catacomb, is worth all the splendors of this gorgeous ceremonial and this glorious temple. VIRTUE IN OBSCURITY. And let me add, that upon many a lowly bosom, the gem of virtue shines more bright and beautiful than it is ever likely to shine in any court of royalty or crown of empire: and this, for the very reason that it shines in loneliness and obscurity, and is surrounded with no circlet of gazing and flattering eyes. There _are_ positions in life, in society, where all loveliness is seen and noted; chronicled in men's admiring comments, and perhaps celebrated in adulatory sonnets and songs. And well, perhaps, that it is so. I would not repress the admiration of society toward the lovely and good. But there is many a lowly cottage, many a lowly bedside of sickness and pain, to which genius brings no offering; to which the footsteps of the enthusiastic and admiring never come; to which there is _no_ cheering visitation--but the visitation of angels! _There_ is humble toil--_there_ is patient assiduity--_there_ is noble disinterestedness--_there_ is heroic sacrifice and unshaken truth. The great world passes by, and it toils on in silence; to its gentle footstep, there are no echoing praises; around its modest beauty, gathers no circle of admirers. It never thought of honor; it never asked to be known. Unsung, unrecorded, is the labor of its life, and shall be, till the heavens be no more; till the great day of revelation comes; till the great promise of Jesus is fulfilled; till the last shall be first, and the lowliest shall be loftiest; and the poverty of the world shall be the riches and glory of heaven. THE BABY AND THE BOY MUSICIAN. BY LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. A cherub in its mother's arms, Look'd from a casement high-- And pleasure o'er the features stray'd, As on his simple organ play'd A boy of Italy. So, day by day, his skill he plied, With still increasing zeal, For well the glittering coin he knew, Those fairy fingers gladly threw, Would buy his frugal meal. But then! alas, there came a change Unheeded was his song, And in his upraised, earnest eye There dwelt a silent wonder, why The baby slept so long. That polished brow, those lips of Rose Beneath the flowers were laid-- But where the music never tires, Amid the white-robed angel choir The happy spirit stray'd. Yet lingering at the accustom'd place That minstrel ply'd his art, Though its soft symphony of words Convulsed with pain the broken chords Within a mother's heart. They told him that the babe was dead And could return no more, _Dead! Dead!_--to his bewildered ear, A foreign language train'd to hear-- The sound no import bore. At length, by slow degrees, the truth O'er his young being stole, And with sad step he went his way No more for that blest babe to play, The tear-drop in his soul.