ed upon my heart with just this meaning, and no other, and it spurred me on, and drove me over mountains, and valleys, and sea coasts hither. And here I stand, and have spoken,-spoken in a manner mysterious to even myself, and into your heart, my liege, has sunk the counsel of a poor coal-burner. That came from God, not from man!"

"Klaus, hast thou been a messenger of God to me, and wouldst thou deprive me of this all-important counsel in time to come?"

"My liege, once is not always. And, 'cobbler keep to thy last!' Your last is the when occasion calls, the sword.

sceptre, and with that

My last is the cleav

er, when occasionally too, the same turned to a battleaxe, when a wild beast comes across one's track. But last remains last, and the two that we handle are wholly different. But in regard to the Privy Counsellor, there we are on a level, my liege; and there is ordinarily no need that I should perform the office for you, or you for me. The true Privy Counsellor sits with you under that purple, gold-laced vest, and with me, here under the black collier jacket. Conscience is his name, and he is a notable counsellor, is never at a loss, for he goes often to bathe in the waters of eternal life, which Dr. Luther has opened to us all, high and low, rich and poor, in the Holy Scriptures."

"Fare thee well, then, dear collier!" said the King. "That is indeed a noble Privy Counsellor, whom thou hast left to fill thy place!"

The following day, the King and the collier took leave of each other with much feeling.

The collier took home with him his dear son Gotthilf, and their arrival made great joy by the humble fireside.

The King and the collier lived many years after this; the King amidst great and stirring events, the collier amidst the comforts of still, domestic life, but neither of them ever lost the remembrance of that impressive, happy hour.

When cheerful, domestic festivals shone on collier Klaus, and by the favor of God, these were not few, he was accustomed to say:

"Now hand me down from the shelf, the Privy Counsellor's cup; this is a day worthy to be celebrated by a draught from it.”

And when purifying trials came upon the King, and by the favor of God, these, too, were not wanting, he was accustomed, after he had gathered the opinions of wise men, to shut himself up with his Bible, saying: "Now let no one disturb me; now begins the sitting of my true Privy Counsellor."

THE VOICE OF DESPAIR.

JOB, CHAP. III.

BY E. F. H.

"

PERISH the hated day that gave me birth,
The night that said, 'A man is born on earth!'
That day be darkness; blotted from his book,
Let God regard it not, nor on it look.
No light illume it: death's terrific shade

And darkness shroud it; clouds its grave be made⚫
Blackness of horrid darkness on it dwell.
That night-let darkness seize it, and a spell
Be on it; from the days its record blot;
Among the months revolving name it not.
To solitude devote it: let no voice

Öf gladness then be heard, and none rejoice.
Let them who curse the day, with terror fraught,
When fierce Leviathan to rage is wrought,
Their curses on it pour. No twinkling star

Of even shed one glimmering ray so far.

Light let it long for, yet in darkness be;

The morn's bright eye-lids let it never see.
Because it shut not up my mother's womb,
Nor closed mine eyes against life's horrid gloom.

Why died I not before my birth? Or why,
In being born, did not this body die?

Why did the lap receive me? Why the breast,
That I should suck? So should I be at rest;
At peace I now should be; I'd sleep with kings
And counsellors of the earth, whose mightiest things
Are ruins now ;-with princes who had gold
And silver, more than all their halls could hold;
Or be like one untimely born; or one

That never sees the shining of the sun.

Blest grave! The wicked cease from troubling there
The weary rest, no more perplexed with care;
The wretched prisoners there together rest—
No tyrant's voice disturbs their peaceful breast;
The small and great are there; and there the slave,
Freed from his master, finds a quiet grave.

Ah! why is light to bitter misery given?
Why life to souls with constant anguish riven,
Who long for death, yet death forever flies;
Who seek it more than misers seek their prize;
Who leap for joy, whose hearts with rapture bound,
To find a resting-place beneath the ground?
Why light to him who still must walk in doubt-
Whose way is hid—whom God hath hedged about?
Before I eat, I'm filled with sighs and moans,
And like a roaring torrent flow my groans.
The fear that most I feared has seized
The billows, so much dreaded, o'er me roll.
No peace I find; no quiet; no repose:
My hopeless wretchedness forever flows.

my

soul;

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

BY J. W. M.

THE history of our Revolution has been written only in part. The chronicle of its events is by no means complete. The principal facts-the legislation and the battle-scenes, of that day which tried the souls of men-are indeed on record-are embalmed in the literature of our young Republic. These deeds of our patriot fathers, as they deserve, have received a proud

recompense.

"The historic Muse,

Proud of her treasure, marches with it down
To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn,
Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass,
To guard them, and immortalize her trust."

But the half has not been told-never will be. Over many an instance of individual trial and suffering in that holy cause, the deep waters of an oblivious flood have passed. The living witnesses have disappeared; and with them has passed away the history of many a thrilling incident of suffering virtue of many a noble sacrifice in the cause of our bleeding country. What remains, exists only in a skeleton-form, in the fading recollections of another generation. These individual sorrows, however, and these more private baptisms of fire, are parts of the same great sacrifice which was