the five porches, and gaze thoughtfully at the spectacle that presents itself it will soon be found that reflections arise in quick succession.

Our pains and our pleasures are closely connected.

"The porches were once places of luxurious indulgence; rich people were in the habit of using them for purposes of self-enjoyment. They lingered there, luxuriating in ease, quiet, and pleasure. In process of time the porches became hospitals, and in these hospitals lay a great multitude of people who had lost their power-power of sight, power of limb, power of brain, power of hearing-some kind of power; and there they waited for the moving of the water." What a change! The fashionable rendezvous became the focus of disease; the lounge was converted into an asylum for invalids. Where costly raiment, radiant faces, cheerful voices, and ringing laughter had been witnessed, now ragged clothing, dejected visages, sighs, and groans prevailed.

And such is human life. Our gratifications and our griefs haunt each other; the first lead to the last, and the latter to the former. For instance, how great are the pleasures of knowledge! Who but the stupid man would be an ignorant man? Who but the fool would not be wise? Science, literature, art: these are only other names for exalted enjoyment. Yet, a profound student and eminent thinker said, "He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow." The scholar meets with problems which he cannot solve, and often comes across difficulties which baffle his most diligent inquiry. How sweet are the pleasures of affection! Happy is he who loves and is loved; miserable is he who is a stranger to either. Friendship is the soul's sunshine, awakening and expanding its highest capacities. But love has its penalties. The poet speaks of "the pangs of despised love." Not seldom, too, the dark relentless face of jealousy is seen near it, menacing and alarming it. What parent does not know that affection is companioned by anxiety? See yonder woman: she has just risen from her bed; her countenance is pale, her eyes are red, her hand is hot and feverish. Why? Because the darkness brought no sleep to her jaded mind and weary body. No; she could not slumber, for her absent sailor-boy absorbed her fears. As she heard the pitiless rain and hoarse wind she lay trembling, yet praying, for his safety. How many are the charms of memory! Rogers has sung the "Pleasures of Memory," and no wonder; they are real and refined. Who of us does not con over the past? Many a dull hour has been cheered by giving one's thoughts to bygone days and hours. In this way we live over again our former lives, and often find happiness by so doing.

"Thus, memory brightens o'er the past,

As when the sun, concealed

Behind some clouds that near us hangs,
Shines on a distant field."

How much Milton must have drawn from the power of recollection after he became blind! There can be little doubt that no small portion

of his consolation had its spring there. At St. Helena Napoleon had large maps hung on the walls of an apartment in his house, and amused himself by "fighting his battles o'er again as he gazed at the localities of his late wars. But there is another side to all this. If memory gratifies, it also grieves. The wonder-worker, at whose magic-touch fairy-like scenes appear, does not fail to put before us visions of gloom and horror. Aristotle called memory the scribe of the soul, and, like other scribes, it records the agreeable and the disagreeable alike. "We wept when we remembered Zion." An ancient celebrity, being requested to learn the art of memory, answered, "Nay, I am already well-skilled in that. Rather would I, if possible, learn the art of forgetting." Ill words spoken, wrong thoughts indulged in, bad deeds done, these are sources of poignant suffering to all but the base and the depraved.

Further illustration is needless; enough has been said to remind us that all earthly good has its alloy, each sweet its bitter. If we would have unmingled bliss we must look above for it. There is but one unmitigated species of peace, namely, the "peace of God, which passeth all understanding." Of Him only may be it be said, "In thy presence is fulness of joy."

Troubled waters are often healing waters.

Not only "a great multitude of impotent folk" lay in the five porches, but their number has been considerably increased by great multitude of theologians and critics who have dilated with much erudition and feeling on the water and its peculiarity. Into their elaborate discussions we do not now care to enter; it suffices for our present purpose to suppose that Bethesda was the scene of the phenomenon known as intermittent springs. The popular belief was that only while these were active could they be efficacious. When they moved they removed malady and pain.

This is nothing short of a parable. Alas for him who cannot readily interpret it by his own eventful experience. The Bible is full of teachings to this effect, that the price of all true nobility of character is suffering. And history, public and private, corroborates and exemplifies the fact which the Scriptures so frequently and emphatically declare. The man who is bad in principle, feeble in conscience, deficient in heavenward emotion, devoid of devout aspiration, is almost invariably one who has had smooth sailing and few storms. On the other hand, the man who has learned tolerance towards the tempted, pity for the erring, sympathy with the sorrowful, and, above all, loyalty to the Lord God Almighty, is usually one "that has seen affliction." There are few exceptions to this rule. Have you never witnessed the following occurrence? On a midsummer's day the heat has been so intense as to overcome almost every one and every thing. Flowers droop their beautiful heads, plants languish, the grass gets dry and withered. Big drops stand upon your brow, and the air is so stifling that you feel as if you could hardly breathe. By and by a quick flash

"Who said there wasn't ?" called | homes, feeling that they were indeed out Sammy, who had grown tired workers in the Lord's vineyard. of the deacon's speech. The young reprobate was sent out of the room, and the deacon sat down forgetful of the unfinished quotation, muttering :

"Well, I swanny, if that ain't the sarciest boy in town!"

It was arranged that they should meet on the following Tuesday evening, at the house of Mrs. Burnam, and should carry what he or she intended to give to the poor of the neighbourhood, and also the money towards buying the presents for Mr. Stanwood, and several wealthy gentlemen who belonged to the church, but who, with their minister, were then absent, attending a conference. Deacon Gooding was to decide what the presents should be. The days passed swiftly away, and Tuesday evening came "My dear people, brother Good-" before a body had chance to turn ing has said enough, and more too, round," as widow Martin expressed and so just consider a part of his it. speech mine."

After order was restored, Deacon Sanford was requested to make some remarks. The deacon was a very nervous man at all times, and it seemed impossible for him to say anything before so many people, but he finally rose, and with a trembling voice, said,

"For mussy's sake, why didn't you say somethin' that was somethin'?" questioned Mrs. Sanford as her husband fell back into his chair and vigorously wiped his face with his red bandanna.

After several gentlemen had spoken, Deacon Gooding called on Mrs. Burnam, a lady who was very particular to scold all the week days and be very pious on Sundays.

Before seven o'clock every person in Lincolnville might have been seen walking along in the moonlight towards Farmer Burnam's residence, each with a parcel or basket in his hand. When all were assembled, Mr. Burnam asked Deacon Gooding to inform them what he had decided the presents for the absent gentlemen should be. After the customary ahem, the deacon proceeded to address his audience straightway in such words as follow."

"I'm glad I have a chance to say somethin' at last," she commenced, "I have decided, my dear friends, "for I've been achin' ever sence I that as it will not do to offer such set here. I think it's a desprit good a-ah-rich, that is, wealthy man thing that somebody has thought as Mr. Stanwood any ordinary prethem Smiths and Baileys and Nor-sent, it is best to give him a rosetons ought to have somethin' done wood writing-desk. It will cost for 'em. They all live only a little ways from my house, and I'll bet they've cost me as much for the past year as my dog and cat both, and I think it's time the rest of the neighbourhood was helpin' take care of 'em."

Mrs. Burnam sat down, fully convinced that if her speech was not very eloquent, it was to the point.

thirty dollars. If no person present -ah-has any objections, we will give, that is, present Mr. Fullerton with a nice robe for his sleigh. For Mr. Grosvenor, we will buy, that is-ah-purchase several of Mr. Dickinson's"

"Dickens, deacon," called out Mrs. Gooding, in a voice that plainly told her lungs were good.

At last each had his say, and, "Yes-ah-several of Mr. Dicafter disposing of nearly a bushel kens's best novels, for I heard him of apples, they bade Mrs. Martin say-ah-observe that he would good-night and returned to their like to have 'em.

The cost would

be nineteen dollars. I went to the noiselessly placed in the bottom of city to-day and priced the-ah- the hat. Everything to eat and to several articles myself. Now, my wear, which had been brought, dear brothers and sisters, I hope together with the money, was dieach one of you will—ah—give with vided into three equal parts, and pleasure whatever sum is needed to some boys chosen to carry the make out enough to buy the several donation to the families mentioned articles I have named, that is, by Mrs. Burnam, they being the mentioned." only ones who were really suffering for help.

The deacon was quite out of breath by the time his long speech was ended, and whispered to his better half, as he sat down,

"It's tarnation hard work to talk so long."

Each gave readily, and after counting the sum, it was found that the deacon would be obliged to give ten cents.

The next morning the Smiths found themselves in possession of four old pairs of pants, entirely worn out at the knees, three old caps, a pair of halfworn cowhide boots, a quart of beans, and thirtyfive cents in money.

The Baileys rejoiced in owning five old calico dresses, very much the worse for wear, two pairs of darned stocking, a small piece of salt pork, and thirty-five cents.

After a few minutes, during which a committee was chosen to purchase and deliver the presents to the gentlemen for whom they were The Nortons tried to be thankful intended, Deacon Sanford pro- for three very dilapidated-looking posed that they should see what petticoats, a quarter of a pound of they could do for the poor. Then brown sugar, and, of course thirtycame a great unrolling of bundles five cents. and opening of baskets, and about one in ten dropped an exceedingly small bill into the hat which Mr. Burnam passed around. When it came to Deacon Gooding's turn to give something, he breathed an audible sigh and put his finger and thumb in his vest pocket, and drew out a two-cent piece, which he

When Mr. Stanwood, on the Sunday following his return home, preached from the text, "Blessed are the merciful," the members of his church glanced at each other with a look which plainly said, "That means us."

Does the story need any comment ? *

THE FIVE PORCHES.

BY THE REV. T. R. STEVENSON.

"Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep market a pool, which is called in the Hebrew tongue Bethesda, having five porches."-John v. 2.

THE scene to which this verse refers is one with which we are all familiar. It is both picturesque and pathetic: surely none can look at it uninterested and unmoved. Moreover, it may be made very instructive, for what is the world but a vast Bethesda, and in some respects mankind may be accurately described as "a great multitude of impotent folk." We shall do well, therefore, to take our stand under

*From an American paper.

the five porches, and gaze thoughtfully at the spectacle that presents itself it will soon be found that reflections arise in quick succession.

Our pains and our pleasures are closely connected.

"The porches were once places of luxurious indulgence; rich people were in the habit of using them for purposes of self-enjoyment. They lingered there, luxuriating in ease, quiet, and pleasure. In process of time the porches became hospitals, and in these hospitals lay a great multitude of people who had lost their power-power of sight, power of limb, power of brain, power of hearing-some kind of power; and there they waited for the moving of the water." What a change! The fashionable rendezvous became the focus of disease; the lounge was converted into an asylum for invalids. Where costly raiment, radiant faces, cheerful voices, and ringing laughter had been witnessed, now ragged clothing, dejected visages, sighs, and groans prevailed.

And such is human life. Our gratifications and our griefs haunt each other; the first lead to the last, and the latter to the former. For instance, how great are the pleasures of knowledge! Who but the stupid man would be an ignorant man? Who but the fool would not be wise? Science, literature, art: these are only other names for exalted enjoyment. Yet, a profound student and eminent thinker said, "He that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow." The scholar meets with problems which he cannot solve, and often comes across difficulties which baffle his most diligent inquiry. How sweet are the pleasures of affection! Happy is he who loves and is loved; miserable is he who is a stranger to either. Friendship is the soul's sunshine, awakening and expanding its highest capacities. But love has its penalties. The poet speaks of "the pangs of despised love." Not seldom, too, the dark relentless face of jealousy is seen near it, menacing and alarming it. What parent does not know that affection is companioned by anxiety? See yonder woman: she has just risen from her bed; her countenance is pale, her eyes are red, her hand is hot and feverish. Why? Because the darkness brought no sleep to her jaded mind and weary body. No; she could not slumber, for her absent sailor-boy absorbed her fears. As she heard the pitiless rain and hoarse wind she lay trembling, yet praying, for his safety. How many are the charms of memory! Rogers has sung the "Pleasures of Memory," and no wonder; they are real and refined. Who of us does not con over the past? Many a dull hour has been cheered by giving one's thoughts to bygone days and hours. In this way we live over again our former lives, and often find happiness by so doing.

"Thus, memory brightens o'er the past,
As when the sun, concealed

Behind some clouds that near us hangs,
Shines on a distant field."

How much Milton must have drawn from the power of recollection after he became blind! There can be little doubt that no small portion