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fulfilment of His wise, His gracious purposes.

Commerce and Christianity may, by man's avarice and sin, be separated, and unnaturally opposed to one another. Those things that God has joined together in holy matrimony, man, wickedly, can put asunder. That divorce has been decreed for more than two centuries in Japan. That divorce has been countenanced and encouraged by other nations since early times. Commerce has not gone forth in alliance with religion. Religion has been left behind to journey alone from her birth-place in Bethlehem of Judea; not as a conqueror, but as a pilgrim ; not with a paid army of retainers, but with a few loving followers; not in pomp and pride, but in lowliness and humility. The cross was laid upon her by the Divine hand, first at Jerusalem, and afterwards every where. Nevertheless, she has borne the cross, lovingly and willingly, and she has conquered by bearing it. She endured it in Asia Minor in her infancy. And thence travelling westward into Africa and into Europe, she has knocked at the heart's door of peasants and of fishermen ; of merchants and of scholars; of nobles and of kings; of low and high; of rich and poor; and has summoned Cæsar's household" to open unto her the imperial gates. They who have entertained her as a guest, "have entertained angels unawares." They who have admitted her into their bosoms have felt her as "a LIFE."

She has gone, untiring, with the sun westward; lighting up the dreary and dark souls of barbarous heathen; warming them with a diviner sunshine that was spreading over luxuriant nature, and causing to spring forth, and bud, and bear, seeds of better fruit than ever earth had seen.

Pagan Britain was transformed into Christian England. The druid altars of human sacrifices were forsaken for the altar of The CRUCIFIED who sacrificed Himself for human sin. The cross on the flag of that Christian country has floated across the waters of every ocean. It is unfurling itself continually, as the successive drum beats reveille at dawn of day, on each great circle of longitude on the globe. It is waving perpetually, from some high staff, in every land. And wherever the British cross has opened the way, there the Church of England is helping forward Religion. From Engiand the heaven-born Pilgrim crossed the Atlantic to the fourth quarter of the globe,

and found in this, our land, a home. And now, unwearied, she is travelling after the pioneers of civilization, and voyaging in the wake of ships; sanctifying commercial intercourse and claiming commerce as her partner. She has taken refuge under the flag of these United States to pass over the Pacific to the East again, persevering in her circuit round the world, until she shall reach her birth-place in Asia, and shall welcome back her Lord from heaven at his second coming, "conquering and to conquer." The one vast Empire of Japan, wherein the Protestant English in Queen Elizabeth's reign, two centuries ago, had gained a foothold, Englishmen deserted; and have endea vored since, repeatedly, in vain, to occupy and recover.

Who can tell whether (had England been patient and faithful to herself and God) there might not now have been Christianity in Japan, shining with a pure flame out of a holy lamp: not emitting smoke from the foul oil of Romish superstition; not clouding the souls of men with dogmas as corrupting as the Buddhist and Sintoo doctrines; but irradiating the Eastern Archipelago with the sanctified light of the pure Gospel from a Protestant Japanese church of Christ!

But religion was banished from that Empire. Yet let man do what he will to defeat or to retard the pilgrimage of primitive Christianity, he cannot vanquish the will of God. God makes the wrath of man to praise Him, and the remainder of wrath He will restrain. The witness of the church shall resound throughout the nations of the earth; "then cometh the end." The earth shall be girt about with prayer. From the earth, Fraises to God and to his Christ shall ascend on high in every tongue. Man's heart shall beat against the heart of his brother man, in the sympathy of mutual love; in the communion of a common worship; in all the fellowship of Christianized nations, embraced in the ample and expanding charity of the one Catholic Church of Jesus Christ.

For it is written and it shall come to pass, "From the rising of the sun even unto the going down of the same, MY NAME shall be great among the Gentiles; and in every place incense shall be offered unto MY NAME, and a pure offering; for my NAME shall be great among the heathen, saith the LORD OF HOSTS."

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HE little birds awake at peep of day,

THE

When soft winds shake their nests, and leaves are stirred; The buds unseal their lids beneath the spray,

Called by the dews, to mortal ears unheard;
But thou-though we have called thee, over-loud,
Thrice with our shrillest voices, thou art mute:
-But we will touch the lute,

And melt the dream, that wraps thee like a cloud.
We passed along the borders of the vale,
And peeped into it from the misty hill;
Far in its depths we heard the nightingale
Muffled in song: we hear him singing still.
We sat together, all in thoughtful rest,
Last eve, and watched the golden chaff of light,
From sheaves of sunset, bounden in the West,
Stored in the closing garners of the Night:
And when pale Hesperos with silver crook,
Led forth his starry flock from out their fold,
We wept together in the bosky nook,

And linked our hearts with kisses, each thrice told.
Hast thou forgot our kisses, and thine own?—
(We dreamed of only those, the live-long night!)
Forgot thy loving maidens, chaste and white?
Forgot the vale, whose depths are yet unknown ?—
It cannot be! Awake, and answer-"No!"
O, say us "No!" or we must wake, and weep:
Give us a little sign, before we go,

That we are not forgotten in thy sleep;

Think of us, one and all, as we of thee,
Both now, and evermore, Persephone!

II.

Hearken! our lutes are strung with silver wires,
All nicely suited, viorant with the strain;
Our voices melt therein, like soft desires,
Or South winds dying in a vernal rain!
The sky-lark listens in the woods apart,
Since twilight sleeping on the falling dew,
And hoards our music in his brimming heart,
Meaning a sweet repayment from the blue:
But thou art bound in slumber, deaf to all,
Mute as a little maid beneath her pall,
Heedless of dear ones coming there to weep,
Locked in a cold and everlasting sleep!

If such should be thy sleep, O what should we
Say to Demeter in her woe divine ?-

And to our hearts, and all that ask and pine,
For Earth would then demand her lost Persephone?

III.

Not so, not so! bright Hestia would arise,
And light anew thy scarce-extinguished torch;
Zeus would rain his lightenings from the skies,
And pierce the shadow Mors against his porch,
No more to launch the unseen dart at thee;-
For Demo-Gorgon has compelled the Three,
For great Demeter's sake,

To twist thy shining thread of Life without a break!

Both Lachesis and Clotho spin to-day

Thy fleece, from off the distaff of the Years,
Nor dare dark Atropos with fatal shears
Clip even a shred away!

For Heaven delights in thee,

Thou art so like to Heaven, divine Persephone!

Ah yes!-and see

IV.

Hark! hear ye not a stirring in her bower,
A rustling in the dimness of the leaves?
-the Morning in its eaves,
Braids through the twinkled green a golden shower!
Strike all your lutes again, and break the bands
That Sleep has woven round her in the night;
Let melting Music with her loving hands
Slowly unwind his tangled skeins of light!
Up-gather all thy poppies, drowsy-sweet,
And all thy syrop-urns of mandragore ;
Fly, Morpheus, fly, ere Morning's winged feet,
Fire-sandalled, bear him to thy palace-door,
Where, waiting thee, thy Visions shrink away,
Blinded by coming Day!

Fly, Morpheus, fly, with heavy-lidded eyes-
The night is done, the maiden would arise.
Awake Persephone!-the finches round
Chirp to the swallows, twittering overhead,
And little crickets answer from the ground,
Hidden in tufted mosses, white and red.
Awake! awake! let sluggards weak and gray
Before their time, drowse out the morning hours;
Health-loving maids are up before the day,
To wet their feet in dew, and gather flowers.
Flowers grow around in myriads, even here,
In this dark forest, beaded o'er with dew;
They call for thee, within thy spirit's ear,
And all the little birds are calling too;
And we thy loving maids, so dear to thee-
Then wake and rise, O rise, divine Persephone!

VIRGINIA IN A NOVEL FORM.
Continued from page 146.

CHAPTER V.
THIS CHAPTER, WITH THE READER'S PERMISSION, IS
DEDICATED TO CUPID.

MR.

[R. ROBERT RUSHTON's time was devoted exclusively to his friend Dashwood. He must be with Frank, morning, noon, and night. He was seldom at home. He had always some business or an engagement with Frank. They found time amid their multifarious duties, to take a mysterious trip together to see Mrs. Blanton. Dashwood came back enraptured with her. He told mamma-who had doubtless in her anxiety for her son, commissioned him to keep an eye upon Therese-that he was proud of Robert's choice-for it was not art, he said, which made Therese so enchanting, but nature. Nature so perfectly beautiful, that he had mistaken it

for the perfection of art, for which he begged the dear dimpled creature's pardon.

Having made the amende to Mrs. Blanton, Dashwood, who was getting his af fairs in order, previous to his departure to foreign parts, drew me to the window, and begged me with moist eye, and nervous lip, to take good care of Louise for him.

"If she cries for me, when I am goneah, if she hangs about your neck, and sobs for me in the long, still hours-comfort her, Jenny, and keep her hopeful, and cheerful for me, will you? Do not let her go off by herself to weep; cheer her up for me, my good Jenny, I must not think of her, all drooping and tearful-and yetand yet," said he, half musing. "I would not have her careless and gay." I smiled.

"I tell you, dear Jenny" he said, "I would like her to be resigned and hopeful, but not remarkably lively,-you understand?"

"Very well," said I, "I shall exhort my sister to endeavor to poise herself midway between joy and sorrow. I shall tell her that, while I am to try very much to amuse her, she is not to be at all amused."

"Heigho!" began poor Dashwood, with a rueful face, "what a time I shall have with my attachéship! What long, long hours I must endure before I can be with you all again!"

"But you two are determined?" I asked.

"Determined! I tell you no word in the English language can express the firmness of our purpose. Determined! death cannot part us. Mr. Rushton, your estimable father, is, I am happy to say, only a feather in our estimation, Mrs. Barbara a mere puff of wind, Mrs. Braxley a mop to be jumped over on our way to church."

"And uncle Joe?"

"Pooh-small potatoes," said Dashwood with an air. I was not then aware that uncle Joe had deserted the family party, and gone over to the enemy. Such knowledge being considered, by his friends, as highly dangerous to circulate, and as calculated to embitter the domestic peace of that most worthy man.

Papa was highly pleased at Dashwood's appointment; and Tom Farren delivered quite a speech upon the occasion. Poor Robert declared that he had rather part with his right hand than with Frank, but he added, "If I thought it necessary to amputate my right hand, it should be cut off, and I would try and do with the left." Mrs. Barbara inquired where St. Cloud was, and if Mr. Dashwood was likely to meet with a very dear friend of hers, who had gone with her husband to Rio. If so, would he be kind enough to take charge of a steel bag, and a pair of button-hole scissors, which it seems, that friend had left at Mrs. Barbara's on her last visit.

Mamma hoped he would not be shipwrecked, or robbed, or caught by the Inquisition, or, above all, go over to the Pope.

Robert hoped he would write some telling letters to the Star, and let people know what he was about.

During this visit, which was about a fortnight before Dashwood's departure, papa took him kindly by the hand, and led him into the library.

"My dear young friend," he said handing him a seat, and then settling down in his large leather chair, "I am extremely

gratified at this appointment; I am your friend, though I have never flattered you -perhaps your best friends do not flatter you. Well, Mr. Dashwood, the last conversation we had in this room was not a very pleasant one, but I must beg that you will continue to bear it in mind."

"There is no danger of my forgetting it, sir," said Dashwood quickly.

"What I said then I repeat to-day; my daughter must not be troubled by your proposals."

"I have no proposals to make to the young lady, sir."

"I hope not. I have other views for my daughter, Mr Dashwood."

CC So you have taken the trouble to inform me very many times, sir."

"And I wish it distinctly understood." "I am quick at apprehension, sir." "That I oppose the affair in toto. The long engagement, the promise to wait until you make a fortune, the idle notion about congeniality, and all the foolish visions which have flitted across the brains of all the foolish lovers in the world. I tell you, fortunes and great names are not so easily made. I tell you, every young man of talent is not bound to succeed. I tell you the most strenuous actions are not always crowned with success that our most ardent wishes had better not be realized sometimes. Bless my soul, suppose all my wild visions had been realized! where would I have been now, in the name of common sense? Suppose I had married my sister's pretty governess for whom I was actually run mad a whole year! Bless my soul-we had better leave these things to Providence, Mr. Dashwood. Young ladies of eighteen, and high-spirited fellows of twenty-two, had better not take their destinies into their own hands. I tell you it is wrong-morally wrong; and you will thank me for all this, some day, if you live-indeed you will."

"My dear sir, I do not blame you for refusing me your daughter's hand; I esteem you for it. I esteem all her friends who have her interests so much at heart. Time can only prove what we are. If I were to say to you now, that ten years hence, I shall be this or that, you would laugh at me. Very well, I say no such thing. But I say nous verrons."

Exactly-nous verrons. You go off to a foreign court, young, and unfettered by promises, you will come back with a little more knowledge of men and things. Exactly sir, nous verrons."

"Thank you, sir. I shall return to bid your family farewell, with your permission," said Dashwood rising.

"Certainly come by all means. I

shall be happy to see you. Good morning," and papa opened the door, and shook the hand of his guest, with much cordiality.

"Mrs. Braxley brought Louise home, and in a few days Dashwood came to pay his last formal visit to our family.

Now, poor fellow, his "jests and gibes" were gone. He could no longer rally and be gay. The laughing lip quivered, and the lustrous eye, with its comic fire, was filled to the brim. Once or twice he made an effort to be himself, but it would not do. The light spirit was trailing in the dust, the quick retort and happy repartee were stifled, and the merry laugh no longer rang around the family circle as in the bright days which were flown. Louise was never alone with him during this visit. Papa was all attention to his guest, and Mrs. Barbara and suite mustered about him. My sister went on careless, indolent, and calm. Papa marked with pride the same lofty air and graceful ease and he thought the dreamer dreamed no more. Dashwood strove to emulate her in her perfect show of insensibility; but he hadn't the self-command of the imperious Louise. And from the filmed eye, flushed cheek, and nervous, restless manner, one saw the anguish of his manly, loving heart, and pitied him for the struggles he so bravely made.

The hour was coming-coming with pulsating step, when these two, so different, and yet so united, were to part. Louise stood calm and clear, under papa's eye, waiting to say farewell. Mrs. Barbara stood looking on, as Dashwood, after shaking every body by the hand, turned firmly and steadily to Louise. He took her hand, and not a tear, or faltering word betrayed the mighty strength of that love which so many had tried in vain to

sever.

Louise bade him "God speed" in a clear, unshaken voice, and he made his bow, and left us standing in the hall. I saw him brush away a tear as he gathered the reins in his hand-and I saw him wring Robert's hand as though his heart was breaking, but this was all I saw.

My sister, as though to test to the utmost limit the great strength of her poor woman's heart, remained standing some fifteen minutes with papa and mamma in the hall. And though she felt that all eyes were upon her, she never faltered or quailed, but stood conversing with them carelessly, as though nothing had happened. Papa took his hat and stick, and walked out. Mrs. Barbara returned to her knitting, and Mrs. Braxley to her snuff, and Louise walked carelessly away.

But in her quiet room her woman's nature triumphed. Here, the pent-up tears flooded the lustrous eyes, and she fell upon my neck, and yielded to the luxury of unrestrained emotion. Here, the woman's nature shone forth in all its strength. Here, the calm and placid girl shivered with emotion. Here, poor Louise threw off the outer garment of proud insensibility, and sobbed convulsively, and prayed, and refused all comfort and all hope. She drew from her bosom his miniature, and a bit of poetry which the guarded lover had scribbled off for her eye alone, on his last visit. As some evidence of the talents with which poor Dashwood was gifted, I transcribe it for the reader.

FOR MY LOUISE.

Well, we have met-nor have our eyes
Revealed the secret they could tell,
Nor blushing cheek, nor faintest sighs
Betrayed the truth we knew so well.
A mystic chain between us lay,
In airy links, unseen and still;
From heart to heart its fairy way,
Electric in its mighty thrill.

A breath, a tone, a careless note,

Would vibrate on each magic round,
In airy circles surely float,

Reaching the heart with lightest bound.
Oh Love! how subtle is thy power,

How wonderful thy changing ways,
Compressing years in one short hour,
And making dreary, summer days.
Louise-ah! should I never come

To claim each promise, and each vow;
Keep them, my darling, for our home,
All star-lighted above us now.

Keep them, Louise, all pure and true,
Keep them-ah, I'll wait them there;
Keep them-nor utter them anew,

Nor breathe them, save to Heaven in prayer.
Keep them-nor tell them save to Heaven,
In stilly hours, where none are near;
The jealous spirit floats at even,

Perhaps such precious vows to hear.
Once more adieu!-my heavy heart
Goes on its weary way alone:
Since loving, trusting, we must part,
"Twere better quickly, coldly done.

And parted! oh! the bitter tears,

And fears, which loving heart ne'er flees,
And midnight vigils long as years,

And days-all wanting my Louise!

"Oh, he is gone, Jenny-gone-and all is blank!" cried my sister, her heart realizing anew the full extent of her sorrow. Somebody tapped gently at our door, and Robert came in, and threw himself upon the bed and wept like a child. He drew Louise to him, and whispered to her, and laid her stricken head upon his bosom, and these two children of prosperity sobbed together over their first sorrow.

"Jenny, you must help me to take care of this poor little thing. We must stand by her, sister Jenny, through thick and thin. We must console her, and minister to her in her grief, for she is a ten

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