he stern theology of the pews;
the minister was but the representative man. If the ministers were
recognized as spiritual guides, it was because they were such to the
men of their time, whatever they might be to ours. Demonax of old, when
asked about the priests' money, said, that, if they were really the
leaders of the people, they could not have too much payment,--or too
little, if they were not. I believe that on these conditions the Puritan
ministers well earned their hundred and sixty pounds a year, with a
discount of forty pounds, if paid in wampum-beads, beaver-skins, and
musket-balls. What they took in musket-balls they paid back in the
heavier ammunition of moral truth. Here is a specimen of their
grape-shot:--"My fathers and brethren," said John Higginson, "this is
never to be forgotten, that our New England is originally a plantation
of religion, and not a plantation of trade. Let merchants and such as
are making cent. per cent. remember this. Let others who have come over
since at sundry times remember this, that worldly gain was not the end
and design of the people of New England, but religion. And if any man
among us make religion as twelve and the world as thirteen, let such a
man know he hath neither the spirit of a true New-England man, nor yet
of a sincere Christian."

* * * * *

THOREAU'S FLUTE.

We, sighing, said, "Our Pan is dead;
His pipe hands mute beside the river;--
Around it wistful sunbeams quiver,
But Music's airy voice is fled.
Spring mourns as for untimely frost;
The bluebird chants a requiem;
The willow-blossom waits for him;--
The Genius of the wood is lost."

Then from the flute, untouched by hands,
There came a low, harmonious breath:
"For such as he there is no death;--
His life the eternal life commands;
Above man's aims his nature rose:
The wisdom of a just content
Made one small spot a continent,
And tuned to poetry Life's prose.

"Haunting the hills, the stream, the wild,
Swallow and aster, lake and pine,
To him grew human or divine,--
Fit mates for this large-hearted child.
Such homage Nature ne'er forgets,
And yearly on the coverlid
'Neath which her darling lieth hid
Will write his name in violets.

"To him no vain regrets belong,
Whose soul, that finer instrument,
Gave to the world no poor lament,
But wood-notes ever sweet and strong.
O lonely