the peace of his "humble
hope," would have been exchanged for the vagaries of the madman or
the drivellings of the idiot.

The Grace of God. We thought of John Randolph, with his sway over
the minds of others, with a "wit and eloquence that recalled the
splendours of ancient oratory," yet with so little command over
himself that his weak frame sometimes sank beneath the excitement of
his temper, and gusts of passion were succeeded by fainting-fits;
and when the one desire of his heart was denied, when a love mighty
as every other passion of his soul failed him, his grief,
ungovernable and frenzied as his rage, overwhelmed him, and the
"taint of madness which ran in his line," flooded his brain. But
when the atheist became a Christian; when, in his own words, he felt
"the Spirit of God was not the chimera of heated brains, nor a
device of artful men to frighten and cajole the credulous, but an
existence to be felt and understood as the whisperings of one's own
heart;" his prayer of, "Lord! I believe, help thou my unbelief," was
answered in calm and peace to his soul.

"The saddest thought," said Aunt Rachel, as we turned away from that
gloomy edifice, "the saddest thought connected with that building
is, that so large a number of its unhappy inmates have brought their
misery upon themselves, are the victims of their own irregular and
indulged passions."

As we turned and looked upon her smooth brow, her serious and serene
eyes and her sweet, calm mouth, we marked a look of subdued
suffering mingled with an expression of Christian triumph; and we
knew that she had felt "the ploughings of grief;" that she had
learned "how sublime a thing it is to suffer and grow strong;" but,
though we wondered deeply, we never knew in what form she had been
called "to pass under the rod;" but we heard a voice that said,

"Fear not; when thou passest through the waters, I will be with
thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee."

Nay, fear not, weak and fainting soul,
Though the wild waters round thee roll,
He will sustain thy faltering way,
Will be thy sure, unfailing stay.

And though it were the fabled stream
Whose waves were fire of fearful gleam,
He still would bear thee safely through
The fire, but cleanse thy soul anew.

COMETH A BLESSING DOWN.

NOT to the man of dollars,
Not to the man of deeds,
Not to the man of cunning,
Not to the man of creeds,
Not to the one