thus fulfils every thing which they contain.

He

makes them full of meaning and full of life. He takes. out of the hard shell its living kernel; he supersedes much of them, and values always the practical part more than the ceremonial.

XXIII.

DIARY OF 1863.

2 Cor. iii. 3: “YE ARE MANIFESTLY DECLARED TO BE THE EPISTLE OF CHRIST, WRITTEN NOT WITH INK, BUT WITH THE SPIRIT OF THE 'LIVING GOD; NOT IN TABLES OF STONE, BUT IN FLESHLY TABLES OF THE HEART.

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Evi

T the beginning of the year, one of the usual actions is to provide one's self with a diary, little blank volume, with eath day of the year having a space arranged for it, in which its engagements may be written beforehand, and its events afterward. Many persons have, for years, found it convenient to keep such diaries. Formerly, they were obliged to prepare them for themselves; but now, blank journals of this kind are for sale in every bookstore. dently the practice of keeping such journals has greatly increased, or there would be no demand for such a supply. Is it that men value time now more than formerly? Is it that the historic element of our nature is taking a fuller development? It is evident that some periods and some nations tend more to this habit of recording events than others. The ancient Egyptians, for example, carved and painted on stone all the actions of their lives: so that the traveller to

day can read on walls, built four thousand years ago, what men did then every day; how they hunted and fished, and hatched birds by artificial heat, and beautified their gardens with summer-houses, flower-stands, and vases; how they kept accounts; went to ride in chariots and litters; carried parasols to keep off the sun; taught monkeys to hold torches for them at a feast; made music on harp, pipe, and drum; anticipated the pirouettes of the modern ballet; played games of checkers; played with dice, with balls, and the like. Thus they wrote down every day on tables of stone, moved by some instinct to journalize all their life. Other nations did nothing of the sort. The Greeks, for example, were so occupied with living, that they could not stop to describe their lives. This historic impulse apparently comes as the activity of man abates. The greatest men and the greatest nations have not been given the most to minute journalizing. Mr. Samuel Pepys is like an Egyptian in keeping his diary; but who ever saw Shakspeare's diary? It is all in "Hamlet" or "Othello,”-nowhere else. Men who are thinking the highest thoughts and doing the noblest actions do not usually stop to record them they leave it to others to do so. He who lived the noblest human life on earth never but once, so far as we know, wrote a line; and that line he wrote, not on imperishable stone or perennial brass, or even on parchment which may last a thousand years, but on the sand: "He stooped down, and wrote on the ground."

But the advantage to most of us of keeping a watch over our fleeting days is so great, that I think this invention of printed diaries will improve the character of our people. We are active enough, full enough of outgoing life: the objective element is sufficiently strong; we need, perhaps, the antagonist tendency to balance it. We need to stop, and watch ourselves; to stand still, and consider. Keeping a diary, even of outward events, is a good habit for a young person to acquire. Better if a little reflection on what we do makes a part of our journal. It helps us to keep the reins in our hands, and prevents our being swept away by events. A record of facts is good: a record of ourselves is better. Watch the outward life; but watch the inward life also.

The modern invention is merely to have the days of the week, month, and year printed beforehand; to have places prepared in which to enter every thing. But I suppose no one buys such a blank diary without getting one use out of it which the publisher never thought of. Is it not a very serious thing to buy a diary of the coming year; to look forward, and make arrangements for three hundred and sixty-five more days of coming life? Does it not seem presumptuous to take this thought beforehand, not for the morrow, but for so many morrows? Shall we live to the end of the year? Will not our diary stop somewhere in it, and the last part of it remain for ever blank? Some time, it must be so. Some year, our diary will end long before the year ends. Will it be

this one? Such thoughts are wholesome, if not too gravely dwelt upon.

But, beside this diary of life which we keep ourselves, there is another diary which God keeps for us. Every thing which we do, feel, and think, — all acts and all impressions, are instantly daguerreotyped, as soon as they occur, in those wonderful tablets which we call memory. There they are written down, and packed away in every man's soul, a whole library written full of past transactions. There are the faces of all the people we know, the names of multitudes more; the books we have read; pictures of the places we have seen; memories of all the moments, sad and bitter, with which our days have been crowd, ed. There they are, hidden away perhaps, forgotten by the consciousness, but still latent in the memory. Some day they will come up again. It seems probable that we never really forget any thing. The very effort to recollect shows it. We know that the fact is in our memory, though we cannot bring it up to clear, conscious knowledge. We dive into our memory for it, as, by the fragrant coast of Ceylon, men dive for Oriental pearls. We did not go deep enough this time: dive a little deeper, and we shall find it. You recollect the story of the servant-girl, who, in her fever, began to speak in an unknown language, and spoke, hour after hour, with great fluency. At last, some one was found who pronounced it to be Hebrew, and said that she was reciting chapters out of the Hebrew Bible. Then it appeared that she had once.