Written for Moore's Rural New-Torker. 
LITE AIMS. 
BT DORA HAWLET. 
I WALK along tliis way or life 
A unit of earth’s woman-souls. 
Whose brain with woman thought is rife, 
Whose tide of being ebbs and rolls. 
I gather idols, woman-like. 
And dress them up in fancies sweet 
For cold reality to strike 
And knock in ashes at my feet. 
My forehead turning to the stars, 
I stand in earthy clay-pita mired. 
But none may know the inner wars 
That make me. oh! so tired, so tired! 
When woman stands above the crowds 
And carves her name upon the age. 
She loses, soaring through the clouds, 
A woman’s sweetest heritage. 
The hearts she links beside her own 
Would never scale the airy breach; 
She stands afar all chill and lone. 
Too distant for their earthy reach. 
And still her woman-self will plead 
All humanlike, howe'er inspired : 
Though fame may fill ambition s greed 
It only serves to make her tired 
I know the heights my feet should tread, 
My nobler natiire urges on ;— 
But lo 1 the woman’s heart will plead 
“These idols you will tread upon!’’ 
And if I cast my gods away 
To throne ambition in my breast, 
Will peacefulness succeed their sway 
And bring this pauting life its rest! 
No heart is waiting at I he goal 
To crown the toil its love inspired, 
And earthy self clogs soaring soul 
Till I am—oh! my God— so tired! 
Locust Grove, Jersey Tp . Licking Co., O. 
Written for Mo ore’s Rural New-Torker 
CHRISM A—A FRAGMENT. 
A golden afternoon in August. The sun crept 
through the elui before the window and glittered 
on the polished steel of her sewing machine. 
Chrisma drew a long breath as she looked across 
the pond to the hillside, where the forest spread 
its arabesque of shadows, but she resolutely 
stopped the rocking of her chair, and taking the 
top-most article from the basket, was soon guid¬ 
ing the magic needle down a scam. Chrisma 
was not a heroine, aud that afternoon she was 
wholly at variance with her self-appointed duties. 
Presently the cloth began to rim so rapidly Jun- 
der tbe needle-bar that little Carl moved 
uneasily in his cradle, aud Crescent who bad 
been watching the changes of her sister’s face, 
encouraged by the faint smile which after all was 
half contradicted by the weariness in the clear 
eye6, hummed an old air which they had loved iu 
happier days. Chrisma joiued with hervoice in 
tbe sweet melody, and still there was a tremor of 
unspoken pain in her tones. 
An hour thereafter the blinds were dropped in 
the sewing room, Crescent was gathering 
flowers in the garden, and my Chrisma, taken a 
•w illin g prisoner by her favorite soldier-cousin, is 
half a dozen miles away, listening to a spirited 
description of Monocacy, and getting occasional 
glimpses of tbe hay through the lofty trees that 
arched the road. Then to the Country inn, 
where a lew chosen friends are waiting the 
Lieutenant's arrival, the boats already dancing 
with impatience to receive their happy freightage. 
‘ Chrisma was silent for a little time, leaning over 
from her seat in the stern to watch the graceful 
growths below tbe clear, calm surface. On they 
went, cutting smoothly through ranks of lordly 
reeds, through the lily pads, lighted up here and 
there with tardy blossoms, past the Nelumbium’s 
large and fragrant, flowers, and their leaves hold¬ 
ing undulating, watery globules as if they were 
spheres of quicksilver; still on beyond the Sagit- 
tarias into the clear, open waters of Sodus. 
Then Chrisma, to whose heart this peace and 
beauty had been as precious balm, forgot the old 
Borrows and smiled as gayly us the rest. Why 
should they not have been happy — the warrior 
dreaming of other conquests than thoso of the 
battle-field — the artist enthusiastic as view suc¬ 
ceeded view, the perfect afternoon with its trail¬ 
ing clouds of glory stirring the best impulses in 
the hearts of all—why should they not have 
shaken the pulses of the summer air with ring¬ 
ing laughter[ 
Rounding the headland, tbe lovely trio,—Bute, 
Isluy and Arran —rose before them, densely 
wooded to the very water’s edge. Right loyally 
did attendant knights assist the maidens up the 
rustic stairway of Islay’s northern shore, and 
then, watching the waves of Ontario as they 
broke on the sands below, there was a pleasant 
talk of the rose-crowned past— Claude, artist- 
like, leading the way to immemorial time; a little 
chat of present mat ters, a hope ol' happy futures, 
and then a tour of exploration from which none 
returned without fair trophies —rare ferns, deli, 
cate mosses, curiously marked pebbles, or shells 
from the beach. Chrisma had only a single 
cluster of the closed blue gentian iu her hand. 
“Didyou pass those brilliant berries, Chrisma, 
to gather those forlorn blue bads?” asked 
Clemence, 
“They are not buds, Clemence,” she replied, 
“ but just the saddest little flowers in all this 
weary world. I remember how I watched the 
first I ever saw, dreaming of the unknown 
beauties that might be within the encirclement 
of their dusky petals, but they never opened to 
the sunlight, neither do some human buds, dear, 
>• and bo the gentian is my type.” 
The musical llutc-notos recalled the wanderers 
and as the sun went down beyond the distant 
light-house they re-entered their boats. 
Who can describe their return!—the softly 
tinged clouds reflected in the crystal waters, the 
changing hues of the sunset, the musical plash 
of the oars keeping time to the voice of song, 
then the ride through the twilight to the sum¬ 
mer home of Clemence where the tea-table was 
alroady spread for the excursionists ! 
Music and conversation filled the next hour, 
then, homeward, stopping a moment before the 
hall where the fife aud drum were leading off the 
shouts that hailed each new volunteer, down the 
shaded street lo “ the Maples ” and up to her 
own room passed Chrisma, still wearing in her 
belt the mystic stem of gentian. 
Doke Hamilton. 
THOUGHTLESS MOTHERS AND THINKING 
DAUGHTERS. 
“ I write this in haste, because I do not wish 
my mother to know it.” What a tale that short 
sentence told! How I wished, when I read it, 
that I could gain the ear of ci cry mother iu the 
laud, that I might whisper the warning thoughts 
it called up. I betray no confidence in saying, 
that the writer was a youug girl of sixteeu, 
whose idle life, and, above all, whose vmhared 
thought* had been the prolific parent of romantic 
day-dreams, and misplaced attachment, which, 
at that baby-age, was “ to render her whole life 
miserable.” Poor, silly child! who should even 
then have been jumping rope, trundling a hoop, 
or skating with her brothers. And where was 
the mother who knew so little, aud eared so lit¬ 
tle, about the. inner life of her daughter, that she 
must needs pour into a stranger’s ear this preco¬ 
cious, unhealthy folly? Where, alas? Like 
thousands of the mothers in our land, satisfied 
that her child was fed, clothed, sheltered and 
schooled. Never conversing with her but upon 
such topics. Never searching that young face, 
as an index for the half-iledged thoughts and 
feelings, which fluttering kept her in a state of 
irritable unrest; but which, brought tenderly to 
the wholesome light by the hand of maternal 
love, might, thus recognized, nestle there peace¬ 
ful and harmless. Alas! alas! for the young 
girl who has any thought « her mother may not 
share. .'.las for the young girl who flies to others 
for info 1 mation, on subjects regarding which no 
mother need hesitate to speak to her daughter 
in a dignified and proper manner. Nay, more: 
how culpable is that mother who so hushes up 
what God and nature have made iuuocent and 
holy, that the inquisitive young mind is forced, 
morbidly, to fanc y It tbe reverse. Alas for t hose 
mothers, so cautious in the Selection of a dress¬ 
maker, or milliner, for their daughters, and who 
give not one thought to the silent hours, in 
which the young creature sits on the bleak edge 
of the barren homc-nest, kindling up a tropical 
horizon of her own, under which only poisonous 
plants shall flourish. 
Respect and obedience are good in their place; 
but alas! for that matronly dignity which steps 
on stilts so high that it overlooks the possible 
mire, in which young feet, unaided, may be 
plunging. Alas', for tb^t cold purity, which 
shuts its offended matronly eyes to the possibility 
of a staiu on a household robe, only to Open them, 
too late, to its terrible defacement. If I might 
write, only one more sentence during my life, it 
should be this: fat the mother* of this land be. the 
chosen confidantes and comjmiioni of (heir daugh¬ 
ters. Neither by frigidity or indifference let them 
repel the souls of these youug creatures, of whose 
inner, as well as outer life, God and nature have 
ordained them the proper guardians. Every 
poor girl from whom these mothers turn shud¬ 
dering away, iu their daily walks, echoes my 
words, as step, eye and lip give the bold, flaunt¬ 
ing lie to their womanhood. There is some¬ 
thing wrong in every mother, how “good” 
soever she may be, whose young daughter can¬ 
not lay her head un her lap, aud without l’oar of 
reproach or repulse say, “Mother, I love.” That 
mother may, or may not, approve her daughter's 
choice; site may think it premature, or every¬ 
way unadvisable; but oh! the relief and safety 
to that daughter, that she may “tell mother!” 
Let the two talk it over together, as young com¬ 
panions do — honestly aud frankly, and with no 
disguise. Would there ever be a "runaway 
match," think you, if mothers stood in such a 
soul relation to their daughters? Would they 
ever, as now, wish that their living sorrows were 
read sorrows ? Rut before that, day eliull come, 
mothers must be less worldly, Jess selfish, less 
absorbed iu holding on to the lost minute of ad¬ 
miration for themselves, and trying to fancy that, 
young girls, who live on a stimulating diet, fit 
only for middle age, and who read foolish books, 
sleep in hot rooms, and take no exercise, cun 
still reman “ children ” in their feelings.— 
Funny Fern. 
A Husband’s Iudebtedness.— The Supreme 
Court of New York Lad decided that a husband 
was liable for his wife’s debts, even though the 
parties were separated. The wife ol the defend¬ 
ant, it appears, bought a set of furs valued at 
three hundred and thirty-live dollars, and or¬ 
dered the bill to be sent to her husband. The 
latter declined to pay the bill, on tbe ground 
that his wife had separated from him and was 
living with another man. The plaintiff brought 
a suit to recover the indebtedness, when t he jury 
rendered a.verdict iu his favor for lull the amount 
claimed. 
Example is a living lesson. The life speaks. 
Every action has ft tongue, Words lire but artic¬ 
ulate breath. Deeds are the fac-similes of the 
soul; they proclaim what is within. The child 
notices the life. Tt should be iu harmony with 
gooduess. Keen is the vision of youth; every 
mark is transparent. If a word Ls thrown into 
one balance, a deed is thrown into the other. 
Nothiug is more important than that parents 
should be consistent. A sincere word is never 
lost; but advice, couuter to example, is always 
suspected. Roth cannot he true; one is false. 
- *■** - 
A gentle person is like a rivei flowing calmly 
along, whilst a passionate man is like the soft, 
continually casting up mire and dirt. 
Written lor Moore's Rural New-Torker. 
SHADOW OF THE BOUGH. 
BY CLIO STANLEY. 
Down the path where our feet so often have gone 
I tread, but tbe earth gives no answering tone; 
I look and I listen; the voice that was thine 
Has left the air vacant; no smile mceteth mine. 
I stand ’neath the orchard tree, laden with fruit, 
The cheeriest sight—but my lips they are mute; 
And. calm as the place is. I make my lament 
For the blessing that seemed mine, but only was lent. 
On the grass at my feet, in its darkening green, 
The shadow moves restlessly back, while the sheen 
Of the sun's brightest gleam treadeth close to the edge, 
And strives to break iu with its goldeny wedge. 
No thought of mine wanders abroad to the sod 
Where autumn flowers, decked in gay coloring, nod; 
My heart seeks the gloom, and I marvel if still 
Tour heart beats iu shadow against your man's will. 
Up above, the green leaves woo the sun and the breeze, 
Aud dance, to and fro, on tbe boughs of the trees, 
While the red, ripened fruit drops invitingly low, 
As if all its ripeness and redness to show. 
On a branch that swings lightly, just over my head, 
T1 hV it deepens the shadow sad memory fed, 
Two robins are singing aloud in their glee, 
And they seem to be singing in bird-notes to me. 
They trill and they twitter among the green leaves, 
And chirp to each other iu real heart's ease; 
But they look at my face from which joy holds aloof, 
And seem to be singing in totms of reproof. 
Oil! Heart of mine listen! look upward and sing! 
Catch the sunbeam that falls from the robin's redwing! 
Bind it fast on my brows, ami the shade of the bough 
Shall no longer look to me heavy, as now. 
I will think of it but as a place of repose 
From the heat of the ray that too ardently glows; 
I will teach my proud soul to forgive and forget, 
And give to the cold winds each litig'ring regret. 
Oh, singing birds! tench me your song of content, 
Before all the light of m.v morning is spent; 
Perchance when the Night finds me dreaming again, 
The dream may be bright tho’ its sadow be pain. 
Philadelphia, Pa. 
TO MAKE FRIENDS UNCOMFORTABLE. 
The same utterance may be an impertinence, 
an unpalatable t ruth, or a disagreeable thing, ac¬ 
cording to time aud circumstance. For example, 
iu a fit of absence, you perpetrate some solecism 
in dress or behavior. It is an unwelcome truth 
to be told it, while there is yet opportunity for 
remedy, or partial remedy, ii is an impertinence 
to be informed of it by a stranger who has no 
right to concern himself with our affairs ; tt is a 
disagreeable thing when—the occasion past—our 
friend enlightens us about it simply as a piece of 
information We ab ofwq, no doubt, have friends, 
relations and acquaintances who think it quite a 
sufficient reason lor saying a thing, that it is true. 
Probably we have ourselves known the state of 
iniutj in which w e find a certain fact or opinion a 
burden, a load to be got rid of; aud under the 
gross mistake that all truth must bespoken, that 
it is un candid and dangerous not to deliver a 
testimony — convinced that the truth, like mur¬ 
der, will out, and that our friend, sooner or later, 
must learn the unacceptable fact — we come to 
the conclusion that it is best for all parties to get 
the thing over by being ourselves the executioner. 
We have most of us acted the enfant terrible at 
some time or other. But this crude simplicity 
of candor, where it is t lie result of the mere blind 
intrusive assertion of truth, is a real weight; and 
the primary law of politeness, never to give un¬ 
necessary pain, as soon as it is apprehended is 
welcomed us a deliverer. Children and the very 
young have not experience enough for any but 
the most limited sympathy, and can only part hilly 
compare the feelings of others with their own. 
Indeed the idea of the comparison does not oc¬ 
cur to them. But there are people who, Iu this 
respect, remain children all their days, aud very 
awkward children, too, who burst with a fact as 
the fool with his secret, an 1, like the hair-dresser 
iu Leech’s caricature, are impelled to tell us that, 
our hair is thiu ftt the top, though nothing is to 
come of the conunuuioatiCu. These, as Sidney 
Smith says, turnfriendahii into a system of law¬ 
ful and unpunishable impertinence, from, so far 
as wo cun see, no worse cause than incontinence 
of fact and opinion —feeling it to be a sufficient 
and triumphant defence of every perpetration of 
tfic sort, that It is true. “ Why did you tell Mr. 
So-and-so that his sermon was fifty minutes 
long “ Because I had looked tit my watch.” 
“ Why did you remind Hiefi a one that he is 
growing fat aud old?” “Because he Is.” 
“ Why repeat that unfavorable criticism ? ” “ I 
had just read it,” “ Why disparage this man’s 
particular friends?” “I don’t like them.” 
“ Why soy to that young lady that her dress is 
unbecoming ? ” “ I really thought bo.” It is, 
however, noticeable iu persons of this obtrusive 
candor, that they have eyth for blemishes only. 
They are never Impelled to tell pleasant truths, 
from which, no doubt, we may infer u certain 
acerbity of temper, though these strictures may 
be spoken in seeming blunt, honest good humor. 
Still they talk in this way from natural obtuse- 
ness afid Inkoreut defect of sympathy,— Essays 
on Social Subjects. 
ABOUT USING WORDS. 
Be unaffected, Ik; houest iu your speaking and 
writing. Never use a long word where a short 
one will do. Call a spade a spade, not a well 
known oblong instrument of manual industry; 
let a home be a home, not a residence ; a place a 
pla.ee, not a locality; and so of t lie rest—where 
a short word will do, you always lose by using a 
long one. You lose in clearness, you lose iu 
honest expression of your meaning ; and, in the 
estimation of all men who are competent to 
judge, you lose in reputation for ability. The 
only true way to shine, even in this false world, 
is to he modest and unassuming. Falsehood may 
be a very thick crust, but in the course of time 
truth will llud a place to break through. Ele-. 
gancc of language may not be in the power of 
all of us, but simplicity and straightforwardness 
are. 
Write much as you will speak; speak as you 
think. If with your inferiors, speak no coarser 
than usual; if with your superiors, speak no 
liner. Be what you say, and within the rules of 
prudence, sny whatyon are. Avoid all oddity of 
expression. No one ever was a gainer by singu¬ 
larity of words, or iu prono unciatlou, The truly 
wise man will so speak that no oue will observe 
how he speaks. A man may show great knowl¬ 
edge of chemistry by carrying about bladders 
full of strange gases to breathe, but he will enjoy 
better health, and find more time for business, 
who lives on the common air. When I hear a 
person use a queer expression, or pronounce a 
uame iu readiug differently from his neighbors 
the habit always goes down, minus sign before 
it; it stands on the side of deficit, not of credit. 
Avoid, likewise, all slaug words. There is no 
great er nuisance in society t han a talker of slang. 
It is only fit, (when innocent, which it seldom is) 
for raw schoolboys and one term freshmen to 
astonish their sisters with. Talk as sensible men 
talk ; use the easiest words, iu their commonest 
meanings. Let the sense conveyed, not the vehi¬ 
cle in which it is conveyed, he the subject of at¬ 
tention. 
Once more, avoid iu eouve-rsatiou all singularity 
of accuracy. One of the bores of society is the 
talker who is always .-etting you right; who, 
when you report from the paper that 10,000 men 
fell iu battle, tells you that it was 9,000; and 
who, when you describe your walk as two mile* 
out and back, assures you that it lacked half a 
furlong of it. Truth does not consist in minute 
accuracy of detail, but iu conveying a right im¬ 
pression ; aud there are vague ways of speakiug 
that are truer than strict fact would be. When 
the Psalmist said, “Rivers of water run down 
mine eyes, because men keep not thy law,” he 
did not state the fact, but he stated a truth deeper 
than fact aud also truer. 
CHARACTER. 
A man's character is the aggregate of all the 
dispositions, tastes, purposes, and habits of his 
soul; whatever helps to constitute liis moral 
identity. This, slowly made up, it may he, 
changing imperceptibly, perhaps, through years, 
is finally the least yielding of all things. At first 
it may he almost as shifting as the folds of the 
morning's mist. You cannot tell, amid the vici-*- 
situdes of childish yearn, what form it will finally 
assume ; and yet at last it looms up before you, 
outlined as clear and definite as that silver-edged 
border of the thunder-head, pencilled on the dis¬ 
tant sky, which you can carry with you in 
memory through years to eorne. You cannot 
tell, perhaps, how it was formed, what silent, 
invisible influences moulded It, or from what 
source its elements were derived. Jnst as the 
morning’s sun will drink up liy its million- of 
beams millions of dew-drops, gathering them 
from lake and clod, from forest leaf aud mossy 
bed, from steaming rottenness aud fragrant 
flower; so from countless sources are drawn the 
elements of our moral life, from the examples wc 
witness, the opinions wc hear, the scenes through 
which we pass, the principles set before us or 
adopted by ourselves, the plans we form, the 
books we read, the pleasures we seek, the very 
objects of nature, of art, of providence or grace 
that pass Ix-fore our eyes. 
But when those have yielded what they have to 
bestow, the liquid gift crysttdizes, like the jewels 
aud diamonds of what we might almost call the 
bleeding granite—diamonds which become so 
hardened and unyielding that the blow that 
would make any impression would suffice to 
crush them to atoms. The character becomes 
less aud less pliable, and ere the ordinary period 
of life is past, we feel that the age of a Mcthusaleb 
filled with adverse and counteracting influences, 
would he powerless to change. If graceless then, 
It is graceless forever. If not yet moulded, it is 
thenceforth forever rough and rude, rugged and 
harsh, stem and forbidding. Mountains may be 
levelled, ocean cliffs may bo worn away by the 
tides, the pyramids may crumble, but the charac¬ 
ter Is still the same. The tides of passion only 
plow that channel deeper which is already 
worn, and habit only entrenches itself more 
strongly between the cliff-hound barriers that it 
has formed itself. 
ANECDOTES OF DR. FRANKLIN. 
Watson, the Annalist of Philadelphia, pre¬ 
serves a curious philosophic anecdote of Dr, 
Franklin, which he derived from the 6on of the 
gentleman to whom Franklin himself related it. 
While living iu France, he sometimes extem¬ 
porized an .dColinn harp by stretching a silken 
string across some crevice that admitted a cur¬ 
rent of air. On revisiting u village, after the lapse 
of several years, he found the house In which he 
hud formerly lodged deserted, from Its having 
gained the ill repute of bdng haunted. Strange 
melodious sounds, he was told, could be heard 
in its empty rooms. On entering the house ho 
fouud some shreds ol the silk still remaining 
which had caused aLl the mischief. 
Dr. Franklin, who had been for some time 
shaking with unrestrained laughter at the 
Abbe’s confidence in bis authority for that tale, 
said, “ 1 will tell you, Abbe, the origin of that 
story. When I was a printer and editor ot a 
newspaper, we were sometimes slack of news, 
and, to amuse our customers, I used to fill up 
our vacant columns with anecdotes and failles, 
and fancies of my own, and this of Polly Baker 
is a story of my making on one of these 
occasions.” 
The Abbe, without the least disconcert, 
exclaimed, with a laugh: —“Oh, very well, 
Doctor, I had rather relate your stories than 
other meu’s truths." 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yoker. 
FADED AWAY FROM EARTH. 
BT AISACH. 
Faded away from earth; 
As the sunllghl from the hill, 
When the mellow light is changed to night, 
And the air is dark and still. 
Faded away from earth; 
As the noonday sun grows pale, 
When a cloudy haze, o'er Us dazzling rays, 
Hangs in a misty veil. 
Faded away from earth; 
As the stars before the dawn, 
Gone to return, more brightly to bum, 
When the glare of our day is gone. 
Faded away from earth; 
As fadeth the summer’s green, 
When the frosty breath, that speaks of death, 
Bringet.h the autumn's sheen. 
Faded away from earth; 
As fadeth the autumn’s gold, 
Ere the snow comes down on forests brown, 
The sleeping earth to enfold. 
Faded away from earth: 
As melteth the winter’s snow, 
When the misty rain brings spring again. 
And the early Mild flowers blow. 
Faded away from earth; 
To shine in Heaven above, 
To light a path through the clouds of death, 
To the golden laud of love. 
REACH OUT FOR HEAVEN. 
You long for the bread of God to come down 
from heaven, and give you life such as the 
angels enjoy, do you ? You long for a warmer, 
tenderer, more of the true neighborly love, do 
you ? You yearn for it, and pray for it ? Then 
go out of yourself, and try to live for others. 
Try to do something to dissipate the darkness, 
to lessen tho burdens, to alleviate the sorrows, 
to multiply the joys, to smooth tbe nigged 
pathway of some neighbor. 
Try to extract some rankling thorn, or to pour 
a little oil and wine into some bruised and 
wounded soul. Seek out some friendless aud 
needy object, on whom to bestow your sym¬ 
pathy, your generosity, your offices of kindness. 
And you need not go far; such, objects exist iu 
scores all around you — objects needing sympa¬ 
thy and comfort, if not material aid. Do this, 
aud see how your cold and hard-hearted selfish¬ 
ness will begin to dimmish, and your neighborly 
love increase! See bow the windows of heaven 
will he opened within you, and your before waste 
and barren soul begin to be flooded with the 
gracious outpourings of love from on high! It 
is the outgoings of our own thoughts and feel¬ 
ings with intent to bless, that cause the plenti¬ 
ful incomings of the divine love and mercy, 
agreeably to the divine declaration, “Give, and 
it shall be given unto you.”— Religious Magazine. 
ACCESS TO GOD. 
However early in the morning you seek the 
gate of access you find it already open; and 
however deep the midnight moment when you 
find yourself in the sudden arms of death, the 
winged prayer can bring an instant Saviour near, 
and this wherever you are. It needs not that 
you should enter some awful shrine, or put off 
your shoes on some holy ground. Could a 
memento be reared on every spot from which an 
acceptable prayer passed away, and on which a 
prompt answer has come down, we should find 
Jehovah sham malt, “The Lord hath been here,” 
inscribed on many a cottage hearth and many a 
dungeon floor. Wc should find it not only iu 
Jerusalem*b proud temple, David’s cedar gal¬ 
leries, bfit in the fisherman's cottage, by the 
brink of Gennessareth, and in the upper cham¬ 
ber where Pentecost began. 
And whether It bo tho field where Isaac went 
to meditate, or the rocky knoll where Jacob lay 
down to sleep, or the brook where Israel wres¬ 
tled, or the dcu where Daniel gazed on the hun¬ 
gry lions and the huogry lions gazed on him, or 
the hillsides where the Man of sorrows prayed 
all night, we should Still discern the print of the 
ladder’s feet let down from heaven, the landing 
place of mercies, because the starting point of 
prayer.— Hamilton. 
THE HOPE OF MAN. 
Fin.il success—the joy of life’s ripe harvest— 
is the goal of our hopes. No wise or thought¬ 
ful man will live merely for to-day. Tite pilgrim 
who seeks a homo is not content to Huger aud 
loiter for the mere flowers beside liis way. The 
sower looks onward to fields white and ready 
for tho sickle. Wisdom has regard to the grand 
issue. The triumph or the pleasure of to-duy is 
transitory. We want a hope that does not sink 
with the setting sun. The true success of life is 
that which does not fail the evening of our days, 
and leave them to blight or barrenness. We 
want that shout of “harvest home,” that will 
not die Into silence with the failing breath, but 
makes the passage of the grave a whisperlug- 
gallcry where heaven aud earth talk together.— 
E. H. (HUM, 1). D. 
Greatness. — There is a greatness before 
which every other shrinks into nothing; oue 
which, when dearly seen iu its true, dignity, pro¬ 
duces a most thrilling emotion of the heart. It 
is moral greatness—that undeviatlug rectitude 
of action, which leads men to seek the host 
interests of others, that integrity of soul which 
binds man under every circumstance to truth 
and duty, and rears for him a monument encir¬ 
cled by that eternal radiance which issues from 
the throne of God. 
