ANECDOTES AND SELECTIONS.

Anecdotes and Selections.

LANDSCAPE UNDER THE SEA.-Mr. Green, the famous diver, tells singular stories of his adventures when making search in the deep water of the ocean. He thus sketches what he saw at the "Silver Bank," near Hayti :-"The banks of coral, on which my divings were made, are about forty miles in length. On this bank is presented to the diver one of the most beautiful and sublime scenes the eye ever beheld. The water varies from ten to one hundred feet in depth, and is so clear that the diver can see from two to three hundred feet when submerged, with but little obstruction to the sight. The bottom of the ocean in many places is as smooth as a marble floor; in others it is studded with coral columns, from ten to eighty feet in diameter. The tops of those more lofty support a myriad of pyramidal pendants, each forming a myriad more, giving reality to the imaginary abode of some water nymph. In other places the pendants form arch after arch; as the diver stands on the bottom of the ocean and gazes through the deep winding avenues, he finds that they fill him with as sacred an awe as if he were in some old cathedral which had been long buried beneath the ocean's waves. Here and there the coral extends even to the surface of the water, as if the loftier column were the towers belonging to those stately temples that are now in ruins. There are countless varieties of diminutive trees, shrubs, and plants in every crevice of the corals, all being of a faint hue, owing to the pale light they receive, although of every shade, and entirely different plants that I am familiar with that vegetate upon dry land. One in particular attracted my attention; it resembled a sea fan of immense size, of variegated colours and the most brilliant hue."

CHRYSOSTOM'S ELOQUENCE.-The following burst of eloquence from Chrysostom, when he was sentenced to banishment, is a good specimen of the style of this "silver-tongued" preacher:-"What can I fear? Will it be death? But you know that Christ is my life, and that I shall gain by death. Will it be exile? But the earth and all its fulness is the Lord's. Will it be the loss of wealth? But we brought nothing into the world, and can carry nothing out. Thus all the terrors of the world are contemptible in my eyes, and I smile at all its good things. Poverty I do not fear. Riches I do not sigh for. Death I do not shrink from; and life I do not desire, save only for the progress of your souls. But you know, my friends, the true cause of my fall. It is that I have not lined my house with rich tapestry. It is that I have not clothed me in robes of silk. It is that I have not flattered the effeminacy and sensuality of certain men, nor laid gold and silver at their feet. But why need I say more? Jezebel is raising her persecution, and Elias must fly. Herodias is taking her pleasure, and

ANECDOTES AND SELECTIONS.

John must be bound in chains. The Egyptian wife tells her lie, and Joseph must be thrust into prison. And so if they banish me, I shall be like Elias; if they throw me into the mire, like Jeremiah; if they plunge me into the sea, like the prophet Jonah; if into the pit, like Daniel; if they stone me, it is Stephen that I shall resemble; John the forerunner, if they cut off my head; Paul, if they beat me with stripes; Isaiah, if they saw me asunder.'

THE CROSS.-The crucifixion has never been painted. No artist, however sincere, has had either the daring or the power to set it before us as it was. The pencil and the brush fail to represent the details of such a death. They are too coarse and horrible to find expression in a mere picture. True, every stage in the agony of Jesus has been made, again and again, the subject of representation; but all have left us with a feeling that there must have been much more behind, which no artist could set down. We are familiar with the various "renderings" of the trial in the judgment-hall, the scourging, the act of crucifixion, and the figure of Jesus on the cross. But in every one that I ever saw there is a special halo of solemnity shed around the scene. There is a redeeming air of sad poetry about it, which is heightened by the patience of that Divine face and the wondering misery of the white-haired mother and the weeping Magdalene. We can find no true picture of the crucifixion. But this we can do: we can steadfastly resist that conception of it which dims our sense of its terrible truth; we can refuse to let it stand apart from the world of rudeness and suffering in one of sentiment and religious romance. If not, we miss that quick sense of the Lord's sympathy with men which sanctified the tribulation of the first disciples, and may consecrate our own, however coarse and hard it may be. In these days the cross is an ornament. It is now jewelled, gilt, pretty. It tinkles among the trinkets of the mincing girl, who hangs it round her neck before the glass. It is worn by the painted harlot as well as by the simple nun. We forget its rudeness, its burning, blushing shame.

DYING WORDS OF WOMEN.-"O, those rays of glory!" said Mrs. Clarkson, when dying." My God, I come flying to thee!" said Lady Alice Lucy.-Lady Hastings said, "O the greatness of the glory that is revealed to me!"-Beautiful is the expression of the dying poetess, Mrs. Hemans: "I feel as if I were sitting with Mary at the feet of my Redeemer, hearing the music of His voice, and learning of Him to be meek and lowly."-Hannah More's last words were, "Welcome, joy!" -"O, sweet, sweet dying!" said Mrs. Talbot, of Reading." If this be dying," said Lady Glenorch, "it is the pleasantest thing imaginable." Victory, victory, through the blood of the Lamb!" said Grace Bennet one of the early Methodists.-"I shall go to my Father this night," said Lady Huntingdon.-The dying injunction of the mother of Wesley_was, "Children, when I am gone, sing a hymn of praise to God!"-Looks as well as words often express dying triumph.

THE FIRESIDE.

Says one, after quoting the last prayer of the Countess of Seafield, "With these words she closed her eyes, and seemed to all present to be yielding up her last breath. But in a little time she opened her eyes again, and with an air as it seemed of joy and wonder, she continued looking upwards with a fixed gaze for near half an hour. By degrees she let her eyes fall, shut them, and yielded up her last breath. Those who were present were not a little affected, both with her last words and with her last looks."

GRAVES.-What unconscious tribute we pay to the doctrine of the resurrection by the love and honour in which we hold graves, century after century. Surely, in our hearts we believe that each such spot becomes forever unlike all other ground; by whatever process the dear flesh crumbles, returns to dust, and is changed into the leaf, flower, and seed that perish in our hearts, we believe the grave remains a grave, and that at least this much is sure: that the happy, soaring, growing spirit, which has gone on in the worlds, will never forget where the tiny spot is on this one in which its human body was laid.

A CHEMICAL EXPERIMENT.-When Isaac Hopper, a member of the Society of Friends, met a boy with a dirty face or hands, he would stop him and inquire if he ever studied chemistry. The boy, with wondering stare, would answer "No." "Well, then, I will teach thee how to perform a curious chemical experiment," said Friend Hopper. "Go home, take a piece of soap, put it in water, and rub it briskly on thy hands and face. Thou hast no idea what a beautiful froth it will make, and how much whiter thy skin will be. That's a chemical experiment; I advise thee to try it."

POETRY.-Alphonse Lamartine said-"Poetry is the morning dream of great minds, foreshadowing the future realities of life; it evokes the phantasms of all things before the things themselves appear; it is the precursor of action. Overflowing intellects, like Cæsar, Cicero, Brutus, Solon, and Plato, begin by imagination and poetry-the exuberance of mental vigour in heroes, statesmen, philosophers, and orators. Sad is his lot who, once at least in his life, has not been a poet."

The Fireside.

A GENIUS FOR AFFECTION.

THE other day, speaking superficially and uncharitably, I said of a woman whom I knew but slightly, "She disappoints me utterly. How could her husband have married her? She is commonplace and stupid." "Yes," said my friend, reflectively, "it is strange. She is not a brilliant woman; she is not even an intellectual one; but there is such a thing as a genius for affection, and she has it. It has been good for

THE PENNY POST BOX.

her husband that he married her." The souls who have what my friend meant by a "genius for affection," are in another atmosphere than that which common men breathe. Their " upper air" is clearer, more rarified than any to which mere intellectual genius can soar. Because, to this last, always remain higher heights which it cannot grasp, see, nor comprehend. To them the world is as if it were not. Work, and pain, and loss are as if they were not. These are they to whom it is easy to die any death, if good can come that way to one they love. These are they who do die daily unnoted on our right hand and on our left-fathers and mothers for children, husbands and wives for each other. These are they, also, who live-which is often far harder than to die-lone lives, into whose place never enters one thought of self from the rising to the going down of the sun. Year builds on year with unvarying steadfastness the divine temple of their beauty and their sacrifice. They create, like God. The universe, which science sees, studies, and explains, is small, is petty, beside the one which grows under their spiritual touch; for love begets love. The waves of eternity itself ripple out in immortal circles under the ceaseless dropping of their crystal deeds. Angels desire to look, but cannot, into the mystery of holiness and beauty which such human lives reveal. Only God can see them clearly. God is their nearest kin; for He is love.

The Penny Post Box.

THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE

MUST appear fearfully and wonderfully made to a foreigner. One of them, looking at the picture of a number of vessels, said, "See what a flock of ships." He was told that a flock of ships was called a fleet, and that a fleet of sheep was called a flock. And it was added, for his guidance, in mastering the intricacies of our language, that a flock of girls is called a bevy, that a bevy of wolves is called a pack, and a pack of thieves is called a gang, and that a gang of angels is called a host, and that a host of porpoises is called a shoal, and a shoal of buffaloes is called a herd, and a herd of children is called a troop, and a troop of partridges is called a covey, and a covey of beauties is called a galaxy, and a galaxy of ruffians is called a horde, and a horde of rubbish is called a heap, and a heap of oxen is called a drove, and a drove of blackguards is called a mob, and a mob of whales is called a school, and a school of worshippers is called a congregation, and a congregation of engineers is called a corps, and a corps of robbers is called a band, and a band of locusts is called a swarm, and a swarm of people is called a crowd.

FACTS, HINTS, GEMS, AND POETRY.

Facts, Hints, Gems, and Poetry.