green sward. The Master has been before us. Behold His hand!

"Behold the spirit-painted flower,

The pretty daisy sweet;

It smiles a welcome on our path,
And bends to kiss our feet.

"A pretty gem for gentle hands,
A holy flower most fair;

The earliest bud which childhood learns
To welcome everywhere.

"Hail! sweetest floweret on the lea,
Where eager childhood trips;
With thee it learns to gem the brow,
To paint its infant lips!"

Ay! and to love thee for ever. Here, then, starts the first germ of affection, a true, a holy, lasting, perfect love. Here it is that it first learns to worship: its shrine, the floweret. The floweret and these little happy moments seem to be registered in some secret corner of the human heart. We forget what this particular time may be; yet still we worship. Tears would seem to obliterate every past joy; yet we worship. Old age creeps upon us; yet some secret spirit-voice whispers of the past, and we silently worship again. Love has written her memorial with the pen of truth, and so perfectly, too, that the dull dream of life can never fully efface it. Macclesfield.

THE WANDERER,

"MY LIBRARY."

IN all my changes I have sacredly kept my books. They are not two hundred in number, great and small, but include good specimens of the most valuable classics. How many happy hours do I owe to them! In many a long journey, on horseback, in the wilderness, have I beguiled the weary day by converse with a favourite author; and now that infirmities have compelled me to retire from my

Master's work, these fast friends still cleave to me in my solitude, comforting and enlivening it by their instructive companionship. In sickness they have relieved me more than medicine, in sorrow they have been my solace, and in poverty my riches; and now, as I sit penning these lines, they are round about me, looking like the familiar faces of old friends, full of love, tried and true. "Blessed be God," said one, "for books;" and, "They are not wise," said another, "who object to much reading." Like the men who write them, they are of all characters; but we may select them, as we choose our friends; and when once we select good ones, unlike men, they vary not, but are steadfast in their integrity.

I can never be solitary with goods books about me: a blessed society are they, ready at any moment to listen to our inquiries, and entertain us with their tranquil converse. By biographies, I can assemble round my winter-hearth the men whose thoughts have stirred nations and impelled ages. While living, their company and conversations were enjoyed only by those who moved in the same sphere of life; but in books they obey my bidding, and, divested of those forms of life which would only have embarrassed me, they become familiar friends, and teach me the lessons of their wisdom.

I have a few volumes of history. They crowd ages of existence into my evening-hours; fields, cities, realms, with their armies, arts, and revolutions, pass before me, within my humble walls, like a magnificent drama.

I have books of travel. Though their authors are in their graves, I have only to open their pages, when, as by magic, they appear before me; and I attend with breathless interest to the recital of their voyages, their adventures, the countries they visited, and all the scenes of novelty and marvel they witnessed. Thus in a few hours I sail over seas, and travel over continents, enjoying all the pleasures and suffering none of the perils of the journey.

I have a few good volumes of poetry. The language of harmony and the bright ideals of genius are addressed by them to the deepest susceptibilities of my heart.

I have books of religion. In them, men who have gone up to heaven still instruct me in the way thither, and console me in the trials of my pilgrimage. And, above all, in my Bible I have an exhaustless treasure; the most simple and beautiful composition of the English language, the richest poetry, the most graphic portraits, the most interesting history, and the purest truth. Kings, Prophets, and Apostles move before me, and the visions and voices of the invisible world come down upon my soul.

If there were but one copy of any of the great literary works extant, one "Paradise Lost," one "Pilgrim's Progress," or, above all, one Bible, how would it be prized! What treasure would not be given for it! How happy would be esteemed the possessor! But are they less a blessing because they may be obtained by the humblest man?

With such solace from books, it is not surprising that the love of reading, like the natural appetites, grows by indulgence, and frequently assumes the intensity of a passion. "A taste for books," says Gibbon, "is the pleasure and glory of my life. I would not exchange it for the wealth of the Indies." Cicero says that he occupied himself with books "at home and abroad, in the city and the country, walking and riding." Pliny says that even in hunting, he employed his intervals in reading. And our earliest poet, Chaucer, has expressed a stronger passion:

"But as for me, although I can but lite,

On booke for to rede I me delite,

And to them give I faithe and full credence,
And in my heart have them in reverence;

So heartily that there is game none
That from my bookes meketh me to gone."

-Budget from the Saddle-Bags.

Know but little.

THE COURT CHAPLAIN OF STUTTGART.

Ir is not without ground that we always hear of Court Chaplains, not of Court Pastors. Most are really but Court Chaplains, and dare not be anything more; otherwise it goes ill with them, as it did with the blessed Spener in Dresden. At the same time there are some Chaplains who fully deserve the title of Court Pastor. Such a one was Hedinger, Chaplain to the Court at Stuttgart, who was born in 1664, and died in 1704. He had a difficult office; for the then reigning Duke of Würtemberg was no ornament, but a disgrace, to his throne. Nevertheless, he surrendered no part of his duty, and kept the salvation of his Duke constantly in his thoughts. A few passages from his life will show this.

On a certain occasion the Duke had caused some very offensive measures to be introduced, and, fearing the remonstrances of his Chaplain, had, in anticipation, commanded the sentries before the palace on no account to allow any one to enter. Hedinger, in his robes of office, presented himself at the door, but was in various ways repulsed, because His Highness had forbidden any one to enter that day. He did not, however, allow himself to be denied, but maintained that, as a servant of the Most High, he was called upon to speak with the Duke that day; and when the sentries at last placed themselves before the entrance with crossed weapons, he gently and quietly seized the weapons, pressed them down, stepped over them, and went, not to be stopped, directly to the Prince. The latter, upon seeing him, retired into another room. Hedinger followed him, and, as he went from room to room, continued to follow him, till he at last stood still. Here the Preacher stepped earnestly and solemnly up to him, and addressed him in such telling entreaties, and on grounds taken from the word of God, that, deeply moved, he actually put a stop to the proceedings complained of.

Another time, when the Duke, to please a lady, had resolved one Sabbath morning to take an airing before Divine service, and drove from his palace close past the church,

Hedinger stepped out, clad in his robes, placed himself in the way, and reminded him of the greatness of the sin which he committed in offering so sad an example of Sabbath-desecration. Standing before the horses, he thus addressed the frowning Duke: "If your Highness can be saved by a cup-full of blood, just drive on. I do not fear death." The Prince, smitten in conscience, turned back, and could not but esteem a Pastor so zealous for the salvation of his soul.

Once, after an earnest reproving sermon, a company of courtiers petitioned the Duke for the removal of the Preacher; a petition with which he refused to comply. However, in an evil hour, he gave them permission to punish him for his freeness, in some way, under condition that they should refrain from personal injury; predicting, at the same time, that the Chaplain would not let them go unreprimanded. They appeared by night with a noisy Charivari in front of Hedinger's house, and interrupted his sleep. He let them rage for some time, then appeared at the window in his night-gown and white cap, and during a pause called, with a loud voice, "Well! well! so did the rabble of Sodom once." Confounded, they slunk away.

Hedinger is said to have once rebuked the Duke himself for certain sins which, in spite of all private admonitions, he would not forsake, publicly from the pulpit, and to have called upon him to repent; and the Duke took this so ungraciously that he formed the resolution to avenge himself in person on him in his palace. Hedinger was cited by a short message; and forthwith made his appearance, with an unclouded countenance, strengthened in God by earnest prayer. The Duke, who had commanded him to appear alone, without any attendant, and had prepared actually to maltreat his spiritual adviser, looked at him, as he entered, with surprise, and cried, "Hedinger, why do you not come alone ?" "I am alone, your Highness," replied the Chaplain. "No, you are not alone," opposed the Duke. "And notwithstanding, I am alone, your Highness," replied Hedinger. As, however, the Duke, always pointing to the right side, persisted in, "You are not alone," the pious