IN COMMON DAYS.)

BY MARGARET E. SANGSTER.

IN days supreme, of dear delight,

When happy thoughts within us dwell, Like vestals robed in stainless white,

Who time their footsteps by the swell Of sweet-voiced bells upon the airThen have we least the need for prayer.

In days obscured by vailing folds

Of grief, or clouded o'er with dread, While dumb suspense relentless holds

Its sword above the shrinking head; Then, even in the soul's despair, Is not the deepest need of prayer. Since to the dark Gethsemane

The pitying angels, soon or late, Must come, with tenderest ministry,

And each glad day is but the gate To some rich temple, builded fair, Which heavenward lifts a golden stair

God keep us through the common days; The level stretches, white with dust, When thought is tired, and hands upraise Their burdens feebly, since they must; In days of slowly fretting care,

Then most we need the strength of prayer.

GOSSIP.

[An article which will be skipped by the very persons who should read it.]

AMONG the real, though minor trials of life may be reckoned those annoyances that come to us through the filching of our time, and forcing upon us little items of news, by those among our acquaintances who delight in retailing whatever they can pick up concerning their neighbors. Such persons are sometimes heard to express wonder the they "happen" to learn so much of the private affair of others, seemingly oblivious of the fact that by cc stant use they have so sharpened their powers of observation as to have become, as it were, all eyes to see, all ears to hear, and then alas! all tongue to tell what the unfortunate object of their inspection would gladly have had remained undiscovered. These people are not malicious; they would not knowingly do an injury; but possessing considerable activity of mind, and having failed to train their intellects in nobler pursuits, they are, in consequence, without sufficient mental resources. So they form the habit of discussing other people's doings, and the habit grows until they come to be busy bodies without even dreaming that they are such. They screw themselves into the secrets of their associates, and then, with self-complacent smiles over their own auger-like penetration, scatter the small chips they have thus gathered. Yet how indignantly would they repel the accusation of "gossip"! Such an imputation would, in their estimation, be the height of injustice. They are unconscious of the fact so palpable to their friends, and are too deficient in delicacy of feeling to take the hints pointed at their infirmity, but which the politeness of those friends will not allow them to make too broad.

Such specimens of humanity, unhappily, are not rare. They are to be met with in all classes of society. Who has not suffered loss of time, the unsettling of plans, and ruffling of temper through the indulgence of this propensity to tattle by one acquaintance or another?

For instance you rise betimes, and diligently perform the earlier duties of the day, hoping thus to secure an hour or two in which to write a long-due letter to a friend, or finish an article for the SUNDAY MAGAZINE, Just as you

seat yourself at your desk, you hear approaching footsteps which to your foreboding heart announce the coming of the newsmonger. Too soon your unwilling ears are saluted with, “Oh, I just ran in to tell you the latest news. How your spirits sink! You sigh while you force yourself to give attention to the narrative. At intervals you attempt to turn the tide of talk into a more congenial channel, but all in vain; listen you must to an account of how Mr. So-and-so behaved under such and such circumstances, what it costs Mrs. What-you-may-call-her to live, or how much Miss B., was over-dressed on a certain occasion, till your own thoughts become completely submerged in this overflow of words. The precious moments are slipping away; you glance wistfully at the clock, fall into abstraction, rouse yourself again to hear the sound of what seems like a neverto-be-hushed voice; and at last, when your hour is wasted, your tormentor takes leave, benevolently expressing the hope that she has not interrupted you!

Or, after a laborious day, when, with fagged brain and weary limbs, you sit down to indulge in the rest and relaxation of a quiet evening with a favorite author, how you have groaned inwardly, if not audibly, as your chatty friend runs in exclaiming, "I am so glad to find you at home, I want to tell you about Miss Brown and Mr. Jones." Here follow details of a flirtation, or a matrimonial engagement, or a falling out between parties in whom you have not the slightest interest, and whose affairs you do not care to know. Tried almost beyond endurance, you determine that you will not have this distasteful small-talk forced upon you, and you somewhat abruptly remark upon the weather, or speak of the book in which you are interested, and which you still hold in your hand, hoping thereby delicately to direct attention to your preoccupation. Your interlocutor assents in monosyllables, with an air of indifference, and if you make further attempt to run her off the track and demolish her train of thought, you are confronted with, "But I haven't finished telling you," and she rumbles on again at a rate you are too discouraged to make another effort to check.

Unless you should be goaded into expressing an opinion, you will escape with only the loss of an evening, and much weariness of soul from having had crowded upon you this unpleasing tittle tattle. But if, in an unguarded moment, you chance to commit yourself, pro or con, you suffer the added unpleasantnesss of knowing that your remarks are certain to be repeated, and that you will be supposed to have meddled in a matter where you really have had no concern whatever.

Again, you are walking home from church after hearing an impressive discourse, earnestly desiring to take its teachings to heart. Your quiet meditations are broken in upon by the voice you have learned to dread. She is so "out of breath running to overtake you"-here you detect yourself in viciously wishing she had never recovered it" for she is sure you must want to hear all about Mr.'s failure, and how it is whispered that his wife's extravagance, and she a Church-member," etc., etc. You assure her that you have no interest in the matter, and then, hoping to divert the talk from personalities, you comment upon the sermon, the large or small congregation, the condition of the streets, or the unusual brilliancy of the Autumn foliage. But, like the persistent fly of a hot Summer's day, this social pest is not to be frayed off. She interrupts you with, "Oh! but you haven't heard all yet," and the story which follows puts forever to flight your good impressions, and you go home, and to bed, in a sort of mental chaos, vaguely wondering whether that match is really broken off, and how much Mrs. did pay for her new bonnet, while you make feeble efforts to call back your serious thoughts,

Can nothing be done to lessen this evil? Very often the infliction comes from some one whom for her otherwise good qualities, or because of our connection socially, we do not wish to offend. Will not the public teachers of morals, including the respected editor of the SUNDAY MAGAZINE, lift up their voices in strenuous protest against this pernicious and demoralizing habit?

THE COST OF DYING:

THE population of the world at the close of the year 1876 is estimated at 1,423,917,000. Admitting that the average duration of human life is 33 years, the deaths will be 43,455,060 a year. According to the most reliable data it costs about an average of $100 to defray the expenses of a Christian funeral. If, therefore, all the nations of the earth were Christians, the funeral bills would amount to $4,345,506,000 annually. The question that will at an early day confront economists will be: "Cannot some way be devised to die cheaper?" Evidently it costs too much to get decently under the sod-too much for rosewood coffins, plumed hearses, monumental marble, fashionable cemetery lots and mourning costumes. Fashion is too supreme at funerals. The fickle goddess is too potential in dictating the fit and fabric of shroud and winding sheet and the style of silver plates and nails. Mourning goods are manufactured to order and graded first, second and third; every sigh has its peculiar tint, until at last the world observes that the days of sadness are past and the "dear departed" are forgotten. The poor can scarcely afford to die, a rude country coffin no longer answers the purpose. The style of a burial-case is a matter of deep concern, and in many cases the living are robbed of the absolute necessaries of life that the dead may have a fashionable funeral. Speculation in cemetery lots is now a feature in real estate transactions, and there are aristocratic avenues in the cities of the dead as well as in the cities of the living. Pride erects its monuments on the grand thoroughfares, and the gaping multitude discuss the former opulence of those who lie under sculptured marble. The population of the United States is estimated at 40,000,000, which will give, according to the accepted death-rates, about 1,250,000 deaths annually. Estimating the average cost of a funeral at $100, we have a death tax of about $125,000,000, annually, or something over $3 per capita for every man, woman and child in the country. Manifestly this sum is too large. Common sense demands that it should be reduced. The discussion will scarcely be undertaken by the undertakers, and the livery-stable men may regard it somewhat hackneyed; nevertheless, the fact stands that it costs too much to die.—Indianapolis Sentinel.

IN THE NAME OF CHRIST.

gentleman himself had gone, for the name stood for the person, and the two were, for the time and the purpose to be accomplished, but one. If it had not been for the name, the countryman might have begged, and entreated, and prayed for the money, until handed over to the police; but the name, the name alone, secured him audience and ac ceptance. When we pray in the name of Jesus, we go to God conscious of the fact that we deserve nothing on our own account, that we have no personal worthiness to plead, that our applications for the sake of anything in us or anything done by us, would be utterly unavailing; but equally conscious of the fact that through the infinite riches of grace we are one with Christ.

THE following order has been issued to the clergy and laity of his diocese, by the Roman Catholic Bishop of Cleveland, Ohio. It will do good for Protestant Christians to read it and govern themselves accordingly.

To prevent and guard against abuses that are rapidly growing up in this diocese, in connection with Church and Society picnics, excursions, festivals, etc., the following regulations are prescribed:

1. Societies that are organized for beneficial purposes, and whose benefits are confined to their members, or societies that are organized for private ends and interests, cannot be permitted to appeal to the public by picnics, excursions, festivals, suppers, lectures, etc., to raise funds for their own private use and benefit. Public appeals must be for the public charities, and societies cannot be permitted to appeal to the public, except where the money so raised is to be used for and in the interest of some public charity.

2. All kinds of round dancing, night dancing, dancing in halls or ball-rooms, for the raising money for Church purposes or public charities, are strictly and unqualifiedly for

3. The sale of wine, beer, or any kind of intoxicating liquors at Church picnics, excursions, festivals, suppers, etc., is strictly forbidden, and will not be permitted under

4. Moonlight excursions, picnics, continued till after nightfall, meetings of the people where morals or good behavior are endangered, are also forbidden.

5. Before any picnics or excursions, whether for Church or Society purposes, can be held, the permission of the Ordinary must be first obtained.

6. Pastors will read these regulations at Mass on the Sunday after their receipt, and see that they are strictly obeyed.

CHRISTMAS WAITS.

A VISION OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

HARK! The Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep! What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set forth on the Christmas tree? Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field; some travelers, with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in a manger; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men; a solemn figure with a mild and beautiful face raising a dead girl by the hand; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow, on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking through the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walking on the water to a ship; again on a seashore, teaching a great multi

tude; again, with a child upon His knee, and other children round; again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a Cross, watched by armed soldiers, a thick darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard: "Forgive them, for they know not what they do!"

star that rested above the poor roof be the star of all the Christian world. A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me as yet, and let me look once more! I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved, have shone and smiled-from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the Raiser of the dead girl, and the widow's son; and God is good! If Age be hiding for me in the unseen portion of thy downward growth, O may I, with a gray head, turn a child's heart to that figure yet, and a child's truthfulness and confidence.

Now the tree is decorated with bright merriment, and song, and dance, and cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent and welcome be they ever held beneath the branches of the Christmas Tree, which casts no gloomy shadow! But, as it sinks into the ground, I hear a whisper going through the leaves. This, in commemoration of the law of love and kindness, mercy and com

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passion. This, in remembrance of Me!" What a beautiful picture is here presented by the great master by which it is drawn; and with what vividness has he brought the Christmas-tree of our youth before us.

Christmas on the Alps-The Snow House.

OUR engraving represents the arrival on Christmas morning of a number of half-frozen travelers at the Snow House on the Col St. Gothard in the Alps-that great water-shed of Europe. Although the scene without is wild and dreary, that within those ponderous walls is warm and pleasant, where the sojourners may find rest and much that will tend toward making their Christmas one of partial enjoyment at least. The old path across the Col, once dangerous and narrow, is now much improved through the exertions of the two cantons-Uri and Tessin-so that the journey