from springs in God. Light and darkness, good and evil, are the forces that contend. Students, poets, scholars, sentimentalists as such are inefficient.

Men of deeds as well as words are the material out of which preachers must be made. They must be Cromwellian men who "trust in God and keep their powder dry." Their thoughts are weighty; their words, earnest; their tones, impassioned; their ideas, impressive; their language, pungent; their address, personal and direct.

We have such men in our denomination, but they are not confined to ours. The Eternally Beneficient scatters human pearls and gems on every side. No one church upon earth represents all God's truth; no one denomination, interprets all his will; no one organization manifests all his power and spirit.

Finally, he is the best preacher whose preaching is witnessed by the spirit; whose inspiration is from Heaven; who builds up in human hearts the Kingdom of God. And that is the best preaching that is most earnest and sincere, most plain and simple, most pungent and direct, most searching and impressive. Such preaching convinces, effects, persuades, guides and saves. And they who thus preach are more than pulpit orators, more than eloquent speakers, more than declaimers upon sacred themes. They are prophets, priests and kings of the Living God.

REV. J. T. POWERS.

KEEP THEM OUT.

Have you ever noticed how strong a street door is? how thick the wood is? how heavy the hinges? what large bolts it has? and what a grim lock? If there was nothing of value in the house, or no thieves outside, this would not be wanted, but, as you know there are things of value

within and bad men without, there is need that the door be strong; and we must mind the door, especially as to barring and bolting it at night.

We have a home-our hearts may be called that house. Wicked things are forever trying to break in and go out of our heart. Let us see what some of these bad things are.

Who is at the door? Ah, I know him! It is Anger. What a frown there is on his face! How his lips quiver! How fierce his looks are! We will bolt the door and not let him in, or he will do us harm.

Who is that? It is Pride. How haughty he seems! He looks down on everything as though it was too mean for his notice. No, sir, we shall not let you in, so you may go.

Who is this? It must be Vanity, with bis flaunting strut and gay clothes. He is never so well pleased as when he has a fine dress to wear, and is admired. You will not come in, sir; we have too much to do to attend to such fine folks as you.

Mind the door! Here comes a stranger. By his sleepy look and slow pace we think we know him. It is Sloth. He likes nothing better than to live in my house, sleep, and yawn my life away, and bring me ruin. No, no, you idle fellow! work is pleasure, and I have much to do. Go away, you shall not come in.

But who is this? What a sweet smile! What a kind face! She looks like an angel! It is Love. How happy she will make us if we ask her in! Come in! Come in! We must unbar the door for you.

Oh, if children kept the door of their hearts shut, bad words and wicked thoughts would not go in and out as they do. Open the door to all things good; shut the door to all things bad! things bad! We must mark well who comes to the door before we open it, if we would grow to be good men

and women. Keep guard-mind the door of your hearts!- Young Church

man.

RECOLLECTIONS OF JENNY LIND.

It is half a life-span since I first saw and heard of Jenny Lind, yet I have never forgotten-I shall not live long enough to forget--the excitement, the enthusiasm and wonder of that night. It was simply in concert that I heard her, without any of the glamor of the scene, with no luxurious stage-accessories, nothing more poetic than old Tremont Temple where I had attended lively political meetings and stormy anti-slavery conventions. For many minutes I waited for I was among the earliest comers gazing fixedly on that unadorned platform, my heart beating faster and faster; and yet she seemed suddenly and magically to appear, and stood before us smiling gravely, with eyes which seemed more used to tears than the laughing lights of happy fortune and splendid triumphs. As I said, all was bare and prosaic enough about her, but when she sung songs of love and romance, I seemed to be in an enchanted garden among roses and nightingales and shimmering moonlight; and when she uplifted her irradiated face, and sang "I know that my Redeemer liveth," I seemed standing on a heavenly height, very near the throne. The great singer was very simply dressed. There were no gorgeous, elaborate Worth gowns on the concert-stage in those prim, primitive days; artists then trusted more to their own worth. She wore no diamonds, no ornaments, except a few natural flowers; but her soft white dress seemed the emblem of purity and refinement, and she was crowned with a sweet, winning womanliness utterly indescribable. Since her time I have heard all the

great lyric queens who have sat on the throne she abdicated, but the fine soul-intoxication which the singing of Jenny Lind caused me, I never after experienced. I cared not who ridiculed the "craze "--I recognized her as a divinely gifted creature, on whose lips love was exalted and passion purified; and when the theme was sacred, a being truly inspired for her beautiful work-a prophetess, prophesying in song; a priestess, ministering at that grandest altar of God-humanity.

GRACE GREENWOOD.

FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE.
Sitting in my humble doorway,

Gazing out into the night,
Listening to the stormy tumult
With a kind of sad delight-
Wait I for the loved who comes not,
One whose step I long to hear;
One who, though he lingers from me,
Still is dearest of the dear.
Soft, he comes-now heart be quiet!-
Leaping in triumphant pride,
Oh! it is a stranger footstep,

Gone by on the other side.

All the night seems filled with weeping
Winds are wailing mournfully,
And the rain-tears close together
Journey to the restless sea.
I can fancy, sea, you murmur,

As they with your waters flow,
Like the griefs of single being,
Making up a nation's woe!

Branches, bid your gusts be silent:
Hush a moment, fretful rain;
Breeze, stop sighing-let me listen,
God grant not again in vain!
In my cheek the blood is rosy,

Like the blushes of a bride,
Joy! alas, a stranger footstep
Goes by on the other side.

Ah! how many wait for ever,

For the steps that do not come! Wait until the pitying angels

Bear them to a peaceful home! Many in the still of midnight

In the streets have lain and died, While the sound of human footsteps Went by on the other side.

A

DETECTIVE'S EXPERIENCE-A

TOUCH OF ROMANCE.

It was just before the war," said a detective, "that a queer trick was played me by a fellow accused of forgery."

"How was it? Let me hear the story."

"I have no objections, but don't interrupt me with questions."

The reporter promised silence, and the detective elevated his feet to the table, and thus proceeded:

"The Chief called me into the office one morning, and told me that a check for $4,000 had been drawn by the confidential clerk of a wellknown commercial house, and had been cashed at the bank where their funds had been deposited. It was a forgery, and the clerk had left as soon as the money had been obtained. His name was Henry Harding, his parents lived in one of the interior parishes, and it was supposed he had gone there before setting out elsewhere. I could only learn that he was very young, and of rather effeminate appearance. This was all the description I could obtain. The affair had not been blown abroad, and the Chief directed me to work up the case.' You know that S- - and I always work together. I called him, and we had a consultation. He prosecuted researches here while I went to the country. This arranged, I was soon on my way. I had found out where the family of young Harding lived, and I had hoped to reach the house before night, but in this I was disappointed. Long before dusk, dark clouds began to form along the verge of the horizon and climb rapidly to the zenith. The thunder and lightning came at intervals, and I was

soon assured that one of those semitropic storms, which are frequent in the summer, would ere long burst upon me in all its fury. I hastened

a

forward, therefore, looking eagerly around for some place of shelter. I had proceeded but a little distance when I saw just before me a woodman's hut. I got into this as soon as possible. I had hardly got comfortably sheltered before a gentleman and lady dashed up to the door and dismounted. Like myself they were seeking shelter from the storm. The man was middle-aged and exhibited in his person the strong athletic frame, the open brow, the genial, pleasant face of the Southern planter; but there was in his countenance now, a touch of sadness, a seemingly exquisite sense of sorrow, strangely out of keeping with what the man should have been. His companion was girl of exquisite beauty, with dark, soulful eyes, and hair black as night. She looked indeed a daughter of the tropics, and the tall, splendid form was regal in its majesty. She was such a woman as a man could wish to live for, and if need be, die for. They were both in traveling costume and from their conversation I judged they were father and daughter, just setting out on a journey, and endeavoring to reach the river in time for an up-going steamer. Shortly after their arrival, a negro boy drove up in a cart containing trunks. On one of these was the name of Mrs. Harding, La.' You may readily conceive that my eyes were wide open now, and my ears too. Here was something that I must needs observe. I walked out of the hut and went around to where the negro was standing. Boy, where's your young master?" I asked the question abruptly, looking the negro in the eye.

666

"Golly, Massa, dis chile dunno; hain't seen him for mos' a year.' My resolution was taken on the instant. I would follow these people. I was satisfied they were in search of Henry. He could not come to them, and they

were going to him. The whole matter was as clear as day. I did follow them to the river, where the daughter embarked on an upward-bound boat, and the father returned home. I took passage on the same steamer. I would not lose sight of the girl. I was satisfied she was going to her brother. I insinuated myself into her presence, and at last got into conversation. I was one-half in love with her already; before we reached St. Louis I was wholly so. I learned that she was going to New York for some object she did not reveal. I thought I knew what the object was; but it had become of secondary importance now, for I was deeply, unmistakeably in love. Had her brother stood before me, and she had asked me to forbear, it is doubtful if I would have arrested him. I could not exist out of her presence. She had become the one object necessary to my happiness. At last we reached New York. I could contain myself no longer. I sought an opportunity and told her my love-told my name, occupation and present object-I revealed everything; I only asked to share her affections. I would leave her till the next day. This was the forenoon of Monday. Tuesday afternoon I called for an answer. The servant who answered my summons informed me that the young lady had left the evening previous on a steamer for the West Indies; but she had left a note. I tore open the letter eagerly. It contained these words:

"SIR-For your preference I'm much obliged; but the laws forbid gentlemen marrying each other. By the time this reaches you, I will be on board the West India steamer. Very respectfully,

HENRY HARDING." "It took no more to show what a

The evasive tone, the look of pain in the furrowed face, were noticed by the lady who asked these questions as the gray head bowed upon the toilmarked hand. She wanted to hear her story and to help her.

"Excuse me-John in trouble?" "No, no-I'm in trouble. Trouble my old heart never thought to see.” "The train does not come for some time. Here, rest your head upon my cloak."

"You are kind. If my own were so I shouldn't be in trouble."

"What is your trouble? May be I can help you."

"It's hard to tell it to strangers, but my heart is too full to keep it back. When I was left a widow with three children, I thought it was more than I could bear; but it wasn't bad as this-"

The stranger waited till she recovered her voice to go on.

"I had only the cottage and my hands. I toiled early and late all the years till John could help me. Then we kept the girls at school

John and me. They were married not long ago. Married rich, too, as the world goes. John sold the cot tage, sent me to the city to live with them and he went West to begin for himself. He said he had provided for the girls, and they would provide for me now."

Her voice choked with emotion. The stranger waited in silence.

I

"I went to them in the city. went to Mary's first. She lived in a great house with servants to wait on her; a house many times larger than the little cottage-but I soon found there wasn't room enough for me.-"

The tears stood in the lines of her cheeks. The ticket agent came out softly, stirred the fire, and went back. After a pause she continued:

"I went to Martha's-went with a pain in my heart I never felt before. I was willing to do anything so as not to be a burden. But that wasn't it. I found they were ashamed of my bent old body and my withered face-ashamed of my rough, wrinkled hands-made so toiling for them—" The tears came thick and fast now. The stranger's hand rested carelessly on the gray head.

"At last they told me I must live at a boarding-house, and they'd keep me there. I couldn't say anything. My heart was too full of pain. I wrote to John what they were going to do. He wrote right back, a long, kind letter for me to come right to him. I always had a home while he had a roof, he said. To come right there and stay as long as I lived. That his mother should never go out to strangers. So I'm going to John. He's got only his rough hands and his great warm heart-but there's room for his old mother—God bless— him—"

The stranger brushed a tear from her cheek and waited the conclusion.

"Some day when I am gone where

I'll never trouble them again, Mary and Martha will think of it all. Some day when the hands that toiled for them are folded and still; when the eyes that watched over them through many a weary night are closed forever; when the little old body, bent with the burdens it bore for them, is put away where it never can shame them "

The agent drew his hand quickly before his eves, and went out as if to look for the train. The stranger's fingers stroked the gray locks, while the tears of sorrow and of sympathy fell together. The weary heart was unburdened. Soothed by a touch of sympathy the troubled soul yielded to the longing for rest, and she fell asleep. The agent went noiselessly about his duties that he might not wake her. As the fair stranger watched she saw a smile on the careworn face. The lips moved.

bent down to hear.

She

"I'm doing it for Mary and Martha. They'll take care of me some time."

She was dreaming of the days in the little cottage of the fond hopes which inspired her, long before she learned, with a broken heart, that some day she would, homeless in the world, go to John.-Dumb Animals.

THE MISSION OF THE DEW-DROP.

blue

A dew-drop fell from the glittering upon the murmurous wing of twilight. "Alas!" it whispered, "I am only a dew-drop, and how weak and poor my mission," But even as it spoke it dropped deep into the heart of a beautiful lily that had drooped its head mournfully upon its slender stalk. As the thirsty lips of the flower inhaled the nectar that fell upon them, in grateful tones the lily addressed the angel of the dew-drop, and said: "All day long the hot sun has beat down unpityingly upon my