manner.

the term truthfulness. It comprehends all these first virtues, honesty, veracity, and sincerity. There is a truthfulness of dress and equipage; of voice and look; of conversation and It is this truthfulness of the whole man that is so lovely. It gives a classical elegance to the character. There is a symmetry of outward life that tells of a symmetry within. In the classical poem, the harmony and numbers of the verse are only the outward forms of the harmony and numbers of the thought. So the outward consistency of a truthful character is but the imperfect expression of the harmony and numbers of the truthful heart. The truthful man may be plain and simple in his ways; but his humble virtues have more charms than all adventitious ornaments.

Sincerity is supposed by some to be accompanied always by such disagreeable traits as bluntness, stupidity, and credulity. I do not think that either of these traits necessarily attaches to truthfulness, or that they commonly do. Far from being blunt and saying disagreeable things at improper times, the sincere man commonly shows the highest regard for true manly refinement and propriety. Neither is the truthfulness of which I speak stolid or prosaic. Rather it is wise, and sportive, and full of poetry. Because some fools are honest, it does not follow that their honesty made them so. I fear there are more knavish fools, however, than honest ones.

Sir Philip Sidney has said, “The only disadvantage of an honest heart is credulity." There is doubtless a disposition in every man to believe others to be like himself. Dishonest men are credulous about dishonesty. For my own part, I cannot believe that credulity is more commonly a fault of the honest than of the dishonest heart; I am sure that credulity is not the only disadvantage of the latter. The credulity of the one and of the other differ more in kind than in degree. Better to believe habitually that men are better than they are, than to believe them worse. It is much nobler; it is much more comfortable.

If men would appear to the world something nearer what they really are, they would become something nearer what

they ought to be. Before a man can be really truthful, he must really respect himself; and he can never cheat himself into the belief that anything is respectable that is not good.

"Good

Only is great and generous and fruitful."

He who speaks what he thinks will be more apt to think good thoughts. There must be a real purity in him who would dare make his "breast transparent as pure crystal."

Strange it is that we ever let that chimera, "the world," or "society," — the same chimera still, — frighten us out of our sincerity and taste and goodness, all of us that is worth anything. Why quail so when society pronounces those terrible words, "odd," "homely," "unfashionable," when we know that we are acting in true refinement, and have honest hearts? There is good sense and good taste in the most costly luxuries and most exaggerated forms of society. But the fitness and beauty of these only exist for those who can properly afford them. How apt all are to go beyond the bounds of fitness! We hate the very name of quack. It grates harshly on our sense of what is pure and chaste. But there are quacks who are not pretenders to medical knowledge, or venders of nostrums. Shall we apply this odious name to those who dress extravagantly, and furnish great houses beyond their means? That nothing, "the world," cries out "Genteel!" "Proper!" and so its minions. are lured on to violate their own true feelings of what really is genteel and proper. Why not live naturally, speak straightforwardly, and let the world know how much our income is? They will smile, they will laugh, will they? Much good may it do them." If we are true to our own good taste in these matters, we shall likely be true to ourselves, to our neighbors, and to Christianity. Those were kind words of old Marlowe's," Goodness is beauty in its best estate." Yes, we will remember that goodness and the highest beauty always go together; and taste shall minister to us in all things.

L. A. J.

BEREAVEMENT, ITS GRIEFS AND CONSOLATIONS.

How many different aspects does this human life assume, and how full of interest and beauty! Each period, when allowed to fill its proper place, as a sequence to a former rightly used, has a grace and beauty of its own. The leafy boughs of autumn wave beneath their golden burden, with scarcely less of beauty than when they attracted every eye by the rosy hues of spring. There is beauty in the buoyant joy of youth, as it sparkles and dances over the surface of things. There is grand and solemn beauty in the oceanwaves of feeling, that dash on the rocky shore of maturer life. It is not of necessity a dreary coast. It can be so, indeed, only by our own unfaithfulness. The affections, it is true, are often overlaid by the cares of a busy life; but in many instances they are intensified as old age comes on. Often when they have remained undeveloped, or been buried under the incrustation of philosophy or a severe theology, they have sprung up as the intellect has lost its force, and on a near approach to the close of the mortal life assumed a prominence they never had before. Much of the freshness and something even of the romance of youth may and should be carried into riper years, and into declining age. Yet are the characteristics of the different periods distinct. By degrees the ideal gives place to the intensely real; while yet the real becomes more and more closely united with the spiritual. By nothing else, perhaps, is this union so cemented, as by the experience which, sooner or later, comes to all who live long on earth, the passage of our loved ones through the veil. One by one they fall away, the bright links to our mortal vision dropped here, but bound in the chain above, and drawing our hearts upward with irresistible power. The voice of God speaks to us, calling us to give up our dearest treasures. It seems to us in our grief almost as if the wheels of nature must come to a pause;

but they still move on, and we return to our accustomed place. To the world, perhaps even to near friends, we appear the same; but in the deep consciousness of our own hearts we know that we are changed. So far as many of the sweetest joys of other days are concerned, we

"Know, where'er we go,

That there hath passed away a glory from the earth."

Yet, paradoxical as it may appear, though there must be many bitter pangs of loneliness for us, solitude is annihilated. for ever. The soul has its mountain-height of sweet communion, not only with the Father of spirits, but with the loved of earth, now saints in heaven. To this it may resort in every lonely hour; and often amid the cares of life, amid its gayer scenes also, may the soul sit apart in converse with the unseen, saying in its hidden depth to the unconscious ones around, "I have meat to eat that ye know not of."

From time to time the beloved pass from our sight, each newly consecrating some spot in our dwelling; and thus year by year we come more and more to walk reverently in our own home, as if in some temple, feeling that it "is none other than the house of God," and the very "gate of heaven"; and so the merest trifle, almost every object on which our eyes rest indeed, becomes sanctified by association with those now translated, and we touch with tender reverence the hem of their garments.

And are they gone from our side? I think not. We may still feel that they share every innocent joy, and pity and sympathize with our every sorrow, though in some ineffable way without the diminution of their own bliss. It may be, perhaps, through their being permitted to see the end of these griefs; or through a vision of the unerring wisdom and unbounded love of the Father, so clear as to leave no room for distrust or regret, whatever mysteries may involve his dealings now. I do not ask, nor do I wish, a message through the intervention of another, though I surely would not reject it should it be offered. I would receive it rever

ently and gratefully, should it come with satisfactory proofs of its genuineness. I would not, if I had the power, disturb the faith of one believer in what is called Spiritualism. Rather would I rejoice in the joy which that faith seems to bring to those who receive it. But it is more in accordance with my own feelings to be the direct recipient, through the voice speaking in my heart. Neither do I wish nor ask for any outward token of the presence of the invisible ones. "The flesh is weak," and might be overwhelmed by any token cognizable by the senses. Yet in the still hours of night, when the world is shut out, and even the dear domestic band withdrawn, I may utter the loved, familiar names, whether with the audible voice or in the silent breathings of the spirit, and feel that I am heard, that the fond arms are still twined around my neck, the sweet, accustomed kisses pressed upon my cheek,- till the shades of night and of my tears grow less dark, while

"Mine earthly love lies hushed in light
Beneath the heaven of" theirs.

Does this remove the heart-sick longing for the sweet companionship of other days? Alas! no. This cannot be. Flesh and heart will still cry out for the joys of old, — the dear communion of past days, were it only for an hour. Yet it does greatly assuage it, and enable us more patiently to look through the long years that may pass before we are again permitted to see them face to face.

May it be said that these views would represent the spirits of the holy ones as still detained prisoners of earth and earthly cares, instead of being received up into glory? This might be an insuperable objection did we regard heaven as a place, fixed and remote in the universe. But this, I suppose, is not now the common view; at least, not with those who agree with us in general belief. Many of us, to say the least, believe that "heaven lies about us," not only "in our infancy," but through life; that could our eyes be opened, as were those of the one of old by the prayer of the