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readers know, the British made their attempt to reach Baltimore, and in connection with this attempt the battle of North Point occurred. Mr. Griffith watched the progress of events with intense interest. From Sunday till Thursday he neither took off his coat nor untied his cravat; awake all the time, day and night, he saw the flash of every charge of powder burnt during that time in the vicinity of the city; and so deep did his interest become, so strongly was his hereditary Revolutionary patriotism stirred within him, so anxious was he indeed to fight, that he was led to suspect that all was not right in his Christian experience. "If ever a man wanted to be in a fray, or to shoot an Englishman, he did." As the nearest approach which, as a minister, he could make to the satisfaction of the war-spirit within him, he secured a musket and ammunition, resolved, if the British should come into the city, and any Englishman came to his door and addressed him in other than respectful language, he would shoot him. When the battle and its excitement were past, the remembrance of these things gave him no little pain. He mentioned the matter to Bishop M'Kendree and asked him if he thought such feelings sinful. The Bishop's answer made it a case of highlyexcited amor patria, entirely innocent, if not positively virtuous.

Mr. Griffith has had a decidedly-public as well as a more secluded and private life. He has been a member of some eight or ten General conferences, always a watching and working member, actively and boldly, though unobtrusively, participating in the most important business of that day. In the annual conference he has occupied for years, and still occupies, a position which we shall not attempt to describe, because we should be compelled, out of respect for his modesty, to say too little for our feelings and too little for the public estimate. Mr. Griffith, like most of the early Methodist preachers, is very unwilling to be made the theme of public, written comment or criticism, however friendly or even laudatory the writing might be. For a just estimate of his life and character we must wait for a time which we would fain hope and pray may be far off.

HOW WITH GOD.

WITH God there is no freeman but his servant, though in the galleys; no slave but the sinner, though in a palace; none noble but the virtuous, if never so basely descended; none rich but he that possesseth God, even in rags; none wise but he that is a fool to himself and the world; none happy but he whom the world pities.

THE DYING YEAR.

BY LUELLA CLARK.

THE Old Year is dying-is dying slow-
And why should we bid him stay?
His mission is ended and let him go,

For the New leadeth on to the May.
The Old Year is dying-is dying slow-
And 't is time for the toll of the bell;
He treated us kindly-but let him go-
For the New Year will bless us as well.
The Old Year is dying-but let us not weep-
He stole some of our joys, 't is true,
But he gave us some gifts of gladness to keep,
And buried our sorrows, too.

The Old Year is dying-and let him go-
For we mount one starry step more

In the stairway that leads from the halls below
To the shining vestibule door,

Opening into the mansions so many and fair
In the house of our Father on high;
The New Year will carry us nearer there,
And so let the Old Year die.

WITHERED LEAVES.

BY ANNIE E. HOWE.

FALL, ye withered leaves, Fall, rustling, from the boughs that bore ye; The chill, sad autumn eves Have robbed ye of your summer's glory. No more the sweet-voiced rains may woo; Nor drops of cool, refreshing dew; No more the sunshine's cheerful glow, Nor zephyrs soft that gently blow, To life and vigor may restore ye.

Fall, ye withered leaves; Yea, fall from off the boughs that bore ye; The lone wind sadly grieves Because of all your wasted glory.

The birds no more their music sweet
Shall warble in your cool retreat;
But careless feet, with heavy tread,
Shall trample o'er your dismal bed,
And cold, bleak winds go whistling o'er ye.

I shall fall, sad leaves;
The winds will chant the mournful story.
The still and starlit eves;

The morns, all radiant with glory;
The fair, sweet summer come again;
The flowers plead, but plead in vain.
No sighing brook nor singing birds,
Nor loving friends with tender words,
To bloom and vigor may restore me.
I shall dwell, sad leaves,
With white-robed spirits gone before me;
Where the soul ne'er grieves
O'er many a fair but fading glory;

Where gates of pearl and amethyst
Shut out the drifting clouds of mist,
That gather o'er this world below;
And I no pain nor grief shall know,
Nor life's rude winds no more sweep o'er me.

LIFE'S LESSONS.

"TRIBUL

BY EMILY C. HUNTINGTON.

ПRIBULATION worketh patience." There was a sad smile around the lips that said it, and the eyes of the speaker were full of unshed tears, as if, after all, the heart rebelled a little, and could not quite quiet itself with those words of trust. She sat in the full glow of the red firelight, a patient, gentle-looking woman; and on a cushion at her feet sat a young girl, with her face hidden in the folds of her dress, and sobbing passionately. "Tribulation worketh patience;" she said it over and over, more to her own heart than to the weeper, and all the time smoothed softly the golden head pillowed in her lap. The head was lifted at last, and a fair face looked up, stained and swollen with weeping, but still very beautiful.

"How can you say that, Lucy-'tribulation worketh patience?' It does not, it never can in my heart. It only works despair."

"It is a hard lesson to learn, darling, but some hearts have learned it, and when the agony was past have blessed God for so teaching them. The tribulation has come upon us, we can not escape that; it is real, terribly real; now which shall it work for us, patience or despair?"

"Perhaps you have the power to choose, but I have not. It is not so much for you to be patient, it is your nature, and then you have not so great cause for grief as I."

The young face was hidden again, and tears dropped like rain through the small white fingers. By and by they ceased flowing, and the head was laid, with a long, tired sob, upon the lap where it had rested before.

So the hours went by in silence, while the firelight shone clear and steadily into the room; sometimes glorifying the lonely watchers by its radiance, then waving and fading away like the dreams and the hopes they had cherished.

Maggie Howard had cause to weep. Five years before her mother had died, just as the sensitive, high-spirited child was learning to feel most her need of a tender counselor, whose love was even greater than the many faults that tried it sorely. She had no brother, and her only sister was married and in a home of her own; so Maggie had only her father to cling to. Mr. Howard almost idolized her, but he was an invalid, and felt that his child needed some influence that should be constant and unwavering, to mold aright a character that already showed strong points that might be shaped for good or evil. Happily for Maggie he found a companion and instructor for her in the person of his nieceLucy Wardwell-and if ever a mother's loss was

made good to a child, it was in this case. She was not one of those brilliant characters that dazzle at first acquaintance, but she possessed a quiet, unobtrusive loveliness that won surely upon the affections of those who knew her. She had learned many lessons in the school of life-adversity and sorrow had been her teachers, and if their presence had shed darkness sometimes upon her heart, yet in their train had followed meekeyed Patience, and lip and eye told by their chastened beauty of a peace no storms could disturb.

Maggie knew nothing of her cousin's history. She had never seen her till after her mother's death, and her father had strictly charged her never to question Lucy about her past life. "She has seen a great deal of trouble, Maggie," said Mr. Howard, "and we must try to make her happy while she is with us, and perhaps she will forget it all." The affectionate child soon became strongly attached to Lucy, and the fear of making her unhappy kept her from indulging in her natural curiosity, and, as time passed on, she came to regard it as a matter of course that she should be there, and almost forgot it had ever been otherwise. Years went by, and though they left no perceptible traces upon the calm face of Lucy Wardwell, they brought changes to her two companions.

Maggie had left the aimless dreams of her childhood and entered upon the deeper joys of womanhood. Beautiful and gifted, the pride and charm of her home, she had little to try the real strength and worth of her character. Mr. Howard's health had been slowly but surely failing ever since the death of his wife, but his friends were so accustomed to his pale face and wasted form, that they little realized how near his feet were to the dark river. He himself may have better felt this, but he was always hopeful and cheerful, and seldom spoke of his bodily ills. When Maggie was in her eighteenth year he left home for a journey, partly to attend to business in a distant city, and partly from the hope that travel might be of benefit to him. He only reached the place of his destination, was seized with severe hemorrhage, and died in a few hours. Only strangers were with him-strangers ministered to his last wants, and strangers sent back to his home the news of the desolation that had come to it.

It was a terrible blow to Maggie; all the more terrible for falling so suddenly. She moved about in a sort of stupor for several days, till the funeral was over and she was left alone again with Lucy. It was uncertain at first what the condition of Mr. Howard's property was. had always passed for a man of moderate wealth,

He

but Lucy remembered having heard him speak anxiously in regard to the future, and it was with many misgivings that she awaited the investigation of his affairs.

It proved as she had feared, that there was very little property beyond what would pay outstanding debts, and a heavy mortgage was held *pon the homestead.

It was arranged that Maggie should go to her sister; and, at the time my story opens, she was spending her last evening with Lucy in the dear old home. Neither of them could sleep, and Maggie, who had borne up bravely through the day, was utterly overcome, and wept without restraint. Even Lucy's quiet nature was deeply stirred, and she repeated to herself many a precious promise, as if fearful her struggling heart would let its anchor go and sink in the deep waters that were swelling around it.

Hour after hour they sat there, while Maggie's thoughts were busy with memories of the beautiful past that was gone from her forever-anxious dread of the future that looked so blank and cheerless, and keen agony as the present sorrow rose up in all its intensity. A brimming cup of joy had been dashed from her lip just as she was beginning to taste its sweetness, and her heart was full of murmuring and despair. Lucy's words of trust and confidence irritated instead of soothing her, and she could not help charging her with lack of feeling. Lucy felt all this, and the tears dropped silently from her eyes as she thought over Maggie's words: "You are naturally patient, and then you have less cause for grief than I."

There was a lesson in her past life that her heart prompted her to unvail for the instruction of the young mourner, and though she shrunk from the task, she determined it should be done. "Maggie," she began in a low voice, "it is nearly five years since I first came here to try to make up in some measure the loss of a mother's care to you. We have been a happy family together, but that is all over now. To-morrow we shall separate; you will go to your sister, who loves you and will welcome you to her home, but where do you suppose I am going?"

Maggie lifted her head and looked for a moment at her cousin, and then said, almost bitterly, "Home, I suppose, to be patient with present trials and happy with some new blessings. You can forget trouble very easily, but I am not so happily constituted."

Lucy took no notice of the last words, but replied, "I have no home, Maggie; I was alone in the world when your father gave me a home here. I must go back again into the same desolate world. My path looks dreary to me. There

were once loving hands that clasped mine, but one by one they have all loosed their hold upon me and crumbled away into dust, and I am left to walk alone. I do not murmur at this, though there have been times when my heart has said: 'The Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.' But, if you will listen, I will tell you how a heart more passionate and impulsive than yours was brought to rest quietly in the hands of Him 'who doeth all things well.'

"I was born at the far south, and the fervid heat of its sunshine seemed to make a part of my life and glow in every vein like fire. Mine was no slow-moving blood, but, quick to feel and to act, I showed, even in childhood, an imperious, passionate nature, that bid defiance to all restraint. My mother was a mild, gentle woman, and wise enough to see that my natural disposition, unless checked by a strong hand, would bring certain misery to myself and others. But | she was in feeble health, for, like your father, she inherited fatal disease, and, unfortunately, my father always encouraged instead of controlling He was a proud, high-spirited man, and only laughed at my outbursts of temper and haughty airs, saying he liked to see me show some spirit-that he should leave me a fine estate some day and I should be just the one to manage it.

me.

"I loved my mother ardently, and a regard for her was a great restraint to me. Often when I sat in her room, listening to her gentle admonitions, I would earnestly resolve to try to become all she wished; but, with the first moment of excitement, my good resolutions passed away like the early dew. When I was about twelve years old my mother died, and, after the lapse of time had dimmed the memory of her dying counsels, I grew more imperious than ever. Surrounded by servants to whom my word was law, I found little to cross my wishes, and was hardly aware how this trait was growing and strengthening. A few years passed, and I came to take my place in society as a young lady. My social position. was high, and I was looked up to and acknowledged as a leader of my young companions. I enjoyed society exceedingly so long as I could hold the preeminence and receive its homage, but I would have taken no second place. Even then a blow was preparing for my heart that was to shatter its pride in the dust.

"Since the death of my mother there had been a great, though gradual, change in my father. He would, at times, be gloomy and morose for days together, keeping the whole household in a state of fear and discomfort by his strange whims and unreasonable complainings; then this would pass away and he would appear

as usual, haughty and reserved, but always dig- cealed from observation. How long this might nified.

"Of late these attacks were more frequent, till they came to be his habitual frame, and his long absences from home, which at first were a matter of wonder to me, came to be looked for as a great relief.

Strange whispers came to my ears from various quarters, and at last I learned, what others had known before, that my father was a slave to two of the worst masters-that he had given himself, without restraint, to wine and gambling. O, Maggie, I can never tell you the terrible shame through which I passed. I left all society at once and forever; I shut myself up at home, and only wished to forget and be forgotten. My feelings toward my father were varied. Sometimes my anger and indignation knew no bounds toward him for bringing such disgrace upon himself and ruining all my prospects for life. Then, in moments of tenderness, I would plead and expostulate with him, begging him with tears to leave his habits of dissipation for my sake, for his own sake, for the sake of my dead mother. It was all in vain; indeed, one great check seemed to be removed from him, now that I knew the worst and there was no longer any motive for concealment from me. Little by little every available article of property was disposed of, and poverty stared us in the face.

"At last my father's constitution failed under the wear of constant excitement, and he was forced to leave his customary resorts and confine himself almost wholly to the house. Remorse preyed upon him, and his sufferings at times, from a tortured mind and body, were terrible. He lingered for two years, a pitiable wreck of what he once had been, and died, I trust, repentant, leaving me alone and utterly destitute. I had relatives at the north, but I was full of southern prejudices; and then my pride was only wounded, not at all subdued, and I determined to rely wholly upon myself and ask aid of no

one.

"My education, although showy, was not thorough enough to fit me for teaching, but I had a natural talent for music which I had carefully cultivated, and I soon obtained a situation in a seminary, at some distance from my home, as a music teacher.

"My deep mourning and my evident loneliness procured sympathy and kindness for me from many, but I rejected all their kind overtures and led a life of perfect isolation-as much alone as if in a wilderness. I aimed to be ladylike and courteous in my demeanor to all, but no one was admitted in the least degree into my confidence, and every emotion was carefully con

have lasted I can not tell, but my heavenly Father, against whom my heart rebelled so bitterly, was pleased to deal mercifully with me, and sent me in my utmost need a great and precious gift."

Lucy drew from her bosom a small gold locket, looked at it a moment in silence, and then laid it in Maggie's hand. It was richly chased and contained the miniature of a noble-looking man, apparently about thirty years of age. Upon one side was a band of black enamel, delicately engraved with some initials, and underneath them the word, "Mizpah."

"Who is it, Lucy ?" asked Maggie, "and what does this strange motto mean?"

"It was my husband, my noble, beloved husband; and the motto-do you not remember, Maggie ?' And he called it Mizpah, for he said, The Lord watch between thee and me when we are absent one from another.'

"Arthur Wardwell was an inmate of the same boarding-house with me, but for a long time we were as perfect strangers. He pitied me at first, and, not repulsed by the manner in which his advances were met, he persevered till my frozen heart gave way, and I learned first to look upon him as a true friend and brother, and then to love him with all the passionate devotion of one whose love flowed in but one channel, to but one object.

"I learned to love the world again because he lived in it-to endure society because he wished it. I did all things for his sake, and sunshine rested once more upon my life. We were married, and I left my labors at the seminary to preside over a home, simple in all its furnishings, for we were far from rich in worldly goods-but what a paradise it was to me! We had books, and flowers, and music; we had young hearts, full of love for each other and hope for the future, and for one brief year I forgot all the darkness of the past. I felt that God was good to me, and thought I was grateful for his blessings; but when he touched my treasures, I found my heart was as proud and bitter as ever.

"Arthur was a physician, and, with a steadilyincreasing practice, he had every prospect of speedily attaining competence, if not wealth. How many times we talked over the home we would possess in a few years, planning its surroundings and adornments with almost childish satisfaction, and counting the years that must pass before we could see our castle settle down upon solid earth! 'If God wills!' was always Arthur's supplement to these dreams and projects; and, seated by his side, with no wish for any thing beyond his love, I too could say, ‘if

God wills.' Ah, it was easy to say, 'Thy will be done!' when that will wrought only toward me what my heart most craved.

"We had been married less than two years, when the yellow fever, that scourge of the south, broke out among us. Other physicians fled in dismay, and I vainly urged Arthur to leave the scene of so great danger, but not for a moment would he entertain the thought. For myself, I would have staid in the face of certain death, rather than leave him to die, perhaps, alone. He came as an angel of mercy to many a poor sufferer who was deserted even by near friends, and, after a time, the disease began to abate and the worst seemed to be past. Exhausted and worn down by his constant exertions, my husband fell almost the last victim of the terrible plague.

"It was but a short sickness, a few hours of suffering, and, almost before I realized the danger, I was widowed and alone again in the world. All my other trials had been light compared with this, and no words can describe the darkness like the shadow of death that settled over my soul. I neither wept nor prayed. I thought only of God as an enemy, whose hand was relentlessly against me, and every power of my body and mind seemed locked up by a stony despair. I followed my husband to the grave, but it was as one who neither saw nor heard. I went back to my lonely home and, rejecting love and pity, brooded alone over my hard fate. The autumn months passed on, but their quiet beauty brought no tranquillity to me. Their lesson of immortality, of life hidden under the mantle of death, was lost upon my heart. Thanksgiving-day came, a mild sunny morning, and I stood gloomily by my open window, watching the passers-by. There had been public services appointed at the churches that morning, an unusual thing for us, and many were attracted there. As I stood by the window, my heart making a bitter response to every chime of the bells, our pastor, a venerable man, came slowly walking by. He paused as he saw me, and, after kindly saluting me, inquired:

"He passed.on to the church, and presently I heard the swelling notes of the organ and the voice of the people chanting:

O come, let us sing unto the Lord! Let us heartily rejoice in the strength of our salvation! Let us come before his presence with thanksgiving, And show ourselves glad in him with psalms!'

"Every word came distinctly to my ear, for the church was but a few rods distant. 'Ah,' thought I, 'they can sing, they can be thankful, for they and theirs are safe; but no one pities me, or remembers that a life worth ten thousand of them was risked and lost in their cause.' When the service was over, I watched from behind the curtain to see the people go back to their homes. My heart smote me a little as I saw that more than half the families in the congregation wore the badge of bereavement. There was a widow with her fatherless children, or a lonely couple, thinking of the little ones that used to follow them with dancing steps. Feeble old men tottered along, missing sadly the strong arm of manhood, on which they had been accustomed to lean; and, last of all, came a beautiful little child, in the arms of its black nurse, the only representative of what had been a large family.

"What a wretched, suffering world, and what poor, mocked, miserable creatures we are!' was my mental exclamation, and I bowed my head upon my hands and wept the first tears I had shed since Arthur was buried. The old colored woman, who had been Arthur's nurse, and who had always lived with us, came in and found me weeping. She had a warm heart, but my cold manner had kept her at a distance before. Now she came up to me and tried in her way to comfort me.

"Don't take on so, honey,' said she; 'the Lord won't ever give us more 'n we are able to bear. There's a heap of trouble in this world, but it will all be wiped away when we get over Jordan. 'T would have made your heart ache to see 'em to-day, all in their black clothes; some

"Are you not coming up to give thanks with body gone out of 'most every seat: but when we us to-day, Mrs. Wardwell?'

"No, sir,' I coldly replied, 'I have no occasion for going; I have nothing to be thankful for, unless it be that every drop in my cup is turned into wormwood and gall.'

'Nothing to be thankful for!' repeated the old man, with an expression of pain on his calm face; 'I know of none but the lost spirits in hell so utterly wretched as to say that. May the dear Lord give you a thankful heart, my child; for truly it is of his mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not.'

get over Jordan there won't be any mourning there, only white robes that shine like the sun, and harps of gold, and every body singing halleluiah. Bless the Lord! I hope old Chloe won't be very long getting there!'

"Somehow her simple words seemed to go right to my heart, and although I wept till I was utterly exhausted, it did me good, and that night I slept like a child. I awoke next morning with a strange feeling of weakness in every limb and a sense of confusion and bewilderment that I tried in vain to shake off. Past events, even my

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