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sermon he spoke tenderly of the patience tained a peculiar regard, also made an ad

and heroism of the parish, and pathetically of his own long deferred desire to do the work waiting for him. He announced that he should resume labor the next Sunday and tried to impart hope by words of encouragement. He did begin again and through fast increasing feebleness and at the cost of incalculable suffering, held on through four Sundays. Then the prostration was complete and, as it proved, final. As led by the instinct of an early love, he persisted in visiting Boston and his dear old parish in Roxbury. Two weeks he was permitted to linger in the midst of familiar friends and scenes, but all of that time rapidly sinking. With difficulty he was got home to Newark, where he took his bed, no more to rise from it forever. Gradually fading from day to day until at last he lapsed into complete unconsciousness, John G. Bartholomew closed his lite on earth, Tuesday morning, April 14, 1874- the anniversary of the death of

President Lincoln.

It is a pleasure to mention that he who had so often and so eloquently commended the faith once delivered to the saints, to others in trial, leaned utterly on it himself as the "inevitable hour" drew on. His desire to live and make a more complete and worthy record, was intense. He could not endure the thought of leaving his work so sadly unfinished. But his confidence in the Divine wisdom and mercy was unshaken, and his faith in the reality of continued personal existence found frequent expression in the utterance: "There is no death; I am immortal." To the last, his thoughts dwelt fondly on his profession, the Church of his love, his brethren in the ministry, and the preparation of his eldest son for the noble calling to which he had devoted his life. He made certain requests in regard to his funeral, set his house in order and awaited the coming of the last messenger.

The funeral service was held in the church on the Friday following his decease, and was conducted, according to his wish, by his intimue personal friend, the Rev. J. M Pullman of New York. Dr. A. Saxe of Rochester, another warm friend of Mr. Bartholomew and one for whom he enter

dress. Rev. Charles Fluhrer of New York, Rev. Almon Gunnison of Brooklyn, and Rev. Dr. Brooks of Philadelphia, participated in the solemn service. The church interior had been draped in black, and the altar tastefully decorated with floral offerings and emblems, by his bereaved people, whose affection for him had been proved through an almost unprecedented trial. In the course of his touching and tender funeral address, Mr. Pullman related the following impressive incident:

"I called to see him lately, and he was on his bed; but he insisted that I should tell him, point by point, about a sermon I His had preached the Sunday before. mind was so on his work that if he could not preach he wanted to hear something about preaching. So I told him as clearly as I could from first to last. He said it was good; then he sent for a little pocketbook he had; and when it was brought he and handed it to me without a word. Í opened it, and took out this bit of paper, read the lines printed upon it. I saw in them only a very touching complaint of some one whose life-work had been interrupted in some fashion hard to bear. I did not see anything so particular in them while by his side. He may have read them to you, but they can be heard again :

'The Lord who fashioned my hand for working
Set me a task, and it is not done,

I have tried and tried since the early morning,
And now to the westward sinks the sun.

Now I know that my task will never be finished.
And when the Master calleth my name,
His voice will find me still at my labor,
Weeping beside it in weary shame.

With empty hands I shall rise to meet him,
And when he asks for the fruits of years,
Nothing have I to lay before him

But broken efforts and bitter tears.

Yet when he calls I fain would hasten,
Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone.
I am as weary as though I carried
A burden of beautiful work well done.

I will fold my empty hands on my bosom,
Meekly, thus, in the shape of His cross,
And the Lord who made them so frail and feeble,
May be will pity their strife and loss.'"

Mr. Bartholomew was married March 7, 1855, to Miss Frances M. Baker, with whom he passed nearly twenty years of unalloyed domestic happiness. She, with their four children, two sons and two daughters, sustains a loss which it is futile to attempt to describe, and feels a grief too sacred to be paraded before the public eye. But it is some mitigation of even her great

sorrow, to know how widely and keenly it is shared by hundreds to whom his word was always a charm and his presence an inspiration. It was his expectation, and no small part of his solace in death, that his eldest son, bearing his own name, should succeed him in his cherished profession. He spoke with satisfaction of the fact that "Johnny" had voluntarily made choice of the ministry as the goal of his professional ambition, and he watched with fond hope the development of his aspirations and tastes. It must surely be both an admonition and an inspiration to that son, to reflect that his father passed on to the higher service of immortality, in the confidence that his mantle would fall on the worthy shoulders of his own first-born.

Mr. Bartholomew's prominent mental characteristics were intuition and sentiment. He was impatient of the laborious processes by which the understanding coördinates ideas and discriminates knowledge. He perceived immediately, if clearly at all. The usual effect of a "chain of reasoning" on his mind was to obscure what before was tolerably clear. Truth flashed upon him, or it missed him. His whole organism was keenly susceptible to impressions from the outer world, and every sight and sound reported itself instantaneously as a distinct image on the mind. His senses and his sensibilities were all awake, and as he walked, or talked, or read, his rapid glance took in everything. Or if anything escaped the glance, it was to him the same as if it had not been there. To delve for facts, except as they had become attractive by some curious association, or to ponder deep problems and inquire patiently of "fixed fate, free will, foreknowledge absolute," was not his method.

By "sentiment" I mean that operation of the mind in which the intellect seems to have caught its bias from the moral and social feelings. It is intellect heightened by noble emotion. The reason is not necessarily less active nor the judgment less reliable; but the conscience is quicker and the sympathies warmer. Mr. Bartholomew was in this sense eminently a man of sentiment. He judged men and measures and institutions by their capacity to stir good

emotions and generate humane impulses. Towards a certain class of men it was as impossible for him to entertain any feeling as towards a clock. He viewed them as complex and useful machines, but to him utterly devoid of human interest.

With such an intellectual temperament he was fitted above everything else to illustrate human feeling. But nature had been careful to make no contradiction in him; and she gave him a physical organization that exactly matched the mental. She made him a large, hearty, vivacious, bloodful man, charged to the brim with life. His was a contagious presence, radiating light and heat through every circle into which it came. He could impress himself with wondrous distinctness on every listener, and many are the photographic delineations of character he has printed on the recollection of his survivors. He not only loved humor, he was an embodiment of it. He could perceive the ludicrous, as he perceived everything else, at a glance, and he could communicate his perception with a stroke. Equally rapid was the movement of his sympathies, yes, and of his resentment. He knew the look of sorrow and the features of care, and often the image of such a face arrested his sport and turned him into the current of pathos. He quickly interpreted the air or accent of contempt, also; and his indignation at injury, real or imaginary, was one of the most refreshing things,in its absolute sincerity and heartiness, witnessed in this conventional world.

It was impossible that a personality so compounded should not be powerful. Everything about him was strongly marked, his virtues and his failings, his talents and his deficiencies. In whatever respect, therefore, he touched society he made himself felt. He could not live in any place, however large, and not be known. Whether men were ready to adopt his opinions and follow his lead, or not, they were obliged to feel the force and persuasion of his influence. The quickness with which he saw, the keenness with which he felt, the fire with which he spoke, forbade indifference to his views. But it was in the pulpit that all these qualities were so fused

and exalted as to give him a preeminence His method was to come to the point by an indirect course, that piqued curiosity and insured attention. And when his idea of the true method was realized in the preparation, his lively fancy, ready wit, dramatic expression, sway of feeling and cumulative unction, qualified him, as few men are qualified, to "take up the audience in his arms," and bathe them in the alternate overflow of their emotions of gladuess or grief.

that few disputed. When he had filled himself with his theme, fixed in his thought the special impression he desired to make, and chosen the incidents that were to illustrate his meaning, he was sure to carry his audience with him. One might go away and criticise; but while he was under the magician's spell he felt, as everybody else did, the fascinating power of what appeared the sublimest truth, the loftiest zeal, the most genuine pathos, the profoundest conviction.

Mr. Bartholomew was a master of the art of preaching. In the first place, he held his voice in complete command, whether reading from manuscript or speakextempore. He never ranted. In easy, distinct, conversational tones he began, continued and ended. He did not "mouth it" as most of the preachers do, but spoke his words "trippingly on the tongue." His ear was almost perfect, and he rarely missed the right inflection. His intuitive perception enabled him to read the effect of his words on his hearers as he moved along, and his quick appreciation fitted him to avail at once of any advantage the situation offered. Then he was by nature and by taste an actor. He could delineate both an idea and an emotion. It was as much a conviction of its superiority as native bias that led him to adopt the pictorial method in preaching. He believed that the minds, but particularly the hearts, of men could be most surely affected by raising before them the image of the good to be sought or the evil to be shunned. He therefore cultivated the art of portrayal, and attained a rare perfection in it. In the preparation of his discourses, too, he studied the law of attraction. There was art in his method of introducing a topic. He rarely set out with an abstract proposition, containing in a nutshell the idea he was to unfold and illustrate.

He contended that such a course was to fly in the face of experience and empty the subject of interest, by making an exhaustive statement of it at the outset.

But while much remains to be said which I would like to say of my friend, here I must pause. His departure leaves a large void in the Universalist Church, and in many hearts. His death has impressed me more than that of any of my brethren in the ministry who have yet gone. He was so full of life, and drank so eagerly the cup of earthly joy, that it affects my mind with a sudden revulsion to think of him as dead. It brings home to me, with a hitherto unrealized distinctness, the solemn fact that I, too, am a hastening pilgrim, perchance not many steps from the thither side of the narrow bound we all must cross. But while our sorrow for him hath this added pang, that he was called "in all his manhood's glorious prime," may we not also derive comfort from the reflection that his memory will ever retain the fragrance of youthful inspiration? His "leaf has perished in the green," and therefore our recollection of him shall have a fadeless freshness.

"So many worlds, so much to do,
So little done, such things to be,
How know I what had need of thee,
For thou wert strong as thou wert true?
The fame is quenched that I foresaw,

The head hath missed an earthly wreath:
I curse not nature, no, nor death;
For nothing is that errs from law.

We pass: the path that each man trod
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:
What fame is lett for human deeds
In endless age? It rests with God.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare
The use of virtue out of earth;
I know transplanted human worth
Will bloom to profit otherwhere."

I. M. Atwood.

The Caged Eagle.

Why doth an earth-stain on thy pinion rest?
Speed hence, thou bird, of the tree, fearless breast,
O'er cliff and flood, sweep to thy mountain-nest.

Why from thine eyrie stooped thou to the plain?
Thy piercing eye seeketh the skies in vain,
The fettered wings will never rise again.

No more, when winds hold their wild revelry,
Wilt thou float, fearless, through the stormy sky,
Mocking its strife, with quick, impatient cry.

How dost thou loathe the earth, the rest, the chain !
How dost thou pine for the free sky again

Oh restless rover over land and main !

Pity, not scorn, for thee! The friendly dart
Were welcome to the restless, struggling heart
That from the sky it loves must dwell apart.

Thus upon earth dwells many a fettered soul.

Here throb chained hearts, that pine to reach their goal,
But powerless are held, in harsh control.

Oft to the bars of a dim prison cell

They come, and murmur many a sad farewell

To the bright realm in which they may not dwell.

Poor, restless captive! Such as these thou art,
From all thou lovest dwelling far apart.

Pity for thee, thou wronged and royal heart!

Annie E. Johnson.

The Second Wife.

FROM THE GERMAN OF E. MARLITT.

Leyes met; but there was not a trace
L'

V.

IANE cast a glance at him, their happiness, that Uncle Gisbert's shadow haunts that window-alcove; he was brought here in his dying hours. But what do I say? Such spectres never appear to sinless souls like yours."

of that flame which kindles from eye to eye, and is the medium of understanding between two persons. She said to herself that nothing on earth would have power over this man's soul, spoiled by fortune and flattered by woman's favor, but his own vehement wish and will. And he, shrugging his shoulders and taking up his hat, thought he read in the gray eyes the number of stitches which she had made with red silk during his speech.

"I am going," he said. "Be on your guard, Julianne; it is growing dark, and our brave people here swear by their hopes of

"Other spirits have only power over ours according as we love or fear them," she replied simply, without regarding the mockery in his tone. "I am not afraid of your uncle's ghost, but I might ask him why he wished to die just on this spot."

“That I can tell you. He wished that his last glance might fall on his 'Vale of Cashmere,'" he replied with more animation, stepping close to her, and pointing out into the garden. "There, under that

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obelisk, he was buried. Ah, you cannot see the monument; it lies more to the side, there." He suddenly took her head between his hands, with gentle pressure, in order to direct her gaze rightly; his fingers sank deep into the masses of golden hair. She started up, shook off his hands, and stared at him with large, offended eyes, in unaffected displeasure. He stood a moment, bewildered, before her, a deep flush passing over his face.

"Pardon me! I shocked myself and you. I did not know that simple contact caused your hair to send forth such sparks," said he, with unsteady voice, as he stepped away.

She was already seated again, and bending over her embroidery. There was the same air of calm absorption in the elastic figure as before; but it did not occur to Mainau to think that this woman was counting her stitches; his eye was fastened on the narrow stripe of the neck, shining so white between the hanging braids: now he saw a deep flush color it. He again took up his hat which he had thrown down; he felt exasperated at these unexpected outbursts of the negative element in this "red-haired feminine head," but still more angry with himself, that he, in a harmless unconstraint, had suffered a repulse, and that, too, from an unloved woman. In such a case, an entire ignoring of what had taken place was the only alternative.

"I might really wish Uncle Gisbert could return and look down here," he said, stepping into the haunted window-niche; he spoke very calmly. "Thirteen years he has lain under the red marble; meanwhile his tropical plants beneath this northern sky have reached a growth of which he, perhaps, never dreamed. This is the frequent cause of dispute in Schonwerth. When our severe season comes, all this abundance of plants must be covered by enormous glass houses, and the exotic animals also require great care; it costs much money. Every year Uncle makes new efforts to have this expensive collection diminished, but I will not suffer one leaf to be destroyed."

"And how about the human life, which the German nobleman brought hither under

a northern sky?" she asked, her melodious voice slightly sharpened.

Again he stood quickly beside her. "You mean the woman in the Indian house?" he said. "There! look once at that boy!" He pointed to Gabriel, who, at that moment was carrying Leo on his back, the slender figure of the improvised horse bending patiently under his wild driver. "That is a type of the race, such as was brought over the ocean as a precious treasure, — cowardly, submissive as a dog, faithless when tempted. The boy is inexpressibly repulsive to me. I would much sooner. forgive a few bruises of retaliation on my boy's back than this dog-like servility behind the human face divine. Leo, get down immediately!" he ordered, in a harsh tone, looking out at the glass door.

Gabriel was just on the upper step; though much heated by the uneasy burden which he had brought up the steps on his shoulders, still his face was pale, but not with the pallor of sickness, for the delicate lines of his oval countenance were as firm and sound as if defined on a yellowish marble.

"Go home!" said Mainau, roughly, turning his back upon him.

The childish but melancholy smile which parted the boy's lips as he mounted the steps, disappeared; terror drove the last drop of blood from his face. It cut Liane to the heart to see how, nevertheless, he carefully lowered the harsh man's child to the ground, and how he could not resist passing his hand caressingly over Leo's curly head. Poor boy! his young soul was given into the power of a strict Church and a most unbending aristocracy; and the arbitrary man, who could by his power protect him, trod him under foot, in his blind prejudice, with deep contempt.

"Good-night, my dear child!" she said, as the boy glided noiselessly down the steps. At the same time she laid her work away and arose. Conscious of her entire want of influence, she spoke not a word in favor of the ill-used child, but as she stood there her whole manner was a protest against the conduct of the harsh master. For a moment he looked silently towards her, then attempted to re-light his cigar.

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