A 
i 
[■Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A DEAF AND DUMB GIRL’S PRAYER 
bv bosk RiPi.Ey irving. 
It was an hoi/ hour,—just at the shut of day,— 
Such as comes with its sweet stillness 
To the earth-weary, and the heavy-laden. 
Welcome, im a pure foretaste of that rest 
“ Goo giveth His beloved.” 
She had knelt down 
Beside her cot, and meeldy lifted up her eyes 
In one long, silent, supplicating gaze, 
And then, most reverently, bowed her head, 
And clasped her hands in prayer. 
Mote,—all was mote,— 
The seal of silence was npon those coral lips, 
And a deep hush was Id the ear. Sweet sounds 
Might never echo 'long Its winding halls; 
Yet in that pale, sad face, turned heavenward, 
There was no lack of patient trust expressed; 
And when she bowed her head,—closing those tearful 
eyes,— 
There was no look of dark despair. 
Father, Thy will, Thy holy will be done. 
The full and perfect utterance of His prayer, 
Who knelt in anguish, and in bloody sweat, 
Was hors. 
And in such child-like confidence— 
In auch submissive trust, she came— 
Casting her heavy burden down 
Before her Savior's Cross. Laying her hands 
By faith on his dear, bleeding brow— 
Telling him all her grief and human weakness— 
Loneliness aud pain. Thus her mute prayer— 
Her humble evening prayer—she offered up, 
And it was heard in heaven— 
In the pure air of that serener clime 
The falling tear—the upward glance— 
The low-breathed aigh found accent that was heard— 
Heard 'mid the hallelujahs, loud and sweet, 
Of saints redeemed, and the sweet melodies 
Of angels' voices and the seraphs’ harps. 
For the mute suppliant wus near to heaven's gate, 
She had touched the hem of JHal’s 1 garment. 
And he, in pitying love, looked down on her, 
Pleading in voiceless eloquence that hour 
The sparrow's promiae. 
And so, dear child, pass thy life 
All in silent hope. Pray on in silent faith, 
For thou canst breathe as pure a worship— 
Thou const take as firm a hold npon the cross— 
As though words bespoke the heart’s desire 
And adoration. 
And, O, it is not long that tliy full heart 
Must thus in dull and wearying signs 
Make known its wish or worship; 
Bnt in the upper mansions of the Blest— 
Where all have voices tuned to melody divine— 
The Jong’hnehed voice-harp shall awake the song 
Whose words are “ Praise to Gon,’’ and these 
TV unfettered tongue shall chant. 
And the first words thy Ups shall breathe 
Shall blend with angels in that song 
Around the Throne, whose theme is evermore. 
Redeeming Love. 
Le Roy, N. Y., 1860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker] 
CHANCE ACQUAINTANCES. 
How often does it happen that, we meet persons 
for a few hours, whom wo never saw before, never 
expect to sec again, and that they make an im¬ 
pression on onr minds not easily forgotten. Per¬ 
haps while visiting at a friend’s house, we meet 
some one whose experience of life has been simi¬ 
lar to ours, whose thoughts, imperfectly expressed 
in language though they may be, we can yet 
understand. 
Terhaps while making a short journey, we are 
amused at the appearance of some little old man 
making bis first trip from home, but who shows 
by his keen observations on every thing around 
him. that in his own original way ho has looked 
deep into men and things. His unaffected interest 
in every passenger of the crowded stage coach, is 
really refreshing to those accustomed merely to 
the indifferent stare of the habitual traveler, and 
his hearty good-bye, when we leave him at his 
place of destination, makes us feel kindly to¬ 
ward him, even though we smile at his simplicity. 
Again, it is the motherly kindness of some staid 
matron, who, naturalized to care, takes an inter¬ 
est in every young traveler she meets on her 
journey. Thoughts of the dear children she is 
journeying to Bee, warm her heart teward all, 
especially those who remind her of them. How 
gratefully, on the weary heart of the teacher, 
wending her way homeward for a short vacation, 
falls her words of sympathy for the trials she has 
almost unconsciously related to her new found 
fiiend, and when, in after years, every other in¬ 
cident of her journey is forgotten, she will yet 
remember tenderly her chance encounter with 
that motherly heart. 
Sometimes it happens that a heavily laden train 
of cars is likely to be behiud time at the next 
station, and that many miles distant, and the 
engineer, accidentally fffbouMe, leaves the larger 
pan of the passenger cars standing on the track, 
while he speeds on more easily to report himself 
punctually. Necessity obliges us who are left 
behind to be sociable, and we are surprised to 
find that our nearest neighbor, an ordinary look¬ 
ing person, apparently of onr own age, is familiar 
with ail our favorite authors, and that on many 
subjects her ideas have followed a similar course 
to onr own, when we had thought ourselves so 
unlike the rest of the world. Our usually silent 
tongue is stimulated by this encounter with a 
mind resembling our own, and we give .ourselves 
to the enjoyment cf the hour, with less restraint 
than we would feel with one whom we had known 
much longer. In that interchange of thought we 
speak onr real selves more than we should have the 
courage to do with our most familiar friend, and 
when onr transient acquaintance bidB ub “good- 
morning,” we treasure the remembrance of her 
ever after. 
i ls it the mask of reserve that we habitually and 
unconsciously wear in our daily life, that causes 
| us to Bpe deeper Into the inner-life of a stranger, 
than we do into those with whom we dally mingle, 
and why do we prize the sympathy of strangers 
more than we do the every day kindnesB of our 
friends? I Hupposo it is partly because we feci 
entitled to the consideration of our friends, and 
lmbit has so accustomed us to it, that we seem 
indifferent to their love. It may be strangers 
discover the prominent traits of character more 
readily than our familiar friends, and that the 
impressions we both give and receive are there¬ 
fore more marked. If this be true philosophy, 
then we have the reason why such encounters 
stand out so distinctly in memory. b. c. d. 
Geneva, Win., 1860. 
- ►♦-4 - 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
TRUE PHILOSOPHY. 
We are too apt to get discouraged over and 
magnify our own individual misfortunes, or trials. 
Very often things occur that are calculated to 
grieve or vex us, which, if we could find the 
firmness and courage to overlook, or forgive, no 
one else would be In the least affected, when, if 
we wear a melancholy, cheerless mein, we cast a 
gloom over a whole household. 
We have sometimes a real though unintentional 
selfishness in our sorrows, which a little reflection 
might enable ub to see and overcome. Is it worth 
while to go mourning through life, because of the 
various ills and disappointments which naturally 
fall to the share of most people? Does it lessen 
our troubles to brood over them? Beside, which 
of us is so uufortnnatc that we wonld exchange 
circumstances with very many whom we see 
daily. Nearly all have some enviable qualities 
or advantages, who also have burdenB we wonld 
not wish to assume. 
You are oppressed with care and anxiety inci¬ 
dent to a large and increasing family; yet, would 
you exchange your lot for the lonely, isolated life 
of yonder spinster? Von are lean and dark,— 
Miss A. is plump and fair, but is lame and disa¬ 
greeable; yon wonld not exchange,—and so on 
through all the list of grievances. Whatever we 
admire or envy, there is nearly always some 
drawback, some defect Beauty and riches have 
their attendant evils, and if yon happen to possess 
neither, probably yon are in a fair way to become 
very useful and much beloved. At all events, 
whatever onr woes may he, we can place them in 
onr power by exercising a philosophic spirit, and 
rising above all the calamities or disagreeables 
of our lot 
Let us say we wont have the blues, let what will 
happcD, or exist If ever our nearest and dearest 
friends forget aud abandon us, we have still 
others left—wo can live without them. Nothing 
is harder to bear than the neglect of those who 
should love, and be kind to us, especially if we 
arc unconscious of error; yet, if wo resolve with 
a proud and calm spirit, and are forgiving and 
patient, we can endure even this. 
Yea, we can bear much if we will, and when we 
know, too, that time iB so short,—ah, so very 
brief,—wc will not spend it in useless tears and 
repinings, but dashing aside the teaiB and the 
recollection, we will walk on cheerily, bravely, 
hopefully, to the end. Thus, we shall disarm the 
shafts of malice, turn away misfortunes, and draw 
comfort from every situation. 
“In such a world, bo thorny, and where none 
Finds happiness unblighted, or, if found, 
Without some thirsty sorrow at Its Bide; 
It seems the part of wisdom, and no sin 
Against the Jaw of Love to measure lots 
With less distinguished than ourselves; that thus 
We may with patience hear our moderate ills, 
Ami smypathise wt*h others’ sufferings more.” 
Qckecht. 
» •-»- 
EASY MOTHERS. 
We wish it were possible to persuade seme 
otherwise excellent mothers how much trouble 
they would save themselves by exercising a little 
firmness toward their young children. Of course 
it takeB more time to contest a point with a child 
than to yield it; and a busy mother, not reflect¬ 
ing that this is not for once, but for thousands of 
future times, and to rid herself of importunity, 
says, wearily, “ Yes, yes, you may do it,” when 
all the while she knows it to be wrong, and most 
injurious to the child. Then there comes a time 
when she must say “No!” and the difficulty of 
enforcing it at so late a period of indulgence, 
none can tell bnt “ easy ” mothers of self-willed 
children. For yonr own sakes, then, mothers— 
if you have not the future good of your children 
at heart—for your own sakes, and to save your¬ 
selves great trouble in ike future, learn to say 
"No!” and take time to enforce it. Let every¬ 
thing else go, if necessary, because this contest 
must be fought out successfully with every sepa¬ 
rate child; and once fought, it is done with for¬ 
ever. When we see mothers, day by day, worried, 
harrassed, worn out by ceaseless teasings and 
importunities, all for the want of a little firmness 
at the outset, we know not whether to be more 
sorry or angry. At any rate, we have no patience 
to stay by and witness such sad mismanagement. 
—Maternal Counsels. 
Sunshiny Hearts and Faces. — Everything, 
animate and inanimate, turns to the sunbeams. 
We instinctively avoid cloudy days and cloudy 
faces. We give a warmer welcome at onr fireside 
and our table to the undisputations, than to the 
man who is eternally dissacting the skeletons of 
things, till his charnel-house conversation throws 
a chill on every warm, healthful feeling. We give 
the preference to the man who greets the rising 
sun with emotions of pleasure, and not simply as 
an astronomical phenomenon, and whose eye, as 
it watches its setting, has “ no speculation in it.” 
In fact, we perfer a jolly, healthy human being. 
The disappointing chances of life have not left so 
many of them that one can afford to let them 
pass without a warm-hearted grip, and, if occa¬ 
sion favor, the interchange of such chanoe words 
as kindred souls traveling to the same eternal 
home may sometimes exchange by the way. 
[Written for Moore ’0 Rural New-Yorker.] 
JOHN BULL TO BROTHER JONATHAN. 
[Tub following song was sung by a British officer, at a 
Masonic Dinner in Brockrille, C. W., in which both 
Canadian and American Lodges partiriparted. The fra¬ 
ternal feeliDg exhibited Is another evidence that “ blood 
Is thicker than water.” We copy the song from man¬ 
uscript furnished us by Dr Hknry Hbwitt, wbo was 
present at the re-nuion, and are not aware that it wa* 
ever before published. Its appearance on the eve of the 
visit of the Prince of Wales totals country is appropriate. 
—Eds. Rural.] 
Ho, Brother, I’m a Britisher, 
A Chip of “ heart of oak,” 
That wouldn’t warp, or swerve, or stir, 
From what I thought or spoke. 
And you, a blunt and honest man, 
Straightforward, kind, and true,— 
I tell you, Brother Jonathan, 
That you're a Briton, too. 
I know your heart—an honest heart— 
I read your mind and will, 
A gray hound ever on the start 
To run for honor still; 
And shrewd to scheme a likely plan, 
And stout to see it done,— 
I tell you, Brother Jonathan', 
That you and I are one. 
“ God save the Queen " delights you still, 
And “ British Grenadiers;” 
The good old strains your heart-strings thrill, 
And catch you by the ears; 
And we, 0, bate us if you can, 
For we are proud of you,— 
We like you, Brother Jonathan, 
And “ Yankee Doodle,” too! 
What more, I touch not holier things, 
A loftier strain to win, 
Nor glance at prophets, priests, and kings, 
Or heavenly kith or kin,— 
As friend with friend, and man with man, 
0, let our hearts be thus,— 
As David’s love to Jonathan, 
Be Jonathan's to us. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
GOLDSMITH. 
Oliver Goldsmith was horn on the tenth of 
November, 1728, at Pallas, Ireland. Hi6 father, 
who was a clergyman, appears to have pos¬ 
sessed, in a large degree, the traits that are gen¬ 
erally supposed to characterize his countrymen. 
Judging from the account bis son has left of him, 
he was a good-natured man, who took the world 
easy, and was not disposed to lose the enjoyment 
of the present moment by over-carefhlBess about 
the future. 
At the age of seventeen, our poet entered 
Trinity College, Dublin, where he was more dis¬ 
tinguished for bis indolence and eccentricities 
tbrfn for scholarship. However, after remaining 
here for nearly four years, he took his degree of 
Bachelor of Arts, on the 27th of February, 1749. 
His friends now urged him to take holy orders; 
but when, two years afterwards, he presented him¬ 
self before the Bishop of Elphin, he was refused 
ordination. Some accounts say that hie rejection 
was owing to the fact, that when he appeared he 
was appareled in scarlet breeches; but doubtless 
this story is a mere fiction. The true reason that 
he did not obtain ordination was, that the Ci6hop 
found him unworthy. After various other adven¬ 
tures he was sent to Edinburg to study medicine, 
where he arrived in the autumn of 1752. Eat 
little is known of his college life at this place; 
but of one thing we may rest assured, that he was 
not remarkably diligent in his studies. In the 
year 1754, he left Edinburg with the intention of 
visiting the continental schools. We next meet 
with him at Leyden. After spending about a 
year in this place, he left with a “ guinea in his 
pocket, oue Bhirt to his back, and a flute in his 
hand,” and traveled on foot through France, 
Flanders, Germany, Switzerland, and Italy. After 
thus wandering through Europe, he returned to 
London with a few pence in his pocket. 
As a last resort he now turned to the occupa¬ 
tion for which be was best fitted, that of an 
author. He was for some time a writer for the 
Monthly Review, the Publia Ledger, and a weekly 
pamphlet entitled the Bee. It was in the Public 
Ledger that the pieces which compose his “Citi¬ 
zen of the World,” were first published. After 
having it on hand for several years, “The Trav¬ 
eller” was published in 1705, If the author had 
entertained any doubt in regard to the success of 
this poem, those doubts were soon dispelled; for 
it was greeted with almost unbounded applause. 
Dr. Johnson, the literary censor of that day. pro¬ 
nounced it the best poem that had been published 
since the death of Pope. The next year the 
“Vicar of Wakefield ” made its appeaianee, which 
was far from diminishing his fame. In 1770, he 
gave to the world his “Deserted Village,” which 
was, if possible, more popular than “The Travel¬ 
ler.” He died in 1774. 
Such is a brief sketch of the life of one of the 
most interesting writers of modern times; but it 
would require a volume to fully portray his 
character. His writings are replete with com¬ 
mon sense; but, perhaps, uo man, in his conduct, 
ever showed less of it. He was a butt for the wit 
of the men of genius, into whose society he was ad¬ 
mitted toward the latter part of bis life: yet it may 
be questioned, whether he was as entirely destitute 
of conversational powers as he is sometimes rep¬ 
resented to have been, Boswell affords evidence 
that he could, at least, sometimes make remarks 
in conversation which were very far from being 
destitute of wit. ne once remarked that John¬ 
son could not write a good fable: for if he should 
attempt to make little fishes converse, he would 
make them talk like whales. He, at another time 
Baid, that there was no use in contending with 
Johnson; for if his pistol missed fire, he would 
knock yon down with the butt end of it. But 
doubtless these sallies of wit were exceptions to 
the general character of bis conversation. 
Extreme vanity marked the greater part of his 
conduct Hearing some of his friends highly 
praise one of Bcrkk'3 great speeches, he replied 
that he could make a better one himself — and at 
the suggestion of the company, he mounted a 
chair and attempted it. He had not spoken five 
minutes, when he completely broke down; bnt he 
excused himBelf by remarking that he qid not 
happen to be in luck. He wished the British 
Government to send him on a mission to the East, 
for the purpose of introducing useful arts into 
England, although, as Johnson says of him, he 
knew so little about the arts, that he would have 
been likely to have brought home with him a 
hand organ as a thing unknown in England. It 
was from his Tanity that his envy of some of his 
cotemporaries arose, — but it may be doubted 
whether ho ever felt as much of this as haB been 
charged npon him. It Is trne, he did not worship 
Johnson to the same extent with Boswell and 
some others; this, however, is not to be wondered 
at. He could bnt have known that he possessed 
more genius than belonged to the great lexicog. 
rapher. He stood more on a level with him than 
did most of bis associates. His liberality to those 
who were in distress was proverbial; but it was 
without discretion. While at Dublin, he was 
found, one cold morning, with his bed ripped 
open, and himself buried in the feathers, having 
given away the covering to a poor woman. 
If we turn to his writings we will find much to 
praise. His poetry has been road in every land 
where the English tongue is spoken. His “Trav¬ 
eller” has visited hundreds of thousands of fire¬ 
sides; and thousands have read with intense 
interest of the sorrows of “Aubnrn.” The “Her¬ 
mit” has been drawn forth from his Bolitude, and 
become a favorite with the world. Alike in the 
palace and the hovel, his works are to be found. 
S. L. Leonard. 
Bristol, Kenosha Co., Wis., 1860. 
DOMESTIC HAPPINESS 
A connubial little sermon, from the text, “Be 
happy as you are,” is thus preached by a cotem¬ 
porary print: 
“Wife and mother, are yon tired and out of 
patience with yopr husband’s aud your children’s 
demands upon your time and attention? Are you 
tempted to speak out angry feelings to that faith¬ 
ful, but, perhaps, sometimes heedless or e.xacting 
husband of yours? or to scold and fret at those 
sweet and beautiful ones? Do you groan and 
say, ‘What a fool I was to marry aud leave my 
father’s house, where I lived at ease and in quiet?" 
Are you, by reason of the care and weariness of 
body which wifehood aud motherhood must 
bring, forgetful of, and ungrateful for, their com¬ 
forts and their joys? O! wife and mother, what 
if a stroke should smite your husbund and lay 
him low? What if your children should be 
snatched from your arms and from your bosom? 
What if there were-no true, strong heart for you 
to lean upon? What if there were uo soft little 
innocent* to nestle in your bosom, and to love 
you or receive your love? How would it be with 
you then? Be patient and kind, dear wife: be 
unwearying and long-suflering, dear mother; for 
you know not how long you may have with you 
your best and dearest treasnres—yon know not 
how long you may tarry with them. Let there be 
uothing for you to remember which will wring 
your heart with remorse if they have you alone; 
let there he nothing for them to remember but 
sweetness and love unutterable, if you are called 
to leave them by the way. Be patient, be pitiful, 
be tender of them all, for death will step sooner 
or later between them and yon. And 0! what 
would you do if you Bhould be doomed to sit sol¬ 
itary and forsaken through years and years? Be 
happy as you are, even with all your trirls; for, 
believe it, thou wife of a loving and true husband, 
there is no lot in life so blessed as thine own.” 
Log-Book of Life. — A “log-book” is the 
record of a voyage kept by the navigator. The 
following is taken for the “Log-Book of Thomas 
Parker,” who was a naval officer daring “the war 
of 1812." The “ voyage ” spoken of is the voyage 
of life: 
First part of the voyage pleasant, with fine 
breezes and free winds—all sail set Spoke many 
vessels in want of provisions—supplied them 
freely. 
Middle passage,— weather variable—short of 
provisions—spoke several of the above vessels 
our supplies had enabled to relit—made signals of 
distress—they up helm and bore away. 
Latter part,—boisterous, with contrary winds— 
current of adversity setting bard to leeward— 
toward the end of the passage it cleared up—with 
the quadrant of honeBty had an observation— 
corrected and made up my reckoning—and, after 
a passage of fifty years, came to Mortality Road, 
with the calm, unruffled surface of the Ocean of 
Eternity in view. 
Lacghter and its Uses.— The following par¬ 
agraph reminded us of the old theological profes¬ 
sor, who exercised his pupils one hour daily in 
laughing: 
Laughter is healthful to the body as gladness is 
to the mind: and there is not a more beautiful 
spectacle than a smiling face when you know it is 
the trne index of the soul within. We do not 
speak of that species of idiotic laughter which is 
snre to follow the exhibition of any low trick, or 
the utterance of a coarse jest—but that genial 
outburst that enlivens the social circle when 
men, like true philosophers, forget their past 
care3, and put off till the morrow all apprehen¬ 
sions regarding the future. 
- - — ♦ - 
Hardness of Character.— Hardness ia a want 
of minute attention to the feelings of others. It 
does not proceed from malignity or carelessness 
of inflicting pain, but from a want of delicate 
perception of those little things by which plea- 
sure is conferred or pain excited. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HYMN FOR A TROUBLED HEART. 
BT IlLATH, 
How dark the skies bend o’er my head,— 
I sing a low and plaintive tune,— 
My path with weary feet I tread,— 
Where flowers once smil’d now thorns are strewn. 
By sad experience I know 
The fairest joys of earth deceive; 
But gifts that of Thy bounty flow 
My heart of sorrow can relieve 
’Mid care and loss my troubled heart 
Will not he cheered by earthly songs, 
Rich grace alone can peace impart, 
For that my weart spirit longs. 
0, worse than vain to seek of earth 
A balm to ease the pain of mind,— 
I hate the hollow joys and mirth 
That pans and leave a sting behind. 
Fatrbr, help me tho ill to bear, 
While perished flowers around me lie, 
That I may haste to Thee, for there 
The joys I’ll know can never die. 
Wadboma’ Mills, N. Y., 1860. 
SPEAKING TO ONE ANOTHER. 
Mccn of the suffering which is endured by the 
people of God, grows out of their ignorance of 
each other’s trials. Those that fear the Lord too 
seldom speak one to another. Every heart 
knoweth its own bitterness, but another’s it does 
not know. The tempted believer, as he straggles 
against the motions of sin in the fleBh, is some¬ 
times almost ready to cast off all hope; for he 
cannot see how his sense of defilement can con- 
gist with that holiness without which no man oan 
see the Lord. He not only regards himself as less 
than the least of saints, but doubts whether he be 
a saint at alL And yet this is the experience of 
every child of God, without a single exception, at 
some period of his pilgrimage, The holiest and 
the very best of men have sometimes been bro’t 
to the very bars of the pit, A David, a Luther, a 
Bunyan, au Erskine and a Toplady—these have 
all known what it was to cry—“How long wilt 
thou forget me, 0 Lord? Forever? How long 
wilt thou hide thy face from me? How long shall 
I take counsel In my bouI, having sorrow in my 
heart daily? How long shall mine enemy he ex¬ 
alted oyer me? Consider and hear me, 0 Lord 
my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep 
of death.” 
Let the tempted believer learn that his experi¬ 
ence of the bitterness of sin, and of the deceitful- 
ness and wickedness of his heart, is precisely that 
ot all God's host. They are all fighting against 
the world, the fleBh and the devil, and not one of 
them finds it an easy warfare. Not one of them 
bnt must water bis couch with tears—not one 
but must sometimes exclaim, “ 0, wretched man 
that I am, who shall deliver me from the body of 
this death?” But they may all add, with the 
apostle, “I thank God, through Jesus Christ our 
Lord.” 
WHO ARE THE GREAT PREACHERS? 
The great preachers of the world have been 
those who were in direct sympathy with human 
life, and who. had an end to gain with the men 
before them. But with culture and scholastic 
habits, men have interpreted the word of God, 
“Follow me, and I will make you a preacher of 
sermons.” The end of preaching is not a good 
eermou, but a holy heart. Fine sermons have 
nearly rained good preaching. If ministers cared 
more for their people, and less for their own ser¬ 
mons, they would be more useful Preaching has 
almost ceased to be a living business between a 
man's heart and the wants of his congregation. 
Learning, rhetoric, eloquence, are good as col¬ 
lateral influences, but no man will win souls who 
does not feel the throbbing pulse o-f his whole 
congregation—who does not know their wants— 
who does not study their lives—who does not un¬ 
derstand how to take the primary truths of Chris¬ 
tianity, aud apply them to the consciences of men 
in their daily business life. Such preachers, and 
only such, will be certainly efficacious; and such 
preaching is necessary to tho filling of the 
churches. Were such preaching universal in our 
time, not only would our churches be filled to over¬ 
flowing, but thousands would have to be built 
For you may depend npon it, there is never a man 
who preaeheB intelligent truth, and preaches it 
with a living sympathy for men, that people do 
not flock to hear him. 
Christian Comfort. —Let the course of your 
tribulation be what it will, “ in Me ye shall have 
peace.” How is it, then, perhaps you will ask, 
that Christians are not always rejoicing? How 
is it that we so often see them bathed in tears, 
and scarcely hear anything from them but sighs 
aud complaints? It is easily enough to be ac¬ 
counted for. It is because they love the world 
and the things of the world so much, that they 
have no room qr relish for divine consolations. 
To he sure, where Christ is there is always ground 
for comfort; bnt Christians are not always fit to 
be comfortable. They may, through mere inat¬ 
tention to spiritual things, or too fond attention 
to temporal possessions and enjoyments, be so 
sadly declined as to require reproof rather than 
comfort; and what they want, Christ gives,— 
Laving ton. 
Be true now to your highest convictions. In¬ 
timations from our own souls, of something more 
perfect than others teach, if faithfully followed, 
give a consciousness of spiritual force and pro 
gresa never experienced by the vulgar of high 
life or low life, who march alonsr as therare drill 
