Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE MOTHERLESS. 
I saw a child of infant years, 
Bowed low with sorrow and with care, 
While from her eyes the bitter tears 
Were flowing slowly in despair. 
It was a tiny little form 
That, sorrowing, bent her weary head, 
And while the tears were flowing warm, 
She murmured “my mamma is dead— 
“They laid her in the cold damp ground 
When winter winds were blowing chill, 
And there, though summer smiles around, 
And all is fair—she sleepelh still.” 
She called, but yet no answer came,— 
She wept, but oh ! no sweet caress,— 
No gentle hand will press again, 
For she, alas! is motherless. 
But now she’s sleeping; o’er that brow 
So young, so fair, so innocent, 
A holy calm is resting now, 
With childish trust and beauty blent 
The lips are parted—soft and low, 
A gentle sigh came to my ear; 
And then a smile, whose radiant glow 
Told angel visitants were near. 
And as I saw the sulFrer there, 
By sleep calmed to forgetfulness, 
My heart arose to God in prayer, 
That he would shield the motherless, 
That while upon life’s troubled tide, 
The sorrowing one must lonely stand, 
Her barque might safely onward glide, 
Guided by His unerring hand. 
South Danby, N. Y., 1859. Mary A. 
B. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“I’VE A KISS FOR THEE, MOTHER.” 
Once again hath the Savior sent His Reaper- 
Angel to our earth-home and bade it take from us 
a loved heart-jewel. We had treasured it well— 
had hidden it within the warm folds of our love, 
and had made for our gem a priceless setting-^ 
had encircled it with the purest pearls of our 
affection, until we had forgotten that Death loves 
but to aim its shaft at “a shining mark!”—had 
forgotten that our Father hath said, “Little chil¬ 
dren, keep your hearts from idols”—and, almost 
unconsciously, we had placed an earthly shrine 
within our heart-temple, and we loved to worship 
there. But the angel whom we love not, wrapped 
his sable plumes about him, and like a darksome 
rested beside our door, — watching, 
waiting f 
Morning dawned, and forth came the glad sun¬ 
shine from its amber-hued couch, to smile upon 
the beautiful earth! It kissed the dewy tear from 
the pure flower, glanced through the palace halls 
of wealth, played awhile beside the humble cot¬ 
tage door, and then entered our darksome home. 
But it could not chase the shadows from our 
hearts, and the sunlight seemed a mockery, as we 
shut it out from our dwelling and it fled away! 
Our darling was sleeping! The long lashes lay 
motionless on the pale cheek, and the silken hair 
—a mother’s pride —was pushed away from a 
forehead whereon Death had set his seal. ’Twas 
like the marble, save that it seemed colder when 
we pressed our lips thereon. 
Slowly the hazel eyes were opened, and the 
white lips parted as if to speak; the hands were 
raised, and while affection lent a love-light to the 
dim eyes, the lips whispered, “ I’ve a kiss for thee, 
mother!—I’ve a kiss for thee, mother!” Then, 
with the warmth of that kiss still clinging to the 
marble lips, and the love-lit words still lingering 
there, he left the house, 0! so desolate ! 
We mourn that the shadow has fallen so heavily 
upon our hearts, but we know that in Heaven 
there is no darkness, no sorrow, and the death- 
angel is but God’s messenger, sent to bear us 
safely over the dark waters and through the 
shadowy vale, and we know that our loved one, 
our only treasure, is an angel now, and upon his 
pure brow he wears a bright-gemmed coronet. 
He has gone to meet his angel-sister, and together 
they walk the golden streets of the “ new Jerusa¬ 
lem,” singing praises the while to the “Good 
Shepherd.” Fit worshipers at God’s throne—a 
band of pure-robed children! In Heaven we hope 
to meet him, never more to part—aye, never moie! 
Then fold the hands gently 
O’er the still breast; 
Wake not his slumbers, 
Our boy is at rest. 
Not in the grave-yard— 
Not in the grave— 
In the arms of our Savior 
Our darling we’ve laid. 
There in that blest Haven, 
From suffering free, 
Fond mother, thy loved one 
Is waiting for thee! 
And when thou shalt join him, 
May his greeting be, 
“ I’ve a kiss for thee, mother, 
A fond kiss for thee!” 
Brighton, N. Y., 1859. Nettie Nettle. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SPEAK GENTLY TO THE ERRING. 
“ Speak gently to the erring, 
Ye know not all the power; 
With which the dark temptation came 
In some umruarded hour.” 
For some wise purpose God has hidden from us 
the power of discerning the entire effects of kindly 
spoken words. In our intercourse with our fellow 
mortals we see some more liable to err than others. 
Some appear never to do a wrong act, so far as 
we are capable of judging. They have been taught 
from their infancy, perhaps, that it is wrong to 
wound a fellow-creature’s feelings, by thoughts, 
acts, words or looks, and the principles that are 
so thoroughly impressed upon their minds in 
childhood follow them through afterlife, and prove 
a safe-guard to shield them from meriting the 
censure of a cold unfeeling world. Then, again, 
there are those who have to struggle through this 
life, all alone as it were, unaided by kind words 
or approving smiles, if, perchance, they perform an 
act worthy of either. They know not the power of 
a mother’s love and example—there is no guardian 
voice whispering words of peace, comfort or ap¬ 
probation, giving “ precept upon precept and line 
upon line.” Jlay ! they receive nothing but harsh¬ 
ness, stern and angry looks. Let us follow those 
lonely ones to the place where they hold com¬ 
munion with their own thoughts — witness the 
tears that are shed, hear the sighs that come from 
a wounded heart—a heart that longs for sympathy 
and kindness. Do not our hearts yearn towards 
them with sympathetic feelings? But are we not 
actuated by the impulse of the moment?—are our 
kindly feelings founded upon a principle that is 
fixed in the heart? Let each one answer the ques¬ 
tion, remembering that kind words oftentimes 
turn away wrath, and speak gently to the erring. 
Edwardsburgk, Mich., 1859. d. b. 
LEGISLATION IN THE NURSERY. 
See the young mother in the nursery, with an 
unfolding human character committed to her charge 
—see her profoundly ignorant of the phenomena 
with which she has to deal, undertaking to do that 
which can be done but imperfectly, even with the 
aid of the profoundest knowledge. She knows 
nothing about the nature of the emotions, their 
order of evolution, their functions, or where use 
ends and abuse begins. She is under the impres¬ 
sion that some of the feelings are wholly bad, 
which is not true of any one of them; and that 
others are good, however far they may be carried, 
which is also not true of any one of them. And 
then, ignorant as she is of that with which she has 
to deal, she is equally ignorant of the effects that 
will be produced on it by this or that treatment. 
What can be more inevitable than the disastrous 
resultswe see hourly arising. Lacking knowledge 
of mental phenomena, with their causes and con¬ 
sequences, her interference is frequently more 
mischievous than absolute passivity would have 
been. This and that kind of action, which are 
quite normal and beneficial, she perpetually 
thwarts; and so diminishes the child’s happiness 
and profit, injures its temper and her own, and 
produces estrangement. 
Deeds which she thinks it desirable to encourage, 
she gets performed by threats and bribes, or by 
exciting a desire for applause, considering little 
what the inward motives may be, so long as the 
outward conduct conforms, and thus cultivating 
hypocrisy, and fear, and selfishness, in place of 
good feeling. While insisting on truthfulness, 
she constantly sets an example of untruth, by 
threatening penalties which she does not inflict. 
While inculcating self-control, she hourly visits 
on her little ones angry scoldings for acts that do 
not call for them. She has not the remotest idea 
that in the nursery, as in the world, that alone is 
truly salutary discipline which visits on all con¬ 
duct, good or bad, the natural consequences—the 
consequences, pleasurable or painful, which in the 
nature of things such conduct tends to bring. 
Being thus without theoretic guidance, and quite 
incapable of guiding herself by tracing the mental 
processes going on in her children, her rule is im¬ 
pulsive, inconsistent, mischievous often in the 
highest degree; and would indeed be generally 
ruinous, were it not that the overwhelmning ten¬ 
dency of the growing mind to assume the mono¬ 
type of the race, usually subordinates all minor 
influences.— Westminster JSeview. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WAITING FOR DEATH. 
“I am waiting now to die; for Death seems very 
pleasant to me.” 
Have you ever stood and listened 
By the window late and long, 
Till the midnight gloom grew deeper, 
And your fears grew with it strong? 
Have you listened for the footsteps 
Of the one whose voice alone 
Could drive away the shadows 
That around your heart had grown ? 
Have you ever watched and waited 
While the mournful night-winds grieved, 
A thousand times believing, 
And a thousand times deceived, 
As your anxious, eager glances, 
Peering through the darkness drear, 
Beheld amid the phantoms 
The beloved presence near— 
Yet as often—bitter lesson— 
Learning that your hopes were vain, 
Till your spirit, crushed and wearied, 
Would not let you look again ? 
Have you ever like this listened— 
Watched and waited, late and long, 
Till the midnight shades grew deeper 
And your fears grew with them strong ? 
Lo! thus my soul is waiting, 
In the dim and shadowy vale, 
For the footsteps, long expected, 
Of the Angel grim and pale; 
The Angel feared and dreaded, 
Most of all God’s watchful ones; 
Most unloved and most neglected 
By earth’s shrinking, guilty sons; 
But who, though cursed and hated, 
To his mission ever true, 
Over both the young and aged 
Sprinkles the Lethean dew, 
Till the mother mourns her baby 
In the wakeless slumber hush’d, 
And the children kiss the forehead 
Late with the life blood flushed. 
Th is Angel to others so fearful, 
With the shadow upon his brow— 
Is to me an angel of glory, 
And I’m waiting for him now; 
Waiting, to hail his coming— 
Listening, with lips apart, 
One hand reached forth to greet him, 
And one hand upon my heart,— 
Striving to still its beatings— 
Striving to grow more calm— 
For I know he will bring with his coming 
To my wounded spirit balm. 
So I earnestly watch and listen 
For the tread of his phantom band, 
Beaching to gain through the darkness 
The clasp of liis shadowy hand. 
To the music of earthly voices 
My spirit is deaf and dumb; 
I hearken to hear him only, 
Will he never, never come ? 
Come to my soul o’erwearied— 
Worn by this restless breath; 
For to me an Angil of glory 
Is the paiijpi ifl Angel, Dkatii. 
Hastings, N. Y., 1859. Boselia. 
CHILDREN’S FOOD. 
Co-operation of the Wife. —No man ever pros¬ 
pered in the world without the co-operation of his 
wife. If she unites in mutual endeavors, or re¬ 
wards his labors with an endearing smile, with 
what confidence will he resort to his merchandise 
or his farm, fly over lands, sail upon seas, meet 
difficulty and encounter danger, if he knows that 
he is not spending his strength in vain, but that 
his labor will be rewarded by the sweets of home! 
Solitude and disappointment enter the history of 
every man’s life; and he is but half provided for 
his voyage, who finds not an associate ‘ for his 
happy hours, while for his months of darkness and 
distress, no sympathizing partner is prepared. 
children lift a finger in useful occupations—the 
boys must have a fast horse and prepare for Col¬ 
lege— the girls must dance, play the piano, and 
simper in the parlor to entertain a brainless ex¬ 
quisite, and finally must marry an establishment 
and live without work. If that is not the pro¬ 
gramme for the rising generation, in a few words, 
tell me what is. Laziness is becoming a fixed 
principle, and if there is no stop put to it in some 
form or other, woe must betide the generations 
yet to come. Amelia. 
Cayuga, N. Y., 1S59. 
RESPONSIBILITY OF PARENTS. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LAZINESS. 
When we view the many improvements of the 
age, and the hurry and bustle which is every- 
To this fact the attention of parents and guard¬ 
ians should seriously be given, that by it they 
may learn to avoid the petty tyranny and folly of 
insisting on children eating food for which they 
manifest repugnance. It is too common to treat 
the child’s repugnance as mere caprice, to con¬ 
demn it as “ stuff and nonsense” when he refuses 
to eat fat, or eggs, or certain vegetables and 
“wholesome” puddings. Now, even a caprice in 
such matters should not be altogether slighted, 
especially when it takes the form of refusal, be¬ 
cause this caprice is probably nothing less than 
the expression of a particular and temporary 
state of his organism, which we should do wrong 
to disregard. And whenever a refusal is con¬ 
stant, it indicates a positive unfitness in the food. 
Only gross ignorance of physiology—an igno¬ 
rance unhappily too widely spread —can argue 
that because a certain article is wholesome to 
many, it must necessarily be wholesome to all. 
Each individual organism is specifically different 
from every other. However much it may resem¬ 
ble others, it necessarily in some points differs 
from them; and the amount of these differences 
is often considerable. If the same wave of air 
striking upon the tympanum of two different men 
will produce sounds to the one which to the other 
are inappreciable—if the same wave of light will 
affect the vision of one man as that of red color, 
while to the vision of another it is no color at all- 
how unreasonable it is to expect that the same 
substance will bear precisely the same relation to 
the alimentary canal of one man as to that of 
another.— Lackland. 
We run the risk of experiencing the greatest 
disgust if we observe too closely how government, 
justice, and cookery are managed. 
where seen, we call ourselves an industrious peo¬ 
ple. And so we are taken as a whole; yet, when 
we look about us thoughtfully, who can fail to see 
that no one evil is gaining ground faster than 
laziness,— nothing more nor less than Laziness, 
homely as the name may sound. Look into our 
country neighborhoods, villages, and cities.— 
Everybody is trying to get a living without labor. 
See the pedlders traveling around carrying packs 
heavy as themselves — not feeble and delicate, 
persons unable to work, but stout, healthy men, 
with no other disease than Laziness. See the 
genteel loafers in every village lounging in their 
chairs, pitching quoits, or strutting about in all 
the pride of conscious idleness, with no pennies 
in their pockets or brains in their heads. Notice 
the numbers of healthy young men in our cities, 
standing behind the counter all day long, dressed 
in the height of fashion, and displaying to the 
greatest advantage their white and ornamented 
fingers. Talk not to me of its being tiresome 
business — I wish it were a hundred times more 
so. “ Snuff up your nose,” if you will, at the 
honest, sunbrowned farmer —if it were not for 
him, ye silly sons of Laziness! you would be 
poorer than you are. I have due respect for the 
learned professions, but I contend that, for several 
years past, this has been the great vortex for lazy 
people to slip into. If every other avenue leading 
to ease is closed, persons can slip into this and be 
saved. It is a fact, you can scarce find an educated 
man in these days, but he is too lazy to take care 
of himself. He can eat, sleep and smoke—yes, 
even walk with the aid of a cane — but he cannot 
work,— no, not he. 
But this lazy principle is not confined to men 
alone, far from it. It has become a settled fact with 
our ladies to which there are few exceptions, 
When a man marries he is obliged to marry a 
Bridget also, to take care of his wife. She, the 
delicate one, can not endure the least fatigue — 
she cannot be burdened with a single care.— 
Money makes but little difference,— the poorest 
lady in the land, does she not marry to be sup¬ 
ported? Talk about the delicate women of this 
age. What makes them delicate ? nothing but the 
idea that has taken root among us, that labor is 
not genteel,—they will not work, how can they be 
strong? If every woman in the land was obliged 
to work as hard as our mothers and grandmothers 
did, there would be fewer diseases and deaths than 
now. More die from Laziness than hard labor, 
know there are men and women all over the 
country who labor hard, but how few of their 
“ Time was, when settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to the root; and time has been 
When tempests could not.” 
If to pilot a ship across the ocean be a work of 
great responsibility, requiring prudence and judg¬ 
ment, as well as knowlege and experience, much 
more is it such a work to guide an immortal spirit 
through the tumultuous sea of youthful passion 
and childish impetuosity, and to secure for it a 
safe passage through the dangers and perils of 
manhood and old age. A ship on the ocean may 
founder and go to the bottom, and no one, per¬ 
haps, suffer a single pain, or breathe a single sigh; 
but an immortal soul, wrecked upon the shores 
of time, may spend an eternity in sighs and 
groans, but they cannot undo the past, or rectify a 
single mistake. 
What the pilot is to the ship, the parent is to 
the child. The one conducts the frail bark far 
out to sea, beyond the reach of special dangers, 
and then surrenders his charge into other hands. 
The other guides a deathless spirit through the 
perils and quicksands of childhood and youth, 
and then leaves it to the mercy of a treacherous 
world, to drift upon the tide of circumstances, or 
to follow the bent of its inclinations, given to it 
by parental training and discipline. Though the 
parent cannot insure a successful issue, yet he is 
in a great degree responsible for the future career 
and the fate of his child; for it is expressly com¬ 
manded, “ Train up a child in the way he should 
go, and when he is old, he will not depart from 
it.” If, then, the words of the wise man are true, 
and if the children do depart from the way they 
should go; or, rather, are never taught to walk 
in it, and go down to destruction and to eternal 
death, whose fault is it, if it is not the parent’s ? 
Parents cannot be too deeply impressed with 
the weight of responsibility which presses upon 
them, or of the importance of the early religious 
training of the immortal spirit entrusted to their 
care. Next to their own salvation, there is no 
subject of so great importance, or that should 
command so much of their attention, their time, 
and their labor, as the spiritual and intellectual 
education of their children. It is their duty to 
train them up for heaven—to fit them for useful¬ 
ness in this world, and for the enjoyment of the 
rest and felicity of the redeemed. This obliga¬ 
tion is laid upon them ; and it io in tR<>ir 
in a measure, so to do, else the injunction of the 
apostle had never been given them to bring up 
their children in the nurture and admonition of 
the Lord. Yet how many there are in every com¬ 
munity, children even of professing Christians, 
who, through the negligence of their parents, or 
the force of their evil example, or the want of 
timely or judicious instruction, have grown up in 
ignorance; to become vicious, profligate, and 
wicked men; a cause of grief to their parents, 
and a source of moral contagion to the wide circle 
of acquaintance in which they move. Many 
parents there are who see these evils, and charge 
them to their proper source, who at the same time 
are little conscious that the course w T hich they are 
pursuing with their own children is tending to the 
same results—to profligacy and ruin .—Advocate 
and Guardian. 
The Universal Language.— Prentice, of the 
Louisville Journal, says:—The English language 
seems destined to gather to itself all the scattered 
readers. Slowly it is whispering its way into the 
heart of mankind—and is acknowledged to be the 
best adapted to the universal reader. In Lord 
Bacon’s time he deemed the Latin language the 
safest to entrust his immortality in. “ I do con 
ceive,” he said, “that the Latin volumes, being 
the universal language, may last as long as books 
last.” Milton, more modest, “content,” (to use 
his own expression with regard to Britain and his 
native tongue,) “with these Islands as my world,” 
set his great works in the English. He did not 
care “ to be once named abroad,” though he deemed 
that he might have attained to that. “ Paradise 
Lost” was written in English, and where is it 
notread in English, and where is it not “named 
abroad?” English readers have been sown like 
seed in 
Whatever clime the sun’s bright circlo warms; 
the English language has been planted on all 
shores—and everywhere, like a native flower of 
thought, it grows. And everywhere are its readers 
A Man’s force in the world, other things being 
equal, is just in the ratio of the force and strength 
of his heart. A full-hearted man is always a pow 
erful man ; if he be erroneous, then he is powerful 
for error; if the thing is in his heart, he is sure to 
make it notorious, even though it may be a down 
right falsehood. Let a man be ever so ignorant, 
still if his heart be full of love to the cause, he be 
comes a powerful man for that object, because he 
has heart-power, heart-force. A man may be de 
ficient in many of the advantages of education, in 
many of those niceties which are so much looked 
upon in society; but once give him a strong heart 
that beats hard, and there is no mistake about his 
power. Let him have a heart that is right full up 
to the brim with an object, and that man will do 
the thing, or else he will die gloriously defeated 
and will glory in his defeat. Heart is power.— 
Spurgeon. 
-- 
Tub sorrows, calamities and disappointment 
that a man sutlers outwardly, have a most inti 
mate, although secret, connection with hidden 
evils, until these are removed, it is in vain to hope 
that the outward life can be orderly, pleasant, and 
happy. 
SHALL I BE CROWNED? 
If I, “ along the cool, sequestered vale of life, 
Shall keep the noiseless tenor of my way;” 
If I shall shun the scenes of earthly strife, 
And only live to meditate and pray : 
Or if contented with an hnmble lot, 
I shun the busy city’s tempting round, 
And seek seclusion in a cave or grot, 
Shall I bo crowned ? 
If I shall be content to carve a selfish way 
To golden gates, and hope at last to stand 
In the full brilliance of eternal day, 
Not having lent a brother once a helping hand, 
Not having dried a tear, or caused a smile 
On the wan faces which on earth abound, 
Nor felt for any sin the siren’s luring wile, 
Shall I be crowned ? 
Not so: I must of strife and labor bear an honest part: 
’Tis not by cowards that the laurel’s won; 
The while I keep a pure and spotless heart, 
’Tis sin and not temptation I must shun: 
I must, while here, maintain the faithful fight— 
In the front rank of God’s array be found: 
Live in the world a champion of the right, 
And then be crowned ! 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.” 
This is an every-day phrase, but its signification 
is varied and often very expressive. Frequently 
sounds reproachful,—there are periods in our 
past lives when we have formed grand projects 
to accomplished much good in the world, and 
make ourselves noble and great, but it was only 
an impulse; time has hurried us past the golden 
days of youth, and as we enter upon the duties of 
mature life, we pause a moment to review the 
scenes left behind. We remember those youth¬ 
ful plans, and the opportunities for their accom¬ 
plishment now lost. How many sad hearts we 
might have cheered,—how much of sorrow we 
might have escaped,—how much more nolle we 
might have been. These words are like sharp ar¬ 
rows driven into our souls, as we reflect upon un¬ 
improved opportunities, lost pleasures, long cher¬ 
ished hopes now crushed. Daily, as we peruse 
our life-book, as we turn over leaf after leaf, we 
ead upon almost every page — “It might have 
been.” 
An old man sat and pondered. His locks were 
white with age, and his countenance showed that 
he had been a man of crime and sorrow. His 
features indicated deep, earnest thought. Now 
and then you might discover a smile as though a 
ay of light had penetrated his dark soul—he was 
minting Ot long ago, when, in his liuylali rtiicains, 
he had resolved to be great and good. And why 
should he not? His prospects were as fair as 
those of others; he fancied that his intellect, nat¬ 
urally so brilliant, had been cultivated; that his 
heart had been made alive to all that was pure; 
that he honored God as his Creator,—his fellow- 
man as himself, and in return was honored. Then, 
again, you might have seen that cold, sad look, as 
if the darkness within was still more profound,— 
in the light of fancied prosperity he had seen more 
distinctly the great moral and intellectual wreck. 
His misery was tenfold greater, and he only 
sighed, “ It might have been.” 
Sometimes these words are expressive of heart¬ 
felt gratitude. We consider what our condition 
would have been, had not our kind Father in 
Heaven led us so gently, and watched us so 
carefully. Many times our feet had well nigh 
slipped, and almost inevitable destruction was 
hidden from our eyes by a veil of error; we 
might have been like the hundreds of fallen 
ones about us, destitute of every generous im¬ 
pulse. The fountains of purity might have been 
forever sealed,—despair might have been thrown 
like a thick mantle about us. We shrink back, 
almost overwhelmed, and exclaim, “ It might have 
been.” Every-day as the expression rises to our 
lips, if it expresses aught of discontent, check it, 
for, though our past lives may have been clouded, 
yet 
“ When life’s journey is ended, ils sands run at last, 
We’ll find more of sunshine than shadows we’ve past.” 
But if it is the out-gushing of a grateful heart, 
give it utterance, that, by a backward glance at the 
evil that might have been, the sunshine of our 
future may not be darkened. m. m. m. 
Lima, N. Y., 1859. 
Folly of Pride. —Take some quiet, sober mo¬ 
ment of life, and add together the two ideas of 
pride and man; behold him, creature of a span, 
stalking through infinite space in all the grandeur 
of littleness. Perched on a speck of the universe, 
every wind of heaven strikes into his blood the 
coldness of death; his soul floats from his body 
like melody from the string; day and night, as 
dust on the W’heel, he is rolled along the heavens, 
through a labyrinth of worlds, and all the crea¬ 
tions of God are flaming above and beneath. Is 
this a creature to make for himself a crow r n of 
glory, to deny his own flesh, to mock at his fellow, 
sprung from the dust, to which both will soon 
return? Does the proud man not err? Does he 
not suffer? Does he not die? When he reasons, 
is he never stopped by difficulties? When he 
acts, is he never tempted by pleasure? When he 
lives, is he free from pain ? When he dies, can 
he escape the common grave? Pride is not the 
heritage of man ; humility should dwell with 
frailty, and atone for ignorance, error and imper¬ 
fection .—Sydney Smith. 
Companion Sins. —When one sin is admitted, it 
is generally found that it hath a companion wait¬ 
ing at the door; and the former will work hard to 
gain admission for the latter. 
The Ocean.—How little of the sea can a child 
carry in his hand ! As little do I take away of m/y 
great sea—the love of Christ. 
