BROTHER WATKINS.

A CAPITAL STORY AS TOLD BY JOHN B. GOUGH.

We have the subjoined discourse, delivered by a Southern divine, who had removed to a new field of labor. To his new flock, on the first day of his ministration, he gave some reminiscences of his former charge, as follows:

"My beloved brethering, before I take my text I must tell you about my parting with my old congregation. On the morning of last Sabbath I went into the meeting-house to preach my farewell discourse. Just in front of me sot the old fathers and mothers in Israel; the tears coursed down their furrowed cheeks; their tottering forms and quivering lips breathed out a sad-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! Behind them sot the middle-aged men and matrons; health and vigor beamed from every countenance; and as they looked up I could see in their dreamy eyes-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! Behind them sot the boys and girls that I had baptized and gathered into the Sabbath-school. Many times had they been rude and boisterous, but now their merry laugh was hushed, and in the silence I could hear~ fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! Around, on the back seats, and in the aisles, stood and sot the colored brethering, with their black faces and honest hearts, and as I looked upon them I could see a-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! When I had finished my discourse and shaken hands with the brethering-ah! I passed out to take a last look at the old church-ah! the broken steps, the flopping blinds, and mosscovered roof, suggested only-fare ye well, brother Watkins— ah! I mounted my old gray mare, with my earthly possessions in my saddle-bags, and as I passed down the street the servant-girls stood in the doors, and with their brooms waved me a-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! As I passed out of the village the low wind blew softly through the waving branches of the trees, and moaned-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! I came down to the creek, and as the old mare stopped to drink I could hear the water rippling over the pebbles a-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! And even the little fishes, as their bright fins glistened in the sunlight, I

thought, gathered around to say, as best they could-fare ye well, brother Watkins-ah! I was slowly passing up the hill, meditating upon the sad vicissitudes and mutations of life, when suddenly out bounded a big hog from a fence-corner, with aboo! aboo! and I came to the ground with my saddlebags by my side. As I lay in the dust of the road my old gray mare run up the hill, and as she turned the top she waved her tail back at me, seemingly to say-fare ye well, brother Watkins—ah! I tell you, my brethering, it is affecting times to part with a congregation you have been with for over thirty years-ah!"

NOT VERY FAR.-HORATIUS BONAR.

Surely yon heaven, where angels see God's face,
Is not so distant as we deem

From this low earth. "Tis but a little space,
The narrow crossing of a slender stream;
'Tis but a veil which winds might blow aside.
Yes; these are all that us of earth divide
From the bright dwelling of the glorified,-
The land of which I dream.

These peaks are nearer heaven than earth below,
These hills are higher than they seem;
"Tis not the clouds they touch, nor the soft brow
Of the o'erbending azure, as we deem.
"Tis the blue floor of heaven that they upbear,
And, like some old and wildly rugged stair,
They lift us to the land where all is fair,-
The land of which I dream.

These ocean waves, in their unmeasured sweep,
Are brighter, bluer than they seem;

True image here of the celestial deep,

Fed from the fulness of the unfailing stream—
Heaven's glassy sea of everlasting rest,

With not a breath to stir its silent breast

The sea that laves the land where all are blest,-
The land of which I dream.

And these keen stars, the bridal gems of night,
Are purer, lovelier than they seem;

Filled from the inner fountain of deep light,
They pour down heaven's own beam;

Clear speaking from their throne of glorious blue,
In accents ever ancient, ever new,

Of the glad home above, beyond our view,-
The land of which I dream.

This life of ours, these lingering years of earth,
Are briefer, swifter than they seem;

A little while, and the great second birth

Of time shall come,-the prophet's ancient theme.
Then He, the King, the Judge, at length shall come,
And for this desert, where we sadly roam,

Shall give the kingdom for our endless home,-
The land of which I dream.

GRIPER GREG.

Griper Greg, of the village of Willoughby Waterless,
A miserly hunks who was sonless and daughterless,
Nieceless and nephewless, why did he haste to lay
Gold in queer corners, for strangers to waste away?

Were there no claimants upon his cold charity-
Poor fellow-creatures heart-void of hilarity-
Fatherless, motherless,
Sisterless, brotherless,
Husbandless, wifeless,

Forkless and knifeless,

Dinnerless, supperless wretches to pray or beg→
None in his neighborhood, loudly to say to Greg:
"Stone-hearted miser, behold you, we perish!
Give us some victuals our faint frames to cherish?"

Yes, there were orphans, Tom, Jack, Dick, and Ned,
Lean, tiny creatures, ill clothed and worse fed;
Widows there were, Dinah, Ruth, Prue, and Kate,
Bearers alike of the hard blows of Fate;
Old pauper Will, too, who traveled on crutches,
With mouth pulled aside by neuralgical clutches,
And limbs drawn awry by rheumatical twitches,
Bewrapped in old blankets, without coat or breeches-

No sister, no daughter, no wife, to take care of him;
The very dogs barked "Bow-wow! Beggar! beware of him!"

And many more hunger-bit, tatter-clad sorrowers
Fain would have been relieved, beggars or borrowers
At Griper Greg's door, where they often cried piteously;
But Greg-he grinned fiercely, and frowned on them viciously.

One day the snow fell thick and fast,
One drear mid-winter's day;
And Greg was out upon the waste
That round his cottage lay.

No sight was there, except the snow,
Upon the wild, wide moor;
And in Greg's heart began to grow
Stern, deadly self-accusings, how
He'd used the houseless poor.

"If I die here," Greg wildly cried,
'My soul's forever lost!

Had I my gold here by my side,

It would not pay the cost

To ransom me from endless pain!
Oh! could I reach my home again,
I'd give to every suffering fellow
Whiskey enough to make him mellow."

"They are good words ye'v said!” cried beggar-man Pat, Who wandered, all weathers, without coat or hat,

Upon the wide waste, and now chanced to be near

Enough to the miser his heart-grief to hear:

"They are good words ye'y said; and no better by preacher

Were ever delivered about the dear crayture;

Make me mellow with him, and no ill shall betide ye,

For to Willoughby Waterless safely I'll guide ye!”

"Oh, joy!" shouted Greg, "guide me home from the waste,

And the sweetest of mutton this night ye shall taste!"

Bad luck to your mutton! be't sweeter than candy,

'Tis wormwood compared with strong whiskey or brandy!" "Then I'll fill ye with brandy," cried Greg, in grim fear That if he refused he would perish, left here.

So home sped the miser, by beggar Pat guided,

And home safely reached-but there, ill Greg betided.

Griper Greg, all a-cold, shared the brandy with Pat,
Till discretion and safety he wholly forgat;
And joked of his gold nuddled up in sly corners,
To hide it from burglars, by night, and day-sorners.

TT

Sleep seized him so nimbly, he stopped in his story,
And Pat-wide awake then-was quite in his glory,
And soon picked the locks and was off with the plunder!
Greg waked the next morning with sore grief and wonder
To find the noon passed while he had been sleeping;
Then looked for his gold, and forthwith fell to weeping.
'Oh, it's gone-it's all gone! and the curses it's brought me
Might all have been saved if I'd only bethought me
Of sweet love and kindness, and had friends about me,
For then on the heath they would surely have sought me!
But to scrape and to save has been always my plan,
And so nobody loves me—a wretched old man!"

Meanwhile the thief-beggar-man far off was drinking
With horrid companions, and, cunningly winking,
Said, "Look here, my boys! when you handle yer tools,
Always try 'em on misers, for misers are fools!""

'BIAH CATHCART'S PROPOSAL.-H. W. BEECHER.

They were walking silently and gravely home one Sunday afternoon, under the tall elms that lined the street for half a mile. Neither had spoken. There had been some little parish quarrel, and on that afternoon the text was, "A new commandment I write unto you, that ye love one another." But after the sermon was done the text was the best part of it. Some one said that Parson Marsh's sermons were like the meeting-house,-the steeple was the only thing that folks could see after they got home.

Once or twice 'Biah He plucked a flower

They walked slowly, without a word. essayed to speak, but was still silent. from between the pickets of the fence, and unconsciously pulled it to pieces, as, with a troubled face, he glanced at Rachel, and then, as fearing she would catch his eye, he looked at the trees, at the clouds, at the grass, at everything, and saw nothing,-nothing but Rachel. The most solemn hour of human experience is not that of Death, but of Life, -when the heart is born again, and from a natural heart becomes a heart of Love! What wonder that it is a silent

hour and perplexed?