William was holding in his hand 
Tho likeness of his wife; 
Fresh as if touched by fairy wand, 
With beauty, grace and life, 
lie almost thought it spoke—he gazod 
Upon the treasure still, 
Absorb’d, delighted, and amazed 
To view the artist’s skill. 
“ This picture is yousclf, dear Jane, 
’Tis drawn to nature true ; 
I’ve kissed it o’er and o’er again, 
It is ao much like you.” 
“ And has it kiss’d you back, my dear?” 
“ Why—no—ray love,” said he, 
“Then, William, it is very clear 
’Tis not at all like me /” 
-- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SYMPATHY. 
Like the Night-blooming (lower 
That its fragrance sends forth, 
When darkness o’ershadows 
All the bright things of earth; 
So is Sympathy pure 
In life’s suffering hours; 
So sweet and so grateful, 
Like tho fragrance of flowers. 
South Butler, N. Y., 1859. An Invalid. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
loss aistd (kvviiv. 
BY EMILY C. HUNTINGTON. 
I think I felt unusually complacent as I put the 
last touches to my toilet, and started on that shop 
ping expedition. I remember a passing reflection 
as I put my little portmonaie in my pocket, that it 
was probably better filled than many a more pre 
tentious one; not heavy enough to be at all bur 
densome, but just enough to carry comfortably 
through the streets without suggesting pick-pock 
ets. Every lady knows how time flies when one is 
shopping; and amid the endless variety and tempt 
ing patterns of the furniture rooms, my brain was 
sorely puzzled—but a choice was made at last, 
and already I saw in imagination my pleasant par 
lar adorned by the pretty sofa and graceful chairs 
when chancing to put my hand in my pocket, 
1 found it empty. 
There was a moment of stupid bewilderment, and 
then the conviction came with all its length and 
breadth to my mind —my money was gone. Drop 
ped on the street, no doubt, and as hopelessly lost 
as if in the bottom of the Red Sea, with the loose 
change Pharaoh may have had about him. 
I have a thermometer usually with me called Self- 
Complacence, and some plain-spoken friends of 
mine have assured me that it generally indicates a 
high temperature, but I can confidently assert that 
at this time the mercury was below zero. Have 
you ever seen on an icy day an elegant specimen of 
the genus homo, flourishing his dandy cane along 
the walk with an air of intense satisfaction, and 
just as he was preparing for an exquisite recogni¬ 
tion of some belle of the promenade, do you remem¬ 
ber how the treacherous ice glided from under his 
tread, and the next glimpse you had impressed on 
your memory a promiscuous mixture of boot soles, 
broadcloth, small cane, eye-glass and dandy? With 
what a crest-fallen look the poor fellow gathered 
himself up and crept away. You could not help 
pitying him, laughing all the time. I laughed at 
just such a sight last Sabbath, when I ought to 
have been meditating on the sermon, but if two 
persons ever have precisely similar sensations, 
shared his feelings so fully, as I slowly turned my 
face homeward, that I hardly knew whether it was 
the collapsed dandy or my proper self. 
Well, the money was gone. That was, as J- 
used to say, “ a time fact "—so calling to my aid all 
my stock of philosophy, strengthened by sundry 
wise saws, I sat down by the fire to meditate. If I 
could only know who would find it—and then I fell 
to dreaming over the chances; and pictures pre¬ 
sented themselves to me in this wise:—A garret 
in an obscure corner of the city, with the sky peer¬ 
ing in through the yawning roof, and a little fire 
smouldering on the hearth. Drawn close to it a 
rickety chair, and a pale woman, wasted with want 
and pain, reaching out her thin hands toward the 
feeble warmth. By the window a young girl bend¬ 
ing wearily over her needle, with a hopeless look 
in her sad face. There is neither food nor fuel in 
the room, and the scanty pay that will be given for 
the garment in her hands is all her hope of escaping 
a little longer from the grasp of cold and hunger. 
It is finished at last, and the girl hastily rises, puts 
on a thin shawl and faded bonnet, and with a 
loving word to the invalid mother goes out into 
the street. 
IIow merrily the world seems to go! Ladies 
wrapped in costly furs are whirled by in sleighs, to 
the music of the bells, or trip gaily along the walk, 
sweeping past the poor little seamstress without a 
glance or a pitying thought. She, poor shivering 
thing, draws her shawl more closely about her, and 
plods along to the shop with her work. The well- 
dressed clerk takes it carelessly from her hand, in¬ 
spects the sewing, and tosses it one side. “ You 
will have to come on Saturday for your pay,” he 
says; “ we have decided upon weekly payments,” 
and turns away. No vision of the girl’s disappoint¬ 
ed face, and the stony look that came into her eyes 
as she crept trembling out of the shop, haunted 
him as he sat down that night amid all the outward 
blessings of life. Oh, no! he was used to it — it 
never troubled him now. I took up the poker and 
stirred the fire with a vindictive feeling for a mo¬ 
ment; then leaned back in my chair and dreamed 
on. Once on the street the girl walks mechanically 
homeward for a few moments. There is so much 
blind despair in her heart that there is no room 
eft in it for any faith in God’s pity or man’s hu¬ 
manity. “ We may as well die now as any time— 
we must starve in the end—there is no room in the 
world for us,” and she turns a bitter, fierce look 
upon the merry pedestrians, that jostle her as they 
pass. If a dim thought of the promises on which 
her mother has always learned in her sorest need, 
comes into her mind, it is too faint a light to 
make any show in such great darkness. We have 
all seen such times of sore temptation, but Gon 
knows our human weakness and unbelieving, and 
will not condemn us unmercifully. What is that 
lying at her feet ? Her fingers tremble with eager¬ 
ness as she grasps the treasure, opens it and exam¬ 
ines the contents. It is a lady’s portmonaie, and 
contains what seems to her, so long fighting with 
poverty, a great sum. Visions of comfort and hap¬ 
piness, such as she had not known for years, rise 
up quickly before her. Food and clothing, fuel, 
and medicines for her sick mother, little delicacies 
that her failing appetite craved—all these the purse 
would supply. Then came another thought,— the 
money was not hers. Where was tho owner?— 
She dares not think of it, but hurries home to the 
garret, and tells the whole story to her mother. 
“ I think the Lord sent it to us, mother, to keep 
us from starving, and I think it would be right to 
use it. We can never find the owner?” 
“ Perhaps not, my child, hut we must do what 
we can. You had better go and tell Mr. C — 
about it, and ask him to let me know if anybody 
should advertise for it. We will wait a week and 
then I think it will be fairly ours.” 
“And how are we to live in the meantime? we 
shall die of starvation.” 
“I believe there will be some way provided; the 
Lord never leaves us utterly to perish, but if we 
die let us die in our integrity.” 
“ I hope they will use the money,” said I, start¬ 
ing from my chair—“ the Lord sometimes forces 
our tardy charities from us, and makes us his 
almoners against our will.” 
The tea-bell was ringing, my brother came in 
from his study, and seated at the table I told him 
of my misfortune. 
“ Had I better advertise it ?” I asked him. 
“ It is hardly worth while. If an honest person 
finds it he will advertise, and if any one else has it, 
your advertisement would do no good.” 
“Well, I hope some one who needs it will find 
it, and I believe it will be so,” said I; and I had 
half a mind to tell him about the sewing girl and 
her mother, but his face looked so unpromisingly 
practical that I forbore. 
“Most likely,” said he, “ it will supply some son 
of Erin with the ‘drop o’gin,’ and the ‘bit o’to- 
baccy’ for the rest of the winter.” 
The suggestion made me indignant, and I poured 
my tea in silence ; but I have gone back to my first 
fancy, and hope soon to see it fully confirmed. 
Brooklyn, Conn., April, 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE MARINER. 
BY MINERVA 08BURN. 
Along tlie banks of life’s little stream 
Sails a child in liis winsome glee, 
Keeping time to the ripples’ roguish play 
As they kiss the pebbles on their way, 
Their way to the far-off sea. 
Now lie talks to the flowers along the brook, 
Then he sings some childish song; 
lie watches the stars as they bend to look 
At their sister stars in the lowly brook. 
He had always thought they wero very high, 
Far up in the roof of the sheltering sky; 
lie smiles to see them so near him now, 
Glistening and gleaming just under his prow, 
As he lightly skims along. 
But the stream flows on with a swifter course, 
And the child hath ceased his lay: 
O’er the hurrying wave his bark he guides, 
Nor heeds the flowers by the river’s side, 
For he sees beyond a broader stream 
When along the shore 
Lies the glittering ore, 
And precious gems in the sunlight gleam. 
Then an Angel comes to the mariner child, 
“ By those glittering gems is thy heart beguiled ; 
They arc false and vain, 
And will fill thy heart with woe and pain. 
Thou art on the uncertain stream of life, 
Thou must gird thee for its toil and strife, 
Thy way is dark, 
Here's a compass true, 
And there is a star, its beacon ray 
Will guide thy bark 
On its perilous way.” 
The angel ceased ; for the mariner’s eye 
Is fixed on the shore where the treasures lie ; 
For the deeper tide he dips liis oar 
To join in its ceaseless strife and roar, 
With anxious look’and a brow of care, 
He leads his bark with the baubles fair; 
But heavier grows his heart the while ; 
No time has be to sing or smile, 
But toiling ever, 
Along the shores of the widening river 
Ho gathers his precious store. 
He pauses a momeut amid his toil 
To gladden his sight with the shining spoil, 
But, alas! eucli treacherous wave that swells 
O’er the ressol’sside 
Sweeps off some gem to the greedy tide. 
Then the mariner wakes from his mocking dream, 
And finds he has passed far down the stream— 
“ O, why did I hurry on so fast, 
My gems are lost, and my youth is past. 
Alas ! ’twas true what the Angel said— 
But the little brook—where, where has it fled? 
Far over the hills like a silver thread 
It winds ’mid the music song-loving birds, 
While the flowers echo back their low lisping words. 
A toil worn man, 
I have almost measured out life’s span; 
In these foam crested waves there’s a message for me 
By this BOlemn roar 
And this widened shore, 
I know I am nearing eternity’s sea.” 
Then the Angel looked with pitying eye 
O’er the surging waves, tlieij came a 6igh ; 
’Tis a perilous way to *ln^7 >i> 'f heaven ; 
And now alone,' 
On a tide unknown; 
By the veering winds thy bark is driven, 
The star that shone so clear and bright 
When I pointed thee to its guiding light, 
Is dimmed with clouds; but its flickering ray 
May shine again on thy gloomy way ! 
Watch well its light! 
Tho’ thy hope is dim and thy lot unblcst, 
It may lead thee to the port of rest. 
Then the mariner watched with an earnest eye 
For the flickering star in the troubled sky, 
And watching thus, an ocean wave, 
In its courso sublime, 
Swept round his bark, 
And bore him out from tho river of time. 
Butler, Wis., 1859. 
MOTHERS. 
If anything in life deserves to be considered 
ts at once the exquisite bliss and pre-eminent 
duty of a mother, it is this—to watch the dawning 
disposition and capacity of a fovorite child; to 
discover the earliest buds of thought; to feed 
with useful truths the inquisitiveness of a young 
and curious mind; to direct the eyes, yet unsul¬ 
lied with the waters of contrition, to a bounteous 
Benefactor; to lift the little hands, yet unstained 
with vice, in prayer to their Father which art in 
Heaven. But so it is; the child, as soon as it is 
released from the bondage of the nurse, and needs 
no longer a careful eye to look after its steps, and 
guard it from external injury, is too often surren¬ 
dered to instructors, some of whom are employed 
to polish the surface of the character, and regu¬ 
late the motions of the limbs; others to furnish 
the memory, and accomplish the imagination; 
while religion gets admission as she can—some¬ 
times in aid of authority, and sometimes in a Sat¬ 
urday’s task, or a Sunday’s peculiarity, but how 
rarely as a sentiment! Their little hearts are made 
to flutter with vanity, encouraged to pant with 
emulation, persuaded to contract with parsimony, 
allowed to glow with revenge, or reduced to 
absolute numbness, by worldliness and cares, 
before they have ever felt a sentiment of devotion, 
or beat with a pulsation of sorrow for an offence, 
or gratitude for a benefit in the presenc of God. 
Believe me, mothers, you have no right to expect 
that the sense of religion will be infused by the 
labors of others. When parents have ceased to 
be teachers, religion has ceased to be taught. 
Selected. 
Silence ! Not a leaf is stirred, not a breeze 
EVENING BEFORE A WEDDING. | moves. Nature is taking a rest, a quiet repose; 
and so the earth floats softly the yielding space in 
“ I will tell you,” Continued her aunt to Louisa, the gentlest of all moods, with her great pulse 
two things which I have fully proved. The first beating slowly and her thousand voices hushed 
ill go far towards preventing the possibility of and stilled. There is something expressive in 
any discord after marriage; the second is the silence. Speak the word and your voice will fall 
best and surest preservative of feminine character.” to a whisper; think of it, and your mind will run 
“ Tell me!” said Louisa anxiously. back along the path of years to the first great 
“ The first is this—to demand of your bride- Silence. In a book published long ago and not 
groom, as soon as the marriage ceremony is over, read as much as it should be, there is a passage 
solemn vow, and promise yourself, never, even which describes the place in which it dwelt; 
jest, to dispute, or express any disagreement— hero it is :—“ And the earth was without form, 
I tell you never!—for what begins in mere banter- and void; and darkness was upon the face of 
ing, will lead to serious earnest. Avoid expressing the deep.” In that darkness and over the dreary 
any irritation at one another’s words. Mutual for- waste of those waters black, there reigned a sol 
bearance is the one great secret of domestic hap- emu silence. Even the attendants of old chaos 
piness. If you have erred, confess it freely, even moved about in shadowy forms that made no noise, 
( confession costs you some tears. Further, and the King himself spoke not, for no “ palpita- 
promise faithlully and solemnly never, upon any ting air” could tremble with a sound. Within 
pretext or excuse, to have any secrets or conceal- those realms no whisper rose. Black gates that 
ments from each other; but to keep your private turned on vapor hinges, shut in those silent 
allairs from father, mother, sister, brother, rela- lands of moving mist, all tenantless of speech or 
tions, and the world. Let them be known only to echoing sound. No voice of birds—no rush of 
each other and your God. Remember that any rolling streams—no gentle murmurings of a sum- 
third person admitted into your confidence be- mer breeze—no grating voice of tempests hoarse— 
comes a party to stand between you, and will nat- no whispered waving of the golden grain—no 
urally side with one or the other. Promise to clashing of embattled trees—no music from the 
avoid this, and renew the vow upon every tempta- voice of man—no deep-toned thunder from the 
tion. It will preserve that perfect confidence, that hand of God : one deep mysterious silence reigned 
union, which will indeed make you one. 0, if the o’er all. Can mind conceive the nature of that si- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LAMP MUSINGS. 
manner. Above, the moon in silence takes her 
evening walk; not a cloud moves—not a star sings, 
all is quiet there. Here around my western home 
there is the same stillness. I do not hear the 
whip-poor-will’s voice—nor the cricket’s hum—nor 
the beetle’s droning notes—nor the katy-did’s con¬ 
tinual contradiction—nor the owlet’s cry—nor the 
watch-dog’s bark—nor any of the “ voices of the 
night.” 
The fact (in spite of all my wondering) still re¬ 
mains. Nature is resting in silence. Well, if her 
mighty energies need recuperation, those of man 
certainly do. It is a great thought, and 1 would 
that I could do it justice. From God to man two 
principles ever typify the nature of mind and in¬ 
telligence— labor and rest. We may conceive, but 
we never can realize either the giant toil, or the 
mighty effort that in six days made Heaven and 
Earth, or the significant rest that followed the 
completion of the work ; but the thought, deep and 
startling, remains, that even God rested. It is a 
natural result of a first cause. Think of it, children 
of earth—men of business when ye turn night into 
day and toil incessant on the ledger’s page. Student 
of the midnight, damp and dim set types, whose 
souls, laudable in effort, but untempered with pru¬ 
dence, lingereth long within the “still small 
hours,” and drinketh seeds of death in waters of 
knowledge—votory of science, training a nice re¬ 
sult, or searching for another precedent to form 
the wondrous law of fact. And ye, citizens of a 
great metropolis, when ye seek pleasure in the 
theater or the concert room, and inhale the tainted 
air of closely fitting walls, remember that through¬ 
out the day ye labored, and your systems needeth 
rest. Remember that rest is a law of your nature, 
and it cannot be broken with impunity. 0 ! how 
many energies have been wasted—how many bright 
eyes dimmed—how many burning lights extin¬ 
guished in the fields of science—how many hearts 
beating strong with the highest impulses of an 
exalted humanity and full of generous love and 
sympathy for the beautiful and true of life, have 
been stilled forever by the iron hand of endless 
labor. Let us go lovingly to rest, nor aim to emu¬ 
late the ridiculous industry of some, who shut one 
eye in sleep and keep the other open in business. 
Would you count the evils of an infringement of 
nature’s rights, read the ages of the sleeping ones 
who lie within the cities of the dead! Not in 
country burying place, but where the remains of 
the denizens of a crowded city are placed. There 
are seen mournful epitaphs of men and women who 
have destroyed themselves, who have gone to their 
long rest before their appointed time, by striving 
to interrupt the natural course of nature’s laws, 
and by endeavoring to place in the balance sheet 
of their lives a greater amount of credit on the 
side of labor. When, 0, man, wilt thou “ know 
thyself?” 
Poor Charles Lamb, how fond thou wast of si¬ 
lence, and how kindly did’st thou look upon the 
thoughts which it gavest. Thou coulds’t ever love 
the quiet Quaker meeting houses, for an atmosphere 
of heavenly stillness surrounded those places, and 
man in quietude worshiped his Creator. Truly, 
when thy speech grew faint, and thy thoughts went 
seeking for oval vehicles in which to visit men, 
thou coulds’t think and write great thoughts in si¬ 
lence. And thou, too, dear Thomas Gray, singing 
thy immortal elegy in the “ solemn stillness” of a 
“country churchyard,” with the “glimmering 
landscape” fading on the sight, and the air lulled 
with “ drowsy tinklings,” thou knowestthe charms 
of silence, for then thou coulds’t write in heavenly 
numbers that shall never die. 0, silence! most favor¬ 
able contemplation ; most favorable to those severer 
thoughts that rise as the lark riseth, with alacrity 
to heaven, and most favorable to those just reflec¬ 
tions which the great mystery of our lives present. 
Most favorable to the whisperings of that “ soft 
still music of humanity” which strikes impromptu 
chords with that of a better land. Let others seek 
the “ maddening crowd’s ignoble strife”—let them 
learn to love the excitement of a city life; but oh, 
give to me the “stilly” night and quiet days 
of a country life where silence sometimes reigns. 
There I may call in my truant memories, and look 
with profit on the faithful pictures which the artist 
hand of time has painted on the glowing past.— 
There I may learn how great secrets we perpetuate 
in our minds and bodies, each day of our lives— 
there I may administer to one the food of knowl¬ 
edge, and warm the other by the fires of exercise. 
But, if ambition calls me to the maits and trading 
places of the world, if within red walls I shall 
work out the sum of my destiny, let me have some 
seasons of silence such as this in which to grow 
better and wiser. s. e. w. 
Stanton Copper Mines, Franklin Co., Mo. 
“THY WILL BE DONE.” 
My God, my Father, whilo I stray 
Far from my homo in life’s rough way, 
O, teach mo, from my heart, to say, 
Thy will, my God, “ Thy will be done,” 
Tho’ dark my path, tho’ sad my lot, 
Let mo be still and murmur not, 
But breathe the prayer, divinely taught, 
“ Thy will, O God, ‘ Thy will be done.” ’ 
If Thou shouldst call me to resign 
“What most I prize—it ne’er was mine, 
I only yield Thee what was Thine, 
Thy will, O God, “ Thy will be done.” 
If but my fainting lieait bo blessed, 
With Thy sweet spirit for its guest, 
My God ! to Thee I leave the rest, 
Thy will, O God, “Thy will bo dono.” 
Renew my will from day to day, 
Blend it with Thine, nnd take away 
All that now makes it hard to say, 
Thy will, O God, “ Thy will bo dono.” 
Then when on earth I breath no moro 
Tho prayer oft mixed with grief before, 
I’ll sing upon a happier shore, 
Thy will, My God, “ Thy will bo done.” 
VANITY OF WORLDLY THINGS. 
Where are now the famed potentates whose 
powers extended over almost the whole earth?— 
Who is it that made them descend from their lofty 
height, and despoiled them of all treasures?— 
Whither have gone those vaunted heroes whose 
achievements drew forth such expressions of admi¬ 
ration; those learned prodigies of acquirements, 
whose writings are spread to the remotest corner 
of the globe; those sublime orators who decided 
the decrees of Senates at their pleasure? Ask 
where are the proud, the rich, the voluptuous, the 
lounger? where those haughty nobles, those hard 
masters, who so rigorously required such implicit 
obedience ? Ask the earth—she will show you the 
places where they lie. Interrogate the tomb — it 
will tell you the narrow space in which their bodies 
are compressed. Their bodies ? Do they then still 
exist? Perhaps a handful of dust may remain of 
each. 
But whilst all around us thus passes away, whilst 
everything escapes us, the kingdom which shall 
not pass away draws nigh. So many revolutions, 
such a continual flux and reflux of human things, 
these perpetually changing scenes of a fleeting 
world, all point the end towards which we are 
hastening our steps. It is the voice of the bride¬ 
groom who calls us to the marriage feast, and by 
his reiterated warnings, urges us to walk accord¬ 
ingly. You who are deaf to this voice, who remain 
buried in the mire of earthly tilings, go down yet 
lower, and what will you find? the grave which is 
waiting for you, and into which you must descend, 
whether you will or not. Already death stands at 
your side, ready to fall upon you and drag you into 
it, as he has done with those who have preceded 
you .—Book of the Fathers. 
-- 
“I’LL REST WHEN I GET HOME.” 
Exercise. —Throughout all nature, want of mo¬ 
tion indicates weakness, corruption, inanimation, 
and death. Trenek, in his damp prison, leaped 
about like a lion, in his fetters of seventy pounds 
weight, in order to preserve his health; an illus¬ 
trious physician observes :—“ I know not which is 
most necessary for the support of the human frame 
—food or motion. Were the exercise of the body 
attended to in a corresponding degree to that of 
the mind, men of learning would be more healthy 
and vigorous—of more general talents—of more 
ample, practical knowledge; more happy in their 
domestic lives; more enterprising and attached to 
their duties as men. In tine, with propriety it may 
be said that the highest refinement of mind, with¬ 
out improvement of the body, can never present 
anything more than half a human being.” 
While I was walking through a street in the 
city of-■, a few days ago, I passed a man whose 
head was whitened and body bowed by the hard¬ 
ships of not less than sixty' years. His limbs 
trembled under their heavy burden, and with much 
apparent effort he advanced but slowly. I over¬ 
heard him talking in a low and subdued voice, 
evidently mourning over his weariness and poverty. 
Suddenly his tone changed, and his step quickened, 
as he exclaimed, “ I’ll rest when I get home.” 
Even the thought of rest filled him with new life, 
so that he pursued with energy his weary way. To 
me it was a lesson.. If the thought of the refresh¬ 
ing rest of home encourages the careworn laborer, 
so that, almost unmindful of fatigue and burdens, 
he quickens his step homeward, surely the Christ¬ 
ian, journeying heavenward, in view of such a rest, 
should press onward with renewed vigor. 
This little incident often comes to mind amid the 
perplexing labors of the day', and stimulates me to 
more constant and earnest effort. Each laborer 
toiling in his Master’s Vineyard, bearing the heat 
and burden of the day, can say, “ I’ll rest when I 
get home.” nere let us be diligent in the service 
of our Lord, remembering that our rest is above. 
Fellow traveler, are your burdens grievous to be 
borne, so that you are ready to faint in the way?— 
Jesus says, “ Come unto me, all ye that are weary 
and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” To 
rest from toil is sweet; to rest from sin is heaven. 
—Christian Miscellany. 
newly married would but practice this spring of 
connubial peace, how many unions would be hap¬ 
py which are now miserable.— Knickerbocker. 
I sorrow that all the fair things must decay.— 
Mrs. Jlemans. 
Modesty conciliates and subdues opposition; 
courage defies and overcomes it. 
lence ? Can the deepest reasoning fathom it ? In 
the music of nature, as well as in that which 
springs from the heart of man, there are sympa¬ 
thetic chords that oft-times mingle into one deep 
strain. So there are, also, periods of rest, that 
folds each in a calm repose; and how impressive 
is that reposo! Here, far away from the “busy 
haunts of men,” I may and do notice it in a striking 
The New Born and the Dead. —Lavater, in his 
Physiognomy , makes the following curious remarks: 
“ I have had occasion to observe some infants, im¬ 
mediately on their birth, and have found an aston¬ 
ishing resemblance between their profile and that 
of their father. A few days after this resemblance 
almost entirly disappeared, the influence of the air 
and food, and probably the change of posture, has 
so altered the design of the face, that you could be¬ 
lieve it a different individual. I afterwards saw 
two of these children die, the one at six weeks, and 
the other at four years of age — and about twelve 
hours after their death they completely recovered 
the profile which had struck me so much at their 
birth; only the profile of the dead child was, as 
might be expected, more strongly marked, and 
more terse than that of the living.” 
Faith in God. —Have faith in God. Faith will 
be staggered even by loose stones in the way, if we 
look manward ; if we look Godward, faith will not 
be staggered even by inaccessible mountains that 
stretch across and obstruct apparently our onward 
progress. “ Go forward,” is the voice from Heaven, 
and faith obeying, finds the mountains before it as 
flat as plains. “ God with us,” is the watchword 
of our warfare, the secret of our strength, the 
security of our triumph. “ If thou canst believe, 
all things are possible to him that believeth.” IIow 
strong faith is when we are just fresh from the 
fountain of redeeming love! A good conscience, 
and then faith will do all things, for it is in its very 
nature such as to let God work all; we may say 
that it is most active when it is most passive, and 
that it wearies least when it docs most work. 
Swearing. —“ Trust not to the promise of a com¬ 
mon swearer,” says Francis Quarles, in his Enchi- 
rydion , “ for he that dares sin against his God for 
neither profit or pleasure, will trespass against thee 
for his own advantage. He that dare break the 
precepts of his Father, will easily be persuaded to 
violate the promise unto his brother.” 
Not to hear conscience is a way to silence it 
