RURAL HEW-YO&KEIL 
linger not long. 
Linger not long! Home U not home without thee, 
Its dearest tokens only make me morn;— 
Oh, let Its memory, like a chain about thee, 
Gently compel, and hasten thy return. 
Linger not long! 
Linger net long! Though crowd* should woo thy staying, 
Bethink thee—can the mirth of friends, though dear, 
Compensate for the grief thy long delaying » 
Costs the poor heart that sigh* to have thee here; 
Linger not long! 
Linger not long! How shall I watch thy coming, 
As evening shadows stretch o'«r moor and fell; 
When the wild bee hath ceased her weary humming, 
And silence hangs on all thing* like a spell. 
Linger not long! 
• 
How shall I watch for thee when fears grow stronger, 
As night grows dark and darker on the hill! 
How shall I weep when 1 can watch no longer— 
Oh, art thou absent, art thou absent still"? 
Linger not long! 
Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that sees me 
Gazeth through tears that make Us splendor dull; 
For, Oh, I sometimes fear, when thou art with me, 
My cup of happiness is all too full! 
Linger not long! 
jjaste—haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling, 
Haste, as a bird, unto its peaceful nest! 
Haste, as a skiff, when tempests wild are swelling, 
Flies to its haven of securest rest! 
Linger not long! 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LETTER - WRITING. 
To be obliged to write a Utter ,— a Btiflj formal 
otter,—to Miss this, or Miss that, is one of those 
< must he’s’' which wo so often meet with in jour- 
leying through this life. Heated at a writing- 
lesk, with ft large or small sheet of gilted, neatly 
•uled, spotlessly white paper before us, trying in 
rain to bring forth facts which must be, at one 
ind the same time, new and interesting, neither 
,oo sorrowful, nor too trilling, and yet that will 
nake up an epistle, which, after it has been read, 
t vill he pronounced by the reader, a first rate let- 
Ler —what a perfect picture of despair do we pre¬ 
sent. Now and then dipping the new, briglit- 
ooking pen, into the ink, as if too “hook up 
deas,”—gazing listlessly out of the window,— 
oolclng at the paper before us,— and, almost un- 
ronsciously, counting the number of line to he 
Hied with words, which, ere they can he intrusted 
:o the care of that self-same paper, must he ar¬ 
ranged grammatically, of course, in sentences, 
principal and auxiliary, simple, compound and 
•omplex; not mentioning the numberlessphrugos, 
ivhich must lie thrown in, to make the sense com¬ 
plete, and render the composition lengthy, as well 
is spirited we sorely present a “study" for the 
skillful etchings of the artists. And all this must 
express facts which are not meaningless, but 
fraught with interest, to the person addressed.— 
limes without number, have I found myself in 
this self-same position, and a sorry predicament 
it is. Is there no remedy? No “Native Ameri¬ 
can" who stands ready, with his inexhaustible 
fund of inventive genius, to frame up something 
which, propelled hv the expansive force of steam, 
will write those epistolary communications, the 
:omposing of which have so often brought lieart- 
iches and headaches, thus winning for himself a 
remembrance through all coming ages, and a 
name to he handed down to posterity ns one of 
the alleviators of human sorrows. As yet, no 
such article has found its way to the Patent Office, 
ami we must, ourselves, invent some method, 
whereby the tedious task of letter-writing may ho 
made easier. 
First, we must make use of a dictionary, by se¬ 
lecting therefrom a number of those words which 
are so lengthy that, one will fill a line. 
Second, take care to write them in a manner 
much resembling the spinning of a woolen roll, 
and you will lie amazed to note the progress you 
make. 
Third, let your letter lie made up of many para¬ 
graphs, leaving sufficient space between each, to 
acquaint the reader with the agreeable intelli¬ 
gence that yon have introduced a new subject 
Such a letter, when finished, is very much like 
a morning visit, made only because the rules of 
society require it, and not on account of that 
pleasant Intercourse between friends which is so 
unmistakably delightful,— foreiug our company 
where, were it not for custom, it would not he at 
all desirable. As there is a difference in those 
where we visit, so there is in those to whom we 
write. There are those to whom it is a pleasuro 
to write; thinking the while, that your friend will 
he interested in whatever interests yourself. Un¬ 
der these circumstances thoughts form themselves 
readily into words, and are as rapidly committed 
to paper. What a contrast between the two.— 
"Who does not love to write to those in whom 
they confide; while, on the other hand, is there a 
more irksome duty than that of writing merely 
because we must? Lvde. 
Tekousha, Calhoun Co., Mich,, 1S60. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
BEAUTY. 
There's beauty all around our path*, if but our watchful 
eyes 
Can trace it ’mid familiar things, and through their lowly 
guise.” 
There are few insensible to the beautiful, 
whether exhibited in the daisies that bloom at 
our feet, or the fragrant and delicately tinted 
rose,- in the deep forest where the wild birds 
carol thejr songs unheard save by the All-wise, 
or tire meadows where the tall grass hows grace¬ 
fully to the passing breeze,— in the splendor of a 
glowing sun-set, or the picturesque ness of a cata¬ 
ract dashing wildly over rugged rocks, and send¬ 
ing the lieecy spray high in thC air. 
There is beauty in all earth, sea, and sky,— 
beauty in the first rosy streak of light that shoots 
across the horizon at dawn of day, followed by 
another, and still another, until the orient be¬ 
comes one flood of glory, and the rosy light leaps 
from hill-top to hill-top, crowning their lioary 
heads with gold, then down into the valleys it 
peeps, kissing the tears from the blue-eyed violets, 
and around all nature fondly folding a mantle of 
mellow light. 
It seems one could never tire of gazing on the 
different phases of beauty as exhibited in Nature, 
— “for glorious beauty fills all the world." Day 
and night the fair goddess of beauty reigns 
supreme. Sometimes, as I gaze far away into 
the vaultless sky, when night draws her sable 
curtain and suspends miriads of silver lamps in 
the dome of her lofty temple, such feelings come 
over me us words can never express, and I would 
fain soar from earth to the throne of the Great 
Author, and dwell forever where unsullied beauty 
alone is found,-for the Bins of our first parents 
have done much to mar the beauty of our earthly 
home. Still, so beautiful is earth, it is impossible 
to conceive what it must have been before it felt 
the curse which robbed it of half its wondrous 
grace, and mingled with the sweetest flowers the 
sharpest thorns. 
Yes, beauty dwells in all our paths, but sorrow, too, is 
there,— 
ITow ofi some cloud within us dims the still, soft sum¬ 
mer'* air; 
But we feel, by the lights and the clouds, through which 
our pathway lies, 
By the beauty and the grief alike, we are training for the 
skies. 
Maple Grove, N. Y., 1860. F. M. Tcrnkr. 
Maternal IsixrBNtE—jSome one has finely 
d:—“ It is related of Phidias, that in construct- 
g the statute of Minerva, at Athens, he so 
■ought his own image into her shield, that it 
nld not be removed without destroying the 
itute itself. Thus ineffaceably does the mother 
grave her mental likeness, her moral character, 
on the soul of the child. Not until the latter 
all have been annihilated will the maternal 
iage be removed." 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE LIFE-CLOCK. 
INFLUENCE OF FEMALES ON SOCIETY. 
'HOSE who, from the desire of our perfection, 
-e the keenest eye for our faults, generally 
upensate for it by taking a higher view of our 
rits than we deserve. 
Fkom an accurate account of the condition of 
women in any country, it would not he difficult to 
infer the whole state of society. So great is the 
influence they exercise on the character of men, 
that the latter will he elevated or degraded, 
according to the situation of the weaker sex. 
Where women arc slaves, as in Turkey, the men 
will be the same;—where they are treated as mor¬ 
tal beings,—whore their minds are cultivated, 
and they are considered equals,— the state of 
society must he high, and the character of the 
men energetic and noble. There is so much 
quickness of comprehension, so much suscepti¬ 
bility of pure and generous emotion, so pruch 
ardor of affection in women, that they constantly 
stimulate men to exertion, and have, at the same 
time, a most powerful agency in soothing the 
mi gey feelings, and iu mitigating the harsh and 
narrow propensities which arc generated in the 
strife of passions. 
The advantages of giving a superior education 
to women are not confined to themselves, hut 
have a salutary influence on our sex. The fear 
that increased instruction will render them incom 
potent, or neglectful in domestic life, is absurd in 
theory, and completely destroyed by facts. Wo¬ 
men, as well as men, when once established in 
life, know that there is an end of trifling; it» 
solicitudes and duties multiply upon thorn equally 
fast; the former are apt to feel them much more 
keenly, and too frequently abandon all previous 
acquirements to devote themselves wholly to 
these. But, if the one sex have cultivated and 
refined minds, the other must meet them from 
shame, if not from sympathy. If a man finds 
that his wire is not a mere nnrse or a house¬ 
keeper; that she can, when the occupations of 
the day are over, enliven a winter’s evening; that 
she can converse on the usual topics of literature, 
and enjoy the pleasures of superior conversation, 
or the reading of a valuable hook, he must have 
a perverted taste, indeed, if it docs not make 
home still dearer, and prevent him from resorting 
to taverns for recreation. The benefits to her 
children need not be mentioned; instruction and 
cultivated taBte in a mother enhance their respect 
and affection for her, and their love of home, and 
throw a charm over the whole scene of domestic 
life.— I Vim Tudor. 
Nothing Forgotten. —There is nothing, no 
nothing, innocent or good, that dies and is for¬ 
gotten. Let us hold to that faith, or none. An 
infant, a prattling child, dying in its cradle, will 
live again in the better thoughts of those who 
loved it, and play its part, through them, in the 
redeeming actions of the world, though its hotly 
he burnt to ashes, or drowned in the deepest sea. 
There is not tm angel, added to the host of Heaven, 
but does its blessed work on earth in those who 
loved it here. Imbued with this faith, we can 
truthfully appreciate the sentiment of those 
touching lines of Robinson: 
a We shall all go home to our Father's house— 
To our Father's house in the skies, 
Where the hope or our souls shall have no blight, 
Our love no broken ties; 
We shall roam ut the hanks of the river of peace, 
And bathe in its blissful tide; 
And one of the joys of our Heaven shall be— 
The little boy that died?” 
BY J. W. BARKER. 
What is this within my being, 
Ticking, ticking evermore, 
Like the sound of fairy footfalls 
Dropping on some distant shore? 
I can hear it in the midnight, 
Hear it in the bu*y day, 
Hear its clear and measured numbers 
Wheresoe'er I chance to stray. 
On that mystic little dial 
There are elear and telling lines, 
Over which the sunlight glitters, 
And the passing hour defines. 
Quicker, quicker it is heating, 
Swifter move those mystic hands, 
With their lean and spectral Angers 
Pointing to the shadowy lands. 
But the day of life Is waning, 
Boon its shadow* will decline, 
And within my spirit's dwelling 
Cease the little mystic chime. 
Dust, o'er all It* motion* falling, 
Gathers deeper day by day, 
Voices, from the future calling, 
Seem to beckon me away. 
Thrilling tales this clock Is telling, 
As the days and hours recede, 
Noting every thought and action, 
Yet we give it little heed. 
Sometime* we may hear It ringing, 
Loud and clear, the paaslog hour, 
Sending through the soul's deep chamber 
Tones of deep, mysterious power. 
Yet we fold our arms and listen 
To a thousand stranger sounds, 
While the Life-Clock, all unheeded, 
l’lods its tireless, solemn rounds. 
Buffalo, N. Y., I860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
DISTRIBUTION OF TIME. 
As mere erudition stands to real knowledge, so 
does knowing stand to doing and being. Action 
and character stand above science. Piety stands 
above theology; justice above jurisprudence; 
health and healing above medicine; poesy above 
poetics; freedom and good government above 
politics.— Prof. Lieber . 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE WORKINGS OF THE YEARS. 
“ Change of days 
To us is sensible; and each revolve 
Of the recording sun, conducts us on 
Further in life, and nearer to our goal." 
Kirk Wiutk. 
We are astonished when we contemplate the 
changes which have taken place in the course of 
years,—yea, long years. How rapidly the sweep¬ 
ing tide of time rolls on. The morning of life 
flies away like a dream, and we vainly gaze 
around with,eager eye for the companions of our 
younger days. Where are the youth, so happy, 
so beautiful, so gay, with whom wo once rambled 
over hill and dale with lightness of heart, and 
stop, and Buoyancy of enjoyment. They were 
here,—we knew them, we respected and loved 
them. We floated with them down life’s gay and 
sunny stream, in pleasure's fairy bark,—hut, alas! 
where are they now? They have gone from us,— 
scattered to the four winds of heaven. The 
whirlwind of death drove them rapidly down the 
steeps of time, and they are now sailing on the 
wide, tUJfftlhomed, shoreless sea of eternity. The 
scenes of our childhood become changed,—they 
fade away,—and soon not a vestige of them will 
he left as a token of remembrance. The forest 
in which we loved to roam for pleasure and to 
gather the wild flowers, is no more. The sound 
of the woodman’s ax was heard, and those stately 
oaks and towering pines have fallen. No more 
will the birds hop from branch to branch, and 
tunetheirvoices in praise to God. That sunny 
mound upon which we loved to play in childhood 
days is removed,—no trace of it remains. The 
wheels of Time's stupendous car are ever rolling 
on. Ten years, and where will we he?—where 
those with whom we associate? Oar present 
companions, our friends,—will they remain with 
ub?— will those who now impart instruction, and 
“teach the young idea, how to shoot,” remain?— 
will they then point out the road of usefulness, 
honor and knowledge? The archer, Death, may 
have aimed at them his never-deviating arrow, 
and they may have fallen; if not, they may have 
removed, and will he strangers in u strange land 
Ten years, and the aspect of things to many, very 
many, will he changed. The homes that now 
smile them a welcome, will be filled with other 
faces, and they will pass it as strangers. The 
anxious and careworn miser that bends over his 
hoard of worse than useless treasure, where will 
he he? He. too, will have passed away, and his 
wealth will have gone, to he enjoyed by more 
worthy persons, or squandered in dissipation. 
Ten years, and the aspiring politician may have 
reached the summit of political fame, or he may 
have retired to private life, unwept and unliou- 
ored. Ten years, and the student that is poring 
over volumes and seeking with such avidity for 
knowledge and the sciences of the world, may 
have classified and stored'his mind with the lore 
of ages. He may have been 
“ Lingo of understanding, 
Of memory infinite, of judgment deep; 
Who knew all science, and all learning knew; 
And all phenomena, in heaven and earth. 
Traced to their causes; traced the labyrinths 
Of thought, association, passion, will; 
And all the subtle, nice affinities 
Of matter traced; it* virtues, motions, laws; 
And most familiarly and deeply talked 
Of mental, moral, natural, divine. 
Leaving the earth at will, he soared to heaven, 
And read the glorious vision of the skies; 
And to the music of the rolling spheres, 
Intelligently listened. 
And yet in misery lived, iu misery died.” 
Fluvannj, K. Y„ 1860. H. A. Whittemore. 
“Have you ne’er heard of Time's omnipo¬ 
tence?" Certainly yon have—poets have versi¬ 
fied the theme, and moralists have speculated 
upon it, ever since the old monarch began his 
despotic sway. But the panegyric of the philoso¬ 
pher, and the harmonious measure of the muse, 
have alike failed to charm him—age after age he 
wields his mighty sceptre, with the same rigid 
grasp. The scorn of the gifted is equally power¬ 
less. for though his praise is now left almost solely 
to the pupils of the “district school," he recks 
their sneer a* little as their flattery, rolls on with 
the same peerless majesty, relentlessly dragging 
us, helpless mortals, chained to his chariot. But 
letbim exult in hia triumph now—ere- long his 
golden wheels will sink in the ocean of eternity, 
our fetters will he broken, and we shall sail for¬ 
ever on the surface of the tranquil sea. 
Ah! hut tiiis felicity is conditional, depending 
very much upon the manner in which we improve 
the treasure connected with our time-bondage, 
for there ia appended to it ft priceless gift,— 
earthly existence. Let ns glance at the jewel,— 
four precious stones, arranged with artistic skill. 
The first is childhood,—a milk-white pearl. A 
holy inscription engraven thereon will produce, 
-as it were, a magic effect upon the others, render¬ 
ing them still more beautiful. The second is 
youth,—a sparkling ruby. A thin mistenvelopes 
it, Jest its dazzling brilliancy, its fond hopes and 
bright ambition, eclipse the soft radiance of the 
remaining two. The third is mid-age,—an ame¬ 
thyst, whose purple richness reflects the lustre of 
the former, mingled with a glory peculiarly its 
own. The fourth,—“ than gold more precious," — 
is old age. It emits a mellow light, like the rays 
of the setting sun. The contemplation of this 
one thrills the heart with a sacred awe,—for “ old 
ago is the stepping stone to Heaven.” 
Thus has nature distributed our life-time. If 
we prize it rightly, wc arc resolved that it shall 
not he squandered,—we have devised a plan for 
its improvement, and arc zealously pursuing it,— 
for the sculpture of the life-statne should not be a 
chance work, wrought by circumstances. If so, 
we shall have only an unshapely mass, telling,’ if 
it speak at all, not how pure and noble it Is, but 
merely what it w right have been. Nor should the 
energies of the sculptor he expended in perfect¬ 
ing one portion to the neglect of others. Our 
labor should not tend to physical development 
while the higher requirements of our nature arc 
disregarded, or to the culture of social virtues, 
or the garnering of mental stores or moral fruits, 
alone, luscious though they are; for thus the life- 
tree would be pruned into a lopped, unsightly 
growth. 
It is invariably seen by the correct observer, 
that he will never he a truly noble man who pores 
over the classic page, intent only upon becoming 
master of its treasures; or penetrates the depths 
and scales the height* of science, without one 
emotion of love and adoration toward the Author 
of ils mysteries, and without a response to the 
claim of society upon hi* talent*. But one is 
even more deeply impressed with this fact, with 
regard to him whose highest aim is to catch the 
approving smile of the social world, or to dev cl- 
opc his physical system to the standard nowa¬ 
days called perfection. It is wiser far to give 
each portion of our nat ure a proper development; 
and that this may he accomplished, a proper 
amount of time should he devoted to each. Ju 
order that the years and months of life may he 
rightly improved, the morning of each day should 
find us possessed of a chart to guide us to the 
evening. The poet has beautifully sketched a 
portion for us: 
<• When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul leave 
To do the like; our bodies but forerun 
The spirit’s duty: true hearts spread and heave 
Unto their Gon. us flowers do to the suu; 
Give Him thy first thoughts, then, so shalt thou keep 
nim company fill day, aud in Him sleep.” 
Let it provide for the increase of our intellect¬ 
ual store, and for the weaving of a wreath for 
Hygeia, while the joys of the social Circle are 
fondly remembered. In short, let it tend to nur 
lure every noble aspiration. Once in port, let us 
review the day-voyage. If there have been no 
collisions,—if wc have lost no moment-gems, and 
can truthfully say, “I have gained a day," onr 
chart is perfect, and worthy to be adopted, as 
nearly as possible, on the morrow. By thus dis¬ 
tributing and improving the moments of life, we 
mould them into a diadem of good deeds, which 
will never cease to shine. Amy Summers. 
Michigan, I860. 
HOW MUSIC IS MADE UP. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
A HYMN. 
BY KATE CAMERON. 
Father! before Thy gracious throne 
With humble heart* we bend; 
Grant that we each in Thee may own 
A faithful Guide and Friend. 
Whate’er our hearts of mortal ill 
Thou may fit Ordain to know, 
May we, resigned unto Thy will, 
All murmuring forego. 
Help us to serve Thee as we ought, 
With reverence and love, 
And may each deed, mid word, and thought, 
Tend to onr home above. 
Oh, may we triumph over sin, 
And break temptation's chain, 
While foes without and foes within 
Assail our souls in vain. 
Through changing scones of joy and woe, 
As pilgrims here we roam; 
While broken tie* of friendship show 
That earth i* not our home. 
Were Death and Change unknown to us, 
Onr heart* would never ri*e; 
'Tig in Thy wisdom, I.ORD, that thus 
Thou leads! us to the skies. 
Help us to consecrate to Thee 
The talent* Thou hast lent, 
Help us, amid all trial*, to be 
Strong, patient, and content. 
And when the path of life is trod, 
Onr toils and conflicts o’er, 
Grant us in mercy, Oh, our God, 
To lore and serve Thee more! 
Rochester, N. Y., 1860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
EARTH’S TREASURES. 
There are as many opinions afloat in the world, 
as to what the treasures of earth consist, os there 
are classes which compose it, and, invariably, will 
each class he found bending all their energies to¬ 
ward securing their ideal treasure. They who 
find it in shining gold, or glittering pearls, maybe 
seen wonding their way over rugged heights, and 
deep ravines, to the golden land of promise — or, 
perchance, plunging far below things animate in 
order to glean from Ocean depths, the wislied-for 
treasure. With this class, no sacrifice seems too 
great to offer,— life, health, home and friends, are 
objects not too dear to he relinquished, if only 
their ideal treasure he won. 
With another class, wealth seems to possess no 
charms, hut Fame’s broad scroll is unrolled, and 
they gaze upon the names thereon inscribed, with 
an inherent desire to sec their own written in 
more glowing characters, fur above those Of their 
predecessors; and being actuated with such emo¬ 
tions, they begin their arduous task. Inspired by 
a vain, delusive hope, they struggle onward until 
the wheels of life grow weary; and if, perchance, 
their hopes are realized, in getting to themselves 
a name, which i3 to live while “ceaseless ages 
roll," what ft worthless treasure, when so soon 
they rnnst pass from sublunary scenes, to an un¬ 
tried eternity 
There is another class whose treasures are found 
amid the groveling, sensual things of earth — of 
these wc forbear to write. 
Bat there is a treasure obtainable on earth upon 
which we love to dwell, for it proves to he not 
only a beacon light to guide the mariner over 
life’s tempestuous ocean, but serves to point out 
to others the shoals and breakers of false doctrine 
and sin. The miser, the lover of fame, and the 
pleasure-seeker, lcel the influence of that irradi¬ 
ating power as its possessor moves along unruf¬ 
fled by the storm* of life, and when the grave 
messenger, Death, approaches, how quickly he 
smiles a welcome. Such iscarth's noblest, heaven- 
bought treasure,—“the pearl of groat price."— 
Reader, would you seek it? You may obtain it 
without money and without price, and it shall not 
only secure thy happiness iu this world, hut in 
the world to come,—life everlasting. 
Bergen, N. Y., 1S60. Annie P. R. 
Pride, passion, and other vices, in these days, 
go armed. Touch them ever bo gently, yet, like 
the nettle, they will sting you; and, if yon deal 
with them roundly, roughly, and cuttingly, they 
will turn and taunt you, as the Hebrew did to 
Moses, “ Who made thee a judge over us?” 
TnE following ingenious and beautifully ex¬ 
pressed thoughts upon the sources of music, are 
from the pen of Taylor, of the Chicago Journal: 
It is a curious thought that the great translators 
of the dialect of heaven—the .Mozarts, the Han¬ 
dels, and Juhals of all time — have caught their 
notes from the hammers of Tubal Cain, or the 
murmur of running streams, or the winds sighing 
among the reeds, or the songs of singing birds; 
that, should there be a bird convention, upon a 
summer’s day, by a flowing river, near a ringing 
forge, and some master-pieoe that has rolled atone 
of melody through mighty ministers, were per¬ 
formed, its author would be pronounced a faithful 
listener—“ only this and nothing more." How 
the robin would claim its warble, and the brown- 
thrush recognize its own; the hell-note, Robert 
O'Lincoln would catch up and repeat, and the 
quail whistle hack its little share of the song. 
The solf-sighing winds would echo a tone now and 
then; the stream, through the reeds, murmur on 
with its own; the hammers heat out the battle¬ 
like strain, and the rain on the roof wash away a 
whole bar of “the score." 
So, when the anthem was ended, it would all he 
drifted, like the down of the thistle, back to 
nature and labor again. The lark would go up 
with a carol, and the little ground sparrow fly 
away with a note, and the music he scattered 
abroad. 
The Office or Grace.— When the house is on 
fire, if a man should only pray or cry, he may he 
burnt for all that; therefore he must he active 
and stirring; he must run from place to place, 
aud call out for help, and bestir himself as for 
life in the use of all means whereby the lire may 
he quenched. So grace must he acted on; it is 
not all a man's praying and crying that will 
profit him or better him; grace must be exercised, 
or all will be lost—prayers lost, tears lost, strength 
lost, time lost, soul lost 
The Good Things of tiiis World. — Much of 
this world’s goods usually cause great distraction, 
great vexation, and great condemnation at last to 
the possessors of them. If God give them in his 
wrath, and does not sanctify them in his love, 
they will at last he witnessed against a man, and 
millstones forever to sink him in that day when 
God shall call men to an account, not for the use, 
hut for the abuse of mercy. 
’Twas an excellent saying of Ambrose, “If 
thou canst not hide thyself from the sun, which 
is God’s minister of light, how impossible will it 
he to hide thyself from him whose eyes are ten 
thousand times brighter tlxau the sun! Though 
a sinner may hafllo his conscience, yet he cannot 
baflie the eye of God's omniscicncy.” 
The Highest Glory. —The highest honor and 
glory that earthly princes can put upon their 
subjects, is to communicate to them their greatest 
secrets. Now this high honor and glory the King 
of kings hath put upon his people. “ For his 
secrets arc with them that fear Aim, and he will 
show them his covenant." 
