■ gpwte’ gupmtwttt 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A PRISONER’S PRAYER “IN LIBBY.” 
BY MERTELE CONO. 
Where the gentle night-wind lingers 
On her pure young brow, 
Soothing, with its perfum’d fingers, 
Care and anguish now, 
Hover near. Oh Guardian Angel- 
Speak to her of me— 
Whisper to my fair Evangel 
Words of melody. 
Where the song-birds wake the chorus, 
In the morning light,— 
When the Power ever o’er us 
Banishes the night— 
Sing to her sweet words and tender, 
Gentle, soft and low; 
Say the trials God may send her, 
All must feel, below. 
Summer stars in beauty shining 
Through the blue above, 
Round her heart your magic twining, 
Whisper of my love. 
Tell bar words of love unending— 
Words to soothe her pain— 
O’er her couch of sa Erring bending, 
Bring her life again. 
I, a captive, worn and weary, 
Sad and faint with care, 
Through the long night, dark and dreary, 
Breathe for her a prayer; 
All my pain in patience bearing 
Through each dreary night; 
All my load of angrish, wearing, 
Could her load be light. • 
Nevermore to meet! ’Tis dreary, 
Dark and lone, to-night; 
Though my weight of woe be weary, 
Make her burden light. 
Here, amid my foes, I languish— 
Fainter grows my breath— 
And no tana may soothe my anguish 
In the hour of death. 
I am gazing on thee, Heaven— 
Ou thy stiver stare,— 
While I count the strokes—eleven— 
, Through my prison bars. 
Does she gaze, as I. in sadness, 
Think and dream of me ? 
Fill her soul, oh Loan, with gladness 
Warm’d and cheer’d by Thee. 
In the court the sentry pacing. 
Hears the tolling bell, 
And I, leaning, o'er the casing, 
Catch his cry—“ all's well.” 
All the prisoners are sleeping, 
Stars bum in the sky, 
And my heart, its lone watch keeping, 
Echo’s back the cry. 
All is well I With j oy I greet you ’. 
Calmly shine, oh stars! 
Soon my soul will come to greet you 
Through these prison bars. 
Now—a prisoner’s fetters bearing, 
I npon you call: 
Then— an angel-glory wearing, 
I’ll outshine you all! 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
BABY-OLOGY. 
If there is anything of which I am positively 
afraid, it is a baby—a real, live, genuine, long- 
white-gowned baby. I like little ducks, chickens, 
turkeys; and pigs are quite admissible. But 
a little, bald-headed, red-faeed, tender-eyed, 
mouth-puckered baby is t’nadmissable. I am n 
very courageous youth; L hardly know the feel¬ 
ing of fear, but deliver me from entering a room 
where I am liable to be asked to hold some 
body's “de&r baby 1” I rather hold a bag of 
cats, 1 am afraid to hold the thing with any 
degree of tenacity, for fear of squeezing it to 
death, and if I do not hold it fast, I am afraid it 
will fall to pieces. If I look at it, it sets up a 
squall, and if I do not look at it, it upsets itself. 
Besides making me tremble w ith fear and hor¬ 
rible apprehensions, a baby nonpluses me. I 
neither know how to act, what to say, which 
way to look, or what to do with myself. So 
w ith a species of desperation unknown under 
any other circ umstances, I grab a portion of the 
garments on either side of the bundle of llesb, 
and hang on! To keep my stomach from turn¬ 
ing treasonable, I call up all the prose and poetry 
I ever read, to help me to believe that they are 
sweet, angelic, and the other pretty things that 
some women and a few men have written about, 
but I never could see where the dear adjectives 
applied. I never could understand why some 
persons will go a long distance just to see a 
baby, when 1 would go as far the other way to 
avoid it. When you have seen one you have 
seen the whole craft, for they all look alike. 
Some one, in the Rural, some time ago, says he 
“ would recommend no man to marry a woman 
who says ‘ I hate babies 1 ’ ” and adds that such a 
one “is not lit to be a wife,” &e. So I infer if a 
baby is brought into a room full of young 
women, the one who makes the greatest pow¬ 
wow over it, and thinks Heaven has one in 
everj T niche and corner, and Earth is rendered a 
Paradise by their presence, she is the one -who 
would make a model married woman. I do not 
deny his statement. I rarely indulge in news¬ 
paper conflicts—I have too much regard for 
editors. On the contrary, I think “ Lead Pencil” 
is correct, for 1 most thoroughly dislike babies! 
Even when a little five-year-old girl, if one came 
toward me with a baby, I would run as If a 
thousand snakes were after me. But being con¬ 
siderably older now, I kill the snakes but run 
from the babies. So I suppose, according to 
“Lead Pencil’s” phraseology, when a mar- 
riagable man meets me, he ought to turn his 
head away, and run for dear life. That would 
hardly be advisable, for having a profound 
passion for imitating broadcloth, I might “ put” 
after him, and ble3S him ! (just imagine how 
that would look !) he would think liis time had 
come, surely. 
One of my neighbors said to me the other clay, 
“ I think you would make a most magnificent 
married woman, but a most abominable old 
maid !” Now my neighbor is a grandmother 
and one of the mostsensible women I know, and 
w r hen she said “ magnificent’’ she meant every¬ 
thing from splendid to loving ; and when she 
said “abominable” she meant everything, from 
good to clever, or what is the same, from dis¬ 
agreeable to obnoxious. But with all due res¬ 
pect to “Lead Pencil,” I think my neighbor 
knows better than he—at least I like her better, 
for 1 think she told me the truth, especially in 
the latter part of her remark, which I wiLl ven¬ 
ture to say no one will deny. 
MlNNIK MlNTWOOD. 
Hilldale Farm, near Ludlowvtlle, N Y., 13(14. 
THE HARP IN HEAVEN. 
One of the sweetest, recollections of my girl¬ 
hood is a beautful reply my mother once made 
me, when my heart was swelling with childish 
grief. 
I had just returned from the house of a wealthy 
neighbor, who had kindly given me the use 
of their piano for a few hours eve-ry day to gratify 
my extreme love for music. Our own cottage 
home looked so plain in contrast with the one I 
had just left, and no piano within its walls. I 
laid my head upon the tabic and gave vent to 
my overflowing heart. I felt grieved, aud per¬ 
haps a little angry, that we were unable to af¬ 
ford the one thing I desired above ail others— 
a piano — and expressed my feelings to my 
mother. 
Never shall I forget her sweet, gentle tone, 
as she simply replied, “Never mind, daughter, 
if you eannot have a piano on earth, you may 
have a harp in heaven.” Instantly the whole 
current of ray feelings was changed. Earthly 
things dwindled into insignificance, and the 
“harp in heaven,” with its golden strings, be¬ 
came the object of my desire. I felt reproved 
for my repinings against the Providence that 
had placed me in a humble home, aud from that 
moment the enjoyments of heaven seemed far 
to outweigh all the pleasures of earth. That 
beautiful reply has followed me till my life, or 
rather, has gone before me tike a bl ight guiding 
star—lifting my thoughts above this transeieut 
life, and opening to my spirit's vision the glori¬ 
ous scenes in that “land of life and light.” I 
have a “piano on earth ” now, but its charm is 
gone. Its music no longer gladdens mv heart 
as it once did, for the ears that loved best to 
listen to its sweet tones, are now enraptured 
with the grand harmonies of heaven. The 
dear fingers that so often touched its keys now 
sweep the golden harp-strings. O, that “harp 
in heaven! ” How my soul longs for one breath 
ol' its rich melody! 
As T look upon the dear baby fingers in the 
cradle near me, I think it matters little whether 
my child be poor or rich—whether her path 
be strewn with thorns or flowers—if she may 
only have a “harp in heaven.” — Mother’s 
Journal. 
• . . ♦ ■ - — - - - ■ 
GOSSIPPY PARAGRAPHS. 
— England has recently been agitated by 
the return of the Royal Baby from abroad, 
where it has been to see its grand-mamma, 
aunts, &c. An English paper says:—The Baby 
is home again, to the delight, we presume, of 
all England, and certainly to the immense relief 
of all newspaper readers. The child landed at 
Hull, and its arrival produced an outburst of 
flunkeyism beyond even English precedent. 
The Mayor actually went In his robes to visit a 
baby not twelve months old, the Sheriff’s wife 
gave him a fur rabbit, which, say the reporters, 
he “appeared to appreciate,” a vast crowd 
assembled to see him pass, aud “the cow which 
supplied the infant prince with milk during his 
passage from the Elbe to the Humber, was pur¬ 
chased by Mr, Alderman Abbey, of Hull,” that 
dignitary obviously considering the animal likely 
to be historic. The Queen should put a stop to 
this kind of folly, which, it it continues, will 
lead to a sharp reaction against the worship 
now paid to the royal family. Already a jour¬ 
nal, which once declared that the winds would 
blow geutly on a tree because the Queen bad 
planted it, is indulging in pretty sharp ridicule; 
and aldermen who now buy cows because they 
feed royal babies, will soon be ashamed of caring 
about the babies themselves. It will not do to l 
let the English people raise their princes into 
idols. They always break them in tbe end. 
— ONE man rarely ridicules another in conver¬ 
sation with a woman, unless lie happens to be 
jealous of him. 1 le has too much esprit de corps ; 1 
he does not like to admit the idea that a male 
biped can be ridiculous; be sees dimly the pos- 
sibility of a similar position for himself. But 1 
if rumor ever waft to you the echoes of that 1 
mysterious conclave which men hold when no 
woman is near, you shall then learn what gos¬ 
sip, scandal and satire really may be. 
— A .jealous husband, in St, Louis,recently 
spied around his house, and rushed, as be sup¬ 
posed, upon his wife and a strange man in his 
garden. Just as he was about to open to the 
stranger with a big knife, the lady revealed , 
herself as his cook, and the young man was r 
found to be her lover. 
— A curious case is to be tried in Paris, A , 
THE OLD HOUSE EAR AWAY. 
Tii E wild birds warble, tbe silvery rills 
Sing cheerfully round tbe spot. 
And tbe peaceful shades of the purple hills 
Fall dim on my mother’s cot; 
Its windows are low, aud its t.hatch is low, 
And Its ancient, walls are gray. 
0,1 see it I I love it! where’er I go! 
The old house far away. 
The little clock ticks on the parlor wall, 
Recording the passing hours; 
And the pet geranium grows rank and tall, 
With Its brilliant, scarlet flowers; 
And the old straw chair, so cozy and low, 
Where mother sat kitting all day; 
O, I see it! I love itt where’er I go! 
That old house far away! 
Dear mother! how plainly I see her now, 
Reclining in that old arm chair, 
With the sunset resting upon her brow, 
That was once so smooth and fair; 
With her crunpled border white as snow, 
And her once dark hair now gray, 
O, I see it! I love it I wheTc'cr I go— 
la that old house far away! 
Not all the treasures the world affords, 
The riches of land and sea. 
Nor all the wealih of earth’s prond lords, 
Can blot from my memory 
Thu roof that sheltered each dear, dear head, 
And tbe humble floor of clay, 
Where the feet I loved were wont to tread, 
In the old house for away I 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AUTUMN PICTURES BY CORRESPONDENTS. 
We know that our readers will enjoy, with us, 
some of the revealings which we gather from the 
mass of correspondence before us. For instance, 
Bell Clinton writes: 
“Dear Rural:— I’ve been roaming on the 
hillside this glorious October afternoon. I felt 
th3t I must leave work for a time, and go out 
beneath the blue sky, to breathe once more tbe 
inspiration of Autumn. O, the magic efleet of 
such a ramble ! The heart renews its elasticity, 
aud revels and exults once more in happiness, 
like to that of childhood’s beautiful days, wheu 
we roamed, heart-free from care, hand-free 
from toil. Such an hour have I spent, casting 
aside the dull heart-aching which will some¬ 
times oppress, when shut in by the four walls of 
the kitchen, with a ‘dozen irons in the fire,' and 
but one pair of hauds to manage all. Could I 
without the intervention of paper and pen, 
transmit the thoughts of this afternoon, how 
different, how much purer would be the diction Y 
Thoughts of our life— wbat it is and what it 
should and ought to bo — of the High and Holy 
One who inhabUcth eternity—who ha-, created 
this glad earth and the souls dwelling upon it. 
clothed it with beauty, filled it with grandeur 
aud soDg, built the lofty mouutain, and causes 
the tiniest bud to unfold its leaves. My heart is 
younger than it was at noontide. Bitting be¬ 
neath the broad branches of an oak, through 
which the sunlight crept down to frolic with the 
leaf-shadows upon the grouud beside mo, I’ve 
striven to think it the same I apostrophized in 
rhyme when a little girl. But that was long 
ago cut down. I gathered acorns in my apron, 
filled my pocket with chestnuts, closed my eyes 
and listened as one by one the brown nuts fell, 
and the squirrel chirped from the topmost, 
bough, and tried to think myself a child beneath 
the chestnut trees at home. But no, others 
gather to-day beneath them, and myself where 
others have trod. I sometimes feel that my 
heart has grown old, that its best and noblest 
passions have been sacrificed to a ceaseless rout!nc 
of work—work, with no time to cultivate those 
tastes and pursuits which arc congenial, oreven 
commune with nuture as I wish; but there is 
still tbe freshness of spring-time remaining, and 
this afternoon’s walk has reanimated and reju¬ 
venated it.” 
Hero is another picture by another corres¬ 
pondent, O. S., of Marion, N. Y. 
“It is a wild, wet night; one of clouds aud 
darkness without— of light, and warmth, and 
gladness within. One of the evenings wljen 
‘Home, sweet home,’ sounds doubly sweet— 
and ‘Auld lang syne’ and all those dear old 
songs our grandmothers used to sing, have a 
mere hallowed charm—when one likes to sit in 
some old, easy chair, and listen to the mystic 
song of the heating rain, and the fire crackling 
merrily in the hearth. And anon-to while 
away the pleasant evening hours, with ‘sonic 
quaint book of olden poetry,’ some old tale of 
‘love and chivalry,’ or, perchance, some wild 
German legend; and having finished reading and 
closed the book, sit idly, dreamily,gazing into 
the blazing fire, and yield to the weird, strange 
fancies the story calls up; perplex yourself with 
its mysticisms, and try to fathom with the imag¬ 
ination the foundation of such mysterious be¬ 
liefs. 
“It Ls just such a ‘ midnight dreary ’ as must 
have given inspiration to the writer of that 
strange poem, ‘The Raven.’ The November 
sleet and rain is beating ’gainst the windows, 
with a dull, hopeless, weary, monotonous souud. 
The Autumn wind goes rushing past, with a 
moan of despair in its tone hurling the last, 
clinging leaves from the almost naked trees, and 
whose lives the glad sunshine has all faded, and 
“ Tn their heart's remotest chamber, 
Penciled on its ruby walls, 
Where the light of days departed, 
With n mournful glory fulls,” 
is inscribed, with all its hidden meaning, that 
one word, ‘ nevermore ” 
jW&Mh fpiisittijs. 
lady is about to prove in open court that she is strewing them ruthlessly upou the wet earth. 
_j * 1 _il__ j’ 1 il . _ . . _ . _ 
not, the mother of her children, or rather the 
children which her husband attributes to her. 
This matter is to he demonstrated by decisive 
arguments, the lady herself demanding to plead. 
— A little fellow, not more than five years 
of age, hearing some gentlemen at hts father’s 
table discussing the familiar line, “An honest 
man’s the noblest work of God,” said be knew 
it wasn’t true; his mother was better than any 
man that was ever made. 
It seems like having the last, bright hopes torn 
from one’s heart, leaving it, barren, desolate, 
shivering in the cold, piercing storms of life; 
just as the trees are, out in the storm to-night. 
Soon the winter will come; aye, the winter of 
the heart; sealing with icy fingers all the 
fountains of love, joy and happiness within the 
heart; burying all the withered hopes, broken 
dreams—all the old, bright memories , beneath 
its cold white shroud. God pity those from 
HOME AFFECTIONS. 
The heart has memories that can never die. 
The rough rubs of the world—the cold, unfeel¬ 
ing, selfish world—cannot obliterate them, it 
makes no difference how we may be tossed about 
upon life’s turbid and tempestuous stream, these 
memories stfll live with us, and oftentimes steal 
in u pon our gadder emotions. They are memories 
of home—early home ! Dear, hallowed spot! 
What magic in the sound ! And as our mind 
wanders back far over the misty past, how many 
tender reminiscences of that early h -.me come 
crowding upon us. There is the old tree under 
which the light-hearted school-boy swung in 
many a hummer day; yonder the river in which 
he learned to swim; there the home iu which he 
knew a parent's love aud a parent’s protection; 
and hard by is the old church, whither, with a 
joyous troop like himself, he followed his parents 
to worship with and hear the good old man w ho 
gave him to God in baptism. Why, even the 
old school-house, with its dark obi walls, which 
iu youthful days impressed him with such awe, 
associated as they were with thoughts of ferule 
and tasks, comes back to bring pleasant remem¬ 
brances of the “far long ago.” There he 
learned to feel some of his best emotions: aud 
there, perchance, he first met the being who, by 
her love and tenderness in after life, has made a 
home for himself, happier even than that which 
bis childhood knew. Oh ! these are memories 
which linger around the heart, ever and anon 
dispensing joy and suushine athwart our check¬ 
ered pathway—memories which the cares of 
the world can never obliterate. Often in the 
busy whirl of life they present themselves, and 
we involuntarily sigh for our boyhood days, 
when “ life seemed formed of summer dreams.” 
But they come not; they are ours no longer; 
upon the wings of the morning they have fled 
from us forever. Dear home of our childhood! 
since we loft thy sacred precincts how many 
disappointments and sorrows have crowded 
upon us; and how many more will overtake us 
during our pilgrimage through life we cannot 
tell, for the future is a sealed scroll, and wc 
know not what is folded there, whether joy or 
agony, sunshine or shadow I— Ancm. 
PERSONAL GOSSIP. 
— A correspondent of a Southern paper 
has observed the handwriting of these two 
ablest generals the war lias brought forward on 
either side. General Lee’s hand writing is bold 
aud rather stiff, his letters being large, round, 
and very distinct. He bears heavily upon the 
pen—probably a goose quill—and abbreviates 
many of his words, us if writing were a labor 
to him. General Grant’s handwriting, on the 
Contrary, though uot so bold aud distinct, nor 
the letters so large and round and erect, is, nev¬ 
ertheless, very legible and very striking. It L 
full of energy and action, and his letters all in¬ 
cline to the right, und follow one after auother, 
with a little space between them, as if they 
represented an equal number of bis brigades on 
a rapid march round Lee's right. Among chi- 
rographers his hand would be called a running 
hand. The words occupy much space from left 
to right, and still they are very dear and legi¬ 
ble. He pays more attention to punctuation 
than Gen. Lee, abbreviates less, and is equally 
cartful of his i's and t’s. It may be the work 
of imagination, yet iu reading his letter 1 can 
not but picture the writer as a restless, nervous, 
energetic man, full of fire and action, always in 
motion, and always in a hurry. 
— Commander Napoleon Collins, of the 
United States gunboat Wachusetts, the captor 
of the pirate Florida, is fifty years of age, and 
has been about thirty years in the naval service, 
of whieh over twenty-one he has spent at sea. 
He accompanied Dupont on his Fort Royal ex¬ 
pedition. In 1861-2 he was actively engaged 
with Dupont on the coast of South Carolina, 
Georgia and Florida. He was promoted to bis 
present rank in 1862, and stands nineteeth ou 
the list of full commanders. 
— The Princess Dagmar of Denmark, who 
is to be the next Empress of Russia, is just 
eighteen years old. She looks far short of that 
age, from the infantine and innocent loveliness 
of her manner, and from her stature. Her eyes 
and teeth form the fascinating beauty of her 
face, her features being far from regular. 
— The venerable J.-aac C. Jones, for a long 
j) riod one of the most distinguished merchants 
of Philadelphia, who voted for Gen. Washing¬ 
ton, on the 8th Inst, east a ballot for Mr. Lin¬ 
coln, having reached the extraordinary age of 
ninety-five years. 
- -- 
Crystali/.ed Thought.— The mind is uot 
like the sea, whose riches can not be exhausted, 
but rather a dark cavern, in which stalactites 
slowly form. When a man has brought out the 
last of those, then is tbe time for him to leave 
off. It is a great pity if he goes on, honestly 
thinking that he is still producing stalactites, 
while liis friends see that it is only rough pieces 
of stone, [ducked with some violence from the 
walls of the cavern. His friends ought to tell 
him ot it, and he ought to stop, und iu duo time, 
other crystals may form as perfect and as beau¬ 
tiful as any that he has already found, aud that 
without any conscious effort of it. Or if not, 
then he had better remain forever quiet, rather 
than weary himself aud others also with the 
same rough fragments from the rock .—Boston 
lie view. 
MEETING OF THE WATERS. 
BY ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER. 
Close beside the meeting water 
Long I stood as in a dream, 
Watching how the little river 
Fell into the broader stream. 
Calm and still t he mingled current 
Glided to the waiting sea; 
On its breast Berenely pictured 
Floating ciond and skirting tree. 
And I thought, " Oh, human spirit! 
Strong, and deep, and pure, and blest, 
Let the stream of my existence 
Blend with thine, and find its rest!” 
I could die as dies the liver 
In that current deep and wide; 
1 would live as live its waters, 
Flashing from a stronger tide! 
RELIGION. 
Religion, as introduced to us by our Saviour, 
attracts our attention and enlists our affections, 
not by any solemn pomp or formal parade, but 
by her beautiful and interesting simplicity, her 
real aud intrinsic worth. Nor has she been in¬ 
troduced to us. merely that she may dwell in 
our temples to be gazed at from a distance and 
occasionally adored. No. She has been intro¬ 
duced to us, that we might take her firmly by 
the hand, conduct her into our houses and seat 
her by our firesides—not as an occasional visitor 
there, but as an intimate friend—perfectly free 
and unreserved, ever ready to lend her aid in 
making home the abode of happiness, or to go 
forth with us and assist in elevating and purify¬ 
ing the pleasures aud the intercourse of social 
life: ever ready to assist in the various labors of 
life—to guide and cheer the conversation—to 
bend over the bed of sickness, or to mingle her 
sympathies with those who are mourning. It 
is her office to elevate and improve mankind, 
not by looking down upon them from above, 
butbydwelling familiarly and habitually among 
them, restraining, by the respect which her 
presence inspires, everything impure and un¬ 
holy, until she has awakened aspirations after the 
pure, the holy, the spiritual, the infinite and 
eternal. Such was the Christian Religion ns in¬ 
troduced to us by our Saviour. AVouid that she 
might ever remain such, an inmate of our 
houses, a member of our family circles, whose 
form and features are familiar to our children, 
and for whom their attachment grows with 
theirgrowt band strengthens with their strength. 
But such have not. it would seem, been the 
feelings of mankind in regard to her. They, 
lilted with admiration, perhaps, for her excel¬ 
lence, and tearing Jest she might be treated 
with rude familiarity, have thought to add to 
her dignity and to increase the respect enter¬ 
tained for her, by enveloping her, in folds of 
unintelligible mysteries, and by suffering her 
to be approached only iu a formal manner, 
upon the set day when and the appointed places 
where she holds her levees. The consequence6of 
this have been such as might have been expected. 
AVhilo there are multitudes of admirers of Re¬ 
ligion, one. of a higher order of beings al¬ 
together above and beyond themselves, thGre 
are few who moke her the companion of their 
daily walk—few who take her to themselves, and, 
in the firm conviction that they arc made for 
each other, leave all thiDgs else, cleave unto and 
become one with her. 
Would that we might all embrace Christianity 
as she is in herself— as she was introduced to us 
by our Saviour, in all his simplicity -in all her 
purity—that we might make her the companion 
of our lives—the friend of our hearts. She is 
one, who will with readiness accompany us 
wherever we go—pointing out to us the way of 
our duty and the sources of our happiness. Are 
we children, she will teach us the duties of chil¬ 
dren. Arc we parent-, she will instruct us iu our 
duties as parents. Iu prosperity she will in¬ 
crease our happiness—in adversity she will 
sweeten our cup—in sickness she will alleviate 
our pains, and when called away by the stern 
summons of death, she will accompany us and 
introduce us iuto the society of heaven with 
which she is intimate—the society of our God— 
of Jesus our Saviour and of the spirits of the 
just made perfect, concerning whom she has 
often conversed with us, making us acquainted 
with their principles, feelings and characters, 
and exerting within us a desire to be with them. 
—Jason Whitman. 
RELIGIOUS TRIFLING. 
How willing we are to eDgage in speculative 
discussions; to talk and argue and reason about 
some of the mysterious doct rines of the gospel, 
and to persuade ourselves because wc are in¬ 
terested in those things, that all is light with 
us. Men will argue about tbe state of the soul 
between the time of death and the time of judg¬ 
ment; will discuss the probability of our hav¬ 
ing the same bodies in a glorified state to which 
our souls are united in this world: agitate their 
minds about the condition of lost angels, and a 
thousand such things drawing their thoughts 
away from one great question, whether the prom¬ 
ise of the Father be yet come upon them, whether 
the spirit of the Most High hath yet renewed 
ihcir souls, and given them power over the de¬ 
filement ot their hearts, over the temptations of 
the world, over the lu-ts of the llesh, over the 
devices Of tbe devil.— liev. W. Cogswell. 
-- - 
Diamonds are only found in the darkness of 
the earth; truths are only found in the depths 
of the thought. 
The only disadvantage of an honest heart is 
credulity. 
