Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A HEART-GLIMPSE, WHICH MAY GOD PITY. 
BY AMANDA T. JONES. 
Over desert wilds she strayed, 
And the sand beneath was hot, 
There was neither dewy shade, 
Pleasant glen nor kindly grot. 
Ah ! so wearily she went, 
Burdened with her youth’s lone years; 
Strength and wilt alike wore spent— 
All but hope was quenched in tears. 
Lo! at length a garden fair 
Lay inviting by her side, 
Pleasant fruits were smiling there 
By cool rivers deep and wide. 
Presently a face looked out,— 
’Twas a pleasant, puzzling face, 
But she had no heart to doubt 
For the beauty of the place. 
Sick and weary of the sand 
Where her toiling feet had been, 
Ploading, stretched she out her hand, 
And the Unknown led her in. 
By the fountain’s smiling side, 
By the fruit trees, green and tall, 
To the rivers cool and wide— 
Led her there, and that was all. 
Famished, parched the streams she eyed, 
And the fruit that hung so high; 
All her longing spirit cried, 
“Feed me, feed me, or I die!” 
“ At the fountain let me quaff— 
See! its precious wave how clear!” 
Heard she then a taunting laugh— 
Saw she then a mocking sneer. 
Sneers upon that puzzling face 
Filled her soul with fear and doubt, 
From the pleasant, blooming place, 
Then the Unknown led her out. 
crazed with the demon, Alcohol, he had gone to 
meet his God. Ah, with what unutterable anguish 
did she bend over the form of him who, in the no¬ 
bility of manhood, won her heart’s fondest affec¬ 
tions but to blight her life with misery. Loaded 
with grief, and without a hope in the promises of 
her Heavenly Father, despair, with a crushing 
weight, seemed to rest upon her broken spirit, 
until with only a mother’s love she roused herself 
to live for her child. Around him did the golden 
chain of her affection entwine until he seemed a 
part of her very life. And not until the waxen 
lids were closed in death, and the willow wept 
“o’er his little green grave,” did she realize that 
she had made for herself an idol of clay,— that 
her God in loving kindness had broken the last tie 
that bound her heart to earth, had transplanted 
the bud of youthful promise to a purer clime 
where, amid elysian bowers, his tiny feet might 
walk the flowery paths of Paradise, and his loving 
spirit nestle upon a loving Savior’s bosom. 
Thus, while the curtains of night have been 
wrapping earth in shadows, her soul has been 
wandering back over the dead years of the past, 
reading upon their truthful scroll the remem 
brance of life’s blasted hopes, and bitter lessons 
Yet she rejoices that by the cup of sorrow quaffed 
to its dregs, she has been taught to look from 
perishable joys to Him who is the Way, the 
Truth, and the- Life, to such as trust in Him, 
Though for her earth has lost its brightest pleas¬ 
ures, yet, with the eye of faith, she has learned to 
look up to that home above, where “ the weary 
find rest,”—where the burning tears which have 
burst from the deepest fountains of grief may yet 
sparkle as gems of rejoicing in the crown of those 
who, in patient endurance, bear meekly the bur¬ 
dens of life, trusting in His unerring wisdom, 
“ who doeth all things well.” Marion. 
Wilson, N. Y., Sept., 1859. 
THE SONG- OF THE BROOK. 
THE LIGHT OF A CHEERFUL FACE. 
’Twas but one more drop of woe, 
Strength and will liad gone before; 
Now, as she through wilds doth go, 
Hope walks with her nevermore. 
Black Eock, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A LIFE SKETCH. 
There is no greater every-day virtue than 
cheerfulness. This quality in man among men, 
is like sunshine to the day, or gentle, renewing 
moisture to parched herbs. The light of a cheer¬ 
ful face diffuses itself, and communicates the 
happy spirit that inspires it. The sourest temper 
must sweeten in the atmosphere of continuous 
good humor. As well might fog, and cloud, and 
vapor, hope to cling to the sun-illumined land¬ 
scape, as the blues and moroseness to combat 
| jovial speech and exhilerating laughter. Be 
cheerful always. There is no path easier traveled, 
no load but will be lighter, no shadow on heart or 
brain but will lift sooner in presence of a deter¬ 
mined cheerfulness. It may at times seem diffi¬ 
cult for the happiest tempered to keep the coun- 
“ The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” tenance of peace and content; but the difficulty 
and gently closing the book of eternal truth the will vanish -when we truly consider that sullen 
stricken, tearful mourner, clasping her hands in gloom and passionate despair do nothing but 
prayer, peacefully murmured “ Father, Thy will multiply thorns and thicken sorrows. Ill comes 
be done.” Angel wrings fanned softly that pale, to us as providentially as good—and is as good, 
care-worn brow. Joyfully they attuned their we rightly apply its lessons; why not, then, 
golden harps to sweeter praises, as they noted the cheerfully accept the ill, and thus blunt its appa- 
peaceful calm which, like a sunbeam of light, flit- rent sting? Cheerfulness ought to be the fruit of 
ted across her sorrowring heart, as she trustingly philosophy and of Christianity. What is gained 
stayed her hopes upon the blest promises of her peevishness and fretfulness—by perverse sad- 
Heavenly Father. One by one, the silken ties ness aud sullenness? If we are ill, let us be 
which joined her heart to earth had been ruth- cheered by the trust that we shall soon be in 
lessly rent asunder, until now- she was left to tread health; if misfortune befall us, let us be cheered 
life’s thorny pathway alone. Despair had spread b Y hopeful visions of better fortune; if death 
her black wing over her once fond hopes until, robs us tbe dear on es, let us be cheered by the 
with an aching, almost hopeless heart, she turned thought that they are only gone before, to the 
to the immutable promises of her neglected God. blissful Lowers where we shall all meet, to part 
It was there she found balm for her sorrowing no more fore ver. Cultivate cheerfulness, if only 
heart, and for a brief season earth and its gloom for personal profit. You will do and bear every 
were forgotten in the contemplation of the won- dut Y and burden better by being cheerful. It 
drous beauties of that glorious home along whose be Y our consoler in solitude, your passport 
golden shores the Angel of Death never wanders and commendation in society. Y r ou wrill be more 
—where clouds never dim the azure skies,_but sought after, more trusted and esteemed for your 
the light of an eternal sun ever reigns. steady cheerfulness. The bad, the vicious, may 
But, sitting in the gray twilight hour, her be boisterousl Y S a Y and vulgarly humorous, but 
From the spring beneatli the beech tree, 
Where the bubbling waters rise; 
There began my wayward wanderings, 
’Neath the blue of summer skies. 
Like a thread of liquid crystal, 
By some fairy fingers spun— 
Lengthening out my tiny current, 
Day and night I tireless run. 
Through the meadow, where the daisies 
Fleck the emerald turf with snow, 
With the sunshine on my bosom, 
Singing merrily I go. 
Through the wood, with troops of shadows 
Dancing to the restless leaves; 
Where the wild vines o’er me streaming 
Many a quaint, weird chaplet weaves. 
And the sun, like golden rain drops, 
Filters through the oaken screen, 
Where the moss beds and the lichens 
Edge my path with tufts of green! 
Down the rocky hillside sliding 
In and out, from stair to stair, 
Till, midway the rocks o’er sweeping, 
One swift plunge, the last I dare. 
Then, from out the white foam stealing, 
Past the mill I make my way, 
Where the ponderous wheel hangs dripping, 
Green with moss for many a day; 
Underneath the little foot-bridge 
Where the sunburnt children fish, 
With their bare feet dangling downward 
For my cooling lips to kiss. 
niding in the rocky shadows, 
Shining by the dusty way; 
Murmuring by the lowly cottage, 
Whispering ’neath the turrets gray, 
Chiming this refrain forever, 
As I tinkling ripple on; 
’Tis the heart we bear within us 
Maketh life a sign or song. 
[Dome Journal. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
REMEMBRANCE. 
When we reflect how many millions have died 
and been forgotten—how many even of the later 
dead seem to have but an occasional place in the 
thoughts of those by whom they had most reason 
to expect to be remembered—how, after a few 
days of mourning for the departed, the happy 
recover their cheerfulness and the busy resume 
their industry, and, so far as may be judged by 
outward signs, life goes on with the survivors 
much as before —we arAapt, thinking only of 
external evidences of cljjP^ to limit the effect 
on families and communities Lf a withdrawal of 
work of remembrance begins, shrinking from 
many words concerning the departed, even to those 
whose sorrow for them is equal to ours, it is in 
thought only that we recall with pleasure the 
thousand traits of look, manner and conversation 
of them when living, and dwell, with mournful 
interest, on the incidents of their death. And 
though we do not think of them as lying in the 
grave-yard, deep in the earth, yet, feeling that 
there is something there very precious to us, 
affection and duty prompt us to pay one outward 
tribute of respect to the memory of the lost by 
sometimes visiting the spot where the remains are 
buried. 
But we need not go to their graves to be nearer 
our dead. It is vain to think of bringing back 
the presence of the departed more vividly there 
than in the places where we have been accustomed 
to see them, and where we miss them most.— 
Probably few of us have any distinct recollection 
of seeing our deceased friends in the neighborhood 
of their graves half a dozen times in our lives, 
and then on occasions of too much sadness to 
admit of their coming prominently before us when 
the scene presents itself to our minds. So, when 
we visit the spot where the dust of our dead repo¬ 
ses, thinking to more successfully invoke their 
presence there than elsewhere, though we feel 
that beneath the stones bearing their names lies 
something very sacred, yet nothing about us nat¬ 
urally calls up memories of the quiet sleepers. 
It requires an effort to associate their personalities 
with surrounding objects. But at home every¬ 
thing suggests thoughts of them—the door-stone 
that has echoed their footsteps, and the threshold 
they have crossed hundreds of times; the earth 
they have walked on, the sky they have looked up 
to, the air they have breathed, and the sunshine 
that has warmed them—all seem tinged with their 
presence. The sights and sounds of Nature that 
meet our senses hint to us that they approach the 
dwelling-places of the dead with an air of softness 
and refinement they never show to the living. To 
our imagination, the birds sing over their graves 
with a sweeter, tenderer note, the stars look down 
with a serener light, the rain descends with 
gentler force, and the snow falls with unaccus¬ 
tomed stillness. And nowhere is the faith that 
we shall see the dead again so strong as in the 
home where they have lived, and where they have 
faded from our sight. Musing on their occupa 
tion in the upper world, we seem to see them with 
the countenances they wore in health, greeting old 
and new friends, shaking hands and smiling as 
they used to so cordially, and the pleasant fancy 
strikes us that they will come back by-and-by and 
tell us where they have been, what seen and heard 
in their journeyings in the lovely lands beyond 
the sky. Nowhere, not at their graves, can we 
think so often, so naturally, so familiarlv, so 
hopefully, of the dead as at home. * A 
South Livonia N. Y., 1S59. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
MINE. 
Br STEPHEN FORBES. 
PATIENT WORKERS. 
thoughts wander from the future, to the dead past. 
Bright dreams of long vanished years rush o’er 
her soul with mighty power, and as Memory un¬ 
locks her gilded casket, and, true to her trust, 
brings to her mind the treasures of “ long gone 
years,” reminiscences of happy youth come up 
before her laden with far-off sweetness, when life, 
was filled with sunshine, and earth seemed a 
blooming Eden. And as her thoughts wander 
back through the long vista, she beholds the 
cherished friends of her youth who surrounded 
her in her vine-wreathed home where, joyous as a 
forest-bird, she gaily carolled her childish songs 
untroubled by care. 
Alas! how great the change of a few short 
years. Fond parents, whose loving hearts would 
gladly have shielded her from sorrow, have now 
seldom or never truly cheerful. Genuine cheer¬ 
fulness is an almost certain index of a happy 
mind and a pure, good heart.— Selected. 
WHAT'S IN A KISS. 
“Mother, mother, kiss,” pleaded a little cherub 
boy, with blue eyes, anxiously searching his 
mother’s unusually serious face, as she tenderly 
laid him upon his soft, warm bed, and lovingly 
folded the snowy drapery about him. «Do kiss 
me, mother! ” and the rosy lips began to tremble, 
the tear drops to gather in the pleading, upturned 
eyes, and the little bosom heaved with struggling 
emotion. “My little son has been naughty to-day,” 
replies the mother, sadly. “How can I kiss those 
lips that have spoken such angry words?” Too 
much, too much! Dutiful mother, repent! The 
finished the journey of life, and have gene to that little heart is swelling, breaking with grief- 
promised andof rest where evermore the majestic tumultuous sobs break from its agitated bosom;’ 
anthem, Worthy the Lamb,” rolls on, in which the snow white pillo w is drenched with peuiten 
their voices unceasing y join A fond sister, and tears , and the little diffipled hand is cxte P nded SQ 
brothel too, once gladdened that happy home, but imploringly. Relent! ’Tis enough! Once more 
where now are they? One, in the youth and the little head is pillowed upon the maternal 
beauty of early womanhood, ere yet the roses bosom-once more the little cherub form is pressed 
paled upon her cheek, closed her eyes in dream- to that mother’s aching heart, and the good-ni^ht 
less sleep, and the willow which has long wept kiss of forgiveness is given two-fold tenderer. A 
a ove er grave s 1 sings her requiem. The | fow moments, and the sobbings cease, the golden 
other, wearyiDg of the home of his childhood, and 
longing for more exciting pleasures, long years 
ago bid adieu to its scenes, and crossing the bil¬ 
lowy deep, roamed in foreign lauds; and for weary 
months and years the restless, ever trackless ocean 
has borne upon its bosom no tidings of his exist¬ 
ence to his watchiug sister. Weary of waiting, 
imagination has pictured for him a grave amid 
the coral forests of ocean’s fathomless depths, or 
beneath the green grass of a stranger land. Thus, 
one by one, had the friends of her girlhood de¬ 
parted, until he alone was left, who at the 
hymenial alter had breathed vows of constancy 
and protection until “ Death them should part.” 
Unbroken for awhile were these premises, but the 
tempter, wine, won the fond husband from the 
peaceful home to dark haunts — the gateway of 
eternal ruin. Many a lonely, weary hour, did she, 
the neglected wife, watch for the coming foot¬ 
steps of the degraded inebriate, until, amid the 
darkness of one never-to-be-forgotten midnight 
hour, stranger hands bore him to his home a 
loathsome corpse. Alone, and unprepared, he 
had met the fearful summons of death. His brain 
head drops, the weary eyelids close, and the little 
erring one is laid back upon his couch, penitent 
and humbled by one kiss from mama. What’s in 
a kiss—a simple kiss ? Much—very much. More 
potent than the sceptre. Who has not felt its 
magic influence? ’Tis the lover’s tender pledge 
of undying constancy; ’tis a bond of friendship 
and fidelity, and not only is it dear to the youthful 
and ardent, but also to old age—to the withered 
heart and blossomless cheek. 
Mr Mother.— It is truly said—the first being 
that rushes to the recollection of a man in his 
heart’s difficulty, is his mother. She clings to his 
memory and affection in the midst of all his forget¬ 
fulness and hardihood induced by a roving life. 
The last message he leaves is for her, his last 
whisper breathes her name. The mother as she 
instills the lesson of piety and filial obligation into 
the heart of her infant son, should always feql that 
her labor is not in vain. She may drop into the 
grave, but she has left behind her influences that 
will work for her. The bow is broken, but the 
arrow is sped, and it will perform its office. I 
Who does the most good? This question is 
not easily answered. Such men as Luther, and 
Wesley, and Edwards, and Wilberforce, and How- 
ard, are prominent among the great workers in 
oue of their number from the scene, of this life, the world. Dot who know, that they really ox 
to.more or less p.,gnan, and lasting grief f„ r celIed U, 0us „„ ds of olller8 whoso 
their lo,,. But it is impossible for a great sorrow, nevor been mentioned in history! They were 
suclx Its the removal of a near relatire or friend, made prominent by the circumstance, around 
to fall upon even the gay and thoughtless, without them; and perhaps their success depended more 
conferring certain spiritual beneBts - without „ p0 „ the agency of unknown persons, than upo" 
destroying some illusions, and perhans in ,/ . ,, * 
. .. ,, ’ u m some their own power. Very likely the r position de¬ 
sort compensating the sufferer for what he h»« , , ,, J J 1 ua ae 
, . . . vuul ne nas pended more upon others than upon the success 
lost by leading him to place additional value rm • „. , Ti . , V mmcess 
, , - ns 1 a utbiomu lame on 0 f their own efiorts. It is not always the man 
what remains. True, when deprived of a uortinn i J 
r p eu ot a portion w ho applies the torch to the loaded cannon who 
of our earthly treasure, we are apt for a time in j .. ’ 0 
, , l’. a ume > t0 deserves the honor of the execution whch it does 
underrate what., left, and jus so it i, in regard Uosls of workers must have toiled long hard 
to our family relationships. The removal of one skillfully and successfully before him, or hfs torch 
member makes us feel that the world is empty, a „d Hash, and the smoke, and the noise wouli 
and that there is nothing left worth living for; have amounted to nothing. To him who stands 
and, somehow, this feeling stands so justified to ol , t the most prominently, who stirs up the great, 
our minds, that we are distressed, and even expe- est excitement, and makes the most noise, the 
nence a sense of guilt when we first become least credit is often due for the result attained 
conscious tha we are beginning to be again at- „ „ e look at the surface of things men would 
traded by what formerly interested us. But sc em to be pitched into life, as vast heaps of wood, 
when the great shock mover, and Death ha, fairly coming down by mighty rivers, are brought to! 
shown us how httlo claim we really have to what g e ,ber in rafts,pitched and tossed every whither,- 
wo ca our own or no un i ive experience a no harmony, no apparent relation among them. 
separation of tins k.nddo wo realise the possibility Everything in life seems lo bo jumbled together, 
of ,t, occurrence—when agonizing gnef has snb- if we i„„ t 0 t the fitness of things. Men of film 
sided into a tender and regretful remembrance a 1 , 
, ° a and tender feelings are placed in circumstances 
when the sens, ofrimpovemhmea at the thought where Hero is nothing to satisfy their wants 
o a loss of earthly companionship has given mcn of apliludc for r ning and thought a ; 
place to a feeling of increased interest in the socle- compelled to remain in ignorance; men of feeble 
ty above, then the oftener our thoughts go down n a ± . .. , 
- , ri . , . . , ‘ “ ° uo " u minds are called to stations where strong wills 
dowlXh '‘"’T* l ," ,re n “ dcd ’ ” d placed when 
do we feel he insecurity of our hold on the living, tteir strcDgth i8 of n0 In J mid8t of 
nnd, in anticipation of the time when they too these difficulties and discordances, what a fierce 
may be gone from cur midst, hey staud to us in „ n d fiery lime men would Lave of it, if it was 
mke tlmfeffi.t, » SS ‘” I!S 8 “ S U ‘ ey mxmr T th “‘ th 'f sh »» ld "orry over disagrees. 
f' hie duties; if there were no way of their avoiding 
The workings of Time are so gradual that its to fret and fume over every ledge of difficulty 
effects generally fall on us unheeded, unless some which lay across their life.— Deecher. 
ruder, sharper stroke than usual makes a gap that -- 
succeeding years may, indeed, overrun with a Rev. Sidney Smith on Enjoyment. —Mankind 
high growth of leaves and branches, but cannot are always happier for having been happy—so 
fill up nor couceal. Such a shock does our tree of that if you make them happy now, you make 
life sustain, when one accustomed to lend it friend- them happy twenty years hence by the memory 
Iy shelter and support is suddenly uptorn by its of it. A childhood passed with a due mixture of 
side, and suffering stamps all the painful details rational indulgence, under fond and wise parents, 
of separation on our minds with a distinctness diffuses over the whole of life a feeling of calm 
that years cannot diminish. An event of joy is pleasure, and in extreme old age is the very last 
lived through and forgotten; or, if remembered, remembrance which time can erase from the mind 
it presents itself as a single complete fact; an of man. No enjoyment, however inconsiderable, 
experience of sorrow, if it ever leaves us, contin- is confined to the present moment. A man is the 
ually comes back with all the dread circumstances happier for life from having once made an agree- 
attending its occurrence. If that sorrow has been able tour, or lived for any length of time with 
caused by the sickness and death of friends, we pleasant people, or enjoyed any considerable in- 
live over, again and again, in memory, our first terval of innocent pleasure; which contributes to 
uneasiness at the altered looks of the invalids— render old men so inattentive to the scenes before 
our growing consciousness of their danger, which them, and carries them back to a world that is 
we contemplated in silence, not having the heart past and to scenes never to be renewed again. 
to speak of it—the trying alternations of hope and ---- 
fear — their own and our final conviction of their A beautiful thought is suggested in the Koran: 
approaching end—parting words—mutual prom- “Angels, in the grave will not question thee as to 
ises of remembrance—the last breath when life the amount of wealth thou has left behind thee, 
went out, and the hope and heart of the watcher died hut what good deeds thou hast done while in the 
with it—the dreary details of preparation for con- world, to entitle thee to a seat among the blest.” 
signing the remains to their last resting place, -*-♦♦- 
and the almost insupportable duty of laying away The policy that can strike only while the iron is 
the body to mingle with the dust. Afterward, hot, will be overcome by the perseverance that 
when the violence of grief has abated and the I can make the iron hot by striking. 
Of all the words whose thrilling sound 
Strike through the spirit’s depth profound, 
With echoes far and fine, 
What carries more of heavenly bliss— 
What more of deadly sin than this— 
This one word— Mine ? 
Through vaulted gloom are feebly shed 
Dim lantern rays, upon a head 
Where woe and sin combine, 
No light his mental dark may cheer_ 
The miser counts his gold in fear, 
And murmurs “ Mine /” 
Dives before his palace stands, 
And gazeth forth on fertile lands, 
With trees, and corn, and kine, 
And o’er his shaven face the while 
Creepeth a cold and selfish smile 
As Pride says “ Mine .” 
Dark Ducifeb, with flaming hate, 
Ascends, still glorying in his fate, 
Some mountain’s rocky spine, 
Views the sad tale of crime and woe, 
Sees blood and tears forever flow, 
And thinks >Tis Mine." ' 
Not so, for God, whose equal light, 
Through golden day and silver night, 
On all the world doth shine, 
Says lovingly, and wears the look, 
Whence sun and stars their radiance took, 
All these are “ Mine." 
“ Mine!'” ’Tis the golden key of Love! 
The heart’s barred doors before it move, 
And need no other sign, 
The lover clasps his plighted bride, 
■With this one link of Faith and Pride, 
“ Thou wilt be Mine /” 
O, Heavenly Rest! I yearn and pray 
To see the morning of that day— 
That dawn of light Divine— 
When I aith shall fade in glad surprise 
And Peace upon my heart shall rise, 
Forever Mine ! 
O, loving Christ ! O, Father of All! 
0, Holy Spirit Mystical, 
Jeiiovau, One and Trine ! 
I walk in strength and hope below, 
For even here I gladly know 
That Thou art Mine ! 
Utica, N. Y., 1859. 
THE WORDS WE SPEAK. 
Our words are imperishable. Like winged 
messengers, they go forth, but never to be recalled 
never to die. They Lave a mighty power for 
good or evil through all time; and before the 
great white throne they will be swift witnesses 
for or against us. 
The words we speak have a mighty power; and 
there are words angels might covet to utter. 
There are words of comfort to the afflicted. There 
are sad hearts that need comfort everywhere, and 
there are words of blame and cold indifference, or 
feigned sympathy, that fall like lead upon the 
stricken spirit; and there are blessed heart-words 
of cheer, which bear up the soul and enable it to 
look out from the dark night of its troubles, and 
discern the silver lining of the gloomy cloud. 
There are words of counsel to the young, to the 
tempted, the erring. Speak them earnestly, affec¬ 
tionately, and though the waves of circumstance 
may soon waft them away from your observation, 
yet such is God’s husbandry, that if uttered in 
faith and with prayer, He will take care that on 
an earthly or heavenly shore the reaper shall 
rejoice that he was a sower. 
There are kind words; how little they cost,how 
priceless they are! Harsh words beget harshness; 
and fretful words, like a certain little insect, sting 
us into a feverish impatience. But who can resist 
the charm of kind, loving words? The heart 
expands beneath them as to the sunshine, and 
they make us happier and better. 
Then there are cheerful words, aud why should 
we dole them out with such miserly care? They 
ought to form the atmosphere of our homes, and 
to be habitual in all our social intercourse. We 
have so many weaknesses, so many crosses, so 
much that is down-hill in life, that the habit of 
thinking and speaking cheerfully is invaluable. 
But there are other words against which we 
should pray, “Set a watch, 0 Lord, before my 
mouth; keep the door of my lips.” There are 
words of falsehood and deceit. They lurk in our 
expressions of civility, our professions of friend¬ 
ship, our transactions of business. How early do 
children, even, begin to weave a web of deceit, 
and how carefully should those who train them 
watch against this sin, and, by example and pre¬ 
cept, teach them always and everywhere to speak 
the truth. 
There are slanderous words—how mischievous 
they are! There are the words of the tale-bearers, 
that breed suspicions and jealousies in neighbor¬ 
hoods, and between families. There are envious 
words aud flattering words, and faltering words, 
which are no better. Then there is the long list 
of idle words, or by-words, as they are called. 
But there is another class of words to which we 
would gladly refer—they are the words of eternal 
life. Cornelius sent for Peter that he might speak 
words to him. What blessed words those were! 
Will they not be remembered with joy by both 
speaker and hearer throughout all eternity ? As 
we pass along through the world, God will often 
let us speak a word for Him ; and if we seek His 
aid, He will make it a word of power and comfort, 
a word in season, to him that is weary. 
“ Speak gently; ’tis a little tiling 
Dropped in the heart’s deep well; 
The good, the joy, which it may bring, 
Eternity shall tell.” [dullard. k 
There is many a man whose tongue might gov- 4 
ern multitudes, if he could only govern his tongue. ^ 
