LITTLE ROSE. 
Shb comes with fairy footsteps— 
Softly their echoes fall; 
And her shadow plays like a summer 6hade 
Across the garden wall; 
The golden light is dancing bright, 
’Mid the mazes of her hair, 
And her fair youDg locks are waring free 
To the wooing of the air. 
Like a sportful fawn she bouudetk 
So gleefully along; 
As a wild, young bird sho caroleth 
The burden of a song; 
The summer flowers are clustering thick 
Around her dancing feet, 
And on her check the summer breeno 
Is breathing soft and sweet. 
The very sunbeam seems to linger 
Above that holy head, 
And the wild-flowers, at her coming, 
Their richest fragrance shed. 
And oh, how lovely, light and fragrance 
Mingle in the life within I 
Oh ! how fondly do they nestle 
Hound the soul tqat knows no sin. 
She comes, the spirit of childhood— 
A thing of mortal birth ; 
Yet bearing still the breath of heaven 
To redeem her from the earth; 
She comes in bright-robed innocence, 
Unsoiled by blot or blight, 
And passeth by our wayward path, 
A gleam of angel light. 
Oh ! blessed things are children 1 
The gifts of heavenly love— 
They stand betwixt our world-hearts, 
And better things above ; 
They link us with the spirit-world 
By purity and truth, 
And keep our hearts still fresh and young 
With the presence of their youth. 
[Blackwood's Magazine. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ALLIE DAYTON. 
Mrs. Dayton detested children, so she said,—so, 
too, said her actions, and every little one in the 
neighborhood wondered if she was ever a child, 
and, if so, they wondered if she used to hate her¬ 
self as bad as she now did them ! Mrs. Dayton 
boasted that she never had her nicest plums and 
peaches stolen by the little urchms as they came 
from school—no, not she—and as to the children— 
why, they had not the least doubt but that she 
would “cut their ears off,” if they dared to come 
near the house, for she had told them that she 
would, and they believed her fully capable of per¬ 
forming the act. Mrs. Dayton said it was owing 
to her “good government” that they did not 
trouble her as they did the other neighbors—well, 
perhaps it was! 
Mr. Dayton was a mild, peaceable sort of a man, 
who believed in Woman’s Rights because he was 
afraid to believe any other way, and always al¬ 
lowed his wife to do just as she chose to, because, 
forsooth, it so happened that he couldn’t help 
himself. Poor Mr. Dayton ! Many a night did 
he go to his dreary home tired and weary, and 
found there no balm for his troubled heart, and 
naught to give his spirit cheer, and instead of a 
kind welcome from bis wife, he was greeted with 
harsh words and useless complaints. Poor man! 
Two years passed away, and now the cottage 
walls resounded with the merry voice of childhood. 
Every one woudered at the oddity of Dame Nature 
in fashioning such a dainty little figure as Allie 
Day'ton, and then setting her down in the little 
red cottage of the shoemaker. True, it was strange, 
but how wise, for she came like an angel messen¬ 
ger into that home, wiping out ali the evil there. 
She was indeed as beautiful a flower as ever 
bloomed this side of Paradise, with flaxen curls, 
deep blue eyes, a forehead as fair as the pure lilies 
that blossomed beside tbe cottage door. Her lips 
were cherry-red, and cheeks rich with the hue of 
the rose. Her spirit was like the snow-flake, 
chaste and pure—and thus she played in that old 
cottage, softening the harsh nature of Dame Day- 
ton, and shedding abroad the light in the dark 
places of her father’s heart. More beautiful she 
grew, and yet more beautiful, and the village 
people opened wide their eyes in amazement to 
think that this could be the child of Mrs. Dayton, 
and many shook their heads grarely as they point¬ 
ed to the blue veins in the clear forehead, and 
whispered of a “ mound in the graveyard! ” 
She grew to be an idol in that cottage, worshiped 
even above Him who made her and placed her 
there. Often when her mother’s face was pale 
and distorted with passion, little Allie, the house¬ 
hold angel, would climb upon her lap, and wfith 
her little soft hand would smooth the wrinkled 
forehead, and say,—“ God will be angry with ma¬ 
ma,” though where she learned that holy name I 
know not, unless 'twas from the lips of her father. 
’Twas wonderful what a change came over that 
household when Allie entered it. It softened the 
mother’s nature, and made her ashamed of her 
harshness—made her more womanly and gentle, 
and made her love her husband more. And the 
father—0 ! the sunshine soon chased the shadows 
from his heart, and he loved his home more and 
more after baby Allie came to cheer it. 
Thus the days and months passed on, and the 
cottage was re-built, and flowers were planted 
before the door, and neat green blinds adorned 
the windows; the curtains were looped back with 
blue ribbons, and a bright, new carpet covered 
the parlor floor, and in fact*you would hardly say 
it was the “Dayton Cottage,” for the old folks 
said “we must make Allie’s home pleasant.” 
Gentle Allie. They saw not the shadow that was 
even then trailing along the landscape—knew not 
of the angel that was even then watching and 
waiting beside the cottage door! One bright 
morning Allie’s voice was not heard in the house, 
save as it moaned painfully, and the patter of tiny 
feet was missed on the stairs. Allie was ill, and 
ere the noon day shadows rested on the door-sill, 
the angel had borne her to Heaven—had snatched 
the pure flower from that cottage home, and left 
the hearth desolate. 0! there were sad hearts 
that wept above her tiny form, and as they turned 
away from that little mound in the chuichyard, 
the father and mother almost longed to rest there 
too. ’Twas sad to watch their grief and suffering 
when they laid her away in the ground, and when 
they had reached their desolate home the humbled 
wife said, as she smoothed the grey locks of her 
husband, “ she was only lent us for a little while, 
to purify our hearts and make us better, and now 
let us he happy in each other, for, though we may 
not forget our Allie, we may live to meet her in 
Heaven! ” 
Years have passed. The cottage still stands, 
but the inmates are not the same that they were 
years ago. Allie’s father aud mother rest side hv 
side in the churchyard—they have gone to meet 
their child in the Garden of God. 
Brighton, N. Y., 1859. Nettie Nettle. 
THE EIGHT TRAINING OF WOMEN. 
The Church of England Review has an article 
on Female Education, from which we take the 
following: 
Much remains to he done in winnowing out of 
peoples’ mind ridiculous ideas of a certain purely 
fastidious style of living, without which it is im¬ 
possible to keep house. There are plenty of 
young men who have yet to unlearn the foppery 
of expenses disproportioned to their means, and 
the sordidDess of luxuries which feed not self- 
respect, but gluttony and pride. The possibility 
must be secured to daughters and young sisters 
growing up to be rational, appreciative compan¬ 
ions ; girls who, if they ever marry, will choose 
and value their husband for what he is, and be 
interested in his calling and his opportunities for 
observation ; women who will estimate the grave 
and sweet realities of wife and motherhood be¬ 
yond any accident of precedence or superfluity. 
By dismissing false and foolish notions of respect¬ 
ability, by refusing the cheap fascinations of a 
paltry education of display, by discountenancing 
restraints misdirected or too rigorous, by culti¬ 
vating an intelligent and unassuming mode of 
inteicourse, by a careful foresight in assisting 
young people to prepare themselves for the exer¬ 
tion and cost of one day being the centre of a 
peaceful, hospitable home; in these and other 
ways much may be done to remove obstructions 
to that gradual acquaintance, and that unaffected 
respect and attachment which lead on to happy 
marriage. 
In the meantime it may be well to think, with 
not only the sympathy, but the veneration they 
deserve, of among those who will never marry; 
to assist in multiplying the too few occupations 
suitable to women, or open to them; above all, 
not to preach by implication or otherwise, that a 
woman’s life need ever be dwarfed to a negation, 
consumed miserably away by causes absolutely out 
of her control. There are women strong enough 
to keep their womanly dignity and sweetness, and 
to organize around them the moral elements, at 
all events, of an independent existence. They 
whose steps are feeble need tbe more to be helped, 
rather than hindered in the struggle with their 
fainter and more yielding self. If they fail here, 
is it all certain that in wedded life their lot would 
have been suspicious ? Alas ! how many a falter¬ 
ing will has been bent aud “given” beneath san¬ 
guine, unfulfilled resolutions, to reclaim and 
humanize the husband, wbo has pulled the wife 
down to his mean wretched level. Marriage is 
not lottery; but it is mere willful blindness to for¬ 
get that in all its higher aspects, it may be wofully 
inverted or appallingly debased. Not all the grand 
provisions of tender ties and gracious instincts 
which surround one of the greatest of Divine 
ordinances, will make people pure or happy who 
insist on being peevish or frivolous, or worldly, 
sensual and devilish. 
Wedded life is a great and holy mystery, and a 
source of power for good, often far beyond esti¬ 
mation ; but unless there be at least one soul filled 
with unselfish love, and strong in an unflagging 
faith, the formal union of two persons is no 
guarantee whatever for a will ennobled, or affec¬ 
tions enlarged and cleansed. And the faith which 
so works by love can make a sunshine in a shady 
place, without an infant’s or a husband’s eye to 
look into. The harmonies of a developed and 
transfigured womanhood, have been set many a 
time to other music than that of wedding bells. 
She who is enthroned never, under any roof, in a 
mother’s holy sovereignty, may earn the right in 
many a house of compelling every soul to love 
her. She will create or find an atmosphere in 
which to keep, unwithered, and it full pulsation, 
“the heart out of which are thp issues of life.” 
Her hands will redeem the time, and her brain 
not be idle. Living singly, yet not solitary, when 
she dies it will not be till, “smote” by many a 
touch of gratitude and cheerful, reverential sym¬ 
pathy, “the cord of self has, trembling, passed 
in music out of sight.” 
WOMEN AND PICTURES. 
If, indeed, women were mere outside form and 
face only, and if mind made up no part of her 
composition, it would follow that a ball-room was 
quite as appropriate a place for choosing a wife as 
an exhibition-room for choosiDg a picture. But., 
inasmuch as women are not mere portraits, their 
value not being determinable by a glance of the 
eye, it follows that a different mode of apprecia¬ 
ting their value, and a different place for viewing 
them, antecedent to their being individually 
selected, is desirable. The two cases differ also 
in this, that if a man select a picture for himself 
from among all its exhibited competitors, and 
bring it his own house, the picture being passive, 
he is able to fix it there; while the wife, picked 
up at a public place and accustomed to incessant 
display, will not, it is probable, when brought 
home, stick so quietly to the spot where he fixes 
her, but will escape to tbe exhibition-room again, 
and continue to be displayed at every subsequent 
exhibition, just as if she were not become private 
property, and had never been definitely disposed 
of.— Hannah More. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A WINTER THOUGHT. 
BY CAROLINE A. HOWARD, 
Evening fell cloudy and drear, 
And the wild November wind 
Howled deep in the forest near 
Like some fierce demon confined. 
And 6tlently through the night, 
Oa (he hills and ra'es below, 
Drifted, serenely and white, 
The fair and beautiful enow. 
It seemed the bridal of Autumn, 
And Winter, the bride-groom hale. 
Over the trembling maiden, 
Threw softly the wedding veiL 
Or, rather, to me it seemed, 
As earth lay shrinking and baro, 
Eobbed of her vesture of leaves, 
And pierced by the sharpened all - ; 
That, even as Charity 
Covereth the sins of all, 
Some pitying angel stooped 
And let his pure mantle fall. 
Dedham, Mass., 1S59. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOPE AMID DECAY. 
To say that decay is engraven on all below, is to 
repeat a truth which is indelibly written on the 
tablet of every heart. From the cradle to the 
grave, the experience of man has been regret and 
disappointment. Too soon the smiling infant 
weeps o’er its broken toys,—the youth is called to 
mourn for friends stricken from his side ere the 
departed hopes of his childhood’s days are buried 
from his memory. The noble breast of manhood 
heaves with deeper sighs, for that period, also,—is 
the victim of sure decay, and old age bows in sor¬ 
row, when the summer of his life past, and his har¬ 
vest is not gathered in. It is truly wise 
To seize the moments as they fly,— 
Bright gems, which careless men pass lightly by. 
Ere care has lured the feet of childhood from 
their sunDy track, or vice led captive the pure 
heart of youth, decay has marked them for his 
own. He scruples not to pluck the bride from the 
altar, or the miser from his gold, while the crown 
of glory that the conqueror wears, or a hoary 
wreath from the brow of age, rest alike upon his 
laureled head. The drooping lily and the tower¬ 
ing oak bend beneath ils fitful blasts, and the 
works of man crumble to the dust. Gentle spring 
greets us in her emerald mantle, and summer fol¬ 
lows in her train. Glakiess fills the earth, and 
beauty crowDS the piivnarJKf Nature ; but alas!^— 
mourning and sighiDg ail heard in the valleys, 
and wailing on the hili tcl^. ^Sad Ajutumn i/f the 
messenger of woe: 
“ Lady Summer fair and cold, 
Pale and dead is lying.” 
Withered flowers and falling leaves follow’her to 
the grave; and the snows of Winter cover her 
resting place. 
Decay is stamped on every page of history, and 
oblivion marks the records of antiquity. Where 
is Rome,—proud Rome, whose queenly form rose 
majestically above the nations of the earth?— 
Where is Sparta, with her wise law-givers and her 
noble sons? Athens, the loved home of philoso¬ 
phy and art—her ancient glory has departed, and 
wisdom has found an asylum in other lands. 
It is night, and the calm, beautiful stars come 
out one by one, until myriads of shining orbs gem 
the vaulted arch of heaven. We behold, and are 
filled with admiration, with wonder and with awe. 
As we turn from the saddening details of this 
earth-life of a day, to the contemplation of these 
stupendous monuments of nature, what wonder, 
that to us, imperishable beauty veils the skies, 
where Divinity has left His impress on every 
twinkling star. Like sinless angels clothed in 
garments of unsullied purity they ministered to 
our fettered spirits until an undefinable longing to 
be freed from the prison house of clay, to soar 
through the regions of space, till arrived at the 
“ shores of heaven” we should cross 
“ Creation’s last boundary stone,” 
and be ushered into the presence of Deity, to be¬ 
hold the consummation of Infinity, to fathom the 
mysteries of Eternity. To appearance, they 
change not as they move on in their allotted 
course, age after age, but we have every reason to 
believe, that there, also, Decay is busy at his work 
of desolation. 
But have we yet marked the boundaries of his 
wide domain ? To the great and glorious mind is 
reserved the end and consummation of decay. 
Here, the aspirations of this universal tyrant 
must cease. There is nothing greater but Deity 
Himself. Since the fall of man, the history of 
mind has been a struggle, successful or unsuccess¬ 
ful, against tbe tendency of this part, immortal 
though ever dying, to degenerate in purity and 
fitness to be called the likeness of its Maker. 
Here, Decay, alone, ba3 his perfect work. In the 
material world, it is but a change, for annihilation 
is the only weapon which the conqueror cannot 
yield. 
Hope pervades all nature. Winter, white and 
barren, gives place to the vigor and freshness of 
vernal bloom. The lovely hues of Summer are 
matured in the fruitful Autumn and repose again 
until the resurrection morning of the year, when, 
at the voice of the angel zephyr, and the touch 
of the faithful sunbeam, they shall spring again 
into new-robed life, sublime in its simplicity and 
almost holy in its purity. 
The spheres shall be destroyed and the elements 
dissolved, but there shall be “ a new heavens 
and a new earth wherein dwelleth righteousness.” 
The lost soul is the only work which the finger of 
God shall not re-touch with more than its created 
glory’. The mind, in pursuing the path of pro¬ 
gress marked out by its architect, rises in tower¬ 
ing magnificence above every monument of Na¬ 
ture. “ The righteous hath hope in his death."— 
In the vision of Mikza, what was the passing of 
the broken archway, and the inevitable descent 
into the dark waters below, when the mist was 
lifted, and his eyes beheld the beautiful islands on 
the bosom of yonder ocean. So, what is death, 
when afterward is the more enduriDg life, the 
grand, the mighty, the inconceivable greatness of 
the soul to be revealed? Untrammeled with the 
littleness, the darkness, the obscurity of matter, 
spirit communes with spirit, and takes its flight, 
for the never-to-be-reached infinitude of Divine 
wisdom. Surely, we have reason to hope amid 
decay. 
“ Of the night comes starry splendor; 
Of sorrow, faith is born ; 
And on the steps of midnight 
Treads close, the rosy morn.” 
Piffard, N. Y., 1859. Jane E. Eh 
THE ART OF NOT HEARING. 
The art of not hearing should be taught in every 
well-regulated family. It is full as important to 
domestic happiness as a cultivated ear, for which 
so much money and time are expended. There 
are so many things which it is painful to hear— 
many which we ought not to hear, very many 
which, if heard, will disturb the temper, corrupt 
simplicity and modesty, detract from contentment 
and happiness; that every one should be educated 
to take in or shut out sounds, according to their 
pleasure. 
If a man falls into a violent passion, and calls 
me all manner of names, the first word shuts my 
ears, and I hear no more. If, in my quiet voyage 
of life, I find myself caught in one of those domes¬ 
tic whirlwinds of scolding, I shut my ears, as a 
sailor would furl his sails, and making all tight, 
scud before the gale. If a hot and restless man 
begins to inflame my feelings, I consider what 
mischief these fiery sparks may do in the maga¬ 
zine below, where my temper is kept, and instantly 
shut the door. 
Doe3 a gadding, mischief-making fellow begin 
to inform me what people are saying about me, 
down drops the portcullis of my ear, and he can¬ 
not get in any further. Does the collector of a 
neighborhood’s scandal ask my ear as a warehouse, 
it instinctively shuts up. Some people seem anx¬ 
ious to hear everything that will vex and annoy 
them. If it is hinted that any one has spoken evil 
of them, they set about searching the matter, and 
finding out. If all the petty things said of one by 
heedless or ill-natured idlers were to be brought 
home to him, he would become a mere walking 
pincushion, stuck full of sharp remarks. I should 
as soon think of thanking a man for emptying 
upon my bed a bushel of nettles, or setting loose a 
swarm of ants in my chamber, or raising a pun¬ 
gent dust in my house generally, as for bringing 
in upon me all the tattle of careless or spiteful 
people. If you would be happy, when arnoDg 
good men, open your ears; when among bad, shut 
them. And as the throat has a muscular arrange¬ 
ment by which it takes care of the air passages of 
its own accord, so the ears should be trained to an 
automatic dullness of hearing! It is not worth 
while to hear what your servants say when they 
are angry; what your children say after they have 
slammed the door; what your neighbors say about 
your children; what your rivals say about your 
business, your dress, or your affairs. 
The art of not hearing, though untaught in the 
schools, is by no means unknown, or unpracticed 
in society. I have noticed that a well-bred woman 
never hears an impertinent or a vulgar remark. 
A kind of discreet deafness saves one from many 
insults, from much blame, from not a little appa¬ 
rent connivance in dishonorable conversation.— 
Selected. 
CHARACTER AND REPUTATION. 
I will draw a distinction between character 
and reputation, which are not synonymous. A 
man’s character is the reality of himself; his repu¬ 
tation, the opinion others have formed about him; 
character resides in him, reputation in other 
people; that is the substance, this is the shadow; 
they are sometimes greater or less. If a man be 
able to achieve things beyond his time, his reputa¬ 
tion will be different from his character. He who 
seeks reputation must not be beyond the times he 
lives in. It is important to men beginning life to 
know which they want—character or reputation. 
To build a character is a work of time; as ships 
are built on one element and used in another, so 
character is formed in youth and home for after 
life. Reputation is easily got; it is generally 
charlatanism, taking many forms—as that of the 
patriot, a tribe numerous as mosquitoes, who like 
them, lean and hungry, suck all the blood they 
can, but make none—who live on suction. In a 
man, as in a ship, the material must exist origi¬ 
nally; a man naturally mean may be improved, 
but never will be a noble man. Reputation may 
be made for a man ; character must be made by 
him, with labor aud time, and it cannot be taken 
away. The antagonism between the two is not so 
great as tbe disproportion. Thus, a man, if wise, 
will be content to be considered wiser; he is like 
a shadow three times in size; like a bank that 
issues three paper dollars for every one in specie 
they have; if worth a quarter he likes to be called 
worth half a million, until the assessor brings him 
to his senses. He will disclaim “popularity,” 
but claim the same thing under the name of “ in¬ 
fluence;” hut it is what God made a man and lie 
makes of himself which determines his influence; 
the weights never ask a favor of the scales; a 
thousand pounds will weigh down five hundred by 
their natural force. So he speaks of “ prudence. 
Prudence is coincident with rectitude, and there 
have been men against the grain of life all their 
days, who yet were most prudent men. He sub¬ 
stitutes love of approbation for love of truth. 
Thousands lose their characters to save their repu¬ 
tation.— Selected. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorkor, 
HUNGERING STILL. 
Source of all comfort here below, 
My heart goes out still after thee— 
Hungering, thirsting, I would know 
Thy righteous will concerning me. 
I wou'd be Thine, asleep, awake, 
And not repine whate’er Thy will; 
But meek, submissive, learn to take 
The cup, and drink, and bless Thee still. 
And as my one desire is this, 
O, Lord, reveal that will entire, 
And fill the heart that longs for bliss 
With rapture as it rises higher. 
Wilson, N. Y., 1S59. 
THE TWO IDEAS. 
The two ideas, reduced to their simplest forms, 
may be expressed in a word— Self-love of Christian 
love. We take all the forms in which men lovo 
the world, with the objects which they pursue, and 
the motives which animate them, and they are all 
resolved into one idea—that of self. Power, learn¬ 
ing, fame, wealth and influence—in the palace, 
and in tbe hamlet—in halls of legislation, or in the 
humblest walks of life, in a kaleidoscopic chaDge, 
and a constant transmigration of circumstances, 
are only manifestations of the selfish principle, 
when not accompanied by a spiritual life. This 
self-love is the most insidious and delusive of all 
the evil tendencies of the corrupt moral nature, 
and is the last and hardest to be removed. It lies 
deep in the human heart, with its roots so closely 
entwined with every fibre, that it requires nothiDg 
less than the miraculous work of a spiritual new 
birth to eradicate it. What is true of the individ¬ 
ual is true of the world. The great carnal princi¬ 
ple of selfishness, and the attachments of tbe 
earthly and material, must all be broken up before 
tbe world can be regenerated. 
On the other hand, the Christian’s great purpose 
is to live out of and beyond himself. He becomes 
elevated by the very nature of his new impulse; 
and he moves on a higher plane in the duties of 
his daily life. 
So will it be when the world shall be brought to 
the point where it will undergo the moral trans¬ 
formation which is to come. The work will not be 
accomplished by a transition like that of darkness 
into the daylight aud the noontide. Sunbeams do 
not tear up the giant oaks of a hundred years, nor 
melt down pyramids, nor dissipate the debris of a 
mighty flood. The old institutions of despotism, 
hoary with age, and moss-covered by time, will 
not be removed by songs or smiles. The grasp of 
power, so firmly held by men, will not be relaxed 
by fancies or by rainbows. The mercenary pur¬ 
suits of men who know no motive but self aggran¬ 
dizement., will not be relinquished without a 
struggle. Kingcraft, priestcraft, and moneycraft, 
of whatever name and degree, will resist the forces 
which are now working to remove them; and the 
world will become the battle field for the contest 
between the spirit of selfishness and the spirit of 
Christ. Men may pray, “ Thy Kingdom come ! ” 
But we sometimes think that were that kingdom 
to come, in answer to our prayers, we should not 
be prepared to receive it, because of the violence 
with which it would uproot selfish and material 
interests.— Christian Intelligencer. 
Dark Hours. —There are dark hours that mailt 
the history of the brightest years. For not a 
whole month in many of the millions of the past, 
perhaps, has the sun shone brilliantly all the time. 
There have been cold and stormy days every year. 
And yet the mist and shadows of the darkest hour 
disappeared and fled heedlessly. The most cruel 
ice fetters have been broken and dissolved, aDd the 
most furious storm loses its power to harm. Aud 
what a parable is this in human life—of our inside 
world, where the heart works at its shadowing of 
the dark hour, and many a cold blast chills the 
heart to its core. But what matters it? Man is 
born a hero, and it is only in the darkness and 
storms that heroism gains its greatest and its best 
development, and the storm bears it on more 
rapidly to its destiny. Despair not, then. Neither 
give up; while one good power is yours, use it.— 
Disappointment will not be realized. Mortifying 
failure may attend this effort and that one — but 
only be honest and struggle on, and it will work 
well. 
Sound Doctrine and Good Counsel. —A theo¬ 
logical critic says:—“ Religion is not the straight- 
jacket system of the Pharisee, nor the semi-sensu¬ 
alism of the Liberalist, but denying ourselves of 
all ungodliness and worldly lusts, and living 
righteously, soberly and godly,” “rejoicing in 
hope, patient in tribulation”—the sweetest and 
most precious enjoyments of all religion being the 
results of tribulation, aud the fruits of self-denial. 
Learn in childhood, if you can, that happiness is 
not outside but inside. A good heart and a clear 
conscience bring happiness; no riches and no cir¬ 
cumstances alone can ever doit. Alexander con¬ 
quered all the world, and then, far from being 
happy, wept because there were no more worlds 
to conquer. 
EAcn day brings its own duties, and carries 
them along with it; and they are as waves broken 
on the shore, many like them coming after, but 
none ever the same.— Fruits of Leisure. 
The Sabbath is like unto the great oasis, the 
little grassy meadow in the wilderness, where, 
after the week day’s journey, the pilgrim halts for 
refreshment and repose; where he rests beneath 
the shade of the lofty palm-tree, and dips his vessel 
in the waters of the calm, clear stream, and recov¬ 
ers his strength to go forth again upon his pilg 1-1 ' 
mage in the desert, with renewed vigor and cheer¬ 
fulness. 
fr. 
The Holy City.—I f we saw our Father’s house 
and that great aud fair city, the New Jerusalem, 
which is up above sun and moon, we would cry to 
be over the water, and to/be carried in Christs 
arms out of this borrow^ prison.— Rutherford. 
