entered quietly with my night-key, Sykes [For the National Magazine.] THE TWO SISTERS. BY ALICE CARY. a poor little house that stood almost within the shadow of a great monastery there lived once two sisters, named Agnes and Elthea. Orphans they were, and heirs of nothing but an honest name and the trade of their parents, which was that of weaving. The elder, Agnes, had black hair, a pale face, hands that were never idle, and a tongue that was always still, except when it repeated prayers, or when the volubility of Elthea provoked it to speech. "Mirth ill becomes us, good sister," she sometimes said in her severe piety. "Do not the bones of our parents molder in the darkness that will never give them up till the judgment, and is not our bread to be miserably earned by our weaving, and if we take time to laugh, what will become of the work?" with never a smile, "know you not that the devil helps his own?" This was a dreadful thought, and, pondering it, Elthea would remain silent a whole half-hour sometimes; but in the end laugh again, and reply, " If it be as you say, good sister, I will sing while I may, for the breath I use in singing would not last me to cool the fires a thousand years hence." "O my poor sister," Agnes would sigh, moistening the threads of her weaving with her tears; and thus from day to day they sat at their looms, roses blooming in the cheeks of one, and wrinkles and pallor making the face of the other old before its time. At twilight Elthea went with their woven cloth to the neighboring convent, where it was embroidered by the sisters in patterns fine and beautiful enough for queens to wear. If it were summer, she plucked flowers on the way and made crowns for her golden hair, which she wished might be admired by eyes besides her own, as she bent down her head over the little still places along the brook. If Agnes could have seen how nicely she disposed the flowers, and with what vanity she broadened the golden bands of her hair, she would have frowned, even at her prayers; but Elthea never wore home the flowers. She gave them to the brook, whose bright waters carried them lovingly away, and smoothed back the broad bands to modest dimensions before crossing the threshold of the gloomy house where, till her return, the firelight seemed afraid to shine. One night, as she was spreading the table with bread and grapes and milk, singing a song so low that it hardly came out of her heart, a song that was half thanksgiving and half prayer, the great bell of the monastery began to toll so solemnly that for a moment she grew pale, and crossed herself in silence. The face of Agnes suffered no change, for nothing, indeed, could add to its habitual melancholy; but her voice evinced a bitter gratification as she said she was glad her sister was proven capable of fear, if not of contrition. "You are very wise, Agnes, and I am very weak; for though I know our parents are dead, and we are poor girls who must weave from morning till night, I can hardly suppress my wicked inclination to laugh and to sing." So Elthea would reply, and trying to separate the smiles from her rosy mouth, she would weave very demurely for five minutes, then, unawares, break into mockery of the bird at After a moment, however, a flash of the door-side, or ask Agnes how it was joy brightened the cheek of Elthea, and that so often at night her cloth measured having said that some sister of the conthe longer. vent must have passed from death unto "Giddy soul," Agnes would answer, life, she took up the melody where it had been broken off, and renewed her prepara- waiting meekly before Elthea in the light tions with cheerful serenity. of the burning fire. "Hush!" said Agnes, lifting up her hand; "I hear the mountain-wind coming angrily down; the roof-tree shakes its last leaves off to battle with it; saints protect us! it will be a fearful night!" "You honor me above my deserts, gentle friend," replied Elthea, her confusion showing all the more for the blushes in which it tried to hide. "We are but poor girls, the children of weavers, and our parents are dead." "Children?" repeated the stranger, turning his fair face toward the dark corners of the room; "I see only thyself." As she spoke the rain dashed against the roof as if a thunder-cloud emptied itself all at once. Then Agnes began to cry aloud, as a child that is lost in the dark; but Elthea said, "God, who holds the whirlwinds in his hand, will keep us, and we shall not die. Why do you fear, my sister? doth he not love us the same when to our weak vision the way of his providence seems dark?" And still the bell tolled mournfully, the winds drove dismally, and the rain beat heavily. It was enough to make any soul afraid that could not draw light into the darkness from the sunshine of a past life of pious cheerfulness and resignation. Then Agnes came forth from beneath the cloth of the loom, and said, turning her dark face toward the stranger, "My sister, a giddy and thoughtless maiden as you may judge, has spoken truly. We are indeed poor, weaving all day long for our bread, which at the best is scanty enough,” and she broke the small loaf in two pieces as she said this, and offering one piece to Elthea, began to eat the other, for she hoped to drive the stranger away by showing him that they had nothing to spare. "Have mercy on us, good saints!" cried Agnes again and again, wringing her hands in dismay. "Our Father, we thank and bless thee for the fire that makes us warm, and for the roof that shelters us, and for our trust in thee that no storm can beat down," prayed Elthea. Directly, in a lull of the storm, there was heard a knocking at the door, and Elthea, smiling, made haste to open it, for she said, "It is perhaps some poor wayfarer whose life is mercifully given into our keeping." But Agnes reproved her with frowns, saying, "Stir not for your life; it is some murderer who seeks our blood, or at best a robber who takes advantage of the storm." And when she saw that Elthea would not be hindered from opening the door, she hid herself in the darkest corner of the house, under the cloth that was in her loom, and her trembling shook the floor beneath Elthea's feet, as her steady hand unlatched the door and set it open wide. "How blessed art thou of the Virgin! 1 dreamed not these rude hills held so fair a blossom. Thy goodness, for I am sure thou art good, shall be my shield as well as thy roof. Bring me straight to thy royal mother, that I may kiss her hand." The youth and stranger had crossed the threshold as he spoke, and now stood VOL. VIII.-23 But Elthea forgot her long fast, which she was used to keep all day, and remembering the stranger, who had been beaten by the rain, and must be tired and famished, she offered him what bread was left without tasting any. The stranger accepted the bread, bowing so low that all his golden locks fell down about his face, and seeing what he did, Agnes not only frowned, but asked, in accents sharp and reproachful, how the poor could work without food. As she spoke, the piece of bread the stranger held seemed to grow into a whole loaf, and the part he gave back to Elthea was more than the whole she had given. And as they ate, the rain drove, and the wind blew, and the great bell of the monastery tolled and tolled. When Agnes spoke, she could hardly hear her own voice for the noise of the storm. Nevertheless, she said she believed the tempest had wellnigh ceased, and a favorable time was offered for wanderers, if any were abroad, to seek shelter in the neighboring convent. The stranger seemed not to hear or to understand her words, for he continued to eat his bread quietly as before. "Had we never so much charity," continued Agnes, "we could neither shelter nor lodge a wayfarer, even though we knew him to be a pious priest, let alone a vagabond of a minstrel, such as are likeliest to trespass on the poor." Now the stranger wore the habit of a minstrel, and carried with him a harp, so, if he heard the words Agnes spoke, he could not mistake their meaning. All at once, as if the tolling of the bell smote upon his heart, the tears filled his beautiful eyes and ran silently down his face. "Your tears will never be dried if you remain here," said Agnes, "for we are poor girls, who sell the kerchiefs we weave for bread." But Elthea, coming softly between him and her cold-hearted sister, wiped his tears with her long golden hair, and in a whisper inquired why he wept. "The great king who ruled us so well and so wisely is dead," answered the stranger, "and my heart is very heavy." "And what is that to a poor minstrel like you, or to weavers like us," said Agnes. "Could we leave our work to weep, though the king were twice dead?" and she climbed into her loom again, and beckoned her sister to follow. But Elthea sat down at the feet of the stranger and wept, saying, "The king was a good king, and who now will rule us so well?" "Foolish soul!" cried Agnes, "what is the king to you, whether he be alive or dead?" But, heedless of her words, Elthea continued to sit at the stranger's feet and to weep, and her tears soothed the youth insomuch that he took his harp, and, as the rain beat, and the wind blew, and the bell tolled, sang a mournful dirge for the dead king. "You see how poor we are, and that we have but one bed, which cannot be divided," spoke Agnes, fretfully, interrupting the music; "and strolling minstrels like you are used to no better shelter than the oak-trees make for them, and, besides, your harp is troublesome to me: we must weave to-morrow, and if we sleep not, how shall it be done?" And having finished this speech, she angrily dashed herself across the bed. Agnes knew no bounds on seeing the minstrel wait to share the morning meal; but Elthea smiled, and divided her piece of bread as before, and when the grudging sister went to her loom, the charitable one broke from her geranium all the flowers it bore, and twined them about the harp of the minstrel, who was going to the monastery to sing dirges and to offer prayers for the rest of the dead king's soul. Then Elthea made the fire bright, and, bringing from the bed her own pillow, said she was sorry it was all she could do, and with a smile that brightened all his dream, she went away, and, resting her head on the cloth of her loom, slept never So sweetly in her life. When he went away her blessing went with him, and the dirges he sung that day were sweet with thanksgiving as they were fervent with sorrow. "A pretty measure of cloth are you likely to weave to-day," said Agnes, as Elthea sought her loom; "the sun is an hour high, and be sure I shall not divide my bread with you for your folly.” Elthea was thinking of the minstrel, and hardly heard what her sister said; but her fingers had never seemed so nimble, and her shuttle flew and flew just as if it had wings, and the hours of the day dwindled into moments, and before she knew it was night, and her task was done. While Agnes sat still scolding and working at her unfinished task, Elthea was away to the convent with her full measure of cloth. The music in the choir had never sounded half so sweet as it sounded that night, for she knew the minstrel was singing with the rest. Three days went by, and in the evening of each Elthea listened to the music in the choir, and the hour of her listening was like an hour taken out of heaven; but the evening of the fourth day she missed the harp of the minstrel, and coming to the brook, she sat down on the bank very sad, for it seemed to her that her heart was being borne away in its waves. Suddenly a shadow fell on the water, and looking up, Elthea saw the poor minstrel, of whom she was thinking. Her heart bled into her cheek its soft secret when she saw him, and trembling, she covered her face with her hands and remained silent. Placing his harp on the grass by the brook side, the minstrel seated himself by Elthea, and when the moon came up he told her all the story of his love; and as she listened with a blush and sigh, he laid his hand on her golden hair, and said, if he had any riches When it was morning, the ill-nature of except his harp, he would ask her to go with him to his own country, and to be his works and doings, either in whole or in companion always. But what cared Elthea for riches? she knew how to weave, and it would be easy work weaving for him. And there, in the moonlight, they plighted everlasting love with manifold kisses. Many nights the bosom of the minstrel had been the pillow of Elthea, and many days they had traveled together, her feet bruised and tired, but her heart running over with delight, and her lips singing and prattling all the while, when toward sunset they sat down by the wayside to rest. Then it was that the minstrel told his pretty wife another story, the marrow of which was, that he was no minstrel at all, except, indeed, for the season of mourning for the king, his father; for himself was the king's son; and the poor weaver girl, who had shared with him her bread and her fireside, was henceforth to share with him his broad and beautiful palace, and for the shelter she had given him from one storm, he would shelter her from all the storms of life. part, and to rest on no other work but Christ's work, no other righteousness but Christ's righteousness, no other merit but Christ's merit, as your ground of hope. Take this course, and you are a pardoned soul. "To Christ," said Peter, "give all the prophets witness, that through his name whosoever believeth in him shall receive remission of sins." "Through this man," says Paul at Antioch, "is preached unto.you the forgiveness of sins; and by him all that believe are justified from all things." "In him," writes Paul to the Colossians, "we have redemption through his blood, even the forgiveness of sins." The Lord Jesus Christ, in great love and compassion, has made a full and complete satisfaction for sin, by his own death upon the cross. There he offered himself as a sacrifice for us, and allowed the wrath of God, which we deserved, to fall on his own head. For our sins he gave himself, suffered and died—the just for the unjust, the innocent for the guilty, that he might deliver us from the curse of a broken law, and provide a complete pardon for all who are willing to receive it. And by so doing, as Isaiah says, "he has borne our sins;" as John the Baptist says, "he has taken away sin;" as Paul says, "he has purged our sins, and put away sin;" and as Daniel says, "he has made an end of sin, and finished transgression." And now the Lord Jesus is sealed and appointed by God the Father to be a Prince and a Saviour, to give remission of sins to all who will have it. The keys of death and hell are put in his hand. The government of the gate of heaven is laid on his shoulder. He himself is the door, and by him all that enter in shall be saved. Christ, in one word, has purchased a full forgiveness, if you and I were willing to receive it. He has done all, paid all, suffered all, that was needful to reconcile us to God. He has provided a garment of righteousness to clothe us. He has opened a fountain of living waters to cleanse us. He has removed every barrier between us and God the Father, taken every obstacle out of the way, and made a road by which the vilest may return. All things are now ready, and the sinner has only to repent of sin, believe, and be saved, to eat and be satisfied, to ask and receive, to wash and be cleansed. And Elthea was loved and honored by all her people as long as she lived, and many was the real minstrel that blessed her name, and sang songs in her praise; and many was the embroidered train she wore that was made of the cloth she had woven when a poor girl, and the cloudy days and the stormy days were always brightest with the blessing of memory. And to the end of her life Agnes wore coarse frocks, and wove cloth to make embroideries that she never saw, fretting and scolding at her sister's good, fortune all the while, and spoiling before its time the beauty of a face that might have rivaled her sister's if she had suffered her heart to shine through it the same. THE QUESTION OF ALL HEARTS HERE must a man go for pardon? Where is forgiveness of sin to be found? Listen, reader, and by God's help I will tell you. There is a way both sure and plain, and into that way I desire to guide every inquirer's feet. That way is simply to trust in the Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, as your Saviour. It is to cast your soul, with all its sins, unreservedly on Christ; to cease completely from any dependence on your own A [For the National Magazine.] THOUGHTS ON HISTORY. HISTORY of history would make a good history of itself. The histories of nations, law, conquest, war, and commerce, are useful, entertaining, and instructive. But the rise and progress of history, its various fortunes, faults, and forms, its sources and its sphere, have all the attractions of any one of the myriad subjects it invests with novelty and rescues from oblivion. However, in such an undertaking, we labor under difficulties similar to those which perplex the historian of a people of uncertain origin and faded annals. . It would seem, from the ardent wish of universal man to outlive his years, that no age has failed to erect some imperishable monument of its deeds; and perhaps it is more owing to the ravages of time than to any indifference to fame on the part of man, that we find so scanty an amount of data for a groundwork of his history. fits of history, as well as obviated many difficulties in its study. Formerly, interminable manuscripts written in foreign languages, few in number and costly, were inaccessible to the majority of reputed scholars. But since the discovery of the art of printing, nearly all the valuable and accessible writings of past ages have been reproduced in compact and readable books. Nor is it the least facility we enjoy in our connection with books, that their sizes are more convenient and their embellishments more beautiful than the ponderous, shabby tomes of ancient days. Indeed, there is not a greater contrast between the fashions of remote generations as to the dress of their persons, than there is between them as to the dress of their literature. Our own country deserves great praise for her contributions to the art of book-making, whether we speak of the glory of her literature or the tasteful gilt devices that adorn the boards between which it is compressed. While English books display a better paper than ours, we may justly lay claim to the most varied and splendid outward appearance; but German works seldom make any pretensions beyond a well-printed pamphlet. Com publications of the past are coarse and unwieldy. There was the black letter used by old English and modern Gothic writers, bound in russet, with heavy clasps of iron and steel; papyrus and parchment, inscribed with pen and ink, and rolled together like a scroll. Almost invariably the love of fame, not solicitude for posterity, suggests some lasting testimonial of our ingenuity and toil, and makes our painstaking tolerable. The tablets exhumed from ancient ru-pared with those we issue now-a-days, the ins bear record to the personal wealth of princes as often as they do to the glory and grandeur of powerful states. This propensity to insure immortal names being common to mankind, it would be needless to inquire into their neglect of, or attention to, history in any particular age of the world. In this order, paper, papyrus, and parchLet it suffice to say, that this department have preserved the only memorials ment of literature was cultivated at the earliest dawn of our own language, for the first book ever printed in English was the "Historyes of Troye," bearing date A. D. 1471. The popular form of history in written volumes is the best provision against the certain decay of departing years. It is expedient to garner up securer than floating traditions a faithful record of the times; and the estimation of eminent service rendered to society in this description of writing is so high, that it has come to be as honorable to obtain the leading clew to some important event and become a discoverer, as it is to contrive and become an inventor. New facilities for the use and preservation of knowledge in general have much extended the bene we possess of many centuries; after that we are guided by coins and medals, obelisks chiseled into languages long disused, and pyramids pictured with emblematic forms of beasts, birds, and fishes. The shield of Achilles shows a nation in war and a nation in peace: there are delineated the general and the peasant, the modes of ancient theft and the sports of harvest-time. Beyond this period, it is reasonable to infer, the forms were quite as rude and imperfect, notwithstanding it is said the artist's work of the present day is only the revival of a lost excellence or the restoration of an ancient glory. History appears, out of the archives of classified literature, not always in as convenient and lasting forms, but more or less authentic. Nature's impressions are |