[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.I 
THE FORSAKEN YOUNG WIFE. 
BV OKO A. HAMILTOS. 
When lnorniuj comes with beauty 
The heart 1» oil oglnw, 
And we lUt to ti e call* of duty 
Ab thought begins ip flow; 
Then, then, I'm Waiting, prayiDg, 
For hi* foot* fall at the door, ' 
And wonder at hi* staying 
Till the morning hour is o’er 
Then, when the hours are bringing 
The see new of noon-day care, 
And the belfry bell is ringing 
With mid-day echoes there, 
I wonder at hi* staying 
Beyond the hour of noon, 
And still am earnest, praying, 
His coming may be soon. 
When erootldo i* bringing 
The hour for evening prayer. 
Oh, then his stay in ringing 
My heart with keen despair: 
For his foot'fall i» not sounding 
Within the wicket gate, 
And my heart, with tumult bounding, 
Bemoans its lonely state. 
Few, few can know how weary 
Roll bn the wheel* of time; 
Few know how sad and dreary 
This lonely life of mine; 
For the heart my hops was staying, 
This hour i* far away. 
Nor know 1 why, delaying, 
He does not come to-day. 
Thus, day by day is hasting, 
The week* and months go by, 
While life seems lonely wasting, 
And they ask me why I sigh; 
But, ah, they are not kuowing 
The loneliness of heart 
That checks life’s jojful flowing, 
And bids my tears to start. 
But cease my heart's wild beating— 
This tumult, now, bestill— 
Father, to >'* eo retreating, 
I'll trust through all Thy will; 
Speak to my lonely spirit, 
And help me to attend, 
Trusting in J88U8' merit, 
Feel, etill 1 have a lyitnd. 
South Butler, N. Y., I860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker ) 
OLD LETTERS. 
Dear, precious relica of the p&Bt» How beauti¬ 
fully they serve as golden links in the chain of 
thought—connecting the present with the days 
fur back in the vista of time, when first we web 
ooinod them with glad smiles, as sweet tokens of 
remembrance from distant friends so fondly loved. 
Who baa not securely guarded, in some little 
repository sacred to friendship, ft well-worn pack¬ 
age, too precious for other eyea, yet so familiar 
to onr own. To those possessed of such inesti¬ 
mable treasures, they afford a source of happiness 
pure and deep as the gushing heart fountains 
from whioh they emanated, and lasting as time. 
They are all dear to ns,—it would probably be 
difficult to deoide which most so,—yet what dif¬ 
ferent emotions are excited by each. Let us de¬ 
vote ft leisure moment to the examination of their 
torn and yellow pages. 
Tho first is in the delicate handwriting of a 
gentle, merry-hearted girl, who has long since 
“ gone home,” We were playmates in childhood, 
inseparable friends nt, school, and when circum¬ 
stances required her remov' d to a distant State, 
our tearful parting was not accomplished until 
many promises had been exchanged of lasting 
remembrance, and the c ommencement of a cor¬ 
respondence which, with school-girl enthusiasm, 
we affirmed nothing but death should interrupt 
Ah! how little we dreamed that the ruthless 
tyrant was bo soon to assert his power. For a 
time her letters came regularly, always in that 
happy, careless, inimitable style so characteristic 
of herself. But at length no answer came to iny 
punctually written missive, and thinking she had 
grown heedless of onr correspondence, I wrote 
again, gently chiding her neglect,—at first per¬ 
suasively askiug, and then, with a playful assump¬ 
tion of authority, demanding a leply. Soon it 
came, bnt the answer was not in Carrie's familiar 
hand. Tremblingly I opened it, and obtained in 
a line from a bereaved bruther, the intelligence of 
her death, and enclosing a few words which she 
in her weakness had scarcely made legible. Dear, 
angel Cakuik. 
Searching our letter box still farther, we recog¬ 
nize a long letter from mother, written,—as only 
a mother ran write,— when we were far from home. 
When mingling with strangers, and meeting only 
neglect or cold respect from all, how soothing to 
the troubled spirit almost grown weary with life’s 
toil, is such a letter, and how dearly is it prized. 
The bold, dashing hand of a school-boy brother 
next meets onr gaze, and as we now peruse bis 
letters, we are amused at what was once, to us, an 
annoyance of no trilling character. How pro- 
vokingly he would persist in calliug ns “ little 
sis,” and promise, so graciously, to bring us child¬ 
ish toys, when we considered ourself fully en¬ 
titled to the appellation of “young lady.” With 
almost magic power, a few short years have con¬ 
verted the wild, thoughtless college boy, into the 
sedate, dignified man. 
Hlauy letters more are there, bearing the signa¬ 
tures of widely scattered friends. Each would 
afford a fnnd of almost ceaseless thought, hut we 
forbear. It may be that time, by causing partial 
forgetfulness, will render our treasures less dear, 
but not now would we part with them for the 
most fluttering prospect of happiness this world 
can afford. Frances. 
Cherry Grove, N. Y., 1860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GOVERNING CHILDREN. 
“Strange what queer way6 of governing young 
ones, folks have now-a-dwys!” 
Aunt IJktsey sat looking dreamily into “the 
first lire of the season,” swaging back and forth 
in her rocking-chair, with an air of content 
which spoke of perfect satisfaction in regard to 
the governing and “ bringing-up ” of her “young 
ones,” .vet with a Blight air of asperity about her 
that made us fear that our mother was one to be 
lectured, and we were “Rareshe was etrictcnough 
already.” 
“ Now, there’s Sot. Brainabd’s folks,” she con¬ 
tinued, raising her feet to the fender, and settling 
back in the chair. “ 1 always thought Miss Brain- 
ard was a likely woman, and a sensible one for 
these days, but if my Samuel and Judith bad ever 
‘cut up’ ns her two children did that day I was 
there, I’d have set my foot down pretty hard, I 
tell you. The boy kept going in the pantry to 
the sugar bowl,—she’d send the girl after him to 
see what mischief he was In, and finully have to 
go herself after them both. Then I’d hear her 
Bay, ‘Georgs, don’t yon know 1 have told you, 
over and over again, not to touoh that sugar? I 
shall speak to your father if yon don’t mind me. 1 
Of course he was right into it again by the time she 
was back into the parlor, for If she had told him 
‘ over and over again,’ just as she did then, of 
course he would eat some more, and that would 
be all she would say next time. 1 never told odc 
of my boys to do a thing, or 7«o< to do it, more 
than once, I cap tell you,—if they didn’t start the 
first time, they knew 1 wouldn’t wait to ‘speak 
to their father’ about it, either. If Joshua ever 
got into any trouble with the children himself, I 
held my tongue, and let him manage them hia own 
way,—he always made ’em mind, too,—but when 
/undertook to have them do a thing, they did it, 
without any of his help.” 
“I know my children hadn’t quite bo much of 
‘old Adam ’ in ’em us some has,” she added, com¬ 
placently, “if they had, maybe I wouldn’t have 
managed them; but I took care when they first 
began to Bhow hisnatur’ to let ’em know it would¬ 
n’t answer.” 
“ Well, and then there's Mr. Sears' folks. You 
know I was down there last week, and she 
had some baking to see to before she come into 
the parlor, so I set there alone. Mr. Sears’ was 
in the next room rcuding, and I concluded Jimmy 
was there too, for hy and-by 1 heard a crash, and 
Mr. Sears' spoke up sharp,—‘You put that down, 
sir!—if you don’t I'll jerk yon into shoe strings 
in a minute. Don’t you stir again for half an 
hour, now,—if you do I’ll thrash yon till you can't 
stand.’ It wrb dreadful still for about a minute, 
then the door into the parlor opened, and Jimmy 
backed out as sly as a eat, putting his fingers to 
his nose just before he shut the door, and shaking 
his fist at it after it was shut He turned red as 
fire when he see me, and made a spring for the 
window out into the yard.” 
“Now, I never made any threats of doing such 
awful things to my children, ir they didn't do as 1 
wanted them to, ’cause anybody with common 
sense can see that it seta Satan right to work. 1 
known when anybody talks and acts ugly to me, 
It makes me feel hateful, too, and I don't know 
why children shouldn’t just as well. Then folks 
haven’t the least idea of doing what they say they 
will, and I don’t see why it isn’t lying. I declare, 
l do most believe that youDg ones get the worst 
used of anybody, these days. k. c. l. k. 
Charlotte Centre, N. Y., I860. 
[Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker.] 
DISTANT MUSIC. 
_ • 
BT MRS. 8. P. HADDOCK, 
I have heard it when the moonlight 
Slravea o'er lake and leafy bower; 
When the vephyr, stealing softly, 
Kissed the dewy, Uuohing flower 
I have heard it—it wa* muu'c 
Of the water* where they meet, 
jg, And it seemed the pleasant murmur 
Of some fairy voice* sweet. 
I have heard it o’er the waters, 
'Two* the distant bugle Bong, 
And the winding, witching cadence, 
Lingered ’mong the echoes long. 
I have heard it oft St midnight, 
Mneic sweet of light guitar, 
And the winning, soft vibration, 
Whimpered lov« tale* from afar. 
I have heard it, high and distant, 
Seeming Heaven’s brightest throng 
Oi celestial* newly Ringing 
A divine, immortal BODg. 
Down from Heaven’* seventh Heaven, 
Through the far off starry spheres, 
Came this perfect spirit music 
That hath awed my soul to tear*. 
JaeksoD, Mich., 1860. 
CHILDHOOD. 
What can be a truer picture of man’s creation 
than the position of a child in its own home? 
llow silently, yet how surely, does the domestic 
rule control him, dating his rising and his rest 
his going out and coming in, apportioning his 
duties, and ordering secretly the very current of 
his thoughts, and whether his eyes sparkle with 
gladness or overflow with tears. Yet how rarely 
has he any painful sense of the constraining 
force which is every moment on him. Hemmed 
in on every side by a power more vigilant than 
the most zealous despotism, yet look at the open 
brow, and say whether creature was ever more 
free. And why? Not certainly because childish 
minds arc destitute of self-will that would seduce 
them into transgression; bnt because where rev¬ 
erence and love make melody in the heart, the 
temper is charmed, and sleeps. 
Light, therefore, as the weight of the circum¬ 
ambient. atmosphere upon the body, is the pres¬ 
ence of home duty upon the child; easy by the 
constancy aud completeness with which it shuts 
him in; inseparable from the vital elements of 
his being. His life is an exchange of obedience 
for protection; he gives submission, and is shel¬ 
tered. Folded in the arms of unspeakable affec¬ 
tions, he is screened from the anxiety of self-care; 
and yet he is not left alone upon the infinite 
plain of existence, to choose a path by the dim, 
sad lustre of his own wisdom, but is led gently 
on by the unextinguished lamp of a father’s expe¬ 
rience, and the meek starlight of a mother's love. 
In strangeness and danger, how close he keeps to 
the hand ibat leads him; in doubt, how he looks 
up to interpret the eye that always speaks to him; 
in loss and loneliness, with what cries he sits 
down to la oent his freedom! lie asks, but claims 
nothing; his momentary forwardness stilled, per¬ 
haps, by a mere word; and if not yet, his sponta¬ 
neous return, after an interval, to his accnstomed 
ways, confesses that in the order of obedience is 
the truest liberty. 
-»-•■»- 
Friends that «re worth having are not made, 
but “grow,” like Topsy in the novel. An old 
man gave this advice to his sons, on his death¬ 
bed:—“Never try to make a friend.” Enemies 
come fust enough without cultivating the crop; 
and friends who are brought forward by hot¬ 
house expedients, are apt to wilt long before they 
are fairly ripened. 
Noble spirits rejoice in the consciousness of a 
motive—baBe ones delight only in a pretext. 
[Written for Moore’* Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE HUMAN VOICE. 
All are acquainted with the simple mechanism 
of the vocal instrument. The least perfect stu¬ 
dent of physiology can describe tbe structure of 
the little tube which produces such an infinite 
variety of sounds, from the most harsh and dis¬ 
cordant to the softest, most bir d-like note. But 
though we wisely define its form, and explain tbe 
utility of every cartilage, ligament and muscle 
connected therewith, our wisdom becomes folly 
in the attempt to produce anything equal to it 
How vast its powers! How varied its intona¬ 
tions! For what human exigency has it not an 
especial key ? What emotion thrills the bosom 
which it cannot fully express? 
Pause for a moment amid the bacchanian revel, 
where coarse hilarity reigns,—are there not notes 
ringing in the brutal Je»t and loud mirth of the 
debauchee which defy comparison? Harsh and 
dissonant, they not only prate upon the car, hut 
they till the sou! with disgust and loathing. 
Again, listen to the utterances of the anger- 
stirred soul, wbicluliffer from tbe former as the 
maddened crash cf the foaming cataract con¬ 
trasts with the voices of the slimy, reptile haunted 
pool. How are we filled with dread by the deeply, 
muttered curse, and how is the being who utters I 
it bowed low by the ignoble weight! Bnt now 
the glad, merry prattle of childhood greets the 
ear, and we feel how precious a gift is the human 
voice; for its music steals through the heart, fill¬ 
ing it with sweetness, as the fragrance of fresh 
flowers through a desolate hall. 
There are a thousand other keys to this inimit¬ 
able instrument, and you are seeking one not yet 
touched upon. Mayhap it is that which tbe lover 
strikes to waken a response in the heart of his 
loved ono. Listen as he pleads his cause! Now 
soft, low, sweet as a socing fairy’s,—again, deep, 
toned and passionate, his voice floats on the 
“moon-lit” zephyr. Cruel, inexorable judge, if 
she decide not in his favor; but hearken! Ah, 
far more witching are the notes which hear to 
him his blissful fate. But the mother’s voice is 
deeper, sweeter and more uaored, as it murmurs 
blessings on her child. He is stepping from be¬ 
neath the home-roof t.o listen to tbe music of the 
world, by whose distant hum his ear is fascinated. 
He fancies it full of harmony;'but how soon will 
he long to hear again that mother’s toneB, to him 
the most delicious melody, ^et more puwerful 
than all these to stir the heart’s depths, is the 
voice of the earth-weary one, ^s it. floats upward 
to the Father, laden with the incense of holy 
aspiration. 
And not only is this magic Instrument varied 
in tone, but its power is untoi j. Through this 
medium the orator pours eloquence into the ear 
of admiring thousands. The heart is touched in 
proportion as his voice is appropriately modula¬ 
ted. Speaks he of pi’y? Soft and meltiug is the 
cadence,—it appeals to, it touches the sympathy, 
which is now alive to the most exorbitant de¬ 
mands. Would he stir his auditors to a righteous 
wrath? His words are burned upon the minu by 
his earnest tone, so fraught with indignation. 
From this, nature’s lyre, the muswian calls melo¬ 
dy which ravishes the soul, creating therein a 
love for the truly beautiful In every-dtiy life 
the Influence of this 11 wondrous toj” is not feeble. 
We are intuitively attracted by ja mild, sweet 
voice; but if its utterances are not pure and 
elevating, how perverted is the mist precious of 
Heaven’s gifts. 
“ Degrade not thou the instruiinnt 
That GOD has given to thee 
But till its latest breath be sp< ut, 
Let Conscience keep the kej " 
A it Summers. 
Vulgarity of Life. —Man is Belf-inclined to 
give himself up to common pursuits The mind 
becomes so easily dulled to impressions of tbe 
beautiful and perfect, that one should take all 
possible means to awaken one’s perceptive faculty 
to such objects; for no one can entirely dispense 
with these pleasures; and it is only tie not being 
accustomed to the enjoyment of anything good, 
that causes many men to find pleasure in tasteless 
and trivial objects, which have no recommenda¬ 
tion but that of novelty. One ought; every day, 
to hear a Bong, to read ft little poetry, to see a 
good picture, and, if it is possible, to say a few 
reasonable words.— Goethe. 
WAKING REVERIES. 
Thurlow Weed Brown, of the Wisconsin 
Chief, excels most writers in picturing the vari¬ 
ous phases of life. Here is a specimen of his 
penpainting: 
Youth lives in the future; middle age in the 
present; old age in the past. More now than 
“years ago,” we find ourself—the writer mean¬ 
ing— leaving the bow of the craft, and at set of 
sun, looking over the wake and upon the shores 
fast becoming shadowy and dim. Tbe scenery 
ahead has lost much of the charm which made 
the early voyage bnt a changing dream of beauti¬ 
ful romance, each shore rising in view won- 
drously lovely in the morning sunlight. Specks 
in the far-off blue, long thought of and eagerly 
looked for aB “ Isles of the Blest,” without clouds 
or storm, and radlaut with the light of happiness 
and hope, proved to huve many a rugged shore 
and dangerous reef, stony ways up sharp ascents; 
flowers with thorns; crat«r» with blistering scoria; 
hidden enemies to pierce, and storms to over¬ 
whelm. And the cralt, too, bears the rake of 
many ft hidden rook. The sails are rent, and the 
timbers begin to yield to the sea. In the cabin is 
garnerned many a treasure, the bloom of loved 
hopes between tbe leaves withered, yet fragrant 
with memories; an old arm chair vacant, aud a 
little one, too, where tbe first born sat;—all are 
sacred, and shall go upon tbe “other shore” with 
the wreck. There is no memory of sorrow which 
we would wish to toss over to lighten ship! 
Many the stormy sea has beat over the bulwarks, 
and many a friend has been Bwept from the deck. 
Whether storm or calm await us in the future, the 
pennon shall go from the peak, and the old craft ] 
enter the “shoreless Bea” with figure-head to the 
wind. 
Talking about living in the past. Tbe pilgrim¬ 
age ol a life-time, wearily and sorrowfully trod¬ 
den at times, may streich like a desert, with here 
and there an oasis of bloom, between the two ex¬ 
tremities of the way—and yet it may be trodden 
with a foot-step fleeter than the lightning’s wing. 
This morning we took up the scythe for an hour, 
and laid the herd’s glass and clover in a swath. 
The blade was rusty and dull, aud we touched it 
with the “Qulnnebaug” in the old-f.ishioned way. 
The sharp click was a drum-heat — ft “roll call” 
to the army of shadows—and as if at the sweep of 
the enchanter’s wand, they came marching out of 
the mist, down the old road, by the spring, and 
encamped as of old, by the fragrant swaths. All 
else faded out, and as we carefully touched the 
fingers to the edge at tbe point, we dropped the 
math, lifted tbe hat, and wiped the sweat from 
jhe brow with the hardened palm, dreaming over ' 
the dreams that were not all dreams. 
Nearly forty years ago, back among the hills of 
fi township of the good old Empire Common¬ 
wealth, was a homestead to whose fallen chimney 
and grass-grown hearth the thoughts tarn like 
pilgrims from day to day. Cold and damp under 
the luxuriant weeds, lleth tbe stone who*® flame 
M.»iat«a t<- iLjf 46c mother's eye as she sat and 
<sang the first cradle hymn, for the flame died out 
“long ago,” and that fresh young heart, cheery 
with the hopes and dreams of that hour, is as 
cold sd(1 still as the old hearthstone under the 
grass of Bummer. 
The nursery, planted by the grandmother 
when her hair was bleached and her hand tremu¬ 
lous with years, and yet bearing fruit many an 
Autumn before she was garnered home, was just, 
below the house, and then the meadow, Back it 
all comesagain! the old butternuts aud elms wav¬ 
ing, its daisies blooming like drops of gold, its 
bobolinks singing, its thicket* of briars aud 
chokc-cberries, rank and shadowy, and the spring, 
stealing from under the swarded rim, and away 
through the overlooking grass like a thread of 
silver. The thorn is snowy with blossoms, and 
the orchard, aud the dog woods by the swamp. 
The mowers are busy, and as they stand at the 
corner, the gleaming blades are wiped with damp 
grass, and the same sounds on the steel, as a mo¬ 
ment ago, ring sharply out. The “ cocks” of hay 
stand like sentries at sundown, and the Dextday 
the cart and oxen—used no horses and wagons 
then—gathered the fragrant crop and drew it to 
the barn. And all this panorama, with all its as¬ 
sociations, fragant and beautiful, comes of one 
stroke of the “Quinhebaug” on the scythe! And 
we might stand and dream on until sunset, but 
the horses would vote neigh to a dream which left 
them without their “baiting” of clover. 
-- 
Greatness. —All greatness consists in this— 
in being alive to what is going on around one; 
in living actually; in giving voice to tbe thought 
of humanity; in saying to one’s fellows what 
they want to hear or need to hear at that mo¬ 
ment; in being the concretion, the result of the 
present world. In no other way can one affect 
the world than in responding thus to its needs, 
in embodying thus its ideas. You will see, in 
looking in history, that all great men have been 
a piece of their time; take them out and Bet them 
elsewhere, and they will not fit so well; they 
were made for their day and generation. The 
literature which has left any mark, which has 
been worthy of the name, has always mirrored 
what was doing aronnd it; not necessarily da- 
Tguerreotyping the mere outside, but at least re¬ 
flecting the inside —the thoughts, if not the 
action of men—their feelings and sentiments, 
even if it treated of apparently far-off themes, 
- ++*+ - 
Love. —The following exquisite passage we find 
in Tupper’s “Crock of Gold”:—“Love is the 
weapon which Omnipotence reserved to conquer 
rebel man when all else had failed. Reason he 
parries; fear he answers blow to blow; but love, 
that sun against whose melting beams winter can¬ 
not stand, that soft subduing slumber whioh 
wrestles down the giant, there is not one human 
creature in a million, not a thousand men in all 
earth’s large quintillion, whose clay heart is har¬ 
dened against love.” 
-- 
Actions, looks, words, steps, form the alphabet 
by which you may spell character. 
[Written for Moore’* Rural N’err-Yorker.l 
HYMNS FOR DEVOTIONAL HOURS. 
BY EDWARD KNOWLES. 
Death may be terrible to some. 
WboRe treasure* all on earth are laid; 
But were it suddenly to come, 
I would not shrink or be afraid. 
What is this life that. I should cling 
So fast upon it* brittle thread? 
And fear tbe summon* that would bring 
8o great a gain when I am dead? 
No —I am not afraid to die, 
Unwelcome as the thought may be: 
For Christ went by the grave on high, 
And lighted up the way for me. 
Climax, Kal. Co,, Mich , I860. 
. . « • « 
IWritten for Moore'* Rural New-Yorker.] 
“HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.” 
Thbre rcRts the infant on its downy conch. 
How quietly it sleeps, as the long delicate lashes 
pencil its fair, soft cheek, aud the little bosom 
rises and failB to the music of its breathings. 
Now it smiles In its slumber, as if a vision of 
heaven entranced it, or watchful angels whieper- 
ed to R amid its dreams. “ Bleep on,” we mur¬ 
mur, as we gaze touderly on tho unconscious 
little sleeper, for, to such as thou, the blessing 
comes in those sw< et words of heavenly love, 
“He giveth His beloved sleep.” Surely, thou art 
one of the Father’s lambs, and one day we hope 
the Good Shepherd will give thee slumbers in 
fairer realms, and dreams infinitely lovelier than 
these. 
Tbe gentle maiden, too. “ Downy-feathered 
sleep ” visiteth her as *he reposeth dreamily in 
her quiet chamber, while the pale moonbeams, 
from the open casement, cluster among her fair 
curls, itud wreath her white arms in their mi*ty, 
silvery light. There are no tears on her pillow, 
no lines of care on her smooth forehead, no rest¬ 
less wakenings, or unquiet dreams, like those 
that disturb the murderer’s couch; but a slumber, 
peaceful as Eve’s in Paradise, blcsscth and ero- 
braccth ber, Sbe, too, ia a “ beloved ” one, for 
to “Him” has she consecrated the dew of her 
youth, and at morn and night do her orisons of 
praise arise to Heaven. Truly, “ until the day¬ 
break and shadows flee away,” she will sleep on, 
and the e\o of the Almighty Futher will guard 
her slumber, for “ He glveth His beloved sleep.” 
Sleep, balmy sleep, she who “knits up the 
raveled sleeve of care,” Bootheth the disquieted 
brain of the man of business, who has labored 
diligently all the day, and li e9 down at night, 
wearied and desponding, with anxiety in every 
thought. How the rude and wrinkled visages of 
Business, Care, and Mammon, are banished by 
the magic charms of Sleep, and in peaceful rest, 
pleasant dreams and visions come to the weary 
man. Dreams of the olden time, when he rested 
his head npon hia mother’s knee, and said his 
evening prayer at her feet. That mother’s voice 
had attended him all his life, and so his puth had 
been that of the just—the narrow way that leads 
to Heaven. Thus it is, he, too, hath the sleep of 
the beloved. 
The poor of earth, devout and humble, they 
also are His beloved, and, through the gracious 
love of One who had “not where to lay His 
head,” do they receive tbe fulfilment of the same 
loving promise—“ He giveth His beloved sleep.” 
All day they toil in poverty, and when the brown 
shadows of evening come on, and each one 
droopingly seeks his humble home and straw- 
spread pallet, none, in the wide earth, have 
sweeter dreams or more delightful slumbers. 
Still, theic remain, both among high and low, 
many a pure-hearted one to whom the Hottest 
couch firings only wearisome tossings and tire¬ 
some vigils. Bat there is a rest, even to these— 
the calm quiet of a conscience at peace with God 
aud the world. And so, when mortal slumbers 
come not to their entreating eyelids, He stayeth 
at their side, and comforteth them with His 
promises. Ere long also He will bless them with 
such sleep as never living mortal slept, “ a slum¬ 
ber in a dreamhss bed "—a deep unconsciousness 
which nothing can distuib, save the music of 
celestial voices. Such a rest the poet has sung 
of in these sweet lines: 
“ There is a calm for those who weep, 
A rest for mourners found; 
They softly lie and sweetly sleep 
Low in the ground.” 
September, 1860 A M. D. 
-— ♦ « ■«- 
How Every one may Preach. — All cannot 
preach from the pulpit; but there is a kind of 
preaching that is permitted to all men, and often¬ 
times this kind is most effectual. Offices of kind¬ 
ness to the bodies and soots of those around us, 
words of encouragement to the WL»k, instruction 
to the ignorant, of brotherly kindness to all 
beany devotion to the services of religion, in our 
families and our closets, as well aB iu the sanctu¬ 
ary; in a word, earnest, active, self-denying love 
to our fellow beings, springing from our love to 
God—this will form a most impressive sermon, a 
most convincing proof to the world around us, 
that we have been with Jesus. All Christians 
are called on in this way to preach the gospel; 
and woe to them if they neglect the call 
There is no Christian grace which has in it a 
particle of self-existence. Faith, love, courage, 
are all sweet flowers, but their roots are in God. 
There may he streams of gratitude in your heart, 
but the springs thereof are in Him. Your soul 
may be devoted and consecrated, but the lock of 
your devotion wiLl be shorn off, as was the hair of 
Samson, unless the eternal God preserves it.— 
Spurgeon. 
