M. H. N.

A KIND ACTION VALUABLE AS COMING FROM A KIND HEART.-See how full was the help which this Samaritan shewed to the poor man! He went to him to see more particularly what was the matter with him than he could tell by a hurried glance. He saw that he was wounded, so like a skilful surgeon he examined his wounds and poured into them what he thought would soothe and heal; then he took him carefully up, set him on his own beast that he had been riding himself, brought him to an inn, and took the greatest care of him for the rest of that day and night. The next morning, as he was obliged to go on his way, he left money with the master of the inn, charging him to see that he wanted for nothing, and assured him, when the money was spent, if more were required, and the host would be so good as to advance it, he should certainly be repaid when he, the Samaritan, should again come by that way. I will now content myself with saying how evident it is that this good man was only carrying out his daily habit and practice in helping all men that had need. This is a consideration which must by no means be passed over, for of course our Saviour would not have held him up for our example and praise for one solitary act of kindness, however full and complete that act might have been. No! it is not a solitary instance that is required, it is the

daily habit, the never-failing practice of shewing kindness and charity that God requireth. I try a boat on the open sea and find that the rudder works well, but that knowledge would be of no value to me, not indeed of the slightest importance, unless by that I judged that it would also work well when I tried it next, and be of use whenever required. We are all of us at times, I suppose, moved by some generous feeling to do an act of kindness. I suppose that the most churlish man that ever lived has once and again been moved to do an act of kindness; the miser does now and then open his coffers, but he does not thereby cease to be a miser, nor does the churlish man by one act of kindness become liberal-minded. It is what we are every day of our lives, it is what our daily uniform conduct is, that is of value in the sight of God. I receive some act of kindness from a friend, I believe that it comes out of a kind and generous heart, and thus it is worth more, ten times more, than if I know it to be a solitary act which, maybe, will never be repeated. The thing of value is a true, kind heart, and a man who has this will shew a kindness or do a generous action whenever the occasion requires, be it to a friend or an enemy.

E. F.

Author of "Plain Preaching to Poor People." (London: W.Wells Gardner, 10, Paternoster-row.)

T was the afternoon of a glorious day in the month of September '67, a day which made even beautiful Switzerland look more wondrously grand and fair to eyes unaccustomed to the sight of such magnificent scenery.

We were travelling on the well-known road from Geneva to Chamouni, and now at the little inn of Servoz, the horses, wearied with the steep ascent, had stopped to rest, and the carriage was deserted for the chance of a sketch afforded by the brief delay.

I sat down alone on a fallen tree, and gazed on a scene never to be forgotten, and almost impossible to be described. Within a few yards of the road the river Arve flowed past in a gentle, narrow stream, which seemed to have tired itself in issuing from the splendid rocky gorge of Pont Pelissier, and was now content to glide along leneath a rustic bridge. Far as the eye could reach it rested on mountain slope, and massive forest, and green pas ture-land; with here and there a silver thread energing from the dark rock, and trickling to the ground below. Tiny

châlets were perched, like fairy castles, upon the steep hill-sides, and peasants drove their flocks to the music of tinkling bells. The sound of voices was faintly heard from the modest inn, dignified by the appropriate and inappropriate name of "L'Univers;" whilst above this little habitation of man, rose in majestic grandeur the snowy summit of Mont Blanc. And the blue sky smiled in dazzling clearness over head, and the rich autumn sun shone brightly over all. God's earth was very fair that day; yet in one heart it failed to wake an echoing gladness, or to satisfy the void which seemed still keener, because in all His world there was no void, no beauty to desire, no longing want to satisfy!

Yes! it was all good, all fair! but the poor human heart had lost its answering harmony to nature's joy, and the passionate cry arose unsilenced:

:

"O God, for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still."

The earth is perfect and complete, I thought; it lacks no blessing from the

Maker's hand, it bears no loss as years roll on; then why should man be happy for a little day, and wake to find his idol gone, and all life's beauty vanished too?

I looked up, far away on the mountain side, higher than the beeches, higher than the pines, than the châlets, than the pastures and the purple rocks, up to the snow, up to that sparkling cupola with the pure surface shining in the sunlight, and the clear outline sharply rising against the deep blue heaven.

It was glorious, nay, it was overpowering, that great mountain in its calm majesty! It made one realize some faint idea of God, and of man's utter littleness and weakness. "Before ever the earth and the world were made, from everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God." And yet it was not satisfying. The beauty and the sunshine, the universe and the Maker of it all, were there; but the inward void was there also.

It was past seven o'clock, and the shadows of evening were lengthening as we reached Les Ouches, the first village in the valley of Chamouni. The scenery through which we had been driving was so indescribably beautiful, that it produced a feeling of almost painful exhaustion in the mind,—a sense of inability to take it all in, accompanied by a longing desire that it should remain for ever stamped upon the memory, to be recalled with keener zest in time to come. Earth, in its greatest magnificence, had been traversed by us throughout that day; and now as night approached we entered the quiet valley, and behold! the wonders of sky and light and cloud were spread before our eyes in all the glory of a rare autumnal sunset.

The whole range of snow-capped Alps burst upon our view; the enormous mass of Mont Blanc being now in close proximity, though its summit was concealed by the vast Dom du Gouté. The great mountains called "Les Aiguilles," terminating in jagged rocks with sharpest points, and the glittering surface of the snowy Alps, were bathed in a molten mantling sea of amber-golden light; while the intense blue of the upper sky seemed to melt through all, shewing here and there

quite deep and pure, or again modulated in wavy lines of transparent filmy vapour. By-and-by the base of the mountains deepened into purple shade, and then the sparkling summits caught a wondrous tint of pink and mauve, and the sky became a liquid lake of unsullied, shadowless, crimson and scarlet,-and colours for which there are no words in language, and no ideas in the mind,—a sight which can only be conceived while it is visible. It seemed that night as if nature herself had resolved to do something extraordinary, something really to exhibit her power, and passages of splendour (to borrow the words of a great artist) were tossed from Alp to Alp with lavish prodigality," over the azure of a boundless field of earth and sky.

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We could not see the sunset itself, only the reflection on the mountains; and as the last faint beam had disappeared, the sky above seemed to turn into an indescribably exquisite bluish green, overspread with a multitude of clouds of purest rosy hue. One could almost fancy that the heavens had opened, and poured down a shower of fleecy roses, mingled and entwined in every conceivable form and shape, with every conceivable tint and shade; while now and then a handful of vapoury pink-edged mist seemed to have been flung low down and settled on a clump of pines, or hung suspended from a frowning preci-pice, as if it had lost itself, and knew not how to find its way back to its companions. And through all, the white glaciers blazed in their winding paths, and ploughed huge chasms about the mountain sides, reflecting in their silent depths the greater glory of the crimson sky.

As we drove along, almost speechless with delight and reverent awe, it vas wonderful to look back into the once sunny valley, closed in with stupendous lills, through which we had just passed, and which was now all shrouded in gloon and purple darkness and deep shadows, and then to turn to the dazzling whteness, and the rosy light, and the softl/-fading colours of the mountain-tops, which seemed so far away, almost touching the blue sky, and yet so near that one short fight would reach them.

"At evening time it shall be light." | The darkness had passed, the aching void was at length filled up, the dawn of a brighter hope than earth can give had risen to shed peace upon the troubled soul.

"I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help." True that the glory of to-day had passed, that night had wrapped her sombre folds around the gladsome world, that the sun had set in floods of light behind the western sky. But it would rise again; it was "not lost, but gone before;" the dawn of a bright to-morrow would place it once more on a nobler throne, to shed new life and light and joy upon the waiting earth.

And is it not the same with those whom death has taken from our hearts and homes? At first we cannot see the light; we only know that they are gone, that all of joy and peace seems gone with them; and softly all our days we look to walk in the bitterness of a desponding soul.

But by-and-by a brighter hope is given. God sends His messages in many ways, and perchance the still small voice of nature can speak in a more certain tone than the kindliest accents of a trusted friend. For earth, and air, and sky, and sea are but the landmarks of a love boundless as the ocean wave, pure as the eternal snow upon an Alpine height, and deep as the unchanging blue of the cloudless summer sky. That love forms the centre of earth's parable, and the key-note of the perplexed music of man's life and death.

We should not speak of death did we realize the motto of God's world. The flowers bloom again, the leaves burst forth anew, the darkness flies before the coming dawn; "the lions roar at the approach of night, but the sun ariseth, and they get them away together, and lay them down in their dens." True, indeed, that " man goeth forth to his work and to his labour until the evening;" that "his days are as

grass, as a flower of the field so he flourisheth." Bitter may be the startling experience that the wind has but to pass over the cherished life and "it is gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more." "But the mercy of the Lord is from everlasting. For the dead in Christ shall rise. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so them also which sleep in Jesus shall God bring with Him. Therefore the redeemed of the Lord shall return, and come with singing unto Zion; and everlasting joy shall be upon their head; they shall obtain gladness and joy; and sorrow and mourning shall flee away. And so shall we be for ever with the Lord."

The drive to Chamouni was over, but the remembrance of it will never pass. The sunset had spoken its own lesson, and it was sweet to fall asleep that night with the full realization of those blessed words, "Not lost, but gone before."

And now I often think of that long autumn day as a little picture of our life on earth; the poor human heart which clings to the "sweet human hand, and lips, and eye," till God's own voice has taught a deeper truth :

"Dear heavenly friend that canst not die,
Mine, mine for ever, ever mine."

The evening glory seems to me as St. John's description of the beauteous city in the far-off land, and the steep mountain must be climbed ere yet we come to it.

Upward and onward let it be. Perchance to struggle o'er a toilsome path, perchance to battle with a subtle foe, but evermore an outstretched hand to guide, a voice of love to cheer us on, "a cloud of witnesses" to watch the strife, and (God be thanked!) a welcome home from those "not lost, but gone before" INA. to Him.

HE Christmas sun is shining clear Across the frosted pane, Making the chequered chancel bright With many a crimson stain; The tracery of the fretted arch,

Long veiled by virgin snow,
Steals shyly forth, as drop by drop,

It melteth down below.
The cowering birds beneath the eaves

Peep out with curious eye,
As welcoming the gracious beams

All earth that glorify.

A flutter in each downy nest,

Low notes, prelusive long,
Until the pent-up joy bursts forth

In a stream of grateful song. "Twould seem as though the very walls

Had heard a seraph voice:
Let saints above, and man below,

And meaner things rejoice.

The church is swept and garnished—
Sober in gaiety,

Its ancient walls are almost hid
By verdant tapestry.

No hidden corner seems too mean,
No slender shaft too high,
To bear upon its rugged breast

Boon Nature's blazonry.
The lingerers of the dying year
Symbolic stories tell,
Holly and ivy "never sere,"
That poets love so well;

The scented pine, the sable yew,
And e'en the tiny seed,

Have furnished forth the sacred scroll,
That he who runs may read.
As silently as willing hands

The good words wrought apart,
So silently may some deep truth
Sink down into the heart;
As lisping tongues essay to spell
The words of living green,
And hoary heads bow down to tell
The children what they mean.

The crowned day of all the year,

For which all days were made,
When man may "hear the voice of God,
And yet be not afraid."
Oh! mystery of mysteries,

A lost world reconciled
By faith in Him, a risen Lord,
Who came a sinless child;
The festival of festivals,

The boon all boons above,
That freely gave a life for all,

And only asks for love.
The anthem that the angels sang,

We hymn in choral strain;
How is it that the "still, small voice"

So often pleads in vain ?
Oh, for a living coal to touch

Our frozen hearts to-day;
To make the wisest wiser grow,
And babes as wise as they!
Churchman's Magazine.