kneeling saints, whose looks express continual prayer; those statues placed on tombs, as if to awaken one day with the dead; our churches, with their lofty aisles--all seem intimately connected with devout ideas. I love this splendid homage, made by man to that which promises him neither fortune nor power; which neither rewards nor punishes, save by the feelings it inspires; I grow proud of my kind, as I recognize something so disinterested. The magnificence of religion cannot be too much increased. I love this prodigality of terrestrial gifts to another world; offerings from time to eternity; sufficient for the morrow are the cares required by human economy. Oh! how I love what would be useless waste, were life nothing better than a career of toil for despicable gain! if this earth be but our road to heaven, what can we do better than so elevate our souls that they feel the Infinite, the Invisible, the Eternal, in the midst of the limits that surround them? Jesus permitted a weak, and, perhaps, repentant woman, to steep his head in precious balms, saying to those who bade her turn them to more profitable use; 'Why trouble ye the woman? the poor ye have always with ye, but me ye have not always.' Alas! whatever is good or sublime on this earth is ours but for awhile; we have it not always. Age, infirmities, and death soon sully the heavenly dewdrop that only rests on flowers. Dear Oswald, let us, then, blend love, religion, genius, sunshine, odors, music, and poetry. There is no Atheism but cold selfish baseness. Christ has said: 'When two or three are gathered together in my name, I will be amongst them;' and what, O God! _is_ assembling in thy name, if we do not so while enjoying the charms of nature, therein praising and thanking thee for our life; above all, when some other heart, created by thy hands, responds entirely to our own?"