that there was more in man than surface indications would imply; hence comes his exclamation, "Thou hast made him a little lower than the angels, and hast crowned him with glory and honor," again suggesting, as it were, that there must be more of and in him than the animal, or why so glorify him, if he were but as "the grass, which to-day is and to-morrow is cast into the oven?."

The bard of Avon, as Shakspeare was lovingly called, thus apostrophises the creature, man: "What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason; how infinite in faculties; in form and moving how express and admirable! In action, how like an angel; in apprehension, how like a god; the beauty of the world, and the paragon of animals!"

An exhaustive study of man would be so far-reaching and involve so much detail, that hesitancy would surely be experienced on the very threshold of investigation, for all history and science are circumscribed by the search. The beginning might be said to centre in the animal, and to radiate from thence into the industrial and social, into politics and government, into law and morals, and into mental and spiritual; all the facts of history would become tributary to such a study, and all the processes of development would have to be familiar and commented upon, that man might be understood.

The evolution of thought and enlargement of function as from original aptitude, would be the testimony to progress and the only sure key as to the future, save human wisdom could be supplemented by outer influence, such as really belongs to the realm of spirit, and that inspirational force to which man in vary ing degree is evidently subject. Thought running in these lines would discern on the pages of historic experience, periods of special activity, and periods where every faculty seemed dormant or in abeyance, non-progressive, nay indeed retrogressive save in the light of Deity, who "seeth the end from the beginning.” nineteeth century is an exemplification of revolutionary movement, of progress in scientific and mechanical discovery,

The

the passes of ignorance are being forced by the trained bands of aggressive audacity, and things long held sacred totter beneath the sledge hammers of the iconoclast, or by the significant queries of presumptive fools may be (?) who rush impetuously "where angels fear to tread."

Not that thought is to be stifled, or query eluded, or conclusions evaded, if reason and intellect are as reliable as is at times wildly imagined! Human history is full of protest against wrong and error, of mental effort in search of the right and true; and every faculty of the higher man seems called into requisitions now, mainly, however, for material things.

If nature possesses a secret or an element, a myriad human eyes are bent on the discovery, and genius seems to triumph and then to glorify itself; counting the money value of its proudest suc cess, as though cash was the one reward which subordinates everything unto itself. Shall we draw away from this materialistic drift for a moment? May we indulge in leaving this multitudinous and engrossing whole, and single out for a moment, a striking faculty of man? one which is not the product of crude material, but is a product of mind, a faculty of the living soul! We select this because common and familiar, and yet at the same interim, strange and marvelous, silent and subtle, limited yet surely susceptible of expansion; as much of a delight, yet often unwelcome, and always a reflex of personal history and mainly of time.

This feature of mental action, of retrospective power is called memory, it links man to his past, its usual drift is backward, yet its very existence declares a grander limit, and it is but the reverse of that shield which hath its obverse in the spiritual philosophy of the Gospel and of being.

Is it not astounding that this faculty can reproduce the past, that it can unravel at will the panorama of experience, and that it can resurrect and cause to live again, thoughts, acts, surroundings, though years may have fled and gone? Not memories of things pleasant, but

things disagreeable; things praiseworthy, but things reprehensible; things good, but also things evil; things we reproduce with joy and gladness, and things we fain would bury-though impossible-in everlasting forgetfulness and oblivion! Most men and women have these inglorious memories, such as when they yielded to the tempter; when they did violence to their better thought; when to do evil seemed more easy than to do right; but yet beneath pressure the good resolve yielded, and sin became an indulgence, to the grievance of the spirit; this, not in the time of youth alone, but in the maturity of manhood, when wrong appeared profitable, and to take advantage but a common custom, the usage of trade, or smartness of self. From these and many other reasons came a sense of unworthiness, of degradation; manhood in its best attributes "suffered violence," and repentance only seemed the way of peace; even this, when long deferred, became less pressing; the moral sense was blunted, a downward drift was established, self-meanness was so transparent that loathing became chronic, perchance "the last state of that man was worse than the first." These are unpleasant memories, from which men-shall it be said vainly-seek to flee, and yet like Banquo's ghost they will not down; in this as a matter of experience, "every heart knows its own bitterness best." What a condition would humanity assume if only the disagreeable, only the weaknesses were remembered; if it were left to its shadows and its clouds! But the same power which reflects the low plains of life, also points out the uplands and the sunlit mountain slopes and peaks. The lowliest have a diversified landscape, spots of beauty and glory on which the heart lingers; precious things of memory, from whence comes the tender thought; the new resolve, and the cañons and chasms all seem bridged at times, by the tinted rainbow of hope, begotten of tears and born of the willing sun.

Gazing into the past comes the memory of a happy home, of a joyful childhood and youth; oh how full of radiance and of promise! Sweet thoughts come of a

331

loving mother. a Christian Grand thoughts of a manly, intelligent, devoted father; pleasant memories of brothers and sisters, and cherished feeling, of early companionship and friendship that can never die; sabbath and secular school associations that linger yet, even to the very verge of manhood, weaving spells that are beyond the power of time to break.

Then from these sanctified memories of home life, social life, religious life, there has been the first vague yet mysterious realization of sex; the dawn of love; the impulse to preference; the swelling of affection with its uncertainties and suspense; the final declaration and response; how memory cherishes, dwells upon this evolution, this strange charm, which colored the dreariest day, and gave an added glow and lustre to the brightest and sunniest of the whole. Has this transforming force ever yet been gauged? Has the first kiss of love not been retained in the memory with all its paradisical feeling devoid of any element uncongenial to itself? Can unsullied memory be robbed of its thrill when the first born came to earth,-the father's pride, the mother's throbbing heart, both deeming the new arrival as a precious-dearly precious thing! And if perchance these sponsors were members of the church, does not memory bring back the day of dedication; deep in the mother's heart are not the very words of blessing remembered, and does not the trusting one in times of peril, hang by faith to the fulfillment of the said or the implied?

As members of the church, but few allow forgetfulness as to the time when they received conviction of the truth; of the day of baptism, or confirmation; when the first ordinance was received or the first testimony or manifestation; the first going out to preach; to attend to any ordinance, whether baptism, the laying on of hands for sickness or other official act; all these experiences are individualized in memory, they recur to the mind as circumstances or mood may suggest, and there are none surely but deem them as among the precious things of experience and time. The first

mission is one of those, when one "goes forth weeping, bearing precious seed, to return again rejoicing bringing his sheaves with him;" how faith has been established in the supreme, faith in the gospel and an understanding of its efficasy and power! How when this became the life, it blended into harmony the discords of experience, how it toned the shadows, lightened the burthens, glorifying even trivial things, and making the most weighty subordinate to faith in an overruling hand.

In adversity and suffering, in prison or abroad, when the deeper furrows become ploughed as it were-into the life; when scars told of the fierceness of the conflict and memory loathed a thousand things of bitter experience, as these recur or come again in silent thought with the spontaniety of inspiration, does there not come also the certainty of enduring compensation.

Memory weeps again by the casket which contained the loving mother or father, the tender wife or husband; the son or daughter or child; but memory has garnered also the words of cheer, the "sober second thought," and the final conclusion that all, all is well! "Sadness belongs to the night, but joy cometh in the morning," and as the years roll on, as gray hairs and the feeble step attest that "life is ebbing for the other shore, "it is not uncommon for memory to lose the grasp on intermediate years, and the earlier record becomes as an open book; things of to-day are as a dream, but memories of childhood, youth and early manhood, are as vivid and tenacious, even to minuteness, as if it were yesterday!

Is there not a glimpse in this of greater possibilities as to the power of this strange faculty of the soul? and as the toilworn man or woman nears the longlooked for land of rest, may not the vail of the past become "still more rare and thin?" With the waning power of mat-` ter, so to speak, may not mind or spirit discern even if dimly, the rudiments at least of knowledge pertaining simply to a further-a forgotten past?

That this past is disputed or denied is conceded, yet there are natural evidences

in favor of this truth, which belong, apparently, to the domain of memory! Who has not marked an infant sleeping on its mothers lap? Who has not noted, ere it was conscious of its surroundings, the flitting smile, the quiet laugh? If these are not the product of consciousness as, to earth life, may they not be deemed as the manifestation of spirit consciousness, of association, of visible tangible communion, or of memory of scenes, faces, surroundings not yet obliterated by the claims of life and earth? How often is maturer life led when contact comes with individuals, to believe that they have met before? Is it an uncommon thing for two who have not been acquainted to spontaneously feel regard, friendship, love for each other? Are not confidences the product of a moment, and then as enduring as if of years? Is not this socalled affinity—this blending of soul, this mutual reciprocity of feeling, the product of memories antedating the insignificant years of life? What shall be made of that mental and spiritual recognition of true principle by the honest soul at the first hearing, unless it is concluded that it had been heard before, that this was the echo-the memory of its character, of its truth and beauty, in the æons past away. Henry W. Naisbitt.

FRIEND AND LOVER. When Psyche's friend becomes her lover, How sweetly these conditions blend. But oh, what anguish to discover Her lover has become-her friend!

MORNING.

Will there really be a morning?
Is there such a thing as day?
Could I see it from the mountains
If I were as tall as they?

Has it feet like water-lilies?

Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard?

Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor!
Oh, some wise man from the skies!
Please to tell a little pilgrim
Where the place called morning lies!
St Nicholas.

On a cool cloudy day in the month of September of the year 1846, in the city of Nauvoo, in front of a modest little frame building, stood a cart loaded with household goods. From out the cottage stepped a young man, carrying in his arms a baby of three years, a bright winsome little creature who crowed and chatted and looked lovingly into the father's face. After them came the moth er, looking curiously and sadly around at every familiar object. She closed the door carefully and placed the key in her pocket; touched a flower here, and a rose bud there; broke off a small spray of mignonette and pinned it on her breast. There were strange emotions rocking the souls of these two people, who were thus sadly leaving their home forever. After reaching the cart the mother mounted to the seat and took in her arms the little one, who clucked and chirped to the old horse. The father undid the tie strap and climbed to the seat beside his wife. How clearly in after years they remembered every little act, every minute dedetail, every emotion, every thought. A humming bird was fluttering about a vine that climbed about the front window. A chicken was scratching and clucking in front of the roadway. He spoke to the horse, the cart moved on. Involuntarily and simultaneously they both turned for a last loving glance at their little home. Then the hot blinding tears rushed to the eyes of the woman, and with a choking sob she put the baby's face against her own. Every hoof beat of the old faith. ful cart-horse seemed to strike her heart. They jogged on in silence towards the river, the man with a white set face, the woman still sobbing with her head on his shoulder; the baby flicking the horse with a small stick and talking and crowing lustily. At last the woman broke the silence "We have each other and the baby left; thank God." They reached the river and were ferried to the western side. And there among the last of the homeless Saints of God who had been driven from Nauvoo they stopped their cart. With the aid of quilts they made a slight covering from the elements. As

the mantle of night hid from view the cheerless day and the fires of the watch were lighted around the fugitive camp, the clouds like hosts of evil gathered from the west and slowly marching eastward, sent their darting forerunners with much muttering and rumbling of artillery to warn the exposed and helpless outcast children of earth. And the fugitives with white pained faces prepared for the unequal combat; adjusted their light and illy devised tents, digged trenches around them, and prepared as best they could to withstand the torrent of rain, the forked lightning and the chilling blasts; then waited, shivering in their apparel, for the fray.

Silence reigned for a brief moment. All was hushed, not even a tree leaf or a grass blade stirred. Then burst upon the Poor Camp of Israel, a torrent of rain! The tents were whipped from off the cowering inmates. The dying looked up into the awful night and feebly moaned an incoherent protest against crossing the river Styx. The sick, enfeebled by long fasting, lay with the rain of heaven beating in their faces and could lift no hand to stop the flood. Women moaned in anguish, children cried in pain and men sought vainly to protect their loved ones from the tempest.