"My friend," he wrote, "God's word is true; God's laws are just; He will come some day in a chariot of fire. Neither moneys nor high places nor worldly honors nor pleasures can stay or avert the stroke of that sword of divine justice which will 'pierce even to the dividing asunder of the joints and marrow.' Let no siren voices beguile you. Without the gift of His grace who died that we might live, there is no hope for kings, none for you, none for me. I pray you consider this, my friend; for I speak as one commissioned of God." Whether these words of the minister were met, after their transmission over seas, with a smile of derision,--with an empty gratitude, that said, "Good fellow!" and forgot their burden,--with a stitch of the heart, that made solemn pause and thoughtfulness, and short, in struggle against the habit of a life, we will not say; our story may not tell, perhaps. But to the mind of the parson it was clear that at some great coming day it _would_ be known of all men where the seed that he had sown had fallen,--whether on good ground or in stony places. The cross-ocean mails were slow in those days; and it was not until nearly four months after the transmission of the Doctor's letter--he having almost forgotten it--that Reuben came one day bounding in from the snow in mid-winter, his cheeks aflame with the keen, frosty air, his eyes dancing with boyish excitement:-- "A letter, papa! a letter!--and Mr. Troop" (it is the new postmaster under the Adams dynasty) "says it came all the way from Europe. It's got a funny post-mark." The minister lays down his book,--takes the letter,--opens it,--reads,--paces up and down the study thoughtfully,--reads again, to the end. "Reuben, call your Aunt Eliza." There is matter in the letter that concerns her,--that in its issues will concern the boy,--that may possibly give a new color to the life of the parsonage, and a new direction to our story. OUR FIRST CITIZEN.[A] Winter's cold drift lies glistening o'er his breast; For him no spring shall bid the leaf unfold: What Love could speak, by sudden grief oppressed, What swiftly summoned Memory tell, is told. Even as the bells, in one consenting chime, Filled with their sweet vibrations all the air, So joined all voices, in that mournful time, His genius, wisdom, virtues, to declare. What place is left for words of measured praise, Till calm-eyed History, with her iron pen, Grooves in the unchanging rock the final phrase That shapes his image in the souls of men? Yet while the echoes still repeat his name, While countless tongues his full-orbed life rehearse, Love, by his beating pulses taught, will claim The breath of song, the tuneful throb of verse,--