Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SONG.-OUR MOUNTAIN ROSE. 
BY ADKT.AI UK STOUT. 
Our child, from all thing? pure and sweet 
A nameless grace had caught, 
The rose flushed in her fair young cheek, 
Its dew pearled every thought, 
The crystal rill its Bilvery chime 
Gave to our darling child, 
Song leaped from out her coral lips. 
In note® as glad and wild. 
CHORUS 
Sweet Rose that flushed so warm with life, 
Death came with silent tread, 
And touched thee; in the morn we found 
Pale lily in thy stead- 
The winged zephyrs softly came, 
Prom out the cedar grove, 
It found not in that perfumed shade, 
So fair a woodland rose. 
Our rifted flower by angel hands 
Transplanted, now I ween, 
There is no purer, sweeter flower, 
Beside the living stream. 
CHORUS. 
Sweet Rose that flushed so warm with life, 
Death came with silent t read, 
And touched thee; in the morn we found 
Pale lily in thy stead. 
The sons from our rude mountain home 
Walked forth in manhood’s pride; 
The passing years have never changed 
The little child that died. 
Our Mountain Rose we call the still. 
Our pore, onr fadeless one, 
The perfume of thy memory. 
Hath kept onr sad hearts young 
CHORUS 
Sweet Rose that flushed so warm with life. 
Death camo with silent tread, 
And touched thee; in the morn we found 
Pale lily in thy stead. 
-»»♦ ■ - - 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
HOUSEWORK. 
Playing on the piano and embroidering slip¬ 
pers may he essential requisites for good wives 
in this era of modern improvement, yet know¬ 
ing how to make good bread, and to roast a tur¬ 
key nicely, will also help to retain a husband's 
good temper, if no more. And as it is the des¬ 
tiny of the majority of womankind to become 
wives, would it not be a blessing for a spirit of 
good temper to preside over each respective 
household? Still, the occupation of housework, 
instead of holding rank as the highest of honest 
employments for women, is the lowest and last 
sought for. To he sure, many country homes 
yet retain some of the primitive homeliness of 
our grandmother’s girl-days, and the fair, bright¬ 
eyed daughters are not ashamed if caught by 
chance visitors making pies or washing dishes. 
Yet even in the country if there happens to be a 
numerous family of girls, some of w hom, from 
choice or necessity, wish to seek employment 
abroad, how few would be willing to “go out 
doing housework.” In the city no American 
girl of ordinary education will resort to house¬ 
work for a living if any other means can possi¬ 
bly be found. 
There are many obvious reasons fortius. If 
an intelligent American girl were to work in 
wealthy Mi’s.-’s kitchen would Mrs.-\s 
young lady daughters be allowed to make a 
friend or companion of her, or introduce her 
into their own society ? Even if they were all 
independent, enough for that, how many of their 
stylish acquaintances would not show such aver¬ 
sion, by some sneering look or word, to the com¬ 
pany of a “kitchen girl,” as would make it 
more pain than pleasure for her to remain whore 
she felt she was not welcome. And if her em¬ 
ployment debars her from refined societ y of her 
own class, she must seek that of the class which 
predominates in other kitchens, most of whom 
are foreign born, (and although many of them arc 
kind-hearted, honest girls, yet they arc sadly 
deficient In mental cultivation and general intel¬ 
ligence,) or remain by hex-self destitute of agree¬ 
able companionship. 
The wages given for housework, also, arc too 
low to induce any one w ho can procure teaching, 
dress-making, or even plain sewing. Lo seek it, 
although it may be more, in many cases, than 
slatternly girls earn. Often have I heard a 
master or mistress complain of giving “ Betty ” 
a dollar a week! Did they think of the seven 
long day's work she had to finish for that dollar, 
— enough to buy one calico dress in days gone 
by! Would master or mistress be willing to do 
their work W(i8 for such pay? 
There are many other tilings to make intelligent 
girls shun housework, consequently the great 
mass of girls will grow up ignorant of its duties, 
and how many such wives will there be? Even 
though a girl marries in affluence, and does not 
undertake her own household duties, she is 
equally unfit to oversee what she does not under¬ 
stand, and is more than likely to be left to the 
mercy of “help” as ignorant as herself, all of 
which will not greatly tend to increase the com¬ 
forts of a new home. 
Until housework is held higher among the 
employments for women, and the pay for good, 
competent help is better, there will be, as now, 
a flood of bad help in the market, bad work in 
OUT kitchens, and many homes disorderly and 
discordant, from a lack of knowledge how prop- 
erly to do housew r ork. Erik. 
December, 1863. 
THE perfection of conversation is not to play 
a regular sonata, but, like the iEolian harp, to 
await the inspiration of the passing breath.— 
Jeauty is its own excuse for being. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
CROWNED. 
The sweet, tender light of a May-day—the 
joyous carol of birds in their leafy nests—the 
ripple of a quiet, little stream that wound in and 
out among the gnarled roots of the old trees,— 
happy faces and glad voices around mo; and I. 
crowned with roses, in their midst. Thirteen 
long years have rolled by since then hut I re¬ 
member each event of the sunny day. 
What little things make up the light and 
shadow of a child’s life! It was only a simple 
wreath of wild roses, dripping with dew, that 
thcy T placed upon my forehead, vet 1 was a glad 
and a proud lit tle maiden for long afterwards. 
.The scent of those blossoms is yet lingering in 
the air. hut the echo of t hose glad voices has 
died away over the far hill-tops that, look down 
into the Valiev of Death, for we were only four, 
and thi-ee have crossed to the farther shore. 
The Angel of Life long ago crowned each pale, 
sweet forehead with the wreath ot Immortality, 
and they sing sweeter songs in the presence of 
their Redeemer than our human voices ever 
knew. Earth has her crowns and we wear them 
in gladness sometimes, and sometimes in sorrow, 
from childhood to the tomb. 
Mirth-loving childhood gathers the starry 
blossoms from Earth’s breast and weaves them 
into a crown fit for blue-eyed Innocence to wear. 
Maidenhood plucks the flowers of Love and 
Friendship and lays them in all their bloom and 
freshness upon her forehead. Manhood reaches 
forth for the laurel-branch to crown his brow, 
while womanhood in its noblest expression cares 
more for the teuder, clinging touch of baby- 
fingers and the soft, caress of baby-kisses than 
for all the golden diadems, with their weight of 
ruby and emerald and .diamond, which Earth s 
greatness or her power has ever won. 
Yet the crowns are not all without thorns. I 
have seen an old man with silvered locks and 
bent shoulders, with a faltering footstep and fail¬ 
ing sight, and lie seemed, in his age and loneli¬ 
ness, to be crowned with care. 1 et even here 
there was a glimpse of the joy that youth knows; 
there is in all the world, no fruitless suffering. 
Cold nights may bury beneath their snows the 
roots of numberless flowers, but, beyond, the 
bright Spring cometh. when they shall awake to 
beauty and to bloom. 
But from each one of us Death shall sometime 
snatch the crown, and leave US quietly sleeping 
with closed eyes and hands folded over pulseless 
breasts. Then, only, to him that overeometh 
shall be given the crown that shall never be taken 
away— the Crown of Eternal Life. 
Philadelphia, Pa., 1861. Clio Stanley. 
_— » > 4 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
HOME, HOPE, AND HEAVEN. 
It has been observed by a celebrated writer 
that the three sweetest words of the English 
language, arc Home, Hope, and Heaven. Few 
of us there are who will not agree with this 
author, comprehending, us these words do, the 
gum of the joys of this world, and bliss beyond 
the tomb. 
Hom k.—H ow sweet the sound. The one loved 
spot on earth round which the aflections Unger; 
the haven of rest, toward which we turn from 
the cares and perplexities of life; the place where 
we may taste, unrestrained, the sweetest of social 
intercourse, and forgetting for a while the tur¬ 
moils of the outside world, we may sit down in 
peaceful happiness in the sacred precincts of the 
household circle. 
HOPS.—The beacon star of life. Without, it, 
how sad and bitter would he our lot. A life 
without aspiration,—a journey without a goal- 
all utterly aimless and dismal. Ah, it is Hope 
that brightens the eye: hope that quickens the 
step and sends the warm blood dancing through 
the veins: hope that urges the scholar to exer¬ 
tion, and under her cheering influence he toils 
up the rugged steeps of science, patiently perse¬ 
vering, never doubting that time will bring him 
his reward. It is hope that gives courage to the 
soldier fighting his country's battles; hope that 
inspires the weary laborer as he toils day after 
day; hope that inspires us all From the high¬ 
est to the lowest, rich or poor, we are subject to 
her sway: but her rule is gentle, her voice is 
silvery, and her words are sweet, so w e kiss her 
scepter, and yield to her will. 
Heaven.— The Christian’s hope, the goal of 
life, the asylum for the oppressed, the rest, for 
the weary, the home of the soul; where we 
may find a balm for every sorrow, and a healing 
for all our woes,—what word can there be 
sweeter to our ears. Tbe heaven, where, when 
our toils are over, and our spiritual garments 
cleansed from worldly defilement, the Good 
Shepherd will lead his flock to green pastures, 
beside cool waters where they may rest in the 
shade of the tree of life, in peace, for ever and 
ever, A* G. 6 . 
East Lansing, N. Y., 1863. 
---i - - 
HOPE. 
ReflectM) on the lake I love 
To see the stars of evening glow, 
So tranquil in the heaven above, 
So restless in the wave below 
Tims heavenly hope is all serene ; 
But earthly hope, how bright so e’er 
Still flutters o’er the changing scene 
As false, as fleeting as ’tie lair! 
[lleber. 
-- 
Some are very entertaining for an interview, 
hut after that they are exhausted and run out; 
on a second meeting they are very flat and stale; 
like hand organs, all their tunes are played out. 
- Collar ,(. 
-.--- 
The essence of friendship is entireness, a total 
magnanimity and trust. It must not surmise or 
provide for infirmity. It treats its object as a 
god, that it may dcifv both.— Emerson. 
Written for Moore’s ltnr.il New-Yorker. 
ORION 
BY F. H. OUTWITS■ 
Armatuinque auro. clrcumspic.lt Ortona.* 
Virgil. 
WmnN the dusk Olympian groves 
Where gods breathed their immortal loves; 
And through the vales and by the rills 
That wander ’tnong Thessalian hills, 
Armed for the chose, and mailed in gold. 
Orion hunts the leopard's hold; 
Watches beside the reedy brink 
'The careful elk approach and drink, 
Or plucks, with scarce an erring aim 
From off the houghs the choicest game 
A fair companion all the grace 
Lends of her faultless form and face— 
The Patron Huntress—from whose eyne 
He drinks more strength than with his wane. 
His heart still pants for high emprise 
The while before his feasted eyes 
Upon a shelving ledge arc laid 
The trophies from the captures made 
But him who slew the strong and fleet, 
A loathsome reptile at tils feet 
O’ercame when from Us venomed flings 
His heart was filled with deadly pangs. 
The gods saw from their mountain throne 
His shade to Hades pass alone. 
And moved to pity by liia fate. 
Translated, in victorious state, 
Him to the skica, full-armed and mailed, 
As when the woodland heights he scaled. 
O, we who In the sunny glades 
Of life, and in Its gloaming shade® 
Are hunting for it® fairest flowers. 
And battling all opposing powers; 
Who seek to twine abont. onr brows 
The wreath of fame tbe world bestows, 
Or sigh for the diviner bliss 
Of other climes more pure than this; 
We, too, have rankling deep within, 
The virus of the serpent—sin. 
And we must leave our fields of glory, 
And ning away onr trophies gory,— 
Ourselves upon the Stygian tide 
Our quivering shallops launch and gnido, 
Alone- and cold, and trembling stand 
Within the dark and silent land. 
But trust, our souls,—away our fear: 
For see, the pitying mount is near, 
And all adown its rugged steeps 
The crimson tide of mercy leaps,— 
Touched by the urgence of our needs, 
Jesus for onr redemption bleeds,— 
His voire sounds o’er Death’s soughing wave; 
“ Look unto me and I will save ” 
O, Calvary! a world by thee 
Has gained a lost eternity: 
Immortal memories are set 
Upon thy brow a coronet. 
And weary souls begin their flight 
For Heaven from thy sacred height. 
0 , blessed hope! 0, qnict rest 
Upon onr loving Savior's breast. 
Free from the stores of earth that rise— 
Securely harbored in the skies 
• Orion was a celebrated hunter, and companion of 
Diana. 'While hunting one day, he was bitten by a ser¬ 
pent and lost his life. Tbe gods taking pity on him 
translated him to the heavens. -Mythology. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
E C HO K S. 
What was more wonderful to us in the days 
of childhood, when, on calling to our companions 
in our merry sports, we heard a strange voice 
answering us, ever repeating our own words; 
or, when we called in the long, silent hall, it 
answered from every distant chamber, and when 
we had carefully searched through every room 
to find this strange person, we. were told it was 
only the Echo. How we wondered what an 
Echo could be. At hist we came to regard it as 
some beautiful fairy, which, unseen, ever at¬ 
tended us; speaking in gentle, approving tones 
when we were kind and good, and its harsher, 
less pleasing words, we always interpreted as 
those of reproof. Whoever or whatever this 
gentle being might be, we determined to love it, 
and so to act. that it might ever greet us in 
gentle, loving tones. 
Even yet we love onr childish fancies, and wc 
still love to listen to the Echoes. But is that 
voice, among the hills the only echo we hoar? 
Are there not a thousand incidents as we journey 
along the. pathway of life, daily awakening 
Echoes in the silent chambers of the heart? 
And ok we listen in Memory's halls, gazing on 
the faithful pictures which adorn its walls, how 
many are the Echoes that come, to us from the 
Past; and as we hear again the voices of those 
loved ones, so long since silent, forgetting our¬ 
selves and our present surroundings amid the 
many emotions of joy and sadness which follow 
each other in such rapid succession through our 
minds, wc are unconsciously carried backward 
thi-ough all the hum’s of that now beautiful 
Long Ago. The silken ties that had bound u* 
to those olden days we had thought long since 
sundered, but. the Echoes come still, and like the 
hands of invisible spirits play upon the chords 
of the soul, and w< are borne above, where 
“The BWCOtfaced ,-urs 
Are sinking creation’s hymn, 
Where there shinelh a glory so pure and bright 
That tbe light of the sun seems dim,” 
and we sec there those friends gemming for us a 
crown of light, and preparing for us a robe of 
spotless purity. 
Many are the secret chambers of the heart, 
where are treasured our brightest hopes, and 
are hidden our deepest griefs; and daily are 
there Echoes awakened from each; from the 
bright, sunny dwelling-places of peace and hap¬ 
piness whence over comes low, sweet music, and 
no thought of sorrow ever chills,— from that 
low% dark room, away back, where the bright 
sunlight never enters; where Iurl? the passions, 
waiting for some unguarded moment when they 
may spring forth, and scatter the seeds of hate 
and discord, thus destroying all the. beauty of the 
soul, and drive peace and love forever away. 
And there comes a faint, solemn Echo from 
around the darkened corners of a distant cham¬ 
ber, which is ever surrounded by a gloomy pall, 
—whose song-birds tire forever hushed, where 
sits a ’’bird of evil omen” ever fastening on us 
its evil boding eye; a chamber past which, we 
ever tread on tip-toe; for there we have seen 
buried life’s dearest hopes, and w hen the bright 
light went out, suddenly turning our day into 
the deepest night, we closed the heavy door and 
shrouded it with the drapery of the tomb, and 
the Echoes are all that come to us to remind us 
of its former bejiuty. 
Often wc hear childish voices echoing through 
our souls,— voices that have long been silent. 
We sec again the little, sprightly forms, the 
laughing blue eyes, the rosy checks, and we strive 
to clasp them again to our hearts, to kiss the 
cherry Lips while we twine their sunny ringlets 
as of old; when suddenly we behold them robed 
for their last, long sleep; roses are Wreathed 
about the marble brow : the golden curls lay 
lightly on the now' pale cheek, and their snowy 
fingers clasp a half opened bud. We kiss for the 
last time those cold, cold lips, from which even 
Death has not dared steal the smile, and again 
try to believe they are not dead,—only sleeping. 
We again scatter flowers over the graves of tbe 
beloved friends of our youthful days who shared 
with us our joys and griefs; but we weep no 
more, for we almost hear the Echoes from the 
other shore, and we know they are only gone be¬ 
fore and are waiting to greet us there, and bid 
us welcome to the skies. 
Oh, that at life's close, as w r e wander for the 
hist time through Memory’s halls—as we listen 
to its Echoes for the hist time ere we enter upon 
that great future awaiting us. they might testify 
only of good,— that each chamber has been 
cleansed from all impurity,—that Faith, Hope 
and Charity have there an abiding place, and 
that gentle peace and holy love are there no tran¬ 
sient guests. Lora. 
Written for Moore’s Rnral New-Yorker. 
SOMETHING ORNAMENTAL. 
There are some people left in this world who 
have not yet learned to live—who do not seem 
to know how to distinguish between beauties 
real and beauties imitated. We pay large sums 
for "works of art.” Some of these “works” 
are worth all we pay for them, illustrating, as 
they do, the wonderful skill of an educated 
hand, controlled and guided by an educated 
taste and mind. We fall in love with these 
shadows of the real. We exclaim over them. 
We discuss their relative merits, and the re¬ 
spective styles of art they represent. 
We buy wonderful specimens of fruit made of 
wax! Wc place it on our center-tables, mantles, 
and what-nots. Some of these our children cry 
for; and wc exclaim at their perfectness in conse¬ 
quence. But how rarely is the real fruit found 
artistically displayed in our parlors and living 
rooms as an ornament and educator. How 
rarely do we take our little ones on our knees, 
and a specimen of pomonal perfection in our 
hands, and point out the wonderful beauty and 
harmony of coloring, how delicately the colors 
are laid on, the symmetry of form, and the per¬ 
fect adaptation of the color and character of sur¬ 
face to the character of the fruit. We pluck 
flowers and fill vases with them. But an orna¬ 
mental glass dish tilled with different varieties 
of fruit is as beautiful, attractive and fragrant— 
rivals any other ornament that can be placed 
before a visitor. 
The writer has hml opportunity to observe the 
effect of this practice of employing fruit as an 
ornament and social attraction. It is a token of 
hospitable intent, also. It. is Inviting. “Will 
you take and partake?” is the silent though 
eloquent language of tbe brilliant and fragrant 
globes of lusciousnoss before you. They are an 
excellent substitute for domestic, wines. They 
are cheap and yet satisfying. 'They are excel¬ 
lent to sandwich between the ebb and flow of 
small talk. They relieve the quiet of embarrass¬ 
ment, unloose the tongue, and add to the com¬ 
placency of the host. Indeed, these beauties 
may be discussed by more than one mode. 
Therefore, O farmer, do not purchase plaster 
of Paris imitations (save the mark!) of apples 
and grapes, pears and peaches, terribly colored, 
but go to the cellar aud bring out the Baldwins 
and Pippins, the Spitzenbergs and Jonathans, 
the Greenings and Belle Flowers, Ac., &e., and 
exhibit something that is ornamental! Do it 
daily.—c. i>. B. 
-—-- ——— 
The End of Prudence.— The great end of 
prudence is to give cheerfulness to those hours 
which Splendor cannot gild and acclamation can 
not exhilarate. Those sort, intervals of unbonded 
amusement, in which a man shrinks to bis natu¬ 
ral dimensions, and throws aside the ornaments 
or disguises which he feels, in privacy, to be 
useless encumbrances, and to lose all effect when 
they become familiar. To be happy at home is 
the ultimate result of all ambition, the end to 
which every enterprise and labor tends, and of 
whlch every desire prompts the prosecution. 11 
is, indeed, at home that every man must be 
known by those who would make a just es- 
cstimtute of his virtue or felicity; for smiles and 
embroidery are alike occasional, and the mind is 
often dressed for show in painted honor and 
fictitious benevolence. 
--— - 
Adversity.— A smooth sea never made a 
skillful mariner, neither do uninterrupted pros¬ 
perity and success qualify for usefulness and hai>- 
piness. The storms of adversity, like those of 
the ocean, rouse the faculties, and excite the in¬ 
vention, prudence, skill and fortitude of the 
voyager. The martyrs of ancient times, iu brac¬ 
ing their minds to outward calamities, acquired 
a loftiness of purpose and a moral heroism worth 
a lifetime of softness and security. 
Written for Jtoore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
IN MEMORIAM. 
Thou art not httre, 
My Mother. ’Twaa a gloomy day, 
When thou upon the burial bier 
Wast borne away. 
To slumber in the clitirrh yard drear, 
With kindred clay 
Thou art. not here 
How often since that painful hour, 
When I have seen the tempest near 
Above mo lower. 
I’ve longed thy gentle, voice to hoar, 
And fool its soothing power. 
Thou art not here, 
But yonder, in the world of light, 
Released from sorrow, doubt and fear, 
O! precious pight; 
By faith I see thee, Mother dear, 
Arrayed in robe® of white. 
Thou art notbere. 
Where tumults rage and strifes resound, 
A better land, a happier sphere, 
Thy soul has found, 
Where God doth wipe away each tear, 
And eudices joys abound. 
Yes, thon art there, 
“ Safe landed on the peaceful shore;" 
And thou hast ceasod the cross to boar, 
And ever more 
A crown of triumph thou slialt wear, 
And thy dear Lord adore. 
Dearborn, Mich., 1864. n. m. 
WINTER THOUGHTS. 
Do a little good at a time, and all the time. 
The Himalaya is ordered to put on a new robe. 
How is it to be done? Will a mighty vestment 
drop from heaven, and encircle the mighty 
ranges of her peaks? No; millions of little 
maids of honor will come down, and each one 
contribute some little thread to weave the splen¬ 
did robe. And by eveiy one doing the little 
committed to it, the giant mountain stands 
robed in its celestial garment. 
You organize a Sunday school among neg¬ 
lected children, and go every Sunday, like a 
snow-flake, to add present labor to past. Keep 
on; that is the way the Himalaya gets its x’obe. 
No good is lost. Stop not to count your con¬ 
verts, to weigh the results of your labors; but 
keep on. like the gentle snow, —flake after 
flake, without noise or parade. Parent, teacher, 
preacher, patriot, work on! 
Fleeting as the snow beneath the sunbeam 
are all enjoyments aud gratifications which do 
not arise from the influence of religion, the exer¬ 
cise of the iniud. and the feelings of the heart; 
if we cultivate these, we shall be enabled to 
enjoy a portion of that felicity which eudureth 
forever,—the sure reward of virtue and a well- 
spent life. 
Is not the wintry eve sweet, with its warm 
fires and bright lights, when families gather in a 
closer circle aud bettor love each other ? Added 
cheerfulness and love are among the treasures of 
a winter evening. 
The sovereign God gives the snow. It comes 
when He pleases, and falls where it pleases Him 
to have it,—on your house and on your land; 
and you have no title that can prevent or bur his 
right, Napoleon may be the dread of kiugs, the 
mightiest monarch and warrior of the eai'th; he 
may be stronger than Russia, and may penetrate 
as far as Moscow. But .Jehovah will thon put a 
bridle in hi? mouth, and a hook in his nostrils, 
and turn him backward,— baffled, broken, dis¬ 
graced. And He wanted for an instrument to 
accomplish His purposes only an army of snow¬ 
flakes. 
-f*> - ■ ■ - — — 
GOD Alfp HIS CHILDREN. 
If I go down into the nursery where my little 
children are playing. I tun in intimate sympathy 
with them; 1 have the inteusest regard for them. 
But when it comes to a question of what they 
shall cat, and drink, and wear; of where they 
shall be; of their up-rising and down-sitting; of 
their little contentions among themselves -when 
it comes to such questions as these, 1 never go 
dovvxx to them to ask them to counsel with me. 
Finite tts I am, I instantly rise up toward the 
infinite, and take the position of God toward 
them. I take the largeness of my experience 
and wisdom, and impose it upon their inexperi¬ 
ence and ignorance, and 1 do it because I am 
their father. I do it not because 1 hate them, 
but because I love them. And that which l do 
in an imperfect way God does in the effulgent 
sphere where. He dwells, upon the wale of in¬ 
finity, because there are none that can add to 
Him. Men but give back the wisdom wlduh He 
has lent to them. They bring to Him stores that 
He has thrown out from the amplitude of His 
own nature. And lie stands, being superior, 
with this necessity of acting from His own de¬ 
crees, and thoughts, and purposes. 
-*-.-*•- 
Pleasures of Like.— The loftiest, tho most 
angel-like ambition, is the earnest desire to con¬ 
tribute to the rational happiness and moral im- 
provcmenl of others. If we can do this—if we 
can give one good impression, is il not better 
than aU the triumphs that wealth and power 
ever attained ? 
- ■ —-♦ »«■ 
With tho sinking of high human trust the 
diguity of life sinks too; we cease to believe 
in our better self, since that also is part of 
the common nature which is degraded in our 
thought. 
- »*♦ - 
Christ came to guide men’s conscience, not 
to gratify their curiosity. —Matthexo Henry. 
K 
