Written for Moore’s Knra! New-Yorker. 
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW. 
“There's beauty all around our path. 
But sorrow, too, is there." 
Watch the bright sunbeams as they pisy 
O’er hill and vale on a summer’s day, 
Gaze at them now as they calmly rest 
Like waves of gold on the streamlet’s breast. 
Look yet again, for the glory has fled, 
The waters are sleeping all rayless and dead, 
A sable-liued pall is o’er mountain and vale, 
The leaflets are resting now breathless and pale, 
The birds and the blossoms arc trembling with fear, 
For the sunbeams have fled and the shadows are here. 
List to the soft and murmuring breeze 
As it moves at twilight amid the trees, 
Bringing sweet voices of loved ones at rest, 
On its perfumed wings from the land of the blest. 
Why changes it now to a low, ead moan 
Like the voice of death in the forest lone ? 
The wind-god is rushing o’er mountain and dale, 
And the waving boughs echo the lieart-piercing waiL 
Gone, gone is the voice from the lovod and the dead, 
The harp-strings are broken—the music has fled. 
Gather the rose from its mossy stem 
With dew-drops bright for a diadem, 
Has fancy e’er breathed of a thing more fair 
In sea or in sky, in earth or in air ? 
Why east it away thus to wither alone ? 
Why turn in such baste from that leaf-mantled throne? 
Learn now that the beauty which most does adorn 
Conceals ’neath its fairness a heart-piercing thorn, 
And thus it is ever with life’s sweetest flowers, 
The perfume soon dies, but the smart i6 long ours. 
Fold to your bosoms the gifts of your God, 
The loviDg and loved ones that light your abode, 
List to the voices that steal o’er your breast 
Like breathings of bliss from the haven of rest. 
Now loosen your claspings and let them depart, 
The hand of the Death-King is cold on the heart. 
Best their cold forms ’neath the dark cypress shade, 
Then gaze on the spot where your treasures are laid, 
Turn to the world with a grief-mocking tone, 
The heart-bonds are riven and you are alone. 
Go to those graves at the coming of ‘light, 
Go when the world is receding from sight, 
Weep o’er each lonely and desolate mound, 
Weep where your heart lies beneath the cold ground. 
’Tis sorrow all now, but sweet beauty will come, 
And make of that lone spot a bright spirit home, 
Those yellow earthed mounds wiii be covered with 
bloom, 
And the trailing grass creep o'er each tcar-watered 
tomb. 
The wild birds will warble thy spirit to cheer, 
Pale sorrow will vanish, God’6 angel be near. 
O, shall we take good at the hands of our God, 
And murmur when darkness e’eraimUowsD ig road? 
There’s beautv m hio-as and to cheer, 
Though sorrow oft comes with its darkness’and fear. 
Our Ixod is our Bather , in Him is our trust,— 
Whajt though our brltrht hopes 6bould be laid in the 
dust, 
His love is areund us to guard and to guide, 
With Him for our keeper, what harm can betide ? 
And, though sorrow a shade o’er our pathway may fling, 
Sweet beauty around it still fondly will cling. 
Michigan, 1859. J. A, S. 
“But, Aunt, Mrs. Brown’s children are not a 
bit like mine.” 
“No, and for the simple reason their mother is 
not a bit like you. It is not your children who are 
at fault, but you are a careless, heedless woman, 
and mother. How do your children know what is 
best for them to have or to do ? They are placed 
in your care, and under your guidance, and should 
be taught to submit to your sense of right or 
wrong, if you have any. You turn them off to 
seek amusement, and scarcely know where they 
are, or whether they have food or clothes. You 
leave everything where they can get it, and allow 
them to destoy it, and exclaim, “ Why, Frances, 
why, James, how astonished I am!” &c , and that 
is the end of it. Fanny, there is no need of such 
mischievous children. It is because they are un¬ 
governed, untaught, untrained. It is the natural 
consequence of your own undisciplined mind, and 
habits of disorder, and the heedless example you 
set before them every day. Take the admonition 
of an old woman, and reform yourself and children.” 
And Aunt folded her knitting, and left Fanny to 
chew the bitter cut of mortified pride and vanity. 
May she profit thereby. Queechy. 
Written for Moe’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE MON. 
“Yon Moon that lightsiy native isle. 
Shines on my distant finds the while.” 
How delightful to gaze in the silness of night 
On the Moon when she's 6 bed dig her tremulous light. 
Or to wander alone by the purdimpid stream, 
And behold there reflected herilvery beam, 
White around me so calmly tbeoft zephyrs play, 
And the landscape is more love/ by night than by day; 
But more pleasing the thougl while her pale face I 
view, 
That some far-distant friend is eholding it too, 
And, though mountains and bihws asunder divide, 
I imagine my friend to be close t my side; 
In t-be reverie lost, I continue tegaze 
Till a cloud intervenes and o'emadows her rays, 
Yolney, N. Y., 1850. 
I. It. B. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
IN MEMORIAM. 
It was the even-tide of Saturday. The mellow 
light of an August sunset had slowly climbed the 
eastern hills, and left the frowning forests it for a 
time enlivened with its smiles in deeper gloom. 
All Nature was not hushed, for the calls of a lonely 
robin, pining for its mate, issued from amid the 
sighing branches of the old elm, and crickets in the 
long grass chirped a requiem o’er the expiring 
season. Yes, summer was dying, and with it much 
that was bright, beautiful and good. Hope-flow¬ 
ers that bloomed in the summer of the heart, were 
withering ’neath the blast of the soul’s approach¬ 
ing Autumn, — loves that for a long time had 
cheered our pathway, were with it finding their 
grave,—and the fading leaves upon earth’s bosom 
covered the forms of many we had loved, and were 
soon to nestle above one who had been so long and 
kindly spared, that we forgot she was Heaven’s and 
not ours. 
“Are they come?” The mild eyes that had ever 
beamed with looks of kindly love were turned 
towards tbe open door with one last, eager glance 
as though her soui went out to meet absent ones 
and as she'quaffed the bitter cup of “hope defer 
red,” they were gently closed, like a flower that 
sleeps at even. Loving, faithful hearts were near, 
weeping that one so good must die, and as they 
leaned to catch the last sweet whispered words, 
peace, peace,”—her spirit passed o’er the dark 
stream to a home of eternal peace beyond. 
’Twas Sabbath eve. O'er the little village, nes¬ 
tled amid tbe green hills which she was wont to 
call “home,” the solemn stillness of that holy 
hour prevailed. The sweet tones of Sabbath even¬ 
ing bells raDg on the clear night air, calling the 
■Written for Mope’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BIRD S’-EESTS. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MANAGEMENT OF CHILDREN. 
“0, Aunt Polly, I’m so glad you have come! 
I was just going over to Mrs. Brown’s to borrow a 
needle, but now you can lend me one of yours.” 
“ No, Fanny, I haven’t my needle book; I have 
only brought my knitting to sit with you awhile. 
But how happens it you are out of needles, 
Fanny ?” 
“0, the same old story, Aunt. Frances, that 
little witch, has carried them off, and lost them, I 
suppose. I never did see such troublesome children 
-as mine are! I declare, I can hardly keep a thing 
in my house. You can’t imagine what a sight of 
trouble I have with them. Yesterday, when Ed¬ 
ward got hurt, and was faint, I ran for the cam¬ 
phor, and don’t you think, they had filled it with 
water, and I had to go to Mrs. Brown for some; 
and they fill my vinegar cruises with water, and I 
can’t begin to tell you all the pranks they are at. 
Do tell me, Aunt, now you have raised a large 
family, how did you live ?” 
“Well, Fanny, I will tell you. I have, as you 
say, raised a large family, and am getting old, and 
shall use the privilege of age to talk plainly to you.” 
“Wait a moment Aunt, while I get my scissors. 
O dear, what has become of them ? Here, James, 
you mischief, where are Ma’s scissors ?” 
“ Why Ma, Frances had them down to the barn.” 
“ Of all the world! Go call her, James.” 
“ She aint there now, Ma—she’s gone way off.” 
“Well, here, my son, you run over to Mrs. 
Brown, and ask her to please lend Ma her scissors 
a moment.” 
“ 0, Ma, I don’t want to. She said she would’nt 
lend them to you again.” 
“Well, go along with you, to your play. Did 
you ever, Aunt! Would’nt lend them to me again! 
I declare!” 
“ Fanny, has Mrs. Brown any children ?” 
“Dear, yes—half a dozen.” 
“Does she ever send here to borrow needles, 
scissors, Ac.?” 
“ No, never, and for a very good reason; she has 
a great abundance of everything, and Mr. Brown 
is able to keep her well supplied.” 
“How did they get their means, Fanny? Was 
Mr. Brown any better off than your husband, 
when they started for themselves?” 
“No, indeed; but somehow or other they have 
always had good luck, while it really seems we 
never do.” 
“ Well, Fanny, it is all plain enough. You will 
always have bad luck, and will never have any 
means, or independence, unless you alter your 
way very much. Why is Mrs. Brown under obli¬ 
gations to furnish you with things to do with, and 
what would become of the world if all women were j 
like you V” 
quirt ..-.Uy..... i- l.mjsp of prayer, when ’twas 
whispered "she is dead,”' * * * 
, * ('-wd With pallid llDS 
wi&t wept, the >pAra “ j«oci uJ ±i>c 
sknetuary and repaired to her cottage home.— 
There were the mourners that leaned o’er the nar¬ 
row coffin for a last look at the sleeping “Mother 
in Israel.” Their grief was great, but how doubly 
painful to bear, for not having been permitted to 
close those loving eyes in their dreamless sleep. 
But a short time previous she had left them in 
apparent health, and far from home,—not amid 
strangers, however, for none could meet her with 
out loving, but denied the nearer and more devoted 
ones, who love only as life-long companions can 
love,—with the harvest of life past and its summer 
ended, like a “ shock of corn fully ripe, ” she 
was gathered home. Weeping mourner, weep no 
longer! Though sorrow encloses the portals of 
the tomb, beyond, all is light, and from the tenor 
of her peaceful life, as well as tbe impenetrable 
future, comes the sweet, though warning voice; 
Be ye also faithful.” s. 
Bhusan, N. Y., August, 1859. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
CONSTANCY OF WOMAN. 
It is pleasing to contemplate female excellence. 
The heart of man warms with emotion as he hears 
of the noble deeds of woman — as he views her 
quiet goodness — as he marks her conjugal devo¬ 
tion, her fidelity, her firmness of principle, the 
thousand little tendernesses clinging around her 
heart animating her to please by all the winning 
graces and attractions that can fix affection; nor 
relaxing after marriage in the cultivation of those 
powers which first commanded admiration, be- 
causes he has secured her victory. He loves and 
admires her when thus true to the amiable im¬ 
pulses of her nature. But if captivating in the 
freshness and poetry of her early feelings, when 
the fragrance of her own spirit falls on everything 
like dew, how much higher does she erect herself 
in his esteem when the hour of trial comes—when 
adversity overtakes those she loves — and the ap¬ 
peal to her sympathies is the strongest that can 
be made, because it comes through the channel of 
her affections? See what a power of endurance 
she exhibits—what fortitude, what energy. Quali¬ 
ties which, amid the sunshine of prosperity, lay 
latent and unperceived for want of occasion to call 
them forth, now appear to view with the hope- 
reviving influences which we may suppose a near 
and friendly beacon would have upon the sinking 
heart of the shipwrecked mariner. Difficulties 
which crush the spirit of man, and subdue his 
strength to the weakness of a child, are met by 
her with a courage that seems to increase propor¬ 
tionally to its demand. With a self-sustaining 
energy she counteracts the impression of grief in 
her own heart, and, roused by her love and con¬ 
stancy, she turns to her partner, now dearer than 
ever from the touch of misfortune, to console, to 
invigorate, to assist—shedding a benign influence 
upon his existence — causing him to feel, amid all 
his misery, that happiness still remains for him 
while blessed with the affection of such a friend 
and miuistrant. Labor, however rude, cannot de¬ 
grade him while he is encouraged by the esteem 
of a heart so noble and so true. j. k. s. 
Coomer, N. Y., 1859. 
Tiiet whose perceptions of the poetical in the 
still life of a winter IanGscape have never led 
them to observe how much more interesting and 
attractive an object is a brewn, leafless tree, with 
one or more birds’-nests risting on or hanging 
from its branches, than anoher destitute of such 
ornament, must have overlooked or underlooked 
a very charming feature of winter scenery. Tbe 
wealth of bird architecture that only winter dis¬ 
closes to view, as if in compensation for the 
temporary absence of the foliage that makes the 
distinguishing glory of trees in summer, consti¬ 
tutes, to an eye appreciative of the lesser, more 
delicate traits of natural scenery, an important 
element of the beauty for which we are indebted 
to the season of frost and sno w. Especially as a 
source of quiet, refined enjoyment, in a pleasant 
winter ride over a road lined with orchards, fruit 
gardens, and frequent forest trees, the birds’-nests 
scattered, generally with sparing hand, among 
the branches, are of infinite worth; and a habit 
of looking for them, observing their peculiarities 
of form and position, the ease and security with 
which they rest in the chosen places, and specu¬ 
lating on, if unable to decide, to what species of 
the feathered tribe the different pattenis and sizes 
of nests belong, is well worth cultivating for the 
constant pleasure and amusement it affords the 
traveler. 
Many pleasant fancies arise in one’s mind at 
sight of these pretty summer-houses of the birds; 
it is so easy to imagine that tbe trees, whose arms 
they grace, put them on for the sake of decoration, 
as men and women wear mold and precious stones— 
‘Vs tree* adorned ^^e wca-and when we 
profusion of thosejf»els,^’A»a't more natural than 
to set down that ome as king, queen, or other 
personage of royal rank? Dr, the location of a 
nest may furnish an index to the character of the 
proprietor and late occupant. If placed among 
the topmost branches of a lofty tree, high above 
the homes of other birds, the builder was a bold, 
ambitious spirit; if remote from tbe habitations 
Of its kind, it was the abode of a grand, solitary 
nature, careless of the small chatter of social life; 
if in near neighborhood with the dwellings of 
other birds, one can fancy the pretty, gossiping 
visits the tiny matrons paid each other, to talk of 
their house-keeping cares and their little ones; 
and if one of these cunnxog little architects has 
hid its house in the bush close under the window, 
or in the vine that runs over the doorway, or in 
some other secluded nook of man’s habitation, we 
imagine it chose that spot for the opportunity it 
gave of observing the ways of human, domestic 
life; and we trust that if the wee mansion was 
discovered before it was abandoned by its owner, 
the tenant’s curiosity was not punished nor its 
shy confidence abused. But there is no Deed of 
calling in the aid of imagination to invest these 
beautiful structures with poetic interest. Fiction 
cannot heighten our admiration of such master 
pieces of skill and ingenuity, nor can it add 
anything to the l-omanee of the actual lives of the 
artizans that constructed them. Coming among 
uS'in early spring, with voices full of the sunshine 
of Southern skies, out of the commonest materials 
they fabricate nests which are marvels of grace, 
elegance and economy, serving at once for dwell 
ing-house and cradle; and when summer is over 
they take their departure so quietly that we do 
not notice their absence till, some day, when 
perhaps their boat-like bodies have skimmed 
through thousands of miles of the great upper 
sea, we suddenly find ourselves wondering that 
we had not missed them before. 
Specimens of all the attainable varieties of 
birds’-nests would form a most curious and inter¬ 
esting collection. Even children manifest more 
wonder and admiration on being shown one of 
these beautiful pieces of workmanship, than at 
sight of the prettiest shell, notwithstanding shells 
have the high advantages of color and polish. 
Perhaps the nest engages our deeper attention as 
the habitation of a creature which owes its home 
to its owu consummate skill and untiriDg industry, 
while the formation, and in great part the econom¬ 
ical uses of the shell, are mysteries to us; or 
perhaps a considerable share of our interest in 
the miniature house in the air is due to our ac¬ 
quaintance with the accomplished builder, and to 
the neai'er relationship its circumstances of living 
and its glorious gift of song seem to establish 
between itself and man. Yet, much as we admire 
the exquisite art displayed by birds in the con¬ 
struction of their nests, we greatly undervalue 
the worth of these nests in the ornamentation of 
our dwellings. Nearly every house in city ox- 
country boasts its little cabinet of shells, rare 
stones, or other curiosities; but how seldom a 
bird’s-nest! Sailors, bound on distant voyages, 
are commissioned by their friends with innumera¬ 
ble little errands relating to the procurement of I Kindness is the 
curious trifles in foreign lands; but how rarely 1 is bound together. 
do they bring home the wonderful creations of 
the strange birds that live in the countries they 
visit. Our northern birds, though building nests 
of every gradation of size, from ttxe comparatively 
rude structures of tbe Hawk and Crow down to 
tbe Humming Bird’s mite of a house, do not 
present the remarkable varieties of s'yle that we 
find, especially in tropical countries, where birds 
are compelled to use every artifice to deceive their 
rapacious enemies. What a treasure, in any 
house, would be a well-preserved specimen of the 
Tailor Bird’s craft—or the bottle-shaped nest of 
the Titmouse—or the long, purse-like contrivance 
of the Loxia Bengaleusis — or a cluster of the 
edible nests of commerce; or scores of others 
that we know only by drawings, or by verbal 
description. A collection of such curiosities 
would be a valuable possession indeed, whether 
to the resident of town or country; and doubtless 
a few nests of our common birds would bo as 
great a wonder in many a city home as the rarest 
foreign specimens would in our own houses. 
There is, of course, no inducement for us ruralists 
to despoil our trees and shrubs of these jewels for 
the sake of having them in our houses, because 
they show to far better advantage where the birds 
placed them; aud by merely looking from the 
window we can see nests of Robins, several varie¬ 
ties of Brown Birds, the little Yellow Bird’s nest 
that we contributed candle wick for, and which, 
when finished, was as white outside as a snow¬ 
ball, (we mean to furnish colored materials next 
summer,) the hollow branch of a tree that the 
Blue Bird inhabited, and the deep, swinging, 
pouch-like nest of the Oriole. But if we lived in 
the city, and were privileged to spend the hot 
months of the year in the green country, we 
should certainly carry back, as a memorial of our 
summer visit, at least one bix-d’s-nest, with the 
bough the bird fastened it to; and we doubt not 
it would tell as sweetly and as faithfully of its 
native home as the shell sings of the sea. 
South Livonia. N. Y„ 1859. A, 
Written (or Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
x HANGE. 
Chance, constant and universal, is & law of 
nature and of our very being. Change aud ex¬ 
change but fill up the measure of our existence 
The seasons change; the times and the men change, 
The mind changes—our likes and dislikes change, 
Our years change, and the events that mark them 
change—at times so forcibly, so mighty in their 
effects upon ourselves. Sudden changes are noted 
in man as well as the atmosphere. Ever fluetua' 
ting—ever unsatisfied—like a troubled ocean the 
mass of mankind ai-e in constant commotion.— 
There is an ever-restless loDging for something 
yet in the shadowy future, intangible, indefinite, 
aud dim to our own imagination. A wish, an if, 
a hope operates strongly on our action, and con 
tributes much to the purpose of our conduct. W 
cannot know tbe future, and how far the principles 
and sentiments of to-day shall be changed or saerf 
( L-J — r-‘ ' a -~ L ' " - r~‘ 
morrow, piust remain with its coming. This is 
equally true in the revolution of years. Though 
he who comes after us may con strange and con 
tradictory pages in the history of our lives, those 
that follow him may i-ead equally forcible contrasts 
and inconsistencies in the records of his existence, 
while some of our more palpable errors are avoided 
Might changes to weakness, power to dependence 
fame, honor and position, to obscurity and oblivion, 
Respect, confidence and frankness, change to 
disgust, suspicion, caution and deception. Com 
petence and wealth change to poverty and want, 
Our days cliaDge to nights —our life to death 
From joyous childhood to weary, weak old age 
Our life is a series of chauges. Change is written 
in imperishable characters aci-oss the horizon of 
our life; inscribed on all sublunary things unmiS' 
takable, unavoidable. Let us strive, oh, earnestly, 
that of ourselves they be not recorded changes for 
the worse. Ben Burdock. 
Barry, N. Y., 1859. 
Love of Country. —There is a love of country 
which comes uncalled for, one knows not how. 
comes in with the very air, the eye, the ear; the 
instincts, the first taste of mothei-’s milk, the first 
beatings of the heart. The faces of brothers and 
sisters, and the loved father and mother,—the 
laugh of playmates, the old willow tree, aud well 
and school-house, the bees at work in the spring, 
the note of the robin at evening, the lullaby, the 
cows comiDghome, thesiDging-book, the catechism 
the visits of neighbors, the general training,—all 
things which make childhood happy, begin; and 
then the age of the passions and the age of the 
reason draw on, and love and the sense of home 
and security of property under law, comes to 
life;—and as the story goes round, and as the 
book or the newspaper relates the less favored 
lots of other lands, and the public and the private 
sense of a man is forming aud formed, thex-e is a 
type of patriotism already. Thus they had imbibed 
it who stood that charge at Concord, and they 
who threw up the hasty and impexfect redoubt on 
Bunker Hill by night, set on it the blood-red 
provincial flag, and passed so calmly with Prescott 
and Putnam aud Warren through the experience 
of the first fire.— Ruf us Choate. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LOVE. 
Love had its emanation from Heaven’s holy hand, 
A royal flower transplanted into this barren land, 
Its odor sweet, diffusing o’er all the sinful earth, 
It must be born of Heaven, that plant of connlfegg 
worth. 
It bloometh in the cradle -young innocence so mild. 
Can love its gentle mother—sweet, tiny, little child; 
Its fairy blossoms twining around the maiden’s heart* 
Bt sheddeth there a beauty no other can impart. 
It thrives in sterner manhood—a glory all its own 
It throweth o'or his pathway,—but not for him alone, 
’Tis with the aged pilgrim to guide his soul above 
To realms of endless glory—the home of bcautecn* 
Love. 
It flow’reth in perfection there, in its native soil 
Sin cannot mar its beauty, transgression never spoil, 
By Jesub’ hand ’tis water’d, and bloometh ever there* 
Its petals never drooping, eternity to share. 
Piffard, N. Y., 1859. Janb E. EL 
DIVINE ENTHUSIASM. 
Humanity. —The inclination to goodness is im- 
px-inted deeply in the nature of man; insomuch 
that if it issue not towards men, it will take unto 
other living creatui'es; as it is seen in the Turks 
a cruel people, who nevertheless are kind to beasts, 
and give alms to dogs and birds — insomuch, as 
Busbequius reportetli, a Christian boy in Constan¬ 
tinople had like to have been stoned for gagging, 
in waggishness, a long-billed fowl.— Lord Bacon. 
Reading.— Says the Rev. Henry Giles —“ To go 
through books is not to read them. Men may 
masticate thousands of volumes, but not convert 
them into nourishment; after devouring hecatombs 
of folios, they may have minds as lanky as before; 
or if, with acquisito memory, their mind increases 
in bulk, the bulk is that of obesity and not of 
muscle.” 
jolden chain by which society 
There are many ministers, good, conscientious, 
faithful, aDd who do a certain amount of good in 
keeping up the forms of religion in their vicinity, 
who yet very seldom make any very deep and defi¬ 
nite mark on any soul. There are conversions, and 
sometimes even revivals, under tbeir ministry, but 
they seem to come more from the native yearning 
and upheaving of souls feeling after God, than from 
any impulse given by them. The most that can be 
said of them is, that they do not hinder, and often 
have skill to guide these aspirations Godward. 
Many a poor weaver or tinker, in the days of the 
Wesleys, made a more definite mark on mankind, 
and rolled up a more evident wave of feeling than 
they. 
Now, we say, if this divine enthusiasm wrought 
so with uneducated men—if it made the common 
plowshare and scythc-blade in their unskilled 
hands a mighty weapon — what would it do, might 
it gain equal power in the breast of skilled and 
cultured ones—if it guided the use of polished 
spears and well-tempered swords? 
Now, wc do not disparage in the least the drill 
and culture of theological seminaries — the mental 
vigor produced by that kiud of athletic training 
which is given in theological dialects. So much 
the more as a man can make of himself physically, 
mentally or morally, so much the more has he to 
give to Christ; but when all is done, of what use 
is it if he lacks inspiration ? An altar candle may 
be made of the purest wax, in the straightest 
mould, with the most orthodox wick, and put into 
eviouii cauaiescick ^vim every appropriate cer¬ 
emony, but, after all, ; what is the use if it never 
burns? A penny tallow-candle, that gives light 
and heat, is then better.— Mrs. II. B. Stowe. 
Trust in God.— Let us treasure up our experi¬ 
ences of God’s faithful and tender care during the 
whole course of our lives, that they may come in 
aid to our faith and hope in the last great conflict; 
let us carefully consider the examples of others, 
whose happy death we witness, or of which we 
read, or hear, to allay our fears, and encourage our 
hearts; let us prepare daily for this important sea¬ 
son by faith and repentance, and a conscientious 
attention to the duties of our stations; and let us 
watch and pray against anxious and distressing 
fears. The Lord will provide for our passage 
over this Jordan when the time comes; yea, He 
will come and meet us, and by His animating 
presence invigorate our faith aud hope, till we join 
the innumerable multitude that in the Canaan 
above are singing the praises of their great Deliv¬ 
erer, who hath both redeemed them from far worse 
than Eg 3 ’ptinn bondage, aud brought them safe to 
the promised land through His precious blood, 
and by His all-conquering arm.— Scott. 
The Divine Merct. —However old, plain, deso¬ 
late, humble, afflicted we may be, so long as our 
hearts preserve the feeblest spark of life, they 
preserve also, shivering near that pale ember, a 
starved, ghostly longing for appreciation and 
affection. To this attenuated spectre, perhaps, a 
crumb is not thrown once a year; but when 
ahungered and athirst to famine—when all human¬ 
ity has forgotten the dying tenant of a decaying 
house — Divine mercy remembers the mourner, 
and a shower of manna falls for lips that earthly 
nutriment is to pass no more. Biblical promises, 
heard first in health, but then unheeded, conic 
whispering to tbe couch of sickness; it is felt that 
a pitying God watches what all mankind have for¬ 
saken; the tender compassion of Jesus is recalled 
and relied on; the fading eye, gazing beyond time, 
sees a home, a friend, a refuge in eternity.— Char¬ 
lotte Bronte. 
Sound Advice.— Dr. Emmon’s Advice to Young 
Preachers was not to preach over thirty minutes, 
saying,—“ There are no conversions after the first 
half hour.” Wesley held the same opinion, and 
said, in one of bis letters,—“IT any, then, of the 
preachers exceed their time (about one hour in the 
whole service,) I hope you will always put them iu 
mind what is the Methodist rule. People imagine 
the longer the sermon is the more good it will do. 
This a grand mistake.” 
“Alt. Your Need.”—W hy was the “Bread 0 £ 
Life” hungry, but that He might feed the hungry 
with the bread of life? Why was “Rest” itself 
weary, but to give the weary rest ? Why was the 
“Prince of Peace” in trouble, but that the 
troubled might have peace? None but the Image 
of God could restore us to God’s image. None 
but the Prince of Peace could bring the God of 
peace and the peace of God to poor sinners,— Old 
Author. 
If the arrow of prayer is to enter heaven, we 
must draw it from a soul full bent. 
