foundations of the coal in the ancient forests, and, as they fell, He packed them closely, during the process of ages, upon the floor of the heated earth, banked them up with mountains, and, in time, came man, to drag this wealth of treasure into light, and through veins and arteries beneath the city’s streets it circulates, until it gleams with equal splendour as a jet of flame, in the abode of the artisan and the prince alike ; the table is spread for me with the products of another’s toil; the fragrant tea that now invigorates my frame, was gathered in far-distant lands; the spices, from islands of the sea, are here; bread, from ears of wheat, prepared by toil and labour ; roots and fruits, gathered by many hands for me. The poor rough cloth that covers my board, is woven by the samc machinery that spins the fabric for the richest lady. All of man's toil I share in. I cannot number up the million hands that have been busy for my comfort. I cannot tell the gospel of eternal use mapped out around me ; for in all the perfections of the age in vast machinery, and all that is useful in civilization, I partake with all man kind. My toil, too, blesses some who are dependent on me—an aged sire, or tender wife or child—for I am not alone, poor toiling operative though I be; this world is my world, and its heart-affections are as truly mine as thine, oh sovereign of my nation. “ And now I must pass away, and whether beggar artisan or king, poet, player, merchant or musician, I must die. To-day I am—to-morrow I shall be for gotten. Not so. Whatever has been my use will never Whatever place I have filled will send down its die. uses through all time. The works of my hands will still live on, or prompt men to imitation or improve ment. Still, who am I? Granted that I may leave the world made better than I found it ; granted that its wheels roll smoother for my labours, what is that to me? Andwhen I am gone and my labours left behind, where am I gone? and what of the soul that enabled me to become the minister of use ? When my foot no more treads the earth, when I am not, what for me And here it is that my speculation fails, and the dark cloud of mystery settles down upon my future. Only as the hand of the spirit opens it; only as I shall know that I shall live beyond the uses of the passing hour ; only as I can realize that I may carry fruit with me to another life, will the uses of this be found. Beggar though I have been, crushed down beneath the load of poverty when I pass out to the vast unknown, what shall I carry with me? I know that the prince carries not with him the value of his shroud. What my place or mission may have been among men, earth alone can answer. But earth has ended for me, when the heart ceases to beat, the light is gone from the eye, and the curtain is dropped forever ! Oh raise it, lift it, souls of the mighty dead ! rend it asunder, oh spirits of the im mortals ! leave me not in the dark mystery of material existence only! Religion answers me with the faint voices of the long ago which have come so far through the arches of time that their echoes are lost; and when I ask of the fathers for light, they answer me with strange, vague words. Sometimes they tell me I shall go to the Great Spirit, far off in some dim, mysterious land; sometimes, that I shall sleep the sleep that knows no waking till some distant day of wrath and doom ; sometimes they answer me with the cold external voice of science, and point to the fires extinguished, the mate rial form fading into decay with no higher result than memory of its perished loveliness; sometimes they whisper of a life to come, but never tell me that my uses shall follow me—that the life I have lived on earth I shall carry with me to that land beyond. “ But behold the gates are opened to me, and there I see stored up in the spirit-world all that I did on earth. and there I can trace the results of every deed I’ve done there I may discover the resignation of the beggar, the tears and sighs of the poor. I see them woven into those crowns of glory and robes of transfigured beauty. I behold all treasured up; the works of the operative, the struggles of the player, the ideas of poet, sculptor and artist—all preserved. “ All that we have done is there ; I know that after I have fulfilled my mission I still shall be the man I was on earth, for I shall carry all my manhood with me. It only remains for me to return to my spirit and question whether I have made the most of its endow ments, and put to its best uses the life which has been entrusted to me. Have I borne as best I might the cross of the beggar? Have I done my duty as the toiling labourer? Have I, as the poor player, acted well my part? Have I striven for goodness? Have I sought to help some other more feeble than myself? Have I, as the merchant, faithfully discharged God’s commission entrusted to me? Have I been the soldier of the Lord in whatever place He has commissioned me to fight? Who am I? It matters not what round of the ladder my feet may tread—the lowest or the highest; the beggar is of as much worth as the king the poet as the mightiest onc who gives him patronage. Wherever the foot of man may tread, wherever he can toil, there is his mission marked out in the woof of existence. It is enough that around me lies my duty and my use; it is enough that I have seen that within