and Mrs. Browning, Mendelssohn, and Moscheles, but men so far aloof from ordinary literary coteries as Grote and Sir William Molesworth. His tenderest attachments seem to have been those he entertained for Mendelssohn and the son of his benefactor, Benson Rathbone; his greatest intimacy that with Dickens, who, if he had not displeased him, would have inherited a ring in memory of one greatly helped.' Help was indeed needed to soothe Chorley's declining years-the deceptions and irritations incident to a sensitive. nature grievously misunderstood, the failure to form any true intimate tie, the consequent sensation of loneliness, the frequent painful estrangements due to the irritability thus engendered, the wearing sense of the hopeless malady of his sister and the shock of his brother's death, combined to render his latter years querulous and disconsolate and to foster habits of self-indulgence detrimental to his happiness and self-respect as far as they proceeded-though they did not proceed far." "His musical ear and memory," writes Julian Marshall, "were remarkable, and his acquaintance with musical works was very extensive. He spared no pains to make up for the deficiency of his early training, and f om first to last was conspicuous for honesty and integrity. Full of strong prejudices, yet with the highest sense of honor, he frequently critised those. whom he esteemed more severely than those whom he disliked. The natural bias of his mind was undoubtedly toward conservatism in art, but he was often ready to acknowledge dawning un

recognized genius, whose claims he would with unwearied pertinacity urge upon the public."

IN NUREMBERG.

Betimes the next morning I was on my way to St. Sebald's church, to assist in the celebration of the anniversary of the Reformation. For this I could have imagined a more fitting locale than was made up by the presence of all those saints and angels and Coronations of the Virgin, and those candies and crucifixes, and that ever-burning Tucher light, and those escutcheoned monuments. The psalms for the day were advertised at the church doors, where also a kind of voluntary contribution was going on, every one quietly putting in his poor's penny as he passed the corner where stood the dried-up holy-water vase. The building was filling rapidly with a congregation thoroughly piebald in appearance. Old women were there in stiff buckram bonnets, which might pass for the head-gear of the Sisters of Charity; burghers in every pattern of mütze and upper benjamin: with abundance of peasant men and women, the latter putting all modern fashionists to shame by the grace of their traditional head-dress-a composition of black ribbon with pendent loops behind, a caul of silver filigree, and sometimes a forehead-band of gay red or blue. There was as much walking about among the men as can be seen in any Catholic church(I caught a glimpse of the Schnellpost Hylas wandering about);-I cannot add as much of that abstracted and silent devotion among the women, which is so remarkable and worthy an object of imitation in the behavior of those attending what some have been pleased to call "the idolatrous sacrifice of the Mass."

Short time I had to look round me and note as little as this; for, while I was considering the remarkable mixture of creeds past and present which the scene presented, the organ burst out, and with it a thousand voices, into a grand Lutheran choral, which I had in vain sought for in Herr Schneider's choir-book. It will be best known to the reader as the tune tortured to stage uses by Meyerbeer in Les Huguenots. But what

were all Meyerbeer's effects, produced by "rhyming and twirling" that noble old psalm, compared with the grandeur of this? I have never been more strongly moved by music. As verse after verse of the grand tune rolled through the dim vaults of the church with a mighty triumph, it appeared to my fancy as if the effigies and pictures on the walls began to shake and tremble and fade; the Saints to droop their heads dejectedly; and the votive light, from which, somehow or other, I never strayed far when in the church of St. Sebald, to flicker as if it were about to expire.

The aspect of the congregation, too, seemed to undergo a metamorphosis, as if a sternness and defiance came up into the eyes and lips of the people while they joined loudly and heartily in the plain but lofty song of trust and thanksgiving. I see before me now one stout old man, who was sitting by himself, psalter in hand, with a Geneva cap on his head-a study for a Balfour of Burley-singing at the very top of his Lutheran lungs, at the very feet of such a sweet, angelic, palmbearing saint, who drooped from her niche above him! And as I looked and listened, strange was the conflict between the homage due to those ancient and bold thinkers who broke for the world: the cerements in which Mind was becoming decrepit, and between a natural yearning after that still elder faith which was addressing the heart through the eye with a power not to be withstood, even at the moment that the ear was ringing with the triumph of its exultation.-Music and Manners in France and Germany.

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

A song for the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who hath ruled the greenwood long;

Here's health and renown to his brave green crown
And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown, when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out,

And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout.

Then here's to the Oak, the brave old Oak
Who standeth in his pride alone,
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

In the days of old, when the Spring with gold
Has freighted the branches gray,

Through the grass at his feet crept the maidens sweet,
To gather the dew of May.

And on that day, to the rebec gay,

They frolicked with lovesome swains.

They are gone, they are dead, in the church-yard laid; But the tree, it still remains.

Then here's to the Oak, etc.

He saw rare times when the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear,

When the Squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway that we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he ne'er shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Then here's to the Oak, etc.

CHRYSOSTOM, ST. JOHN, a Father of the Church and Archbishop of Constantinople, born at Antioch, in Syria, about 357; died at Comana, in Cappadocia, September 4, 407. The last of the great Christian sophists who came from the schools of heathen rhetoric, he was the son of Secundus, Commander of the Imperial Army in Syria. His original name was merely John; that of Chrysostom, "Goldenmouth," having been given to him on account of his eloquence. He was of a noble Greek family which emigrated to Antioch from Byzantium. He early distinguished himself in the rhetorical school of Libanius; but on becoming an ardent Christian, he retired to the desert, where he spent six years in an ascetic and studious life. It is said that he spent two years alone in a damp, unwholesome cavern in committing the Bible to memory. His health failing, he returned to Antioch, where he was induced to enter into the active service of the Church, being ordained deacon in 381, presbyter in 386, and was soon recognized as the foremost pulpit orator of the day. A series of Homilies on "The Statues," delivered at Antioch, are among his extant writings. They were occasioned by the prospect of severe measures threatened by the Emperor Theodosius, whose statues had been destroyed by the people of Antioch. An extract