136 
MOORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER 
APRIL U 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
MY FAVORITE FLOWER. 
BT JULIA B. 8MYTHE. 
There is a lovely flower 
That lifts its modest head anigh my door, 
That with the pale-eyed Anemone, 
SHyer-Reaf, and sweet-scented Arbutus, 
Greets with its opening buds the early Spring. 
But not a lifetime short as theirs it claims; 
They fade with the fair month that gave them birth, 
This smiles upon us through the Summer heat, 
And even when the sear and falling leaf 
Tells of Autumn, it lingers with us still, 
And braves awhile November’s frost and snow. 
Some term thee Heart’s-Ease, and the Pansy some, 
But Violet I call thee, for that name 
Is linked with pleasant memories of the Past. 
’Twas by that name in childhood’s happy day 
I knew thee, when life seemed but too fair, and 
Friends—with childish ignorance 1 deemed they 
Were all truthfulness and candor, eyeing 
Them not as now, with foul Suspicion's glance, 
But lavishing on them the unreserved 
And willing confidence of my young heart. 
Since then a bitter lesson I have conned, 
And the cold wisdom of the world have gained. 
And take with hesitation and distrust 
The proffered hand of Friendship; for some 
There were who seemed all openness and truth, 
That afterward disclosed a treacherous heart. 
But still there are a chosen few, 
Companions of those golden days of yore, 
That yet are true to their own hearts and me. 
To these I turn — 
My heart is with them wheresoe’er they be; 
Though many a weary mile between us lies, 
Not distance, absence, nor e'en death itself, 
Can sever friendship’s bands. 
And thou, sweet flower, as I gaze on thee, 
I’ll deem there nestles ’neath thy trembling leaves, 
Voices from the unforgotten, joyous 
Past, and friends of early years, speaking in 
Low melodious tones thy pleasant language, 
“ Forget me not.” 
April, 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
G ONE! 
Gone! How this word falls upon the ear as we 
inquire for one who in the long years past has been 
our companion, one whose society we loved and 
cherished, who accompanied us in our rambles, or, 
by the pale moonlight, sat with us beneath some 
*lovely tree to muse upon the past, or count the 
glorious constellations as they, one by one, made 
their appearance in the blue concave of the heavens. 
Yes, that friend, whom we have not seen for long 
years, perhaps, that companion of our school-day 
sports, has gone! Gone to some distant land?—to 
some heathen country? No. “Gone to that bourne 
from whence no traveler ever yet returned.” How 
melancholy we feel as this sentence sinks with sor¬ 
rowing weight into our agonizing hearts. Our 
thoughts turn to those scenes of the past, when, in 
unclouded happiness we roved over the green 
fields and through the orchards—when we sat side 
by side on the bench in that old school-house by 
the way—when, in boyish glee, we played at ball, 
and hide-and-seek with the rest of our school fel¬ 
lows,_when, in later years, we had counseled to¬ 
gether, labored together, and fancied ourselves 
bound together by ties never to be broken. But he 
is gone. He is dead! A marble slab and a mound 
of earth alone mark his final resting place. 
Gone! So says that loving mother as a friend 
inquires, “Where is little Johnny?” The tiny 
playthings are all put away, and the little shoes, 
and the checked apron, and the little cap,—for the 
hands that patted the father’s cheek, and the little 
feet that danced so merrily upon the parlor carpet, 
are gone. The sparkling eye, the golden hair, and 
the ruddy cheek are all gone. That merry voice and 
gentle laugh that cheered the mother’s lonely hours 
are heard no more. They are hushed in death. 
Johnny’s gone. In yonder churchyard the little 
gravestone points out the spot where, away from 
the cares of life, the remains of that loved boy 
rest in silence, while his spirit has gone to the 
Father of all. That mother mourns in solitude — 
the idol of her heart has been snatched from her 
by Heath’s ruthless hand. Another tie to earth has 
been severed; another link added to the chain that 
binds her to heaven. 
Gone! So say that aged couple, as they talk to¬ 
gether of the son upon whom they leaned for sup¬ 
port and assistance in the declining years of life. 
He is numbered with the dead—gone. Our cup of 
sorrow is now full. He that would have been our 
staff and shield in old age is removed, and we are 
left alone. Murmur not, aged ones! “Behold the 
fowls of the air; for they sow not, neither do they 
reap, nor gather into barns; yet your Heavenly 
Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better 
than they?” 
Gone! So says that husband as he thinks of the 
wife he so much loved, and whom he saw buried 
away from his sight, “beneath the cold clods of 
the valley.” He muses over the past; thinks of 
those hours of happiness which he has spent in the 
society of the “idol of his heart” now cold in death. 
He weeps as he thinks of the little ones the mother 
has left behind in this cold and heartless world.— 
His thoughts turn toward their future weal, and, 
with an agonizing heart, he asks himself, “Who 
will care for these, my children?” They cling to him 
in their childish simplicity, and ask for mother; 
but there is no mother in this world! She is gone 
— she is numbered with the dead. He looks to his 
Father in Heaven, and remembers the promise, “I 
am with you always, even unto the end of the 
world.” B. s. L. 
Five Corners, N. V., 1858. 
Money and Health. —There is this difference 
between those two temporal blessings, health and 
money. Money is the most envied, but the least 
enjoyed. Health is the most enjoyed, but the least 
envied; and this superiority of the latter is still 
more obvious, when we reflect that the poorest 
man would not part with health for money, but 
that the richest would gladly part with all their 
money for health.— Coltoru 
Truth is as impossible to be soiled, by the out- 
ward touch, as the sunbeam. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SPEAK GENTLY. 
Brother! Sister! speak gently. Mauhath but 
too much sorrow to meet with in his journey thro’ 
this “ vale of tears,” without one harsh word, one 
unkind deed to add to his griefs. If you cannot 
stop the bitter waters of adversity which are rolling 
their waves over him, you can at least sympathize 
with him — you can soothe his troubled spirit by 
speaking to him gently, kindly, affectionately.— 
Speak gently to that erring child,—a soft word 
will do more to reclaim the youthful wanderer, 
than the most violent and harsh reproof. Speak 
gently to that young man,—“to err is human,”—in 
an ungarded moment his feet have slipped from 
| the path of strict integrity; still, while you can but 
disapprove his conduct, do it kindly. Drive him 
not from you in anger. He may be the only hope 
of aged parents, to whom he is as dear as is thine 
own sen to thee. Treat him kindly, then, as thou 
wouldst have thine own treated under similar 
circumstances. He may be an orphan—deprived 
of a father’s guidance, and a mother’s prayer,— 
alone and unbefriended, what wonder that he fell? 
Faithfully, yet gently, warn him of his danger. 
Let him see that you feel an interest in his welfare. 
Speak to no one of his error, and while you strive 
to allure him to walk in Wisdom’s pleasant way, 
remember that without the restraint of an arm 
mightier than man’s, you, too, will falL 
“ Know that he that converteth a sinner from 
the error of his ways, shall save a soul from death, 
and shall hide a multitude of sins.” Such a work 
is the noblest in which humanity can engage. Have 
you wealth and station?—crush not the already 
broken spirit of misfortune’s child, by harsh words 
or cold looks. “ Riches take to themselves wings 
and flee away;”—his condition may one day be 
yours. Speak, then, gently to all, rich or poor, 
high or low. Kind words cost us nothing, but are 
often more precious than gold. Let us, then, ever 
speak gently. Emma, 
i Middleport, N. V., 1858. 
“ MOTHER.” 
Does the word soften your heart when you think 
of that feverish couch? Have you ever felt the 
touch of fingers that soothed you as hers did? 
Have you ever felt so smooth a pillow as the one 
i she pressed gently from your burning head? Do 
you remember how she denied herself rest day 
after day, and night after night, her eyes bright 
with the feverish longing to give you ease and 
alleviate your suffering? And 0, when your head 
laid on the bosom from which your own life had 
come, and you heard the quick throbs of her loving 
heart, and knew everyone of those precious pulsa¬ 
tions beat with love, tenderness, and anxiety for 
you, did not your parched lips murmur, “Mother,” 
with a strange, wild joy, w T hile the cheek, seamed 
by the rough lines of care, was wet with tears? 
“If I could only see my Mother!” 
Again and again was that yearning cry repeated, 
—“If I could only see my Mother!” 
The vessel rocked, and the waters, chased by the 
fresh wind, played a musical reveille against the 
side of the ship. The sailor, a second mate, quite 
youthful, laid in his narrow bed, his eye glaring, 
his limbs stiffening, his breath failing. It was not 
pleasant to die thus in this shaking, plunging ship; 
but he seemed not to mind his bodily discomfort— 
his eye looked far away, and ever and anon broke 
forth that grieving cry—“ If I could only see my 
Mother!” 
An old sailor sat by with a Bible in his hand, 
from which he had been reading. He bent above 
the young man, and asked him why he was so 
anxious to see the mother he had willfully left 
“Oh! that’s the reason!” he cried in anguish; 
“I nearly broke her heart, and I can’t die in peace. 
She was a good mother to me—Oh! so good! She 
bore everything from her wild boy, and once she 
said, ‘My son, when you come to die, you will re¬ 
member all this.’ Oh! if I could only see my 
Mother!” 
He never saw his mother; he died with the 
yearning cry upon his lips, as many a man has 
died who slighted the mother who bore him. The 
waves roll over him, and his bones whiten at the 
bottom of the sea, and that dread cry has gone be¬ 
fore God, to be registered forever.— Selected. 
EMPLOYMENT AND OPPORTUNITY. 
I would have every boy and girl in the whole 
country taught to make their own living at some 
useful employment—to mark out for themselves a 
sphere of action, and then fill that sphere—to be 
useful in some honorable pursuit, I would not put 
boys to trades and professions to make them great 
and good, and fold up the girls’ minds and lay them 
away in the drawer, or shut them up in the parlor. 
I would not make the boys relf-reliant and vigor¬ 
ous by generous employment, and the girls weak, 
puny, and dependent by idleness and folly. I 
would not give the Ijoys opportunities to develop 
their powers and become noble men, and deprive 
the girls of all these glorious privileges. I would 
not open a thousand avenues to distinction, wealth 
and worth to the boys, and comparatively none to 
the girls. I would not send the boys out into the 
field of life bravely to earn their own living, and 
grow strong in doing it, and the girls out to beg 
their living of the boys, and grow weak and worth¬ 
less in their dependent beggary. I like the girls 
too well to have them thus mistreated. I would 
give them just as good a chance as the boys have. 
They should not be degraded with half pay, and 
only two or three ways to get a living, just because 
they were made to be women.— Selected. 
Kind words are looked upon like jewels in the 
breast, never to be forgotten, and perhaps to cheer 
by their memory, a long, sad life; while words of 
cruelty, or of carelessless, are like swords in the 
bosom, wounding and leaving scars which will be 
borne to the grave by their victim. Do you think 
there is any bruised heart which bears the mark of 
such a wound from you? If there is a living one 
which you have wounded, hasten to heal it, for life 
is short—to-morrow may be too late. 
A beautiful inscription.it is said, maybe found 
in an Italian graveyard:—“ Here lies Estalla, who 
transported a large fortune to Heaven in acts of 
charity, and has gone thither to enjoy it.” 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ON THE RETURN OF SPRING. 
BY A. HUIDKKOPKR. 
Welcome, 0, SpriDg. We began to long 
For tbe robin red and the blue-bird’s song. 
For the bursting buds and the opening flowers, 
For the Bpringing grass and thy quickening showers. 
We note thy approach in the unfetter’d stream, 
Which is shimmering now in the golden beam 
Of a homeward sun, as he northward bends, 
And a thrill of life though the landscape sends. 
A herald of thee is the clack of the mill 
As ’tis echoed back from the distant hill, 
Or the babbling of geese which exultant scream 
As they plunge once more in the swollen stream. 
We know thou hast come by the Daffys up, 
By the Pansies’ bloom and the Crocus cup, 
By the crimson blush on the Maple tree, 
By the sparrow’s song and the blackbird’s glee. 
The tale is told by the lowing herd, 
Which the anthem joins of the singing bird, 
And by the air made vocal with the minstrelsy 
Of the piping frog and the roaming bee. 
’Tis known to the clerk, who thy coming seeks, 
In the beaming eyes and the glowing cheeks 
Of the thronging belles, who the counters press, 
With a provident eye to a lighter dress. 
'Tis known to him of the pallid brow, 
Whose cheek is blanched with a fever low, 
As he feels new life through his pulses play 
With thy soft south wind and thy genial ray. 
'Tis known to me, as I leave my book, 
For the sunny slope, or the forest nook, 
And I grateful feel as I traverse the fields 
For the symbols of hope thy coming yields. 
Meadville, I’a., 1858. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MR. PLOWEANDLE’S 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS—A GAIN. 
Karttail Cottage, Out Here, April 1st, 1858. 
Mr. Moore:— I did think when I saw my last let¬ 
ter in the Rural, I’would never put my pen into 
ink again to write to you. I’de no idear that you 
would so expose me, though between you and I, I 
aint so very much stirred up, as I was for a few 
days iu the first on’t Poor Susan cried about it, 
Mother—no I’m not going into particulars in that 
direction. Anyhow, I was mighty uncomfortable, 
for all the fellows who can’t write for the papers 
kept bothering me about my portrait, and wonder¬ 
ing when I was going to have it in the Rural I 
tell you I was pretty well roasted for a few days, 
and the lire ain’t all out yet. But one must expect 
these things, for nobody ever got famous, that, on 
the road to glory, didn’t have to go over pole 
bridges, and through toll gates, and get a plenty of 
mud spattered on them into the bargain. 
is CONSOLED. 
But, as Aunt Flip says, every inconvenience has 
its disconvenience. You see things changed pretty 
soon after the letter got here. The Captain cut my 
acquaintance right through the middle, and his 
handsome buggy ain’t been seen at our door since, 
and he says he never thought Susan much of a 
girl—the sneak. Jones said he’d show me that I 
couldn’t get to he Supervisor, while he lived there, 
and he was as busy as could be, telling all sorts of 
things against me. I didn’t mind that, for I’de no 
intention of running for any office, though some 
of my neighbors had talked to me about running 
for Supervisor. I guess Jones won’t make six out 
of it, when he comes up for the Assembly next fall, 
for breaking down is a game two can play ah But 
the best of it all is, Bob’s courage has come to 
time, and he stands right square up to the rack.— 
Sure as you live, he has asked consent, and got it 
pretty quick, you may believe. Smith and I are 
both tickled about it, and Smith says its better than 
selling one of his red bulls for a thousand dollars. 
Between ourselves we mean to have a bouncing 
wedding, and want you to come out here when it 
takes place—say you’ll come. 
MORE TROUBLES. 
But, some how or other, one trouble don’t get 
fairly out of doors before another pops in. The 
truth is, Colonel, we’ve had pretty lumpy kind of 
times this past winter, and things have gotplaguely 
smashed up, which has made considerable snarling 
where it oughtn’t to he. Sam is now in trouble up 
to his eyes, and he has got all of us into trouble on 
his account. Of course, there’s a girl at the bottom 
of it. If women wa’nt such a blessed institution— 
however, let that pass. 
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL. 
Now, what I’m going to tell you must he strictly 
confidential. If I did not want your advice very 
badly, I would not say a word for nothing. Last 
fall, after the universal smash up, and city folks 
began to consider where their country cousins 
could he found, a young lady came to Parson 
Small’s. Of course, she went to meeting, and sat 
in the Parson’s pew, and before the week was out 
every body knew all about her. It seemed to he 
settled that her father had been a great merchant 
in the city, and had failed entirely, not even saving 
anything for himself or family, and this daughter 
had come to spend the winter with Mrs. Small, 
who was a sort of relative. That’s all we knew of 
the girl's history. Sam met her at the donation 
party. By some kind of witchcraft, Sam took to 
her, and she seemed to, to him, and spite of all we 
can say or do he’s gone completely. Now the girl 
may be a clever enough girl, she certainly looks 
well at church, though she don’t somehow dress 
half as much as our country girls, and yet has a 
neat kind of look. But it wont do nohow, for Sam 
to think of marrying a city bred girl to make a 
farmer’s wife of her. And he’s got to he a farmer. 
You see we had a time of it the other night. 
Sam was putting on his best to go and give the girl 
a ride. Says I, “ Sam, that Miss Sarah is no doubt 
a clever girl, but she ain’t the thing to make a far¬ 
mer’s wife of.” 
“ Why not?” says Sam. 
“Why, because she don’t know shucks about 
housekeeping.” 
“Well, how do you know?” 
« How can she—what can a city bred girl know 
about farming?” 
“Can’t she learn? Ain’t she bright, and smart, 
and wont she come up to time if you only put her 
on the course?” 
“ My son,” sajs mother, “ I’ve told you often that 
country house-keeping and city house-keeping are 
not alike.” 
“ You never kept house in the cit} 7 .” 
“ No, hut I have seen plenty of city girls set up 
house keeping in the country, and girls quite as 
smart as your Miss Sarah.” 
“ Doubtful,” says Sam. 
“ There was Dr. Pills, when he came to the vill¬ 
age, and got settled, went off to the city and mar¬ 
ried, and brought his wife to his house and they 
went to house-staying, for there was no keeping 
about it. Everybody said she could dance, and i 
sing, and play on the piano, and paint, and knew | 
everything that any body ever knew or heard of.” i 
“Everybody in villages is pretty generally a per¬ 
son that don’t mind his own business, and rarely 
tells the truth." 
“Don’t be slanderous, Samuel. Poor thing, 
they had no servant and she tried to do their own 
work,— among the first things she did was to bor¬ 
row a tunnel to fill the tea-kettle with, and actually 
filled it through the nose for several days. She 
washed her dishes in cold water, and wondered 
what made them so greasy. She undertook to settle 
her coffee by boiling a whole egg in it” 
“Did the docter ever complain?” 
“ Not that I ever heard of.” 
“Well, then, whose business was it?” 
“But what could you do on a farm with such a 
woman. There's more to look after. What butter 
she would make, and what a pot of boiled victuals, 
and such bread!” 
“Well, now do you think a good education any 
injury to a woman?” 
“ That depends upon circumstances,” says T. “ My 
mother only had a good common education, and 
she was a first rate house-keeper. And your moth¬ 
er only kept school one summer, and I guess you 
wont deny her being a pattern woman.” 
“But that don’t prove that a city educated girl 
wont make a good wife.” 
“ There were the Miss Flimsey’s who came up 
here to spend a few weeks with Mrs. Tape, last 
summer. They could play on the piano, and sing, 
and talk French." 
“ Goose latin.” 
“Nobody made more fun of their silly ways than 
you did, Samuel.” 
“ So I did. They thought farming was so vulgar, 
and low, and dirty. All the time working in dirt. 
I can see all the difference in the world between 
them and Miss Sarah.” 
“Well, well, there’s no use of talking; you can’t 
have the girl with my consent, that’s certain, not 
but what she’s well enough for the city, hut she 
wont do for the farm.” 
Sam feels had, and I feel bad to interfere in 
these matters, if I can help it, for when I was a 
young man I had my own way, and have never re¬ 
gretted my choice. Now wont yon just write to 
the boy, and tell him what you think of it? He 
will hear to you, for he has great confidence in 
your opinions. The fellow has just drove by the 
house with old Nance, and the top buggy, and his 
girl. Golly! why can’t a man be young twice? 
How can I break up this matter? I want you to 
advise me. It must be broke up. 
Ypurs to Command, 
John Plowhandle. 
Remarks. —Family affairs are of such a delicate 
nature, especially where the heart and affections 
are concerned, that we dislike to advise or offer a 
positive opinion. Our friend John is evidently 
determined to thwart the wishes of the young 
people, yet seems to remember that he was once a 
youth himself, and subject to the influence of the 
“tender passion.” He should, therefore, make 
some allowance for Samuel, and also remember 
that determined opposition may evoke a spirit 
calculated to bring on the consummation so greatly 
feared. If we were to offer any advice, it would he 
that friend Plowhandle take things calmly, and 
become acquainted with Sarah before deciding. 
It’s more than probable that, though reared in the 
city, she was born to love Rural life, and may make 
Samuel a capital help-meat—for, if, as we infer, she 
is a girl of good sense and temper, and really loves 
Sam, she will strive to surmount all obstacles, and 
become a pattern cook and ho use-keeper.—E d. 
Money Will Not Do All. — The making of a 
fortune enables a man to cross the chasm which 
separates too widely the gentle from the handicraft 
classes. His money just does this, and no more.— 
But the newly-enriched man stores the future with 
mortification for himself, who fancies his mere 
wealth will gain him distinction in the circle of 
gentleman. The tone of good society is equality. 
Birth, wealth, beauty, talents, may constitute eligi¬ 
bility for society; but to be distinguished iu it, 
persons must be admired for admirable, and liked 
for agreeable qualities. 
There is babbling more than enough; but among 
it all, one finds little true speech or true silence.— 
The dullest mind has some beauty peculiarly its 
own; but it echoes and does not speak itself. It 
strives to write as schools have taught, as custom 
dictates, or as sects prescribe; and so it stammers 
and makes no utterance. Nature made us indi¬ 
viduals, as she did the flowers and the pebbles, but 
we are afraid to he peculiar, and so our society re¬ 
sembles a bag of marbles or a string of mould can¬ 
dles. Why should ice all dress after the same fashion? 
The frost never paints my windows twice alike. 
What is a Gentleman? — Politeness has been 
happily defined to he “ kindness directed by good 
taste.” Even benevolence may be rude, and then it 
falls short of politeness. What is a gentleman? is 
a question not easily answered, though the above 
definition of politeness suggests the basis of the 
character. To this must be added a certain intrin¬ 
sic dignity and self-reliance, which go further to 
make a gentleman than any amount of acquired 
polish. 
Trifles. —“When a care for small things is 
combined with an intense fear of the opinion of 
others, a state of mind is generated which will 
neither allow the possessor of it to be happy in 
himself, nor permit those about him to enjoy any 
peace or comfort for long. It is, of course, a pre¬ 
eminent hindrance to the blessings of social in¬ 
tercourse.” 
ENDURANCE. 
If thou faint in the day of adversity, thy strength is 
small.—xxiv, Prov.: 10. 
Faint not beneath thy burthen, tho’ it seem 
Too heavy for thee, and thy strength is small; 
Tho’ the fierce raging of the noon-tide beam, 
On thy defenceless head untemper’d fall. 
Tho’ gad and heart-sick with the weight of woe, 
That to the earth would crush thee—journey on; 
What tho’ it be with faltering steps and slow, 
Thou will forget the toil, when rest is won. 
Nay! murmur not because no kindred heart. 
May share thy burthen with thee—but alone 
Still struggle bravely on, tho’ all depart; 
Is it not said that each must hear his own? 
All have not equally the power to bless; 
And of the many, few could cheer our lot; 
For “ the heart knoweth its own bitterness, 
And with its joy, a stranger meddleth not.” 
Then be not faithless, though thy soul be dark: 
Is not thy Master’s seal upon thy brow? 
Oft hath His presence saved thy sinking bark, 
And thinkest thou He will forsake thee now? 
Hath He not bid thee cast on Him thy care, 
Saying, He careth for thee? Then arise: 
And in thy path, if trod in faithful prayer, 
The thorns shall turn to flowers of Paradise! 
[Neu> Orleans Picayune. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
THE SEA OF GALILEE. 
The sun rose with unwonted splendor on the rich 
plains of Genesareth, and the dew-drops were spark¬ 
ling like so many diamonds on the deep green 
foliage which covered the mountains. At their 
base lay the sea of Galilee,—the soft breeze rip¬ 
pling its waters, but so gently as scarce to mar the 
beautiful landscape which was mirrored on its bo¬ 
som. The branches of the stately palm and ever 
green olive overshadowed the lake, and floral na¬ 
ture decked the velvet sod in profusion of flowers, 
making the air redolent with their sweet fragrance. 
Ever and anon there came stealing on the stillness 
of the scene, the voices of birds warbling forth 
their matin hymns to their great Creator, blending 
their own sweet harmony with the hum of the dis¬ 
tant city as it came to them on the bosom of the 
gentle breeze. The scene was indeed gloriously 
beautiful, hut well might nature put on her holy- 
day attire, for this spot was to be consecrated by 
the presence of no ordinary guest 
Hark! The distant tramp of a mighty multitude 
reaches the ear, —od, and still onward they come, 
until the plain is covered with a dense mass of hu¬ 
man beings. In their haste to press forward, no 
courtesy is extended to each other, for the poor, 
bowed cripple and the aged, are rudely jostled 
aside, to give place to those more strong, whose 
ruddy glow of health fprms a striking contrast to 
the pale attenuated features of disease. Among 
the crowd are delicate females, high-born dames, 
and noble lords whose flowing robes strangely blend 
with the tattered garments of the beggar; but all 
distinctions are forgotten in their anxiety to see 
the man whose mighty works had spread his 
name abroad. 
There, on the sea shore, surrounded by his disci¬ 
ples, stood Jesus of Nazareth, looking with holy 
benignity upon that poor, misguided people who 
would so soon put him to an ignominious death— 
even then on his pale, noble brow, was the impress 
fixed that he was “ a man of sorrows and acquaint¬ 
ed with grief.” 
Hour after hour, in a frail vessel, upborne by the 
waters of Galilee, did Jesus address the wondering 
multitude, nor would he, until the sun was shedding 
his last rays on the snow-capped mountain of 
Dijibbel-el-sheik, listen to the earnest remonstrance 
of his friends to rest from his unremitting labors. 
As the deep grey of twilight succeeded the glori¬ 
ous orb of day, the crowd gradually decreased, and 
each one, as he sought his home, pondered deeply 
the dark parables which had fallen from the lips of 
the Nazarene. 
At length the stars, one after the other, peeped 
out from their secret hiding places, and the queen 
of night rose in cloudless majesty, showering a 
flood of silver radiance on the earth and sea, when 
a slight breeze sprang up which gently filled the 
sails, and enabled the disciples the more readily to 
obey the injunction of their beloved Master to cross 
to the opposite side. The helm of the vessel was 
put about, and she proudly glided over the glow¬ 
ing waters, as if conscious of the precious burden 
with which she was freighted. Suddenly a small 
cloud appears, so small at first as hardly to be per¬ 
ceptible, but it rapidly increases in size until it 
spreads over the heavens a mantle of impenetrable 
darkness. Now the winds rush from every quarter 
and strive together with unmitigated fury, making 
the mountains echo to their blasts of defiance.— 
The waves are lifted mountains high, and as they 
fall they dash their white and hissing waters on 
the poor vessel, which trembles in every joint, and 
seems momentarily ready to sink into the angry 
deep. The thunders roar and lighnings gleam, 
which strike new terror to the hearts of the poor 
frightened mariners, who being no longer able to 
guide the frail hark, have set them down in mute 
despair. 
In this extremity the disciples thought of their 
Lord, and was grieved that he had withdrawn him¬ 
self from them, but this feeling was soon exchang¬ 
ed for a more unholy passion, when they found 
, him in the stern of the vessel, with his head quiet¬ 
ly resting on a pillow, and sunk into a slumber so 
profound that the mighty raging of the elements 
had not been able to disturb him. In haste they 
awakened him and rudely put the interrogatory.— 
“Master carest thou not that we perish?” Jesus an¬ 
swered them not hut stood in the midst of the 
howling tempest, and in the voice which thundered 
on Sinai’s mount, he rebuked the winds, and said 
unto the sea, “ Peace he still.” 
The mandate was immediately obeyed, and the 
disciples feared exceedingly. Aye, well might they 
tremble, for they stood in the presence of the most 
High. C. m. b. 
Sin brought sorrow into the world; it was this 
that made the world a vale of tears, brought show¬ 
ers of trouble upon our heads, and opened springs 
of sorrow in our hearts, and so deluged the world. 
