r i » ;ji ac a ggy.?rA'3wr'gya>o fcajK/a i* g>ra» n gy . TKC.»scv>3 
-. *~s<Txm^jrrxMhzrKsroxnt n: r 
xv ^rr^^TTYWATaB^'-*t*KR'r^r-3«i*S7y•; 
WAAli¥*’^ llfMl W13 W-V ARFF,B 
JH- h'. W Q. jy iA-^> cj^Ji. ci^s'^a n^.jA: itL-Jko a*L>£ *)Lp4 c. -.-A S& <A- '•>-' ' «2C» x!> c-i.'.<W* c&Jt. rfo A 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LINES TO ONE AFAR. 
Softly moonbeams fall around me, 
And the stars that gem the sky 
Seem to lend their sweetest beauty 
From their regal throne on high; 
Gentle zephyrs, pure and balmy, 
Wander in the leafy tree, 
And the soul-subduing stillness 
Fondly brings kind thoughts of thee. 
Thou hast left the hearts that love thee, 
And art roaming far away, 
Won by the delusive glimmer 
Of fame’s bright and golden ray. 
Comes there now the olden memory 
Of that sad, yet kind farewell, 
And the glance which spoke more plainly 
Than the lip, or pen, can tell. 
Beaming, hopeful, glad and brilliant, 
Smiling through thy falling tears, 
Hope was spreading his broad pinions, 
Which to gild thy coming years. 
May he build no airy castie, 
Which shall doom thee to despair; 
Urge thee onward, ever weaving 
For thy youthful feet a snare. 
May thy heart know naught of sorrow, 
But remain as pure as now; 
Truthful, trusting, kind and loving, 
When bright laurels deck thy brow. 
We have met and we have parted, 
And forever it may be, 
But my heart will fondly cherish, 
Many loving thoughts of thee. 
South Danbv, N. Y., 1S59. Mary A. B. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE GARDEN ON THE ROCK. 
Beautiful was that cluster of roses I held in 
my hand,—the centre one fully unfolded in all its 
delicate loveliness, the shining dewdrops clingmg 
to its leaves, as if loth to quit such sweet company. 
Surrounding the perfect biossom clustered a coro¬ 
nal of buds, the soft blush of their closed petals 
smiling through the mossy covering which the 
grateful angel once bestowed upon the hospitable 
rose. I seated myself on the old flat rock beneath 
the birches, which was the favorite termination 
of my morning walks. How peaceful was the 
scene around me—ever new, ever charming to my 
partial eye. To my right lay a fertile meadow, 
in which the mowers were laying low the balmy 
clover, its fragrance mingling with that of the 
roses I held in my hands. The little stream 
wound with a graceful curve around the rock 
forming my seat, and wandered on with pleasant, 
murmuring sound, towards the old mill, the walls 
of which I could just distinguish between the 
maple-crowned hills which rose in the east,—the 
robins and orioles darted lightly through the air, 
giving out, ever and anon, sweet snatches«of song,— 
such songs as always lead me to thinly of “harps 
of gold,” and the “ better land.” 
Thus I sat, drinking in the inspiration of the 
scene, when the faint perfume stealing up from 
my neglected roses recalled my attention.to them. 
They had been given me by a poor woman, whose 
cottage I had passed iu my morning walk. Glanc¬ 
ing across the stream to her garden, from which 
she had culled this floral gem for me, I thought 
that the little story connected with it might prove 
a salutary lesson to many, who, surrounded by 
difficulties, are ready to faint by the wayside, 
leaving the cherished purposes of their hearts 
unaccomplished. 
Mrs. C. was poor, and she had not only the ills 
of extreme poverty to contend with, but that, also, 
which is far more hitter to the sensitive heart,— 
the disgrace of an idle, dissolute husband, who, 
though never absolutely abusive, was such an 
intolerable idler, that nothing hut the fierce call 
of his depraved appetite induced him to perform 
a day’s labor,—for strong drink would he work 
and for nothing else. His poor wife,—whom be 
had solemnly promised to “ cherish and protect,”— 
had a sorry time of it; procuring food for the 
family, and coarse hut whole attire for herself and 
three little ones, occupied nearly all her hours. 
The house in which she lived had been deeded to 
herself and children by her father before his 
death, so that she was certain of au humble shelter 
through her life, — this one comfort alone was 
secure from the insatiate clutch of the dram-seller. 
It was situated on a small, low point of land, 
round which flowed the little stream, and in spring 
and fall was always inundated. Her longing eyes 
often rested upon it, with the unspoken wish that 
it lay above high-water-mark, and thought what a 
nice garden she then might have. With her the 
wish was destined to be fulfilled,—she was pa¬ 
tient, courageous, and, with all her hard lot, 
hopeful. 
All through the long days she toiled at the 
wash-board or the ironing table, and when her 
little ones had lisped the evening prayer her 
Christian heart had taught them, and her idle hus¬ 
band was sleeping the heavy sleep of the drunkard, 
she stole out to the hard task which she had 
assigned to herself for the coming year. First 
she gathered stones which the thrifty farmer had 
drawn from his meadow and thrown down by the 
stream, and built the foundation, placing the 
large ones at the bottom, wedging with smaller 
ones, and closely packing with gravel which she 
scooped from the bed of the stream. Very hard 
work it was for her poor, tired hands; very slow 
and toilsome to gather the soil which was placed 
in sufficient depth to make her garden productive, 
but after months of patient toil she had the satis¬ 
faction of finding herself in possession of “a 
garden spot” above the washing of the spring and 
autumn floods. Many a comfortable meal did she 
gather for herself and little ones from that 
“ garden on the rock;” but precious a3 every inch 
was to her, the sweet love of the beautiful,—which 
neither poverty nor disgrace nor toil could blight 
in her heart,—prompted her to devote a little 
corner to the lingering remains of a once Eden 
bloom,—the smiling stars of earth, the fragrant 
flowers. 
Those roses are still in my possession,—withered 
and brown they are, yet, as I open the time-stained 
envelope which holds them, a faint perfume, like 
the sweet voice of the olden time, steals up from 
them, and whispers a lesson of courage and hope. 
When weary with the battle of life,—when my 
hands would fain fold themselves from the seem¬ 
ingly fruitless toil, and the sad soul faint3 for the 
“hope deferred,” I look on those withered remains 
of beauty, and my heart feels encouraged and my 
hands nerved anew for the conflict. Ob, thou 
who art sitting sadly down by the rocky wayside, 
bitterly weeping that there is naught of joy for 
thee here,—who art looking into thine own heart 
and finding it turned, by the coldness of the world 
and worldly friends, to an almost pulseless stone, 
think of that poor mother’s “ garden on the rock” 
and take courage. Patiently gather the rich soil 
of daily duties cheerfully performed, — plant 
therein the seeds of heavenly love and trust,— 
water them with penitential tears, and thou shalt 
yet gather the reward of thy labor in plants which 
shall bud in promise, bloom in beauty, and crown 
the riper years of life with the rich fruit3 of honor 
and usefulness. Thus mayest thou obtain for thine 
own self a “ Garden on the Bock,” which shall 
raise its fruitful front high above the dashing 
waves of adversity, — thus mayest thou have a 
slight foretaste of the precious fruits, hanging 
forever rich, forever fair, on the tree of Everlast¬ 
ing Life, which grow in the Garden of our Loro. 
East Henrietta, N. Y., 1859. E. S. T. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WINTER’S SONG. 
THE HEROISM OF COMMON LIFE. 
Grace Greenwood is a “ hero worshiper” of a 
rather uncommon type, and in her search after 
heroic men and women, has sought for examples 
where, perhaps, few would expect to And them. 
That she has a just and Catholic idea of what real 
heroism is, we think it will be proven by the fol¬ 
lowing extract from the Boston lecture: 
“The heroism of private life, the slow, unchron¬ 
icled martyrdoms of the heart, who shall remem¬ 
ber? Greater than any knightly dragon-slayer of 
old is the man who overcomes an unholy passion, 
sets his foot upon it, and stands serene and strong 
in virtue. Grander than Zenobia is the woman 
who struggles with a love that would wrong 
another or degrade her own soul, and conquers. 
The young man, ardent and tender, who turns 
from the dear love of woman, and buries deep in 
his heart the sweet instinct of paternity, to devote 
himself to the care and support of aged parents or 
au unfortunate sister, and whose life is a loDg sac¬ 
rifice, in manly cheerfulness and majestic com¬ 
plaint, is a hero of the rarest type—the type 
Charles Lamb. I have known but two such. The 
young woman who resolutely stays with father and 
mother in the old home, while brothers and sisters 
go forth to happy homes of their own, who cheer¬ 
fully lays upon the altar of filial duty that cost¬ 
liest of human sacrifices, the joy of loving and 
being loved—slie is a heroine. I have known 
many such. The husband who goes home from 
weaty routine arid the perplexing cares of busi- 
nes’'; with a cheeiW smile and a loving r/ora to^ 
his invalid wife; who brings not against her the 
grevious sin of a long sickness, and reproaches 
her net for the cost and discomfort thereof; who 
sees in her languid eye something dearer than 
girlish laughter, in the sad face and faded cheeks 
that blossom into smiles and even blushes at his 
coming, something lovelier than the old time- 
spring roses—he is a hero. I think I know one 
such. 
The wife who bears her part in the burden of 
life—even though it be the larger part—bravely, 
cheerily, never dreaming that she is a heroine, 
much less a martyr; who bears with the faults of 
a husband not altogether congenial with loving 
patience and a large charity, and with a noble 
decision hiding them from the world—who makes 
no confidants and asks no confidence, who refrains 
from brooding over short comings in sympathy 
and sentiment, and from seeking for perilous 
‘ affinities,’; who does uot build high tragedy sor¬ 
rows on tha inevitable, nor feel an earthquake in 
every family jar; who sees her husband united 
with herself indissolubly and eternally in their 
children—she, the wife in every truth, in the 
inward as in the outward, is a heroine, though of 
rather an unfashionable type.” 
CHILDISH DAYS. 
Days of illimitable faith! were they indeed 
mine! How glad am I to have known them! 
Not all that we resign, do we regret to have pos¬ 
sessed. Very singular and very pleasing to me is 
the remembrance of that simple piety of childhood, 
of that prayer which was said so punctually, night 
and morning, kneeling by the bedside. What did 
I think of, guiltless then of metaphysics,—what 
image did I bring before my mind as I repeated 
my learnt petition with scrupulous fidelity? Did 
I see some venerable form bending down to 
listen? Did He cease to look and listen when I 
had said it all ? Half prayer, half lesson, how 
difficult it is now to summon it hack again! But 
this I know, that the bedside where I knelt to this 
morning and evening devotion, became sacred to 
me as an altar. I smile as I recall the innocent 
superstition that grew up in me, that the prayer 
must be said kneeling just there. If, some cold 
winter’s night, I had crept into the bed, thinking 
to repeat the petition from the warm nest itself—it 
would not do!—it was felt in this court of 
conscience to be “an insufficient performance;” 
there was no sleep to be had till I had risen, and 
bed-gowned as I was, knelt at the accustomed 
place, and said it all over again from the begin¬ 
ning to the end. To this day I never see the 
little clean white bed in which a child is to s’eep, 
but I see also the figure of a child kneeling in 
prayer at its side. And I, for the moment am 
that child. No high altar, in the most sumptuous 
church in Christendom, could prompt my knee to 
bend like that snow white coverlet, tucked in for a 
child’s slumber.— Thorndale. 
BY GEO. A. HAMILTON, 
Here is Winter, bright and gay, 
Asking for a cheerful lay — 
That toe scenes Of Winter time, 
Be rehearsed in measured rhyme; 
Cheerily on each season glides, 
Now ’tis snow, 
Cheeks aglow, 
Time of bells and sleighs and rides! 
Here is Winter, earth is bright, 
Mantled in a robe of white— 
Bracing air, clear and cold, 
Quiehening pulse of young and old; 
Now bring out the pleasure sleigh, 
Fast or slow, 
Echo, ho! 
Jingle go the bells to-day! 
Winter comes with joyful token 
Of each cheerful heart out-spoken— 
Christmas, with its merry gladness, 
New Years, with more hope than sadness; 
Let the bells ring out their chime, 
Heart and voice 
Again rejoice, 
Welcome still the Winter time. 
Winter comes with cares and joys, 
Labor, study, books and toys; 
Winter evenings, what a treasure ! 
Home a scene of social pleasure, 
Or out in the moon’s fair light, 
Horse and sleigh, 
Then away, 
Jingle go the bells to-nigat'. 
Here is Winter—don’t forget 
There are poor and needy yet; 
To the sorrowing still be kind, 
Think of those by pain confined; 
Winter oomes most bleak and drear 
To the needy, 
Help the needy! 
Not forget them with a tear. 
Winter, too, with leisure hours, 
Arms the soul -with higher powers— 
Time for reading, time for thought, 
Hours with our improvement fraught— 
Thus glides round each busy year, 
Calm and storm, 
Cold and warm, 
And eternity is here. 
South Butler, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
COWLEY AND MILTON. 
Paradise is always where love dwells. — Jean 
Paul Richter. 
Cowley’s “Complaint” displays not only his 
ingenuity a3 a writer, but also considerable of his 
character as a man. While we admire b.is tact in 
the production of this poem, w e can not help being 
surprised at the eireum itangave rise to 
it. It, is in fact, a dunning letter to Ills Majesty 
Charles II., who, it seems, had neglected to re 
ward the poet according to the expectations he had 
raised. The King was under obligations to him, 
and Cowley had reason to expect a share in his 
favors. Not only was he the most popular poet in 
England at the time of which we write, but he was 
a zealous advocate of loyalty, and while yet at 
college connected himself with the old cavalier 
party. He accompanied the queen to France, 
when she was obliged to leave England on account 
of the civil war, and it was chiefly through his in¬ 
strumentality that a correspondence was kept up 
between the King and his wife. His nights as 
well as days were sometimes occupied with their 
letters. So we are told in a brief account of his 
life in a collection of the “ British Poets.” No 
doubt he thought he should reap some reward for 
his exertions, but it seems Charles forgot all 
about the poet iu the crowd of applicants for 
Kingly favor. Cowley, however, determined to 
refresh his memory. Hence the “ Complaint.” 
He represents himself as encountering the muse, 
who begins at once to reproach him for so long 
neglecting the lyre, and wandering “ unto courts 
and cities.” 
“ Art thou returned at last said she, 
To this forsaken place an i me? 
Thou prodigal! who did’st so loosely waste 
Of all thy youthful years the good estate: 
Art thou return’d here, to repent too late, 
And gather husks of learning up at last, 
Now the ricli harvest-time of life is past, 
And winter marches on so fast ? ” 
She passes from reproaches to taunting him with 
the little reward he had received for his toils. 
“ Go, renegade! cast up thy account, 
And see to what amount 
Thy foolish gains by quitting me ; 
The sale of knowledge, fame and liberty, 
The fruits of thy unlearned apostacy. 
Thou thougli’st, if onol* the public storm were past, 
All thy remaining life would sunshine 
Behold! The public storm is spent at last, 
The sovereigns tost at sea no more, 
And thou, with all the noble company, 
Art got at last to shore. 
But whilst thy fellow voyagers I ??e 
All march’d up to possess the promis’d land, 
Thou still alone, alas ! dost gaping stand 
Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand.” 
After she concludes her reproaches, he under¬ 
takes to excuse himself, and defend his royal mas¬ 
ter. In the closing verse he turns her taunts 
against the Muse, herself, thus: 
“Teach me not, then, O, thou fallacious muse, 
The court and better king to accuse. 
The heaven under which I live if fair, 
The fertile soil will a full harvest bear; 
Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou 
Makest me sit still and sing when I should plow.” 
********** 
“Kingshaye long hands, they say; and though I be 
So distant, they may reach at lengtli to me. 
However, of all princes, thou 
Shouldst not reproach rewards for being small or slow; 
Thou! who rewarded hut with popular breath, 
And that, too, after death." 
The poem displays considerable genius and wit. 
Whether it had any effect on the King is uncer¬ 
tain. We are told, however, that through the in¬ 
fluence of some of his nobleman Cowley obtained 
a ’ease of a farm at Chertrey, by which his income 
was raised to about three hundred pounds per an¬ 
num. It was here that he died. 
It is said the fame of Cowley is dying away.— 
At the time of his death, he was preferred to Mil- 
ton, —now a comparison between the two is hardly 
to be thought of. The fame of the author of 
“Paradise Lost” has been of slow growth, but it 
promises to endure. Even a short glimpse, either 
at their productions or their memories, shows that 
the two men were very unlike. Milton was a firm 
supporter of the rights of the people. He was a 
man of principle. Whichever way the popular 
tide might turn, it never could move Milton from 
his adherence to right. Cowi.ey was a flaming 
royalist, and a flatterer of the King. Whether 
principle or policy governed him in his zeal for 
his party, the reader must judge for himself. At 
one time he wrote a comedy which was construed 
by the cavaliers into a satire on them. This 
would seem to indicate that his principles were 
movable, to say the least. 
But there is also a great difference in the spirit 
of their writings. In reading Milton we feel that 
the author was raised above the belittleing con¬ 
cerns of self, and inspired with the greatness of 
his theme. We cannot say this of Cowley. The 
opening lines in his poem entitled “The Motto,” 
explain the tone of his poetical writings, better 
than a page of analysing and describing would 
do it. 
“ What shall I do to be forever known, 
And make the age to come my own ?” 
******** 
“ Yet I must on. What sound is’t strikes mine ear ? 
Sure I fame’s trumpet here.” 
This poem, taken together, is pleasing, especially 
the closing lines, 
“ Tell me ye mighty Three !* what shall I do 
To be like one of you V 
But you have climb’d the mountain top, there sit 
On the calm flourishing head of it, 
And, whilst with wearied steps we upward go, 
See us and clouds below.” 
What a different spirit breathes in these lines 
from that of Milton’s Invocation at the beginning 
of “ Paradise Lost.” 
“ What in me is dark 
Illumine; what is low, raise and support, 
That, to the height of this great argument, 
I may as3ett eternal Providence 
And justify the ways of God to man.” 
Dignity and humility mingle in these lines.— 
They manifest a forgetfulness of self, and a mind 
raised above the mere thought of securing fame, 
Men should not be too anxious to erect monuments 
to self. They live to the most purpose who seek 
to make their works worthy to endure, regardless 
of the smiles or frowns of the world. Enduring 
fame is rarely bestowed on those who are the most 
intent on gaining it. The goddess of fame may 
smile upon them for a time, but she soon wearies 
of their want of manliness and spurns them from 
her presence. Minerva Osburn. 
Butler, Milwaukee Co., Wis., 1859. 
* Aristotle, Cicero and Virgil. 
JACK FROST. 
There is a mellow ring in this “elegant ex¬ 
tract,” which befits the mellow days of Autumn: 
“Mr. Jack Frost does but kiss the chaste face 
of Nature, and behold! how she blushes in the 
mapie, the woodbine, and oak, and turns ail man¬ 
ner of colors in the beech, the linden, the chestnut, 
and. the elm. How beautiful she looks in her 
heightened color! But her brilliant complexion 
is, alas! but a hectic—an evidence of frailty—a 
precursor of speedy decay. Consumption impar ts 
this glorious and exquisite loveliness to her coun 
tenance, hut the expression is not of this world 
it is celestial, the ushering in of the indescribable 
future. 
“The beauty of the world is most ravishing, 
when first touched by the magical finger of the 
frost, 'which is at once the death-stroke of the 
foliage, and a cause of its dying-dolphin splendors 
Thus the sun sheds a lustre over creation, filling 
the universe with a flood of light and beauty, as 
if to indemnify mankind for the privations of both 
during the approaching night. So Nature dresses 
herself in her wonderful beauty, as a parting 
pledge of her love, and as a memorial for us to 
take and to cherish during the sombre days of the 
coming winter, when do flowers can blossom, no 
verdure quicken.”— Selected. 
Parties.— The system of giving 
expensive, and when the thing pushed beyond 
the power of the purse, it becomes a social evil of 
the greatest magnitude. No man or woman seems 
to be legalized in society unless a cool thousand or 
two is spent every season in giving the lean monde 
one of those eternal and never-to-be-forgotte 
squeezes. The law must be remedied—it must 
be blown up—it must be reformed. It has ruined 
its thousands and ten thousands. How many 
husbands have to race about, day after day, week 
after week, to meet the polite invitations which 
the banks issue, and much of this hurry and 
trouble is in consequence of the very expensive 
system we have referred to, of giving dinner 
parties, soirees, &c., &c. It has swelled the list 
of bankrupts—ruined the hopes of wives—driven 
the deserving upon a merciless world—and filled 
families with misery. 
If, and its Progeny. — If every man was 
honest, we need not lock our door3. If everybody 
would just mind his own business, there would be 
much more business done. If we would only talk 
les 3 of oilier people, other people would see fewer 
numb-skulls. If you charge your servants'with 
lying, they will soon become liars, if they are not 
so already. If students would read less and think 
more, there would be a larger number of great 
men iu every community. If girls now-a-days 
did not become women at thirteen, men wou 
have better wives. 
With every child we love, we see deeper into 
life, as with every added lens we pierce further 
into the sky. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AMBITION’S DREAM. 
BY .1. W. BARKER. 
One day when June was on the hilts, 
And Summer in the vale was smiling, 
When loudly sang the silver riils, 
And bird and flower the day beguiling; 
Down through the window shutter fell 
A golden sunbeam, soft and still 
It threw its mellow radiance o’er, 
And trembled on the parlor floor. 
A little prattler, on whose brow 
But four sweet springs were gently sleeping 
Came dashing in his wildness now, 
Near when the golden ray was creeping. 
He paused a moment, while his eye 
Which imaged forth the azure sky, 
Kindled with new delight to meet 
The golden picture at his feet. 
As quick as thought, his dimpled hand 
Amid the mellow tint was feeling, 
He did not fully understand 
The wealth and beauty there revealing; 
But thought, beneath his pinafore, 
To hide this precious golden store, 
And in his little heart to feel 
The conscious pride he should conceal. 
Once, thrice, he grasped, then to his eyes 
He raised the fancied glowiDg treasure, 
And when he missed the golden prize, 
His grief and sadness knew no measure; 
And till his eyes were sealed in sleep, 
He did not cease to sigh and weep, 
That such a treasure, bright and new, 
Should vanish rudely from iris view. 
This is Ambition’s dream I said; 
A Sunbeam o’er our path is straying, 
We chase the phantom, still ahead, 
Amid the clouds and shadows playing, 
Nor till the damp, deep sleep of death 
Hath chilled the ardor of life’s breath, 
Can we persuade our sluggish sense 
To seek the Sure Inheritance. 
Niagara Falls, N. Y., 1859. 
PREACH BY THE LIFE. 
Let your daily life be an unuttered yet perpetual 
pleading with man for God. Let men feel, in 
contact with you, the grandeur of that religion to 
whose claims they will not listen, and the glory 
of that Savior whose name you may not name. 
Let the sacreduess of God’s slighted law be pro¬ 
claimed by your uniform sacrifice of inclination 
to duty, by your repression of every unkind word, 
your scorn of every undue or base advantage, 
your stern and uncompromising resistance to 
the temptation of appetite and sense. Preach the 
the preciousness of time by your husbanding of 
its rapid hours, and your crowding of its days 
with duties. Though eternity, with its fast 
approaching realities, be a forbidden topic to the 
ear, constrain the unwilling mind to think of it 
by a spectacle of a life well ordered with perpet¬ 
ual reference to hopes and destinies beyond the 
grave. Though no warning against an unspiritual, 
no exhortation to a holy life, might be tolerated, 
let your own pure, earnest, unworldly character 
and hearing be to the careless soul a perpetual 
atmosphere of spirituality bauntiDg and hovering 
round it. And be assured, the moral influence 
of such a life cannot be lost. Like the seed which 
winds waft into hidden glades and forest depths, 
were no sower’s hand could reach to scatter it, 
the subtle germ of Christ’s truth will he borne 
on the secret atmosphere of a holy life, into hearts 
which no preacher’s voice could penetrate. Were 
the tongue of men and of angels to fail, there is 
an eloquence in living goodness which will often 
prove persuasive. For it is an inoffensive, unpre¬ 
tending, unobtrusive eloquence; it is the elo¬ 
quence of the soft sunshine when it expands the 
close shut-leaves and blossoms — a rude hand 
would hut tear and crush them; it is the eloquence 
of the summer heat when it basks upon the thick- 
ribbed ice—blows would break it; but beneath 
that softest, gentlest, yet most potent influence, 
the hard impenetrable masses melt away.— Rev. 
John Caird. 
Eternity. — When I attempt to think of the 
ocean, its moments of calm and of storm, of sun¬ 
shine and of darkness, of peace and of vengeful 
fury, I feel that I have an idea of it, though it 
must of necessity be a very faint one, yet ’tis such 
a one that I can lay my finger on. But when I 
attempt to define eternity, “ the life-time of the 
Almighty,” to limit it by the meagre views of my 
comprehension, 1 dash to sea iu a frail bark and 
am tossed about, my chart is struck from my 
hand, my compass from its box, iny rudder from 
the stern, and I feel that all effort to resume com¬ 
mand over the vessel is vain—why then do I boldly 
dare danger and invite distrust? nuy it is idle; 
let me then bow in contentment to the present, 
and leave the future in the Hand that ordereth all 
things well.— MSS. of John Lewis, Jr. 
Feeling for the Pillars. —When Luther was 
at Coburg, he wrote to a friend, “I was lately 
looking out of my window at night, and I saw the 
stars in the heavens, and God’s great beautiful 
arch over my head, but I could not see any pillars 
on which the gieat builder had fixed his arch; 
and yet the heavens fell not, and the great arch 
stood firmly. There are some who are always 
feeling for the pillars, and longing to touch them, 
they stand trembling and fearing lest the heavens 
should fall. If they could only gvasp the pillars, 
then the heavens would stand fast.” Thus Luther 
illustrated the faith of his own soul, and wished 
to inspire others with the same strong confidence. 
Mercies. —Were there but a single mercy ap¬ 
portioned to each moment of our lives, the sum 
would rise very high ; but how is our arithmetic 
confounded when every miuute has more mercies 
than we can distinctly number!— Rowe. 
