peculiarly strengthens and spiritualizes the soul. Heinrich Heine says, "Only the man who has known bodily sufferings, is truly a man." The loftiest states of mind, and, compared with mere sensual indulgence, the happiest, are those of courageous endurance; and the martyr is often happier than the voluptuary.

life.

But now, it may be asked, Could not the same end have been gained, the same nobleness, the same constancy have been achieved without pain? Which is, I think, as if one should ask, whether the wood could not have been cut into shape without the axe, or the marble without the chisel, or the gold purified without the furnace. But let us answer; and we say, Not in any way that we can conceive of. First, it may have been absolutely inevitable in the nature of things, that a frame sensitive to pleasure should be liable to pain. This may be the explanation of that long-continued and severe pain, which presents the hardest problem in our physical With such causes foregoing, such a train of influences, mental, moral, and physical, as produced this terrible suffering, it may have been impossible, without a miracle, to prevent it. Ordinarily, indeed, such pain is not long continued. It destroys life, or life destroys it. "If severe, brief-if long, light "-is the adage; and it is true. But if it fail, and the terrible case of protracted anguish is before us, we may be obliged to leave it under some great law of the human constitution, which makes prevention impossible. I may be told that such pain does no good; that it breaks down mind and body together; and therefore that it cannot, in any way be useful. But we do not know that. In the great cycle of eternity, all may come right. How much happier the sufferer may be forever for this present pain, we know not. All experience, all known analogies, favor the idea of that immense remuneration.-Lowell Lectures.

THE PROBLEM OF DEATH.

By the unreflecting mass of men, death is regarded simply as the greatest of evils. They survey its ravages with dread and horror. They see no beneficent agencies in the appointment; they scarcely see it as an appointment at all. They behold its approach to their own

dwelling, not in the spirit of calm philosophy or resignation, but simply with a desire to resist its entrance. To "deliver those who all their lifetime are in bondage through fear of death," was one express design of Christianity; but only in a few minds has this design been fulfilled. Death is still regarded, not as an ordinance, but as a catastrophe. It is like the earthquake to the material world; that which whelms all. It is the one calamity; that which strikes a deeper shaft into the world than any other. It is the fixed doom which makes all other calamity light and phenomenal. The world trembles at it, grows pale before it, as it trembles and grows pale before nothing else. Nay, and with reflecting persons, I think, the feeling that they must die is usually the feeling of some stern necessity. "Now let me depart: it is good for me to go hence," is a language sometimes heard; but it is rare. That dark veil at the view, there forever suspended, casts a shade over the whole of life.

Can it have been meant, is it reasonable, that an event so necessary, so universal, and appointed doubtless in wisdom, should be thus regarded? For death, it is evident, in fact, if not in form, is a part of the original world-plan. I know that it is commonly looked upon as the consequence of sin-the consequence of the fall. But observe the language in which this doom, supposed to have been consequent upon the fall of man, is pronounced. It is in the third chapter of Genesis. It is a doom, in general, of toil and pain and sorrow; and when death is mentioned, it is in these terms: "In the sweat of thy face thou shalt eat bread till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken; for dust thou art, and unto dust shall thou return." thou return unto the ground." This, then, is represented as a part of the already appointed ordination of nature. "For out of it wast thou taken." The reason assigned has no reference to the fall, but to the constitution of human nature. "For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return." That is, thou shalt die, for thou art naturally mortal; earth has part in thee, and shall reclaim her own.

"Till

All this is but saying that each generation must die.

In this sense, therefore, death was a part of the original plan; the departure from this world, that is to say, was a part of it; even as that most ancient Scripture record of it implies. But still, doubtless, this departure may have assumed a particular character in consequence of sin. It may be, I repeat, a death dark and fearful-distressful both to body and mind. Vice, for instance, brings on disease; and disease produces death; and this death, thus premature and agonizing, is the fruit of sin. And doubtless in many ways, and in every way, departure from this world must be a more afflictive event, both to the sufferer and to survivors, in consequence of our moral darkness, wanderings, and weakness. Nevertheless for I must insist upon this point-the departure, in some way, is inevitable. The over-crowded dwelling must dismiss some of its inmates; the over-populous nation must send out colonies. Thus must the world, so to speak, colonize its inhabitants, translate them to another country. Else death would come amidst horrors now unknown; amidst the agonies of famine and the suffocation of fulness.

Yet not with terror only, but with tenderness does death touch the human heart-touches it with a gracious sympathy and sorrow. One may know the house where death has set his mark, long after the time. Traces are left in its affections that are never worn out. Traces are left in memoriam, in poetry, in all human sentiment. Death is not the sundering, but the consecration of friendship. It strengthens that holy bond. It makes the departed dearer. It gives new power and sanctity to their example. It invests their virtues with the radiance of angel beauty. It canonizes them as patron saints and guardian angels of the household.

Nor could it fulfil its high mission if men departed from the world in families, in tribes, in generations. Then indeed were we spared the sorrows of bereavement; but at the expense of much that is most sacred in life. If families were dismissed from life together, they would inevitably become selfish; contracting their thoughts and affections within those domestic spheres in which all their destinies were bound up. If generations were mowed down at once, like the ripened har

vests, then had there been no history of public deeds, nor record of private worth. The invisible presence of virtue that now pervades and hallows the earth, that consecrates our dwellings, and makes them far more than the abodes of life, would be withdrawn from the fellowship of men; and the signal lights of heroic example that are now shining through the ages would all go out in utter darkness.

Nay, in another respect the grandeur of death imparts a reflected dignity to life. God puts honor on the being to whom he says "Thou shalt die!"-to whom he does not veil the event as he does the animal natures, but unfolds the clear prospect. He to whom the grandest achievement of courage and.heroism should be proposed, could not be a mean creature. But every man is to meet the grandeur of death.

Yes, and in the bosom of death are powers greater than itself. I have seen them. I have seen them triumph, when death was nearest and mightiest; and I believe in them-I believe in those unborn powers of life and immortality, more than I believe in death. They will bear me up more than death will weigh me down. I live: and this living conscious being which I am to-day, is a greater wonder to me than it is that I should go on and on. How I came to be astonishes me far more than how I should continue to be. And if I am to continue, if I am to live for ever, I must have a realm fitted for such life. Eternity of being must have infinitude of space for its range. I would visit other worlds; and especially does the desire grow intense as the boundless splendors of the starry heavens are unfolded wider and wider. But I cannot go to them-I cannot skirt the coasts of Sirius and the Pleiades with this body. Thensome time-in God's good time-let it drop. Let my spirit wander free. Let this body drop; as when one leaves the vehicle that had borne him on a journey—to ascend some lofty mountain-to lift his gaze to wider heavens and a vaster horizon. So let my spirit wander free, and far. Let it wander through the realms of infinite good; its range as unconfined as its nature; its faith, the faith of Christ; its hope, a hope full of immortality. Lowell Lectures.

DIAZ, ABBY (MORTON), an American juvenile writer and industrial reformer, is a descendant of George Morton, one of the early Pilgrim settlers at Plymouth, Mass., where she was born November 22, 1821. Her father and his family were earnest in the anti-slavery movement, and were for a time resident at Brook Farm. She was educated at the Bridgewater Normal School. It is related of Abby Morton that, while attending the public schools of her native town, she would knit garters and deny herself butter and other articles of diet, that she might earn and save money to give to the anti-slavery cause; and that her copy-books were made at home of paper, each sheet of which bore the figure of a slave upon his knees.

She married a Cuban gentleman, who died a few years after, leaving her in straitened circumstances, with two little sons to support. In her endeavor to earn a living for herself and children she taught a singing-school, became a public school teacher, was housekeeper at a summer resort, made the boys' clothes herself, took the oversight of the sewing department of a large clothing house, and sent short stories to the magazines. An unexpected check for $40 from the Atlantic, in 1861, for a little piece she had sent to that monthly, decided her to make her living, and do good at the same time, by means of her pen. She soon became well known for her children's stories, pub