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years old when he felt within him the sentence of his Judge, 'Thou shalt die.'

'Let all my sons come before me,' said he to weeping Eve, 'that I may yet again see them and bless them.' And they came at their father's word, and stood before him, many hundred in number, and prayed for his life.

Who from among you,' said Adam, 'will go to the holy mountain? Perhaps he may find mercy for me, and bring me the fruit of the Tree of Life.'

Immediately all his sons offered themselves to do his will, and Seth, the holiest of all, was chosen by his father for the inessage.

His head sprinkled with ashes, he hastened forth, and lingered not until he stood before the gate of Paradise. 'Let my father find mercy, O thou merciful One' (thus prayed he), and send him fruit from the Tree of Life.'

Straightway a glittering cherub stood before him; but instead of the fruit from the Tree of Life, he held in his hand a twig with three leaves. 'Bear this to thy father,' said the cherub, gently, 'as his last consolation here; eternal life dwells not on earth. But hasten back; his hour is come.'

Seth hastened back, and threw himself down before his father, and said, 'No fruit from the Tree of Life I bring thee, father; this twig alone has the angel given me, as thy last consolation here.'

The dying man took the twig, and was glad. He smelled upon it the odour of Paradise; his soul was lifted up. 'My children,' said he, 'eternal life dwells not for us on earth; and ye shall follow after

me.

But on these leaves I breathe the fragrance of another world-new life new strength.' His age failed him-his spirit fled away.

The children of Adam buried their father, and thirty days they wept for him; but Seth wept not. He planted the twig at the head of his father's grave, and called it the twig of the new life, of the awakening-up from the sleep of death.

The little twig became a lofty tree, and many of Adam's children grew strong therefrom in the faith of another life.

And thus it descended to succeeding generations. Fair blossomed it in David's garden, until his infatuated son began to doubt of immortality. Then the twig withered away; but its blossoms were scattered among other nations.

And when upon a branch from this tree the Restorer of immortality gave up his holy life, the sweet fragrance of the new life was wafted far and wide among all nations.

THE LILY OF THE VALLEY.

In the month of May, 1853, I passed a very pleasant week at Geneva, Switzerland, tarrying two days in one of the little villages near the banks of the farfamed Lake Leman; and you shall know how agreeably my time was spent, and of my meeting with the 'Lily of the Valley.'

The reader is aware that in some parts of Northern Europe the English language is sometimes spoken; indeed, in many of the hotels in Switzerland it is quite common. In one instance, however, I was fortunate enough to meet with a family who talked good old Saxon, at the pretty little village inn at which I rested. Here, as in other lands, the children have their 'May-day Festival;' and though I was not quite in time to witness their merrymaking, I was in time to inhale the fragrance of the flowers, in time to tell you of the exquisite beauty-even though withered on the stem-of the Lily of the Valley. What a glorious day it was, as, looking from the windows of my hotel, Í watched the bright sunbeams as they danced and sparkled on the clear blue waters of the lake! The breeze crisps the tiny waves, so that they dance and toss about the little boats so gently, with their milk-white sails, gliding to and fro. A cosy little craft was hired by me, for a moderate price; and as she fluttered her wings to the wind, the quintessence of repose and quiet was ours.

The first summer rain had lately fallen, and the valleys, hills, and dales, refreshed by the showers, seemed sending up a song of thankfulness to Heaven; while the trees, filled with fragrant blossoms, some just putting forth their leaves, looking so green and lovely, completed a picture of surpassing beauty. On nearing a little village, the name of which is forgottennot very distant, however, from the world-renowned Zurich, whose waters have been immortalised in story and in song-I observed, as I thought, an unusual gaiety and liveliness among the people, and was about remarking to my companion that I imagined some fête was taking place, when he informed me we had just arrived in time to see the last of the Swiss May-day Festival. The sports

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of children are always interesting to me, and so away we went, through innumerable groupings of lads and lasses, vineyards, gardens, and bowers, the air seemingly laden with the perfumes of a thousand exotics; when suddenly, in the distance, the well-known 'May-Pole' burst upon my view. But the dance had ceased; the little 'twinkling feet,' that so lately had trodden on the spring blossoms, were gone; but there was yet the Lily of the Valley left, and its fragrance was sweet to me beyond description.

A little blue-eyed girl of some seven summers had just plucked the flower, and, placing it in her bosom, began to cry. This attracted my attention, and I went to her, asking her to tell me the cause of her sorrow. She replied, that her little sister, whom they used to call the 'Lily of the Valley,' had been taken from them, and she was going to send this flower with her to heaven to be planted there!

I need not say I became much interested, and followed the little stranger for some distance; but in the throng of children I lost sight of her.

The groupings of youngsters, that on my arrival I had fancied were in the height of excitement and glee, were speaking in subdued tones, while the peasants, male and female, looked gloomy and sad.

Musingly I strolled to the inn of the village, where I learned the cause of the ceasing of the festivities. They had also had a 'May-Queen,' one they were wont to call the 'Lily of the Valley. For three summers had she reigned over her little flowery band, when suddenly she was called away to bloom in the fields of light above.

But listen to the story as they told it

to me:

The sun beamed brightly upon the May morn about which I am writing; the day of the last crowning' of the 'Lily of the Valley;' and though its little head was bent in sickness, the genial sunshine, it was thought, might revive, and the excitement and the merry-making prove beneficial rather than injurious. And so they placed her on her floral throne.

The shoutings of a hundred little voices went up, processions were formed, and garlands wreathed by slender hands were tossed into the air. All eyes were turned toward the throne of roses; and her crown of pure white lilies, that she loved so

well to wear, was placed upon her bow She looked so lovely, all in her dress of buds and blossoms; but she was very pale, and her eye looked up to heaven. Could she have heard them calling her away? And then she smiled; they thought she could not be in pain; but, in gently trying to raise herself up, and waving her little hand,

'She fell, in her saint-like beauty,

Asleep by the gates of light!' The colour returned not to her cheek; and thus this tender flowret, in the very height of its May-day glory, was transplanted into the heavenly nursery!

The May-day dance was over. Garlands and wreaths of flowers dropped from little hands that had held them in their glee, and tears flowed like rain; and where so lately smiles, laughter, and the joyous strains of music floated in the air, sobbings now were heard, and rejoicings were at an end.

I thought it was a glorious way to die; ere the young heart had grown familiar with the paths of sin, while spring-flowers budded, bloomed, and blossomed on her very breast; while the shoutings of innocent voices greeted her, her spirit passed silently away.

This is the story that they told me; and now, dear reader, I will tell you what I witnessed:

On the night of the day that I arrived, the funeral of the little 'May-Queen' took place. Never before was I so strongly impressed with the sublimity, nay, the beauty of death, divested, as it seemed to be, of all its gloom and terror.

There was no coffin, no pall, no raven plumings; none of the trappings and sombre liveries of the grave were there; but upon two pieces of cedar-wood, bound tightly together with boughs of myrtle and evergreen, forming a sort of trelliswork, the body was placed, dressed in a garment of plain white, with a single flower-the 'Lily of the Valley '—resting on her breast. The scene was most touching. It was night, but the moon shone full upon that lovely face; it was so light, so very light, it did not look like death. And then she seemed to smile, as though a pleasant dream was hers; or perhaps she was talking to the angels! And then each of the children went up and kissed those cold, still lips, and their little hearts seemed breaking. I could hear their sobbings, and they called her 'Lily,' and some thought that

she could hear them; and one of them said she had gone to God, to be a queen there among his little angels! And then they chanted a hymn, and its distant echo among the hills made me think that it was answered by cherub voices; it was so distinct, so very clear, that it fairly startled me. And then they hid their faces in their hands and wept; for the 'Lily of the Valley' bad passed from their sight for ever!

THE RADIANT DINNER-CASTER. We begin to think there is wisdom in Dr Bushwhacker. 'There are other things to study geography from besides maps and globes,' is one of his favourite maxims. We begin to believe it.

'Observe, my learned friend,' said he, 'how the reflected sunshine from those cut bottles in the caster-stand throws long plumes of light in every direction across the white damask.'

We leaned forward, and saw the phenomenon pointed out by the index-finger of the doctor; and as we knew something was coming from his pericranics, kept silent, of course.

'Well,' said he, inflating his lips until his face looked like that of a cast-iron caryatid―'well, my dear friend, every pencil of light there is a point of compass, and the contents of that caster came from places as various as those diverging rays indicate. The mustard is from England, the vinegar from France, China furnishes the soy, Italy the oil; we have to ask the West Indies to contribute the red pepper, and the East Indies to supply the black pepper.'

We ventured to remark, that those facts we were not ignorant of, by any

means.

'True, my dear learned friend,' said the doctor, with a sort of snort; 'but God bless me! if one-half of the people in this city know it. Mustard, continued Dr Bushwhacker, not at all discomfited, 'comes from Durham in the north of England — that is, the best quality. The other productions of this county do not amount to much, nor is it celebrated for anything, except that here the Queen Philippa, wife of King Edward the Third, captured David Bruce, King of Scots, for which reason no Scotchman can eat Durham mustard except with tears in his eyes. We get our grindstones from this English county, my learned friend;

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and when you sharpen your knife or your appetite hereafter, it will remind you of Durham. That long pencil of light from the next bottle points to France, where they make the best wine-vinegar we get. Just observe the difference between that sturdy, pot-bellied mustard-bottle, which represents John Bull, and this slender, sharp vinegar - cruet, which represents Johnny Crapeau; there is a national distinction, sir, in cruets as well as men. The quantity of vinegar made in France is very great; the best comes from Bordeaux; sometimes it is so strong that the Frenchman call it "vinaigre des trois dents," or vinegar with three teeth; but the finest-flavoured vinegar I ever met with came from Portugal, and for a salad, nothing could equal its delicate aroma. Well, sir, then there is the red pepper, the Cayenne: that, I presume, is from Jamaica?'

We assented.

'The best and strongest kind is made partly of the bird pepper, and partly of the long-pod pepper of the West Indies. This is a very healthy condiment, sir; in the tropics it is indispensable; there is a maxim there, sir, that people who eat Cayenne pepper will live for ever. Like variety, it is the spice of life, sir, at the equator. Our own gardens, sir, furnish capsicum, and in fact it grows in all parts of the world; but from the West Indies is esteemned to come the best, and I think with justice. Now, sir, the next pencil of light is reflected from the Yellow Sea!' The soy, doctor?'

"The soy, my learned friend; the best fish-sauce on the face of the globe. The soy, sir, or "soya," as the Japanese call it, is a species of bean, which would grow in this country as well as any other Chinese plant. Few Chinamen eat anything without a mixture of this bean-jelly in some shape or other. They scald and peel the beans, then add an equal quantity of wheat or barley, then the mess is allowed to ferment; then they add a little salt, sometimes turmeric, for colour; water is added also, in the proportion of three to one of the mass, and after a few months' repose, the soy is pressed, strained, and ready for market. That, sir, is the history of that cruet, and now we will pass on to the black pepper.'

'A glass of wine first, doctor, if you please.'

'Thank you, my dear friend; bless me! how dry I am!'

'Black pepper, piper nigrum, is the berry of a vine that grows in Sumatra and Ceylon, but our principal supply of this commonest of condiments comes from the Island of Java; and we have to pay our webfooted Knickerbockers across the water a little toll upon that, as we do upon many other things of daily consumption. The pepper-vine is a very beautiful plant, with large, oval, polished leaves, and showy white flowers, that would look beautiful if wound round' the head of a bride.'

'No doubt, doctor; but I think the less pepper about a bride the better.'

'Good, my learned friend; you are right; if I were to get married again, sir,' continued the doctor, in a very hearty manner, 'I should be a little afraid of the contact of piper nigrum?

'What is white pepper, doctor?' 'White pepper is the same, sir, as black pepper, only it is decorticated; that is, the black husk has been rubbed off. Now, sir, there is not much else interesting about pepper, except that the best probably comes from the kingdom of Bamtam; and the quantity formerly exported from the sea-port of that name in the Island of Java amounted, sir, to ten thousand tons annually; a good seasonable supply of seasoning for the world, sir. Well, sir, we are also indebted to Bantam for a very small breed of fowls, the peculiar use of which no philosopher has as yet been able to determine. Now, sir, we have finished the caster, I think?'

"There is one point of light, doctor, that indicates Italy; what of the oil?'

'Ah! Lucca and Parma! Indeed, sir, I may say France, Spain, and Italy!"

"Three kingdoms claim its birth,

Both hemispheres proclaim its worth." The olive, sir. I remember something from my schoolboy days about that. It is from Pliny's 'History of Nature,' sir. (Liber xv.) The olive in the western world was the companion, sir, as well as the symbol of peace. Two centuries after the foundation of Rome, both Italy and Africa were strangers to this useful plant. It was naturalised in those countries, sir, and at length carried into the heart of Spain and Gaul. The timid errors of the ancients, that it required a certain degree of heat, and could not flourish in the neighbourhood of the sea, were insensibly exploded by industry and experience. There, sir! But the timid errors of the ancients are not more surprising than the timid

errors of the moderns. The olive-tree should be as common here as it is in the other hemisphere, seeing it is the emblem of peace. My old friend, Dominick Lynch, sir, the wine-merchant, the only great wine-merchant we ever had, sir, imported the finest oil, sir, from Lucca, known even to this day as "Lynch's Oil." He it was who made Château Margaux and the Italian opera popular, sir, in this great metropolis. Poor Dom! Well, sir, I suppose you know all about the olivetree?'

'On the contrary, very little.'

'Well, the olive is as easily propagated as the willow. You must go boldly to work, however, and cut off a limb of the tree as big as my arm, and plant that. No.twig, sir. In three years it will bear; in five years it will have a full crop; in ten years it will be in perfection. If you plant a slip, it will take twenty years or more to mature. Its mode of bearing is biennial, and you can prune it every other year, and plant the cuttings. Longworth ought to take up the olive, sir; and he might have a wreath to put round his head, as he deserves. Well, my learned friend, when the olive is ripe the fruit, I mean-it is of a deep violet colour. Those we get in bottles are plucked while they are green. The plums are put between two circular mill-stones, the upper one convex, the lower one concave; the fruit is thus crushed, and afterward put in a press, and the oil is excreted by means of a powerful lever. That is all, sir. An oilpress is not a very handsome article to look at; but in the south I think it would be serviceable at least; butter there is not always of the best quality in summer, and olive oil would be a delightful substitute.'

'What of French and Spanish oil, doctor?'

'Spanish oil is very good, sir. So is French; we get little of the Italian oil now. The oil of Aix, near Marseilles, is of superior quality; but that does not come to our market. Lately, I have used the oil of Bordeaux in place of the Italian; it is very fine. But, speaking of olive oil, let me tell you an anecdote of a friend, one of the best-hearted men in the world. Well, sir, my friend had a new servantgirl; I never knew anybody that didn't have a new servant-girl! Well, sir, he had a dinner-party in early spring, when lettuce is a rarity, and of course he had lettuce. He is a capital hand at a salad,

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'Laura, my dear girl, could you no wait until I am gone out? I shall no be very long; and you know how important it is that I should finish this article. Walker asked me the other morning if it were not yet ready.'

The young wife pouted, and sat down to her work-table. The jaded author, pressing his hand upon his brow, worked away as if his very life were at stake. And so it was, for out of that fevered brain was coined the hard-earned money upon which he and his newly-wedded Laura, a pretty, tolerably amiable, but thoughtless and injudicious young creature, depended for their daily bread.

After a few minutes, Laura began to bustle about again in a hushed kind of way, walking on tiptoe, and creating an under-current of confusion that totally disarranged her husband's train of thought.

'If I had had poor Jones now, of the bank-poor fellow, I wonder what has become of him!-or Charles Thomson, who is always away to his office by nine o'clock in the morning, I should have been able to do like other wives; finish all my work early in the day, and then sit down, neatly dressed, to my sewing, or walk out and enjoy myself. But with literary men like my husband, one must always be accommodating one's-self to their whims, and really the house is untidy beyond everything. I did think, when I was married, that I should be mistress in my own house. It is so tiresome to have to suit one's-self perpetually to other people's nonsense!'

Oh! Laura, pretty Laura, why did you marry at all? Don't you know that it is the duty of every wife to adapt herself, in all reasonable matters, to the will and feelings of her husband? Besides, hear my moral:—

Found.-That the duties of a household may be divided into two classes, the relative importance of which is endlessly modified by the circumstances; and that every good and judicious wife ought so to exercise her loving perception, that the lesser shall never be discharged at the expense of the greater.

SELF-SURRENDER TO GOD. 'Know ye not that so many of us were bap

Well for him who all things losing,

Laura, I do beg that you will be quiet tised into His death?' a short time longer. Very much depends upon the success of this article. Take up a book, anything, so that you do but let me finish in peace.'

Again Laura obeyed, but with a muttered protest. She wanted to finish, because she was going out; it was such a fine day, she had no notion of being confined to the house all day. Besides, it was such untidy work leaving things; she liked to do what she had to do in the morning.

Her husband took no notice, but went on writing. In a little time she stole out of the room, and soon a great fuss was heard in the passage. Laura was noisily dusting the hall-chairs and hatstand. The irritated author, put quite past his patience, started up, with a furious exclamation, which had the effect of driving Laura out of the passage, and up the little flight of stairs into their bedroom, where she burst into a flood of tears, and lamented the day she had ever married an author.

E'en himself doth count as nought,
Still the one thing needful choosing,
That with all true bliss is fraught!
Well for him who nothing knoweth
But his God, whose boundless love
Makes the heart wherein it gloweth
Calm and pure as saints above!
Well for him who, all forsaking,

Walketh not in shadows vain,
But the path of peace is taking,

Through this vale of tears and pain!
Oh that we our hearts might sever

From earth's tempting vanities,
Flinging them on him for ever

In whom all our fulness lies!
Oh that we might him discover
Whom with longing love we've sought,
Joining us to him for ever,

For without him all is nought!
On that ne'er our eyes might wander
From our God, so might we cease
Ever o'er our sins to ponder,

And our conscience be at peace!
Thou abyss of love and goodness,
Draw us by thy cross to thee.
That our senses, soul, and spirit,

Ever one with Christ may be !

Anon.

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