t to warn them;
Sunday after Sunday I chime in their ears the beautiful old hymns
that sweetly chide or cheer the hearts that truly listen and believe;
Sunday after Sunday I look down on them as they pass in, hoping to see
that my words have not fallen upon deaf ears; and Sunday after Sunday
they listen to words that should teach them much, yet seem to go by
them like the wind. They are told to love their neighbor, yet too many
hate him because he possesses more of this world's goods or honors
than they: they are told that a rich man cannot enter the kingdom of
heaven, yet they go on laying up perishable wealth, and though often
warned that moth and rust will corrupt, they fail to believe it till
the worm that destroys enters and mars their own chapel of ease. Being
a spirit, I see below external splendor and find much poverty of heart
and soul under the velvet and the ermine which should cover rich and
royal natures. Our city saints walk abroad in threadbare suits, and
under quiet bonnets shine the eyes that make sunshine in the shady
places. Often as I watch the glittering procession passing to and fro
below me. I wonder if, with all our progress, there is to-day as much
real piety as in the times when our fathers, poorly clad, with weapon
in one hand and Bible in the other, came weary distances to worship in
the wilderness with fervent faith unquenched by danger, suffering and
solitude.

"Yet in spite of my fault-finding I love my children, as I call
them, for all are not butterflies. Many find wealth no temptation to
forgetfulness of duty or hardness of heart. Many give freely of their
abundance, pity the poor, comfort the afflicted, and make our city
loved and honored in other lands as in our own. They have their cares,
losses, and heartaches as well as the poor; it isn't all sunshine with
them, and they learn, poor souls, that

"'Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.'

"But I've hopes of them, and lately they have had a teacher so genial,
so gifted, so well-beloved that all who listen to him must be better
for the lessons of charity, good-will and cheerfulness which he brings
home to them by the magic of tears and smiles. We know him, we love
him, we always remember him as the year comes round, and the blithest
song our brazen tongues utter is a Christmas carol to the Father of
'The Chimes!'"

As the spirit spoke his voice grew cheery, his old face shone, and in
a burst o