he had a perennial spring to go to; "I have a reservoir; I may be at my ease." No; "I had water yesterday, I have water to-day; but my having had it yesterday, and my having it to-day, is the very cause that I shall not have it on some day that is approaching."

Surely this is a beautiful image, and true as it is beautiful. It is no violent metaphor to represent life as a fortress, and man a prisoner within its gate. Time is the dark reservoir from which he drinks; but he cannot descend to examine its depth or its quantity. He draws his supply from a fountain fed by invisible pipes. Nay, we do not often see the fountain. We conceal it with thick trees; we strive to hide Time. Still, if we would linger by it for a moment, we might discover a sad difference between the flow of the water at different seasons of the human year. In Spring and Summer -our childhood and early youth - the sunshine of hope silvers every drop; and if we look into the stream, the voice of some fair spirit might almost be heard speaking to us from the crystal shrine. In Autumn and Winter days our mature manhood and old fountain pours a more languid and dark current.

age

the

But

the thing to be remembered, in Spring, Summer,

Autumn, and Winter, is, that the reservoir which feeds the fountain is being exhausted. Every drop that fell in our sunniest days lessened the water that remains. We had life yesterday, and we have life to-day; the probability, the certainty is, that we shall not have it on some day that is approaching. It strikes a chill to the heart, to think that the reservoir may not contain enough water to supply the prisoner in life's dungeon for another week.

Rev. R. A. Willmott.

COMPENSATION.

THE lesson of compensation is taught by the humming of flies along the hedges. The flutterer of a day has no reason to complain of the shortness of its life. It was a thought of Malebranche, that the ephemera may regard a minute as we look upon a year. The delusion is its recompense.

Rev. R. A. Willmott.

A THOUGHT ON DEATH.

WHEN life as opening buds is sweet,
And golden hopes the spirit greet,
And youth prepares his joys to meet,
Alas! how hard it is to die!

When scarce is seized some valued prize,
And duties press, and tender ties

Forbid the soul from earth to rise,

How awful then it is to die!

When, one by one, these ties are torn, And friend from friend is snatch'd forlorn, And man is left alone to mourn,

Ah! then how easy 'tis to die!

When trembling limbs refuse their weight, And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, And clouds obscure the mental light,

'Tis nature's precious boon to die!

When faith is strong, and conscience clear,
And words of peace the spirit cheer,

And vision'd glories half appear,

'Tis joy, 'tis triumph, then to die!

Mrs. Barbauld.

TRIFLES AFFECTING HAPPINESS.

THE road to home-happiness lies over small steppingstones. Slight circumstances are the stumbling-blocks of families. The prick of a pin, says a proverb collected by Fuller, is enough to make an empire insipid. The tenderer the feelings are, the painfuller is the wound. A cold, unkind word checks and withers the blossom of the dearest love, as the most delicate rings of the vine are troubled by the faintest breeze The misery of a life is born of some chance observation. If the true history of quarrels, public and private, were honestly written, it would be silenced by an uproar of derision. The retainers of a Norman monastery fought and hated one another, during a hundred and forty years, for the right of hunting rabbits. Rev. R. A. Willmott.

THE STAGES OF HUMAN LIFE.

BEHOLD the child whom you lately fondled in your arms, now contending with his play-fellows in boyish sports! Again-observe him who lately returned from school, with his satchel in his hand, now panting foremost in the chace! And now see manhood stamped upon the downy cheek! Let us likewise remember the equally gradual declension. At length the sturdy son supports his feeble sire!

For he who in his youth was swiftest in the race, is now scarcely able to uphold his tottering limbs. The man of war, whose sturdy arm wielded the blood-thirsting sword of battle, is now bending under the weight of his own body. Behold his sinews are dried up, and the purple current that bounded in his veins, now heavily and scarcely creeps along! In every part alike the powers of this wonderful machine decay. The teeth, designed both for use and ornament, robbed of their beautiful enamel, become, unsightly,