S44 
MOORE’S RBRAL MEW-YORRER. 
OOT. 27. 
'a\ *y 
THE RETURNED LETTERS. 
How hho strives ber gitef to smother! 
Tears fall od the eoowv page; 
To a daughter write* » mother— 
Calls her home to cheer her age. 
Weary, then, with looking, longing, 
Weeks and months pass sadly by; 
All the past to memory thronging. 
Hoping oo, but—no reply. 
Till at last there comes a letter! 
■ Tit her titcn she traces there— 
Butter she had died—far better— 
“ Gone away, and not known where!” 
From her home across the ocean, 
Blotted with repentant tears. 
Writes the daughter her emotion— 
How she turns to earlier years— 
Prays that heaven may bless her mother, 
Tells her of her wedded joy; 
How she left her for another— 
Sends the picture of her boy; 
Then alic waits to be forgiven, 
Till nno'hcr year has lied; 
Back her letter, torn and riven, 
Comes—and on it written “ Dead." 
Knickerbocker. 
- -+•.- 
THE PET LAMB. 
Si kAic kindly tn Hie little boy, 
Nor dash to earth bis cup of joy; 
Give him a smile whene'er you can — 
A happy child makes happy mau. 
What if tho Shepherd now would come 
And take the little darling home! 
Ah, me! when He the Hock doth call, 
He takes the pet lamb Hist of nil— 
To greener pastures from the rock 
He takes the pet lamb of the flock. 
Speak wftiy to each little child; 
Let every word be sweet and mild— 
Kind words, like goodly seeds, will start 
And fill the garden of his heart. 
Then smile, and sooth liis cares away, 
The Shepherd soon may come j our way! 
And, ah! when He the flock doth call, 
He takes the pet lamb first of all— 
To greener pastures from tho rock 
He takes the pet lamb of the flock! 
-- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SPEAK GENTLY TO THE LITTLE ONES. 
“Mary, did you break that large platter while 
I was out?” 
The mother’s voice was harsh, and her manner 
threatening, but truthfulness was written upon 
the fair, open brow of the child, and her reply 
came without hesitation or reserve. 
« Yes, mother, I did it Charley was so fretful 
after you were gone that 1 left him a moment, and 
went to the pantry to get some milk, and as I was 
standing iu a chair to reach it, my foot slipped, 
and my ann knocked the platter from the shell. 
1 am very sorry, but indeed, 1 couldn't help it.” 
“You are a careless, good-for nothing child, 
and deserve to be severely punished. I can never 
leave the house a moment but you are sure to 
break, or injure something. 1 almost wish some¬ 
times that you had never been born.” 
The fiery temper of the passionate child was 
fully roused by such injustice, und half-defiantly, 
balf-sadly she answered—" And so do I wish.” 
The injudicious mother, not reflecting that her 
own undeserved censure bad provoked the angry 
retort from her little daughter, seized her by the 
arm, and with no gentle force inflicted blows that 
left their impress upon the bare, white shoulders, 
hut more indelibly upon the plastic mind of the 
wounded child. 
Poor Mary ! she had none to sympathize with 
her. Leaving the house she sought a retired spot 
in the garden, and throwing herself upon a grassy 
mound, with that abandonment to grief peculiar 
to childhood, she murmured, with great choking 
sobs,—"Mother doesu't love me. 0, T wish I was 
dead! I wish I could die now! Nobody loves me, 
I am so naughty, mother says, and I can’t be 
good. I tried hard to do every thing just right 
to-day and keep Charley still, and when the 
platter fell and cut my arm 1 kept quiet because 
a noise would make Charley cry. I sung him 
to sleep, and took good care of him, and I thought 
mother would pity me when she saw my arm,— 
not scold me. But she didn't see it, and when 
she pulled me and hurt so dreadfully, I couldn’t 
have told her if I had died. If I should be very 
sick and die like Fannie Hart, and be buried 
here iu this pretty place, where the birds sing so 
sweetly, I wonder if mother wouldn't come some¬ 
time, and weep over my grave, and call me her 
darlt/i::- Oh, I want some one to love me! Lucy 
Mead tells us at Sabbath school, about heaven, 
and the kind Saviour, who loves little children, 
and takes them in his aims when they die, and 
carries them to that bright, beautiful world,—I 
wish he would come for me now. But she says 
he doesn't love bad children, and I am so unruly, 
and think such wicked thoughts when mother 
gets so angry with me, that I am afraid he would 
never have me for his child. If mother would 
only smile as Eli.a Foster’s mother does, and 
just say, ‘you must be more careful, dear,’ when 
I don't mean to do it, I know I could be good. If 
Jesus did love me as Lucy says he loves little 
girls, mother would tell him how naughty I am, 
and then lie would hate me, too. Oh, dear! dear!” 
And the poor little sufferer, bowed low with a 
load of sorrow too great for her tender years, 
writhes, and moans in the deep anguish of a 
broken heart, until exhausted nature yields the 
contest, and she sinks into a troubled sleep. 
Think yon, mother, is it any wonder if such 
treatment serves to alienate the affeotions of a 
naturally warm-hearted, impulsive child, from 
home. and. perhaps, in time, render her skeptical 
in icgard to the love and care of a kind heavenly 
Father l Mothers, ye who have these tender 
plants committed to yonr charge, be careful that 
i you do not thoughtlessly wound their sensitive 
natures, and when reproof is necessary, do it in a 
manner that shall not for a moment cause them to 
doubt your love. Frances. 
Cherry GroTe, N. Y., 1800. 
GIVE US LIGHT AND AIR. 
Our parlors have become simply furniture ware- 
rooms, not “show-rooms” even, for light is es¬ 
sential to a good show of any sort; they are mere 
places for the storage of carpets, pictures and 
chairs that have cost money, and have no doubt 
a money value, but whose office la a sinecure, as 
far as making a comfortable home ia concerned* 
Ou calling to see a friend, we are shown into an 
utteily daik and airless room. After a long time 
she appears, or something appears, of which we 
can dimly discover the outline. If she is very 
amiable, she remarks, by way of conversation, 
"this room is rather dark,” and raises one of the 
various coverings of the window about an inch. 
Thereupon comes in a light streak of sickly hue, 
that makes the previous darkness more visible. 
You have the pleasure of hearing her voice, with¬ 
out the slightest notion of her color, expression 
or looks generally. After you escape into the 
cheerful brightness of out of doors, she steps 
back into the room, drops the shade closely again, 
arid trips up a darkened stairway into another 
dark room, there to sew, read or write, all the 
time straining her eyes to the utmost, in her 
eil'orts to see iu the dark. 
Her eyes “ trouble her very much ”—she “ has 
constant pain in her eyes und head” — she has 
been to this oculist and to that, and has paid 
large sums of money, and “is nothing better.” 
They all tell her one thing — she must •' rest her 
eyes”—she “uses them too much,” and soon. 
No part of this is true, as she has never used her 
eyes in any good sense, though she has always 
abused them. About every third person of her 
acquaintance is afi'ected iu the same way, and 
"Ob, dear, what can the matter be?” Her grand¬ 
mother— all their grandmothers in “point of 
fact”—at eighty-two, could sew the nicest and 
most exact Beam, and read the finest print in the 
evening, with the aid of the usual glasses. She 
lived ail her long life iu rooms whose shutters 
were never closed save at night, and curtains of 
auy kind there were cone. The sun in her day 
did not harm the rich Turkey carpets that cover¬ 
ed the floor, or the “ portraits by Copley ” that 
hung upon the wall. Her aunt, at seveniy-oue, 
can make as elegant a buttoD-hole as eyes ever 
buw, can embroider muslin and cambric in beau¬ 
tiful style, and in Cue, plain Bewing, has few 
equals. Her mother at sixty could see to mail* 
ber own name in full, eighteen letters, with her 
own hair,on the finest linen cambric handkerchief, 
and at sixty nine can do almost anything that can 
he done with a needle, in the moat workmanlike 
mantier. These three ladies spent thirty years of 
their lives in full view of Boston harbor, and the 
use of a spy glass was one of their almost daily 
recreations. These are not exceptional cases. 
Any one can recall similar facts among the circle 
of their friends between the ages of sixty and 
eighty years. But our modern lady is “ troubled 
with her eyes;” she has, in fact, no soundness in 
her. From the crown of her head to the sole of 
her foot, she is a bundle of ailments produced by 
broken law.— Boston Transcript . 
[Written for Moore'a Rural New-Yorker.] 
TO THE RIGHT BE TRUE. 
BT GEO. A. HAMILTON. 
ARR you marching, patieBt marching, 
Through the storms of life? 
Are you meeting, daily meeting, 
Weary toil and strife? 
There's a voice above life’s tumult, 
Speaking still to you, 
Never falter—never waver— 
To the Right be True! 
Are you thinking, daily thinking, 
Of the painful way; 
Often asking, frequent asking, 
Why these sufferings stay? 
Hear the promise—cW thall surely 
Work for good tv you ! ' 
Never fearing, never doubting, 
To the Right be True! 
Are you hearing, often hearing, 
Earth’s alluring call, 
Tempting offers, golden offers, 
Ever gilding all? 
Yield not to the tinseled goddess— 
Spurn each selfish view! 
Listen to the angel whisper, 
To the Right be True! 
When the strong are basely forging 
Fetters for the weak, 
Shall tin* eai oest, truthful spirit, 
Yield, nor dare te speak? 
Spurn the thought—yes, ever spurn it— 
Hurl it far from you! 
Spurn the selflsb, grasp the noble! 
To the Right be Truel 
Are there many siren voices 
Calling you and me? 
Never listen to their pleading— 
Spurn them and be free! 
Of life's ac'ive, earnest duties, 
Get the highest view, 
Firmly craps the arm of heaven— 
To the Right be True! 
Are you hopiug, joyful hoping, 
For the rest of heaven? 
Are your waiting, patient waiting, 
Till the chains are ri vod: 
Would you keep the heavenly mansion 
• Clear and bright in view? 
Always heed the earnest prompter, 
To the right bk Tuck ! 
South Butler, N. Y., 1800. 
S- -J . 
I Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
NIGHT MUSINGS. 
Nature is hushed, and the pulses of the great 
world are still. Midnight, like a huge mantle of 
blackness, hangs over hill and dale. The multi¬ 
tudes are sleeping in the cradle of silence, and 
all, save the plaintive notes of the lone whippor- 
will, in the distant forest, and the continual mur¬ 
muring of the water-fall, is mute. Now for an 
on thy trembling lip, and in tby heart of hearts, 
His voice will apeak. Upon thy vision will break 
a fairer view than this, peopled with angelic 
forms, enraptnred with unceasing songs, and j 
carpeted with lovelier flowers than ever graced : 
the earth; where the painted skies are decorated 
with festooning rainbows, where Beauty and j 
Peace have hung their beatific semblances. 
Thither will thy bou! yearn to retire, and leave 
behind earth and its ills, to live where 
“ Heaven’s the p -rfection of all that can 
Be said or thought; or riches, delight, or harmony, 
Health, beanty; and all these not subject to 
The waste of time, but in their height eternal.” 
Cleveland, N. Y., 1800. Ecokxk. 
-* » «■ 
SHAKING HANDS. 
Asa means of defense, the Englishmen use the 
clenched fist, and not the dagger, as the Span¬ 
iards and Italians do. They consider this a more 
noble, manly, and. as being more at hand when 
wanted, a more efficient power. But for friend¬ 
ship, as its most heartfelt expression, the worthi¬ 
est, manliest, and sincerest sign of feeling, they 
give the open hand to ns. Iodeed, this English 
hand shaking, when immoderate, as it sometimes 
is, has a somewhat comical effect Bat it has its 
bright side also; for in this custom — hearty, 
strong, and sometimes rough—we see expressed 
the deep, fraternal sympathy of this great nation. 
Bodily union, as fur as the junction of the ten 
fingers can effect it, is a beautiful symbol of that 
of the soul, and almost all nations have adopted 
two hands clasped together as the emblem of 
mutual brotherhood and aid. There ia a lan¬ 
guage, silent indeed, but ever variously express¬ 
ive in this custom. Think bat upon its degrees— 
the pressure—the grasp—the hands held, twisted 
within each other, given or shaken—all, from 
woman’s genlle touch, which seems to linger as 
a feeling, to man's nervous, strong retention. 
Mark those who, unacquainted with each other, 
or possibly estranged, offer the hand as a mere 
outward act of courtesy. How restrained is 
their action! how motionless, unfeeling, insensi¬ 
ble! Like oil upon water, one hand rests within 
another; how readily they depart, each glad to 
escape from his hypocritical communion! Ou 
the contrary, when long-tried friends, who have 
been separated for years, again meet, with what 
haste and warmth of feeling do they not grasp 
the hand; liow short, but hearty is their saluta¬ 
tion, “Well met!” They seem riveted together 
as the links of a chain, true and inseparable, with 
hearts for any fate. And when we bid “Fare¬ 
well,” does not our hand rest folded within an¬ 
other’s, motionless, yet thrilling with gentlest 
touch? for sorrowed allliction lias soft, restrain¬ 
ing feelings, that lead us to yield the hand so 
often clasped iu tenderness at the moment of 
separation.— Selected. 
PREACHING. 
There are some things that preach besides 
men. Sometimes it is a book, sometimes a child, 
sometimes an unwritten life, and sometimes there 
is a sermon in a stone. There is no lack of 
preachers. If there is a dearth in anything it is 
hour of thought. An nUlen balcony shall be our p rac ti C e; if there is auy famine in the laud it is 
place for prospects and musings, for we would a mora \ 0De . 
CHOOSING HUSBANDS. 
When a girl marries, why do people talk of her 
choice? Iu ninety-nine cases out of a hundred 
has she any choice? Does not the mau, probably 
the last she would have chosen, select her ? A 
lady write, •■ay-;— “I have been married many 
years; the match was considered a good one, suit¬ 
able iu every respect — age, position, and fortune. 
Every one said I had made a good choice. 1 loved 
my husband when I mauled him, because he had 
by unwearied assiduity succeeded in gaining my 
affections; but had choice been my privilege, I 
certainly should not have chosen him. As I look 
at him iu his easy chair, sleepio before the fire, 
a huge dug at his feet, a pipe y eping out of the 
in any pockets of his shooting coat, I cannot but 
think how different he is Horn what I would have 
chosen. My first penchant was for a clergyman— 
he was a li itterei, and cared but little for me, 
though l have not forgotten the pang of his de¬ 
sertion. My next was a lawyer—a young man of 
immense talent, smooth, insinuating manners; but 
he, too, after walking, talking, daueiug and flirt¬ 
ing, left me. Either of these would have been my 
‘choice/ but my present husband chose me, and 
therefore I married him; and this, I cannot help 
thinking, must be the way with half the married 
folks of my acquaintance .”—Married Life. 
• 
A Graceful Compliment to a Wife. — The 
following neat and beautiful itply was made by 
the late Daniel O’Conatll, in response to a toast 
given in compliment to his wife, who was the 
object of his long and affectionate attachment. It 
was given at a political meeting. The English 
' language could not furnish any thing more touch¬ 
ingly tender and graceful: 
There are some topics of so sacred and sweet a 
nature, that they may be compiehended by those 
who aie happy, but they cannot be possibly de¬ 
scribed by auy human being. All that I shall do 
is to thank you in the name of her who was the 
disinterested choice of my early youth; who was 
the ever cheerful companion of my manly ears; 
and who is the sweetest solace of that “sear and 
yellow leaf" age at which I have arrived. In her 
name I thank you; and this you may readily 
believe; for experience, I think, will show to us 
all, that man cannot battle and struggle with the 
malignant enemies of his country, unless liis nest 
at home is warm and comfortable,— unless the 
honey of human life is commended by a baud that 
he loves. 
-- > 4 ♦ - 
True friendship increases a3 life’s end ap¬ 
proaches, just as the shadow lengthens with even- 
degree the sun declines toward its sitting. 
draw around us the relics of past beanty and 
grandeur, that their memories may haunt us—we 
would bring back to our ear the sounding foot¬ 
steps of years which have not yet died out in the 
corridor of Time. From their bright abodes, the 
melancholy stars look down, as a Christian looks 
into the grave, We t^l on our cheek the sweep¬ 
ings of night's moistened wings, as if it were 
laic on eider-down that had long drank evening’s 
silent dews. Awe watches from the windows of 
Lives preach. When a minister’s son pitches 
quoits on the Sabbath, he preaches louder and 
more eloquently than his father in the pulpit. 
When a wine-dealer’s boys grow up spendthrifts 
and go reeling through the streets, it is an expo¬ 
sition of the text with which he started, "Am I 
my brother's keeper?” more forcible than any 
divine could give by a score of arguments. 
When a fashionable mother teaches her daughters 
to despise labor, and ignore mental attainments, 
the soul, and Thought goes out in the realms of and lives to see them taking in washing and sew 
space, as the lonely dove went forth from the ^ere j a an inference to be drawn from such 
ancient ark. education more potent than any pulpit could por- 
Tia now atrauge aspirations mount within our tray> winm a young man makes beautiful praters 
spirit, circling through the eternity of its being, in the gocial xut eting. and refuses to comfort the 
wandering toward God, and winding through w idow and the fatherless, and locks hla “closet” 
many a flowery maze, till the soul is burdened excepl yn the fir&l j 8y 0 f ,.he week, his six 
with a sublime Presence. Fancy has been out— fla prtjac hing not only eclipses tho seventh, but 
the wandering bird of heaven uow kneeling by g} vt . s , j g0 Xo the question whether Pharisees are 
the altars of the silent stars to worship beauty 0 ^ 80 j ete> When a government officer betrays bis 
and light; now threading the lamp lit stairway trugt( and absconds with a hundred thousand dol- 
of heaven, and quaffing the ambrosia that wafts j Jlrs wa nting on the records, with which he gave 
minstrel breezes from angel bowers. Come back, grgat dintier8 and livcd jjke a nabob, and finds, 
bright-eyed, smile-wreathed Fancy, sweet goddess j ng t ea j 0 f a state prison, a false, sickly sympathy 
of the mind! 1 fain would kiss thy cherub check amon g brother politicians, there is a comment 
again. Come, charm mine ear with thy voice; upoI1 f 4ax living and false morality more powerful 
place tby warm lips close to my enraptured ear, than auy exp0hil i on ap0 n the life of Dives, from 
breathe such sounds in my secret soul as God may t b eo logian'8 pen. 
speak when to the hosts that give Him praise He many, it would be wisdom to say, as the 
breathes His welcome love. j ad y d j dt w hen asked of a student whose life was 
Ob, who can go the very gate of Night, swing a burlesque upon his preaching, whether lie was 
it op«*n on its ponderous hinges, p iss out into the prt . a ching—no, he is practicing .—Olive Branch. 
glorious field of day, and not feel the band of an _- 
indefinable Presence suddenly, yet peacefully, How Soon Forgotten.— So lately dead; so soon 
laid on his heart? Up the shining footprints of forgotteD . 'Tis the way of the world. We flour- 
Gor> that glitter along the pavements of the sky, ^ for a w biie. Men take ns by the hand, and are 
How Soon Forgotten.— So lately dead; so soon 
forgotten. ’Tis the way of the world. We flour- 
his soul may wander; and, as grateful bees sit, 
murmuring their hymns of toil, and roam amid 
fields of honey-laden flowers, may sip from an- 
anxious about the health of our bodies, and laugh 
at our jokes, and we really think, like the fly on 
the wheel, that we have somctlrug to do with the 
gelic fountains the nectar of life, and sing the turn j n g 0 f the earth! Some day we die and are 
new-born notes of Paradise. buried. The suu does not stop for our funeral; 
Aye, go forth now, poet and muse, beneath the ever ything goes on as usual; we arc not missed 
canopy of stars. What unutterable, indefinable, j Q ^ greets: men laugh at new jokes; one or 
overpowering feelings ctowd around the heart, 
and yearn for utterance, till they go drifting 
two hearts feci the wound of affliction, one or two 
memories still hold our names and forms; but the 
over the multitudinous peaks of heaving thoughts crowd moves in its daily circle; and in three 
as the waves break over the crests of rocks that daya great wave of time sweeps over our 
shoot up from the sea. And then what sounds Etep8 and w ashes out the last vestige of our lives, 
ravish the ear!—not loud and clamorous, but soft, _ p,. ovu i ence Journal 
balm-like, and divine, baptizing the soul with 
the melodious foretastes of celestial Bong. Thus 
is enchantment weaving a hallowed halo around 
Poverty the Parent of Fun.— Poverty runs 
strongly to fun. A man is never so full of jokes 
us as we sit musing amid the whispering hours as when he is reduced to one Bhirt and two pota- 
of night, whose dulcet voices siug to the world a toes. Wealth is taciturn and fretful. Stock bro- 
biessed lullaby. The audible whispers of Nature kers would no sooner indulge in a hearty laugh 
are wafting on the balmy breeze that kisses our 
grateful brow, and lifts our damp locks from 
than they would lend money on a second mort¬ 
gage. Nature ia a great believer in cotnpensa- 
the fevered temple, leaving there its soothing tions. Those to whom she sends wealth she 
memorv saddles with lawsuits and dyspepsia. The poor 
memory. 
Oh, lover of Nature, oft hie thee to some genial 
never indulge in woodcock, but then they have a 
retreat, and there commune with God. Thou style of appetite that converts a number three 
wilt Teel His soft hand upon thy brow, His finger mackerel into a salmon, and that is quite as well. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural Kew-Yorker.] 
THE SOUL'S REFUGE. 
11 Arise and pray, lest ye enter into temptation." 
Oft listening to some sweet refrain, 
Its music doth my soul enchain, 
And still beeps warbling o'er again. 
Thus, harkening to the sacred word, 
My Savjoh’s kind command I heard, 
And in its depths my heart was stirred. 
And still, low whispering, day by day, 
I hear a soft voice gently say. 
Arise and pray! Arise and pray! 
When vanquished quits by sin and care— 
A captive made by grim Despair— 
The same sweet tones are murmuring there. 
Arise and pray! Thou hast the key; 
No longer needest thou prisoner be; 
Go ope thy dnngeon gate and flee. 
When turn my wayward steps aside— 
Or, swayed by passion, or by pride, 
My Master I hail half denied, 
Its sad, reproving tones I hear— 
“ Why sittest thou all day idle here? 
Arise and pray!—the night is near. 
“ The night is drear and soon will come, 
One sad misstep may seal thy doom, 
And plunge thee in Us fearful gloom. 
9 
“Then rise and pray, 0. laggard soul, 
Lest over thee, without control, 
The waves of dark temptation roll,” 
Clay, Iowa, I860. 8- 
--- 
RELIGION. 
Some men think only of religion as something 
which gives them a title to heaven—as if the devil 
were some sneaking thing going about to snatch 
from mau his title to a property. Or as if a man 
had an estate to which another olaimant arose. 
The case is contested, and the man who holds the 
estate is adjudged to have it rightfully. He goes 
back borne—is the estate improved? are the 
fences repaired? ore the fields more fruitful? No, 
it is the same thistle-grown estate that it was; but 
the man rejoices and says, "Now I know it is 
mine; for I have got a title.” Other men look on 
leligion as a provision for the future; like a little 
estate laid by snugly for the n, to which, if any¬ 
thing should happen, they may retire by-and-by, 
and enjoy themselves. Still other men’s reli¬ 
gion bears about the same lelation to their whole 
life and character that a farmer’s garden does to 
his whole farm. Here he has finer vegetables and 
fruits, and, if anywhere, flowers, while all the 
fields are full of marketable commodities. A 
gieatmany persons have gardens of piety, while 
the large fields of their character are without a 
flower or a fruit A man cannot parcel off a little 
place and say, “Here I will have my piety, and 
oat there I will have my business and my poli¬ 
tics;” it may do in farming, but not in religion. 
There must be a Christianization of the soul, and 
of each of its separate faculties. Worship must 
be Christianized. Uuder the ancient influences 
Churches have been darkened, and worship made 
somber and gloomy. The outward life must also 
be made to conform to the inward, and both he 
regulated by the same divine law.—//. IF. Beecher. 
Life afd Death.— Life and death, what awful 
words, yet how lightly they drop from the lips. 
We utter them as if we had not constantly before 
UBtbe solemn warning, “that in the midst of life 
we are in death.” We wander along the highways 
of our mortal existence, either heedless or uncon¬ 
scious that we are pursued by a shadow which 
will go wherever we go. Wrapt up in ourselves, 
wc adore the present, regardless of the fact that, 
however glittering it may appear to our senses, it 
is wreathed in mists that spread disease, and pain, 
aud death on every side of ub. 
« Floating down the enrrentof time to the tomb, 
We hallow too much the flowers on its side." 
The smallest, homeliest, humblest actions, are 
ennobled by the sentiment of love and duty. 
Think of two arch-augels —one sent to rule the 
British realm, the other to sweep the streets of 
London, and both finding equal dignity and equal 
pleasure iu the faithful doing of their work. Be¬ 
think you, too, with what joyous alacrity the 
cherubim would grind knives along the streets of 
our town, if set to do it by their Lord and ours— 
and how well they would grind them too! And 
not a single seraph, winging by on swift pinions 
upon some embassy of highest import to the 
realm-ruling angel, would have a thought of scorn 
for the faithful knife-grinder's or the cheerful 
street-sweeper’s place and work .—Grey stone. 
-- 
Fan Gently the Dying Spark. —In attempt¬ 
ing to convert a sinner from the error of his way ( 
one should be as careful as though he were 
endeavoring to revive a rapidly expiring fire. 
Not trundle in a scuttleful of dogmas all at once, 
so that the faint spark which gives indications of 
spiritual life is so overwhelmed by the mass, that 
it can with difficulty force its way through it, or 
perhaps is smothered entirely, but drop a truth 
here, a maxim there, always striving to keep the 
sparks alive. Fan it—do not blow it out. 
-- 
The more we attach ourselves to the refined 
pleasures of religion and virtue, the mote are we 
persuaded of their eternal duration and improve¬ 
ment; the more we attach ourselves to the tran¬ 
sient pleasures of time, the more do we fear to 
lose them; while the use of them familiarizes and 
diminishes our enjoyment 
---- 
Tub great object of him who conducts his life 
by principles of religion, is to make the future 
predominate over the present 
