which you used to give me credit, of your appreciation of my devotion to you, and your interests." "Tell me, quickly, what it is," said Grace. "I have lost the habit of guessing riddles since I have been in London, and I am anxious to know what this important news can be."

"I will tell you then, plainly," said Anne, after a moment's pause. "I have done evil that good might come of it. I have deceived you." "Deceived me!" cried Grace, with already flushing cheeks. "In what way?"

"I have brought you away from London because I knew it to be a matter of the deepest possible importance to you that you should come; but I have used a false pretext to beguile you here. Your aunt, Madame Sturm, though very ill, is not worse than when I last wrote to you."

"Madame Sturm not worse-not dying!" cried Grace. All that story about her desiring to see me an invention? What is the reason that you have brought me away with you ?"

To save you from inevitable destruction," said Anne; to prevent your marriage with a man who would have rendered your life a burden and a disgrace."

"What?" cried Grace, springing to her feet. "You have taken this step with the idea of preventing my marriage; you have dared to impose upon me with a falsehood, in the hope of interposing between me and the man I love?"

"It was my only chance of getting you to come," said Anne. "It was impossible for me to give you the real reason while you were in London."

And do you think that absence can make any difference?" asked Grace, with a sneer. "Do you think that I am more likely to give him up in Brussels than I should have been in Eaton place? Do you think that he will be more willing to surrender me, because he is asked to do so in a letter posted abroad?"

"There is no question of your giving him up," said Anne, calmly; "and as to Mr. Heath, he has already expressed his intentions on the subject."

"George-expressed his intentions! To whom? where," asked Grace, breathlessly.

"To you in this note," said Anne, handing to her friend the letter which Heath had written in the bank parlor.

WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG comes from a family well known in this State and throughout the land, and deservedly honored wherever known. His great-grandsire, Henry Melchior Muhlenberg, probably none of my readers require to be told, was the great and good Apostle of the Lutheran Church, the well-beloved Father of the American offspring of that noble German Church. And the famous preacher-soldier of the Revolution, General John Peter Gabriel Muhlenberg,' who doffed his clerical gown to wear the Continental uniform, and relinquished his preaching to fight for his country's liberties, was a son of the Lutheran Apostle and Father, and the grandfather of the subject of my sketch. Others of the family have heen only less famed than the two named.

Usually, and even in "Lippincott's Biographical Dictionary," called General Peter Muhlenberg.

William Augustus was born in Philadelphia in 1796, received his collegiate education at Columbia College, New York, and was trained for the Lutheran ministry, but preferred that of the Protestant Episcopal Church, being ordained in 1819 or

1820.

He still lives, in New York City, universally revered and loved. His long life has been faithfully devoted to his Master's work, and even now, in his eightieth year, he is still employed in working for Jesus, to the full measure of his strength; he has, of course, ceased his labors as pastor of the Church of the Holy Communion, New York, after many years' faithful service, but he tenaciously clings to St. Luke's Hospital, of which he was the founder, and has been for about a quarter of a century the chaplain and, I believe, superintendent or rector. No one who knows the good old divine, no one who knows anything of him and

his character, can possibly accord the slightest credit to the preposterous claim of Henry Ward, or the absurd assertions of O. H. Harpel. Possibly, as Dr. Muhlenberg charitably suggests, Ward was crazy, and we cannot but hope the person who revives Ward's claim can be shown to have a like excuse; but, be that as it may, there can be no honest ground to doubt but that Dr. Muhlenberg's account of the origin of the hymn is correct in every particular, and I repeat the facts briefly :

The Original Poem.

I would not live alway-live alway below!

Oh, no; I'll not linger when bidden to go;

The days of our pilgrimage granted us here,

Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer;

Would I shrink from the paths which the prophets of God,
Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?

Like a spirit unblest o'er the earth would I roam,
While brethren and friends are all hastening home?

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay,
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
Where, seeking for rest, we but hover around,
Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;
Where hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air,
Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair,
And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,
Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away.
I would not live alway-thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without and corruption within;
In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,
Scarce the victory's mine, ere I'm captive again;
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears;
The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,
But my spirit her own miserere prolongs.

I would not live alway-no, welcome the tomb;
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom;
Where He deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head,
All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed.
Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night,
The orient gleam of the angels of light,
With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise
And chant forth their matins away to the skies.

Who, who would live alway, away from his God,
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,
Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren, transported to greet,
While the songs of salvation exultingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul?

That heavenly music! what is it I hear?
The notes of the harper ring sweet in mine ear!
And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold,
The King all arrayed in his beauty behold!
O, give me, O give me the wings of a dove,

To adore Him, be near Him, enrapt with His love;
I but wait the summons, I list for the word-
Alleluia-Amen-evermore with the Lord.

The Hymn.

I would not live alway; I ask not to stay
Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;
The few lurid mornings that dawn on us here
Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer.

I would not live alway, thus fettered by sin,
Temptation without and corruption within;
E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,
And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears.

I would not live alway; no, welcome the tomb;
Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom;
There, sweet be my rest, till He bid me arise
To hail Him in triumph descending the skies.
Who, who would live alway, away from his God,
Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,

Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,
And the noontide of glory eternally reigns.
Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren, transported to greet;
While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.

The hymn has been copied into almost every collection since made, and in some cases unwarrantable liberties have been indulged in by the collectors, who spoil many admirable hymns in their unjustifiable attempts to improve them. The Reverend poet himself attempted to improve it, some years ago, but his improved version cannot supplant the one which has so long held the popular

CERTAINLY not the least interesting of the memorials of the inhabitants of the earth who lived, acted, and passed away, in its pre-historic ages, are the Barrows, which abound in Druidic regions, nor only in these, but in regions far away from those recognized as Druidic. In all parts of Britain and in Gaul, and wheresoever we trace the signs of the Druids, we

find these mounds at every turn of our wanderings, and should we go far away to the territory of the old Gerrhi, nigh the margin of the Gerrhus, we shall find the sepulchres of the Kings of the Scythians, so minutely described by Herodotus; and in other parts of Asia like mounds

mark the burial-places of heroes whose very names are long since forgotten. At Bhopaul in Central India, there is a remarkable mound-tomb of this class, a funereal tope, which doubtless originally covered the remains of some eminent Buddhist "Saint," as before it has been placed a gate which is wonderful, even in that land of wonders, for its elaborate sculptures.

The Barrow is simply a large mound raised over the corpse of a deceased chieftain, hero, saint, or other man of special eminence. The prevalence of these mound-tombs in so many and such remote parts of the world, proves just what the prevalence of other "Druidic" mem

orials in the same regions proves-and that is the great antiquity of the origin of such mounds and other memorials, antedating the dispersion of man-not that these mounds and memorials were constructed anterior to that time, but that the ideas of which they are expressions must have prevailed among men ere they went forth into distinct peoples, races and tribes, with diverse tongues, to devise and develope variform habits and customs. We have no records of the Barrows of the Druids, or of the ceremonies attending their erection or at their funerals, but Herodotus is even prolix in his account of the burial of Scythian kings and the heaping up of the mound-tombs above their remains. He tells us that, when a king died, his body was embalmed,covered with wax and borne in a royal chariot, with great pomp, to the appointed place; a large quadrangular pit being dug, the royal corpse was placed therein on a mattress of straw; on each side of this pit were then planted spears, and it was roofed over with hurdles of willow; with the king's remains was interred one of his favorite wives, previously strangled for the purpose, together with his cup-bearer, his cook, his groom, his minister, his courier, his horse; there were then placed by

the side of his corpse some articles of every kind it was supposed he would need, including golden goblets and other vessels suited to the royal use. This done, the people eagerly vied with each other in the work of heaping over the whole a mound of earth, the more vast the better. Then, the year following, fifty of the late king's confidential attendants and fifty choice horses were slain and placed, the men on the horses, around the sepulchre. A recent traveller speaks of having seen large numbers of these barrows in the open steppe or desert on approaching the Caucasian region; he found them frequently covered with verdure, and in some instances trees had grown upon their sides; but though in size many of them emulated natural hills, their regularity of form and situation rendered it impossible to mistake their origin. Some of them have been opened, and their contents fully confirm the above account of Herodotus.

I have before given a view of Silbury Hill, in Wiltshire, supposed by some to have been a part of the great Abury establishment, but in my opi nion an unusually large Barrow [see pages 862 and 864 of Vol. V., November, 1875].