God. They are all dead now, these noble gentlemen and
gentlewomen; their warfare, successful or adverse, has been long closed;
but they gleam yet in my fancy, like the white effigies on tombs in dim
cathedrals, the marble palms pressed together on the marble breast, the
sword by the side of the knight, the psalter by the side of the lady, and
flowing around them the scrolls on which are inscribed the texts of
resurrection.

This book contains surely one of the most touching of human
compositions,--a song of Luther's. The great Reformer's music resounds
to this day in our churches; and one of the rude hymns he wrote has such
a step of thunder in it that the father of Frederick the Great, Mr.
Carlyle tells us, used to call it "God Almighty's Grenadier March." This
one I speak of is of another mood, and is soft as tears. To appreciate
it thoroughly, one must think of the burly, resolute, humourous, and
withal tender-hearted man, and of the work he accomplished. He it was,
the Franklin's kite, led by the highest hand, that went up into the papal
thundercloud hanging black over Europe; and the angry fire that broke
upon it burned it not, and in roars of boltless thunder the apparition
collapsed, and the sun of truth broke through the inky fragments on the
nations once again. He it was who, when advised not to trust himself in
Worms, declared, "Although there be as many devils in Worms as there are
tiles on the house-tops, I will go." He it was who, when brought to bay
in the splendid assemblage, said, "It is neither safe nor prudent to do
aught against conscience. Here stand I--I cannot do otherwise. God help
me. Amen." The rock cannot move--the lightnings may splinter it. Think
of these things, and then read Luther's "Christmas Carol," with its
tender inscription, "Luther--written for his little son Hans, 1546."
Coming from another pen, the stanzas were perhaps not much; coming from
_his_, they move one like the finest eloquence. This song sunk deep into
the hearts of the common people, and is still sung from the dome of the
Kreuz Kirche in Dresden before daybreak on Christmas morning.

There is no more delightful reading in the world than these Scottish
ballads. The mailed knight, the Border peel, the moonlight raid, the
lady at her bower window--all these have disappeared from the actual
world, and lead existence now as songs. Verses and snatches of these
ballads are continually haunting and twittering abou