little one would strike the hour in soft and feeble notes, then another in louder peals; and so each in its turn, like so many sentinels heralding along their line important news, until the last and largest struck a deep and mournful knell, which vibrated from hill to hill, until the last of that day died faintly and forever away in the deep solitude of the distant glen. Spire, on the opposite side of the Rhine, and several hours ride from Heidelberg, is less distinguished for the beauty of its scenery than its interesting history. The Reformed were first called Protestants at Spire, because they protested against the decisions of a Diet held in a church still existing. The Cathedral of Spire is an edifice of unusual interest. There is nothing very striking about its exterior except its massiveness, but its interior merits are rarely equalled. Beneath its pavement formerly reposed the remains of eight German emperors, but the ravages of war have made it uncertain how many are left. In the middle of the 12th century St. Bernard visited Spire in behalf of the Crusades, and preached with great fervor in the Cathedral. One sermon, flashing with impassionate eloquence, had such an effect upon the king that he interrupted him in the midst of his discourse, requested him to hand him the cross from the altar, and from this on the Powers of Germany took a vigorous part in the prosecution of the Crusades. To say nothing of its magnificent fresco workings, of its grand and gilded arches, it contains one of the most splendid collections of scriptural paintings in northern Europe. "A thing of beauty is a joy forever," and especially when it bodies forth in lively and impressive forms the beauties of Revelation and the graces of the Christian Religion. Its long nave is hung with twenty-four paintings, representing prophecies of the Saviour, commencing with the fall and events of his history until the day of Pentecost. Standing at the west end you look through a long vista of perspective, lined with these splendid paintings, which terminates in a dome above the high altar, towards which they all look, in whose center is a large painting of Jesus Christ, the Lamb, slain for the salvation of the world, and a Priest forever after the order of Melchisedec. Around him, in the two transcepts, are "a cloud of witnesses"-apostles, martyrs and confessors, the first ripe fruits of his finished redemption. The paintings are modern and have been procured through the liberality of the King of Bavaria.

THE PLOW, THE RAKE, AND THE HOE.

A SONG for the golden past

And the high old forest trees

A song for the curls of the ladies fair,
Out floating upon the breeze;

A song for the knightly halls of Spain,
With their chivalry long ago—

But a song of songs for the farmers' tools,
The plow, the rake, and the hoe.

A shout for the men of war!

From the blood-red field they come; They look for the world to rise with awe At the sound of their fife and drum! Hark! how the rabble cheer,

On hill and valley low

We'll heed them not for our song shall be
Of the plow, the rake, and the hoe.
Oh, a farmer's the man of men!

With sinews like cords of steel,
With a kingly step and a flashing eye,
And a heart that is made to feel-
To feel the boundings of joy,

And throb at the sight of woe,

Then sing a song for noble knight

Of the plow, the rake, and the hoe.

Come forth, thou son of toil,

The earth, like bridesmaid gay,

Is putting on a carpet of verdure down,
For the feet of the blue-eyed May.
Come forth-with a lavish hand

Thy seed in the furrows sow

While we gaily join in a cheering song,
For the plow, the rake, and the hoe.

WHAT CHRIST DID FOR YOU.
For you he left his home on high;
For you to earth he came to die!
For you he slumbered in a manger;
For you to Egypt fled, a stranger:
For you he dwelt with fishermen ;
For you he slept in cave and glen:
For you abuse he meekly bore;
For you a crown of thorns he wore:
For you be braved Gethsemane;
For you he hung upon the tree :
For you his final feast was made;
For you by Judas was betrayed:
For you by Peter was denied;
For you by Pilate crucified!

For you his precious blood was shed;
For you he slept among the dead!
For you he rose with might at last;
For you beyond the skies he passed:
For you he came, at God's command;
For you he sits at his right hand!

ATLANTIC CITY.

BY AILIE WILSON.

MIDDLE Pennsylvanians need hardly go to the sea-shore for health. To the jaded and care-worn of the cities, it is a luxury to get a mouthful of God's free, fresh air, and up here amid our grand old mountains we have it. But there is an old Scotch ballad that runs some how this, if our memory is a faithful servitor:

"Too much rest is rust;

There is ever cheer in changing;
We tire by too much triest,

So we'll be up and ranging."

Therefore, leaving the Girard House at seven, we were taken along Water street to Vine street wharf, where we took the boat for Camden. The annals say that there was a deep gulch came down here, and this street was at first called Valley street, and it was by way of distinction called the landing, as it was the only opening in the bank, and here stood the Penny Pot-House. No trace of Penny Pots now-a-days.

We take the Atlantic city cars at Camden, and, bating a few curves near Camden, we have a straight level road, over the Jersey sand, all the way through, sixty miles. We have heard of Jersey sands before, but never paid such particular attention to them. Where the eternal pine had been cut off there was a second growth of scrub-oak, and this was about all one could see. Occasionally there was an opening at some town. Everything looked Jersey-like-that is, nothing we saw looked out of place. Some of the roofs were painted red-it looked natural. We got a peep at the back part of Waterford; all the houses were agedarkened, a story and a half, perhaps two stories, weather-boarded, with a back kitchen attached, slant and slab-roofed, all exactly alike—it looked quite probable. The corn grew up in fields of white sand—it looked consonant to nature. As a general thing it was a very unmeaning ride, until we got within six or eight miles of Atlantic city; then opened upon us a most magnificent view of what they call the Salt Meadows. Far out one broad sea of green, until bound by a blue streak -if we were up in mid-Pennsylvania we would have called it a mountain, but here it was old Ocean; and what seemed giant trees, towering above the common herd of the forest, were the masts and sails of vessels.

Atlantic City is six or eight miles from Absecom, and about sixty. above Cape May. We saw nothing but hotels and stores. The cars ran down to one of the lower hotels, then came back to the United States Hotel, where we got out with the crowd, and followed through a gauntlet of porters, nurses and children, and visitors, who all swarm to the front to see the new comers. Give our checks to the porter, enter our names, get a room-way up-get the Jersey sand and ashes out of our ears, nose and mouth, and come down to look around. Walk into

the bar-room-saw a man drinking a glass full of something, looked like wine, but on drawing water from the cooler, discover that to be the color of the water, perfectly tasteless and good, and said to be healthy. Not wishing to appear "green," and wondering where the Ocean is, we stroll to the back part of the hotel, where we hear the roar, and follow a plank walk. On attaining a rise of sand of about twenty feet, the roar is loud and full, and Old Ocean bursts on our sight in all its grandeur. The sand is white, and far out over the blue we see a ridge of white-the crest of the waves that breaks over the bar so dangerous to mariners. The shore is strewed with wrecks. This is one of the most dangerous coasts along our Atlantic shore. Here where we stand is a wrecked hull that has been laying here for fourteen years. Down there are two that have been washed in within a few years. One, last spring a year. Here it was that vessel was wrecked and four hundred lives lost. The beach is strewn with spars, masts, rudders, spikes and bolts, telling of deeds "all Thy doing." There used to be a buoy out there, but a schooner run into it lately and sunk it. The Government is building a light-house, which will hereafter give safety to the mariner. About a hundred yards from the beach are rows of little houses, which look like jew stores; on poles are hung pants, coats and straw hats to dry, and these we discover are hired to the bathers. We walked along the beach, and the waves came up to our feet-"thus far and no farther." We looked at the bathers awhile, and as each wave came rolling in, there was such a cheery, joyous shout, that we started immediately for the little houses, and issued forth dressed in red-flannel breeches, with a white stripe down each leg, and a jacket that put us in mind of the "witty sark" of Tam O'Shanter's witch, of the same material faced with white, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. Being rather timid we only adventured to where the breakers dash, and before time for much reflection had our heels knocked from under us, and nose and ears filled with salt water, and left high and dry on the beach by the receding wave. Following others, we soon floated like a cork, beyond the breakers. The waves came in ten feet or more high, and a dexterous duck left you on the other side, while it spent its force on the beach. How possible things are in nature! Here a rope of sand binds the Ocean in its might.

Every wave seemed to penetrate to one's "inards," and reinvigorate in a wonderful degree. The sun shines bright and cloudless above, and it, with the sand, made it seem that it must be hot. But the constant breeze makes it cool as a summer evening embalmed by the zephyr.

We dine at two. The dining-room of this hotel is upwards of two hundred feet long; and down that long array of four tables we see not a familiar face. The afternoon is spent in lounging. Up out of the white sand grow stunted pine and chestnut. But they do not grow more than twenty feet-not higher than the ridge of sand between this and the beach. The sharp winter winds prevent further attainment. We saw a map of the city in the bar-room magnificent in its proportions, but now only in its embryo state.

In the evening we took chairs and sat down on the beach. This was the most magnificent and suggestive scene.

"When evening spreads her banquet in the west,
And sup'd in glory with her parting guest;
When the fair fingers of the night unrols
Her starry lettered and mysterious scroll."

We saw the "departing guest," and the splendor of his train lingered in our sight. Then the moon, at first dimmed by clouds, rose in full majesty, mounting her white throne, studded with brilliants, and though she no doubt mirrored herself in every wave with unfavoring loveliness, yet there was one long track of light, which seemed a highway far across the waters for the ships to go. The solemn roar of the ocean, the summer lightning that played amid the dark mass of clouds that lay towering upon the right, the storied sky, shaped

"With influence of unmeasured might,

The mind's creations and the soul's delight."

Many groups of men, women and children strolled along the beach, but there was no talking, or if there was it was in whispered words. Many sat gazing out upon the ocean, what their "mind's creations" were, who can tell?. It was indeed a suggestive scene. And as we sat and gazed, there came up from the well of memory, dripping fresh, words which we had read in boyhood, and which seemed clean gone forever, until this "influence of unmeasured might" raised them:

"Do you ask me how I'd amuse me
When the long bright summer comes,
And welcome leisure woos me

To shun life's crowded homes;

To shun the crowded city,

Whose dense oppresive air,

Might make one weep with pity

For those who must be there?"

And after telling of many places he would not go, which we cannot read, he continues:

"No-I'd seek some shore of Ocean,

Where nothing comes to mar

The ever fresh commotion

Of land and sea at war;
Save the gentle evening only
As it steals along the deep,

So spirit-like and lonely

To still the waves to sleep.

"These long hours I'd spend in viewing
The elemental strife,

My soul the while subduing

With the littleness of life;
Of life with all its paltry plans,
Its conflicts and its cares-
The feebleness of all that's man's,
The might that's God's and theirs.

"And when we came I'd listen
To the stilling of that war,
Till o'er my peace would glisten