The other felt that the caution was timely. He became aware that in his eager efforts he had overtasked his strength. "You are right," he said. "I have been overdoing it I must go more slowly."

"Can I assist you in any way?"

"Thank you, no.

You'll need all the strength you have.

Save yourself. Don't wait for me."

"Well," said the other, as he struck out in advance, "perhaps it's best. I may help you yet."

Left alone, Hartland proceeded more leisurely, seeking to husband his powers. But for a man of his years, unused to violent exertion, the distance was great,-too great, he began to feel, for reasonable hope that he might reach the shore; for he felt now, at every stroke, the strain on his muscles. After a time, so painful was the effort that he could scarcely throw out his arms. Then a numbness crept over his limbs, gradually reaching his body. He was resolute, scorning all weakness that suf fered the mind to usurp control over the will; he struggled, with Puritan hardihood, against the nervous helplessness that was invading his whole system; yet, even while he despised and sought to repulse all imaginative sensations, the fancy gained upon him that life was receding to the brain. He had no longer power to strike out. After a few random and convulsive movements, as if the body rebelled against the spell that was cast over it, he sank slowly to the bottom. An anxious sensation of distress oppressing the breast followed, becoming gradually more urgent and painful, until in his agony he instinctively struck for the upper air, which he reached. almost immediately! A few deep inhalations, and a consciousness that he was now in comparatively shallow water, restored for a minute or two the exhausted powers, but after making a little way these soon failed again:

he could no longer maintain his mouth above water, and, choking as a small wave broke over his face, he sank a second time. Strange, this time, was the transition! All pain, all anxiety, was gone. The world seemed gradually sinking away. As he went down, a sense of ease and comfort came over him, while a strange haze diffused around a yellow light. Then, as has happened to so many thus approaching the term of earthly things, the man's life passed in review before him. And there he argued before the tribunal of his own conscience, as never before, the question whether his conduct to wife and child had been marked by that love which is the fulfilling of the law. Many allegations he made, numerous pleas he brought forward, urging the duty of discipline, setting out the saving efficacy of severity, pleading the example of Him who scourgeth every son whom He receiveth. In vain! He was too near the veil. The light from Beyond, where Love reigns evermore, shone through his filmy sophistry. His soul heard the verdict-against him! It heard more than the verdict. It heard those words, gentle yet terrible: "To him that hath shown mercy shall mercy be shown." Then it cried out, entreating for a little more time-a year, a single year only-in which to atone for the harsh, unloving past. So eager grew the longing that it drew forth from life's inmost depths the last residue of that reserve fund which Nature, in kind foresight, provides against a season of overwhelming exertion; and once more a spasmodic effort brought him to the surface-and to suf fering again. Yet he breathed; he was still alive. How could it be, after that hour, so crowded with incidents spent below? An hour? That protracted trial, the accusation, the defence, the pleas he had set forth, the arguments he had employed, the verdict, the bitter repentance, the prayer for respite to amend and repair the wrong,—

it had all passed in less than a hundredth part of the time which, to his quickened consciousness, had seemed so long. Some twenty seconds only had he tarried below. A vague conviction of this stirred hope of life afresh, and a few feeble strokes carried him some yards nearer to the land. Then again that leaden sense of exhaustion! He gave it up. But this time, as his limbs sank beneath him, the feet just grazed the ground. It was like the touch of mother Earth to the Libyan giant kindling a spark of life. A faltering step or two he made, and the water just mounted to his chin. Had he reached the land too late? He stretched out his arms toward it, but the body, powerless, refused to follow. Even then the tenacity of that stubborn spirit asserted itself. He dropped on his knees, digging his fingers into the sand and dragging himself along, till he was forced once again to rise and take breath. But with the light and the air came back excruciating pain. Then an overwhelming torpor crept over sense and frame. His limbs refused their office. Unable longer to maintain himself erect, he dropped on the sand. A brief respite of absolute rest there imparted a momentary courage. He crawled, under the water, a few yards farther. Then consciousness and volition gradually failed. As if by the inherent powers of the system, uncontrolled by will, an automatic struggle was kept up-for a few seconds-no more! That was the last life-rally against fate. The temptation to lie there quiet, immovable,-all care dismissed, all effort abandoned,-was irresistible. But what was this?-a fearful reminiscence from the scene he had escaped? No. These bright sparks that flickered before his eyes were lambent and harmless. In his brain, too, there seemed an internal light,-an irradiate globe, but genial and illuminating, not burning. Then came back again that wondrous atmosphere,-that calm, effulgent,

pale yellow haze; and with it such a sense of exquisite enjoyment that all desire to return to the earth passed from the soul of the expiring man. A smile over the wan features, a slight quivering of the limbs, and then all cognizance of the world and its doings had departed; and the spirit was entranced on the verge of that unexplored phase of life to come, where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.

WORDS OF WISDOM.

JAMES A. GARFIELD.

[Among the Presidents of the United States it may be said without question that Garfield ranked first as a man of broad thought and eloquent expression. We may go further, and declare that in him the demands of a political life robbed the literary world of the labors of a thinker of unusual vigor and ability, moral elevation of ideas, and happy facility of expression. Even the exigencies of statesmanship did not quite check the natural tendency of his mind, and his addresses and orations contain many finely-expressed sentiments which the world will not willingly let die,-words of higher meaning than what is ordinarily known as worldly wisdom,-pithy sentences, overflowing with thought, and expressed with such happy brevity that many of them must fall into their due places as part of the proverbial philosophy of mankind. The more striking of these sayings may be found in "Garfield's Words," a compilation by William Ralston Balch. From these we extract a few examples of that universal wisdom which soars far above the level of ordinary statecraft. It would not be easy to find in the pages of any modern writer so many noble thoughts finely said as exist within the covers of this small volume.]

Garfield's Creed.-I would rather be beaten in Right than succeed in Wrong.

A Principle. There are some things I am afraid of, and I confess it in this great presence: I am afraid to do a mean thing.

-

Speech at Cleveland, 1879.

Keep Growing. I must do something to keep my thoughts fresh and growing. I dread nothing so much as falling into a rut and feeling myself becoming a fossil.

Private Letter, 1868.

Danger. It may be well to smile in the face of danger, but it is neither well nor wise to let danger approach unchallenged and unannounced.

Lying. It is not right or manly to lie, even about Satan.

Warren, O., 1874.

God

Governments and Man.-Governments, in general, look upon man only as a citizen, a fraction of the state. looks upon him as an individual man, with capacities, duties, and a destiny of his own; and just in proportion as a government recognizes the individual and shields him in the exercise of his rights, in that proportion is it Godlike and glorious.

Ravenna, O., 1860.

The Dead.-We hold reunions, not for the dead, for there is nothing in all the carth that you and I can do for the dead. They are past our help and past our praise. We can add to them no glory, we can give to them no immortality. They do not need us, but forever and for evermore we need them.

Geneva, 1880.

Oratory. No man can make a speech alone. It is the great human power that strikes up from a thousand minds that acts upon him and makes the speech.