“See’st thou yon radiant vision clothed in light, reflecting every tint of joy in earth and heaven? Its name is _Love_. Its birth-place is the bosom of a God. ’Twas sent from the high court of heaven as help-meet to man’s _will_—that power which likens him to Deity. Together, they are ministering angel and guardian of the soul, while prisoned in its earthly tenement. While free, love bears the smiles of heaven reflected on its wings to the bright beings of the mind. These crave a still higher aliment—_knowledge of God_! Unsatisfied, they pluck the specious fruit which earth presents, and hug it to the heart, believing to have found the ‘Pearl of Price.’ In haste, ere they awake from the delusion, the Passions weave their dull and heavy chains fast round the Will, and with it, _this_ bright being’s dragged to earth. Love’s pinions may be clipped, its lustre dimmed, its beauteous form be shrouded in earth’s clay; but its celestial nature can’t be changed. Disfigure it, crush it to dust if you will, the glory of heaven will cling round it still, and hallow all on whatsoe’er it rests. And when this pure and holy vision forms a chain, linked by the will, uniting the brilliant powers of intellect with the bright spirits that adore, then is man god-like. “Each of these orders leaves its impress on the heart for weal or wo. The heart, that great ‘Recording Scroll’ of Majesty Supreme.” * * * * * Again the dark spirit-wind held upon earth his desolating reign, and breathing forth his icy breath till all nature seemed locked in the frozen embrace of death; then, as at loss whereon to wreak his wrath, he sought the haunts of men. All day long had he pelted his missiles of snow and hail on the defenseless heads of the weary pedestrian in the city of ——. The rich heard but his threatening war-notes, as he rushed madly, but harmlessly against the casements of their luxurious homes; but the trembling poor felt the full burden of his merciless ire, as he swept through the gaping crevices of their time-shattered dwellings. Thus, as he fled howling down a dark, dismal alley, a creaking-door flew wide at his approach, scattering the blaze of paper and shavings, over which a little girl was stooping. As she endeavored to close the resisting door, a feeble voice from the corner of the miserable apartment whispered, “My son, have you returned?” “No, mamma, it is not brother,” answered the sweet voice of the child. “It was the wind, and it has blown all my fire away.” Then seating herself by the low bed of her mother, and endeavoring to cover her little red feet with her scanty robe, she said, “Dear mamma, did you feel any warm when I made the fire?” “I saw the blaze, my love, and it looked warm,” was said, in a low, hoarse tone; “but come, my Amy, lie down beside me, and I will try to keep you warm.”