Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THAT NIGHT. 
The stars were never half so bright, 
Nor shone with half so pure a light, 
Nor filled the soul with such delight, 
As on that night—that glorious night. 
Nor ever angels came so near, 
Nor whispered into mortal ear 
In tones so gentle, yet so clear, 
As then I heard and joyed to hear. 
Never were leaves so lightly stirred 
By summer breeze or wing of bird, 
Yet from each leaf a voice I heard ; 
One word from all, and love the word. 
Never the blue waves sought the shore 
So tremblingly, so silvered o’er; 
Never was earth so fair before, 
Never the skies—nor will be moroi 
Never the stars were half so bright, 
Never the worlk so full of delight, 
Never the heart so filled with light, 
Never it will be, as on that night, 
Never, no, nevermore! 
Hastings, N. Y., 1859. Eoselia. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
Plain Talks to American Women.—No. 7. 
BY MRS. M. P. A. CUOZIER. 
Another subject, which commends itself to our 
attention while treating more particularly upon 
moral education, is truthf ulness. It is sad that so 
many children are so early taught falsehood by ma¬ 
ternal lips!—indeed, we believe some mothers are 
not aware how untruthful they are to their little 
ones. Let us illustrate. 
Mrs. A. is a member, in good standing, in the 
nominal church — thinks she is a Christian, and 
desires that her children’s hearts be early imbued 
with the influences of the Holy Spirit. She is as¬ 
tonished, and grieved, some day, to hear her little 
son, when reproved by his sister for telling a false¬ 
hood, reply, “Why no, Mary, it is not wrong — 
’ Ma tells lies!” She calls the little boy to her side 
and says, “What do you mean, my child?— your 
’ Ma tell lies?” “Why, yes, ’Ma,” he ingenuously 
replies, “ don’t you remember when you went to 
town the other day, you said if I would stay at 
home and be a good boy, you would bring me some 
thing ?— and you didn’t bring me anything at all, 
though I didn’t cry a bit! Wasn’t that a lie, ’Ma ?” 
Mrs. A. hardly knows what to answer, but at length 
says, “Well, I forgot it, Willy— I will get it next 
time!” (Be careful, mother, that you do not forget 
again!) “ Well,” says Willy, triumphantly, “ you 
told me the other day that you would punish me if 
I was naughty, and I was ever so naughty, and you 
didn’t punish me at all, but told Mrs. Smith who 
had just come in, that children would be children— 
I’m sure that was a lie!” 
How can that mother lift up her head before the 
face of that intelligent and trusting child, who is 
sure she has told him a falsehood, and that it can¬ 
not be wrong, for mother is a Christian ? Ah, the 
best she can do, is to get down into the valley of 
humiliation, and confess her sin — yes, confess it 
to her child, and with him ask Gon to forgive her, 
and assist her in future to obey his law, and then, 
in the midst of her own tears, point out and illus¬ 
trate the sinfulness and the result of untruthfulness. 
Again, Mrs. B., a merry-hearted woman, but 
with no very decided, principles upon this subject, 
is called to the window some day by the exclama¬ 
tion of her little daughter, “ The soldiers are com¬ 
ing—the soldiers are coming /” “ Where, Lizzie ?” 
she says, “ I do not see them!” “ 0 mother,” re¬ 
plies the child, “ I only said it for fun! Don’t you 
remember what fun we had the other evening at 
the tea-table, when you told father you had some 
of the best tea he ever drank, right from Young’s, 
and it was only hot water sweetened with brown 
sugar?—and when you laid the blank letter under 
his plate — how, when he tasted the tea, and open¬ 
ed the letter, you said ‘April fool!’ and then we all 
laughed so?” 
“ Well, Lizzie, you are a bright child!” exclaims 
the mother, as she laughingly returns to her work, 
and Lizzie, full of the idea that she is smart, be¬ 
cause she has been successful in deceiving her 
mother, is ready to go and play off her tricks upon 
the girl in the kitchen. 
Can it reasonably be expected, under such cir¬ 
cumstances, that child will grow up truthful and 
truth-loving? Far from it. The heartless coquette 
of future years will take the same pleasure in de¬ 
ceiving those who may knock at the door of her 
heart, that the child at the window did in deceiv¬ 
ing her mother. Truly, as a writer says, “A 
straw will make an impression upon the virgin 
snow. Let it remain a short time and a horse’s 
hoof can hardly penetrate it. So it is with the 
youthful mind. A trifling word may make an im¬ 
pression upon it, but after a few years the most 
powerful appeals may cease to influence it. Think 
of this, ye who have the training of the infant 
mind, and leave such an impression thereon as will 
be safe for it to carry amid the follies and tempta¬ 
tion of the world.” 
Truth is so lovely, that there would seem to be 
no necessity of impressing upon the mind of the 
thoughtful and Christian mother the necessity of 
implanting its principles in her child’s mind, if she 
would have the child’s moral character developed 
to a noble standard. Some writer thus elegantly 
discourses concerning it:—“ Truth is beautiful as 
glittering diamonds or burning rubies; as lovely 
as the sun when he sinks to rest in his western, 
hour; and as pure as pearls in a lake of crystal.— 
’Tis as peaceful as a summer’s midnight when na¬ 
ture, for a season, sleeps in calm repose; as artless 
as an angel of mercy when ministering to virtuous 
innocence; as sincere as justice upon her throne. 
’Tis as uniform as the moon in her starry rounds, 
and as consistent as goodness associated with 
honesty.” 
Would you not have your child’s soul wear so j 
bright a gem ? And what shall we say of false- j 
hood, the child of the Prince of Darkness ? llow it j 
dries up, like the blast of a hot wind, every spring | 
of sweet water in the human heart, till it becomes ! 
a wide desert-place wherein can grow no green and ; 
beautiful thing—where no flowers can shed their 
fragrance! 
-^4- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“FEMININE APPAREL.” 
In the Rural of Feb. 26th, “Sister Fannie” 
had a short article upon “Feminine Apparel”—an 
article which does not coincide with my views of 
the subject. Although she says that all sensible 
people arc on her side, I would like to express my 
“feelinks,” if I do not intrude upon the good 
graces of the public in general. I must say that 
“hoops” improve the figure of a lady, but, like 
everything else, there is a bound of reason. A 
person can wear them too large, and look more like 
a balloon than a human being, and then, again, she 
can wear them so as to look very pretty. 
But a woman can't look like a woman with a 
short dress and pants on. No, I say they can’t, 
for woman was designed, from the beginning, to 
wear long, flowing robes, and the men to wear 
pants—and I think that if a woman does not still 
adhere to long dresses, she views the subject in a 
wrong light. I have seen several ladies— I sup¬ 
pose they called themselves—dress in short robes 
and pants, their hair cut and combed in true mas- 
culide style, wearing hats, and I must agree with 
my brother who says that they are regular speci¬ 
mens of that genus of whom every one has heard, 
viz., “ Girl Boys.” 
A woman may wear bloomers at home about her 
work, but when that is done, then put on a long 
dress and be a lady. If I ever should put on a 
short dress and pants, (and I sincerely hope I 
never shall,) I shall soon doff the short skirt and 
put on a coat. I will dress like a man and be done 
with it—not go half. My motto is, “ the whole or 
none.” 
I don’t know but I am saying too much against 
“Fannie’s” opinions, but I must free my mind. 
Now, my sisters, think of these things a second 
time—I presume you thought of them after “ Fan¬ 
nie’s ” advice—but think of them a second time, 
and let the Dress Reform go, and keep on the hoops 
and long robes. Mollie Flagg. 
Grove Hill, 1859. 
-- 
How You May Know Goon Fathers. —It is a 
good sign and true when you see, amid a little 
group of boys, one dart from the rest, and tossing 
his arms above his head, shout, “ There's my 
father!” as he runs to meet him. You may be 
sure, no matter what business troubles soever that 
man may have, that there is a spot in his heart 
still fresh and green, which the cares of the world 
havehad no power to blight. “There’s my father!” 
With what a pretty pride the little fellow shouts 
this ! He must be, indeed, a brute, whoso fatherly 
heart does not swell with love, whose eyes do not 
glisten, who does not, at such a moment, feel 
amply repaid for that day’s toil, no matter how 
wearisome. After all, Love is the only thing worth 
having in this world. Fame, and money, and am¬ 
bition, dwindle to nothing beside the white, calm 
brow of death, though God knows it may be but 
the youngling of the flock, whose lips have never 
even learned to syllabic their name. 
An Aged Woman.— Let the aged woman be no 
longer an object of contempt. She is as helpless 
as a child ; but as a child she may be learning the 
last awful lesson from her Heavenly Father. Her 
feeble step is treading on the brink of the grave; 
but her hopes may be firmly planted on the better 
shore which is beyond. Her eye is dim with suf¬ 
fering and tears ; but her spiritual vision may be 
contemplating the gradual unfolding of the gates 
of eternal bliss. Beauty has faded from her form; 
but angels in the world of light may be weaving a 
wreath of glory for her brow. Her lip is silent; 
but it may only be waiting to pour forth celestial 
strains of gratitude and praise. Lowly, and fallen, 
and sad, she sits among the living; but exalted, 
purified, and happy, she may rise from the dead. 
Then turn, if thou wilt, from the aged woman in 
her loneliness; but remember she is not forgotten 
by her God.— Mrs. Sigourney. 
A Beautiful Faith.— “ Beautiful, exceedingly,” 
is the burial of children among the Mexicans. No 
dark procession or gloomy looks mark the passage 
to the grave; but dressed in its holiday attire, and 
garlanded with bright, fresh flowers, the little 
sleeper is borne to its rest. Glad songs, and joy¬ 
ful bells are rung, and lightly as to a festival, the 
gay group goes its way. The child is not dead, 
they say, but “ going home.” The Mexican moth¬ 
er, who has household treasures laid away in the 
campo santa— God’s sacred field—breathes a sweet 
faith, only heard elsewhere in th optoet's utterance. 
Ask her how many children bless her house, and 
she will answer: “Five; two here, and three yon¬ 
der.” So, despite death and the grave, it is yet an 
unbroken household, and the simple mother ever 
lives in the thought. 
-+-0-*- 
Speak Kindly to All. —How beautifully kind 
words sound to the ear, and how much they soften 
the feelings even of those that are somewhat dis¬ 
posed to the use of callous words. Reader, if you 
have a mother or father who has fondly nursed 
and cherished you from your infancy up to man¬ 
hood ; speak kindly to them. Gentle words are 
acceptable at all times and becoming in all places. 
Nothing looks more hateful than to see children 
disobedient and vulgar to their parents who have 
patiently watched over them in their infancy.—S. 
C. R., liobertsville, Stark Co., 0. 
Jean Paul says—God and love are everywhere; 
in light, in colors, in flowers, in the beauty of man, 
in the happiness of animals, in the human mind, 
in the endless spheres; as the sun shines on all, 
alike yet differently, and is majestic on the ocean, 
sparkling in a dewdrop, ruddy on the ripe fruit, 
silver on the stream, many colored in the rainbow, 
and pale and tremulous in the moon. 
THE CROOKED FOOTPATH. 
r.v o. w. holmes. 
An, here it is! the sliding rail 
That marks the old remembered spot,— 
The gap that struck our school-boy trail,— 
The crooked path across the lot. 
It left the road by school and church, 
A penciled shadow, nothing more, 
That parted from the silver birch 
And ended at the farm-house door. 
No line or compass traced its plan, 
With frequent bends to left or right. 
In aimless, wayward curves it ran, 
But always kept the door in sight. 
The gabled porch, with woodbine green,— 
The broken millstone at the Jill,— 
Though many a rood might stretch between, 
The truant child could sec them still. 
No rocks across the pathway lie,— 
No fallen trunk,is o’er it thrown,— 
And yet it winds, we know not why, 
And turns as if for tree or stone. 
Perhaps some lover trod the way 
With shaking knees and leaping heart,— 
And so it often runs astray 
With sinuous sweep or sudden start. 
Or one, perchance, with clouded brain 
From some unholy banquet reeled,— 
And since our devious steps maintain 
Ilis track across the trodden field. 
Nay, deem not thus—'no earth-born will 
Could ever trace a faultless line ; 
Our truest steps are human still,— 
To walk unswerving were divine ! 
Truants from love, we dream of wrath,— 
Oh, rather let us trust the more ! 
Through all the wanderings of the path, 
We still can see our Father’s door! 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE BOOKS TO READ. 
“ Books, books, it makes me sick, 
To think how ye arc multiplied ; 
Like Egypt’s frogs ye poke up thick, 
Y’our ugly heads on every side. 
That sounds very much as though it might have 
been the effusion of some disappointed author. 
Vexed to see his own work sink into oblivion, he 
could not endure to behold with good grace the sea 
of literature crowded with other craft. But books 
are great blessings. Thfc work of some favorite 
author neatly bound, is a “ thing of beauty.” They 
are none the less a blessing from the fact that they 
“ poke up their ugly heads on every side.” There 
are some things that are increased in value because 
they are universal. Does not the writer derive 
greater pleasure from that a thousand will 
* follow the track of his(|Kught, than if only one 
could do so? There was'once a time when books 
were only to be found in the cell of the monk, or 
in the libraries of the learned. But the fountain of 
knowledge has been opened, and its crystal waters 
refresh alike the lowly and the great. One, in his 
richly furnished and attractive library, reads Mil- 
ton “ bound in gold,” and another, by his cottage 
lamp, reads a “ cheap edition ” of the same. Not a 
tithe of the beauty the poet has created, is denied 
the poor laborer, because his copy is muslin-bound, 
thanks to the multitudes of printing presses, that 
have rendered the choicest literature so common. 
What rare pleasure is it in the respite of toil to 
hold communication with a favorite author. Who 
that has once tasted so sweet a pleasure can for¬ 
sake the quiet walks of literature for the noisy 
clamor ol the pleasure-seeking world. Men, highly 
gifted by genius, are very rarely favored with 
those tastes and habits that fit one to be a favorite 
in society. Neither are great readers. The tastes 
and habits that qualify him to enjoy the pleasures 
of literature, disqualify him to be either a lover of, 
or a favorite in society. True, conversation with 
an appreciative companion, adds zest to reading, 
yet mixing up too much in society will destroy the 
taste for it. This should not be, and when society 
is what it ought to be, the reader and the conversa¬ 
tionist will derive mutual pleasure from each others 
company. The real lover of books can smile at the 
allurements of ambition, and say with the oft- 
quoted poet, 
“ My library is dukedom large enough.” 
Books are great travelers. If you never enjoy 
the privilege of. an evening’s chit-chat with a 
traveled gentleman, the best way you can supply 
the deficiency is to read some well-written book of 
travels. If you are of a poetic temperament, take 
passage with Curtis or with Bayard Taylor up 
the far-famed old Nile. Mount a dromedary and 
sweep across the wild and terrible desert. Wander 
by moonlight with an Arab guide through the 
beautiful ruins that crowd upon either bank, or 
sail away, “ beyond civilization, away into the 
savage heart of Africa.” If you are a plain, matter- 
of-fact man, peruse Livingstone’s Researches in 
South Africa. Trace him in his fatiguing journeys 
on ox-back through tribes, friendly and unfriendly, 
assailed by sickness and*discouragement, and when 
you close the volume, you will feel that you have 
been in company with a true missionary hero.-— 
For plain common sense, sound philosophy and 
valuable information, he cannot be excelled. If 
you are fond of Polar Seas and icebergs, Dr. Kane 
will charm you many an hour. 
If you are a lover of poetry, you certainly must 
be hard to please if you can find nothing to suit 
your taste. Every age has its crowd of poets, 
though some tower like giants above the rest.— 
Though the names of Milton and Shakspkare are 
on the pen of nearly every essayest, we need not 
go back to these to find true poetry. Neither need 
we go across the water, for we have a Bryant, 
Whittier, Halleck, Longfellow, and a Prentice. 
Their productions are sweet, charming, and true. 
But if you are partial to the older poets, the 
British bards look invitingly at you. Not to men¬ 
tion those contemporary with Scott and Moore, 
read those of the time of Gray and Goldsmith.— 
If you are in indolent mood, read Thompson’s Cas¬ 
tle of Indolence, but read it slowly, lazily, or you 
will not appreciate it. If you feel like being 
preached to, read Young’s Night Thoughts. If 
you wish to enjoy a pure, classical flow of language, 
study Pope and Goldsmith. If you would have 
all good qualities, combined with a spirit of deep 
religious fervor, read the best works of Cowper. 
Perhaps you are a lover of history. There is no 
branch of literature embracing a wider range of 
subjects, or capable of being rendered more fasci¬ 
nating than history. If you would really enjoy it 
read only the best authors. There are enough of 
the productions of first-class writers to employ all 
the leisure time the generality of people can de¬ 
vote to literary pursuits. Why then should any 
one spend so brief a life in perusing the pages of 
those writers unsound in morals, or lacking 
healthful food for the intellect? From Xenophen 
down to Prescott, there are a perfect crowd of 
historians, but the indiscriminate study of all will 
not insure as complete a knowledge of history as 
the careful study of only the best. So it is with 
poetry, essays, and biography. Probably there is 
no branch of composition, that has suffered more 
from second-rate writers than fiction. Novelists, 
in order to command the interest of their readers, 
hold up to the imagination, highly wrought pic¬ 
tures. The false glare and glitter vitiate the taste 
of the reader, and he soon becomes dissatisfied 
with anything less showy. Macaulay, D’Aubigne, 
and Irving, are neglected for the Mrs. South- 
worths. Reader be careful to cultivate a taste for 
pure literature. It will do much toward building 
up a good and beautiful character. It will help to 
lead you to greatness. Select your library as you 
do your companions, with an eye to the influence 
they will exert upon your character. 
“ Come, my best friends, my books, and lead me on.” 
Minerva Osborn. 
Butler, Milwaukee Co., Wis., 1S59. 
FACTS AND CIRCUMSTANCES. 
Cicero’s first great speech was made at the age 
of twenty-seven. It was at the same age at which 
Demosthenes distinguished himself in the assem¬ 
bly of the Athenians. Danta published his “ Vita 
JVuova” when just twenty-seven. Dryden first 
gave testimony to his poetical genius at the age of 
twenty-seven. Bacon began to form his new sys¬ 
tem of philosophy into some form when about 
twenty-seven. Burns issued his first publication 
in his twenty-seventh year. Washington was but 
twenty-seven when he covered the retreat of the 
British troops at Braddock’s defeat, and was ap¬ 
pointed to the command-in-chief of all the Virginia 
forces. John Quincy Adams was appointed by 
Washington, in 1794, minister resident to the United 
Netherlands — thus commencing his public life at 
the age of twenty-seven. Napoleon, we believe, 
was only twenty-seven when he led the army into 
Egypt. Some of the poets that have been the pride 
of England, have commenced to write early in life. 
Some few, however, have produced their best pieces 
in old age. Cowper was fifty before he obtained 
any reputation as an author. Young never wrote 
anything that could be called poetry till he was 
over sixty; and was more than eighty when he 
published his poem on “Resignation.” Chaucer 
wrote his best poetry after he was sixty. Pope 
wrote at twelve years of age. Cowley at fifteen. 
Chatterton at eleven. Samuel Rogers was fixed in 
his determination to become a poet by the perusal 
of Beattie’s “Minstrel,” when only nine years of 
age. Thomas Moore wrote poetry in his fourteenth 
year, which was published in the Dublin Magazine. 
Campbell wrote his poem on the “Pleasures of 
Hope ” at twenty-one—the same age at which Pope 
wrote his essay on “ Criticism.” Shelley wrote at 
the age of fifteen ; at eighteen he produced his wild, 
atheistical poem, “Queen Mab.” Keats published 
his “ Endymion ” in his twenty-second year, a 
cruel criticism on which caused his death. Mrs. 
Hemans ventured on publication in her fifteenth 
year. Mrs. Norton composed her “Sorrows of 
Rosalie” in her seventeenth year. John Mayne in 
his sixteenth year published the germ of his “Sil- 
lie Gun.” Hannah More published her “Search 
after Happiness ” in her seventeenth year. Sir 
Edward Lytton wrote verses at the age of five or 
six years. Goethe died in 1832, a year which 
swept away so many of the great men of the Euro¬ 
pean world—among others, Cuvier, Crabbe, and 
Sir Walter Scott. Cuvier and Napoleon were born 
in the same year, 1769. Mozart and Kosciusko 
were born in the year 1779. Alexander Hamilton 
and Lafayette were born in the year 1757. Hegel, 
Wordsworth, and Chalmers were each born in the 
year 1770. Macpherson, Herschel, and West were 
all born in the same year, 1738. Curran, Heber, 
David the painter, and Dr. Rush were each born in 
1750.— Home Journal. 
Sweet Old Age.— God sometimes gives to inan 
a guiltless and holy second childhood, in which 
the soul becomes child-like, not childish — and the 
faculties, in full fruit and ripeness, are mellow, 
without sign of decay. This is that fought for 
land of Beulah, where they who have traveled 
manfully the Christian way abide awhile, to show 
the world a perfect manhood. Life, with its bat¬ 
tles and its sorrows, lies far behind them; the soul 
has thrown off his armor, and sits in an evening 
undress of calm and holy leisure. Thrice blessed 
the family or neighborhood that numbers among it 
one of those not yet ascended saints ! Gentle are 
they and tolerant, and apt to play with little chil¬ 
dren, easy to be pleased with little pleasure. 
Prejudice. —One of the greatest obstacles to the 
progress and admission of truth, is prejudice. It 
is akin to jealousy ; a compound of the concentra¬ 
tion of whims ; a mote in the eye of reason. No 
living man can entirely divest himself of it. It 
not only greatly controls and biases the most of 
men, but it unconsciously lingers around some of 
the best men till the day of death. If we cannot 
conquer this gigantic enemy of truth, let us never 
cease to give him battle, and thus escape being 
conquered ourselves. 
You had better find out one of your own weak¬ 
nesses, than ten of your neighbor’s. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“A DIRGE FOR THE DEPARTED.” 
BY ELLEN C. LAKE. 
“ A dirge for the departed,” 
For the childish brows that lie 
Where lilies, golden-hearted, 
In beauty bloom and die; 
For lights gone out forever 
From the hearth-side and the home; 
For hopes that Death’s dark river 
Away from our hearts has won. 
“ A dirge for the departed,” 
For manhood’s strength laid low 
Ere the triumph-light had parted 
From the broad, undaunted brow ; 
For dreamings lost in shadow 
Of the Valley dark and lone, 
Showing no summer-meadow 
Through the vistas darkly drawn. 
“ A dirge for the departed,” 
For the aged hands that kept, 
Till life-chords slowly parted, 
Their prayer-clasp when we wept; 
For hearts that held our weakness 
In the keeping of their love, 
For faith that grew in meekness 
To its sure reward above. 
“ A dirge for the departed,” 
For the blessings lost and gone, 
For loves that life once started 
In the flush of spring-time’s dawn ; 
But not for souls gone early 
Away from the toil and pain, 
Not for the hearts wrung sorely 
Of sorrow’s most bitter rain. 
Safe in the lands of Heaven 
The loved that we miss must be ; 
Then for the earth-tics riven 
Let anthems of praise flow free : 
Up from the “ bending willows ” 
And the grave’s dark, deathly door, 
Parting the surging billows 
They've gone to a brighter shore. 
Charlotte Centre, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
WHY DELAY? 
Why so many hearts, long bowed down by con¬ 
viction of sin? Why so long sorrowing — so loDg 
doubting ? Can we thereby add anything to our 
own worthiness to be accepted of God, or will He 
be the more willing to receive us ? Nay, fellow- 
sinners, God does not require us to prepare our¬ 
selves for Ilis kingdom; nor can we, by any exer¬ 
tion of our own, make ourselves more fit for it.— 
Neither need we doubt Ilis willingness to accept 
us. Justus we are let us come to Him—truly sorry 
for our sinful natures, and still more sinful prac¬ 
tices— and at the foot of the cross give up every¬ 
thing to Him, making no reserve, and the self-same 
hour we do this God will gracously pardon our 
sins, and joy unspeakable will fill the sinner’s heart. 
Do we not by our long waiting show our disbe¬ 
lief of God’s word, and of His ability to fulfil Ilis 
promises? Or, does it not show a want of confi¬ 
dence on our part to trust our soul, our all to God, 
and while thus, by our actions, we accuse God of 
inability or unfaithfulness, can we expect so great, 
so very great a blessing from Him? As a friend, 
then, who fondly hopes to have tasted the “ good 
word of life” let me entreat all who have not given 
their hearts to God, that without reserve, they im¬ 
mediately give themselves up to Him—go humbly 
by prayer and plead earnestly for the forgiveness 
of their sins. 
And do any doubt being willingly received?— 
Aye, “ I say unto j r ou, that likewise joy shall be in 
heaven over one sinner that repenteth, more than 
over ninety and nine just persons, which need no 
repentance.” It was Christ’s mission into the 
world, the cause of Ilis great suffering and death 
to provide a way, and this very way by which you 
might be saved. Read the account of Ilis life and 
see how kind, how very kind He was to sinners 
while on earth. Sec how much compassion and 
love lie had for them. God is well pleased at the 
return of the humble, penitent sinner. Go there¬ 
fore and receive His richest blessings, nor delay or 
mourn. n. p. b. 
Brookland, Pa., 1S59. 
A Beautiful Sentiment. — The late eminent 
judge, Sir Allen Park, once said at a public meet¬ 
ing in London :—“ We live in the midst of bless¬ 
ings till we are utterly insensible of their great¬ 
ness, and of the source from whence they flow. 
We speak of our civilization, our arts, our free¬ 
dom, our laws, and forget entirely how large a 
share is due to Christianity. Blot Christianity 
out of the pages of man’s history, and what would 
his laws have been?—what his civilization ? Chris¬ 
tianity is mixed up with our very being and our 
daily life ; there is not a familiar object around us 
which does not wear a different aspect, because 
the light of Christian love is on it—not a law 
which does not owe its truth and gentleness to 
Christianity—not a custom which cannot be traced 
in all its holy, healthful parts to the Gospel.” 
Give all to God. —Keep not back part of tho 
price. Make a full surrender of every motion of 
thy heart; labor to have one object, and one aim. 
And for this purpose give God the keeping of 
thine heart. Cry out for more of the divine influ¬ 
ences of the Holy Spirit, that so when the soul is 
preserved and protected by Him, it may be direct¬ 
ed into one channel, and one only, that thy life 
may run deep and pure, and clear and peaceful; 
its only banks being God’s will, its only channel 
the love of Christ and a desire to please Him.— 
Spurgeon. 
Mere Professions. —It is very possible for us to 
profess the name of Christ, and yet to be in fact, 
the preafesijobstacles in the progress of his king¬ 
dom.— Wayland. 
