INFANCY IN DEATH. By Rev. William Rogers.

The Mourner's FriendI am lucky enough to have in my personal library a book entitled ‘The Mourner’s Friend or Sighs of Sympathy For Those Who Sorrow’. It is a collection of prose and verse compiled to give comfort to the grieving. Edited by J.B. Syme, published in 1852 by S.A. Howland in Worcester, Mass, USA; its contents are by American and European authors including some surprisingly famous names. My copy of the book has some water damage, ageing paper, and precarious binding, so before it deteriorates my project to preserve the words of the authors will find its way here on the MOLAM blog. 

We create alternate states, try to make sense of unimaginable emotions, and evoke extraordinary creatures and worlds to make sense of what it means to be here, and to feel what we feel. The words of Reverend William Rogers are committed to help those who have lost the most precious thing they can lose.

In all likelihood Reverend William Rogers is the one and same as the English champion for free public education, rational espouser of prostitution licences to protect women from Jack the Ripper and the man of God encouraging secular education programs (as well as a keen dancer). Interesting fellow. Infant mortality in the 19th Century was high. At times I read it was so high, that people had more pragmatic attitudes toward death and loss. Then you read texts like this, and you realise that loss and grief are universal across cultures and time. The loss of a child, most piercing of all.

This particular piece of prose was earlier published in The Christian Souvenir: An offering for Christmas and the New Year, Isaac Fitzgerald Shepard (editor), London, 1843. The couplet quoted in this piece is from A New-born Child and Its Parent, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834).

INFANCY IN DEATH. By Rev. William Rogers.

THE gladness of spring has ever a cast of sadness with it to me. The air is perfumed, indeed, by bud and blossom, as if an angle had shaken his wings around us ; but look you, there are more germs blighted and dead beneath the tree, than clinging yet to the branches. Life is ever in the minority, and that sweet emblem admonishes me how largely young life enters the harvest of death. It seems but natural, when the duties of life have formed and perfected, and when the soul is shut in from the world without, but its decaying senses, and limited to the circle of its own reflections, that the spent energies of age should rest in the grave. But here in infancy, you have death with no faculty developed, and the life which might have been an oak to shelter nations, dying a seedling. Life itself is but a fragment, interposed between eternities ; but here the very fragment is broken, and the living clay, which but an hour ago was stamped with his own image by the hand of God, under the selfsame hand crumbles into dust. That life seems an intention interrupted ; a purpose formed, and, in the very moment of its taking shape, strangely changed. It seems a life with no end but death ; and death, too, where last we should look for it in the varied condition of man. When hallowed love has blended its own nature in the life of the newborn, and,

“For the mother’s sake, the child is dear,
And dearer yet the mother, for the child;”

wherever else the curse on the earth might fall and blight, here last and lightest should we look for it ; but even here Death claims his own.

But let us regard this matter as they to whom God has spoken in words articulate by man, and interpret his providence by a higher than earthly wisdom. That life of a day shall endure with the longest. It was but the title-page we read ; the volume of its being is above. Its absolute existence is the same, whether straitened to an hour, or protracted to threescore years and ten on earth, for it claims immortality as its birthright. we robe the little one in the vestments of death, and bear it out with many tears to the dust that lived before it ; we chisel the record of its life of hours, and of our love, upon the chill marble ; and thus we cheat the heart from truth and fact, while we think and speak of it as dead. It is not dead. It cannot die. It lives, and shall live, with the lifetime of God. It breathed an hour in clay, that we might know that God had created another immortal, and that they whom the child bereft, were honored with its parentage, and then it passed from earth to claim its own.

Follow it, if you will, where it mingles with those of whom the Saviour said, “Their angels do always behold my Father which is in heaven,” the formation of character here is under a probation of many sorrows, but there you have the earthborn trained in heaven. it is among the ministries of angels, and gladness such as the blessed know, and truth from the lips of prophets sanctified, among the records of an eternity past, and the developments of an eternity to come, that it wakens to conscious life. There it mingles with the elder spirits of eternity, and beholds the face of Deity, bright in his brightness, yet itself seen as but a shadow intercepting the intenser glory of the throne. Would you disrobe it of its immortality ? Would you have its faculties, sprung in an hour to giant stature, dwindled to the feebleness of infancy, to enter again the narrow chambers of its mortality ? would you hush the song-perfecting praise from infant lips, and give it back to earth, to die again, and win its weary and doubtful way above ? there was a reason for the mastery of faith in the Shunamite, when her boy was dead, and she answered the inquiry of the prophet, “Is it well with the child ? ” “It is well.” No, let it rest, -remembering, when you look upon an infant dead, that heaven is enlarged.

Brief as the term of a child’s life on earth may be, it has answered the end of its existence. It did not live only to die. It lived to be loved, to stir up within the human breast the strong, quick pulsations of a mother’s and a father’s heart, to which the solitary must ever be strangers. Had it never lived, the place that it filled would have been a blank, and the hearts it warmed, unmoved ; but now, instead of nothingness, there is a memory, which the soul melts with emotions that God has treasured up in parentage. And sad though that memory be, it softens with time, until it seems as if they had but dreamed of an angel.

But its life and death had yet a higher use. In this pilgrimage of ours, we forget that we are banished Paradise, and we attempt to frame another from the grosser elements about us. It seems the end of divine providences to expel us from the Eden we have planted, and with whose power we expected unbroken peace. Banished, we repeat the folly, till the poor weary heart hardly dares to love, and says it will not ; yet it does, though death and the grave are quick to sunder the loved and loving, and then, perchance guided by mercy, it finds in God and truth, and object which it may dare to love, for death only brings us nearer to God, and there is no grave in heaven.

God has many voices in this world, in his varied providence, and though they speak in no dialect of man, they are clear and well understood. It is the anticipation of spirit-communion hereafter. But among them all, whether loud or low, whether wrathful or tender, there is none, which does so move the heart to think of God, as the still lips of INFANCY IN DEATH.

Courtesy Bostonwriters.wordpress.com

Courtesy Bostonwriters.wordpress.com

LAMENT OF THE WIDOWED INEBRIATE. By Augustine Duganne.

The Mourner's FriendI am lucky enough to have in my personal library a book entitled ‘The Mourner’s Friend or Sighs of Sympathy For Those Who Sorrow’. It is a collection of prose and verse compiled to give comfort to the grieving. Edited by J.B. Syme, published in 1852 by S.A. Howland in Worcester, Mass, USA; its contents are by American and European authors including some surprisingly famous names. My copy of the book has some water damage, ageing paper, and precarious binding, so before it deteriorates my project to preserve the words of the authors will find its way here on the MOLAM blog. 

This is quite an extraordinary piece. Written in the first person from the perspective of an abusive alcoholic husband. It appears out of place within the context of this anthology of predominantly spiritual verse aimed to bring solace. This is almost social realist like in its narrative and imagery. The protagonist displays remorse and despair, but there is no redemption here; only lost love and lost hope within the abyss of addiction. Augustine Duganne (1823 Boston – 1884) is quite the interesting character himself. Like many of the other authors appearing here he was a social activist and spokesperson for human rights, particularly proclaiming the Arts should be accessible to the working class and impoverished – essentially a democratic and egalitarian discipline. One of my favourite quotes from him is from his short treatise Art’s true mission in America published in 1853: “And beautiful will be the spectacle, when, casting national and sectional prejudices aside, and holding all as brothers who enclasp the same shrine and raise the same anthem, we shall behold the spirit of redeemed Art moving onward through the land, exalting and purifying the souls of men, and teaching by sights and sounds of loveliness the great and eternal harmony of Nature.” (pp. 30-31).

LAMENT OF THE WIDOWED INEBRIATE. By Augustine Duganne.

I’M thinking on thy smile, Mary, –
Thy bright and trusting smile,-
In the morning of our youth and love,
Ere sorrow came, or guile :
When thine arms were twined about my neck,
And mine eyes looked into thine,
And the heart that throbbed for me alone,
Was nestling close to mine
.

I see full many a smile, Mary,
On young lips beaming bright;
And many an eye of light and love
Is flashing in my sight;-
But the smile is not for my poor heart,
And the eye is strange to me,
And loneliness comes o’er my soul
When its memory turns to thee!

I’m thinking on the night, Mary,
the night of grief and shame,
When with drunken ravings on my lips,
To thee I homeward came;-
O, the tear was in thine earnest eye,
And thy bosom wildly heaved,
Yet a smile of love was on thy cheek,
Though the heart was sorely grieved!

But the smile soon left thy lips, Mary,
And thine eye grew dim and sad;
For the tempter lured my steps from thee,
And the wine-cup drove me mad;
From thy cheek the roses quickly fled,
And thy ringing laugh was gone,
yet thine heart still fondly clung to me,
And still kept trusting on.

O, my words were harsh to thee, Mary,
For the wine-cup made me wild;
And I chid thee when thine eyes were sad,
And I cursed thee, when they smiled,
God knows I loved thee, even then,
But the fire was in my brain,
And the curse of drink was in my heart,
To make my love a bane.

‘T was a pleasant home of ours, Mary,
In the spring-time of our life,
When I looked upon thy sunny face,
And proudly called thee wife,-
And ‘t was pleasant when our children played
Before our cottage door;-
But the children sleep with thee, Mary,-
I shall never see them more!

Thou’rt resting in the churchyard, now,
And no stone is at thine head!
But the sexton knows a drunkard’s wife
Sleeps in that lowly bed;-
And he says the hand of God, Mary,
Will fall with crushing weight
On the wretch who brought thy gentle life
To its untimely fate!

But he knows not of the broken heart
I bear within my breast,
Or the heavy load of vain remorse,
That will not let me rest;
He knows not of the sleepless nights,
When, dreaming of thy love,
I seem to see thine angel eyes
Look coldly from above.

I have raised the wine-cup in my hand,
And the wildest strains I’ve sung,
Till with the laugh of drunken mirth
The echoing air has rung;
But a pale and sorrowing face looked out
From the glittering cup on me,
And a trembling whisper I have heard,
That I fancied breathed by thee!

Thou art slumbering in the peaceful grave,
And thy sleep is dreamless now,
But the seal of an undying grief
Is on thy mourner’s brow;
And my heart is chill as thine, Mary,
For the joys of life have fled,
And I long to lay my aching breast
With the cold and silent dead!

Miss April Advises: #1 Fan, Christmas Present .

Dear Miss April,

few months back i got a new friend. one of my clients at work. A smart engineer, in his fourties. He gives you a serious first impression but as you get to know him, you soon realise he is a fun, social seeetheart. He’s preety cool and i am crazy about his friend !

so recently we met after holidays and he gives me a gift, “just a christmas gift” (he describes) actually a misunderstanding because my colleague/best friend at work got him a present and he thought it was me when i cleared things… was too late, he had given me the gift already… A beautiful enormous red heart, some sort of pillow he bought back home and nicely packed.

heartwarming, i hardly get gifts :-(

Now afcourse i have to give something in return… no surprise here, i dont know what to give.

thinking i have this really cool electronic cigar with nice flavours to go along.(no tobacco)

and i went to ask him. our convo…

Do you smoke? he replied no.
me: Because you can’t or you dont want to? He says: just never been curious, i smoke yes but not tobacco,why?He asks. I said: Because i have something really nice i want you to try. That def made him curious. he kept asking about it all day long :D but i never gave him in time because he travelled.

He is coming back soon and now i have to choose, i either give him the electronic cigar or a pen (that might be expensive)

my friends say an electronic cigar is not an appropriate gift for a non smoker but i keep on insisting with this because it will save me less i dont have to buy it :-) and I dont think the electronic cigar will hook him up but i also dont want to look like someone who offers things that can be addictive. electronic cigar is safe for me atleast. Oh and I also want to make an awesome impression in his friend with the gift.

Ok my dear miss salvation, help me decide please ? whats your opinion with the electronic cigar ? if its a no then any other ideas …

regards,

your #1 fan xoxo

images

Dear Dearest of Dears,

I do declare, I am beginning to know you. Yet, I do not know thine age. What year are you in, my dear? I hear many readers now cry out – what oft this? How does age matter? Well, I’m of the belief that usually the people who claim “age is no matter” are much older men justifying undeclared dalliances. I bring this up because your attention falls upon a man in his forties. Of such a mature age, is he not married? Committed? I say to you, if he is, why on earth is he handing out heart shaped pillows? (I mean apart from learning seduction techniques from the Sweet Valley High series with a babysitter fetish).

If he is not betrothed, in his forties and a sophisticated, connected man of the world, how on earth does he think such a gift would win someone over?

Enough of your coquettishness. Do not prevaricate around the bush. If you are desirous of presenting a gift of an electronic cigar (what on earth is this?) or a pen, why not go all out and just get a penis shaped bottle opener? Does phallic symbolism mean nothing anymore? Forgive me for my maternal extinct, but my suggestion is gift him with a fire extinguisher and expunge this ill-fated dalliance before it has time to engulf everyone around it.

You are bored. You need to get a better hobby then dull old men. With best wishes for your happiness,
Yours,
Miss April

PS. True friends don’t fuck around with ridiculous gifts.

Heed Miss April’s Advice!

Unburden your woes, share your troubles, correspond with Miss April here! Shh, confidentiality assured!! You can Tweet Miss April and like her on Facebook!

Miss April Advises: Wendy Ngo, Public Art Confusion.

Dear Miss April,

I almost crashed the Cayenne the other day. I was careening down Victoria Parade with the kids Ipading in the back and nilly had a conniption.

Theres a huge pile of Lavender steel holding up a gold George Jensen neck brace, two cartoon gunners in Lavender and a flock of olympic or gay coloured ufos. Really I dont care just choose youre side ladies, Putin/ Hair you choose. I found out later they were coolie hats. I had Jacinta google it on her Iphone5. The city of Yarra web site is very proud of these shallow cultural strereotypes. I pride my self on only being shallow for myself. I find it horrid in others.

OMG, its OMG awful. You seem to be able to explain public art. You cleared up the swarofski thing at the cultural centre. I was excited by the bling power but you are right it was a bit not shiny enough for any of us. Can you tell me that this thing is? Its like a vomit meets a car crash meets a thai restaurant interior. Can you tell me why its there? Can you tell me why it cost $3million [ jacnitas iphone, I was driving] and the electric cables are still showing. I have nice looking electrician if they need one.

Oh and whats with the tigers, this things not even in richmond, well one is, but really?

Hope you can help, i hate googling , it hurts the nails.

Your bestie

Wanda Gno.
East Melbourne

Hoddle Street Gateway by Avant Garde artist collaborative group "the community, the local business association, & the 3 tiers of government ". Think Girls on Speed combined with Pussy Riot, with fervent Richmond football club supporters and committed literal interpretation devotees.

Hoddle Street Gateway by Avant Garde artist collaborative group “the community, the local business association, & the 3 tiers of government “. Think Girls on Speed combined with Pussy Riot, with fervent Richmond football club supporters and committed literal interpretation devotees.

Dear Wendy Ngo

How delightful you (and your little brood) sound. I am so very honoured to be the recipient of your lyrical prose worthy to be presented as a gift to the gods, most assuredly. I have sashayed down Victoria Street many a time during the past annus mirabilis under my parasol, waving to the opium traders, stepping over the tracksuit wearers, admiring the beards imbibing in the open-windowed bars, and satisfying my delicate lady appetite with fragrant banquets of 6-8 mouth-watering dishes. I must admit I have been so confounded by the Leviathan and its many hats and accompaniments that they don’t seem to register in my long-term memory. Accordingly, I am as equally perplexed with every venture to the precinct of which I am so fond. Your correspondence therefore has provided me an opportunity of reflection and repose. I must know myself as I relate to the discombobulation that is known to be The Victoria Street Gateway Project.

My first revelation Mrs Ngo is that you are quite mistaken to view it as public art, as much as one assumes that giant sculptural and pictorial representations placed on public land is often assumed to be such. I also made a similar misassumption , and was at first keenly eager to discover who was behind this Avant Garde artist collaborative calling themselves ‘The Three Tiers of Government’ who had worked so closely with the other band of creative bohemians the ‘Richmond Asian Business Association’ and ‘Community’. Oh, my heart was all a flutter at the thought of discovering the identities of these foreword thinkers, cultural philosophers, and creative chieftans. Alas, I was shocked to discover that they were quite literally their namesakes and no professional artists were involved in this process at all. Ah, now that makes a tad more sense. Now that we gaze upon the Gateway with this tidbit, of course, NO ARTIST INVOLVEMENT AT ALL, and…the penny drops.

For what need do we have for the mind of the artiste when we have a successful architectural firm capable of designing award-winning buildings? The true creative here my demure Wendy is in fact Gregory Burgess Architects, who has proven themselves to be extraordinarily talented designers of celebrated buildings. Herein lies the quandary – their most literal approach, which must have served them well for architecture, does not perform well in translating culture into inspiring art. In fact, nowhere does The Victoria Street Gateway Project ever refer to itself as public art. So it appears it is suffering from a terrible crisis of identity. It is a construction, a gaumless literal creature.

You see, the gateway represents a boat (well, you know Vietnamese refugees, boat people arrivals, you know..). Then of course, we have traditional Vietnamese hats represented by, well.. big hats…suspended above. We are also presented with a light box panel of green bars (bamboo) with two “welcoming” tigers. Now this is a departure, as there are very few to no tigers left in Vietnam, so what is the deeper meaning here? Conservation? Species extinction? Oh, wait, football – oh how I laugh, so quaint. Thank goodness it only cost 2 million. Discretely I wonder on the ‘inclusive’ properties of declaring one’s sports tribe on a broad community gateway, but who am I to question such things, as the representative of the Richmond Asian Business Association declares: “Everyone has to support Richmond. If you support Collingwood that’s a different story. People boo us.” Ahh, welcome brothers and sisters, see how we represent you so. Halt Wendy, do not complain, for God help us they will probably stick a Magpie up there as recompense and that would just be too much to bear.

Then we also have aluminium panels fixed to the railway abutment walls, get this, you’ll never see this coming – another boat ! Plus, a traditional Vietnamese drum. Golly, I haven’t seen such dedication to literalism since Marcel Marceau. I am only surprised they restrained themselves from buying massive amounts of take-away rice paper rolls and just nailing them directly to the wall. Or perhaps suspended neon spring rolls could be a later addition, and let’s go crazy by putting up some sticks to represent chopsticks.

Do not misunderstand me, I celebrate the oeuvre of literal interpretation, some of my best friends are Westboro Baptists, and of course, I am a fervent practitioner of Literal Interpretative Dance, a most powerfully creative physical expression of the musical lyric.

Sunshine = widespread fingers, both hands move outward from a centre point.
Rain = wiggle fingers while moving hands from a raised position to a lower position in front of body.
Happy = beaming smile with open hands framing the chin, keep fingers wide.

Do not avow my dry descriptions here best exemplified by interpretive dance extraordinaire Johann Lippowitz.

But I digress.

The Victoria Street Gateway Project is a noble goal conducted with honourable intention (I assume). It is most definitely public, but sadly does not reach it’s potential as art. Do not lament though Mrs Ngo, we must all learn that potential is often nary fulfilled, and tragically beautiful opportunities can be lost forever such as a drop falls into the tranquil stream of lament. However, the three tiers and business posse are sure to be happy, and the gapeseeds will no doubt reinforce their predetermined vision. There is naught to be done. Acceptance can be a powerful mindset.

Do take care of those darling children,
Yours,
Miss April

rice-paper-rolls-large

Heed Miss April’s Advice!

Unburden your woes, share your troubles, correspond with Miss April here! Shh, confidentiality assured!! You can Tweet Miss April and like her on Facebook!

RESIGNATION.

I am lucky enough to have in my personal library a book entitled ‘The Mourner’s Friend or Sighs of Sympathy For Those Who Sorrow’. It is a collection of prose and verse compiled to give comfort to the grieving. Edited by J.B. Syme, published in 1852 by S.A. Howland in Worcester, Mass, USA; its contents are by American and European authors including some surprisingly famous names. My copy of the book has some water damage, ageing paper, and precarious binding, so before it deteriorates my project to preserve the words of the authors will find its way here on the MOLAM blog. 

RESIGNATION.

RESIGNATION is a virtue, the need of which is felt alike by all ; there is some period in the history of each individual, when the crushed and fainting spirit requires its sustaining strength. No condition of life is exempt from this necessity ; the monarch in his gilded palace, and the peasant in his lonely hut, alike experience the hour, when resignation alone can soothe the anguish of a wounded heart. There is none whose stream of life flows so smoothly, that its placid surface is not sometimes troubled by the storms of sorrow ; there is none, whose sky is always so bright that it is not sometimes overcast by clouds of adversity, from whose dark bosom are shot the thunderbolts that crush the fondest hopes, and the lightnings that blast the fairest idols of the heart. Man’s inheritance of earthly joys, is like an enchanted island in the midst of a rushing stream ; at firs, it expands before the eye, in beauty, – wide in extent, and all blooming with flowers and verdure ; but, continually washed away by the impetuous tide, he beholds it diminishing year after year ; ever is he called to mourn some favorite flower, some cherished plant, borne away upon the bosom of the stream, never to return ; until he stands alone on but a fragment of that once fair domain ; and at last yields himself to the fatal torrent, which bears him on to the ocean of eternity. The pathway of life is strown with the wrecks of time, – with blighted hopes, with shattered fortunes, and disappointed and crushed affections, – with the ruins of all that the heart has prized on earth !
It is not the philosophy of the stoic, that can impart to the soul that calm submission under the ills of life which it requires. It can only teach to conceal, not alleviate the anguish that preys within ; like the Indian hero, when lashed to the martyr-stake, the victim of unheard-of tortures ; to preserve a countenance of inflexible repose, while every nerve is wrung with agony. Not the affected indifference of the stoic, is the resignation which Christianity inspires ; nor, like that, is it the result of human pride, and a sullen and indomitable will, – it is the offspring of trust in God. It is the result of a calm conviction, that there is a God of mercy and goodness who reigns above ; and in his infinite benevolence controls all the events of earth and time ; that the rod that smites is that of a parent, and not of a ruthless tyrant ; that the “Destiny which shapes our ends,” shapes them wisely and benevolently.
Inspired by this lofty faith, the humblest child of God bears meekly, and with a cheerful and hopeful spirit, all the dispensations, however afflictive, of an all-wise and gracious Providence. Amid the darkest night of sorrow, he descries, on the horizon’s verge, the gilded dawn of a happier day ; to his view, through the blackest cloud of adversity, glances the sunlight of divine favor ; and on their portentous gloom ever smiles the rainbow of hope.

Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, 1818, Kunsthalle Hamburg, Germany.

Caspar David Friedrich, Wanderer above the Sea of Fog, 1818, Kunsthalle Hamburg, Germany.

We Are Resolved to have a Happy New Year!

Dearest Revellers, here we find ourselves again bidding farewell to one year and ringing in the new! Thank you for your warm visits and we hope you enjoy our authors’ annual compilation of deepest profound resolutions.

1. Abide by Miss April’s advice, at times mordacious but stubbornly right on the button.
2. Revive the art of and re-popularise the billet-doux.
3. Never, ever compromise one’s true worth for the sake of lust nor money.
4. Refuse to consume anything proclaimed to be ‘Fat-Free'; insist on your right to full-cream, full-fat wholesome deliciousness.
5. Know Thyself (or at least for your sake and others do your damnedest to try).
6. Science.
7. There is a time and a place for procrastination, and that time is not now.
8. One’s Winter gloves must not succumb to the pedestrian. Style, Style, Style!
9. Pursue a most beautiful and sincere vocabulary in order to touch the hearts of others, influence those to treasure nature and life, and to share unselfish truths.
10. Always remember that Love takes time where Infatuation rushes in, much like Fools.

NYVintage

Amongst the bonhomie and bubbles, the memories and loss, always remember – be kind to find happiness! Happy New Year!

DEATH AND SLEEP. By Krummacher.

I am lucky enough to have in my personal library a book entitled ‘The Mourner’s Friend or Sighs of Sympathy For Those Who Sorrow’. It is a collection of prose and verse compiled to give comfort to the grieving. Edited by J.B. Syme, published in 1852 by S.A. Howland in Worcester, Mass, USA; its contents are by American and European authors including some surprisingly famous names. My copy of the book has some water damage, ageing paper, and precarious binding, so before it deteriorates my project to preserve the words of the authors will find its way here on the MOLAM blog. 

 Friedrich Adolf Krummacher (1767 – 1845) was a German theologian and writer. His son Friedrich Wilhelm Krummacher and Emil Wilhelm Krummacher were also clergymen. This particular piece is fascinating in its philosophical pairing of the personifications of Sleep and Death; going so far as creating empathy for the Angel of Death. One way of finding solace in the permanent sleep.

DEATH AND SLEEP. By Krumacher.

IN brotherly embrace walked the Angel of Sleep and the Angel of Death upon the earth. It was evening. They laid themselves down upon a hill not far from the duelling of men. A melancholy silence prevailed around, and the chimes of the evening bell, in the distant hamlet, ceased. Still and silent, as was their custom, sat these two beneficent genii of the human race, their arms entwined with cordial familiarity, and soon the shades of night gathered around them. Then arose the Angel of Sleep from his moss-grown couch, and strewed with a gentle hand the invisible grains of slumber. The evening breeze wafted them to the quiet dwelling of the tired husbandman, enfolding in sweet sleep the inmates of the rural cottage, from the old man upon the staff, down to the infant in the cradle. The sick forgot their pain ; the mourners their grief ; the poor their care. All eyes closed. his task accomplished, the benevolent Angel of sleep laid himself again by the side of his grave brother. “When Aurora awakes,’ exclaimed he, with innocent joy, ” men praise me as their friend and benefactor. Oh, what happiness, unseen and secretly, to confer such benefits ! How blessed are we to be the invisible messengers of the Good Spirit ! How beautiful is our silent calling ! ” So spake the friendly Angel of Slumber. The Angel of Death sat with still deeper melancholy on his brow, and a tear, such as mortals shed, appeared in his large dark eyes. ” Alas ! ” said he, “I may not, like thee, rejoice in the cheerful thanks of mankind ‘ they call me, upon the earth, their enemy and joy-killer.” “Oh, my brother,” replied the gentle Angel of Slumber, “and will not the good man, at his awakening, recognise in thee his friend an benefactor, and gratefully bless thee in his joy ? Are we not brothers, and ministers of one Father ? ” As he spake, the eyes of the Death Angel beamed with pleasure, and again did the two friendly genii cordially embrace each other.

FriedrichAdolfKrummacher