together on its borders. This view would be one of still life, indeed, only that afar over the meadows there is an opening, where a brown bend of road is seen; upon which, at irregular intervals, a primitive wagon, attached to a sleepy horse, guided by a sleepier driver; or a slow-moving cart and oxen; or a stout countryman with a stick, driving a pig or a flock of sheep before him; appear suddenly from behind a screen of verdure, glide slowly across the intervening space, and vanish behind a similar screen, like figures in a dream. And these ever-recurring glimpses of human life-too remote to be intrusive, yet near enough to remind me of the innumerable and secret ties, by which at every moment of our lives, we are bound to a common humanity—save the scene from that sad loneliness of expression, which is the inevitable peculiarity of views made up of natural objects only. Yet it seems mournfully enough typical, too, of the evanescence of human life, compared with the works of Nature,-hills and dales, rocks and streams,-things which change so slowly that they seem to us unalterable and everlasting; while man's appearance among them is scarcely more enduring or memorable than those gliding, panoramic figures in the dis tance!

VII.

EXPLORATIONS-RURAL, MORAL AND PAROCHIAL,

was it likely to be?

ITTING by my western window, after I had written you my last letter, a fever of exploration seized me. That point in the northwestern landscape, where the ground dipped into a dell or a ravine, caught my gaze and my imagination. What sort of a place Cool and shady, doubtless, for I could see great balls and cones of foliage, held aloft by sunken tree-trunks. Beautified with the ripple and gleam of water, surely, for the brook plainly knew the way thither, and took it, in its own delightful, meandering fashion. I put on my hat and followed it. Leo, whom I encountered on the way, accepted an invitation to follow me, without the ceremony of putting on the hat!

Having reached the meadow's limit, my tinkling guide darted under a fence, which I was forced to climb. Then, dropping on a soft bank of moss, I found myself in one of the loveliest, dreamiest, shadow-haunted nooks conceivable. The brook flowed suddenly, with a low and liquid note, into a deep, dark, clear basin, bordered, on one side, by a moss-enamelled rock, and on the other by a steep, ferny bank, embossed with black tree-roots, all overarched by thickly interlacing boughs of tall trees, through which the sunshine trickled scantily, in shining, golden drops. What a place for a troop of naiads to bathe! I half expected to see the lovely Egle herself rise from the basin's

clear depths, like Venus of old from the sea. Instead thereof, Leo plunged in, and paddled about with a face of serene enjoyment.

From this point, the brook's banks continually gained in altitude, taking the form of a rough, rocky, wooded cliff, on one side, and on the other, of a steep, but smooth and green, hillside, shaded here and there by huge, widespreading trees, among which I noticed an enormous tuliptree, a very Anak of its race. Between these curiously diverse banks, the brook ran, crept, sparkled and sungtumbled, too, once and again,-but altogether as if it en joyed it; for a shout of laughter accompanied its fall, and then it went on, giggling and gurgling to itself, with occasional spurts of irrepressible merriment, as if the joke were much too good to be quickly let go and forgotten. I crossed it many times in my progress down the glen, attracted by a gay breast-knot of flowers on the hill's green robe, a tiny fern-forest on the brook's border, a mossy, leafstrewn ledge, all the more fascinating because well nigh inaccessible, or a wild vine flinging an ideal grace over the gaunt, gray outline of some rugged rock, yet without impairing any really valuable quality,-as a sunny and loving spirit may do over the hardest, homeliest duties of common life. By and by, the hill began to slope off gradually, the cliff terminated in a sharp promontory of rock, and a sinuous rail-fence marked the extreme limit of the glen. Under this fence the brook shrank into the dismal shadow of a dense forest,-its song hushed, its gambols all over,and flowed silently through a dead level of damp, black mould, scantily coated with a pale and fungous vegetation, and strewn with dead leaves and dry twigs, seeming, at first, half-sulky, and altogether scared, by the sudden and complete change of its manner of life. Bona, Mala and I leaned on the fence, and looked after it.

"See! it is a type of your life," exclaimed Mala, less bitterly than her wont. "Just so, that went singing

through flowers and sunshine, unsuspicious of change; just so, without volition or responsibility of its own, it was suddenly thrust out into an atmosphere of impenetrable gloom, and set to flow through earth dank with tears, fruitful only in diseased and depressing imaginations, and strewn with the dry, rustling débris of dead hopes. Ay! look at the poor little stream and weep,-you have cause! In its dumb, shadowed, monotonous flow, all your future life is mirrored."

BONA (tenderly). Nay, where there is shadow, there is also shelter; the roof that shuts out the sun may shut out the storm as well. And notice how calm, and broad, and sweet-browed the brook becomes, after a while; with here and there a speck of blue sky reflected in its depths, like a thought of peace. There are a few low, sweet flowers, on its banks, too; needing its refreshment, and growing brighter and more fragrant for it. And beyond the wood, no doubt, it flows out into the sunshine again.

I. If I were sure of that, Bona, the thought of that future sunshine would help me so powerfully through the shadow of this Present!

BONA. Have you forgotten the "glory that shall be revealed?"

MALA. But it looks so far off when it is only the heav enly sunshine!

BONA. Only? After brief weariness, only long rest! After swiftly vanishing years of strife, only ever-flowing peace! After short pressure of sorrow, only eternal weight of joy! After hard faces of enemies and changeful ones of friends, only the tender, winning, satisfying face of Christ! After the rough usage of the world, only the Everlasting arms! After a life-time of desire, only an eternity of love! Can any-dare any, sinful mortal ask for more? For a moment I looked at Mala; then she somehow disappeared. There is this peculiarity about these strange companions of mine, that whenever I regard Mala steadily,

trying to see her as she is, she always dwindles, grows vague, and vanishes; whereas, the longer and more searchingly I look at Bona, the brighter and better defined she becomes. The first is most powerful when I do not recognize her for herself,-when she pushes me from behind, or allures me from before, hidden under a mask of self-respect, custom, expediency, necessity, and I know not what beside, for she has more shapes than Proteus. Bona's efficiency, on the contrary, is greatest when I seek her out, entreat her help, and consciously put my hand in hers. If I grow careless and off my guard, Mala is nearly certain to be at my elbow, ordering my goings; but there is little drifting, or going blindfold, under Bona's guidance, she compels me to use my reason and my will.

I now turned to her, and exclaimed, "Oh! Bona, if I could always look at Nature through your eyes?"

"Your own will serve you as well," she answered, gently, "if you have the right spirit in your heart. Nature is like a stream; it has different aspects for different beholders. One sees in it little beside the reflection of his own face. Another, looking closer, discerns the form of its waves, and the grasses, flowers, and other minute objects that float on its surface. Still another discovers fish playing in its depths, and pebbles and roots at the bottom. A fourth is ravished with its graceful curves, its sparkle and play of light, its soft concords of color. A fifth floats into dreamland on its liquid music. A sixth, feeling somewhat of its sentiment as well as of its beauty, finds out subtle analogies to human life. But the divinely inspired heart of a seventh, while it loses none of these effects, swells with rapturous thought of the peace that 'shall flow as a river;' or, like St. John in Patmos, looking on the Nile, beholds in a vision the River of Life, 'clear as crystal, proceeding out of the throne of God and the Lamb.' In nature, to-day, you have found a bit of mythology, some analogies, many artistic effects, and a type of your own life. Suppose, now, you seek for the Goodness of God in it.”