quivering nerves, and the delicate tissues shrink and throb; when excruciating tortures tear or wrench the muscles and bones—nature manifests her horror at the violation of the sanctuaries of sense by hot tears of pain shuddered forth in the convulsion. This scalding torrent, or bloody sweat of suffering, in its higher aspect, is the baptismal sacrament through which saintly heroism passes, emerging from the midnight Gethsemane to a deathless crown and the companionship of comforting angels. It is, in its lower aspect, the trickling moisture of physical woe wrung through us from the primitive springs of pain by the combined grasp of the blazing hands of torture and the icy hands of terror. It is lawful for the Christian to pray, "Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me." But it is the duty of the Christian to add, "Nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done; and if this poor frame must writhe with suffering, grant me fortitude to bear the trial, and faith to foresee the reward."
Exploring further after the sources of human tears, we come to the sheltered and charming fountain of sentiment. The most beautiful features and accompaniments of romance environ this delightful spring-head of the refreshing tears of sensibility. The floating form of sympathy rests in it, a crown of diamonds, planted by the hand of God, sparkling on her brow, the tenderness of the heart of Jesus living in her face, the beauty of love and faith filling her expression, and the enchantments of imagination composing her dress. She is the divinity that presides over this fountain, and the sudden motions of her surprise cause it to overflow in the most precious of tears. When we meet, in a book, or in life, any unwonted deed of sacrifice or heroism, any glorious act of forgiveness, any thought of overpowering sublimity, any stroke of rapturous eloquence or simple pathos—anything which touches us in the seat of unperverted feelings, annihilating worldly estimates and drawing around us once more the paradisal freedom and generosity of youth—this choice distillation quickly follows. Experience then opens the truest passages for the softest tears. We do not painfully weep, but we know a noble luxury. The heart throbs high, the breast heaves, the eyes swell and melt, and all things glisten through a radiant mist which immediately hangs, like a transfiguring veil, between us and the world. The nature must be very high that can pour this stream, as the holy Ganges gushes from the mountain-top nearest heaven. When a fireman leaps into the flames to rescue a child for a frantic mother; when a father draws to his bosom a returning daughter, who has fallen and wandered through the deeps of depravity, trailing the solemn garments of wretchedness and repentance, and says to her, "Poor child! thou hast sinned and suffered; come home, and in this sacred guardianship grow pure again;" when a creditor goes into the family of a ruined debtor, and turns their despair into worship, by saying, "You have done as well as you could, your misfortunes were your only fault, I freely release you"—then it is manly to let the generous tears roll down the cheeks. They are the tributary jewels of sentiment laid by humanity on the shrine of moral beauty—jewels reflecting those that gleam on the throne of God.
Tears of tenderness—slightly differing in quality from the foregoing, though drawn from the same source—sometimes well over the brink, when memories of hallowed hours fled forever, perceptions of lovely things, hopes and dreams fairer than earth can ever realize, press too busily on the soul, and make this tremulous fountain rise in suffusing exuberance from its depths. It is only pure and delicate souls who, in pensive moods, in twilight scenes recalling past farewells, listening to the vesper bell from far as it mourns the dying day, melted by
