KISS. 
“Nat, ask me not—how could I bring 
My lips to rest on manhood's brow :■ 
A maiden may not lightly fling 
Her timid nature oil—and thou. 
Caressed as thou ari wont to be. 
What were a kiss of mine to thee? 
“And thou won'd'st think that I had pressed 
Another cheek as soon as thine ; 
Should I allow my lips to rest 
(Even lightly as pn hallowed shrine 
The trembling lips of devotee) 
On thine as pledge of love to thee." 
But then some words of gentle sound 
Were w’hispered to tire maiden's heart; 
She could not bear his love to wound— 
The hour had come when they must part; 
And she was young, and fond, and true; 
What could the gentle maiden do i 
The spell is broken—she has laid 
Her trembling lips against his chick. 
On hers there is a deeper shade 
Of crimson, but she does not speak; 
Her voice is hushed—her voice is still— 
’Tis given, half without her will! 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE TEST OF SOUL. 
BT MINNIE MINTWOOD. 
“You had better consent, Estelle ! ” 
“ Well, there, Father! you’ve capped the cli¬ 
max! Here’s Sam and the girls, and Cousin 
Dana all dubbed with various soubriquets, 
amounting in the aggregate to a compound of 
foolishness, silliness aud downright madness, 
simply because I will not marry Paul Linn ! 
And now you’ve caught the key-note aud play 
the same tune. You act and talk as if it were no 
more for a girl to marry than for you to bargain 
for a horse or sell a crop of wheat. It may seem 
so to you men, but to a womau it is oftener like 
going down into Death than otherwise! ” And 
the white face of Estelle Burke glowed crim¬ 
son with her earnestness, while her full blue eyes 
seemed flashing through a mist of half suppressed 
tears. 
“Well, really, Estelle,” said Mr. Bttrke, 
with a light laugh, “ I know it is a serious thing; 
hut with a correct view of it I think you will see 
at once that it would be best for you. I shall not 
always live to keep a house for you, and dear as 
you are to me, and much as I should miss you, 
yet for your own good I advise you to consent to 
Paul Linn’s proposal. I know of no one in 
whom I have greater confidence, and, if I am not 
mistaken, you are not, by any means, indifferent 
to him—” 
“Yes,” interrupted Rose, “and she never had 
a better offer. Half the girls in tpwn would 
jump at the chauce.” 
“ And just think of the grand old parlors upon 
the hill,” chimed in Sam. “Good Heavens, 
Estelle! you’ll reign a very queen there, in 
yonr velvet robes.” 
“ You have some reason for this stubbornness, 
Estelle,” said Dana Lowe, “—some reason that 
we do not know.” 
“ Yes, I have a reason, Dana. And to end this 
unmerciful persecution I'll tell it to you all.” 
And looking at her as she walked to aud fro 
across the parlors, her stately, graceful figure 
crowned with a head so Madonna-like, that you 
could never pass it without looking twice, you 
would have held your breath, almost, kupwing 
that such a womau's reason was no common ob¬ 
jection. 
“I did not wonder so much that Sam, Dana 
and the girls thought it strange and queer that I 
would not he Paul's wife—a man as worthy, 
perhaps, as any man can be of a woman's life. 
But 1 do wonder that father—my own father —ad¬ 
vises me to many Paul Linn, or any man. Eight 
years ago sweet Rose Bertram stood up in her 
white robes and gave herself to Paul Linn, and 
ere a twelvemonth had elapsed, they made her 
grave under the maples. You all know how she 
died. The crucible that liee in the future of 
nearly every wife, through which many pass, 
coming out with the gold of their natures puri¬ 
fied, and the nobler, deeper, holier passions 
reached, swallowed up the life of Rose Bertram. 
And to-du\ Paul Linn walks abroad with all the 
life-blood of health, of glorious, gifted existence, 
bounding through his veins, looking out upon 
the gladness of the fair, bright world, as if there 
were no grave early made because of him! 
You may say I am morbid, mad, on this subject. 
I am—always have been. I never see a young 
wife without pitying her from my inmost soul. 
Let crape be worn instead of white. Julia 
Fales came here yesterday—a wife of scarce halt 
a year — with all the gleeful, happy way sobered 
down into a disruity that pained me to see, as jf 
the love she had risked all for, was not deep 
enough, true enough, tender enough to shield 
her from terror and suffering. You may talk of 
courage and heroism, but to me there is none 
that equals that of a woman’s, comprehending 
her destiny, who places her future, unreserved^ 
in a man’s keeping'. I do not acquit all women 
of equal blame. Women many, alas ! so often 
merely for the sake of having some one to fur¬ 
nish the ribbons and laces, the curtains and car¬ 
riages—marry, they scarcely know wham, ent ering 
upon their joint life with every question that 
touches upon their relation as wife untouched, 
undiscussed, and nut understood ! 
I believe marriage right, and the true way to 
live. I can conceive how one may grow up into 
a higher, nobler, better life, surrounded and pro¬ 
tected with a love that is strong and perfect. 
But rather than marry a man half-loving, as I do, 
hall-trusting, because of a terror horn of doubt 
and uncertainty, I will keep my future in my 
own hands. And to-night I will tell Paul Linn 
why I cannot consent to his wish. I know it will 
cost me what I never yet have felt, but better | 
this than to be misunderstood'. " |. 
The twilight had deepened and only the glow i 
of the fire from the grate revealed the figures 
that seemed all so silence-bound with the thought 
of a woman, brave enough to handle her thoughts 
, with Anglo-Saxon fingers, and true enough to 
tear away the vail of misunderstanding between 
herself and the man who loved her. 
It was Dana Lowe who broke the silence. 
Rising he took the slight bauds within his own, 
and in a voice mellowed with a strange tender¬ 
ness, said“ Estei.le Burke, you are a woman 
worth winning. If all women had your bravery 
and sense of right, to front the Truth, there 
would be fewer bridal-robed coffins and fewer 
men living wijh rusted heart-strings. But I fear 
you wrong men—some at least — and if any, you 
wrong the best, those who love with the deepest, 
truest appreciation. If Paul Linn does not 
prove himself a man in this ordeal, he is not 
worthy of port—he does not love you ! God strengthen 
you, Estelle ! ” 
How heartless the old teasing, careless urgings 
seemed! There were low, deep breathings as if 
the air were laden with a solemnity but too deep 
and real, and as if to throw off the tiresome 
weight, each one, apace, passed quietly from the 
room, leaving the pale-browed, slight figure 
walking to aud fro in the gloom. 
The lamps were lighted. The silvery chime of 
the dock aroused Estelle, aud a slight flush 
crossed her face as she heard the well known 
ring of Paul Linn’s step In the hall. “ Oh! if 
he were only as noble as Cousin Dana ’ His 
great heart and love of Truth redeems half the 
world.” ’Twas a thought of sudden birth and 
existence, for Paul Linn stood waiting without. 
“You came early, Paul.” 
‘ 1 It seem* late. I thought the time would never 
come. Suspt use is more unwelcome, sometimes, 
than unpleasant truth, unlike that I hope 
Estelle ha^ for me.” 
“ What I have to tell you, Paul, may at least 
save you fr m an unsatisfied life . And yet, if you 
value trul . aud frankness, as I do, you will at 
least give .lie your blessing.” 
Alternate flashings of crimson and palor over 
Paul Linn’s face —momeuts when his heart 
stood, as when a tremor of the surgeon’s hand 
would endanger all, and Estelle Burke had 
finished. 
“ For God’s sake, Estelle, don’t wrong me! 
All these long, desolate years, when I have 
thought of yon, and fancied you near me, the 
little, grave yonder has come between you and 
me, and I could not ask you to trust me as— 
Rose did? Oh, Estelle, I am not worthy of 
you! ” 
And the proud man, upon whose brow care lay 
so lightly, buried his face in his hands aud in the 
light of a women’s truth, questioned his soul. 
“Estblle, dear frieDd, if I never come hack, 
let me tell you how much I love and bless you for 
your noble/ronfcnes* and brave, pure heart.” He 
was gone. 
But Paul Linn did come back. The old man¬ 
sion on the hill with all its gorgeous hues Of 
tapestry and damask, its niches of statuary and 
shelves of silent-voiced companions, was dark 
and gloomy. 
“ Will you come now Estelle ? ” There was 
a new light in the fine eyes of the man, aud Paw. 
Linn received his own great reward from the lips 
of her, whose smiles henceforth lighted and glo¬ 
rified the heart and home of him whose soul had 
home Us test. 
Near Lndlowvillc, N. Y., 1866. 
LADIES' NAMES, 
Mart, Maria, Marie (French,) signify exalted. 
According to some, Mary means lady of the seas; 
Martha, interpreted, is bitterness: Isabel signi¬ 
fies lovely; Julia and Juliet, soft haired; Ger¬ 
trude, all truth; Eleanor, all fruitful; Ellen, 
originally the Greek Hc-llen, changed by the 
Latins into Hellene, signifies alluring, though, 
according to Greek authors, It means one who 
pities. The interpretation of Caroline is regal ; 
that ol' Charlotte is a queen; Clara, bright or 
clear eyed; Agnes, chaste; Amanda, amiable; 
Laura, a laurel; Edith, joyous; Olivia, peace: 
Phcebe, light of life; Grace, favor; Sarah or 
Sally, a princess; Sophia, wisdom; Amelia and 
Amy, beloved; Matilda, a noble maid; Margaret, 
a pearl; Rebecca, plump; Pauline, a little one; 
Anna, Anne, Ann and Nancy, all of which are 
the orignal name, interpreted, means gracious or 
kiud; Jane signifies dignity: Ida, the morning 
star; Lucy, brightness of aspect; Louisa or 
Louise, one who protects; Emma, tender; Cath¬ 
erine, pure; Frances or Fanny, frank or free; 
Lydia, severe; Minerva, chaste. 
FEMININE GOSSIP. 
Somebody says the oldest husbandry he knows 
of is the marrying of a widower in clover with 
a widow in weeds. 
An English woman’s prospect for getting a 
husband is at its highest point when she reaches 
her twentieth year. 
“I am surprised, my dear, that I have never 
seen you blush.” “ The fact is, huBband, I was 
born to blush unseen.” 
An old gentleman of great experience says he 
is never satisfied that a lady understands a kiss 
unless he has it from her own mouth. 
Juvenile Swell— “Oh! how delightful it 
must be to be a dog?” Young Lady—“Never 
mind, Charlie, you have a chance to grow.” 
How fish hang around the bait they till are 
hooked, said the deacon, as he pushed through the 
crowd of fops waiting the egress of the ladies 
at a church door. 
Frank Hay man was droll. When he buried 
his wife a friend asked him why he expended so 
much on her funeral. “Oh, sir,” replied he, 
“ she would have done as much, or more for me, 
with pleasure. 
SOMEBODY'S DARLING. 
Into a ward of the white-washed halls, 
Whore the dead arid dying lay. 
Wounded by bayonets, shells, mid balls, 
Somebody's Darling was borne one day— 
Somebody’s Darling, so young and so brave, 
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, 
Soon to be hid hy the dust of the grave, 
The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace. 
Matted and damp we the curls of gold, 
Kissing the snow of the fair young brow, 
Pale are the ftps of delicate mould— 
Somebody’s darling is dying now. 
Back from bis beaniiful bine-veined brow 
Brush all the v auilering waves of gold; 
Cross his hands his bosom now— 
Somebody’s Darling is still and cold. 
Kiss him once for somebody's sake, 
Murmur a prayer both soft and low; 
One bright curl Rom its fair mates take— 
They were somebody’s pride you know; 
Somebody’s hand hath rested there— 
Was it a mother’s, soft aud white ? 
And have the lips of a sister fair 
Been baptized in the waves of light ? 
God knows best! he has somebody's love; 
Somebody's heart enshrined him there ; 
Somebody wafted Ids name above. 
Night and morn, on the wince or prayer. 
Somebody wept when he marched away, 
Looking so handsome, brave and grand; 
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay, 
Somebody clung to his parting hand. 
Somebody's waiting and watching for him— 
Yearning to hold him again to her heart; 
And there he lies with his blue c-ycs dim, 
And the smiling, child-like lips apart— 
Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 
Pansing to drop on his grave a tear; 
Carve in the wooden slab at his head, 
Somebody’s Darling slumbers here.” 
EVERY-DAY LIFE. 
I walked home with some boys from the 
school to-day. John Brown said he could not 
tinderstand his teacher at all. He (the teacher) 
kept ding-donging into their ears the importance 
of thinking. 11 And now,” said John, scowling, 
as if a knot had been tied in bis forehead, “I 
cannot think—I don't know what to think a?jout." 
Ah! That is it. John Brown —aye, all John 
Browns, and John Smiths, and John Joneses! 
You cannot thiuk unless you have something to 
think about. And your teacher who does not 
know enough to teach you how to think and set 
in motion your suggestive powers, is no teacher 
at all. The matter contained in books is not 
always the most suggestive of thought. Keep 
your eyes open out of doors. Take the knife 
from your pocket, aud tell me what you can 
of it—not only of ft" coustunetion, where it is 
made, but of the t'lterials of which it is com¬ 
posed, Its blacX* —bow U bt-ocl tu„dc .'? — 
and what can you »y of the different kinds of 
6teel. Its handle iypcarl, or turquoise, or some 
other substance. M’hat can yon tell yourself 
concerning these substances, aud the manner in 
which they are prepared for the material uses in 
which they are employed. The caps are brass— 
wliat do you know of it—of its value and nature 
and use relative to other metallic substances. 
Thinking! Why I know many meu whom I 
meet daily, who appear to be iu a brown study, 
but who do not observe, as they walk their 
farms, among their flocks aud herds, or through 
their fields, anything whatever. They see the 
grass spring up, but they thiuk nothing con¬ 
cerning it, except that it will, by and by, make 
fodder. If it is green it is little matter—they 
do not know why the sunlight falling on it makes 
it look green to them, while the daisy iu its 
midst looks golden. 
Thinking solves nothing unless it is accompa¬ 
nied by acts, experiments and observation. And 
this is the reason why Madison Meditation, 
yonder, accomplishes nothing beyond the most 
brilliant air castles aud visionary projects and 
theories. He thiuks but does nothing, He 
spends time enough trying to explain the 
method of his reasoning to prove its falsity a 
thousand times if he would attempt demonstra¬ 
tion, or would reason from facts which be might 
observe. Don Juan Duer, however, says, “I’ll 
try and see." His theories are put to a practical 
test, and thereby he galiiF knowledge by think¬ 
ing and experimenting. No farmer who shuts 
himself up in his office grows corn more eco¬ 
nomically, if he dot’6 not first go into the field 
aud observe the modes upon which he purposes 
to improve. We must watch and work as well 
as think, John Brown ! Having facts, search 
for reasons for facts, but do not hope to reach 
them simply by thinking. You must experi¬ 
ment and observe i lie relations of these facts to 
others. You will get on iu knowledge, if your 
thinking takes this course, — iu the kiud of 
knowledge which is power. Lead Pencil. 
"Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THRUST OUT. 
To-day a child came to me for a kiss, the 
expectant mouth lifted, the cheeks afiush with 
love. The child is thetrue lover; all unconscious 
of rags or dirt, it stood a tip-toe for the salute. 
A feeling of disgu.-t involuntarily shaded my 
lace, not unnoticed try the quick eyed little one. 
I saw the spirit shrink within itself; saw the face 
turn away with a grieved look. 
Then, sad that I had offended one of the least 
of the little ones, I thought of the many hearts 
rudely thrust out from love. The fresh, sweet 
fouutaiu wells up from the soul, but there is no 
hand to channel out a bed for its waters, they 
may become a river of life, and falling back, the 
pulses of the living spring become stagnate. 
The deep, cold waters are crusted over at last 
by the ice of indifference. 
s 
We look with a chill creeping over our nerves 
upon such faces every clay. Often the heart 
aching with its fullness, flings its treasure out, 
careless whether it fall in receiving hand or 
beneath trampling feet. Man cannot live hy 
“bread alone.” Alas, for the soul hungering 
and thirsting for spiritual food, that goes down 
to the grate as truly famished as the body does 
that lacks its nutriment! Thanks to our Father, 
when of Him we ask bread lie will not give us a 
stone. Out of Ills fullness may the neglected 
of this world be satisfied. Allen De Lee. 
SAYING DISAGREEABLE THINGS. 
Some people, not otherwise ill-natured, are 
apt to season their conversation with disagree¬ 
able sayings, unpleasant comments, uncomforta¬ 
ble insinuations. Such a person, we sometimes 
hear, is a good sort of follow, but h« has a way 
of saying disagreeable things. Such a woman 
can be very charming when she pleases, but, 
in fact, these people are never spoken of for 
throe consecutive scuteuces without a qualifica¬ 
tion. 
A disagreeable thing is distinguished from an 
Impertinence, which it often closely resem¬ 
bles, by certain marks. In the first place an 
impertinence we need not stand, but the other 
we often must, aware that it is the result of 
certain conditions of our friend’s mind, which, 
as we cannot hope to alter, wc must resign 
ourselves to. An impertinence may or may 
not be true— its main design, independent of 
truth, is, more or less, to insult. It. is of the 
essence of a disagreeable thing that it should 
be true—true iu itself, or true as representing 
the speaker’s state of feeling. And yet an un¬ 
palatable truth Is not technically a disagreeable 
thing any more than an impertinence, though, 
of course, the being told it ft an unpleasant 
operation. It is necessary for us now and then 
to bear unpalatable and unwelcome truths ; but 
a disagreeable thing is never a moral necessity— 
it is spoken to relieve the speaker’s mind, not 
to profit tlie hearer. The same utterance may 
he an impertinence, an unpalatable truth, or a 
disagreeable thing, according to time and cir¬ 
cumstance. 
For example, in a fit of absence, we perpe¬ 
trate 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; 
it is an impertinence to be informed of it by a 
strangc-r who has no right to concern himself 
with our affairs; it is a disagreeable thing when 
—tlie occasion past—our friend enlightens us 
about It, simply as a piece of information. We 
all of us, no doubt, have friends, relations and 
acquaintances who think it quite a sufficient 
reason for saying a thing, that it is true. Prob¬ 
ably we have ourselves known the state of mind 
in which we find a certain fact or opinion a 
load to be got rid of; anti, under the gross mis¬ 
take that all truth must be spoken, that it is 
uucandid and dangerous not to deliver a testi¬ 
mony—portvinecd tint truth, likn murdet-, wilt 
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 ourself 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 the result of the mere 
blind intrusive assertion of truth, is a real 
weight; and the primary law of politeness, 
never to give unnecessary pain, a? soon as it is 
apprehended, is welcomed us a deliverer. Chil¬ 
dren, and the very young, have not experience 
enough for any but the most limited sympathy, 
and can only partially compare the feelings of 
others with their own. Indeed, the idea Of the 
comparison does not occur to them. But there 
are people who, iu thft respect, remain children 
all their days, and very awkward children, too, 
who burst with a fact as the fool with his secret, 
aud, like the hair-dresser in Leech’s caricature, 
are impelled to tell us that our hair is thin at 
the top, though nothing whatever is to come of 
the communication. These, as Sydney Smith 
says, turn friendship into a system oflawfuland 
unpunishable impertinence, from, so far as we 
can see, no worse cause than incontinence of 
fact and opinion—feeling it to be a sufficient, and 
triumpliaut defence of every perpetration of the 
sort, that It Is true. “ Why did you tell Mr. So- 
and-so that his sermon was fifty minutes long ? ” 
“Because I bad looked at my watch.” “Why 
did yon remind such an one that he is growing 
fat and old?” Because heft.” “Why repeat 
that unfavorable criticism ? ” “I had just read 
it,” “Why disparage this man’s particular 
friends?” “I don’t like them.” “Why »ay to 
that young lady that her dress was unbecom¬ 
ing ? " “I really thought so.” 
It is, however, noticeable in persons of this 
obtrusive candor that they have eyes for blem¬ 
ishes only. They are never impelled to tell 
pleasant truths, from which, no doubt, we may 
infer a certain acerbity of temper, though these 
strictures maybe spoken iu seeming blunt, hon¬ 
est, good humor. Still, they talk in this way 
from natural obtuseness and inherent defect of 
sympathy. These are the people who always hit 
upon tlie wrong tiling to say, and instinctively 
ferret out sore subjects. They are not the class 
we have In our thoughts, indeed, they inca¬ 
pacitate themselves for serious mischief, us their 
acquaintances give them a wide berth, and take 
cure not to expose their more cherished Interests 
to their tender mercies. It requires some refine¬ 
ment of perception to say the more pungent 
and penetrating disagreeable things. Wo must 
care for the opinion or the regard of a person 
whose sayings ot this sort can keenly annoy us. 
A man must have made friends before he can 
wound them. A real expert In this art is 
never rude and can convey a disregard, approach¬ 
ing to contempt, for another’s opinion, hit him 
in his most vulnerable points, and send him off 
generally depressed and uncomfortable, without 
saying a word that eau be fairly taken hold of.— 
From a Forthcoming Book, 
"Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
WHY SLEEPEST THOU? 
BT JENNY 
War sleepest thou, my soul, 
And why hast slumber wrapt her robes 
Aronncl thy slender forjn ? Awake, no time 
Is there to lose, though much to thee, 
Perhaps, Is given. Awake*! Shake off 
Those drowsy powers, aud do thy duty t 
Oh! once again take hold the plow 
Nor look behind. Remember that 
To Those who persevere, to them alone 
The crown awaits. Arise and do 
Thy duty! Why wilt thou slumber 
While so much remains for thee to do f 
Dost tlion not see the dead and 
Dying round ihee. and wilt thou slumber 
On ? Death, death is staring at thee now; 
And on thy brow perhaps his hand 
Is laid. Arise! or thou wilt surely die. 
To sleep is death. Arise, my soul, arise I 
I will arise, so help tne God, to 
Break the ehaius that bind so fast 
All my affections to this sinful 
World. Help me lo cast the glittering 
Geras, worm-eaten treasures of this 
binful earth, aside, aud don the 
Robes which Christ, my Lord, hath 
So prepared for me. Help me His 
Yoke, Hi? burlhen light, to bear. 
And when the hour of death shall 
Come, may I with joy give tip my 
Life, that I may dwell with Christ 
And all the Saints above, in that 
Bright world of bliss. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SPRINGS OF ACTION. 
Every effect must have its cause. There is no 
sequence, however simple, but has somewhere 
an antecedent. We cannot always sec these; 
they arc often so subtile as to elude our casual 
observation, aud we too willingly grasp the 
results without pausing to trace out, or inquire 
their causes. 
Very beautiful are the countless flakes of snow 
that come trooping down to earth of late; we 
stand and gaze at them admiringly, noticing 
the purity and perfection of their tiny crystals; 
but how many of us know, or care to under¬ 
stand, the cause of these minute creations. 
Who stops to think that perhaps months ago 
these same little crystals left the earth in the 
form of vapor, and only as they felt the chill 
breath of the frost-king, did they return under 
such a beautiful guise. 
I suppose hardly one iu twenty ever thinks 
how the prismatic colors of the rainbow are 
brought out—or why poor digestion is always 
attended by ill-temper and blllious dispositions. 
But all these are effects merely physical, and 
result from causes of the same nature. 
Tide, law applies to mind aud mo"als with the 
same if not greater accuracy. Just as we see 
unnatural and distorted growth in plants and 
animals from external circumstances and influ¬ 
ences, so In mental and moral growth, we find 
“ as the twig is bent the tree is inclined.” 
These truths arc wrought out in daily lives 
more perfectly than elsewhere. We are not to 
judge a mail’s mental or moral calibre by any 
single isolated act. If we should do this, it 
would be often with great injustice. But it is 
only by carefully studying the every-day lives of 
person?, by seeing them when under trials aud 
temptations, aud when rejoicing iu triumphs, 
that we arc enabled to draw correct conclusions 
as to their moral status. 
But how are we to know the secret springs of 
action that guide and control the lives of those 
around us? How are we to penetrate the inner 
shrine of the heart, and there read the motives 
actuating persons ? By taking effects, and thence 
tracing back to their causes. “Men do not 
gather grapes of thorns, nor figs of thistles, nor 
can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit,” So, 
however pure and spotless persons may seem to 
be, the moral influence of their lives cannot be 
great unless their hearts are right. 
When we see a watch, or any piece of mechan¬ 
ism perfect in all Its parte, and performing its 
customary duty, we know that somewhere there 
Is a mainspring that controls nml regulates the 
action. And if this is disordered or hi any 
manner defective, a corresponding defect will 
appear in the movement of the watch or other 
machine. 
So in human life. Our hearts are the main¬ 
springs of action. Our conduct and thoughts 
are but the result—acts of the combined forces 
of will, conscience, appetite, passion, &c. These 
are more or less influenced by our early training, 
and by the circumstances iu which we are placed. 
Hence we find many persons regarding as wrong 
what others perhaps would consider harmless. 
Both classes may earnestly desire to do right, 
but birth and training have cast their opinions 
In different molds. 
That wc are apt to judge harshly, aud imply 
motives to actions which fall under our disap¬ 
proval Is too true, but It is uo less true that from 
pure motives cannot come impure conduct, nor 
can the reverse occur; this beiugwell known, 
we can hardly help forming our conclusions as 
to the guilt or innocence of the doers. 
If, then, motives so much influence our out¬ 
ward lives, and arc the hidden springs of all our 
actions, how necessary it is to carefully prune 
them, unsparingly cutting out, and casting away 
those which are of a nature to engender wrong. 
Truly he, of old, knew well, when he said, 
“Keep thy heart with all diligence, for out of it 
are the issues of life.” 
Alice Brown Nicuols. 
Religious experience is Bible knowledge hu¬ 
manized, aud so beautifully divinity comes down 
to our help in the person of Jesus, that he is our 
sympathizer as well as our sacrifice. 
