homeless wanderer in life, and in death not to be buried with her family in Moab? Ruth rises above it all; for Naomi she will be poor, homeless, and sundered from her husband in death. Beautiful is the love of this woman-of any woman whose heart is as true as hers. Through Naomi she has learned to love the God of the Hebrews. She sees nothing worth living for but the mother of her husband; she will be her support in old age, and cheer the loneliness of her widowhood; she will die where she dies, and there will she be buried. Ten years ago she was well known and respected in Bethlehem. Will not her kinsfolk and neighbors receive her with open arms? All the city was moved about Naomi and Ruth. And they said, "Is this Naomi? Is this 'the pleasing one,' erstwhile so happy with husband and children, but now forsaken and forlorn?" And all the people stood coldly aloof, still saying and thinking, "Into what misery has Naomi fallen?" instead of tenderly taking her by the hand, and speaking words of sympathy and solace to her. She felt it keenly. "Call me not Naomi, 'the pleasing one,'" she exclaimed; "call me Marah (bitterness), for the Almighty hath dealt bitterly with me." Her grief arose not simply from her poverty. Her conscience gave her trouble. "Did we not sin against God in moving among a people, whom He has cursed, and in allowing our sons to take unto them women of Moab unto wives?" Thus questioned she. They reached Bethlehem in the beginning of barley harvest. They wanted bread. And Ruth resolved to get it by honesty. She proposed to glean in some one's barley field. Now the Law of Moses made special provision for the poor by gleaning in grain-fields-Lev. xix. 9, and xxiii. 22. Not only the wheat heads which the reapers dropped, but that which grew in the corners of the field, was to be left for the poor. One day Boaz spied a gleaner in his field, and asked his servants who the "damsel" was. He was told that she was "the Moabitish damsel that came back with Naomi out of the country of Moab." That she had asked for permission, as the custom was, and now had been continuously gleaning since morning. Unlike many sons of Belial, who have no kind words for the poor and unfortunate, Boaz spoke tenderly to her. He had heard of her piety, of her kindness to Naomi, for whose sake she had left her father and mother, and her native land, and come unto a strange people. Some of the young men might, peradventure, trifle with the timid damsel, and hurt her feelings. Boaz charged them not to molest her. She must glean only in his field, and abide with his maidens, and drink of their water, and eat of their bread. And at meal time she must sit beside the reapers, and Boaz himself reaches her parched wheat. A gallant tender hearted man is Boaz-a gentleman of the old school. The reapers were commanded to let her glean between the sheaves; and, calling the leader aside, he told in a half-whisper, to let fall some of the handfuls of purpose for her. No wonder that at this rate she gathers almost a bushel of barley in one day. Sorrow tries our graces as fire tries the gold. It detaches the dross from the pure metal. What wonders has it wrought upon woman's heart! It nerves the arm of the most nervous. It kindles the fire of heroism in feminine natures, meek and mild. The timid Maid of Orleans becomes the leader of a great army on the verge of defeat, and the magical deliverer of But, in itself, sorrow is neither good nor bad. Its value de her nation. pends on the spirit of the person on whom it falls. Fire will inflame straw, soften iron, or harden clay. Its effects are determined by the object with which it comes in contact." Orpah and Ruth are different types of female character. Both are stricken by the same sorrow; both have the same natural affection. Orpah loves Naomi, and sheds tears at their parting. But why part at all? Why not leave home and native land, and cleave to the "pleasing one?" Like another of her sex, who, in this same plane of Moab, fled from a wicked city, but fleeing her heart fondly turned toward the accursed place. "Remember Lot's wife." Orpah's tears were doubtless sincere, but shallow, for with some people tears come and go very readily. She was of a superficial, unreliable nature, whose attachments could not bear the test of trial. In the Church men and women of this make give a world of trouble. You never know when to trust them. They weep profusely with the sorrowing at funerals and religious meetings. Yet they turn the poor empty away, refusing to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. They ride in a $1,000 carriage, and give a dime for missions. They have much feeling, but little faith. They may be right to-day, full of zeal and energy, ready to face danger, and, if need be, die for the cause they have espoused; but no one can tell where they will be to-morrow. Their faith never takes deep root. In a calm they are boisterous and brave; in a storm they creep into the holds of the ship and whine, while others work manfully to steer her clear of rocks into port. In some respects Orpah resembles Martha, and Ruth Mary. The future wife of Boaz is not so easily shaken off. Like the ivy coiling around the oak, nor summer's heat, nor winter's blast can sever its embraces. Only when the oak falls, falls the ivy with it, and lovingly covers the shattered trunk with its broken, bleeding fragments. So clave the tender, trustful heart of Ruth to the "pleasing one." Her love was undying; her faith in Naomi's God unfaltering. Sorrow gave her strength. Danger lured her on to duty. The greater her trial, the greater her love. Like the Swiss peasant's love for his mountain home, the roaring tor rents, snow-drifts, avalanches, and craggy Alpine paths, but intensify his affection for his Switzer cottage. "And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, Such was Ruth, and such her love and faith. She is a charming representative of a large class of virtuous females, who, without the advantages of rank or fortune, are shining lights in the Church. Meekly and gracefully they fill their humble station in life with a faith and piety that men and angels must admire. In the darkest trials they are always true to Christ and his friends. To Him their fond hearts turn as turns the needle of the ship's compass to the pole beyond the dark clouds. She was poor, but by honest industry rose above her poverty. Many a one would have begged from door to door in Bethlehem, or folded her hands in effortless despair, or run after wicked young men, and earned her bread by selling her virtue (Ruth iii. 10). Not so she. Without being asked, she proposes to glean in the harvest field-to glean for the support of Naomi, to work in the hot sun, as do people in pressing need of bread. This gleaning will at once point her out as a very poor person, and set people's tongues a wagging about her poverty. To her it was no shame to work to do the honest work of the poor. Industry is a virtue. Idleness is a disgrace. Ruth saves her earnings. Her "veil" is not the thin gauze which ladies now wear, but a heavy piece of coarse cotton goods, with which all modest females of that country cover their faces. In this she carries her wheat home: for her it must be a heavy burden. She makes a benevolent use of it; takes as much as she needs, and the balance she gives to Naomi. This, now, is the work of her life,―to support and please "the pleasing one." Industry, thrift and benevolence are noble traits in people of humble means; noble traits, too, in persons of larger means. Beautiful are they in woman. God has given her a rare practical skill-a judgment that leaps at correct conclusions without the need of logic; an intuitive sense of the fitness of things, which peculiarly adapts her for her sphere. She reasons with her heart, and usually reasons right. She needs no princely wealth to do good. Her humble earnings leave her a "mite," and more than mite to aid her Saviour's cause. The Ruths are rare in the Old Testament. In the New they abound. All through our Saviour's life in the flesh, they meekly serve and shed their love upon his heart. What tender, tearful groups cluster around him at the cross and the sepulchre! Walking wearily after our caravan of camels, along the foot of the bleak Arabian mountains, near the sea-shore, we met a fellow traveller-an aged gray-bearded Arab.. After saluting him with "Peace be with thee," we asked: "Where dwellest thou, O Arab? Where thy flocks and tents? thy wives and children?" "O howadji!" quoth the Arab, "my tents and wives are toward the setting sun. Beyond those hills my flocks do graze. Four and twenty wives have I had. She whom I now have is the five and twentieth. And, O howadji! she is the fairest among women, gentle as the gazelle, mild and lovely as the quails of Mokatteb.' "From whose tent, O Arab, came this dear one?" "In former years the Sheikle of Petra died. His mournful spouse said: 'O son of Tamara, my heart and happiness are thine; take pity on a sorrowing daughter of Petra, and receive her unto thy tent.' Come to my heart, O my beloved! I cried, and peace be between thee and me." Thus wooed and wedded the people of the olden time in this same country. Without a breach of propriety, females put the question which, among other nations, usually comes from the sterner sex. Ruth put on her best raiment, anointed her hair and person, and offered her hand and heart to Boaz. The "virtuous woman was rewarded, and became the mother of kings; the great grandmother of David, the ancestress of Jesus Christ. Sweetly were the twain mated-the "tender pleasing one," and he "in whom is strength." "For still where the strong is betrothed to the weak, And the stern in sweet marriage is blent with the meek, THE SPANISH DOLLAR, BY JOSEPH HENRY. I am not going to tell a story, if by a story you understand what children mean when they talk about telling stories. Nor am I going to relate a tale that is founded on fact, such as those which have become a chronic infliction to the readers of a certain class of periodicals; in reading which we are led to believe, that the foundation is entirely too frail to support. the immense edifice that fancy has reared upon it. Perhaps it would be as well to call these lines simply a statement; because they do no more than relate facts, to which many of our readers may possibly at once be able to give a local habitation. We claim, indeed, the ancient privilege of designating places and characters by fictitious names; for the same reason that Lorenzo Dow is said to have urged for declining to give the name of the rich man who neglected to show mercy to Lazarus.-because some of the relatives might become offended at such personalities. Not many miles east of the editorial tripod of this magazine, there is a large town which shall be known as ELLISTON. It is literally a city built upon a hill, whose foot is washed by limpid mountain streams, and along whose sides beautiful villas look down into corn-clad valleys. Broad streets wind up the gentle acclivity to the heights where the churches stand, while everywhere may be heard the ceaseless hum of unwearied industry. In short, we know of not a single town, in which the charms of city and of country life are more harmoniously blended. And yet it is not ELLISTON as we once knew it. The lawns where once the boys played, are now covered with stately mansions; the quaint old houses of a former age have given place to long rows of business palaces; while the very churches of the olden time have been torn down, or so much changed as almost to have lost their identity. It would now be difficult to point out the exact site of the miserable hovel, in which, more than thirty years ago, dwelt Samuel Badger and his neglected family. It was, however, far from being an attractive place of residence. Through the battered roof, rain and snow found easy access, while beneath the winds howled through many a chink and cranny. The single, uncarpeted room contained but a few of the most indispensable articles of household furniture; while in a loft above several rickety old bedsteads were crowded into a space that seemed too small to receive their bulky dimensions. On the first day of the year of Grace 183-, every transient observer must have remarked that everything in and about the old house indicated the most abject poverty, while the appearance of the inmates fully corresponded with that of their dwelling. A tall woman, dressed in faded garments, who had once been fine-looking, but whom sorrow had aged before her time, was mournfully attending to her household duties, while A several tattered children played around her on the cold, rough floor. loose-jointed, overgrown boy sat moodily on the wood-chest behind the stove, whittling a stick so desperately, that it was easy to discern the sombre nature of the thoughts that flitted through his brain. Suddenly he closed his knife, threw down the stick, and burst into a sort of half soliloquy: I “I wonder where father stays? He has not been home to dinner. suppose he is drunk again. Drunk-drunk-always drunk! All his and my earnings must go into the tavern-keeper's till, while mother and the poor children are almost starving at home. Father seems to have lost all sense of shame, and is hurrying as fast as possible towards the drunkard's grave. Well! if that must be the end, I suppose it would be better for us if all were over!" "John," said his mother, rather sharply, "I did not think you would speak disrespectfully of your father!" "I do not mean to be disrespectful," replied John, somewhat abashed by his mother's reproof, "but is it not evident that father's insane passion for strong drink has ruined us all? A few years ago we were prosperous and happy-now we are miserable beggars. Can nothing be done to induce father to turn aside from his terrible course?" The poor woman said nothing, but covered her face with her hands to hide the big tears that trickled down her cheeks. "Mother!" resumed the excited boy, "I know that you have done all in your power to reclaim poor father. You have pleaded with him again and again, and I have heard you pray for him when you thought I slept. Still, though he receives your gentle admonitions kindly, and is never harsh nor brutal, his spirit appears to be entirely broken, and he does not even try to break his chains. I sometimes think," he added, rather hesitatingly, "that if we could make him ashamed of himself, or even displeased with us, it might possibly nerve him to make another and a more determined effort." "How do you propose to effect this?" asked the mother, smiling through her tears, at the very thought of such a possibility. Encouraged by the question, John proceeded to detail the plan of a conversation, which he proposed should be held by his mother and himself, in the hearing of his father. It took much persuasion to induce Mrs. Badger to agree to take her part in John's new household drama, but she yielded at last, and John sauntered away from the house in a much better humor than he had hitherto manifested. A few minutes later, old Samuel Badger might have been seen travelling homeward with unsteady steps. He was perhaps a trifle less intoxicated than usual, but the most casual observer would have detected that he had looked too deeply into his cups. A crowd of mischievous urchins at his heels were playing him innumerable pranks, all of which he bore patiently without an attempt at resistance. Apparently, however, he keenly felt his disgrace; for a flush of shame suffused his brow, and he sought to hide his face, while he shed a flood of maudlin tears. Arrived at home at last, he slunk away to bed, and soon his loud breathing proved that he was sleeping soundly. In an hour or two "old Samuel" awoke with a headache; but having |