Heaven. New songs, new sermons, new doctrines, and new faces have taken their places. Sacred be the memory of the old times for ever!

Queer Estimates.

"How much did it weigh?”

"Is it possible?"

"I never !" "You don't say it !"

Thousands of times has this question been asked,

and thousands of times has it been wondered at and 'I never❜d.'

And what commodity is it that is 'great' at ten pounds and a marvel at thirteen? Don't mind the Price Current, for it isn't there. It was a something bundled in a flannel blanket-the blanket securely pinned and knotted at the corners-the something, in an active state of unrest,' as the transcendentals have it. The steelyards had been called into requisition, and its bended iron was indeed 'hooks to hang a hope on.' The little bundle was swung up; the weight clicked along the bar. "That's the notch! Eight and a half!" Eight and a half of what?

Why, of humanity. By the memory of Malthus, there's a baby in the blanket! So there is—a little voter, or, if not that, as Shakspeare says, 'a child.' Something that may cut a figure in the world, break heads or hearts-have a great name, and be a man or a woman. Eight pounds and a half of a hero or a heroine, a monster or a minister. Piety and patriotism by the pound. Beauty and baseness by the blanketful. Queer measurement, isn't it? but there

are queerer still.

Time wears on apace with us all, and the something in the blanket too. He is a boy of five. He stands erect as God made him, 'that he may look,' as a writer finely says, 'upon the stars.' They are talking again, but the steelyards hang undisturbed in the cellar-way. No use for them now. But they

are talking, and we not listening

'Tall of his age, isn't he?' 'He looks over the table like a man; the high-chair' was put away months ago!'

Tall, is he? Three feet and an inch high, and this is the altitude of humanity. Weight is out of the question; estimates all run to height. Ambition is but another name for altitude, and success a synonyme for 'getting higher.' The boy is a man; the

man climbs rostrums to get higher; thrones, to get higher; mountains, to get higher. Monuments go up; shouts go up; favorites go up to court; conquerors go up to glory. Height, height, every where height. Six feet of glory; six feet two, of honor and dignity. Queer again-don't you think so?

By and by-melancholy trio-the form is bent a little, and there goes an inch or two from stature. He or she is looking at something in the dust. What can it be? Surely it is not a grave they look at. Eyes grow dim, and they bend lower to see. To see? What can there be to be seen, we wonder?

By and by, they weary, and throw themselves along the bosom of the dusky mother of us all. They sleep sleep, but they do not dream! Where are your altitude now, your mountains, monuments, and thrones? Men take up the sleeper, carefully, slowly, as it were a treasure. And so it is a treasure of dust. The old estimate is resumed; weight has come again; 'tis 'a dead weight'—nothing more.

And this would be queer, too, if only it were not sad.

But they are talking again. 'She had three names, hadn't she?' 'Indeed, but I can remember

but two.'

Remember but two, can they? Names of what? Why, of all that weight and height of fame and love, and hope and fear, and thought and passion.

And two words two breaths of air-two murmurs, are all that is left of what once was a man, a

woman.

Years elapse, and Age is talking again: 'There was-was-I cannot remember the name nowwell, well, it's what we are all coming to,' and the old man sighs sadly.

The last syllable of all, has died on the lip, is erased from memory, ripples not the still and listening air-is lost; not a murmur of it lingers in the fearful hollow' of a human ear! 'Pah! how the dust flies!' Dust, do you say? Listen, and we will whisper just a word: that dust was warm once, loved once, beauty once.

"Imperious Cæsar, dead and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:

Oh! that the earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter's flaw!"

What more significant comment upon the vanity of royalty could be given, than Hamlet's next words ? There is a meaning in them beyond speech :

'But soft! but soft! aside: Here comes the KING.' That dust again! There goes a King, may be.

A Voice from the Past.

WALKING 'up the road' by the woods, the other evening, the music of the choir in the old Schoolhouse, came floating out into the darkness around me, and they were all new tunes and strange tunes, but one. And that one-it was not sung as I have heard it, but it awakened a train of long-buried memories, that rose to me even as they were, ere the cemetery of the soul had a tomb in it.

It was sweet old Corinth they were singing-strains I have seldom heard, since the rose-color of life was blanched; and I was, in a moment, back again to the old village church, and it was a summer afternoon, and the yellow sunbeams were streaming through the west windows, and the silver hair of the old Deacon who sat near the pulpit, was turned to gold in its light, and the minister, who, we used to think, could never die, so good was he, had concluded 'application' and 'exhortation,' and the village choir were singing the last hymn, and the tune was CORINTH.