HUMAN DEVELOPMENT. Two glorious futures lie before us: the progress of the race here, the progress of the man hereafter. He appears to have reached his perfection centuries ago. Men lived then whom we have never yet been able to surpass, rarely even to equal. Our knowledge has, of course, gone on increasing, for that is a material capable of indefinite accumulation. But for power, for the highest reach and range of mental and spiritual capacity in every line, the lapse of two or three thousand years has shown no sign of increase or improvement. What sculptor has surpassed Phidias? What poet has transcended Æschylus, Homer, or the author of the Book of Job? What devout aspirant has soared higher than David or Isaiah? What statesman have modern times produced mightier or grander than Pericles? What patriot martyr truer or nobler than Socrates? Wherein, save in mere acquirements, was Bacon superior to Plato? or Newton to Thales or Pythagoras? Early in history God gave to the human race the types and patterns to imitate and approach, but never to transcend. Here, we see clearly intimated to us our appointed worknamely, to raise the masses to the true standard of harmonious human virtue and capacity; not to strive ourselves to overleap that standard. The philanthropists, in the measure of their wisdom and their purity of zeal, are the real fellow-workmen of the Most High. This principle may give us the clue to many dispensations which at first seem dark and grievous, to the grand scale and the distracting slowness of nature's operations; to her merciless inconsideration for the individual when the interests of the race are in question : "So careful of the types she seems, So careless of the single life." Noble souls are sacrificed to ignoble masses; the good champion often falls, the wrong competitor often wins : but the great car of humanity moves forward by those very steps which revolt our sympathies and crush our hopes. Enigmas of Life. GREVILLE, FULKE (LORD BROOKE), an English statesman and poet, born at Beauchamp Court, Warwickshire, in 1554; died September 30, 1628, having been fatally stabbed by a servant with whom he had some dispute. He studied at Cambridge and Oxford, was knighted, and served for several years in Parliament. In 1615 he was made Under Treasurer and Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in 1620 was created Baron Brooke. He wrote two tragedies, and several other works in prose and verse, among which are: The Life of the Renowned Sir Philip Sidney; A Treatise of Relig ion, in verse; A Treatise of Human Learning, in fifteen stanzas; and A Treatise of Warres, in sixtyeight stanzas. A work, The Five Years of King James, which bears his name, is probably spurious. REALITY OF A TRUE RELIGION. For sure in all kinds of hypocrisy No bodies yet are found of constant being; No uniform, no stable mystery, No inward nature, but an outward seeming; No solid truth, no virtue, holiness, But types of these, which time makes more or less. But as there lives a true God in heaven, So is there true Religion here on earth: By nature? No, by grace; not got, but given; Inspired, not taught; from God a second birth; God dwelleth near about us, even within, Working the goodness, censuring the sin. Such as we are to Him, to us is He; Where goodness must be wrought in flesh and blood: Religion stands, not in corrupted things, But virtues that descend have heavenly wings. ON THE DEATH OF PHILIP SIDNEY. Silence augmenteth grief, writing increaseth rage, Stalled are my thoughts, which loved and lost the wonder of our age; Yet quickened now with fire, though dead with frost ere now, Enraged I write I know not what: dead, quick, I know not how. Hard-hearted minds relent, and Rigor's tears abound, And Envy strangely rues his end in whom no fault she found; Knowledge his light hath lost, Valor hath slain her knight : Sidney is dead, dead is my friend, dead is the world's delight. Farewell, to you, my hopes, my wonted waking dreams! Farewell, sometimes enjoyed joy, eclipsèd are thy beams! Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts which quietness brings forth! And farewell, friendship's sacred league, uniting minds of worth! And farewell, merry heart, the gift of guileless minds, And all sports which, for life's restore, variety as signs! Let all that sweet is, void! In me no mirth may dwell! Philip, the cause of all this woe, my life's content, farewell! GRIFFIN, GERALD, an Irish novelist and poet, born at Limerick, December 12, 1803; died at Cork, June 12, 1840. While he was a youth his family emigrated to America, leaving him at Adare, near Limerick, situated in a beautiful valley which he has celebrated in verse. At the age of twenty he went to London with two tragedies, Aguire and Gisippus, which he vainly tried to dispose of, although the latter was successfully brought out upon the stage after his death. He became a writer for periodicals, and in three or four years acquired a brilliant reputation. His first novel, Holland-tide, was published in 1827; this was followed by several others, of which The Collegians (1828), dramatized as the Colleen Bawn, presents an unusually vivid picture of Irish life. In 1830 one of his sisters took the veil; and this incident directed his thoughts more and more to a "religious" life. In 1838 he united with a religious association at Cork, known as the "Christian Brotherhood," whose mission was to give instruction to the poor of that city. Two years after entering upon his novitiate, he died from an attack of typhus fever. A complete collection of his works, with a Memoir by his brother, was issued in New York, in eight volumes, 1842-46. Among his other works are The Invasion and The Rivals. ADARE. Oh, sweet Adare! oh, lovely vale! E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. The morning airs, how sweet at dawn, With odor of the harebell taken! Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, O'er waving woods and bounding streams, And many a grove and glancing fountain! In sweet Adare the jocund Spring His notes of odorous joy is breathing; The wild birds in the woodland sing, The wild flowers in the vale are wreathing. There winds the Mague, as silver clear, Among the elms so sweetly flowing; There fragrant in the early year, Wild roses on the banks are blowing. The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank, Or dives beneath the glistening billow, TO MY SISTER, CHRISTMAS, 1830. Seven dreary winters, gone and spent, |