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quences as real as itzelf. It cannot be held as an isolated abstraction—all is real, and ends in a real glorification. This chain of facts flows over, in the creed, into the mission of the Spirit, and so into the mystery of the Holy ('atholic Church.


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In the days of Ulrich, Bishop of Augsburg, there lived in the city of Constance by the lake of that name, another Bishop, called Conrad, who was a friend of Clrich, and was like him in piety and good works. He descended from the ancient and distinguished family of the Guelphs, so celebrated thronghout Suabia, and from which, afterwards, grand dukes and powerful kings descended. Althongh, on account of his nobility and possessions he was great and distinguished before the world, he was greater on account of his virtues, for he contended, above all other things, for the righteousness which is of avail before God. The Bishop of Constance recognized the gifts of his spirit and he was appointed Provost. He then showed himself upright in great as well as little things, and accomplished in all Church matters; rich in good counsel, eloquent in words, pious in works, a defender of the poor and protector of the oppressed. But all were surprised that while he seemed to resemble other men in gifts, still he was always the same in love and modesty.

The Bishop of Constance died, and l’lrich, coming from Augsburg to bury him, found the whole city and country full of sorrow. As they all knew Urich as a wise man, they asked that he would advise them as to a successor of the deceased. Ulrich then collected the priests and people and said: - Select Provost Conrad, his conduct is unblamable, he is a Bishop such as the Apostle describes." Then they all cried with one voice: “ God has given us a Bishop in accordance with our desire and prayer.” This occurred in 934.

Conrad was a true Bishop, as Ulrich had predicted, and the poor praised him as their true father. For, out of his own means, he built a hospital in the city, with free beds for twelve poor persons, and to every needy one apply. ing there, entrance was granted, and he found food and drink, help and counsel. He also built churches, and established priests in new locations; no where sparing his own wealth, but giving with a free hand.

After he had organized every thing, a great longing seized him to see with his own eyes the land of promise, and he crossed the sea and travelled toward Jerusalem. There, he wandered over places where first the patri

archs wandered, and the prophets of the Old Testament prophesied; and where the Saviour of the world died upon the cross. When he had seen all, strengthened in his faith, he returned to his fatherland. Again at home, he directed and governed as before in love and uprightness. Among all the Bishops he had no truer friend than Ulrich of Augsburg. They lived together like brothers, took counsel as to the welfare of their churches, and edified one another by conversation. Conrad often travelled to Augsburg, and Ulrich returned his visit by coming to Constance.

Being one day in Constance together, they went down the Rhine to Laufen, not far from the city of Schaffhausen. Laufen was a strong citadel, on the bank of the river. Even to this day a great curiosity is to be seen there. There is.a great waterfall, where the waters of the Rhine plunge down a deep precipice, and the earth shakes from the force of the fall; while the thunder of the fall and the surging of the wild stream are heard day and night over the country. The foaming waves bubble up as white as the flakes of new-fallen sngw; while at night they seem like fiery sparks from the stream. The two Bishops stood at this place, and their hearts were filled with a deep feeling of awe at the greatness of God as shown in his works. And, as they looked down into the boiling waters, they saw two birds that were circling around the rocks against which the waves broke, and were fluttering in anguish here and there. Soon they were hurled by the rushing waters into the depths; again they arose from the foam, and, in this manner, fought the power of the stream for some time. At this sight, one might well think of man and his immortal soul, how he struggles and contends with the world and with the current of sin and evil. The two Bishops, however, thought of the souls of the departed, and retired to pray. When they returned to their previous point of view, and looked down the precipice, the birds had disappeared from view, and Conrad and Ulrich turned back, each to his own city. These two lived many a year together as friends and faithful co-laborers in the vineyard of the Lord. When Ulrich was called from this life, Conrad followed him soon after, dying on the 26th of November, A. D. 976.



There is one important feature of practical Christianity which we do not study as we ought. We mean the nature of child piety—or the manner in which piety manifests itself in childhood.

That Christianity is suited for childhood as well as for any other age, wc all most undoubtedly believe. But we are always falling into the habit of expecting that piety in children should show itself by all the same signs as belong to it in later periods of life.

Now we are prone to feel in regard to children as if they were only pious in so far as their acts are like the acts of adult Christians. This is a great mistake. Children are sportive, full of life and fun, and even full of mischief. If we rightly consider this, we will not be discouraged in regard to the piety of children when they do not come up in all respects to the adult test. Great mischief is done, we believe, by the attempt thus made to compress child piety into the severe pattern of that of adult Christians. Chil dren are in no respects like adults, and religion does not make them adults before they become so. Children are cheerful, and Christianity manifests itself in them in a cheerful form.

Lentallius, an ancient writer, has given us a description of the personal appearance and the individual traits of Christ. This portraiture, though generally and properly regarded as apocryphal, is very beautiful, and in many particulars no doubt correct. If there were, however, no other evidence of its apocryphal character, one sentence, in our judgment, would condemn it. It is this: “No one ever saw Him smile, but He has often been seen to weep.” Our Saviour undoubtedly smiled as well as wept. If He had not, He would not have been perfectly human. No creature beside man has the muscles by which a smile is produced. He has them for use; and a man, or woman, or child, who does not smile, is afflicted with an awful defect. We cannot think in this way of Jesus. Children loved Him, and there must have been something pleasant in Him to attract them to Himself. The records of His life do not allow us to form any such stern picture of Him who was once a child, and for children became an infant, as well as a man for man.

Why should our Saviour be represented as one who cannot rejoice with them that do rejoice, as well as weep with them that weep? Why should Christianity be incapable of adjusting itself to the cheerful and sportive life of childhood? To do so is to falsify its beautiful nature. Did Christ receive little children into his arms, and, after he had, made the condition that they should not smile while he blessed them?

The Church must yet, more than ever, study and learn the secret of making childhood gather round it as it did around Christ when He entered Jerusalem, in jubilant joy and love. It must learn, better than it seems yet to understand it, the lesson of perfecting praise out of the mouth of infancy. It must learn that Christ, at the marriage of Cana, sanctified seasons of joy, and that he was truly human for our joys as well as for our sorrows.

Let us not vainly think that we honor Christianity by making it scowl. or that we can best recommend it to our children by robbing it of its smiles. Let children be cheerful. Let piety take that form in them; and let us not forget in instructing children, that we were all children once.


Her hands are cold; her face is white;

No more her pulses come and go;
Her eyes are shut to life and light;

Fold the white vesture, snow on snow,
And lay her where the violets blow.

But not beneath a graven stone,

To plead for tears with alien eyes;
A slender cross of wood alone

Shall say that here a maiden lies,
In peace beneath the peaceful skies.

And gray old trees of hugest limb

Shall wheel their circling shadows round, To make the scorching sunlight dim

That drinks the greenness from the mound,
And drop their dead leaves on the ground.

When o'er their boughs the squirrels run,

And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun,

The acorns and the chestnuts fall,
Doubt not that she will heed them all.

For her the morning choir shall sing

Its matins from the branches high,
And every minstrel voice of spring,

That trills beneath the April sky,
Shall greet her with its earliest cry.

When turning round their dial-track,

Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, Her little mourners, clad in black,

The crickets, sliding through the grass,
Shall pipe for her an evening mass.

At last the rootlets of the trees

Shall find the prison where she lies,
And bear the buried dust they seize

In leaves and blossoms to the skies:
So may the soul that warmed it rise!

If any, born of kindlier blood,

Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud,

That tried to blossom in the snow,
Lies withered where the violets blow.

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