[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
MEMORIES OF THE PAST. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ROUND THE HEARTH - STONE, 
an offended God to make an inquiry, and set a 
mark upon him whose brother’s blood cried aloud 
for vengeance. Scan close the expression of those 
serpent eyes from under whose lowering, half- 
cloaed lids, gleams forth that expression, speaking 
Of a will desperate in evil deeds —a purpose 
chained to violence—a sworn secrecy and deep 
caution, that his movements shall leave no trace— 
shall wake no sound that will pnrsue him to dis¬ 
covery and justice,—remembering that nature 
has no counterfeit,—that a seal is set upon all her 
issues, establishing the genuine beyond a perad- 
venture,— and then pronounce sentence of the 
fully assured heart, that the voice of a brothers 
blood hath again called and is heard,—another 
Cain is come to judgment. Mark that face, num¬ 
ber three from the wall, near the stove. Is it. not, 
assuredly, a hard face, wearing an expression at 
once suggestive of iron doors, strong and intricate 
bars and locks, unyielding ns his own iron will, 
stamping him one who has allowed the icicle to 
form in the heart where genial Bunshine should 
claim a place,— one who has shut ont and forever 
debarred kindly sympathy, chilling humanity and 
freezing benevolence. Deliver us from the cruel 
mercy of such a juror. And that one at the far 
end of the attorneys long table, engages and 
fastens our attention, while an involuntary tribute 
of rcBpcct and esteem goes out to the Btranger, 
whose name even wc know not A countenance 
glowing with the mellow light of benevolence,— 
an eye through which beams a soul full of kindly 
nature, charity and good will to men,—while, 
traced with a pencil of beauty and light across 
that broad and noble brow we read—' "An honest 
man is the noblest work of God.” Den. Burdock. 
On, the past! As I look back through the dim 
distance, how little of sunshine mingles with the 
shade—how little of joy unmixed with sorrow.— 
Childhood's sunny hours look, through the mists 
of years, like the first faint blush of morning. 
The memories of those early days linger around 
my heart, and call to remembrance scenes I fain 
would forget. Who does not love the home of 
thoir youth, 
“ The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood, 
And every loved spot that oUr infancy knew." 
The old homestead, ’tvrns where I first drew my 
breath and learned the blessed namo of mother. 
There commenced my school-girl days, when I used 
to wander in the dim aisles of the forests, and make 
the tree-tops echo with niy mimic preaching.— 
There friendship wreathed her fading chaplets, 
and love exerted her bewitching influence. ’Twas 
thoro death entered the family cirqje, 3nd sorrow 
threw its gloomy shadow across my pathway.— 
There girlhood’s " airy castles ” 
HT CKO A. HAMILTON. 
Gather often round the ITcarth-stone 
When the twilight drnweth near, 
Let each heart he calm and quiet 
Ab the evening shades appear; 
All the brightest tints of daylight 
Now are mingling in the gloom, 
Shadows everywhere are lenglh’ning— 
Creeping softly o'er the room; 
Much I love this peaceful calmness 
At the close of every day, 
Life seems ever pure and tranquil 
When the evening [shadows play. 
Gather often round the Ilearth-stone 
Whether fortune frown or smile, 
There is soothing In the twilight 
That our sorrows may beguile; 
Let the social circle gather 
In the confidence of love, 
Thinking often of their treasure 
In thn brighter “ Home Above;" 
Do not hurry with a taper, 
Do not close tho shutters yet, 
Twilight’s quiet is refreshing. 
And its going brings regret. 
Gather often round the Hearth-stone— 
Let each heart he trusting there, 
Let each spirit help the other 
To forget all anxious core; 
Thus how pure, and sweet, and quiet 
Is the passing day’s decline. 
While the trusting, happy household 
Everything but love resign; 
Let each spirit there rejoicing 
Love to count its mercies o'er, 
Looking to a dawn of brightness 
On tho other shining shore. 
Gather often round the Hearth-stone 
With Hie evening’s peaceful hours, 
Shadows, fanciful and softly, 
Gathering into mythic bowers; 
There each he aid, should love to linger 
In an earnest, just review. 
Listening to the spirit's whispers 
Like the gently falling dew; 
There forbid the world intruding— 
Pure the altar and the shrine, 
Thus the hour of evening incense 
Yieldctli pleasures, pure, divine. 
South Butler, N. Y., I860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A SOUL’S QUESTION. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MY CHILDHOOD HOME. 
nr IDA FAIRFIELD. 
BT I. M. BEEBEE. 
A beautiful spot, by memory's light, 
My childhood home appears, 
Through the forest shadows gleaming white, 
With its garden wide and flowers so bright, 
And tho charm which each endears. 
'Twas there that my mother cradled me oft 
Within her encircling arms, 
And nestled my head on its pillow soft, 
Or tossed me in babyhood’s glee aloft, 
Or stilled my needless alarms. 
'Twas there that my father knelt in prayer, 
Far back in my childhood years, 
And lifted me up, his kriec to share, 
And to twine the curls of his silken hair. 
Or to kiss away my tears. 
The grave has hidden his form from view, 
It gladdens that home no more, 
While the heart which beat so warm and true, 
Grown still on earth, is throbbing anew 
With love on a better shore. 
My brothers and sisters sported free 
As the sunshine, within those walls, 
And the voice of mirth and the song of glee 
From morn till night rang merrily 
Through those ancestral halls. 
My brother lies in the churchyard low, 
Where the marble gleams so white, 
And dust was heaped on the beautiful brow 
Of my sister, who dwells an angel now 
In a land of Heavenly light. 
Sad changes have come to my childhood home, 
And its happy household band, 
Broken and scattered, afar the roam, 
Some dwell in tlm light of a fervid zone, 
And some by tho ocean strand. 
But the thought of that home each heart willl swell 
With emotions of fondest love, 
Whate’er our joys, or where'er we dwell, 
Till each shall follow the tolling bell, 
And we meet in the home above. 
Asliaway, R. I., 1860. 
If we are souls that Time's eternal waves 
Shall never surge o'er in sequestered graves,— 
Souls that begin to live when this frail clay 
Deep in the earth la ever laid away,— 
Integral breaths, whose inspiration liee 
Beyond the life that livos a day, then dies— 
Spirits iTnmort.it, of mysterious make, 
Whose subtle life not Heaven or Earth may take- 
Rouls whose deep promptings move our every deed- 
Brnve Sentinels to guard us in our need— 
Yet all susceptible to loss and gain. 
To pride and woe, to pleasure and to pain— 
Whose normal radiance may be lost, and all 
With Sin bo black as Death’s accursed pall— 
If we have souls that all the Powers above 
May iulluence to gladness and to love; 
Or that the vengeful Fates that live below 
May lead to endless hatefnlnegs «ml woo— 
Oh, Souls! iu view of this vast loss and gain, 
What glory should we struggle to attaint 
In view of our deep consciousness and claims, 
Our mystic Sovereignty o’er these poor frames, 
Our hidden Life—our omni-present Thought, 
Our Spirit's being, so divinely wrought,— 
Of all the Shades that gather in our ways, 
Of all thn Light that leuds us guiding rays, 
Of all the Good whoso glory we may gain, 
Of all the Dad whose blackness we retain, 
In view of all these opposites, should we 
Inert, indifferent and self-wronging be? 
Should wc not guide these tabernacles frail 
Into the fresh ami verdure-covered vale— 
In pastures green, the calm $till waters by. 
Naught separating, but the eider-sky, 
IXs from the Soul’s eternal, blest abode— 
The Dwelling of the Soul-Inspiring God? 
Watertown. N. Y.. 1860. 
were peopled 
with creatures of Imagination and the heart, 
buoyant with hope, lived in dreams of the future. 
That future has slowly mingled with the present. 
But where now are the bright anticipations that 
gilded my youthful imagination? Long, bitter 
years have lied since cruel injustice thrust us forth 
from the sacred enclosures of the old homestead, 
yet time cannot efface, nor tho world’s cold- 
hearted Hellish ness crash, from my heart the fond¬ 
ly cherished remembrances that cluster around it. 
Clouds have obscured the sunlight, disappoint¬ 
ments have crushed the air castles, hope lias well 
nigh set in despair. The heart is almost weary of 
life, and trembles at the thought of sorrow. 
Oli, the past! Her hulls arc deserted—flowers 
faded—hopes fled. The present—how changed 
from my youthful fancy! Dreams have given 
place to stern realities, and 
''Truth's fondest hopes that once I cherished, 
Have left me naught save memory." 
Amid the gathering gloom is there no star to 
guide the weary pilgrim—no hope to save the 
sinking soul? Ah, faint heart! why wilt thou de¬ 
spond! 
“ Earth hath no sorrow tint heaven cannot heal.” 
Friends may forsake and love prove false— 
clouds may obscure the vision and storms toss the 
frail life-boat; yet all around glows the sunlight 
of GOD’S love, and they whom He loreth He chas- 
teneth. ’Tis thy Father's hand that chastens, ’tla 
thy Father's voice that calls, to win time away 
from earth and lead thee on to Heaven. 
When light is fading from my vision, when I 
am nearing the brink, and about to step into the 
dark river of Death, if I can hut fed that my 
Savior's arm is around me, and that I shall be 
bom by the surging billows peacefully into the 
harbor of Heaven, then, indeed, will 1 bless God 
for those afflictions, which have been but as pre¬ 
parations for that world of eternal happiness, 
"where the wicked cease from troubling, and the 
weary are at rest.” Lizzie. 
Rotter, Yates Co., N. Y., I860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.) 
WHAT I THINE, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
HE KNOWETH OUR FRAME. 
Very many of the trials of daily life arise from 
a want of feeling and consideration in those with 
whom we mingle. Mankind arc prone to regard 
the trials of life as trials only in proportion as 
they have power to affect themselves; and sympa¬ 
thise with other's sorrows just so far as they feel 
a similar affliction would press upon them. The 
man of cold, selfish, calculating nature, whoso 
heart-tendrils never entwine themselves with 
another's existence, cannot measure the desola¬ 
ting effects of the bereavement that darkens 
another’s path through life; nor can the man of 
iron nerve and sinew, strong to do and to bear, 
comprehend the woes of one who, weakened by 
an ordeal of suffering, meets the changes and 
accidents of lime with an ever anxious and 
shrinking heart. 
But tho Lord, while He assufes us that “like as 
a father pitieth his children ” so He pities, adds: 
for He knowrlh our frame. He understands every 
necessity of our nature—our own peculiar circum¬ 
stances and sorrows, each quiver of the heart- 
string, the recoil of the spirit which we seek to 
hide from careless eyes — all arc seen and consid¬ 
ered by a compassionate Savior. lie knows 
how much our burdened hearts can bear,—11c 
understands the agony that racks our feeble frame, 
and while hearts that should have sheltered us 
treat lightly our sorrows, and add to to our griefs, 
Jesus pities, lor //rknoweth our flame. 
'’lie remembers that we are but dust,” He 
does not forget to adapt our trials to our strength, 
to lighten the burden just when it would other¬ 
wise overpower us,—to reach forth His hand for 
our help when the waves are about to enclose 
our sinking form. Oh! what a refuge and rcsting- 
placc has that heart that can stay itself on Christ. 
llow like "the shadow of a great lock in a weary 
land” is the hiding place to which wo may flee, 
away from lips that taunt us with our weakness, 
and eyes that watch for our halting, and repose 
our sinking hearts upon One ready to pity and 
mighty to save. Other hearts may pity, but not 
as CnniST pities, no other can so understand our 
needs, no other sympathy Las so perfect an adap¬ 
tation to our necessity, no other arm so potent to 
sustain. Happy they who, clinging to this sure 
refuge, can say, "whom have I in Heaven but 
Thee, ami there is none upon earth that J desire 
beside Thee.” Lina Lee. 
Sherburne, N. Y., 1860. 
[Written fur Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE CHURNDASHERS AND PLOWHANDLES, 
Dear Rural: —What has become of Mr. John 
Plowiiandi.e? Has he failed to get an election 
to Congress and absconded to parts unknown ? I 
have been thinking the matter over, and have con¬ 
cluded that we Ore "relations;” for 1 remember 
hearing, years ago, Hint the Pi.owiiandi.ks and 
Chdrndasuer* were of the same family. 1 have 
boon looking a long time to see his nomination to 
tiie Presidency, in which ease I would like the 
honor of the relationship; besides, he might give 
Mr. (’hitundasher some high ollice, for I have 
always thought Mr. t’. “ might be something better 
than a farmer”; ?) lint, pe.haps Mr. J’. will not own 
his “poor relations” now. Home people, if you 
lift them up a bit, will become suddenly so exalted 
and superhuman as to affect their eyesight and 
hearing, rendering them unable to see, or hear, 
common things. And, again, some will bear lift¬ 
ing to the loftiest pinnacle of human greatness and 
power, and still retain the simplicity of their 
former life. Now, i am quite sure that we are 
first cousins, at least, of Mr. Plowiiandi.e, and 1 
don’t think he used to be at all' ashamed of the 
relationship. One reason why I am anxious to es¬ 
tablish our consanguinity is this, But suppose 
the Honorable gentleman is, himself, reading this 
column, (let me say aside to you, Mr. P.,) did you 
observe how politely, but decidedly, Mr. Editor 
declined giving his portrait, in reply to a request 
of some contributor, which was one 1 have been 
wishing to make myself this long time, and did 
not dare to be so presumptuous? i do really 
think it is too bad—we must wait till lie is in the 
decline of life, to see his face. Probably you 
have met him often is there no copy of his phiz, 
in book, or periodical,or paper, that a body could 
he allowed to look at? "A cat may look at a 
Queen;” end. friend John, could not you manage, 
“ by hook or by crook," to get a shadow, and send 
us? Do please to consider the matter, for 1 know 
a popular member of Congress has great influ¬ 
ence, and may be he would give it to you; and, 
then, being we arc cousins, you could send it to 
us. I am sure Mr. C. will not forget to vote for 
you, next election, and I will teach the young 
0hurnda sn kr, to honor the Plowiiandi.e fam¬ 
ily forever. 
Ham and Susan are married and 
[Written for Moore'* Rural New-Yorker.] 
HALF-HOUR MUSINGS IN A COURT-ROOM 
for observation and inference, what a wide range 
for imaginative specula mm and investigation, was 
presented in the infinite vat u ty of the human face. 
Is it not a little singular how many minor peculi¬ 
arities attach themselves to men, proving their 
position, occupation and character to our full sat¬ 
isfaction, 
BE A MOTHER TO YOUR CHILDREN. 
WELL-GOVERNED CHILDREN. 
the expression, the features, the pecu¬ 
liarities of form aud manner, though oftentimes 
similar, yet never exactly the same in two indi¬ 
viduals. It is a pastime entertainingly improved, 
and soon comes to be deeply interesting, to min¬ 
gle in a promiscuous assembly, and study the dis¬ 
similar features, the varying expression, and man¬ 
ner of such of the sous of men as we may chance 
to meet there. We have wbIJed away a half-hour’s 
leisure in the Court-Room, permitting fancy and 
imagination to roam at will, and occupying and 
amusing our thoughts in noting and perusing the 
lights and shadows of human nature and educa¬ 
tion which the Keene opened to our view. A ease 
of high crime, tho decision in which the commu¬ 
nity had watched with no little anxiety arid in¬ 
terest, occupied the learned ministers of the law, 
and all ages and classes, from the a-l-ah school¬ 
boy to the silver-headed octogenarian, bowing the 
burden of many winters heavily upon his stall'— 
the tobacco-scented, dissipated attache of ,Satan 
and even the quiet, peace, humility-teaching Rev. 
wm there, while all tho varied tastes, positions 
and occupations that came in to fill up between, 
had sought a stand and foot-hold, all agog to 
hear, see, and count one more in the interested 
multitude. The conceit, the stupidity, the mulish 
propensities, the mediocre intelligent aud refined 
the few cultivated and noble minds assembled in 
I his promiscuous assembly spread out a page for 
fanciful thought and physiognomic speculation, 
alluring 
It is quite a mistake to suppose that children 
love the parents loss who maintain a proper au¬ 
thority over thorn. On the contrary, they respect 
them more. It is a cruel and unnatural selfish¬ 
ness that indulges children in a foolish and hurt¬ 
ful way. Parents are guides and counselors to 
their children. As a guide in a foreign laud, they 
undertake to pilot them safely through the shoals 
and quicksands of inexperience. If the guide 
allow's liia followers i ll tho lit erly they please—if, 
because they dislike the constraint of the narrow 
path of safety, he allows them to stray into holes 
and down precipices that dt stroy them, to loiter 
in M T oodB full of wild beasts or deadly herbs—can 
he be called a sure guide? And is it not the same 
with our children? They are as yet only in the 
preface, or, as it were, in the first chapter of the 
book of life. We have nearly finished it, or are 
lur advanced. We must open the pages lor these 
younger minds. If children see thatthoir parents 
act from principle; that they do not, find fault 
without reason; that they do not punish because 
personal offense is taken, but because tho thing in 
itself is wrong — if they see that, while they are 
resolutely hut affectionately refused what is not 
good for them, there is a willingness to oblige 
them in all innocent matters — they will soon 
appreciate such conduct. If no attention is paid 
to rational wishes; if no allowance is made for 
youthful spirits; If they are dealt with in a hard 
and nnsympathizing manner — the proud spirit 
will rebel, and the meek spirit he broken.— 
Mother's Magazine. 
your child’s thoughts full; stuff them to repletion 
with the good, and (here will be no room for the 
bad to get in. You know how to satisfy the de¬ 
mands of his stomach, yet you do not attempt to 
cater for his nobler, mental and moral nature. Be 
a companion for your children. Teach them that, 
if weaned from your breast, they are output away 
from your heart; and from thence let them still 
draw their spirit, us they before found their life's 
blood. Be a mother! 
“ My ear is pained. 
My soul is sick with every day's report 
Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled." 
A mother! The fashionable woman whom we 
once met dancing wantonly at a city ball, when 
Her only child lay at homo sickening with scarlet 
fever, is not the type we urge you to copy. She 
was but an ostrich who leaves its young oil the 
desert sands. No, he a true mother, instinct with 
all the holy attributes of maternity. There are 
many of you who can, like us, point to Hit* man¬ 
sions of the blest for the type of a mother not 
dead, for she yet lives in our hearts, stirring us up 
with a sweet, soft voice, yet ringing louder than 
clarion blasts through our inmost souls, to duty. 
Ah! if you will but accept the noble office you 
arc called upon to perform, if you will but occupy 
the heart of your husband, if you will hut fold 
your children into your own self, know their in¬ 
most thoughts, be their confidant, their life- 
spring, their guide, “truant husbands,” as they 
are called, sons designated as “only a little wild," 
will be rare, and the world will he renovated.— 
To these pure joys, does the true woman say dress 
and fashion arc preferable? 
Like ail good actions, these will redound with 
blessings. In the exercise of these duties, iu the 
cultivation of home joys and affections, the ex¬ 
posures and consequent diseases will not he met 
with. Life will not be a state of constant invalid¬ 
ism. Will you think of these things?— Knicker¬ 
bocker Magazine . 
and racy. 
in the study of the ever-varied multitude of hu¬ 
man faces may we read plain written, a gratifying 
record of the poetry of common life. A pleasing 
fancy is it to let imagination paint, in all her keen 
sense of colors, the pulsations of this man's heart 
to honor, purity and good, the yearning of that 
one’s soul in all wide, deep-moving channels of hu¬ 
manity. as he buffets the swelling waves of oppo¬ 
sition and popular opinion, unfurling his banner 
whereon gleams, in letters of light, the golden 
rule, as toiling he strives to cheer and soothe the 
down-cast who lays him down to die by the way- 
side, defeated, worn-out, crushed in the fierce 
conflict of life, urging him on, painting glowing 
hopes, picturing bright and beautiful promises of 
the future's treasury, yet a little while concealed, 
which lie may not relinquish to oblivion. The 
deep, dire working of unholy ambition, graven in 
characters imperishable, leaving an index there 
which no art can wipe out — no assumed careless¬ 
ness, no studied apathy, however well worn, can 
conceal — the looker on may translate and read 
to his full satisfaction, determining inevitable 
consequences which follow the fulfilling of tho't 
and purpose there so speakingly delineated, the 
shadow of whose commission even in the dim 
distance, wakens a chill of horror, while he avoids, 
in pity and repulsion, association and contact 
with the wearer of a counteuace bearing such an 
index. Peruse attentively the features of that 
man, who, composed and Seemingly indifferent, 
sits before the Judge, arraigned for the commission 
of a crime the first perpetration of which moved 
THE LOVING-KINDNESS OF GOD. 
The loving-kindness of God! vriiat a beautiful 
expression! IIow rich and consoling tho thought 
contained in it! It is not mere good-will, nor 
mere complacent friendship, nor the mere neigh¬ 
borly kindness of human beings, although these 
are of high and precious account; it is tho good¬ 
will, the friendship, the kindness of love—of the 
love of God, who is love itself. We know some¬ 
thing of the loving-kimlness of father and mother. 
We have been gently tended and nursed by this 
kindness; or, parents ourselves, we know full well 
the throbbing of parental affection. Deep, earn¬ 
est, self-sacrificing is human love in many tender 
relations. We trust in it fervently, and without 
fear, 0! if there were no human love in which 
we could trust, what a desolate place would this 
world be! But the loving-kindness of God, of 
that great incomprehensible being who fills the 
universe with his presence, and before whose 
majesty the pillars of heaven tremble —what a 
loving-kindness that must be! the kindness of 
infinite love wedded with infinite power! There 
is nothing that love can conceive of, or wish to do 
for its object, but is contained here, and rendered 
not only possible, but absolutely certain. 
Finally, seeing 
settled, why could not you get out the sleigh and 
robes, and bring your wife over to see us? The 
sleighing is line, and wo will treat you to real, 
native grape wine, of the finest quality. Ours is 
that big. spreading brick house, without dormor 
or bay windows—a real, genuine farm-house, and 
room enough for a President—green blinds, &c.— 
just a pleasant ride from one of the prettiest little 
towns in Western New York. 
Hoping to sec you soon, here is a happy New 
Year to yourself and good vrow, aud all the 
grand-children. Mrs. Jane Ciiitkndasher. 
Rail-Fence Farm, Over Yonder, Jan.. 1S60. 
Live not for Thyself. —No wonder men are 
unhappy iu the world. There is always clashing 
when the machinery is out of gear. There is 
always trouble when the wheels are “off the 
track.” Man seeks to live for himself. God 
made him to live for others. How swells that 
mother’s heart with joy when she can make her 
children happy! What a thrill of delight comes 
with that look of gratitude, that tear of joy, and 
that one of love, which are all that the widow and 
the orphan can render to ther benefactor. The 
cup of happiness is an overflowing cup. It is 
like a bubbling fountain, ever pouring forth its 
blessings to refresh the weary and fainting, and 
made pure only by its own overflow. It is like 
the quiet meadow rill, fringed all along with 
flowers, yet concealed by the very exuberance of 
beauty and verdure itself doth nourish. 
Unkind Words.— If all unkind worcls were 
arrows, like needles and pins, and if, instead of 
piercing the ear and the heart, they flew against 
the bodies of those to whom they were directed, 
the children in some men's families would be like 
pin cushions, stuck completely full of'sharp and 
painful weapons. — Beecher. 
It is good to meet in friendly intercourse and 
pour out that social cheer which so vivifies the 
weary and desponding heart, it elevates the feel¬ 
ings and makes us all better for the world. Yes, 
yes, give to all, the hearty grasp and the sunny 
smite. They send sunshine to the soul aud make 
the heart leap as with new life and joy. Thus may 
we become brothers in every good word and deed, 
and Peace and Good Will spread in the earth. 
THE LAUGH OF A CHILD. 
I love it—I love it—the laugh of a child, 
Now rippling and gentle, now merry and wild,— 
Ringing out on the air with its innocent gusq, 
Like tbe thrill of a bird at the twilight's soft hush 
Floating off on the breeze like the tones of a bell, 
Or the music that dwells in the heart of a shell. 
Oh, the laugh of a child, so wild and so free, 
Is the merriest sound in the world for me! 
content. 
There is a jewel which no Indian mine can buy, 
No chemic art can counterfeit. 
It makes men rich in greatest poverty, 
Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold; 
Seldom it comes, to few from heaven seut; 
That much in little—all in naught— Content. 
Like a gale of summer wind unspringing and 
lifting all the fog from the mountain-top, the 
breath of the Omnipotent Spirit can scatter every 
cloud and leave the soul on a pinnacle of wildest 
survey, rejoicing in the purest light of God. 
There is a sacredncss in tears. They are not 
the mark of weakness, but of power! They are 
the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep 
contrition, aud of unspeakable love. 
This world cannot explain its own difficulties 
without the assistance of another. 
