"WE only know what we have lived." Many years ago we were struck by this remark, made by a writer of close observation. At the time, we but partially understood its meaning. It seemed to us, that we knew a great deal which had not been acquired by actual experience; that by virtue of the imaginative faculty of the mind, we could fully realize the states through which many had passed, notwithstanding we had not felt in our own hearts the actual suffering. In proof of this, we appealed to poetry, and the appeal seemed, at first, triumphant. But we learned, as time went on, that there was often in poetic portraitures, more of the artist's skill than of exact truth to nature; that it was one thing to imagine a certain set of circumstances and feel in them, and quite another thing to encounter the circumstances themselves.

An illustration of what is here set forth, will be seen in the following sketch, the main features of which are taken from life.

A preacher named W, of rather a quiet and reserved turn of mind, had the misfortune to lose his wife, with whom he had lived for the space of twenty-five years. No one but himself knew the greatness of the loss, for no one knew so well the heart that had grown cold in death. She had been to him a second self; and there was a short period, after the freed spirit had gone home, during which it seemed to him as if the cords that bound them together would not unloose themselves. But W knew in whom he had trusted; and even with the tears upon his cheeks, blessed the hand by which he had been chastened.

It happened, a few days after the dust of the dear departed one had been consigned to its kindred dust, that a young preacher named D-, who knew W- very well, came into the town where he was stationed.

"How is brother W-?" he asked of the sister at whose house he was sojourning, soon after his arrival.

"Sister W- dead!" And as the preacher said this, in a tone of deep commiseration, he arose, adding as he did so, "I must go at once and see brother W."

"Yes, do see him," returned the lady, "and say what you can in the way of comfort. You may be sure he needs it. I am glad you have come. No one can talk to him as you can."

The preacher, full of kind intentions, called upon his afflicted brother. He found him engaged in writing. As he looked up and recog nized him, brother D saw that over his usually grave face was thrown a deeper shade of sobriety, and that his thoughtful eye had a dreamier aspect.

"Brother W!" he said, in a tone of sympathy, grasping his hand with more than his wonted earnestness.

"I am glad to see you, brother D—,” returned the other in a slightly quivering voice: and he squeezed firmly and steadily the hand of his spiritual brother.

"And I am both glad and sorry," said D"Glad to meet you, but grieved at heart for the deep affliction you have suffered."

The eyes of W- fell to the floor. There was a pause, in which he said, "Sit down, brother D.”

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this deep darkness God will bring a light; and in the silence of your unutterable grief, his voice will be heard in words of comfort."

"I

The eyes of W remained cast down. He did not speak, nor even show a sign. "Ah, my brother!" continued D—, know the bitterness of this cup you have been called to drink. I know that you have been called to pass through the darkest place in the valley of affliction. I know that the floods have arisen on your soul, and threaten to overwhelm you. But fear not, the bitter potion shall be sweet; light will break upon you; the waters will be staid. God is purifying you, my brother. He sits as the refiner of silvers. He is proving you in the furnace of affliction." W seemed to listen attentively, and the young preacher, warming with his theme, continued:

I know, my dear brother, how dreadfully your heart has been riven. To lose her, who has been your pleasant companion for so many years, is, indeed, a terrible affliction. But I know that your heart will find consolation in the sweet reflection that she has gone home first-that she has passed the stormy Jordan, and is safe on the other side

Her languishing head is at rest,
Its aching and thinking are o'er;
Her quiet, immovable breast

Is heaved by affliction no more.'

Consoling thoughts! Oh! let it sink deep, like a healing balm, into your heart. A few years, and your work will be done. A few years more of labor and toil in your Master's vineyard, and you, too, will be called home. What a blessed meeting is in store for you!" Still there was no response. Was at first, with his eyes upon the floor, his brow knit, and his lips compressed. D- paused to reflect a moment, and then began again. "I know

sat,

"You don't know anything about it!" replied W in a quick, sharp voice, and rising as he spoke, he strode from the room. Shutting the door after him he left the young preacher fairly aghast with astonishment.

For full fifteen minutes was heard the heavy, measured tread of W- on the floor above, and for the whole of that time D—— sat below, feeling deeply hurt, and wondering at the strange spirit displayed by his brother. He was about rising to retire, when

he heard W- descending the stairs. In a moment after he opened the door and re-entered. As he did so, he extended his hand, and said in a humble voice:

Forgive me, my brother! Poor human nature is weak, and it suffers, sometimes, too deep for even sympathy. The day may come when you will understand me; though I pray Heaven, in mercy, to spare you that knowledge."

D went away, still wondering. He could not comprehend, fully, the strange scene he had witnessed. Nature had spoken so strongly in brother W, that the voice rather stunned his ears than came to him with an intelligible sound. But he said nothing to any one of what had occurred, partly because he did not wish to expose his brother's weakness, and partly in consequence of a certain light flowing into his mind, which gave him to see that he had been, perhaps, too forward and wordy in his efforts to bring consolation to an afflicted heart.

Years passed. But D- never lost a vivid recollection of the scene between him and brother W. As he grew older, and something of the ardor and presumptuousness of youth and early manhood receded, he saw more and more clearly the mistake he had made in brother W-'s case, and comprehended more and more clearly the state of mind he had produced, and which manifested itself in such an abrupt and startling manner. But we only know what we have lived;" and this truth Dfully realized in the end.

Not long after W's painful bereavement, D- took to himself a wife, with whom he lived in the tenderest conjugal relation for many years. Children were born to themgoodly sons and daughters-and they grew up and gathered around like pleasant olive branches. Then as they attained, one after another, the estate of men and women, they passed forth into the world, and left the watchful guardians and supporters of their youth to stand once more alone. As if conscious of weakness, the old couple shrunk closer together, and leaned more heavily against each other for mutual support.

A few years more, and the wife of D-began to decline. For a time she drooped; but scarcely had her husband awakened with a trembling fear to the danger that was hovering over his head, ere the summons for her de.

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parture came. Dying in the sweet hope of a blessed immortality, Mrs. D- tenderly conjured her husband to take up his cross and bear it in patient hope a little longer. Pointing up. ward, she said, almost with her latest breath

"To patient faith, the prize is sure,
And all that to the end endure

The cross, shall wear the crown."

Though nearly sixty years had laid their burdens upon him, D— was still actively engaged in the duties of his ministerial office, when this heaviest blow he had yet received fell upon him. For a time he staggered under the concussion. But he trusted not in human strength; he looked to the Strong for aid; and when his weak heart gave way, he felt that the arms of Divine love were thrown around to sustain him.

None but he who has himself passed through the trial, knows what is suffered by one who looks for the last time upon the face of her who has lain for years in his bosom. None but he can have any realizing sense of that hopeless chill which goes electrically to the heart, when the lips are pressed for the last time upon the marble forehead of the beloved departed. With forced composure, and with something of Christian stoicism, so to speak, D-gave to the death-veiled face of her he had so loved in life, a last look, and touched her forehead with his lips, feeling, as he did so, as if an icy finger were laid upon his heart. A moment his eyes lingered, but the tears blinded them, and hid the face for ever. Those who were looking at him saw his knees tremble. But there escaped no moan from his suffering spirit—no sob from his oppressed bosom. Slowly he moved in the little company that followed a beloved sister to the spot where her earthly remains were given to repose; and slowly he returned to the place from whence they had borne her, after the clods of the valley had been thrown upon her sounding coffin. And in all this time, no one ventured to speak to him of his loss, or to offer a word of consolation; for all felt that words would be but a mockery of his woe.

The first night that D- passed alone after the grave bad received its tenant-ah! who that has passed such a night can ever forget it ?-was spent in humble, tearful prayer for strength to bear his affliction. Morning found him sleeping calmly, and with a smile upon his face. He was dreaming of Heaven. He

saw the departed one in the midst of an angelic company, and she beckoned him away. But, when the vision faded, and he awoke to the sad consciousness of his bereavement, his stricken heart sunk trembling and faint in his bosom. But D-- knew in whom he had trusted, and he looked up and received strength. The day following was the Sabbath. He had an appointment to preach, and he kept it. In the faithful discharge of his duty, he knew would come sustaining power; and he walked on in the path that was before him, without pausing or turning to the right or the left. But ah! how lonely and desolate he felt at all times. Everywhere he missed the old, familiar, loving face--everywhere he listened for the voice that had grown silent-everywhere he waited for the ministering hand that had been so quick to anticipate his wants. None but himself knew the loss he had sustained, for none knew or could know what the absent one had been to him.

Weeks and months went by, and the old minister, though he never missed an appointment, nor lingered when duty called, was evidently failing. His head whitened more rapidly; his form drooped, and there was an absent, abstracted air about him, that was noticed particularly by his old friends.

One day a young preacher, who had heard of his bereavement, but who had not met him since the painful event, happened to be passing through the town where Dwas stationed. He called upon him as a thing of course, and, on meeting him, deemed it but a part of his duty to refer to the afflictive dispensation, and improve it to the spiritual edification and comfort of his aged brother. His reference to the subject was very much after the style that had been adopted by D himself on the occasion we have noticed; and it brought to the latter a most vivid recollection of that circumstance.

The words of the well-meaning young preacher, that flowed from no accurate appreciation of his state of mind, jarred harshly on the feelings of D. Instead of bringing comfort, they fretted him. Nothing was said that his own mind had not over and over again suggested; yet much of it was conveyed in a manner, and by language, that made what was uttered painful rather than consoling.

At last D could bear it no longer. Laying his hand upon the arm of the young man,