across the street, and up to the door, and we went in together. After the usual songs and prayers, I took for my text Paul's counsel to the Corinthians as to their disorderly meetings and meaningless noises. The sermon was, in the main, a reading of the fourteenth of Paul's first letter, with comments and application interspersed.

I spoke half an hour, and while showing consideration for the noisy ways of my audience, exhorted them to cultivate intelligence as well as passion. When you feel the glory of God in you, let it out, of course. Shout, Glory! Clap your hands, and all that, but stop now and then and let some wise elder stand up and tell you what it all means. Men and boys hang around your windows and laugh at you and your religion, because they don't understand you. Some men have religion all in the head, clear, sharp, dry, and dead; others all in the heart, they feel it all in their bones. Now I want you to have re ́ligion in your heads and hearts too. Let all things be done decently and in order.

I was well satisfied with my effort; at the time it seemed a success. As I sat down, Brother Anderson got up and stood on the pulpit step and gave out a hymn

"Let saints below in concert sing."

I am not sure that he could read, for he stood book in hand, and seemingly from memory gave the words of the hymn; he repeated the first and second stanzas with a deep, growing feeling. Of the third he read three lines:

"One army ob de libbin God

To Thy commands we bow;

Part ob de hos' hab crossed de flood,
And-"

There he stopped, and after swallowing one or two chokes, went on to say:

"I lub Brudder Beecher; I lub to hear him preach dis af'ernoon; he tole us a good many things. He's our

good frien', and he sez, sez he, dát some folks goes up to glory noisy 'n shoutin', and some goes still like, 'z if they was ashamed ob what's in 'em, and he sez we better be more like de still kind, an' de white folks 'ill like us more, and den I thinks 'tain't much 'count no way, wedder we goes up still like, or shoutin', for heben is a mighty big place, brudders, an' wen we all goes marchin' up to see de Lord, an' I's so full ob de lub, an' de joy, an' de glory, dat I mus' clap my han's an' shout, de good Lord got some place whar we won't 'sturb nobody, an' we can shout Glory! b'ess de Lord!' I tell you, brudders an' sisters, heben's a mighty big place, an' dar's room for Brudder Beecher an' us too. Dat's so! B'ess de Lord.

"Brudder Beecher sez dat 'tis'n de folks as makes de mos' noise as does de mos' work. He sez de ingines on de railroad only puff, puff, puff, reg'lar breavin' like, when dey's at work haulin' de biggest loads, an' de bells an' de whistles do n't do no work, dey only make a noise. Guess dat's so. I don't know 'bout ingines much, an' I don't know wedder I's a puff, puff ingine, or wedder I's one dat blows de whistles an' rings de bells. I feel like bofe sometimes, an' I tell you what, wen de fire is a burnin' an' I gits de steam up, don't dribe no cattle on de track, de ingine's a comin'. Cl'ar de track.

"An' de boys an' de gals, an' de clarks, an' de young lawyers, dey come up yar watch-nights, an' dey peep in de windows, an' stan' 'round de doors, an' dey larf an' make fun, an' Brudder Beecher sez,' Why don't we stop de noise now 'n den an' go out an' tell 'em 'bout it— 'splain it to 'em.' An' I 'member w'at de Bible says, 'bout de outer darkness, an' de weepin' an' de wailin', an' de 'nashin' ob teeth. An' if dese boys an' gals stan' dar outside larfin', biemby dey 'll come to de weepin' an' de

wailin', fus' dey know. An' den wen we stan' 'roun' de great white temple ob de Lord, an' see de glory shinin' out, an' de harpers harpin', an' all de music, an' de elders bowin', an' all shoutin' like many waters, an' de saints asingin' 'Glory! Glory to de Lam,' 'spose God 'll say, 'Stop dat noise dar, Gabriel. You Gabriel, go out an' 'splain.' Yes, I see dem stan' las' winter 'roun' de doors an' under de windows an' larf; an' dey peep in an' larf. An' I 'member wot I saw las' summer, 'mong de bees. Some ob de hives was nice an' clean an' still, like 'spectable meetin's, an' de oders was bustin' wid honey, an' de bees kep' a-comin' and a-goin' in de clover, an' dey jes' kep' on a fillin' up de hive, till de honey was a flowin' like de lan' ob Canaan. An' I saw all roun' de hives was de ants, an' worms, an' de great drones, an' de black bugs, an' dey kep' on de outside. Dey wasn't bees. Dey could n't make de honey for dareselves. Dey could n't fly to de clover an' de honeysuckle. Dey jus' hang 'roun' de bustin' hive an' live on de drippin's. An' de boys an' de gals come up yar an' hang 'roun'. Jes' come in an' we'll show you how de gospel bees do. Come in, an' we'll lead you to de clover. Come in, we'll make your wings grow. Come in, won't ye? Well den, poor things, let 'em stan' 'roun' de outside an' hab de drippin's We's got honey in dis hive.

"Part ob de hos' hab crossed de flood,
An' part are crossin' now.'"

THOMAS K. BEECHER

EXTRACT FROM "THE LAST DAYS OF
HERCULANEUM."

THERE was a maier, for some daring deed

That trespass'd on the laws, in dungeon low
Chain'd down. His was a noble spirit, rough,
But generous, and brave, and kind.

He had a son; it was a rosy boy,

A little, faithful copy of his sire

In face and gesture. From infancy the child
Had been his father's solace and his care.

Every sport

The father shared and heighten'd. But at length
The rigorous law had grasp'd him, and condemn'd
To fetters and to darkness.

The captive's lot

He felt in all its bitterness; the walls

Of his deep dungeon answer'd many a sigh

And heart-heaved groan. His tale was known, and

touch'd

His jailer with compassion; and the boy,

Thenceforth a frequent visitor, beguiled

His father's lingering hours, and brought a balm
With his loved presence that in every wound
Dropp'd healing.

But in this terrific hour

He was a poison'd arrow in the breast

Where he had been a cure. With earliest morn

Of that first day of darkness and amaze,

He came.

The iron door was closed,-for them

Never to open more! The day, the night,
Dragg'd slowly by; nor did they know the fate
Impending o'er the city.

Well they heard

The pent-up thunders in the earth beneath,

And felt its giddy rocking; and the air
Grew hot at length, and thick; but in his straw
The boy was sleeping; and the father hoped
The earthquake might pass by; nor would he wake,
From his sound rest, the unfearing child, nor tell
The dangers of their state.

On his low couch

The fetter'd soldier sunk, and, with deep awe, Listen'd to the fearful sounds. With upturn'd eye, To the great gods he breathed a prayer; then strove To calm himself, and lose in sleep a while

His useless terrors. But he could not sleep:

His body burn'd with feverish heat; his chains Clank'd loud, although he moved not; deep in earth Groan'd unimaginable thunders; sounds,

Fearful and ominous, arose and died,

Like the sad moanings of November's wind
In the blank midnight.

Deepest horror chill'd

His blood, that burn'd before; cold, clammy sweats
Came o'er him; then, anon, a fiery thrill
Shot through his veins. Now on his couch he shrunk,
And shiver'd as in fear; now upright leap'd,
As though he heard the battle-trumpet sound
And long'd to cope with death. He slept, at last,-
A troubled, dreamy sleep. Well had he slept