I will tell you something which in my opinion does honour to the manners of the country, and especially to the wisdom and good sense of the young girls of that epoch, and that is, that it was they who chose their husbands. The parents limited their authority to assembling at a banquet on a certain day the young men whom they considered suitable to their daughter, and she signified her choice by presenting a drinking cup to one of them.

"Now, 600 years before Christ, that is, as I calculate, 1834 years from this, a Phocian vessel landed at this coast, at that time uninhabited. Euxenius, the commander of the vessel, was the only one of the crew that left it, and he advanced alone to explore the country. After walking a long time he reached the territory of the Segobregians. He had but just entered it, when he saw a poor old woman who had fallen from her mule; he raised her and lifted her upon her beast, but having had a leg broken by the fall, she could not sit upright. The young Phocian then took her in his arms, and the old woman pointed out her dwelling to him; it was that of King Nanu, at whose house she was almost like a member of the family, because she had nursed the king's wife, Queen Mabb.

"As they went along, the old woman told Euxenius that that very day the young and beautiful Gyptis, the king's daughter, was to select a husband; and at the same moment, and as Euxenius, still bearing his charge, approached the king's palace, he saw a tall and beautiful girl, attended by several servants, advancing towards them. It was Gyptis, who having seen from a distance the accident which had befallen her nurse, was flying to her assistance. She expressed her acknowledgments to the young Phocian, whom the attendants hastened to relieve of his burden; and Euxenius returned musing on the graceful salutation, and the air, at once majestic, kind, and simple, of the charming Gyptis.

"King Nanu ranked hospitality among the virtues which should be practised by the great, and having heard that strangers had landed on his coast, he sent to invite Euxenius and his Greeks to his daughter's bridal banquet: they came. To the great disappointment of Euxenius, Gyptis did not appear at the repast, but towards the close she entered the room, holding in her hand a cup filled with wine. She glanced rapidly at the assembled guests, then advancing with graceful timidity, she presented the goblet to Euxenius: and then, as all the young men murmured, for they were enraged at her preference of a stranger, she, blushing at once with modesty and pleasure, related the touching incident of the morning. 'He who respects old age and weakness,' added she, in conclusion, 'can never be otherwise than a good husband, a good father, and a good king.'

"That was a strange conclusion," interrupted Marguerite la Blonde, "to marry a man because he had picked up an old woman!"

"Nay, Blondette," replied her cousin, "it was because Euxenius had by this action given proof that he was possessed of a kind and good heart.'

"I see," said Marguerite la Brune, "that Blondette would not have been fascinated by it."

"No, truly," said the Blonde Marguerite; "in the place of Gyptis, I should have chosen the greatest man of them all, the most noble, the most courageous, a king, if there were one among the number." "I should have chosen the handsomest," said Bru

nette.

"And I should have done as Gyptis did; I should'

have chosen the best; and King Nanu was of my opinion, for he approved with transport of his daughter's choice; he accepted Euxenius as his son-in-law, and endowed him with the lands surrounding the bay where he had arrived. Euxenius built on it, and founded the town of Massalia, now called Marseilles: and neither-neither, my story is finished," added Blanchette quickly as she blushed and rose, for she had just perceived a man's hat behind the pillar, and two large black eyes fixed stedfastly upon her.

CHAP. IV. THE BRIDEGROOM.

Seeing himself discovered, the stranger advanced towards the three young girls; but before he could approach and offer an excuse for his intrusion, they, like three startled doves, had taken flight across the gardens, and turning into the alleys shaded with sycamores and palm-trees they soon disappeared from the stranger's view. Still running breathlessly they stopped not until they met an old peasant woman, with whom we have already made acquaintance, namely, Misé Millette, who asked them with all the familiarity of an old and favoured servant (she had nursed one of the three Marguerites), where they were running thus scared and terrified.

The Brune Marguerite told her the cause of their alarm.

"So, then, you have seen Louis the Ninth!" replied Misé Millette.

"How! Louis the Ninth!" repeated the three young girls, in amazement.

"Yes, Louis the Ninth, the King of France, the son of Blanche of Castille, who is come to marry my foster-child, Marguerite of Provence, my little Blanchette," added she, deposing one of her great kisses, called with good reason nurses' kisses, on the forehead of Marguerite la Blanche.

"What! Blanchette is going to be queen of France?" cried the two other Marguerites together, but in very different tones;-Marguerite la Brune, with the regret of losing a friend, Marguerite la Blonde, with an accent of jealousy mingled with rage.

"And how do you know that, Nonnou?" inquired the daughter of Beranger the Third.

"Do I not know everything? do they keep any secrets from me at the palace? and if you will keep the secret for me, my little angels, I will tell you all that I know."

"Oh! do Misé, pray," cried two of the Marguerites, the Blonde and the Brune.

"Cousins, cousins," remonstrated the daughter of the Count of Provence, "shall we be so dishonourable as to endeavour to find out this,-what my father has not thought fit to tell us? Oh! curiosity is always wrong."

"I will take it upon my own responsibility, little saint," said the nurse, longing to tell all, "for King Louis the Ninth wanted to play us a trick, but I took it into my Provençal head that it was he who should have his nose cut, as the proverb says. Know, then, that this fine prince wishes to look twice before he marries my foster-child; he wishes to see, to observe, to consider; it is not so much a princess that he wants, as a good woman, an amiable and sensible wife. Now, to this end, he came this morning to Marseilles incognito, and made his way into the palace under the pretext of offering a falcon to the princess; but I, warned by my son, who was on guard this morning, and who recognised the seal of the King of France on the permit which the false falconer showed him, followed his steps, and had just found him out, when he asked me, at the chapel door, which of the three

Marguerites was Marguerite of Provence: I did not tell him an actual falsehood, but I let him suppose that it was Mademoiselle de Bar."

"I!" said Marguerite la Blonde, crimson with delight. "And what did he say? did he think me handsome?"

"Could he think you otherwise?" said Marguerite of Provence, with affectionate earnestness. "But, after all, what does it signify?" continued Mademoiselle de Bar, in a bitter, ironical tone. "This evening, when he comes to court, whether under his own or an assumed namie, he will see, by your countess's coronet, that you are the daughter of the Count of Provence, and his choice will soon be made. For what signifies it, whether you please him, or I? a countess's coronet is always enchanting, and you will be Queen of France!'

"Dear Blondette," said Marguerite sadly, "the title of queen does not give happiness; and if with his crown Louis did not give me his heart, royalty would be only a burden."

"You will know nothing of it," said Mademoiselle de Bar, drily.

"Pardon me,-everything, if you will assist me," said Marguerite.

"Explain yourself," said Mademoiselle de Bar. "Louis the Ninth," said Marguerite, "is here in cognito; he is come to seek a wife. We are all three of good family, of royal blood; an alliance with any one of us would not blot his escutcheon. Let him choose then; let us be dressed alike this evening, as we were this morning; or since, thanks to the playful deception of my dear nurse, he thinks that Blondette is the daughter of Count Beranger, let us continue his error. Blondette shall this evening wear my countess's coronet; will that do?"

"Admirably!” said Mademoiselle de Bar, with

eagerness.

"I will say a word to my father," continued Marguerite," so that he may not betray us. That will be easy for him, the King of France being here incognito, he is not obliged to notice him."

Thus conversing, the three cousins approached the palace. As they entered, and were about to separate, Mademoiselle de Bar said, hesitatingly, to Marguerite of Provence,

"If-supposing me the daughter of Beranger,Louis the Ninth thought me handsome-and asked my hand

"Then you should be Queen of France," replied Marguerite, smiling pleasantly, as she left her cousins and went to find her father.

CHAP. V.-THE FALCON.

The court of Raymond Beranger the Third, Count of Provence, was then the most polished in Europe. Learning and science flourished there in all their primitive purity. The bards and poets assembled there; and the women, to whom the name of bas bleu had not yet been given, to intimate that their mind and talents ranked them higher than others, did not disdain sometimes to quit the spindle for the lyre, the needle for the pen.

Never had the assembly been more brilliant, more elegant, than on this evening, in which Mademoiselle de Bar appeared, adorned with Marguerite's bandeau of pearls; never had so much wit and gaiety animated such young and charming faces.

Louis the Ninth, brought up in camps, and accustomed to the severe austerity of his mother's court, was astonished at what he saw and heard. He dared

not display his rude warrior education amidst the refinement of the graceful courtiers; he kept himself apart, his eyes fixed upon the three young Marguerites, observing all three attentively, but addressing none.

Towards the close of the evening, as the cousins were about to withdraw, a little dwarf, who had been brought a short time before from Paris, and who amused the court of Beranger by his lively sallies and caustic railleries, approached the young countesses, and with the familiarity which was permitted to dwarfs and buffoons, he thus addressed them :

"Fair countesses, I am come from a distance to marry one of you; but before making a choice, I should wish to know what is passing in your feminine brains, supposing always that women have brains, which several ancient authors have doubted. To this end, I have taken the liberty, noble and gracious ladies, to steal from you that which touched nearest the place usually occupied by that which I wish to study; from you, Marguerite la Blonde, this rosecoloured knot; from you, Marguerite la Blanche, this blue knot; and from you, Marguerite la Brune, this gold-coloured knot."

Thus saying, the dwarf raised his three knots in the air, shook them, and gliding away among the guests, disappeared amid the bursts of laughter excited by his original behaviour.

The three cousins laughed liked the rest at this incident, and paid no attention to it, or considered it of any consequence.

The next morning, at sunrise, Marguerite of Provence, kneeling in her chamber, was addressing her angel-like prayers to God, when she was disturbed in her devotion by a light fluttering of wings against her casement. She looked, and saw her blue ribbon going and coming in the air. Astonished at this apparent prodigy, she ran to her window, opened it, and immediately a bird flew into the room. It was a falcon, and round its neck was passed the knot of blue ribbon stolen the evening before by the dwarf. The princess took the bird, which was perfectly tame, and untied the ribbon; a paper fell, and as in her surprise she let go the falcon, it flew away swiftly through the open casement.

Marguerite picked up the paper mechanically. It was a folded parchment, and the seal was impressed with the royal arms of France; on it was inscribed, "To Marguerite la Blanche."

Her heart beat violently. If Louis came to marry her, she thought, why not address himself to her father? And if it were a refusal, was it to her that he should offer the affront? Agitated, uneasy, she was turning and re-turning the letter in her hand, when her nurse, Misé Millette, came all out of breath to tell her that her father had sent for her in great haste. The princess obeyed, she found the count in high displeasure.

"The King of France refuses your hand," said he, "and has even had the audacity to ask a private interview to inform me of a choice which he has made in my court.'

"That is, no doubt, why he has written to me,' said Marguerite, presenting her sealed parchment to her father, "and he wishes probably to marry Mademoiselle de Bar, who is handsomer than I."

"He would be a fool to choose merely beauty," replied the count; "and I cannot believe Louis the Ninth, so renowned for his wisdom, capable of such

"That means, uncle," said Mademoiselle de Bar, who had followed her cousin, unperceived, "that I am punished for my silly vanity; that Louis refuses me, believing me to be your daughter, and that Marguerite's goodness has prevailed over my beauty."

Marguerite of Provence, married the 27th May, 1234, to Louis the Ninth, devoted herself to promote the happiness of her husband, and thus the felicity of both was complete. She accompanied Louis everywhere fatigues, dangers, scenes of warfare, however repugnant to the feelings of the woman, were unable to daunt the love-inspired courage of the wife. In the expedition to Egypt, having remained at Damietta while the king was engaged in battle, the town was besieged by the Saracens. Marguerite learned that her husband was made prisoner; then, losing all hope of being delivered by him, she caused all her women to leave the apartment, and throwing herself at the feet of an old chevalier, a devoted servant of the King of France; she told him she would never rise till he had granted the favour she solicited of him.

The old chevalier having given his word to do so the queen added, shedding floods of tears, "My lord, what I implore of you, on the faith which you have plighted me, is this, that if Damietta is taken by the Saracens, you will plunge your sword into my breast, and let me not fall living into their hands." Upon which the chevalier, a worthy servant of this noble queen, simply replied, "I thought of it, madame."

Three days after, she brought into the world a son | named Tristan, on account of the melancholy circumstances attending his birth. While still suffering and confined to her bed, she heard that the garrison was about to surrender. She immediately sent for the principal instigators of the resolution, and spoke to them with so much wisdom and eloquence that she made them renounce a design which would have involved the ruin of the crusaders.

Some days after this, a faithful servant of Louis the Ninth's succeeded in entering Damietta; he was not the bearer of any parchment, but he carried to the queen, as a gift from the king, a little flower, which, notwithstanding the length of its journey, was still as fresh as if just taken from the ground, with this word only engraved upon the bulb, "Espère," (Hope.) This flower was unknown to the queen, but it had been the bearer to her of so much happiness that she preserved it during her whole life.

The following year, restored to her husband, to liberty, to tranquillity, to her country, she did not forget the little harbinger, whose rosy hues had been to her the first token of returning day amid that night of despondency and gloom. She planted the bulb of her flower in the earth, and soon saw it germinate, grow, and at last bear new red flowers; it was thus that the ranunculus was imported from Syria to France.

When Louis the Ninth, enfeebled in health, exhausted by the fatigues of war, and wearied with

| government, wished to renounce the world, and embrace a monastic life, he was deterred by Marguerite, who observed to him, with that correctness of judgIment which distinguished her, that the duty of kings did not lie in consulting their own repose, but in watching over that of their subjects; and Louis renounced his intention.

After his death, which took place the 25th August, 1270, Marguerite retired into the convent of the nuns of St. Claire, which she had founded in the Faubourg St. Marcel, and died there in the year 1295. She had been the mother of eleven children.

THE TWO BROTHERS. A PARABLE.

Two brothers were in a field; the sky stretched over head in all its vast and various beauty, and the grass beneath, of tender green, was jewelled with blossoms and redolent with fragrance. At one side of the field was a high brick wall of the neatest construction; the top was covered with a stone coping, and the surface was so even and so accurately laid out, that you could not detect the slightest variation in the size or projection of the bricks. The elder brother sat down and examined the wall; the younger roamed through the field and caught butterflies.

There came a soft wind laden with the breath of odorous furze; it swept over the earth, and tall plants and feathery grass stood up to greet it for a moment, and then bowed before it in joyful homage. The younger bared his forehead and unclosed his lips, as if to quaff some rare and pleasant beverage; then he bent his head as the flowers had done, and did reverence to the kindly breeze as if in gratitude. But the air around the elder was quiet and scentless, for he sat in the shelter of the wall.

On the far seas lay a broad stripe of sunlight, and the edges quivered and sparkled as though every ripple were breaking into a shower of stars. From the horizon came a boat with a single sail; white and shining was it in the distance as it caught the wandering sunbeams, but when it crossed that path of light it grew shadowy and sombre-just as the purest human soul seems dark when it is steeped in the lustre of divine truth. The younger stood still and gazed earnestly on the glowing sea and the shadowy boat; and his soul grew sad within him, for he longed for freedom and beauty, and though he was permitted to behold them, he might not as yet enjoy them. But his sorrow had a bliss in it which his sportiveness had never known. The elder saw not what his brother saw, for his eyes were fixed on the wall, and he had begun to count the bricks.

There came a bird through the air, and it alighted on the stone coping of the wall. Then it spread its wings as though it would rather be sustained by the air than the earth, and began to sing a heavenly melody. There was unrest in its song, yet did it ever suggest a repose deeper than slumber-it filled the ear and the heart, and seemed to lift the soul on its high-soaring notes, only to leave it conscious, when they ceased, that it had not risen and could not rise as they did. It seemed to show at once that exertion was fruitless and inaction miserable, yet its voice was so beautiful that if it would have sounded for ever, life might have passed away like a dream in listening to it. But even its fullest cadences foreboded a close. The heart of the younger throbbed

and swelled, and his eyes filled with burning tears. Hastily he brushed them away, that he might gaze more fixedly on the bird; he held his breath lest he should lose a single note, yet could he scarcely enjoy them because he feared each might be the last. He stretched out his arms as though he would have embraced the bird, but he dared not stir a step lest his movement should startle it away.

But the elder could not see it, though it was so close to him, for he had now looked at the wall so long that it seemed as if he could see nothing else. Over his face had stolen a solid but cheerful expression, as of a mind to which hopes, fears, and fancies, were alike unknown; tormented by no misgivings that there was aught real or valuable save that which it possessed itself. And his lips made so ceaseless a humming as he reckoned the number and calculated the size of the bricks, that the heavenly music was to him a harsh discord, and its place was not even supplied by the suggestiveness and solemnity of silence.

He

Into the skies came a quiet star, and its light was peace, mild as a mother's eyes, reproving as the voice of the heart in a solitary churchyard. who looked upon it grew first sorrowful and then holy, and this was the preparation for happiness. But the younger could not look upon it, for his gaze was on the bird, and the bird was beginning to rise, upborne by its waving wings. He sprang forward with a mad eagerness, and lo! he had forgotten the existence of the wall, and he stumbled and fell violently against it, and sank to the ground wounded and bleeding.

"Alas, poor lunatic!" said the elder, as he looked over his shoulder at the prostrate form, and then returned to the study of his bricks.

The younger lay motionless in the soft grass,―his limbs were convulsed and his breast contracted with pain; and the voice of the bird was hushed, and his soul spoke to him through the silence and bade him despair. But the cool breeze which he had so loved still played upon his temples, and the clustering flowers pillowed his aching head, and the timid forget-me-not, dearest of all, looked on him with its blue child-eyes, as though it would comfort him. Nature pays ever love with love, and if her balms heal not, yet are they mighty to soothe. Above him shone the tranquil, unchanging star, and to this he lifted his straining and feeble eyes, till in gazing upon it, he had well-nigh forgotten his sufferings; and gradually there came into his heart the power of patience, which has this virtue, that as sorrows deepen it increases, so that if they should be deep and wide as the sea, they cannot avail to drown it. So he lay there, exhausted and mournful, but full of endurance, and not without hope.

And the elder still stares upon his wall, and more and more vacant is the glassy shine of his soulless eyes, more and more unmeaning the ceaseless smile upon his stony lips. Safe is he in the shadow of his wall, and beside its faultless precision the universe seems a chaos. But, one day, that wall shall fall upon him and crush him, and when it is gone there will be nothing left for him upon earth, but a lonely and miserable death.

Reader, which of the brothers wouldst thou rather be? yet, is there not a way between?

WHEN once enthusiasm has been turned into ridicule, everything is undone, except Money and Power. Corinne.

Poetry.

[In Original Poetry, the Name, real or assumed, of the Author, is

printed in Small Capitals under the title; in Selections, it is printed in Italics at the end.]

VILLAGE LYRICS.

No. V. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.
W. BRAILSFORD.

ALL the day, the summer day,
The water mill goes round,
And the river takes its way,

With pleasant dreamy sound.
The wild bee wanders over
Each fragrant bed of thyme;
And pauses to discover

New treasures in the lime.
All the day, the summer day,
A little maiden sings;
Never bird led life more gay,
Or bee with laden wings.
Very brightly shines the sun
On her favourite bowers,
And the maiden's love hath won
Perfume from the flowers.
All the day, at work or play,

She ever smiles and sings;
Care with her can hold no sway,
Or grief with drooping wings.
So the water mill goes round,

The wild bee wanders past,
Life hath no more pleasant sound
Upon its broad ways cast.
Well the miller loves to hear

Each soft and gentle tone,
That seems unto his charmèd ear
Some magic half unknown.
One song more, ere vesper hour

Shall bring the evening chime;
But aye, that cheerful voice hath power
To drown the notes of Time.

All the day, the summer day,
Oh happy, happy heart,

Cling to the rose-leaves while you may,
Ere hope and faith depart.
List thy sweet rival in the tree,
His song has truth divine;
Thou canst not stay his melody
By any strain of thine.

Yet sing, and may thy woman's song
Aye glad the miller's home,
That so, each summer's day prove long,
To those who from thee roam.

Aye murmur stream, aye smile fair flowers,
In sunshine, and in shade,

And be your beauty through all showers
The brighter, sweeter made.

THE HEART'S LESSON.
A. H. T.

MANY years must pass away

Before the human heart
Can bear to render up its youth,
Can realize the mournful truth,—
The hour is come to part.
Many years must pass away

Before the heart can seem,
To wake as from a sleep, and low
To whisper to itself, "Where now
The glory and the dream ?"

We do remember, in that hour,
How nearly it is night,

When lovely things are well-nigh gone,
And, standing in the world alone,
We watch the dying light.

We turn to those whose steps have long
Kept measure with our own,
But eyes which used to speak, are cold,
The heart within hath waxèd old,

The light within is gone.

And voices, yet too dearly loved,-
Their melody is fled,

They are become so strangely cold,
Within, the heart hath waxed old,
Youth-feeling-all is dead.
"The beautiful" must all depart,

And we must learn at last,
From the dull darkness of our day,
Resignedly to turn away,

Back to the shining past.

Back to the land which is our own,

That golden world of ours,
Where life's illusions, long gone by,
Share the soul's immortality;-
Within the immortal soul they lie-

Those poor, long perished hours.
And thus, with the broad Heaven above,
The unchanging past within,
The heart may well its destiny
Serenely bear to live or die

Content-so it may win
A place in the eternal years,
Where sighing cannot be, nor tears.

THE SHADOW FROM THE VALLEY.

8. M.

THE child upon the mountain-side
Plays, fearless, and at ease,

While the hush of purple evening
Spreads over earth and seas;
The valley lies in shadow,

But the valley lies afar,

And the mountain is a slope of light,
Up-reaching to a star.

He looks athwart the forest,

Where, like a shower of gems,
Bright drops of amber sunshine

Dance on the tawny stems;
He listens to the large grey thrush,
Slow flitting through its bower;
But the shadow from the valley
Creeps upward, hour by hour.
The stream that flows above him
Breaks into sudden gold,
Caught from the gorgeous banner

O'er the broad skies unrolled;
He looks where, 'mid the tossing clouds,
A thousand rainbows meet-
But the shadow from the valley
Hath risen to his feet.

Awhile, the lingering glory
Just gilds his wavy hair,

Then Darkness, like an armèd man,
Hath seized him unaware.

The latest bird is silent,

And, with a wild Tu-whoo,
The white owl circles overhead.
-Ah! child, what canst thou do?
Wilt thou, in hopeless wonder,

Wring thy faint hands, and weep,
Roam aimlessly a little while,
Then sob thyself to sleep?
Or wilt thou rise, and journey
Thy drear and toilsome way,
A pilgrim through the shadow,
Seeking the dawn of day?
There shall be stars to guide thee,
There shall be sounds to cheer,
For the air is full of angels,
And God is ever near;
And softly from thy distant home
One tiny spark shall glow,

Brightening as thou draw'st nearer:-
Take courage! rise, and go!

Miscellaneous.

"I have here made only a nosegay of culled flowers, and have brought nothing of my own, but the string that ties them."-Montaigne.

THE ASCENT OF MOUNT SINAI.

"We were exactly two hours and twenty minutes in reaching the point of our destination; but we might have accomplished this task in a shorter time had we not ever and anon stopped to survey the interesting scene above and around us. The usual resting-places are at a spring of delicious water, about twenty minutes from the convent; the chapel of the Virgin, a small and plain oratory, commemorative, it is alleged, of a ridiculous miracle said to have been wrought by the Virgin in behalf of the monks, to deliver them from a formidable plague of vermin; a double gateway, formerly used as a confessional for the testing of pilgrims; and a small but agreeable wádí, extending across the mountain for about half an hour, and separating its northern and southern peaks, and in which are a well and cypress tree, and the chapel of Elijah, where, according to tradition, the prophet reposed when he fled from Jezebel. The steepest part of the mountain, perhaps, is between this place and the summit; and it usually occupies in the ascent about half an hour. The body of the mountain, like almost all the heights adjoining it, is of a deep red or flesh-coloured granite, the grains of felspar being not so large as in the Theban granite. At the highest point, however, it terminates in white granite, extremely fine in the grain, and containing comparatively few particles of hornblende or mica. It is thus literally, as well as poetically, the grey-topped Sinai' of Milton. A small sprinkling of the débris of porphyry or clay slate, or thin layer of the clay slate itself, resting upon the granite, is visible at one or two points as we go up. The mountain, when looked upon in the mass, appears to the eye almost entirely destitute of vegetation; but a good many plants and small bushes are discovered as you proceed over its surface. In some of the crevices and ravines we found patches of snow, the first on which Mr. Smith and I had trode for many years."

He that is most practical in Divine things, hath the purest and sincerest knowledge of them, and not he that is most dogmatical. Divinity, indeed, is a true efflux from the Eternal light, which, like the sunbeams, does not only enlighten, but heat and enliven; and, therefore, our Saviour hath in his Beatitudes connext Purity of heart with the Beatifical Vision.-Smith's Select Discourses. 1660.

HE that runs against Time, has an antagonist not subject to casualties.-Johnson.

HE that wants true virtue in Heaven's logic is blind, and cannot see afar off.-Smith's Select Discourses.