MOORE'S RURAL NEW- YORKER: AX AGRICULTURAL AXD FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 



OCT. 9. 



Sadies' |? oxt-£dw. 



•WHEN I AM RICH." 



lueenlr dignity and raok 

 aooahs proudly *pura*d i 



taMj dirt-lling-place, 



her u angel : ' Bat the days ere coming when the 

 dark waters will threaten to sweep over you, and 

 the Woe hilli of Heaven so '« distant, bnt no 

 "shining ones'' will wait for yon "beyond the 

 river," for yon have not the love and tro 

 years gone by. 



Ob, why will we so lire that the Heaven which 

 in childhood aeenu so near, recedes as years 



I can see " Krrnii's" face again, and it lights np 

 my room like a glory, while a voice is whispering 

 from my Bible—" Except ye become as little chil- 

 dren ye shall not eater into the Kingdom of Hea- 

 ven." WnrjEOJ Wn.Li. 



Rocbeater.S.pt-,1858. 



GLEAMKS.-NO. I. 



Seen a sweet picture— this little child, kneeling 

 on the green sward, her brown curls straying care- 

 lessly over her while shoulders, and her tiny clasped 





) tb* I 



"Of aocb is the Kingdom of Heaven," I softly 

 murmured. " Happy artist you mast be, to imag- 

 ine so benntiful a picture. After all, this may be 

 no ideal fancy." 



Beneath the painting were the words, " RuTrtiE— 

 chtld-angeL" Ab, that told the whole story, and I 

 stole a little aside from the busy throng of goers 

 and comer.', to muse over this life picture, for Buob 



Dear little "RrTniB." PerhapsBhcwastbebrown- 

 halred sister of his boyish days, — she, whose infant 

 steps he had so often guided, and whose childiBh 

 love and worda had so often kept his own feet from 

 Btmylug to "the evil." Yes, hla little slater, who 

 used to swing with him every day oat under the 

 maple tree in the front yard, and who used to kneel 

 with him every night beside his mother's knee. 



It may be "Bonus" was his little Bchool-mate— 

 she, whom ho used to draw on bis Bled to the old 

 red Bchool-house in the winter time, and for whom 

 he would gather bright flowers and berries in the 

 long summer days. The same "Rptbil" for whom 

 he uaed to solve those horrid problems in Algebra 

 when ahe was a girl, and who, after years of patient 

 waiting, Btood by his side and promised to "love, 

 honor and obey" until death should break the 

 holy tie. 



Or, it may be, "Ruttjis" was hla own little 

 birdie, his first born daughter— his all upon earth, 

 when the gentle wife died and left "Rutbib" to be 

 hia comfort. And, ob, had'nt she brought him a 

 world of sunBhinc, the little hi own-haired "RormB?" 

 Nestling on hia heart aa a baby, and then taking 

 her first step after papa, and by her childish prattle 

 and loving wiles, banishing the sorrow that would 

 e when he thought of the sleeper in the church- 





close to my heart 



" What Is a child-angel, mamma?" asked a weary 

 little voice close beside me. I turned and looked. 

 A child— and yet how different from ■• Reran. "— 

 She had a pretty, delicate face, shaded by long 

 golden curls, hut such a Bad. mournful look in her 

 blue eyes. I sighed, for I knew there wore thoughts 

 and unsatisfied locplngB In that little heart, that 

 God never Intended should find a resting-place 

 there. The child repeated her question again, but 

 it was not answered until, moved by a sudden im- 

 pulse, I laid my hand on her curls, and said softly, 

 '■A chlld-angel is a good little girl who loves' 

 everybody. Pray Con every night, darling, to 

 make you a chlld-aDgel on earth, Find when you die 

 to take you to live with His bright angels In Hea- 



The mother started and looked at the picture 

 and a change came over her face. " Rcthib" had 

 awakened old memories. She knew she had a 

 heart beating somewhere beneath her jeweled 

 robes, and that she was a obild once — just as inno- 

 cent and happy as • KriiiiE." In her girlish days 

 she had been called '• darling'' by one who walkB in 

 a •■ far apart road" now. Well, what of it ? 



Lima Out was poor In this world's goods, 

 though a millionaire in heart-riches: and so, when 

 ">e wealthy Mr. LlTBOM hid Q |, fortune at her feet 

 •« grasped it with one hand, while with the other 

 she daubed aside the priceless love of the humble 



homeVu"' flDd WfDt forth t0 her P^" 1 ' 

 otcomo an unloved, unloving wife, and 

 careless mother. 



JO. »j ixs* iook came *** ,o h « *« 



again, and bidding Gaaas follow her, she sum- 

 moned her carnage ana drove awav 



Well, you may go to JC ur palace-home, proud 

 Mrs. l.aw90K and olate , oa r bli^and draw your 

 lace eurulna to bar out boo's u essea ■nnahine, end 

 bo seek rest for your wear, he*) in *„ Daxk „„ 

 qnlet,-you may bind your heart In tto ihrtJud of 

 ailka and satins, and fasten it tightly wil n goWen 

 chatae. and bo stifle the voice ol conscience oji 

 night after night you tread the halls of gaiety and 

 fashion, while Gracis at home prays God to "make 



HE DOES NOT GROW OLD. 



Ik a quiet church yard there is a little mound 

 all covered with green— for many a year the little 

 sleeper beneath it has been there in the uncons 

 sleep of death. Once that little sleeper greeted 

 me with a smile as I drew near to his cradle. Hi 

 knew no other language, and never pronounced i 

 word. His was a short life, — many a long year hi 

 has rested beneath that mound. He was neve: 

 strong but had a perfect frame, and his unfolding 

 life shadowed forth hiB immortal destiny, and 

 while I felt that he was mine, I knew that he had 

 path of his own— that it might lead him from m 

 still I looked upon him with pleasure, and as day 

 by day I beheld bis unfolding life, I was dra 

 him by a power that I could not myself control. — 

 The destroyer came and took him, and he 

 sleeps beneath that little mound. Ho doe 

 grow old, but ia still to me a little child. HiB 

 death awoke within me a new tenderness of love, 

 and I have since been able to sympathize with 

 those In affliction aa I could not before. 



How great the change will be before I shall see 

 him again? When we parted he was a helpless 

 child and knew but little. He now wears robes of 

 glory, not formed by mortal hands, and has an or- 

 bit of hia own that is measureless. It touches 

 mine, but it ia so vast and wonderful that I cannot 

 comprehend It He has long since passed mc in 

 knowledge, and may be my teacher and guide. 



When I think of the Borrowing and danger of 

 our pathway lu life, I no longer grieve that the 

 opening flower was so early taken to bloom in the 

 garden of the Bavior— taken before the hud had 

 even felt the withering blast ol life. Fitch, 



DREAMINGS. 



_ __ I Bit by my window and watch the 

 beautifol clouds of crimson and gold aa they float 

 on the sky in many varied forms, the gentle eve- 

 ning wind whispers in my ear of the days gone 

 by, and brings to mind many past scenes in my 

 life journey, with their sunahino and shadow. I 

 think of one who but a few weeks since passed 

 gently and pencolully to her last home. In the 

 Bilence of the night the Angel of Death entered 

 the midatof a happy circle and bore away the wife 

 — ■ ', mother, lire we knew it tho pure spirit of 

 ._. loved LonsB was borne on "angel wings to the 

 presence of her Savior." Ah! who shall tell of 

 the agony of that moment In which we found that 

 she was indeed gone and that we looked only upon 

 lifeless clay. None, none can know the sorrow of 

 ir hearts but those who have laid away under the 

 ids of " Mount Hope" the lifeless but precious 

 rms of those loved best on earth. Oh, how we 

 ng to meet once more her loving 6mi!c, to feel 

 the pressure of her hand, and hear again her sweet 

 iglng the old familiar lays over the cradle 

 to little buds ahe has left us to cherish.— 

 her to-night— when do we not?— and in 

 >ur wildest grief we would call 

 her back to us on earth, 

 " For the heart forgets La its agony wild. 



Now from her beautiful home on high, she is 

 beckoning us on towards the celestial city. 



HOW TO MAKE HOME HAPPY. 



Do not jest with your wife upon a subject in 

 which there is danger of wounding her feelings. 

 Remember that she treasures every word yon utter, 

 though you never think of it again. Do not speak 

 'some virtue In another man's wife, to remind 



ur own of a fault Do not reproach your wifo 



th personal defects, for if Bhe has sensibility, 

 yon Inflict a wonnd difficult to heal Do not treat 

 yonr wife with inattention in company. Do not 

 upbraid her in the presence of a third person, nor 

 entertain her with praising the beauty and accomp- 

 lishments of other women. If you would have a 

 pleasant homo and cheerful wife, pass your even- 

 ings under your own roof. Do not be stern and 

 silent in your own house, and remarkable for 

 sociability elsewhere, nemember that your wife 

 baa aa much need of recreation as yourself, and 

 devote a portion, at least, of your lelBure hours to 

 such society and amusements as she may join. By 



doing, you will secure her emileB and increase 

 her affection. Do not be so exact In pecuniary 

 ,Bke your wife feel her dependence 

 your bounty. If aha is a sensible woman, 



ehe should be acquainted with your boBli 

 know your Income, that she may regulate her 

 household espenf ea accordingly. Do not withhold 

 this knowledge, in order to cover your own ex 

 travagance. Women have a keen perception— be 

 sure Bhe will discover your selfishness— and tho' 

 no word Is spoken, from that moment ber respect 

 is lessened, and her confidence diminished, pride 

 wounded, and a thousand, perhaps unjost, auspi- 

 cioni created. From that moment is your domes- 

 tic comfort on the wane. There can be no one- 

 ness, where there is no full confidence. Woman's 



ThtmgkU About JVomrn. 



like .. 



tusic, should be 

 well tuned to meet the various strains the hand of 

 destiny may call from its thrilling chords; firmly, 

 yet ewecUy, should its tonea ring oat of whatever 

 character they are; strong but sweet music still, 

 should a God-strengthened spirit yield beneath 

 the touch of sorrow or adversity, as Bweet though 

 it may be sadder, as in its dayB of brightest power 



Cboiw fputllang 



r. through tfc* eitj"* throng, 



And loudly rings th» din of life. 

 At coontleea voices 611 the air, 



I finger by the restive bosr J, 

 Where joutb, and pleasure gajlj meet 



Bright eyes may gleam and poises ' 

 The looks I meet are erer chill, 



r fore,! gloom, her mounUl 

 i'e wild delight in raging stc 

 d glory in the arching eky. 

 *'a Angel nnlfpen in each b 



THE DREAMER.-NO. T. 



Who is tho Dreamer ?" says some fair one, 



(you know the women have all the curiosity,) as 



reads the title of this— and as she queries, she 



i as many questions about me as a lawyer. So, 



ave trouble, I will answer her questions, and 



yours at the 8ame time. "Are you tall?" 0, so, 



o, the average of mankind. "Slim?" Rather. 



Good looking?" Good enough to dream — 



Well — well — are you married?" There, I knew 



i was coming. Nol else how could I dream? A 



isrried man is never n dreamer, — unless he Is a 



uuce,— the very term is opposed to the idea — 



When a man has another being dependent upon 



him for support and nourishment — and crinoline — 



: must keep his eyes open, and his thoughts on 



Tajirma. 



Well, if you are done with your questions, I will 

 tell you who I am. I am yet on the sunny side of 

 thirty— a little— am in a business which suits and 

 iris me — no matter what — and I live In a city 

 of respectable dimensions— no matter where. I 

 pay my landlady promptly, and don't owe my 

 washerwoman anything, bo I feel independent I 

 shirt-studs and cuff-buttons, too; that's an- 

 other item towards independence, I mention 

 these last items, however, merely to show that I 

 not haunted by buttonless shirts. I am a 

 dreamer, too, I come home at night, light the gas, 



light a Havana, and just dream at my ease. 



And that little word at the beginning of this 



ram comes into my head as I sit watching the 



blaze, and building my fancies out of the coals, I 



n hardly make myself believe that I am the same 



the little urchin memory (kind memory!) paints, 



away hack among the shadows of the past I can 



t dimly trace the path of that child clear down 



my fire. The events are clear, but they seem to 



belong to some story I have read — not to myself. 



But while I sit here, it seems as if the old dreams 



f my childhood were realized, and I seem to he, 



ot what I am, bat what I used to wiBh to be. Tho 



realities of life melt away into the shadows of 



l-land, and boyish air castles fill their places. 



e hopes and feaie, joys and sorrows, of those 



by gone days. 



How he uaed to seat me with the girls. How bad 



I felt, too, except when he put me beside Suer L. 

 vas my divinity, then. How ehe used to 



sympathise with me when I was punished, 1 e. elx 



times a day. Indeed, I believe I enjoyed getting 



Into scrapes, just to Bee her blue eyes (what eyes 

 sera though) look moist with pity, or blaze 



with indignation against my persecutors. 

 We say sometimes that childhood is tho happiest 

 me of life. I don't believe It It is just our ego- 

 jm which makes us bb/ so. The mole hills we 

 w then were just as la ge to us as the mountains 

 e see now — we have dobIj changed our measure. 



And, by and by, the G r ;a . Judge will try us all by 

 standard, and the Andes of now and the 



hillocks of then, will bo all mole bills together,— 



when we have reached the summit 

 I used to think, - If 1 was only a man, so I could 



marry Srsv," — now, I mgb, " if I were only young, 

 I could sit by Scat." So it goes. "But what 



became of Susy?" Ahi jon want to make me 

 story, instead ol -reaming. However, yon 



shall have it. 

 By and by I had to k-avo home, and the old red 



school-house, (whoever saw one that was not red,) 



and the woods and aticun?, and come to the city. 



Still I had a fancy that 1 would go home and many 



Scst some day. Bat siter two or three years, there 

 a note from my old crony Tom H , asking me 



to officiate as groomsman at his wedding— SrsY's 



wedding. Sbonldlgo? Eavysaid. 

 sense said, " Yes." I went I arrayed myself in 

 the most spotless of wedding onita, and played my 

 part with the same ease tbM t should at the wed- 

 ding of Jobs Jokes, Jr., our friend on the corner. 



I attended the " happy pair " on their excursion, 

 registered their names, carried the pur*e, made 

 myeelf generally useful, and let Tom enjoy himself. 

 And he did. Poor fellow ! be couldn't have paid 

 his own bill, to have lived Bear's life, I didn' 

 blame him. 



I think Scsir knew my secret Leave a wouun 

 alone to nod out when ahe is beloved. There wis 

 the same kind pity la her eyes, when she lookid 

 at me ontbat trip, that there used to bo at school 



And now there is always a corner for me at H 



farm, and many the dainties I get which my laud- 

 lady does not provide. SCBY is happy, and I ought 

 to be. Way God blcsaher! 



My cigar is out, and It is bed-time. I did 

 smoke once — Sust'b husband does not smoke, and 

 I should not smoke if I was Srsr's husband— but 

 a man mast do aomethlng. Good-night 



PRIDE. 



A .itrsT pride is one of the most beautiful 

 feBtatlons of human character— a disposition 

 cultivated and encouraged at every age and In 

 every condition. Pride In the maintenance of 

 spotless character and pure life— pride In the per- 

 formance of noble and generous actions — pridi 

 all things that tend to elevate the mind and heart, 

 and that, however the vulgar and vicious n 

 gard us, enaure to us more and more of the ( 

 of the virtuous. Fortified by such pride, w 

 in the midst of poverty and trial maintain the dig. 

 nity of manhood, and rise by self-respect superior 

 to every misfortune. For after all the homage 

 paid to external pomp and possession, it Is the 

 man— the true man — that counts In the great bat- 

 tle of life, and on the pages of history. What has 

 not such a man accomplished, in spite of so-called 

 advantages and fortune— In spite of obscure birth, 

 ignoble caste, and perhaps, Btill worse, inherited 

 embarrassments? 



Louk over the record of those who have made 

 our humanity Illustrious, and see how few 

 born and nurtured in the lap of worldly, sensual 

 pride. The pioneers, the leaders, the Savior of 

 our race have been chieily of the humbleBt origin 

 bo far as temporal surroundingB were conci 

 To the brave soul, proud of its manhood and of 

 continuance in lofty aspiring, all conquest is poe. 

 sible and easy, and in the march of higher goals, 

 without effort is obtained the baser spoils of for- 



There is a pride as mean, contemptible and de- 

 basing, B3 Its counterpart Is elevating and noble 

 It Is pride of birth without merit to back it- 

 pride of wealth, acquired or inherited, without 

 virtue or generosity In its use— pride of drei 

 equipage, which knaves and foole, and even 

 may compass. Indeed, the lower the quality of 

 pride, the more offensive and ostentatious its exhi- 

 bitions. Those are often the proudest, iu the com 

 mon ncceptnnce of the term, who have the leaBt to 

 be proud of. Vain, shallow minds, characterless 

 characters, — spreading their gaudy plain 

 the gaze of witlings, and winning after all 



neers and contempt How true tho lines of the 



poasent poet," Burns: 



Falsi 1 pride ccn never secure the esteem, n> 

 respect of those who surround us. We may delude 

 ourselves with the idea that we are making a grand 

 Impression on Boclety by Us displays, bnt In 

 end we shall find that we are only laughed at, and 

 set down as shallow masquers and conceited fools. 



EDUCATION OF THE FEELING3. 



Bir> tempbr is more frequently the result of an 

 happy circumstances than of an unhappy organi 

 zation; itfrequently, however, has o physical cause, 

 and a peevish child often needs dieting more than 

 correcting. Some children arc more prone to 

 show temper than others, and sometimes on ac- 

 count of qualities which are valuable in them- 

 selves. For instance, a child of active tempera- 

 eenBltive feeling, and of eager purpose, Ib 

 likely to meet with constant jars and re 

 than than a dull, passive child, and, if be is of 



nature his inward irritation is immediately 

 shown in burets of passion. If you repress these 

 ebullitions by scolding and punishment, you only 



ase the evil by changing passion into sulki- 

 A chcorful, good-tempered tone of your 



a sympathy with bis trouble, whenever the 

 trouble has arisen from no bad conduct on his 

 part are the best antidotes; but It would be better 



a prevent beforehand all Bourcea of annoy- 

 Never fear spoiling children by making 



too happy. Happiness is the atmosphi 

 which all good affections grow — the wholesome 

 warmth necessary to make the heart blood circu- 

 late healthily and freely; unbappiness is the chil- 

 ling pressure which produces here an inflamma- 



tbere an excrescence, end, worst of all, 1 "the 

 mind's green and yellow elokness— ill-temper." 



EVILS OE GEEAT CITIES. 



the soul of man grows proud. He 



needs at times to be sent forth, like the Assyrian 



lonarcb, Into green fields, "a wondrous wretch 



id weedless," to eat green herbs, and be wcak- 



led and chastised by the rain bhower winter's 



Met weather. Moreover, in cities there is daa- 



;r of the soul's becoming wed to pleasure, and 



irgetful of its high vocation. Theie have been 



souls dedicated to Heaven from childhood, and 



guarded by good angels as tweet seclusions for 



holy thoughts, and prayers, and all good puiposes; 



i plot 



t ilk? i 





lalnt; and yet Id life* vicissitudes, 

 by the treachery of occasion, by the thronging 

 passions of great cities, have become soiled and 

 einfol They resemble thoee convection the river 

 Rhine which have been changed to taverna; from 

 whoee chambers the pious inmates have long de- 

 parted, and whoee cloisters the footateps of travel- 

 have affected to Images of buried saints, and 

 whose walls are written over with ribaldry and 

 of strangers, end resound no more with 

 holy hymns, but with revelry and loud voices.— 

 Longfeiiof't Hyperion. 



laMratn 



Jiwinns. 



SHEAVES WITH US." 



. •:. ano night tiu cosia- 



Woro out with lil«>r lane aad w*ari«ime, 

 Drooping and f.iiut. the reapare hutea home. 



*«t of th. laborers thy feet I gAia, 

 Lard of the barrel',: and mj spirit gri«re» 

 tial I am hardened not to mnchnitli grain 



few, light, ud wetUiUaa,- yet thi 



Tijr.'.i^li »ii my fr»ni* a t«uj achio? leave*; 

 For long 1 itrnrgladwMKBtjluplaaafcta, 



Fall well 1 ken* I h(lTfl more Ure „ thM wb , 4 ,__ 



Bfainhl*! and flowers, dry stalk*, a 



!o do I gather strength and hope anew; 



tnd though the full, ripe ears be sadly few, 



t Jibuti* MOHIhif. 



WHAT 18 THY HOPE? 



Youth, and maiden, what Is thy hope? Is it that 

 the sparkling eye, the rosy cheek, tho form of grace 

 and beauty, and the light elastio tread will ever bo 

 thine? Then Is thy hope a frail one. Tho eye 

 must grow dim, the cheek pole and sunken, the 

 form must be bowed with age and sorrow, and thy 

 footstep, now bo buoyant, must surely become 

 heavy and feeble. Then, where, and in what Is thy 

 hope? Is it in the friends that now make thy life 

 joyous and happy? 0, trust not alone in earthly 

 friendship. Friend after friend will pass away — 

 the ruthless hand of the destroyer will take from 

 thine embrace brother and staler, parent and friend. 

 One after another will pas*, until, perchance, thou 

 may 'at stand alone on life's rugged pathway. Tbeu 

 let tby hope be one that as a staff will support thee 

 — one that penetrates beyond this vale of change 



And thou, traveler; on life's journey, who bast 

 seen thysnn reach its meridian,— what fa thy hope? 

 Is it that tha wealth thou hast accumulated will 

 purchase happiness for thee, — will be aBourcoof 

 comfort to thy future life? 0, lean not upon a 

 broken reed. Earthly treasures cannot endure,— 

 decay will inevitably claim them; and he who 

 trusts in riches, trusts in that which la ni Ueeting 

 and transitory as the morning dew. Then, what it 

 tby hope? Ia it in the honorn thou bast Rained, — 



■f fame thou hast won? The laurel 

 ide.— entthly honors must perish, — 

 JT eatisfy.the spirit's longing, end if 

 l these, thou wilt, one day, find thy- 

 a tempestuous sea, and. helpless, will 

 e shoals of life. 0, secure that 



t hope bast t 



the trophies 

 wreath musl 



thy hope [b 



self tOBsed o 



ba wrecked upon t; 



hope which will be "an ai 



and steadfast" 



And thou, aged pllgrim,- 

 to soothe life's declining years? Thou hast seen 

 much of uncertainty, much of tho mutability of 

 earth and earthly things, Thou hast seen thy 

 dearest hopes perish, thy wealth pass away from 

 tby grasp, and thy most cherished frtonds have 

 been laid, one by one, beneath the clods of tho 

 valley. The lilies bloom over the remains of those 

 wh'im thou once fondly hoped would bethesnp- 

 port and comfort of thy last days. Bad, then, Is 

 thy lot if thou host so unfailing hope to he tby 

 support under this weight of trial and affliction. — 

 Turn, then, thou weary one, and make the Gon of 

 Israeltby strength and never failing hope. " Happy 

 Is he that hath the God of Jacob for hia help, whose 

 hope le iu the Lobd hla God." Ann*. 



THE FAITH OF CHILDHOOD. 



at a lesson of truth does the following inci- 

 dent convey — what a sermon against deceiving the 

 'little ones" with idle tales:—" A touching case," 

 ajB the New Orleans Dtlta, "was presented lately 

 o the consideration and charity of one of the 

 Good Samaritans who now take care of the Blok, 

 relieve the destitute, and feed tho starving. A buy 

 discovered in the morning lying in the grass 

 of Clairborne street, evidently bright and Intelli- 

 gent, but sick. A man who has the feelings of 

 kindness atrong'y developed, went to him, took 

 him by the shoulder and asked him what ho was 

 doing there. 'Waiting for God to come for me,' 

 ■aid he. ' What do you mean?' said the gentleman, 

 touched by the pathetic tone of the answer and the 

 condition of the bey, In whose eye and Hushed face 

 he saw the evidences of the fever. ' God sent for 

 father and mother and little brother,' he replied, 

 'and took them away to bis home op In the eky, 

 and mother told me when she was rti ' 

 mid take core of me. I have no home, nobody 

 give me anything, and so I came out for God to 

 me and take care of me, as mother eald be 

 would. He will come, won't he? Mother never 

 jo a He.' 'Yep, my lad,' said the 

 with emotion, 'He ha* tent me to tike caro 

 of jcu.' Yon should have seen bis eyes flash and 

 he Bimle of triumph break over bis face s.» Ms-'ild. 

 Mother never told me a He, sir, but you've bwn so 

 long on the way.' " " Mother never told me a lie, 1 ' 

 and when she promised ber lone child the pro- 

 tecting care of the Father of Mercies, bow fervent 

 his zeal— how great hla reliance. Oh, for more of 

 the faith of little children! 



, OoBurr.— CbrJil b 



the market 



._, for Christ Is peace, in the mar- 

 ket there are strifes; Christ Is justice, In the mar- 

 ket is Iniquity; Chris*. Ia a laborer, In the market 

 idleness; Christ is cuarity, m the market Ib elau- 

 . tditb. in the marketis fraud. Lotus 

 not,' therefore, seek Christ where we cannot find 



