"From

where he tries to study well by praying well. Some one says, every field of honest toil there rises a ladder up into heaven." From the minister's mental workshop, too, it rises. And, like another Bethel, angels of God ascend and descend. Into this sanctum sanctorum he returns from his public and private ministrations. Hither he bears with him the sorrows he shares with his people. His people are his highest study. How to give to each the necessary share, that all may be savedthis is his great problem.

When a boy, we used to look into the pastor's study, with a feeling akin to that one has in looking into a prison cell. We deemed it a sort of purgatorial corner, where the poor man spent his most dismal hours in forced work; fretting over tasks which angels alone should bear. Not so we deem it now. It is a home for the spirit-a delightful workshop of the mind, and of the heart. Instead of being a task, studying becomes an unmingled delight. The mind exuberantly revels in it; the heart leaps for joy. The air you breathe seems instinct with food for the soul. Around you float the great minds of ages past. They touch you through their printed thoughts. And the touch is contagious. You feel their fellowship. They kindle their thought-fire in your mind. You carry the glow with you among your people. Earnest battles are here fought. But there is pleasure in the fight. At the height of the storm, the untiring "tar" is perched on the mast, and makes the howling tempest help him sing:

"Give me a wet sheet and a flowing sea."

Not unlike him is the earnest Christian scholar in his study. His believing soul exults in defiantly trimming its sails of Christ's ship, in the face of wildest storms and waves.

All this joy is through hard work. Studying is not simply the spigot, with which one taps the desired thoughts from the mind. It requires work, hard and solemn. The mind is not always active. It sometimes balks, like a stubborn horse. To get it to work, Byron wrote with a bottle of wine on his table. Sheriden drank a half a pint of whiskey before he made his great speech in Parliament. Homer, Coleridge and DeQuincy ate opium. Not altogether unlike these is the habit of studying with a quid of tobacco or a segar in your mouth. This answers to the description of the Flemish Comedy. Washington Irving often arose at midnight, and wrote an hour or two. And Rufus Choate always left his light burning all night, that he could write down the thoughts that occurred to him while in bed. Goldsmith read much at night, in bed, with the aid of a light on a stool. candle by flinging his slipper at it. grease spot near the candle.

When done reading, he put out the
Next morning there usually was a

Different nationalities have their own taste about the arrangement of studies. Diogenes studied in a tub. But with all his wisdom, his taste is not always reliable. Hengstenberg's is a sample of neatness. His books are arranged and kept at their places with the precision of a cabinet of mineralogy. And so is that of Superintendent Hoffman, and of Krummacher. One morning we were led into Dr. Ullman's study, author of "The Reformers before the Reformation." As we entered, a small gray-headed man rose from the table to greet us. Around him the floor was strewn with ancient folios and manuscripts, new and old. The table,

too, was covered with all manner of stuff, aside of his newly written matter. The confusion of Ullman's study is easily explained. These German scholars receive no visitors, save at fixed hours. Usually this is between four and six P. M. The city Register informs strangers when they can call on celebrities. In Berlin we usually conformed to this rule. We called at a time when the study was arranged to receive visitors. But happenning to pass through Carlsruh, in the morning, and desirous of seeing a scholar, for whom we had a high admiration, we called before the usual hour, and caught our venerable friend in " a brown study," and his sanctum in a medly of confusion.

The study of the Professor of Hebrew in the University of Edinburg, is a model of neatness. But we never caught him in his undress. A very interesting man, by the way, is this Prof. Schwartz. Brim full of learning, he is no less instructive than entertaining. Upon our entrance he would order two cups of coffee. While leisurely sipping this, we discussed German Theology and Dr. Candlish's last Sermon.

Dr. Thiersch, of the University of Munich, is one of the most celebrated scholars of Germany. Some years ago the art galleries were opened in Munich. The King of Bavaria asked Thiersch to give a suitable name to each. Being a thorough Greek scholar, he gave them classic names. The one he called "Pinakothek"-collection of paintings. The other "Glyptothek"-collection of statues. The burghers of Munich were proud of these rare collections of art. But what names! They could not pronounce or remember them, nor understand what they meant. The barbarous terms enraged them. Who put them there? In the excitement they traced the crime to Thiersch. Returning from a walk one day, he found written, in large letters above his study door, the word. Nepiothek"-a gallery of fools. He took it down and sent it to the old Bavaria King, who laughed immoderately at the joke.

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Zacharias Ursinus, one of the authors of the Heidelberg Catechism, who lived and labored 300 years ago, was a great student and finished scholar. It would seem that his many friends frequently interrupted him in his studies. A man so abundant in labor as he, needed all his time. His society was much sought. Of course it was a rich treat to mingle socially with such a man! Some would take the liberty of sitting in his study for hours. To this, he had no objection at the proper time, But there was to be no loafing there of idlers. As a hint to such borers, he placed the following inscription above his study door:

“Amice, quisquis, huc venis, aut agito paucis, aut abi, aut me laborantem adjuva.

Which being interpreted, means: "Friend, entering here, be short, or go away, or else help me at my work."

Some men prefer calling their place of study an office. They think it sounds better-more modern, and in better taste. You can speak of a doctor's or lawyer's office. But a minister's place of work is a study. An office is a place of business, where people can enter, chat, and barter all hours in the day. Most ministers, who have an office, make it such a headquarters for the world at large. And they have their reward.

In his workshop a man ought to have a certain portion of time absolutely his own. The minister's study ought to belong solely to him during certain hours of the day. He loves his friends as much as they love him. Their visits are a delightful means of recreation to him. He

needs the society of his people. By all means visit him. But, only at the proper time. The merchant will not stop selling goods when a friend enters his store. The farmer will not stop sowing or reaping when a call is made. His work cannot be put off. The drill or reaper is in running order for work, and now is the time to do it.

Most pastors have much labor to perform. They can do it all if they have control of their time. Our European brethren act wisely in this respect. No scholars in the world who enjoy society more. They give much time to their friends; but always after three P. M. The Publie Registers proclaim it, that till a certain hour in the afternoon they cannot be seen.

Give an American pastor all his mornings for study. Let it be known in his congregation, that, as a rule, all visits take place after one P. M. This will help to improve his sermons, and increase his general usefulness. But then he must spend his morning in his study. Not squander these precious hours by gadding about. An esteemed brother enjoys his day promiscuously, and prepares his sermons after nine in the evening. He says, in the silence of the night he can study better. But sermons always smell more or less of the lamp. Another rolls off all care of study during the week. On Saturday evening he locks himself up in his study, and frets over his texts till after midnight. Of course he will be all out of tune on Sunday.

One morning Franklin was busy getting his newspaper ready for the press. A lounger stepped into his book-store, and asked the boy the price of a certain book.

After lounging about an hour longer, the man asked, "Is Mr. Franklin at home?"

"Yes, sir, he is in the printing office."

"I want to so him."

The boy called the philosopher.

"Mr. Franklin, what is the lowest you can take for this book?" quoth the lounger.

"One dollar and a quarter," was the prompt answer.

"One dollar and a quarter! Why, your boy asked me only a dollar." "True," said Franklin, "and I could have better afforded to have taken a dollar then, than be taken from my work."

The lounger seemed surprised. "Come, Mr. Franklin," said he, "tell me what is the lowest you can take for it?"

"One dollar and a half."

“A dollar and a half! Why, you offered it yourself for a dollar and a quarter."

"Yes, and I had better have taken that price then, than a dollar and a half now."

The lounger paid down his price, and went after his business, if such he had, and Franklin after his paper.

Non-professional literary men, unless the victims of poverty, are generally men of leisure. Tennyson, Longfellow, Bryant and Bancroft, can take their own time for their work. They are not obliged to finish so

many poems or pages by every Saturday evening. Ministers have their allotted work for every week. How shall they perform it, if the hundreds of people under their care claim the privilege of calling on them at all hours of the day? We write not thus in self-defence. Our kind friends seem to know what time we ught to be at work, howbeit the Register has never told them that we only receive visitors between the hours of three and ten P. M. Whether from some dream, or bird in the air, they must have learned what time belongs to a pastor's study. Rarely does a rap disturb our study-door before the sun has passed his meridian. In sooth, the study of a Christian pastor is a sacred retreat. How different from this is that of many a scholar with unchanged heart! What a study that of poor Edgar Poe, one of the best poets America has produced! "every body's friend," save his own. One night, amid his cups, his head was hot and reeling from the effects of rum. His heart sad and hopeless. His boyhood gone, his manhood wrecked. Will his early purity, his boyhood's feelings and friends ever return again? And what of the future-of eternity! Sitting alone in his study, dreaming and despairing, he wrote thus:—

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I ponderd, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door-
"Tis some visitor," I muttered, "rapping at my chamber door—
Only that, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-

*

*

*

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*

*

*

*

*

Perched and sat, and nothing more.

*

*

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil"-prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted

On this home by horror haunted-tell me truly I implore,
Is there, is there balm in Gilead? Tell me tell me I implore.
Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked upstarting"Get thee back into the tempest, and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie which thou hast spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken!-quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door! Quoth the Raven, "Never more!"

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of demon's that is dreaming,

And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted-" Never more!".

Come in. At my door, too, just now, some Christian heart is gently tapping, dear reader. No "thing of evil this," but friend of God and man, that's knocking at my chamber door. COME IN.

VOL. XVIII.-MARCH, 1867.—No. 3.

A LEAF FROM MEMORY.

BY D. S. GLONINGER, M.D., PHILADELPHIA.

Now that the war is over, it may not be amiss to give a few incidents connected therewith. We were especially detailed by his Excellency, Gov. Curtin, for special duty on the Peninsula. Great preparations had been made for an active campaign. Men and material in abundance had been sent to the front. The enemy had sullenly retired up the Peninsula, and lay behind the strong fortification at Yorktown. The country had breathed easier since the Merrimac had met her match in the Monitor; and the grand army of the Potomac had become the great centre of attraction, and much was expected therefrom.

The steamer Adelaide was in waiting for us at Baltimore; this was the mail boat running between that city and Fortress Monroe. What a hurly burly on board! Officers and men; arms and ammunition; pleasure seekers and mourners; all bound for the same point.

The night was a disagreeable one. The clouds were lowering, and covered the bay with a heavy mist. Pilots tell us this is not unusual for the Chesapeake. It is dangerous to navigate on that account, and its tortuous channel requires great care, on the part of the helmsman, to prevent disaster.

Ours was a peculiar situation. All lights had been destroyed by the rebels, and we had to depend on reckonings and soundings, as we floated along. To one who had never ventured to sea, this seemed novel and interesting. In the stillness of the night, the intonations of the mate at the "Lead and Line," were heard above the noise of machinery, as he called out "five fathoms; two and a-half fathoms; steady!" and then, as the vessel with its huge length, grating along the sandy bed, lurched to and fro, you can imagine the thrill of excitement as we gazed on this harbinger of "weal or woe." We had heard of ambuscades. We pictured, on every side, masked batteries ready to hurl us to destruction. Were we to pass unscathed?

Our progress was spasmodic; at one time, fleet as a bird on the wing; at another, at snail's pace, groping our way in the darkness of night. Un

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