Virtue is unselfish, profiting by the example of Truth, which lends its light to all who will borrow. When mounting the hill of life, it would rush to aid Ixion or Sisyphus. It is the good Samaritan of life, which never passes by on the other side. stimulate men to the practice of virtue. For, be- vision as it looks toward heaven; like the soul, ing themselves fit teachers only so far as fitly that ever increases in peace as it is filled with the taught, in their own discipleship they have enrapturing views of paradise; like the mind, that learned that the real happiness, the summum ever expands as it is filled with the infinite of bonum of life, consists in the love for, and the prac- | God, the Eternal Truth. tice of virtue. The individual can only expect to receive the waters of Truth when walking by the banks of those little rivulets that flow so quietly along every pathway of real life. As he drinks these waters, and allows them to penetrate his whole moral being, the very element of happiness, which is peace, enters into his soul, and he realizes what Juvenal says: "Virtue is the only true nobility." And then, too, as, after all, these little rivulets flow quietly on, and by and by unite in the great sea of moral life, and social activity, so these individuals, forming as they do, in the aggregative of them, society, carry every-where the life, and power, and excellence of Virtue, augmenting largely the general happiness of the race. Virtue has been defined as "the development, or outward manifestation of the good." It is then an active principle, and, when allowed to work out its proper task, secures the triumphs of Truth. For Goodness and Truth are twinned jewels in the coronal of God. Wherever they flash their light, there grows up the beautiful and lovely flowers of Virtue. Their rays fall upon the lowly, and the splendors of heaven flash from the humble setting, as if there were a power in the very beams to turn the worthless stones of earth into gems more precious than those dug up in eastern vales. Virtue is like clean water. It will purify the foul garment of vice. And it is willing to do this service to every one, and asks not whether it is Elisha or Naaman who comes to the seven-fold bathing. Virtue is like fire. It consumes the dross, and leaves the precious. It possesses that remarkable power of separating the clean from the impure, that leaves each to its own place, but rescues the valuable for the good of the race. Or, as the ancient Roman moralist said, it rather, "like fire, seeks to turn all things to itself." The alchemists of yore sought for a philosopher's stone, which, being touched upon the vilest metal, would transmute it into gold. Virtue lays its hand upon the wood, the hay, and stubble of this world, and by its power shows you the precious ingot of humanity, ready for the society of the immortal. It has the stamp of the true coin, impressed by the hand of God, marking it with its value, genuine and intrinsic. GT OLD THINGS. BY IDA LOUISA. IVE me the old songs, those exquisite bursts of melody which thrilled the lyres of the inspired poets and minstrels of long ago. Every note has borne on the air a tale of joy and rapture-of sorrow and sadness! They tell of days gone by, and time hath given them a voice which speaks to us of those who once breathed these melodies-of what they now are, and what we soon shall be. My heart loves those melodies; may they be mine to hear till life shall end, and as I "launch my boat" upon the sea of eternity, may their echoes be wafted to my ear, to cheer me on my passage from the scenes of earth and earth-land! Give me the old paths, where we have wandered and culled the flowers of love and friendship, in the days of "Auld Lang Syne;" sweeter, far, the dells whose echoes have answered to our voices; whose turf is not a stranger to our footsteps, and whose rills have in childhood's days reflected back our forms, and those of our merry play-fellows, from whom we have parted, and meet no more in the old nooks we loved so well. May the old paths be watered with Heaven's own dew, and be green forever in my memory! Give me the old house, upon whose stairs we seem to hear light footsteps, and under whose porch a merry laugh seems to mingle with the winds that whistle through old trees, beneath whose branches lie the graves of those who once trod the halls, and made the chambers ring with glee. And O! above all, give me the old friends— hearts bound to mine in life's sunshiny hours, and a link so strong that all the storms of earth might not break it asunder-spirits congenial, whose hearts through life have throbbed in unison with our own! O, when death shall still this heart, I would not ask for aught more sacred to hallow my dust, than the tear of an old friend. May my funeral dirge be chanted by the old friends I love so fondly, who have not yet passed away to the It is like the eye, that ever grows in extent of spirit's bright home! 656 MOSES, THE SWAN OF THE NILE. BY H. F. GOULD. By him who, on the desert mount, We do from earth mount up with wings, As eagles, for the hight To sun us, hovering, while he sings, In more than regal state, The prophet stands, with beaming face, Yet, like the hidden mountain rill A nascent flood-began From Deity to man! Of song he was the gifted child To be himself most high, And every Hebrew son had doomed The pagan's cruel, mad device For slavery or death, Dissolved like walls and chains of ice, Beneath the Almighty's breath. The servants of a higher King Of Pharaoh not afraid Before his throne their cause to bring His higher law obeyed. And in his little glutined ark The infant Moses slept, As holy freedom's vital spark For Israel safely kept. That beauteous cygnet of the Nile, And caged for Pharaoh's court, the while They saw his plumage all unstained, But dreamed not that his breast contained Could not his spirit tame; The fire within they could not check, Yet, O! his highest, deathless song, To Israel's sorrowing tribes, That each sad soul might thence retain Then up the mountain hight sublime, When, ne'er to dust were obsequies So high in state as there Life's river, and to sing, With his white wings his face to vail, The Christ--whom Moses dimly saw Should here for man fulfill the law, And heaven's pure gates unfoldWhen he assumed a mortal birth, From the bright seraphin, Once called down Israel's Swan to earth, To testify of Him! RESOLUTION. BY LUELLA CLARK. O SINKING Soul, be strong! The glory is for aye. Hope's long delay Wait, and the night will turn The guerdon at the end. The robe of mourning fold; From every depth of grief Joy glimmers through; The storm still rages loud, But yonder breaks the blue. O restless soul, be still! True life is love; O unbelieving man! Strive for the goal; And lo! the crown, COUSIN RUTH'S STORY. BY ALICE CARY. sitting on the porch alone and reading her book so solemnly." My cousins said nothing, and I continued PEACEFUL and mossy sort of silence seemed "Don't you all wish so? and that Miss Redfield A to come up out on they do well by which we sat, Ruth, and Sally, and Merrill, and I, watching the clouds, specked with red, and purple, and white, beautiful as the apple-tree blossoms above our heads. The sun was just down, and the cool shadows going up out of the valleys and along the hill-tops in search of the stars, wrapt us about with a quiet and deep comfort unlike what children are used to be blessed with. The cattle were lying down in the grassy lane, and the stroke of a distant ax, the sound of a closing gate, or the rattle of some home-going wagon, now and then drowned the little homely song of the grasshopper, and caused Merrill's big black dog to lift his head from between the grizzly paws that were outstretched toward the door-yard gate. But there were no ruder noises to break the silence, none at all, indeed, unless it were the clatter of milk pails, as they were turned down to dry on the stones at the door of some farm-house-the tinkle of the sheep-bells, or the fragmentary song of some light-hearted rustic as he fed his steers, or slipped the halter from the neck of his unbroken colt. were here under the apple-tree with us?" Sally ran to catch a butterfly-she was too happy to sit still any longer, she said, and Merrill bounded away, and mounting a pair of stilts that had been all day leaning against the barn-door, hitched himself up and down the door-yard, affecting to have become a man, and telling a little visionary Merrill that if he was a boy and any body said any thing that made him feel bad, he would n't feel bad, because there was n't any thing for a boy to feel bad about-especially a boy that had always loved his aunt Elenor and treated her kindly. "What made Sally go away?" I inquired, "and why is Merrill talking to himself instead of us?" "O I do n't know," replied Ruth, "I suppose Sally likes butterflies, and Merrill his own company." She broke a twig from the lilac bush that grew close by, as she spoke, and plowing furrows with it through the ant-hill at her feet sent the little people wildly away from their city of dust. I thought I saw a shadow meanwhile, deeper than the twilight made, dimming the eyes of my sweet cousin, and drawing her close to me and looking straight at her ingenuous face I said, "What is it, dear Ruth?" "What is what?" she said, the bright red mounting from her neck and cheeks to the forehead she turned from me. The beauty of the hour and the harmony of the sounds touched me like an inspiration, and I burst out in exclamations of delight. "What a nice place this is!" I said. "I like the old house with its white porch and rows of tall trees in front; I like the barn with its comfortable accommodations for swallows and pigeons, as well as horses and cows; I like the spring with its everlasting generosity-the woods, the orchardevery thing in fact—why, it is just like a picture.ing toward the porch where aunt Elenor sat readOnly look across the garden toward the sunset and see the meeting-house with its white steeple showing so plainly against the sky." "That brown house with the sharp gable is the parsonage," said Sally, "and the young woman just passing the gate is Miss Redfield, the preacher's daughter." The cottage bonnet was hanging on her neck, and she held before her face an open book, from which she appeared to be reading too intently to observe us. At any rate she did not turn her head even when the breeze took up some loose leaves from her book and carried them almost to our feet. "She pretends not to see us," whispered Merrill, "because aunt Elenor is sitting on the porch." "I wish she were the preacher's wife," said I, "and drinking tea with him just now, instead of VOL. XVII-42 "What is it makes you look down and blush so? that is all." She passed her hand across her face, and turn ing the Bible, the color went away, and a serene beauty that was brighter and better came in its place, and gathering up both my hands in hers she said with sudden energy, "It's an ugly thing to tell a lie, and I have just told one—Sally and Merrill did not run away because they were happy." Then in answer to my look of surprise and inquiry she continued: I will tell you all about it. You know our dear mamma was, before her death, an invalid for a long while, scarcely coming out of her chamber from one week's end to another, and when she did so was quite incapable of restraining us with our strong health and robust spirits. Indeed, she paid little heed to us for the last year of her life except sometimes to threaten us with a governess if we were not better children-this was a dreadful fear before us; for these threats, together with the reports of other children who were being taught at home, led us to believe all governesses to be ogresses, with black, frowning foreheads, and rods in their hands. Many a time we planned the rebellious pranks we would play if the threatened catastrophe should ever befall us. Our father was from home all day, very often not returning at night till we were in bed-of the domestics we stood in little awe; so, for the most part, we had the widest liberty we could desire, racing the meadows, quite regardless of the admonition that the steers would catch us on their horns and toss us up to the sky. We climbed saplings, chased bumble-bees, tied the wings of the geese together, yoked the turkeys, rode the gray mare over the hills, and made her leap the brooks with all three of us on her back to our heart's content. Furthermore, we navigated the waters of the creek on planks, and sometimes went beyond our own premises for nuts, berries, and wild grapes, tearing frocks and hats with no more compunction than as if we were putting them to their most legitimate use. apples in the grass, and with faces that we meant should look very bold and honest, marched directly up to him, expecting to be accused of theft, and ready to turn our pockets inside out if we were. When, instead of the frown we expected, he smiled and, one by one, took us by the hand, coming down to our little pleasures and asking about them as if he were a boy, our cheeks tingled and we hung down our heads in spite of ourselves. He took us about the yard, showing whatever would be likely to interest us, and finally took the Indian bow from Merrill's hand, and to show what an expert marksman he had been in his youth aimed an arrow at the barn-door, which he missed by twice its width. This little exploit put us completely at our ease and won our admiration. For my part I half wished he would accuse me of having stolen the apples, that I might confess it and take home with me his forgiveness, instead of having in my bosom the ugly secret I had there; but no reproof could have been so humiliating as was his confidence in our innoBut the dark-cence-his trust in our truthfulness and seeming admiration of us. I suspect now that he had his own motive, and that he knew right well we had been stealing apples. est shadow we had ever seen crossed us in our wild romping life. One day of the autumn I was twelve years old, when the maple you see on the hill-side yonder was lighting the dim woods with its golden dress, they made a grave under it, and for a time its silence hushed our noisy mirth more effectually than the living voice of our mother had done. Youth is careless, however, and we grow out of our sorrows as we grow out of our dresses, and at the end of six months, in spite of the many excellent lessons Mr. Redfield, our minister, had given us, the exuberance of our natures sprouted wildly out again-we shied away from the mapletree and passed stealthily before the close-shut door of the chamber that used to be our mother's; but when we had the orchard, or the barn, or a hill-top between us and these subduing mementoes, we shouted and romped like the wild, ungoverned rustics we were. You see the red chimney of the old house away to the north-well, there is where Mr. Redfield used to live, and one day when we were passing near the house for we took pleasure in going where we had no business-we saw him reading his book on the porch. There was a tree of ripe apples just down the hill and out of sight from where he sat, and we had our pockets full of the fruit we had been stealing. He called to us in tones of the utmost kindness, and thinking we should betray our guilt if we affected not to hear him, we slyly dropped our When we were going home he put on his hat and said he would go a little way with us, and to our surprise and most thorough mortification he led us straight to the apple-tree and told us to fill our pockets and our hands, and to come another time and bring with us a basket. We never stole apples after that, but our complete reformation was not effected without committing other and more bitter offenses. When we were sent to school we complained that the master did not teach us any thing, and that he was very cross and cruel into the bargain. We loitered on the way to the school-housepouted, and played, and otherwise misspent our time when there, and thus brought upon ourselves the doom which, of all things, we dreaded mosta governess was procured for us. We had long before settled it in our minds that she would be old and homely, and cross as she could be; that we would not like her, and would not be taught by her; and when she came we pretended to each other that our expectations were all realized. We had one difficulty to compete with, however, that we had not foreseen-it was easy to slight, and tease, and trouble her just as we had planned to do; but after all we could not keep her from loving us. We had been so neglected, poor children, she said, it was no wonder we chafed at the decent restraints and sober ways she was obliged to enforce, but after a while we would learn that the liberty to do wrong was no liberty at all, and that for right-doing we had all the freedom we wanted. The sweet, patient smile was always on her face, do what we would to vex her; and her gentle voice never rose any higher for all our disobedience. Mischief was natural to children, she used to say, and necessary to strengthen the patience of their guardians. She might, perhaps, have won our hearts by her much kindness and love, but for one circum stance. bornness and disobedience. I was big enough to be my own mistress, she said; it was bad enough for Merrill and Sally to be dictated to by an old governess, let alone me, who of right was mistress, not only of myself, but of the entire household. So precocious a young lady was not long in discovering what had escaped our observation, namely, that Miss Parsons-aunt Elenor, as we call her now-cherished a warm regard for her father, and that it was reciprocated on his part. When this fact was communicated we all held a council together as to what we should do about it, for we felt that some immediate and decisive action was demanded of us, but could resolve upon nothing better than to redouble our custom About six months after her installment at our house, suddenly came home to live with her father in the new parsonage, and superintend the house, Miss Mary Redfield. We had never seen her tillary annoyances. then, for she had been at a boarding school since her mother's death, which was seven or eight years before, and longer than her father had been among us. She was fifteen years old, and I was thirteen when she came, and partly that we were the nearest neighbors and partly that she was as much of a child as myself, we soon became most intimate friends. She had some showy beauty, dressed gayly, was overflowing with coarse spirits, and in the presence of her elders and superiors talked a great deal too loud and too much. Our governess she disdained to designate by her proper name, employing instead such epithets as "her ladyship," and "her royal highness." In speaking of her father she was in the habit of saying "the doctor," "his reverence," and the like-not so much to cast opprobrium upon him as to assert her own rollicking independence. She insisted that we should call her "Moll," and appropriate her dresses and bonnets to our use and convenience at pleasure, claiming, meanwhile, the same liberty with our personal effects. Indeed, she generally preferred Merrill's hat to her own; and if there were the slightest excuse for it in cloud or damp she was sure to avail herself of his boots, and that she made ostentatious display of them you may be sure. A bold, dashing, saucy girl, in fact, was Mary Redfield two years ago. She is changed now for the better, and so are we all I hope. She gathered my hair up off my neck and fastened it at the back of my head in womanly style, using one of her own expensive combs for the purpose, clasped one of her gold bracelets on my wrist, and adorned my neck with my own best shoestrings, having attached thereto her second best silver pencil. Moreover, she strengthened my faltering courage back to its old stub Molly engaged to hide her father's white neckcloth the following Sunday and oblige him to preach in a black one, which we all agreed would be serving him right. Merrill was to whistle "High Betty Martin" under the pulpit window, and we girls were all to wear red flowers in our hats in imitation of Miss Parsons, and let her see that we knew she tried to make herself look young and pretty. I am glad to say we never executed these ridiculous designs; but we did many other things that we are all sorry for now. Every day Miss Parsons wiped something from her desk, and every day we informed her that we knew nothing about it, but at night we met Molly in the lane and confessed the truth, and tried to believe it was a funny joke. Oftener and oftener Mr. Redfield made his evening walk in the direction of our house, and oftener and aftener Miss Parsons would be standing at the gate, and for half an hour they would converse together, and at the end of it Miss Parsons would return to the house very thoughtfully and slowly-sometimes having in her hand a book, sometimes a rose, and at other times only a sprig of myrtle or a leaf; but no matter what it was she brought, it was sure to be hidden so carefully away that we could never find it with all the ransacking we did. Now and then Miss Parsons would go into the lane and walk on its soft short grass of an evening, and in the walk she was sure to be joined by Mr. Redfield, and they would go away toward the old mill, where there was nothing that could interest them, we said, but one another. Sometimes Mr. Redfield would come over with Molly an hour before sunset, looking very smart and smiling, upon which occasions he was in the habit of saying he had brought his daughter to sup with the young people; but we understood |