AMBROSIAL READINGS FROM THE

SCRIV

GERMAN OF SCRIVER.

CRIVER was born at Rendsburg, in the year 1629; and after having been preacher in several places, died at last in 1693, as Hofprediger and Oberconsistorialrath at Quedlinburg. A "quiet and peaceable life;" and there remain as the fruits thereof some six dozen volumes of

the delightfulest reading, if our faith be of that simple kind which can nourish itself thereby. He is never at a loss for a text: all God's creatures point him God-ward: he hath ever a ready eye to detect the lurking lesson, and the rendering he gives of what he reads is usually, in its quaintness and simplicity, very beautiful.

THE BIRD IN THE CAGE. GOTTHOLD* had a singing-bird, which he had kept in a cage for some time. It had become so accustomed to its prison, that it not only sang gaily and pleasantly, but even when the door was set open, showed no desire to get out. "Ah," he thought in his heart, as he saw it, "if I could but perfectly learn from this little bird to be content with mine estate, and resigned to the will of God! O that I could but once become rightly accustomed to the manner and the ways of my God, and could from the heart believe that he cannot mean any evil with me! This little bird is in captivity, but because it has food always enough, it is content, and hops and sings, and has no wish to alter its condition. God surrounds me oft with all manner of cross and affliction, but he has never let me be lacking in comfort and aid, and why then am I not happy? Why, even in tribulation, do I not sing and thank my God with joyful heart? One might, indeed, as Luther expresses himself, take off the hat before such a little bird and speak to it, My dear Sir Bird, I must acknowledge that I understand not this art in which thou excellest. Thou sleepest the night over in thy little nest, without all care, arisest again in the morning, art cheerful and well at ease, and dost sit and sing, and praise and thank the Lord, and thereafter thou goest to seek thy food and

Gotthold is Scriver's nom de guerre in these parables. It is this imaginary Gotthold that sees all the sights, and reads us all the lessons.

findest it now, my God, I will also be contented and glad: I will desire naught save what thou wilt. I would not be free from my cross, from my calamities and contradictions, so long as thou wilt not. Yes, I desire not to be in thy heaven, so long as thou wilt that in this troubled world, in this weary life, I should still serve thee and thy Church. Let thy will be my heaven, thy counsel my wisdom, thy pleasure my delight. My desire is that it go well with me in time and everlasting: such is thy will too: our purpose is one, only about the means and ways we are not agreed. And what matters it that thou leadest me otherwise than I in my folly deem good, if thou yet leadest me well, and I attain at last to that which I long after ?"

BEANS IN BLOSSOM.

WHEN the beans are in blossom they give forth a very sweet and lovely odor, which the wind wafts to us often from afar. And as Gotthold once smelt this sweet

perfume, he recollected how he had read somewhere, that the islands, Ceylon, Madagascar, and others, on which costly spices grow in abundance, send forth such a powerful fragrance that people can frequently sooner smell these islands than see them. Thereupon, with a hearty cheerfulness, he said: "My God, if these earthly fruits can yield me such a charm, what may I expect from the heavenly? Ah, how many fragrant airs do thy faithful ones enjoy, brought there out of the land of life by the heavenly Pentecost wind, thy gracious Spirit! Therein they have a sample and a foretaste of blessedness. And were it not for that, how might they endure so great tribulation ?"

THE VIOLET.

As a nosegay of blue violets was presented to Gotthold one March, he was charmed by their lovely perfume, thanked his God who had bestowed so manifold means of refreshing on man, and took occasion therefrom for such thoughts as these :-"This fair and fragrant flower doth very agreeably represent to me a humble and God-loving heart. It grows and creeps, a lowly plant, upon the earth; but is prankt in most heavenly blue, and

far excels, because of its noble odor, many higher and gaudier flowers-such as the tulip, the crown imperial, and others more. And so, too, there are hearts which, in their own and others' eyes, seem worthless and mean, but it is the image of the lowly-hearted Jesus they bear; it is the right heaven's-color they are adorned withal, and in the sight of God they are of much higher esteem than others who, on account of their endowments, do highly exalt themselves. And even as the apothecary mixes the juice of this plant with melted sugar, and therefrom prepares a cooling and strengthening refreshment for the heart of man, so does the Highest let the sweetness of his grace flow into the hearts of the lowly to the comfort and upbuilding of many more. My God, let it ever be my desire, not to seek mine own honor, but thine. I have no wish to be any gaudy flower, if I may only please thee, and be of profit to my neighbor."

THE ROWERS.

GOTTHOLD saw some sailors going into a boat in order to pass over a river: two of them sat down to the oars and turned their backs to the shore which they thought to go to; but one remained with his face set toward the place where they wished to land, and so they rowed quickly thither. "See here," he said to those about him, "a good memento of something higher. This life is a quick and powerful river, flowing on to the sea of eternity, flowing and returning never again. On this river every one has the little boat of his own calling, which is to be carried forward by the arms of diligent labor. And like these people, we, too, must turn our backs on that future that lies ahead, and labor on in diligence and in good trust upon God, who is at the helm, and who powerfully guides the boat thitherward, and for the rest remain unconcerned. We should laugh to see these people turning themselves around, on pretext that it would not do to be driving thus blindly forward-they must see also where it is they are coming to. And what a folly in us it is always, with our cares and thoughtfulness, to be reaching forth into the future, and that which is before us! Let us row, and toil, and pray and let God steer, and bless, and reign. My God! abide with me ever in my little boat and direct it as thy pleasure

is, and I will but turn my face toward thee, and labor faithfully and in earnest according to the ability thou providest me withal: the rest thyself wilt provide."

THE PLANT IN THE CELLAR. GOTTHOLD went one day into the cellar, and found lying in a corner a turnip which, by some chance, had been left there: and it had begun to grow, and cast forth long, but very weak and sickly, shoots of a pale wan color: and the whole plant was entirely useless. "Here," he thought, "we have very aptly symbolized an inexperienced and unexercised man, who has been living all his days in a corner, and has given himself trouble enough to learn things manifold, and sets a high price on his own knowledge, deeming that, with his self-grown wisdom, he is abundantly fit to rule and bring to vast prosperity, not a single city or church alone, but the half even of all the world. But when once he puts his hand to the work, he finds, in all his school-bag, not art enough to carry out this or the other little affair, and discovers that it is one thing to have a scantling of knowledge, and another thing quite to bring into use what one does know among other people, who also know a few things. And in matters of the faith it is even so. We often fancy our belief, our love, our patience, all in noble growth, while the whole is standing on very feeble feet. Experience makes the man-the cross makes the Christian. The sun hath never shined upon this cellar-plant, the dew has not moistened it, neither hath the rain fallen upon it, nor the wind stormed over it, nor the cold hardened it-therefore it is worthless. So too, a Christian, who has not, by love and patience, been kept through good and ill, can hardly be counted of the valiantest. Beautifully speaketh the dear, much-tried apostle : Tribulation worketh patience, and patience experience, and experience hope, and hope maketh not ashamed.'” Rom. v, 3-5.

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SINFUL man is not only blind, but is in love with his blindness; he boasts that he sees when he is most of all blind, and with all his might resists that true light, which by the works of Divine Providence, by the word of God, and some sparkling beams of the Spirit, most kindly offers itself.Witsius.

EDITORIAL NOTES AND GLEANINGS.

OUR "Luther Engravings" of the present number will be found peculiarly fine. The face of "John, the Constant," in the first picture of the article, has almost the animation of life itself, and the attitudes and all the accompaniments of the design, show the hand of the master artist. Equally striking is the second-the painting of Luther's portrait by Kranach: the figures of Luther and the artist are especially noticeable. The visit of John Frederick, the elector, to the sick bed of the great reformer, is a gem of its kind, but it is rivaled by the scene of Luther praying at the sick bed of Melancthon, the features in which have an extraordinary individuality. In fact, the individual portraits are preserved in a manner quite remarkable in nearly all these wonderful cuts. Luther and Melancthon especially can be distinguished at a glance. The text accompanying them is designedly brief; it would be out of place to give, in these pages, a regular history of the Reformation-brief or extended. Every reader is familiar with it, or should become so by consulting larger works; the explanatory comments given are but a literary frame-work for these fine productions of art. We give the whole of the text of the German and English editions, with considerable additions, chiefly from Luther's own writings.

The style of these pictures is highly elaborate and artistic. Less masterly works might, perhaps, better please popular taste, but the same may be said of the Elgin Marbles-the immortal designs of Phidias himself. In a style which has always been considered by artistic judges among the very noblest schools since

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Renaissance"-a school which none but men of thorough genius can succeed in-the uniform success with which the whole series of fifty designs has been completed is a marvel. The bold delineation, the sculpture-like relievo of the figures, the synchronistic accuracy of the accompaniments-of costume, furniture, and architecture; the correct likenesses, on a scale so small, and the moral dignity of the whole, render these illustrations one of the choicest treats of engraved art ever given to the American public, and we only regret that in our next number they are to end. They remind one continually of the finest works of Albert Durer. The London Art Journal, the best periodical authority in art, says: "To our tastes the work is one of the most interesting additions to the illustrated literature of the day that we have seen for a long time. Gustav Konig is unquestionably a man of genius. He is, we believe, a native of Coburgh, though long resident in Munich; some years since he was commissioned by the Duke of Saxe-Coburgh to paint a series of pictures representing remarkable passages in the history of that illustrious family, and also of events connected with the Reformation in Germany. These pictures were intended to adorn the palatial residence of the duke, at Reinhardsbrun; and it is not improbable that the series of de

signs for the 'Life of Martin Luther' were suggested by the commission for the "Reformation" pictures. Konig has evidently adopted Kaulbach as his model, and a higher he could not have taken from the modern German school; such a selection is at once a proof of his discrimination and his pure taste."

The article entitled "Glimpses of ChurchWorld-Exeter-hall and Humbug," is a capital hit at a certain class of croakers against religion-the Dickens, Punch, and London Times school. There is as much downright Pharisaism in the scorn which this school of writers displays with so much affected magnanimity against the "fanatics of Exeter Hall," and similar men the world over, as ever there was among those bare-faced scorners of Judea who "strained at a gnat and swallowed a camel." Their moans over the "waste of money" on "the heathen," &c., are the very best specimens of Pecksniffianism. Their laugh at the "one idea" philanthropy of "evangelical religionists" is a contemptible apology for their own lack of any idea whatever, any practical idea at least, favorable to the philanthropies of the age. The men who sustain the especially evangelical philanthropies of the day will be found, both in this country and in Europe, to be the leaders in most of the genuine reforms of the times. No class of good men have been more heartlessly and absurdly abused by the literary satirists of England. Dickens and Bulwer may describe the wrongs of the wretched, and read novels and plays in public for the aid of literary institutes and literary guilds; the writers of Punch may laugh at the evils of society; and the editors of the Times pompously dissertate upon them; but the satirized "Evangelicals," after all, are about the only men who practically and effectually put their hands upon these evils. While their agency is felt in Africa, in India, in the isles of the sea, it is found also to be about the only help of the suffering and offcast of London and New-York. There are single ragged schools or missions in London or NewYork which have done more real good, and more appreciable good too, than all the flimsy anti-evangelical prating, writing, and other demonstrations (if other there be) of these overweening, self-respectable, and self-respected croakers-the latest, most heartless, and most contemptible class that ever disgraced croakerdom itself. Charles Dickens, with his incessant attempts to disparage religion, by selecting hypocrites and bigots, and such only, for its representatives, stands in the unenviable position of leader of this self-conceited clique. No man has done more harm to the religion of the age than he. He has boundless talent-genius, humor, and much sentimental sympathy with the suffering classes; but he strikes with a studied and persistent malignity at their truest hopes and truest friends, in his caricatures of religion and religious philanthropy. He can find among Christians grotesque and disgusting examples of Pharisaism and hypocrisy, and can illustrate their villainy through hundreds of his pages; but the whole history of Christianity affords him no example of moral nobleness, of saintly virtue, of meek suffering, of love and selfsacrifice. The religion that has ministered or

suffered amidst tears and agonies in garrets and cellars; which has given to the poor its noblest blessings, by raising up among them its best examples; which has given to the history of the race its sublimest narratives of heroism, and whose light has out-dazzled the fires of its martyrs at ten thousand stakes, is rich to him and his class only in the materials for caricature and satire; and this chiefly because, while it does nearly all the philanthropy done at home, it would likewise extend its sympathies to the ends of the earth. It is time that the tables were turned; our literature needs a new school of satire against these Pharisaic satirists. The writer of the article referred to gives them some stunning but well-deserved blows.

We must again remind our correspondents that it is a law of the editorial craft not to be responsible to return rejected manuscripts. The rule is absolutely necessary-it would be a daily task and endless vexation if such articles had to be always remailed. No writer should send a communication without keeping a copy. He should never consider it properly written, till he has thoroughly corrected, with erasures, interlineations, &c., the original draught, and then copied the latter; keeping the original in his own possession. We have an accumulation of MSS. on hand large enough to frighten half-a-dozen editors out of" propriety." We must insist on the benefit of the law.

MATRIMONY AND FRIENDSHIP.-It is the theory of some writers that "love" cannot long survive marriage, except in the form of an exalted friendship; and even Madame de Stael, the most sentimental as well as the most intellectual of women, if we may judge from her "Corrinne," congratulates the happy pair whose first romance has settled into reliable friendship. There is a heartless sophistry in this opinion. Sam Slick, who has as much sense as wit, knocks the brains out of the miserable fallacy, with the following downright stroke of logic "The nature of matrimony is one thing, and the nature of friendship is another. A tall man likes a short wife; a great talker likes a silent woman, for both can't talk at once. A gay man likes a domestic gal', for he can leave her at home to nuss children and make pap, while he is enjoyin' of himself to parties. A man that hante any music in him likes it in his spouse, and so on. It chimes beautiful, for they ain't in each other's way. Now, friendship is the other way; you must like the same things to like each other and be friends. A similarity of tastes, studies, pursuits, and recreations (what they call congenial souls ;) a toper for a toper, a smoker for a smoker, a horseracer for a horse-racer, a prize-fighter for a prize-fighter, and so on. Matrimony likes contrasts; friendship seeks its own counterparts."

actually pointing out the weaknesses and whims of this extravagant author, and remarked as follows:

"There is a whimsicalness about this popular writer which betrays itself increasingly in his publications, and which cannot fail soon to impair their authority. if not their popularity. In his late pamphlet on the Moslem and his End,' he is determined to dispose summarily of the poor Turks, whatever may be the result of their gallant efforts at self-defence, and we may justly add, at self-regeneration. The reverend doctor sees amazing signs of the times,' boding their fate, in even the most frivolous incidents of the day. 'It is a fact,' he says, that the fingers of a lady laid lightly on a heavy table, made it, in my presence, spin round, lift its legs, stamp the floor, and throw itself into most extraordinary and unbecoming attitudes.'

Where is the "gumption" of a reader who can take this as "in support of spirit-rapping?"

Our readers know very well that we have labored in these pages to repress the delusions of spirit-rapping, by insisting that its alleged phenomena should not be referred to spiritual causes, (as in the report of Mr. Beecher,) but could be explained on physical principles, on some abnormal action of the nervous systema fact to which we do yet most soberly hold. The correspondent above-mentioned (whom we rank among our estimable personal friends) has pertinaciously followed us with challenges on the subject. He must mercifully excuse us: he has whetted his sword, we are aware, in almost innumerable polemical rencounters, and we ought to fear him terribly. Besides this we have an obstinate old whimsical opinion that men distinguished by a proclivity to public disputations should be the last to plunge into them; and as for the above subject, we have long since done with it except in the casual manner quoted. We scarcely know a man who has looked into it that does not hold to our own opinions upon it except the fanatics who contend for its supernaturalism. It has had its day, and it is time it were done with, except as an illustration of the times for the examination of the learned and curious.

HOW TO CURE THE BLUES.-A superior German poet, but little known in this countryGrün-cured himself of the hypo after a very simple manner, which he describes in a little poem entitled

“A TOO FAITHFUL COMPANION, AND HOW I GOT RID OF HIM.

"O, once I had a comrade true-
Where'er I was, there he was too;
Stopp'd I at home he went not away,
And if I went out he was sure not to stay.

"One cup for both of us we kept,
And in one bed together slept;
The cut of our clothes was one and the same,
And e'en when I courted my love he came.

"And as I was going the other day
Up to the hills to take my way,
With my stick ready to start-cried he,
'By your leave, I'll bear you company.'
"So out we stroll without a word—
Fresh rise the green trees above the green sward;
Warm, wooing airs all around us spread,
But my friend looks sulky and shakes his head.

"Up on high sings a chorus of larks so clear-
What does he do but stop his ear!
The rose-bush fragrances all the vale-
While he turns giddy and deadly pale.