affections, and the narrations and incidents that mingle with all I know of this primitive family abode. I weep to think that none of those that inhabited it are now living, and if ever I fail in affectionate veneration for him who raised it against savage violence and destruction, cherished all domestic. virtues beneath its roof, and through fire and blood of seven years' revolutionary war, shrunk from no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country, and raise his children to a condition better than his own, may my name and the name of my posterity be blotted from the memory of mankind."

And we add that he who is ashamed of the poor father and mother whose honest labor supported him in childhood, and who daily toiled to give him education, by which he has been able to rise to a condition above the one they occupied, is unworthy to be the associate of wise and good men. All such will despise him; and no matter how lofty he carries his head, he is nothing in the estimate of America's true

noblemen.

KISSING THE GROUND.

Solomon Hess, in his "History of the Reformation in Zurich," says, quoting from a writer of the latter part of the sixteenth century: "Cursing and swearing are sins which are but rarely com

mitted in Zurich. Since the Reformation, swearing by the saints has disappeared, in common with relics and images; and the pious Zurichers have not yet invented new oaths. When an oath escapes from any one, old or young, man or woman, it is made the duty of the bystander to compel the blasphemer to kneel down and kiss the ground, or to pay a fine. The fine is given in God's name, by him who receives it, to the first poor man he meets on the street. Cursing, that is, invoking a curse upon others, is regarded as contemptible, and is almost unknown. Profanity in children is punished by a severe reprimand, addressed to the parents by the minister, and to this there can be no exception."

Kissing the ground had been an ancient penance, which was preserved for a considerable time after the Reformation, as indicating the deepest humiliation. It seems to have been an appropriate employment for unclean lips.

WHAT DID WASHINGTON KNOW?

We don't like to be irreverent, but did our forefathers know? What, for we certainly would like to ask, what instance, did old George Washington know? He never saw a steam-boat; he never saw a fast mail train; he never held his car to a telephone; he never sat for a picture in a photograph gallery he never received a telegraphic dispatch; he never listened to the

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fizz" of an electric pen; he never he never saw a self-propelling engine saw a pretty girl run a sewing-machine; heard of evolution; he down the street to a fire; be never never took laughing-gas; he never had a set of store teeth; he never attended an International Exposition; he never owned a bonanza mine; he never knew "Old Prob;" he-but why go on? No! when he took an excursion it was on a flat-boat; when he went off on a train it was a mule-train; when he wanted to talk to a man in Milwaukee he had to go there; when he had his picture taken it was done in profile with a piece of black paper and a pair of shears; when he got the returns from back counties they had to be brought in by a man