r 
I I t 
MOO&E’S RBHjSlL MEW-YOE&EE. 
C3ILD-ANGELS; 
THEEE EAiLLY GOING HOME. 
[ Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE OLD MAN TO HIS WIFE. 
11T MAROABKT KIXIOTT. 
Wb’Rb growing old, dear wife, 
We're growing old— 
Ere long the arum of Deal-h 
Will us enfold. 
Life flips out from our clasp 
The while with trembling grasp 
The boon we hold. 
We’re growing old, dear wife, 
We’re growing old. 
We're failing fast, dear wife, 
We're failing fast— 
As autumn-withered leaves 
Wait winter's blast, 
Wo Walt the Angel pale, 
Whose slow steps never fail 
To coine at last. 
We’re failing fast, dear wife, 
We're failing fast. 
We're growing old, dear wife, 
We'rO growing old— 
But lleav«n is growing near- 
Bright to heboid; 
Waiting to grasp onr hands 
A white-robed Angel stands, 
With crown of gold, 
And in that better land 
We'll ne'er grow old. 
Gainesville, N. Y., I860. 
- 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE WEB OF LIFE 
“ The web of lifts— 
Who weaves it well 1” 
What bat Infinite Power and Wisdom could 
have arranged this delicate, yet fitrong,—this 
simple, yet intricate and Jncomprehcusive web,— 
which commences with our being, its circles 
constantly increasing and enlarging, und whoso 
brittle thread can be severed only by death. 
But how diversified iu texture. While we sit 
weaving at the loom of Time, we now and then 
see with clearer vision some portion of the intri¬ 
cate design we are working oat day by day. On 
one Bide the attention is arrested by its forbid¬ 
ding appearance, for Crime and Misery are scat¬ 
tered among its dark and tangled meshen; but 
on the other, Beauty and Innocence arc readily 
distinguished, for the web is fair to look upon, 
and angel tongues epeak of the weaver in heaven. 
How greatly is this fragile web, called "ours,’ 1 
adorned and beautified by Friendship. That 
sweet comforter sheds a mellow radiance over 
the rough places, and helps to sustain the bur¬ 
dens of life. Even the memory of the dear 
departed lingers still, as fragrant incense at the 
heart’s shrine, and we fondly wish that their 
pinions might sweep away 
“ All the <lnrknt!K» sin hath wove 
In the golden warp of love." 
To each weaver there are helpers,—on the one 
hand, Truth and Gentleness bring soft and shin¬ 
ing threads, —on tho other, Hate and dark, 
smooth-tongued Hypocrisy promise that their 
care shall he the wedding garment of the soul 
immortal. As we advance on our oft-times toil¬ 
some journey, the heart is made sad as we see 
the number of the latter rapidly increasing, while 
the former Is diminishing. Among these we 
notice more particularly the offspring of Bin and 
Disobedience, whose haggard features at once 
betray thoir melancholy, yea, deplorable condi¬ 
tion. Involuntarily, we inquire if it was always 
thus,—if the Immortal Weaver of Destinies was 
thus partial iu the distribution of Ills gifts? Ah, 
no! That mysterious woof was once as beautiful 
and fair as any which now adorn the earth; hut 
riohes and the cares of ibis life obscured the 
inward vision, so that the soul failed to discover 
its intricate windings, and over and anon some 
important thread has been broken and lost, never 
again to be reunited. Bad, sad indeed it la to Bee 
the frail, yet beautiful, web of life thus woven. 
But as wo watch the weavers, almost, forgetting 
that we are weavers too, a little fairy child, like 
a ray of sunshine, crosses our path. How in¬ 
tensely each step, each word, eayh look is watched 
by that gentle mother. How faithfully does she 
guard the hidden fastenings of that lovely web, 
lest some false intruder might introduce a dark, 
discolored thread. The shuttle of Faith and 
Prayer is diligently used, and ere she Is aware 
the task is accomplished, the warp is filled out 
Radiant and fair is that web,—no imperfections 
can he traced by mortal vision. Death at last 
takes her beloved one. But why should she 
mourn? It is only transferred to the great Loom 
of Eternity, there to be expanded and perfected. 
Perchance the misty vail which now separates 
them, has for a moment been thrown aside, for 
she says “it is enough,'—while the angels in 
heaven echo “she hath done what she could.” 
Ought not each one to inquiro “How am I 
weaving this sacred, immortal web committed to 
my trust?'’ Do we allow the coarse and tangled 
threads of Error to he Intermingled?—for the 
mighty loom is ever in motion, constantly re¬ 
ceiving either good or evil, though unwilling we 
may be. Let us examine and see what we are 
doing. May the fabric he made smooth by the 
breath of kindness, and may the shades of 
"gentle words and loving smiles” he beautifully 
blended there; for those delicate threads are not 
fastened to the barren shores of Time, hut the 
breezes of heaven waft them safely over the 
dark and turbid waters of Death, and extend 
through the vast cycles of Eternity. 
Le Roy, N. Y., 1800. Frankie. 
Benjamin F. Taylor, of the Chicago Journal, 
relates thus eloquently and feelingly upon the 
death of a child: 
It went, in the morning—a bright and radiant 
morning; many went yesterday, more to-day, and 
there are dews to be shed for the departures of 
to morrow. And can it be wondered that pleaB 
ant summer mornings should beguile them into 
going? Is Ha marvel that they do not wait for 
the burden and the noon, hut follow tho lark, and 
hear her song over the rim of the rainbow? That 
those words so beautiful, they should make so true, 
“andJoy comcth in the morning?” 
Going in the morning! a glorious morning— 
when the sky is all beauty, and the world is all 
bliss, ere the dews have gone to heaven, or the 
stars have gone to God; when the birds are sing¬ 
ing, and the cool winds are blowing, and the 
flowers are out that will be shut at noon, and 
the clouds that are never rent in rain, and the 
shadows, inlaid with crimson, lie away to the 
West 
We have sometimes seen a little coffin, like a 
casket for jewels, all alone by itself in a huge 
hearse, melancholy with plumeB, and gloomy as 
a frown, and we liuvo thought not so, should we 
accompany those a little way, who go in the 
morning. We have wondered why they did not 
take the little coffin into the carriage with them, 
and lay it gently upon their laps, the sleeper 
there lulled to slumber without n bosom or a 
cradle. We have wondered what there was for 
tears in such a going—in the early morning from 
home to home — like fair, white doves, with 
downy wings, emerging from nether night, and 
fluttering for entrunce at the windows of Heaven. 
Never has there been a bund wanting to take the 
wanderer in, and shut out the darkness and the 
storm. 
Upon those little faces it never seemed to ns 
that death could place his great seal; there is no 
thought of the charnel house in those young list¬ 
eners to the invitation, whose acceptance we are 
hound not to forbid; there should he morning 
songs and notaighs; fresh flowers and not badges 
of mourning; no tears nor clouds, but bright dews 
and bright dawuings together. 
Fold up the white robe; lay aside the forgot¬ 
ten toy; smooth the little impressed pillow, and 
gently smile as you think of the white garment, 
of Ihe harp of gold, and of the fair brow with its 
diadem of light: smile as you think that no years 
can make that memory old. An eternal, guileless 
child, waiting about the threshold of Paradise for 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.) 
THE AUTUMN TIME. 
Throw ope the window—let the sunshine pour 
Its mild, rich radiance from j on dreamy Heaven; 
For now the gorgeous summer hours are o'er, 
And smile* of peace the “ Autumn Time ” has given. 
'Tis strange bow 1 bare sighed for these sad days, 
When wood* would wear the crimson hue of Death, 
And skies grow bright, then melt in dreamy haze, 
And wind* go by with half appended breath. 
My heart was joyous when the spring-time came, 
And aeeds Jay warm within the throbbing earth, 
And flower* up-spraog to meet the run again, 
And tiny leave* uutolded to new birth— 
And my glad footsteps buoyantly went forth 
To seek the fairy Bpot where poetry 
Seemed breathing in the air—it* quiet worth 
O'erSooding all the bine arched canopy; 
A prayer was in my heart, that Gon would send 
A bounteous harvest to our suuuy clime; 
And gi»e u* grateful, thankful liearta to blend 
In holy anthem* at the '* Autumn Time.” 
And now the banquet of the year i* spread, 
While hu»h»d and brooding quiet Nature lies, 
And earth seems gathering its bright smiles ere fled 
la all the beaaty of its sun-bright skies. 
There is a quiet in Iby glorious days, 
0, tranquil Autumn! rivaling the Spring; 
And Summer noontide’s pure, unclouded blaze 
Caunot a charm more pure and perfect bring. 
0, thoughts flow swift when bounty dwel's around, 
And my chaioed spirit grasps It* hidden lyre; 
Awed into silence, deep, intense, profound, 
Long slumbering thoughts awake the soul to fire. 
0, that the Autumn of onr life like this 
Might *til), serene, and beautiful e'er be, 
Breathing out tones of noimpsasioned bliss, 
Waklug at last In Heaven's Eternity. 
quisite that candidates for literary fame should 
sneer at them. Wordsworth lived to see the 
very Beview which so bitterly scoffed at him at 
the beginning off his career governed by the 
popular taste which he himself had created. 
Butler, Wig , 1868. g l, Leonard. 
SIM 
m&Wm 
NOVEMBER AND THE POETS. 
South Danhy, N. Y., 1860, 
Mart A. B. 
the coming friend from home. 
Here the glad lips would quiver with anguish; 
the bright curls growing grizzled and gray; the 
young heart weary and old; but there, changeless 
as tho stars, and young aH the last new morning. 
Tho poet tells of a green bough rent by the 
tempest from the tree, and swept rndely along on 
the breast of an angry river, and a mother-bird, 
with cries of gricr, fluttering beside it, for her 
nest and nestlings were there. Ah! better to be 
wafted away from earth than thus that they should 
drift aronnd the world in storm. 
IWritten for Mnore'g Rural New-Yorker] 
WORDSWORTH AND COLERIDGE. 
WELL-GOVERNED CHILDREN. 
It is quite a mistake to suppose that children 
love the parents less who maintain a proper 
authority over them. On the contrary, they 
respect them more. It is a cruel and unnatural 
selfishness that indulges children in a foolish and 
hurtful way. Parents aro guides and councillors 
to their children. As a guide in a foreign land, 
they undertake to pilot them safely through the 
shoals and quicksands of experience. If the 
guide allows hi* followers all the liberty they 
please—if, because they dislike the constraint of 
the narrow path of Bafety, he allows them to 
stray into holes and down precipices that destroy 
them, to loiter in woods full of wild beasts or 
deadly herbs—can he be called a sure guide? 
And is it not the same with our children? They 
are as yet only in the preface, as it were, in the 
first chapter of the book of life. We have nearly 
finished it, or are far advanced. We must open 
the pages for these younger minds. If children 
see that their parent* act from principle; that 
they do not find fault without reason: that they 
do not punish because personal offence is taken, 
hut because the thing in itself is wrong—if they 
see that, while they are resolutely but affection¬ 
ately refused what is not good for them, there is 
a willingness to oblige them iu all innocent mat¬ 
ters—they will soon appreciate such conduct. If 
no attention is paid to rational wishes; if no 
allowance is made for youthful spirits; if they 
are dealt with in a hard, unsympathizing manner 
—the proud spirit will rebel, and the meek spirit 
be broken.— Mother's Magazine . 
It takes away much of the savor of life, to live 
among those with whom one has not anything 
like one’s fair value.— Friends in Council 
Home Courtesies.—A correspondent gives us 
this experience:—"I am one of those whose lot in 
life has been to go oat into an onfriendly world 
at an early age; and of nearly twenty families in 
which I made iny home, in the course of about 
nine years, there were only three or four that 
could be properly designated as happy families, 
and the source of trouble was not so much the 
lack of love as lack of care to manifest it." The 
closing words of this sentence gives us the fruit¬ 
ful source of family alienations, of heart-aches 
innumerable, of sad faces and gloomy home-cir¬ 
cles. “Not so much the lack of love as lack of 
Care to manifest it." What a world of misery is 
suggested by this brief remark. Not over three 
or four happy homes in twenty, and the cause so 
manifest, and so easily remedied! Ah, in the 
“small, sweet courtesies of life,” what power 
resides. In a look, a word, a tone, how much of 
happiness or disquietude may be communicated. 
Think of it, reader, and take the lesson home with 
you. — Ladies' Home Magazine. 
Lord Bacon said:—“If a man be gracious to 
strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world, 
and that the heart is no island cut out from the 
other lands, but a continent that joins them.” 
Abost the year 1770, a poet was born in 
England whoBC claims to genius have given rise 
to more disputes than those of any other man 
who has lived for the last hundred years. Wil¬ 
liam Wordsworth waB, In his youth, an ardent 
republican; but he afterward changed his politi¬ 
cal opinions, and was, at the time of his death, 
Poet Laureate of England. Not satisfied with 
political revolutions, lie attempted a new school 
of poetry. H is design was to lead his contempo¬ 
raries back to the simplicity of nature. He held 
that the every-day affair* of life are the most 
proper subjects about which a poet can write. 
That a revolution in the public taste was needed 
at that time, will not be disputed by any one 
capable of jadgfng it^tjue matter. The influence 
of Pope had mado nearly all the poetry of the 
age mere mcohanical versification. The most 
popular authors wero mere inane versifiers,_ 
writers who thought they became poetical just 
in proportion to their unnatnralnea*. Few read¬ 
ers could now be found who would admire 
Haley’s verses, yet, at the time of which we 
write, he had many admirers. Darwin was then 
a public favorite. The period appeared, in some 
respects, favorable to Wordsworth's experiment. 
The field appeared to be clear, and there seemed 
to be no man of great genius who would be likely 
to oppose his project. True, Bloom yield was in 
the first flush of his popularity, for his “Farmer 
Boy” had just been published, when the “Lyrical 
Ballads,”—the joint production of Wordsworth 
and Colkrtdok,— made their appearance. That 
poem, however, was not popular because of the 
vitiated taste of the age, but in spite of it. 
Comtek was standing sadly upon the verge of 
the tomb; but he was so far from opposing a 
reformation in poetry, that he may be said to 
have commenced the work which Wordswortu 
and Coi.kridob carried out. The “Task,” which 
was published in 1785, was a noble protest against 
the sickly sentimentalism which so fully charac¬ 
terized the poetry of that period. That bright 
galaxy of stars which shed such light upon the 
first quarter of the present century, had not yet 
arisen above the horizon. 
All reforms are liable to be pushed to extremes, 
and it cannot be denied that the authors of the 
“Lyrical Ballads,” in their efforts toward sim¬ 
plicity, sometimes beoame childish. We never 
could discover anything very poetical in the 
piece entitled “We are Seven,” or in “Harry 
Gill,” or in “Mary and her Lamb.” And the 
admirers of Coleridge onDnot deny that he is 
sometimes silly. Who but a Lake poet would 
ever have thought of choosing an ass as a subject 
of a poem. But these men were true poets, and 
their geniaa will shine out in spite of their 
theory. No mere poetaster could ever have been 
the author of the “Excursion,” or "Recollections 
of Early Childhood.” Coleridge's "Chrlstabel," 
“Lines Written in the Vale of Chamonny,” and 
" Genevieve,” would be sufficient, had he never 
written anything else, to substantiate his claims 
to a place among the canonized bards of his 
country. 
When the “Lyrical Ballads” were first pub¬ 
lished in 1789, they created quite a sensation in 
the literary world. By the majority they were 
greeted with derision. The Edm/ntrgh Review 
denounced the theory as puerile, and the poetry 
as a species of second rate nursery rhymes. 
Byron joined, most heartily, with his enemy in 
ridiculing Wordsworth and Coleridge. Even 
in 1814, when the “Excursion” made its appear¬ 
ance, it met with more contempt than applause. 
But our poets held on their way, and one of them 
lived long enough to see the tide turn in their 
favor. Perhaps no two men have exerted more 
influence upon the literature of the present day 
than they have. It is no longer considered re- I 
November is proverbially a Bomber month 
JuBt as the house is sad and gloomy before time 
has softened the anguish with which we laid the 
loved departed ones in their lonely bed; bo the 
painful emotions with which we look hack upon 
the buried beauties of snmmer, have not bad 
time to subside before November, with its winds, 
and clouds, and storms, is upon us. The old 
Saxons called it wine tntmalh, or wind month. It 
is a month that has stirred all the gloomy moods 
of the poet M. Louisa Chitwood, in the “sad 
autumn time,” ’mid the leaves and fading flowers, 
sent forth a refrain sweet and yet sad as her own 
seraphic spirit: 
The south wind sighs, for he misses now 
The hand of the summer so sweet, 
That scattered roses along his path, 
And dew-drops at his feet. 
Even the muse of Thomson, the poet of the sea¬ 
sons, Btrnck with the “power of philosophic 
melancholy, utters his strains in “low whisper¬ 
ing,” as the glooms of November close around 
her: 
He comes! be cornea! in every breeze the power 
Of philosophic melancholy comes! 
His near approach, the sudden starling tear, 
The glowing cheek, the mild dejected air, 
The soften'd feature, and the beating heart, 
Pierced deep with many a virtuous pang, declare. 
In the midst of the disheveled forests, with the 
November blasts howling around him, and the 
sun receding further and still further, Bryant 
breaks forth: 
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! 
One mellow smile through the aoft vapory air, 
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, 
Or snows are gifted o’er the meadow* bare. 
In the stern presence of November, Hosmer 
thoughtfully moralizes: 
The sky is dark again, 
And, roaming sadly in the woodland path, 
I deem that grove and plain 
Lie in the shadow of celestial wrath. 
now sweetly do the skies, 
And the wide earth that withers far below, 
Though tongueless, sermonize 
On tnat great change we all must undergo! 
But Longfellow would teach us that this is not 
all a scene of sadness. 
Be still, sad heart, and ceaae repining! 
Behind the cloud* i» the *nn still shining; 
Thy fate 1* the common fate of all, 
Into each life gome rain must fall; 
Some day* must be dark and dreary! 
But let us add to the other glooms of Novem 
her a fog— a London fog —and then take Hood 
for our poet. You shall read his humorous 
description; 
No can, no moon; 
No morn, no noon; 
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day; 
No sky, no earthly view, 
No distance looking bine; 
No road*, no streets, no't other side the way; 
No end to any row; 
No indication where the crescent* go; 
No top to any steeple, 
No recognition of familiar people; 
No courtesies for Bhowing 'em, 
No knowing ’em; 
No traveler* at all, no locomotion; 
No inkling of the way, no motion; 
“ No go," by land or ocean; 
No mud, no post; 
No news from any foreign coast; 
No park, no ring, no afternoon gentility; 
No company, no nobility; 
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 
No comfortable feel in any member; 
No shade, no shiue; no butterflies, no bees; 
No fruit*, no flowers, no leaves, no bird*— 
No-vemberl 
After all, dear reader, there may he gloom 
without; November winds may howl around us, 
autumnal frosts may blight and wither all that is 
beautiful; but if the love of the Infinite Father 
fills the heart, it shall be a perpetual summer in 
the soul— Ladies' Repository. 
AFTER STRIFE. 
The Sabbath sunshine blessed the earth to-day 
With large, still utterance ef a thought divine; 
For ever freely thus—it seemed to *ay— 
Doth heavenly lore on human darkness Rhine: 
0, bright beyond all snns that wondrous light of Thine! 
To-night the Sabbath moonlight, with white wings, 
Dove-like, doth brood o'er F.arth'gdark,fevered breast; 
So God'* great calm It* gift of healing brings 
To *onl* long to seed in sorrowful unrest, 
And leave* therein the peace that cannot be expressed. 
AFTER REST. 
The loving skies lean softly down to bless; 
The hill* reach upward for that mute caress; 
White calms of cloud* are floating on their way, 
As wing'd with that sweet peace of yesterday. 
Sunrise with singing in the ea*t i* born, 
And the whole earth i* jubilant, thi* morn. 
After the Day of rest. 
From out the white tent of that blest repose, 
We pasa, as one who unto battle goes, 
Hi* head anointed with a kingly oil; 
And, as we climb anew the hills of toil, 
The work-day world, elate and all astir 
With eager tumult*, looketh hopefuller 
After the Day of rest, 
Thus o'er our path the Sabbath lilies spring, 
Through hour* of strife their dewy sweets to (ling; 
With bells of pence to call our hearts away, 
Expectant still of that, eternal day 
When souls that burn on tireless wing to rise, 
Shall find all high and pure activities, 
And weariness, all rest. 
(Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
“SUFFER AND BE STRONG.” 
“ Oh, fear not in a world like this, 
And thou ahalt know ere long, 
Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer, and be strong.” 
Such is Life.— It is a wonderful thing—Life— 
ever growing old, yet ever young; ever dying, 
ever being born; cut down and destroyed by 
accident, by violence; by pestilence, by famine, 
preying remorselessly and insatiably upon itself, 
yet multiplying and extending still, and filling 
every spot of earth on which it once obtains a 
footing; so delicate, bo feeble, so dependent 
upon fostering circumstances, and the kindly 
care of nature, yet so invincible; endowed as 
if with supernatural power, like spirits of the 
air, which yield to every touch, and seem to 
elude our force; subsisting by means impalpable 
to our proper sense, yet wielding powers which 
the mightiest agencies obey. Weakest and 
strongest of the things that God has made, Life 
is the heir of Death, and yet his conqueror; 
victim at once and victor. All living things 
succumb to Death’s assault; Life smiles at his 
impotence, and makes the grave her cradle.— 
Selected. 
- *• * -- 
A Link.— Men accustomed to mingle in crowd¬ 
ed circles, to jostle against their equals at every 
turn, to feel oft times disgust and weariness at the 
daily requisitions of social life, can form but a 
feeble conception of the almost rapturous joy 
with which an individual to a great degree exiled 
from his fellows, hails the stranger, the traveler, 
or the pilgrim, who becomes, for the time, a link 
between him and the great world from which he 
is shut out —El Fureidis. 
Youth and age have too little sympathy with 
each other. If the young would remember that 
they may be old, and the old remember that they 
have been young, the world would be happier.— 
Barton. 
That there iB suffering in our world, no one 
will deny, for in almost every countenance are 
the lines of agony. Both young and old have 
their share in the common suffering. Some wear 
their sorrows on their faces, as if for all tho world 
to know what they have endured,—others,—while 
the fire which will not be quenched is burning 
within, the worm gnawing, and their heartstrings 
breaking,—rather than show to the world the 
agony which cannot be relieved, seek to cover 
their aching hearts and withered hopes with the 
semblance of joy,— with smiles, and laughter, 
and seeming happiness,—but too often their wild 
mirth is like flowers on the graves of the lost; 
they cover only the ruing of what was once beau¬ 
tiful. Alas! that to the children of men should 
come such bitter 6orrow as to make their hearts 
a sepulchre. Though this world is not all sadness, 
—for there are joys here many and rioh,—there 
are sorrows which sweep like lightning through 
the heart and brain, crisping every living thing, 
striking to clay all we have loved most; and 
though in our sufferings there may he pangs 
wilder far than in a thousand deaths, yet there is 
something divine in the idea of Buffering. Even 
Christ suffered deep and long. By suffering 
when we allow it to answer its true ends, our 
spirits are purified and made better for the King¬ 
dom of Heaven. What nobler Bight can be im¬ 
agined than one weighed down by suffering, 
patiently enduring all the Master sends for His 
sake! There are many who, when a few hitter 
dregs are placed in their cup, would push it all 
away, exclaiming, "Oh, my Father! this is too 
much for thy child,—give me the release of 
death!” thinking they are acting magnanimously. 
Ah, the weakness of human nature! Had God 
desired to take them to Himself without disci¬ 
pline thus derived, never would the cup have 
been given them. ’Tis cowardly to wish for 
death; hut the act of a noble mind to nerve the 
bouI to encounter all that lieB in store for it,—“to 
suffer and be strong.” Some there are, when the 
waves of sorrow roll over their souls, who forget 
the duties they owe to themselves, their fellow- 
beings, and their God, and selfishly give them¬ 
selves up to their own sorrow, and thus, the 
purposes of the All-Wise are not accomplished. 
When we see those whose souls rise above the 
afflictions of this world, — which are but for a 
moment compared with the eternity beyond,—we 
reverence them in their sorrow. It must be a 
sweet consolation to “earth’s stricken ones” to 
know the more they endure here of sorrow, the 
sweeterwiU.be their rest in HeaveD,—the brighter 
the smiles of an approving God. 
Hillsdale, Mich, 1860. Millicent Gray. 
REPENTANCE. 
You might pound a lump of ice with a pestle 
into a thousand fragments, but bring it in beside 
your own bright and blazing fire, and Boon, in 
that genial glow, the living waters flow. A man 
may try to make himself contrite. He may 
search out his sins, and dwell on all their enor¬ 
mity, and still feel no true repentance. But come 
to Jesus with His words of grace and truth. Let 
that flinty, frozen spirit bask in the beams of the 
Sun of Righteousness, then wiU it melt.— Dr. 
James Hamilton . 
See the ice, how hard it is! But twelve o’clock 
comes, and there is a great heat from the sun, the 
ce cracks; but the sun goes down, and at night 
it is as hard as ever. How often is it so under 
the infiaence of instruction! A powerful appeal 
often produces a melting of the heart; the tears, 
apparently of contrition, flow; but the instruction 
ended, the tears are dried up, and the heart be¬ 
comes as hard as ever.—AVr. Thomas Jones. 
Without confidence, friendship is hut a mock¬ 
ery, and social intercourse a sort of war in disguise. 
>?,>-■ n 
