lawn-let him have these and many more surroundings of comfort and luxury, provided, a well selected library be not forgotten. Mind and heart must regale themselves as well as flesh and blood. The outer man soon dies of surfeit, if the inner is left to starve. To enjoy, it is necessary that we appreciate and understand our possessions; otherwise we, in the midst of luxury, are like to Alexander's horses in a gilded stable. "Shoddy" wealth is the most contemptible of all. Our externals must ever preserve a proportion with our internal state of cultivation. There must be as much in us, as around us. Wherever this correspondence is lacking, a certain vulgarity cleaves to us, in spite of every array and trapping. It is easily seen, by those standing off, that we are ahead of ourselves. We are the slave of our money, and not its master. It is calculated, not to contribute to our peace of mind and happiness, but to rob us of it and render us miserable. The mind must rule matter. Hence Nature is adorned by Science and Art. Therefore, do we plead for Books, Paintings and Statuary, as a choice investment for our money, in order that the higher and better nature of man, may ever keep pace with our physical being. Tours and voyages are not a waste of money either. They enlarge the man. He creeps out of his chrysalis state

thereby.

Such serving of Self is not forbidden, either by common sense, or by the Bible. It is not a crime to love one's self, only to love one's self exclusively, or beyond our neighbor.

Consequently, that neighbor comes in for a share of our money. Riches are to tell on society at large. The miser is like a snail, content in its own narrow shell. Not so the worthy man of means. He multi

plies the public revenue, income and profits, by means of his prudent and manifold outlays. He elevates the prestige of the State and aids in supporting the welfare of the laborer and the glory of the community. He rejoices in seeing capital at work. The bustle of trade and the hum of machinery is to him, as if the workman and mechanic were singing his anthem of praise and psalm of rejoicing. In common life he affords to his fellow mortals existence, livelihood and happiness. In seasons of great emergencies, he furnishes aid with a full and free hand, to rescue the honor and credit of the nation. For the pulpit, press, or the mass to cry down such a benefactor, is downright folly. God bless the worthy capitalists, we say, and that is praying for the poor, at the same time. But we would see his contributions embodied in every eleemosynary institution, too, for the benefit of his fellows. Churches, Schools, Orphan Homes and Alms-houses, must contain of our possessions, if we, would make unto ourselves "friends of the mammon of unrighteousness." Not to understand the philosophy of such an investment, is not to understand the art of financiering, no matter how many "Government Bonds" we may own. These constitute the very best Banks in the land. None pay a larger percentage. All truly great stewards are enrolled as members of such corporations. They know that by giving to the poor, they are lending to the Lord. And who would ask for a better creditor? God never shields Himself behind bankruptcy, or the Limitation Act!

We would have His hand open in assisting the flow of private charity, at the front door where the mendicant knocks, and at the garden

gate, where the neighboring widow and the orphan comes, with shy face and timid foot. God sees between the leaves and through the grapevine too. No man can buy a seat in heaven for gold, we know quite well. But if Providence elevated us upon a mound of wealth, that same Providence expects us to make that mound a stepping-stone to bliss. The rich farmer, in Gospel-history, was a fool, because he did not see the quarters wherein to store his overplus, and stupidly inquired after a new, big barn, as the only safe place of investment. God hated him, because he did not aspire higher than the dunghill and its low surroundings.

The sumptuous fare and fine linen would not have harmed Dives a whit, had he but recognized the call from Heaven in Lazarus lying and moaning at his very gate. Crumbs even would have multiplied into glittering jewels for his brow. And the recollection of this inhumanity it was, that enveloped his soul in a flaming torment and parched him with a thirst greater than that of Tantalus. From not knowing what to do with his money, the blessing becomes a curse.

Being of German origin and mould, we dare not forget to mention the "Almosen Treasury," as a happy safe for our money. It seems so very much like the custom to which the ancient Saxon kings were devoted, namely to distribute gifts to the poor, from baskets. It seems like making a "Maundi-Thursday" out of every Lord's Day. We like to see even children attempt to "cast in," though the gift fall oftentimes aside and roll loudly along. We saw a mother guide the arm and shake the hand of her little boy, in his first infantile effort to invest in the "Gotteskasten."

Just as humiliating, however, is it to observe a full grown worshipper. habitually giving his drowsy nod to the officiating Deacon, and nothing else. We cannot help but feel a little suspicious, whether that man's "prayers" went up, since the alms-giving did not accompany them. Better then heed the precept: "Upon the first day of the week, let every one of you lay by him in store, as God hath prospered him."

"But such prodigality would soon exhaust the fountain," says an objector. An economical father is accustomed to tell his daughter: "There is no well so deep, but that it may be drained !" It is all so, doubtless. But a prudent man will proportion his outlays according to his income. And herein precisely lies the secret of a successful stewardship, which is again and at once to be able rightly to answer the question : "What to do with one's money?

Generally speaking, all men want money; many make money; some hoard it, and the few only know how to use it. It is a panacea, if we understand its dispensatory. Lacking this, it is Mammon-the Idol of the world. "The Mammon of Unrighteousness" is the Gospel, Creed and Worship of the world. It is the Juggernaut of civilized Nations. Its victims are counted by legions, and yet only because they cast themselves under the car, and not because it pursues men. It is an engine, which is calculated to convey and land us at our desired haven, provided it is kept on the legitimate track. Swiftly and smoothly it brings us to the desired landing. But off of its track, our depot is Pandemonium! How much depends then upon the helms-man.

But the engineering of our wealth involves no little responsibility, else the steering of a camel through a needle's eye, would not have been pronounced an easier task, than for a rich man, to enter the kingdom of Heaven.

TREES AND PLANTS FOR THE TOMBS OF THE DEAD.*

FROM THE FRENCH BY C. G. A. HULLHORST.

In all parts of the globe Nature has placed her plants, calculated to change into fragrance the noxious odors of the air, arising from decaying substances, and to serve as decorations for the tombs of the dead by their mournful and melancholy forms.

Among the plants, the creeping mallow with its striped flowers of purple, and the asphodel or king's-spear, with its long stem, decorated with beautiful white or yellow flowers, delight in growing on the funeralmound. As is shown by that inscription on an ancient tomb-stone:

"Au dehors je suis entouré de mauve et d'asphodèle

Et audedans je ne suis qu' un cadavre."

"Without I am enclosed by mallows and asphodels, and within I am only a corpse." Among the ancients was a belief, that the seeds of the asphodel formed the diet of the dead. According to Homer, the shades, after passing the Styx (the river of the nether-world), traversed a vast plain of asphodels.

Of the funeral trees I find two kinds, of very opposite characters, diffused in different climates. The first kind let their long and slender branches hang down on the ground, and they are seen floating carelessly in the wind. The branches are dishevelled as though bewailing some misfortune. Such is the Cazarina of the South Sea islands, which the natives plant with much diligence around the graves of their ancestors. We have in our own country the weeping-willow or Salix Babylonica, doubtless so called because the Hebrew captives hung their harps upon them. Our common willow, when the top is not cut off, also hangs down its boughs and presents a mournful appearance. Shakespeare felt and expressed this very forcibly in his song of the willow, which he lays in the mouth of Desdemona, when ready to end her unhappy days:

"A poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,

Sing all a green willow;

Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,

Sing willow, willow, willow:

The fresh streams ran by her, and murmured her moans;

Sing willow, willow, willow:

Her salt tears fell from her, and softened the stones;

Sing willow, willow, willow.

Sing all a green willow must be my garland.

Let nobody blame him, his scorn I approve,

I called my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow."

. * Bernardin De Saint Pierre. Harmonies de la Nature.

There are several other species of trees, with long chevalures; such are certain kinds of ash trees; a fig tree of the Isle of France, whose fruit drags on the ground, and the birches of the North.

The second kind of funeral trees comprehends those arising in the form of an obelisk or pyramid. If the trees with chevalures seem to convey our sorrows toward the earth, these seem to direct with their branches our hopes toward heaven. Such are among others, the cypress of the mountains; the poplar of Italy, and the fir tree of the North. The cypress with its foliage so gracefully waving, and wound in a spiral, resembles a distaff covered with wool, such as poets have imagined in the hands of the Parcae or Fates who spin our destinies. The poplars of Italy, according to the ingenious Ovid, are nothing else than the sisters of Phaeton, deploring the fate of their brother in raising their arms toward heaven. With regard to the fir tree, I know of nothing better suited for beautifying the graves of the dead. For this purpose the Chinese and Japanese cultivate them extensively. They regard the fir as a symbol of immortality. Indeed, its aromatic fragrance; its sullen, perpetual verdure; its pyramidical form, pointing to the clouds; the mysteriously gentle rustlings of its leaves, agitated by the evening zephyr, forming an accompaniment so suitable to the sacred silence of the grave; -all render it a most beautiful and impressive symbol of immortality and eternity.

It is well for us to plant these trees and cultivate these plants, so full of melancholy expression and solemn, awful meaning, on the graves of our beloved departed. Plants are the characters in the book of nature, and the cemetery should be a school of morals. It is here that at the sight of the powerful, the wealthy and the wicked, who lie here "mouldering in the dust," vanish all human passions, pride, carnal desires, avarice and envy. Here the sweetest feelings arise in the breast of man, with the recollection of children, wife or husband, parents and friends. The most savage nations, especially the tribes of the East, carry provisions to the graves of their departed friends. Let us at least cultivate such plants and trees there, as will more tangibly preserve their memory. We sometimes raise urns and statues; but time soon destroys the monuments of art, whereas it yearly multiplies those of nature. The old yew trees have more than once survived the church-edifices there built. We may even adapt the trees or plants to the occupation the departed followed during their lives; the water-willow for the basket-maker; the oak for the carpenter. But above all are evergreens of all kinds suitable, for they remind us of eternal, never-fading virtues, which are more important to society than trades or genius. We may mention a few the most appropriate: The pale violet and the sweet primrose or cow-slip for the dear, innocent child; the periwinkle and the myrtle, spreading their azure flowers over the grave, for the fair loved one; the ivy, environing the cypress, for those united till death; the laurel for the warrior as characterizing his bravery; the olive for the merchant. And even when monuments of stone are erected, they should be overshadowed by shrubbery; the box-tree, the juniper, the petty-whim with its sombre grain, the fragrant honey-suckle, the majestic fir-tree. How enchanting is a lonely walk in such an Elysium, thus beautified and decorated, illuminated by

the bright rays of the morning, or the brilliancy of the setting sun, or the pale light of the moon, and ever-hallowed by the ashes of virtuous, Christian men! Those resting here in sweet repose are to be envied. It seems desirable to have here a hillock surrounded by all those we love, gently covered with soft moss; here to sleep in Jesus' arms until that great final day, when we shall arise to meet with glorified bodies all the patriarchs and prophets and the innumerable host of saints and, above all, enjoy eternally the holy presence of our blessed Redeemer.

A CITY OF MARTYRS.

BY THE EDITOR.

A year ago I took the readers of the Guardian on a Christmas stroll through Rome. We will repeat the visit. For, unlike most other cities, Rome can be seen to the best advantage in the winter season. It happens to be on the morning of January 14th. In what year it matters not for our present purpose. I and a friend, with staff in one hand, and Murray's Guide for Rome and its Environs" in the other, pass out of the city through the gate of San Sebastiano. Around Rome lies a large level country, called the Campagna. All this region is an unploughed waste, although, with comparatively little trouble, it might be turned into the Garden of Italy. The plain is covered with a white frost, such as we often have on an American November morning. The sun is already fast dissolving it. Towards sunrise the reflection of the bright light on the icy earth covers it with a sheen of glory.

We are strolling over the Appian Way-an old Roman Road, built three hundred and twelve years before the birth of Christ. It connected Rome with the south-eastern coast of Italy-a distance of four hundred miles. Over this old road, paved with six-sided stones, laid in cement, over two thousand years ago, we leisurely tread.

A short distance outside of the gate, the temple of Mars used to stand. There the armies of Rome, returning from a victory, and about entering the city in triumph, used to halt, and offer sacrifices to the god of War. Scarcely a mile from the city we reach a small stone church, by the wayside. We enter. It has an altar, but no pews or seats of any kind. Tradition says, that when Peter was persecuted and threatened with death at Rome, he fled. On the spot where this church stands, he, in his flight, met our Saviour going towards Rome. The apostle asks him: "Lord, whither goest thou?" (Domine quo vadis?) Our Saviour replies: "I am going to Rome to be crucified again." Whereupon Peter, with penitent sorrow and shame, returns to Rome, to suffer martyrdom. Poor Peter! It was not the first time he yielded to cowardice.

For miles, out from Rome, the Appian Way leads through a cemetery. On both sides it is lined with costly monuments, some exceeding in size