Katharine possessed naturally a good deal of force of character. In household matters she is said to have had her will, and her husband, knowing her prudence and admirable management, sensibly and pleasantly gave way to her. It has been stated that she was at the same time imperious; and that her self-willedness caused disagreement between her and Luther. This is proved, however, not to have been the case. His letters abound in expressions of love and esteem for her, his "greatest comfort." And if in her own department she sometimes showed self-will, Luther, who saw this infirmity, made it a ground of jest and good-humored remark. In his letters he sometimes alludes to this: "My rib, Katy, my lord, Katy, my empress, Katy, salutes you." And in a letter to herself, he addresses her, "My kind and dear lord and master, Katy, Lutheress, doctress, and priestess, at Wittenberg."

Mixing much in the society of men of genius and cultivation, who frequented her house, she became herself a woman of cultivated mind, far beyond most of her sex in those days. It was for this reason, probably, as well as from the fact that she had at home many duties to perform, that she did not much affect the company of others of her sex; who did not fail in consequence to call her proud.

In 1540 Luther purchased for Katharine the small estate of Zollsdorf, two miles from Borna. The elector, John Frederic, having promised to supply her gratuitously with timber for building purposes, she removed to this estate, put up buildings, planted trees, and brought the ground into excellent order for cultivation. In this employment she seems to have taken great delight. Luther, writing about this time to a friend, says: "My lord, Katy, had just set out for her new kingdom when your letter arrived." Luther left this farm to her own management, and it seems to have prospered under her care. She was continually planning new improvements, and had great delight in preparing for her husband's table, fruits and vegetables raised on her own ground, and under her own care.

They had in all six children, two of whom died in infancy. The first-born was John, born on 6th of June, 1526. He became Councilor of State, first to John Frederic II, Duke of Saxony, then to Albert, Duke of Prussia. He died, October 22d, 1575. The next was Elizabeth, born December 10th, 1527, and died in August, 1528. The third, Magdalene, born in 1529, and died in 1542. The fourth, Martin, born in November, 1531. He studied theology, but died at Wittenberg, in March, 1565. The fifth, Paul, was born

January 28th, 1533-4. He studied medicine, became court physician to various German princes, and died at Leipsic, in 1593, aged 60. The last, Margaret, was born in 1536. She died in 1570.

Toward the close of Luther's life, Katharine experienced much anxiety from the failing state of his health. He suffered much, in mind as well as body, and frequently expressed a heart-felt desire that "the Lord would come and unharness him." It was during a journey, and when away from home, that he finally died, on February 18th, 1546. Katharine was not, therefore, with him in his last moments. His death was sudden. She was by his will left sole legatee, in trust for herself and her children; and the will abounds in expressions of tenderness toward her and trust in her.

For some time after Luther's death she was comforted in her bereavement by the sympathy and assistance of the different princes of northern Europe, who had embraced the Reformed religion. Temporary provision was made for her and her children, by which the eldest boy was enabled to prosecute his studies, while the other three children remained with their mother. Other assistance being promised, the future looked sufficiently cheering now. But just at this time-in July, 1546-broke out the war between the Protestant league, and the Emperor Charles V, arising from his meditated attempt at an entire extirpation of Protestant doctrines. For Katharine this was exceedingly disastrous. Her friends, themselves involved in a desperate struggle, were unable to redeem their promises of help. Her small property, the income from which was the only other source of her living, lay just upon the seat of war. Thus she found herself reduced to very straitened circumstances; and the balance of her widowhood, which lasted seven years, was passed amid many deprivations, trials, and sor

rows.

In December, 1546, she was obliged, with many others, to fly from Wittenberg to Magdeburg. From here, in her need, she addressed a letter to the King of Denmark, praying for relief. She signs herself, "Your royal majesty's obedient, Katharine Luther, the forsaken widow of Dr. Martin Luther, of blessed memory." It must be mentioned, in her honor, that while in pressing need herself, she did not neglect to add to the letter a request for assistance for Dr. George Major, a learned friend of Luther's, who, having a large family, was suffering great privation at that time with her, at Magdeburg. Both requests wore attended to.

On account of the defeat of the Protestant

forces, Katharine, with her family, was obliged to remove often from place to place. She was minded to travel to Denmark; but was finally induced, by a proclamation, to return to Wittenberg, and claim her property.

This she received, but much depreciated in value, on account of the late war. So straitened was she now in her circumstances, that she was obliged, as a means of eking out a too scanty income, to let apartments in her house to students, boarding also a few of her lodgers at a very moderate rate. In the year 1552 the plague broke out in Wittenberg. In order to retain the income derived from the students, she proposed to remove with these temporarily to Torgau. While upon the way, the horse grew frightened, and ran away with the carriage in which she and her children were being conveyed. Alarmed for their safety and her own, she leaped from the carriage, and unfortunately fell into some water, being, besides, severely bruised. This fall brought on cold and sickness, of which she died, on December 20, 1552, aged fifty-three years.

She was buried in the Parish Church, in Torgau. Her funeral was attended by a great concourse of people, and by the students of the University, who were invited by their Vice Chancellor to show in this manner their regard for the deceased, as well as their veneration for the memory of Luther.

Her tombstone is still to be seen. It is sandstone, painted, and in parts gilded; and is evidently the work of a rough hand. Her effigy, at full length, is sculptured on it. She is represented wearing grave-clothes, and holding in her hand an open Bible. Above her head, on the right side, appears Luther's coat of arms, devised by himself; a black cross set in a red heart, which again is placed in the center of a white rose, the whole surrounded by a golden ring.

On the other side is Katharine's ancestral escutcheon-a lion rampant, with the right paw raised on a golden shield; and a peacock's tail upon a helmet.

Along the side of the stone is a simple inscription in German, which reads: "In the year 1552, the 20th December, here in Torgau fell asleep, blessed in God, Katharine Von Bora, the blessed widow of Doctor Martin Luther."

Thus departed, after many tribulations, one who probably did much, by her affection, prudence, sympathy, and encouragement, to keep up the spirit of the great Reformer. When we bless Luther, for his great work, let us not forget her who shared his many troubles, and doubled also his joys.

MY FIRESIDE.

BY MRS. H. C. GARDNER.

A LIGHT mist rises from yon bogs,
And thickens darkly till the earth
Is shrouded in its funeral fogs.

Out of its mantle dim
Specters, all gaunt and grim--
Spiritual phantasies,
Seen but by spirit eyes—
Born of the gloomy hour,
In the weird twilight lower.

But see, they pause outside the door,
They can not cross our threshold o'er.
The fire burns brightly on the hearth
It curls around the massive logs,
And twines into a living wreath
The spiral serpent flames beneath,
Tracing with soft, uncertain light
Quaint shadows on the ceiling white.

Close in the corner where the glow
Falls brightest, is a cricket low-
My arm-chair by its side, you know-
Where all the evening Fanny sits,
An open book upon her knee,
Her fingers working busily,
To shape the stocking that she knits;
While to herself, unconsciously,
She hums a winsome melody.
Ah! Fanny sweet!

Twelve times has May,
With footsteps fleet,

Brought garlands gay

To decorate our marriage-day. And each year hast thou dearer grown, Each year some lovelier promise shown, Some richer charm in look and tone.

For hours I sit,

And trace among the embers red
The fancies strange that fill my head-
Visions of youth forever fled

Across the picture flit.

I hear the needles' rapid click
Chime with the old clock's louder tick,

As though I heard it not;
Yet, were it wanting, half the charm
That hallows now the fireside warm

Would vanish from the spot.
When yet a merry boy, how oft
I watched the fire-stars shoot aloft,
My head upon my mother's knee,
Her evening stories thus to hear,
While just above my listening ear
The glitt'ring needles, clicking rude,
Accompanied the story good,

And gave it half its witchery!

And still, though long, long years have passed,
Their genial music seems to last;
'Tis like an old friend's cordial words
That touch the sweetest, cheeriest chords
Of memory; still with fairy power
They wile the evening's lingering hour.

IT

THE WATCH-NIGHT.

BY REV. J. T. BARR, M. A.
"O happy day, that fixed my choice
On thee, my Savior and my God!
Well may this glowing heart rejoice,
And tell its raptures all abroad."

T was the last day of the year; and daylight had already faded in the western sky. The weather was cold-intensely cold. The spirit of the northern blast moaned dismally through the branches of the leafless trees, as if preparing a requiem for the departing year. Yet ever and anon the sound of the village bells fell soothingly on the ear, in the intervals of the boisterous gale. Few of the inhabitants ventured abroad, preferring the "blazing hearth" within, to encountering the "pitiless storm" without. The village itself, which was very populous, was situated in one of the northern counties of England, and in the vicinity of a celebrated city. Two young men were seated at the fireside, in the parlor of a little inn, near the church, partaking each of a glass of brandy and water.

"The year is about closing, Henry," said the elder of the two; "where shall we go to witness his last moments, and welcome the birth of his successor?"

"Nay, James," was the reply of his companion, "I think we can not do better than remain where The night is cold and stormy; but here

we are.

we have a snug fire."

"I was thinking of going to the city. There is to be a Free and Easy at the King's Arms. I went there last year. We had some first-rate singing, and were as happy as new-fledged birds.",

"But, consider the distance-five miles!" "O, the enjoyment we shall experience will compensate for the fatigue of the walk! Come, let us start."

Henry was thus persuaded into a compliance; and they at once proceeded on their journey.

It will be necessary to give the reader a few particulars connected with the history of these two young men.

James was the only son of parents, who were themselves born in this village; and were much respected for their uniform integrity and uprightness. They kept a small shop, where, by attention to business, they had secured a comfortable maintenance. James was naturally idle, and of a dilatory turn of mind. This unhappy propensity gathered strength with his growing years, and proved a source of extreme grief to his parents. Though he had been placed, for a considerable time, under the care of an efficient master, in a

respectable academy, he made but little progress in learning. He loved play more than his books, and mischief more than study. On leaving school, his father placed him behind his own counter, fondly hoping that in that situation he might be serviceable to him in his business. Alas! those hopes were doomed to disappointment! James betrayed the same carelessnes, the same negligence in the shop as in the school. Henry was the son of poor, but pious parents, residing in the Highlands of Scotland. Though moving in a humble sphere, they were "rich in faith," and had for many years "walked in the comfort of the Holy Ghost." Under their pious teachings, Henry became early acquainted with the vital doctrines of the Gospel, and was induced to cherish the highest veneration for the Christian religion, as he saw it so beautifully exemplified in their lives and conversation. At a proper age his father brought him to England, and had him apprenticed, for the term of seven years, to a relative, who kept a draper's shop in the village already referred to. Before returning to his mountain-home, he gave Henry such advice as he trusted would, by the Divine blessing, be of service to him in his new calling. first five years of his apprenticeship, he conducted himself with the greatest propriety; so that during that long period, his master discovered in his behavior nothing to blame, but much to applaud. Soon after entering on his sixth year, he unfortu nately became acquainted with James, and was gradually seduced, by the professed friendship of the latter, into habits to which he had previously been a stranger, and which he knew to be wrong. They were frequently together on the Sabbath, perambulating the fields, or spending the hours of that sacred day in the pursuit of pleasure or amusement. Often, too, on the week-nights, they met in the parlor of the little inn, for the purpose of playing at cards, and taking a social glass. Thus, by yielding to the solicitations, and treading in the steps of a worthless wretch, the unsuspecting youth had brought an accumulated weight of guilt upon his conscience, forfeited the esteem of his amiable master, and had entered on a career of sin, by persevering in which the "sunshine of hope," which irradiated his path in his native glens, was likely to be succeeded by the "blackness of darkness forever!"

For the

on their way they had to pass a Methodist chapel, which was already opened for the watch-night service, according to custom in the Wesleyan connection. Henry paused at the door, and listened attentively to the following affecting stanza, which was sung by the assembled multitude:

"How many spend the guilty night

In revelings and frantic mirth!

The creature is their sole delight,

Their happiness, the things of earth:
For us, suffice the season past,

We choose the better part at last."

His heart was touched. An indescribable feeling agitated the inmost recesses of his soul.

"James," said he, "this is a watch-night, and instead of going to the Free and Easy, I intend to be present at the service in this chapel. You can not do better than to accompany me."

With a contemptuous sneer James left the spot, muttering, as he hurried to the inn, something about "Methodist cant," and "puritanical hypocrisy !"

Henry now entered the chapel, and remained till the close of the service. To the sermon he listened with breathless attention. It was founded on that solemn passage, "And at midnight there was a cry made: Behold the Bridegroom cometh! go ye out to meet him." And if the singing of the beautiful hymn with which the service commenced, so greatly affected his mind, the sermon tended materially to mature his convictions. During its delivery, he experienced all the agony of genuine contrition, as the sinfulness of his past conduct was exhibited to his view. His early religious impressions, which had been almost obliterated from his mind, were at once revived; while the remembrance of a father's counsels and a mother's prayers brought tears into his eyes. While thus struggling with his convictions, like the royal Psalmist, he had no soundness in his flesh, because of God's anger; nor rest in his bones, because of his sin.

Before the clock proclaimed the hour of midnight, there was a solemn pause. The minister and congregation fell upon their knees, to spend the last moment of the year in silent devotion. And O, the effect of that silence! It seemed as the silence of the grave! Every heart beat with tremulous emotion, while wafting its secret aspirations to the throne of the Eternal. God was in the midst. And every member of that vast assembly might truly have whispered, "Lord, it is good to be here!" That solemn moment was the turning point in the life of Henry; it was the moment of decision; and he was resolved, in the strength of Divine grace, for "God to live and

die." A sense of pardon, through the blood of Christ, was sealed on his heart, by the finger of the Holy Ghost, accompanied by the peace of God which passeth understanding.

On leaving the chapel, Henry called at the inn, to inquire whether his companion was ready to return; trusting that, on their way home, a recital of what he had heard and witnessed in the sanctuary, might induce him to relinquish his sinful habits. But James, who appeared much flushed with drink, positively refused to return for another hour. There was, therefore, no alternative than to retrace his steps alone.

By this time the weather had become terrifically wild. The snow continued to descend; and as the wind had become increasingly boisterous, the snow, in some parts of the road, had drifted to a fearful depth, which rendered it exceedingly hazardous to travel. Shivering with cold, while the large flakes dashed into his face, Henry proceeded on his solitary way. No friendly star appeared in the heavens to guide or cheer the lonely wanderer. But still he went on; though occasionally ready to faint from the violence of the storm, the vivid impressions of what he had experienced in the house of God, kept his spirits buoyant, and he at length reached home in safety. He recounted to his master the interesting events of the evening, together with his determination to associate no more with the wretched James. The recital drew tears from the eyes of the aged man, and he encouraged his youthful relation to persevere in a course so happily and so opportunely adopted. He exhorted him, more especially, to cultivate a watchful spirit, and to pay earnestly for the grace of the Holy Spirit, to preserve him from all appearance of evil.

Scarcely had the first streak of daylight appeared in the east, when James's father called on Henry, to inquire about his son, who, it appears, had not yet returned from the city. Henry informed him of the occurrences of the night. He then, accompanied by several of the villagers, hastened to the inn, where they were told that James, in a state of intoxication, left for home about one o'clock. One of his boon companions walked with him a short distance, when, owing to the inclemency of the weather, he left him to pursue his journey alone. This intelligence, of course, excited the utmost alarm. They promptly retraced their steps to the village, examining, as they passed along, every part of the road, hoping to find the object of their search. He was at length discovered in a ditch on the road-side, which was almost concealed by the drifted snow.