and painful would be the bewildering indefiniteness of such representation, to the bowed and weary wanderer through the shadows and gloom of affliction.

Others, and they are by far the larger class, regard affliction as a divine visitation upon men in the form of judgments. These heavy judgments flow from the divine displeasure against the sinful world; they are awful expressions of heaven's wrath against weak and erring humanity. This view, that we are made to sorrow because God is angry with us; that our pain is only the bitter sting of his hot wrath against us for our sins; this view, I say, has something in it that is shocking to the soul possessed of any religious sensibility. If this representation be true, the chief end of sorrow is the strange gratification of an offended Divinity. What thought could be more crushing to the sufferer! This theory, orthodox it is claimed to be, is too monstrous, it reflects too severely upon the moral disposition of God, to find acceptance in the heart where he is revered and loved as the pure and infinite Father.

An

And while I say this, I do not put out of sight the sad fact that there is much suffering, from the slightest shade to the darkest and most awful, that arises from our imperfection and sin; and of which we are consequently the immedi ate cause. But then it is most manifest that our suffering does not all come thence. No logic has ingenuity enough to make it all spring from wrong within ourselves. There are sorrows from which no saintly virtues can save us. And they are moreover our deepest sorrows. unseen hand sometimes presses heavily upon the heart, which we cannot lift off at our will. Our tears sometimes flow against our prayers, and the sigh gets the mastery of our thoughts. Pangs there are, too, which can only be felt; there is no language for them; they do their solemn work back of the seat of all material sensations, in the central essence of the living spirit. And whatever else may be their cause, they spring not immediately from sin. All good men have known them, and they have left their emblems even on the cross, which hence has become the symbol of the world's faith and hope.

But sorrow has its uses, and they chiefly concern the sufferer. They seem to us of the highest spiritual importance. Not in vain were we made to suffer and weep, and not blindly does this mighty experience fall upon us. It is an ordination of God for the wisest and most be

neficent uses. Among these uses is that of Discipline, necessary and healthful Discipline.

Spiritual developement and discipline are among those things which most of all in this life we need. Proper manhood cannot be attained without them. It is upon growth, progress, that moral perfection and genuine happiness depend; but growth must not be too rank and violent, else it will result in distorted forms and inward weakness. Pruning, the invigorating exercise of the wind and storm must do their work upon the growing development: there must be check and moderation in order that time may be had for the gathering and permanent deposit of the necessary vital forces and strength. Among the agencies which operate this result, sorrow holds a very conspicuous place. It breaks in upon the current of our thoughts; it arrests the tide of our feelings; it stops us in our career, and shows us the feebleness of our condition and the narrowness of our resources, when those resources are merely human. In a word, it puts to the trial our thoughts, feelings and powers; and from the one-sided character of our past experience and development failing then to sustain us, obliges us to exert new energies and to put forth efforts in new directions. When sorrow comes, and we bend under its awful pressure, we at once discover that there is need in the soul for one kind of culture which we have not yet given it, and which perhaps we never should have given it, had not this dark dispensation revealed its great necessity. Hence the discipline of sorrow tends to give completeness to our spiritual growth, and therefore renders us an important service in perfecting the character.

Does any one say that this is asserting more than facts will bear out; that we really witness no such pure and high results flowing from the ministration of sorrow as are here intimated, or at any rate they do not extend so far? Ianswer, facts do bear out all I have said, and much more. Who needs to be told that the purest and mightiest spirits among men, have been the children of trial and sorrow. Do you see a brother devoting himself and his substance to the sons of affliction and want?-be sure he hath himself already tasted the bitterness of sorDo you behold a woman-strong in her very weakness; smoothing with delicate hand the brow of anguish; bending with unwearied gentleness, and a calm moral beauty over a neighbor's bed of death; or speaking sweet and tender words that drop like heaven's balm upon

row.

the afflicted spirit; be sure her heart has first felt the baptism of sorrow-has first known what it is to be torn and bleed. Or need I tell you, that those who have suffered much, meet this dispensation with greater presence of mind and resignation of spirit; that they actually manifest vastly more moral strength, than those who are nearly unused to this kind of spiritual discipline.

It is a fact, then, that sorrow does make us stronger; that it developes a kind of power in us, the most pure and spiritual, which nothing else does; and that it thus tends to give vigor and fullness to our moral strength, and perfection and beauty to our character-blessings without which we are comparatively indigent and imbecile.

And then, moreover, what a purifying influence does this ordination exert upon those who become its subjects? What is there more chastening, indeed, more refining in its office upon the human soul? Have you not seen it still the rage of passion; subdue the hard and perverse will; quench the fires of enmity; soothe the waters of contention; soften the rude man into the gentleness of the little child; and bend the haughtiest pride to the meekness and humility of a proper disciple of Jesus? Sometimes, you will see a single visitation of sorrow change the whole current and character of a man's life; sometimes it makes of the sinful man a man of prayer and devout life; sometimes it awakens those upon whom it falls from their dream of worldliness to the high and glorious realities of truth, duty and heaven. Some persons indeed owe almost more to sorrow than to direct blessings, for the purity and excellence of their characters; since it has been under this painful discipline that both their attention has been arrested, and the work of regeneration gone on. And I apprehend, could we, in this regard, analyze our own experience so as to trace effects to their real causes, we should all find ourselves not a little indebted to the same mysterious agency for whatever of those qualities which we, in any eminent degree, possess. We see, then, that another use of sorrow is, to purify and refine our feelings, to chasten our thoughts, and inspire us to genuine excellence of character and life. It is therefore a minister of goodness, doing a work of love-a work which we deeply need-which we could not dispense with without experiencing the greatest loss-and which no other power seems fitted to do as sorrow does it.

We find another use of sorrow in the revela

tion which it makes to us, concerning the friends whose loss we mourn. It has been said we never know the value of our blessings till we lose them. This is especially true of our friends, that we never fully appreciate them till they are taken from us. While they are with us, we do not stop to count over and estimate the blessings which are centred in them. Nor do we put our hands upon our hearts, and feel how large a part of our happiness, our very life even, hangs upon them. Our friends afford us a thousand comforts and pleasures of whose source we are quite unconscious until their fountain is cut off.

And as

We do not know how many kindnesses are done for us, and only on our account; how much labor and strength are expended for our benefit, to meet and relieve our wants, or to multiply our enjoyments, until they who do them have separated from us. It is through our tears that we first behold how rich was the treasure that hung about our bosoms. "When we see the parting wing, then, alas! we discover that truly an angel has been with us." sorrow presses upon us, we discover virtues in the departed, worth and excellences which we never before suspected; while their faults sink away into obscurity, are lodged in the grave to be soon forgotten. Thus sorrow consecrates friendship and immortalizes love. Our friends pass from our houses to dwell in our hearts; and their virtues from the dust and strife of the world to the calm and sacred retreat of our holiest memories.

One beneficent influence which this peculiar office of sorrow must exert upon us, is to transfer to us something of the spirit of that excellence over which our griefs so fondly brood, in meditations half thought and half tears. Such intimate and long continued communings; such clasping of spirit to spirit, cannot take place without an actual, if not indeed a sensible transfusion of the vital essences of the departed to the living. It is thus the dead often live in us more than we think. They breathe into us something of the breath of their own life; and it is long before the consciousness of its presence ceases to thrill every nerve and memory of the soul. As the light of the sun plays up the western sky long after himself has sunken to his nightly rest; so do they who pass below the horizon of life, leave behind a pure sweet radiance that lingers many a year among the virtues and affections of the living. No, indeed; our friends do not die so suddenly as men deem! They pass away from our eyes, but, oh, how long, long do

they still live in our memories just as really as when they were by our side. We lay their bodies in the grave, but themselves live in our af fections, till those affections go where there is no more decay, nor separation, nor death.

Another use of sorrow, and the last I have time to mention, is one of a high religious character; it prepares us for heaven, and with an ever increasing force draws us thither. It seems hardly necessary to descend to an explanation of the manner in which proper sorrow tends to the preparation of our minds for the future life, as those who have had any experience in this discipline must have felt how the work was accomplished, and those who have not, cannot, upon the slightest reflection, fail very justly to apprehend it. It is a holy work which in this regard it does for us. We are induced by it, to place a more just estimate upon the value of the world, and the relative place it should hold in the catalogue of our interests. Under the ministration of sorrow we see that, in the great emergencies of being, we require something diviner than the world can afford; something that the soul can lean on and find support; that the heart can retire to and find rest; which is spiritual and eternal. Sorrow breaks off our undue worldly attachments; turns the current of our thoughts into new channels; or fixes them upon higher objects and more heavenly modes of being and sources of enjoyment. It leads us out of the world, and above the world, since we follow, as well as we can, those who depart from us. We thus come already, as it were, to dwell in eternity; since our thoughts, feelings, affections, sympathies go out there so often, and abide there with such never-wearied interest. Such exercises, such communions tend powerfully to prepare us to enter upon the conditions and felicities of that pure and eternal state of existence.

But not only are we fitted for heaven by the ministrations of sorrow; we are also drawn thither by the most magical attractions, the most sacred and permanent influences. It was for this reason that Jesus said with so much beauty and feeling, "In my Father's house are many mansions; I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you unto myself; that where I am there ye may be also." That is, if I go away, your love for me will draw you where I am; you will soon desire to be with me in the heavenly mansions, "where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary be at rest."

So also is it with our friends; as they depart they add new attractions to heaven; they win us more and more from the earth. Our hopes of happiness here dissolve; the present grows dark; the future only brightens in our dimmed and weary vision; and whatever else may be there, no place is so beautiful, so dear to us,and which we so long to go to, as the "sweet, sweet home" where our loved ones dwell. And as they are in God's pure and blessed heaven sinless, pangless, tearless-thither do we tendthere would we dwell-and welcome is the hour which finally bears us to the thrilling embrace of our friend, and the bosom of God.

"No, indeed!" said cousin Nell, "my sister Emma will never marry a yankee pedlar. She has rejected far more suitable offers for her hand; never I am sure would she thus disgrace her friends. And besides, Will Moreton has too much sense to propose; he feels nothing but gratitude for her care for him during his long illness at our house, nothing more than this, I assure you."

"Be not too sure that she loves him not, do they not ride or walk together every day since he has been able to go out? do they not read the same books? do they not sing the same songs? are they not, in fact, constant companions? and besides, there is naught but his occupation that she could object to in the least. Is he not handsome, and talented, and educated, and has he not more practical common sense than all her previous lovers, not excepting young Thornton, our fledgling lawyer, or Charles Preston, our trim, stately young parson, both of whom I conjecture have received an emphatic refusal from her fair lips."

"Well, I know Will Moreton is vastly superior to his class, and I do wonder whatever possessed him to become a pedlar. Of all human callings I consider that the most decidedly low."

"But, fair coz, should we ever scorn a person of true merit because of his occupation? He may have good reasons for his business at present, without intending to remain a pedlar forever."

"Well, it would be really laughable if sister Emma, with all her ideas of propriety, and the like, should indeed marry Will Moreton; but I will know her mind on the subject, before I sleep again; and I will even now go to her room and inquire for my future brother, the pedlar."

Emma and Ellen Browning were orphans. Their mother was the daughter of wealthy parents, living in one of the fine little villages of the Empire State. She had married against the will of her parents, and removed with her husband to the Far West, where she was doomed to suffer the evils of poverty and toil as best she could. Years passed with their changes, and the infant voices of her two daughters rang merry peals of music through their humble home.

Mr. Browning was a kind husband and father, and struggled manfully with the hardships of his lot, and hoped for a brighter future.

Mrs. Browning felt even amid her privations, that she could still be happy, could she be assured that her friends would once more be reconciled to her. But the western climate agreed not with the tender plant that had been tenderly nurtured amid a luxuriant eastern home, and ere her twin children had scarcely lisped her endearing name, the health of the mother failed, and she felt that she was passing rapidly away. She wrote her friends, soliciting their care for her children, and craving their pardon for her seeming disobedience. She died in early autumn, and ere the snows of Winter were drifted over her grave, her husband was laid beside her in a lonely church-yard near their humble home.

David Leach, a bachelor brother of Mrs. Browning, came for the children; he took them to his own pleasant home, and all that art and wealth could do for them, was eagerly performed. And well did they repay his care for them by the childish love they bestowed upon their dear uncle. His hitherto quiet home was no longer lonely, as their tiny footsteps and joyous presence made cheerful those elegant apart

ments.

Years passed, and the sisters were grown to womanhood. Emma was tall and graceful, with finely chiseled features, and quiet blue eyes, and was denominated the prettiest girl of our village. Nell, too, was beautiful, with laughing, black eyes, less tall than her sister, with a heart as full of innocence and good nature as love to her Creator and fellow creatures could make her. As their uncle's hospitable mansion was ever open to visitors, who were entertained

with the greatest cordiality, their house was generally thronged with company. And they had lovers too; yet they seemed in no haste to leave their kind benefactor, and they were fast merging from their teens, with their hearts still fancy free.

About this time our aged minister, who had for years broken the bread of life to the village flock under his care, was called suddenly to his rest. "And who will be his successor ?" was the agitated question of the community. It was at length decided that as there was a great lack of spirituality in the younger members of the flock, a young man would be perhaps more successful in winning souls to the church, than any other. They accordingly applied to a distinguished theological school, and in due time Charles Preston, a young graduate, was ordained, and installed as the future pastor. A striking contrast was he to his aged and illiterate predecessor. And as was expected, a most powerful awakening was soon felt throughout the borders of our village Zion. The young ladies all at once became interested in every good work, the sewing circle no longer languished for want of members, but many were the garments made by the young Dorcases for the poor and destitute, while their pastor read to them from the Book of Martyrs, or some other religious volume. The sermons were listened to with the most intense interest, and as the young pastor passed down the aisles at their conclusion, many were the honied words of flattery which fell upon his ear.

In the course of a few months the church had nearly doubled its members, and prosperity was within its walls. Most of the young ladies seemed to vie with each other in their attentions to the handsome young pastor. A few indeed there were, who either did not appreciate his talents, or else had too much practical goodness and respect for religion, merely to join the church, which should consist only of true believers, to make a conquest of the minister. Among the latter class were Emma and Nell Browning. They met him first by accident at the house of a poor widow, whom they heard was ill, and they had come with a well filled basket for her comfort. Mr. Preston was surprised that he had not made their acquaintance before. He had noticed them at church, at the regular hours of Sabbath worship, but as they came not to the enquiry meeting, or evening lectures, he had concluded that they were not 32

VOL. XX.

residents of the village. He was pleased with the quiet, dignified manner of Emma, and ere many days elapsed he called at their uncle's. Then he came again, and again, till the village gossips began to wonder. And one quiet afternoon, as he happened to be alone with Emma in the parlor, she was honored with a formal offer of his hand. Contrary to his expectations it was quietly refused. Emma kept her own counsel, and when the preacher was more pathetic than usual, the next Sabbath, none knew why his thoughts ran in so sad a strain. "I believe our minister's affections are really set on heavenly things," said one dear old lady at the close of the services. And so it seemed.

The next proposal of our fair heroine was from our young village lawyer. He was exceedingly ambitious, and probably loved the fair Emma as well as it was possible to love other than himself; he saw that she was beautiful, and talented, and as his wife, would favor his advancement in life, particularly when her uncle's wealth was thrown into the scale. He too was surprised at her refusal, and left the house muttering, "Be an old maid then, who cares." But this was not her fate.

A few months later, and Will Moreton, the yankee pedlar, first set foot in their uncle's dwelling. Purchases were made by the young ladies, from his well selected assortment, and as evening approached he politely requested Mr. Leach to permit him to remain there during the night, remarking that he generally preferred to stop at private dwellings, rather than submit to the society, usually found at country inns. His request was granted, and he retired early, excessively fatigued. The family were surprised that he made not his appearance in the morning, and Mr. Leach, on going to his room, found him alarmingly ill. A physician was immediately summoned, who pronounced him in a high fever, and would require the best of care. "I will attend to him," said Emma, "it is no more than duty to a suffering fellow creature."

William Moreton was the only son of a widowed mother, whose home was in one of the peaceful villages of Massachusetts. Mrs. Moreton was poor as regarded this world's goods, yet she felt that she possessed an ample treasure in her son, the fair and affectionate William. He enjoyed all the advantages of a common school education, and those who know what the common schools are in his native state, will understand me when I say, that he left school thoroughly fitted for any business pursuit.