ARE there no martyrs of whom the world never hears? Are there no victories save on the battle-field? Are there no triumphs save where one can grasp earth's laurel crown? See you none who rise early and sit up late, and turn with a calm, proud scorn from a gilded fetter to honest toil? Pass you never, in your daily walks, slight forms, with calm brows, and mild eyes, whose whole life has been one prolonged self-struggle? Lip, cheek and brow tell you no tale of the spirit's unrest!

  The "broad road" is passing fair to look upon. The coiled serpent is not visible 'mid its luxurious foliage. The soft breeze fans the cheek wooingly, laden with the music of happy, careless idlers. Youth, and bloom, and beauty,—ay, even silver hairs, are there! No tempest lowers; the sky is clear and blue. What stays yonder slender foot? Why pursue so courageously the thorny, rugged, stumbling path? The eye is bright; the limbs are round and graceful; the blood flows warm and free; the shining hair folds softly away from a pure, fair brow; there are sweet voices yonder to welcome; there is an

  Ah! the foot-prints of Calvary's sufferer are in that "narrow path!" That youthful head bends low and unshrinkingly to meet its "crown of thorns." The "star in the east" shines far above those rugged heights, on which its follower reads,—"To him that overcometh, will I give to eat of the Tree of Life."

  Dear reader, for a brief day the Cross; for uncounted ages the Crown!