■Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
I’LL BE TRUE. 
ET ELIZABETH CLARE. 
By the golden summer air, 
By the rose ana lily rare. 
By the lakes and rivers fair, 
By the beauty everywhere, 
Do I swear that I'll be true, 
For the love I bear to you. 
Iu the silence of the night, 
When the stars are glowing bright, 
When the moon's soft silvery light, 
Beams upon my weary sight, 
Then to you will I be true, 
For the love I bear to you. 
When the storms are threat'ning loud, 
And there's dauger iu the cloud. 
When with years ray form is bowed, 
And my life with care’s endowed, 
Then I'll love, and I'll be true, 
To myself, my love, aud you. 
All the years my life shall know. 
Bring they riches, joy, or woe, 
When my hair is white as snow. 
With the years that come and go. 
Then and always I'll be true, 
Then aud always love but you. 
Written for Moore’s Bural New-Yorker. 
JEAN INGELOW’S POEMS. 
De Quincey says that “a great river and a 
great poet are alike in their influence upon soil 
and human culture.” 'When Mrs. Browning’s 
rush of thrilling song was stopped, did it not 
seem as if a great water course had suddenly 
been left parched and desolate ? We mourned 
for the river, and sighed regretfully for the 
vanished lights and shadows of its changeful 
beauty; already another noble stream is closing 
over the dreary waste, deepening and widening 
in its onward course, enchanting us with its 
musical ripple or passionate, surge. 
It is less than two years since Miss Ingelow's 
name began to appear in American papers. We 
only caught stray notes of her melodies till her 
book came—a beautiful edition of poems cased 
in green and gold, on the thick, creamy-tinted 
paper so dear to the. hearts of the literati It is 
a book that can never grow old, a book for every 
time and season, to be read and re-read without 
a thought of weariness. We find beautiful 
similes, sweet sounding rhymes, great truths 
strongly expressed, that vibrate in the mental 
ear for weeks together. To read some of her 
pieces in winter, carries us beneath cloudless 
skies of June's most perfect days; we hear the 
hum of ‘‘feeding bees” in the wayside clover, 
the songs of wren aud swallow—we sec 
“ The open velvet butterflies, 
That swing and spread their peacock eyes.” 
Sometimes we look with her on the “polished 
sea,” with its “snow gulls sitting lovingly in 
social ringswe behold the “ clear-cut hills ol 
gloomy blue,” white cliffs along the ocean with 
“ brown rock-cleft paths.” Again she shows us 
a dappled sky, fair meadows and a world of 
bloom, and never did artist’s pencil paint buds 
and blossoms with more fidelity to nature than 
she with her genius-pointed pen. She does not 
tell us so much of fair lilies and the royal rose, 
as of humbler flower-growths, just such as her 
childish feet must have lingered beside many a 
time in her English home. We hear of bcll- 
buugcowslips, foxgloves, “God’s gentian bells 
and his crocus stars,” the buttercup’s 
“matchless sheen. 
Their million, million drops of gold 
Among the green.” 
She makes us feel every emotion uttered, she 
leads ns captive by her unequalled picturesque¬ 
ness, vivid imagination, and unstudied simplici¬ 
ty; we take the singer to our hearts, unseen, yet 
hardly less beloved, and place her at once .among 
onr chosen friends. 
Perhaps one of her most popular pieces is the 
“Songs of Seven,” representing the prominent 
events of woman’s life. In the first we sec a 
happy, exulting child, full of life and joyous ness; 
at fourteen llic girl is waiting impatiently fur the 
tardy years that arc fraught with so much of 
seeming happiness; at twenty-one the maiden 
watches for her lover in the sweet, summer twi¬ 
light ; when seven times four comes, she plays 
amid the flowers with her little children around 
her, aud talks to them of the absent father; at 
thirty-five we hear the wail of the lonely widow; 
at forty-two she gives her daughter in marriage, 
with mingled joy and sorrow; seven times seven, 
or the “ Longing for Home,” is the most pa¬ 
thetic of all, where she sighs for ho- missing 
boat and her empty nest, saying at the close— 
“the port where my sailor went, 
And the land where my nestlings be— 
There is the home where my thoughts are set, 
The only home for me— 
Ah, me!” 
Miss Ingelow has been called the successor 
of Mrs. Browning ; not that she is yet Llic equal 
of that queen of song, but front her rich promise 
of still greater excellence, wc do not hazard 
much in saying that she may yet surpass her 
sister-poet. Her last book—Studies for Stories 
—has many admirers; it U evidently written for 
young girls, and many of the pictures are exqui¬ 
site; the girls cannot fail to appreciate them. 
Let us wish abundant success to the new Eng¬ 
lish poet—long may she write. 
Dore Hamilton. 
“I don’t sec,” said Mrs. Partington, as Ike 
came home from school and threw his books in 
one chair, and his jacket into another, and his 
cap on the floor, sayiug that he didn’t get the 
medal— “1 don't, see, dear, why you didn’t get 
the medal, foreertttuly a more meddlesome boy I 
never knew. But no matter, when the adver¬ 
sary’ comes round again, you will get it.” 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SOCIAL SKETCHES-No. 3. 
MISS GRABBE. 
Miss Grabbe differs, in toto, from her Mends 
Gabbe, and Gadde. Indeed, I can hardly say 
they are friend*, at all, except by that license 
which permits ns to call everybody in the same 
village, a friend. Miss Gat be is not amiable, 
aud don’ t pretend to be,—is perfectly indifferent 
as to the opiuion of others concerning herself,— 
while Gabbe and Gadde pride themselves on 
being “all things to all men.” Miss Grabbe is 
one of those persons whom the charitable usu¬ 
ally describe as “with a good hearty but a disa¬ 
greeable way with folks, - ’ She always has an 
eye out for No. 1. She’s a man-hater by profes¬ 
sion, but is apt to take a man, at last, rather as 
a son of “ necessary c-vil,” than to be her “ lord 
and master." She may he called slightly mas¬ 
culine, and her voice is often heard by her 
neighbors in not the most dulcet tones. She is 
a great economizer. She believes in industrial 
associations, too, and when she is present at. a 
sewing circle, the girls don’t get the first chance 
at any fun. 
Miss Grabbe is no favorite at the village 
stores, for she “prides herself” on always get¬ 
ting the “best of the bargain.” She is always 
present at church, raiu or shine,—she “prides 
herself” on it. What daggers and pitchforks 
she looks at the little innocents in the adjoining 
pews, who fail to conform to the stiff perpen¬ 
dicular she esteems the very essence of devotion. 
Miss Grabbe is high-tempered. She says it is 
an evidence of intellect. Miss Grabbe is cross. 
She says it indicates a knowledge of the hollow¬ 
ness of things earthly. Miss Grabbe is nig¬ 
gardly. She says, it is because she knows the 
t rue value of things. Miss Grabbe is sanctimo¬ 
nious. She says, “let your light shine before 
men.” Miss Grabbe is mulish. She says, “let 
your yea be yea, and your nay, nay.” Miss 
Grabbe has no friends , for, true to her uame, 
she would grab all to herself, aud fails to sec 
that “it is more, blessed to give than to receive.” 
May Miss Grabbe learn the lesson of love Lu 
time to save herself from an unlamcnted grave! 
Aunt Katcrah. 
THE ORNAMENT OF A QUIET SPIRIT. 
I will tell you what I saw the other night in 
the parlor of one of our hotels. Two middle 
aged Quaker ladies came gliding in, with calm, 
cheerful faces, and lustrous, dove-colored silks. 
By their conversation I found that they belong¬ 
ed to that class of women among the Friends 
who devote themselves to traveling on missions 
of benevolence. They had just completed a tour 
of all the hospitals tor wounded soldiers in the 
country, where they had been carrying comforts, 
arranging, advising and soothing by their cheer¬ 
ful, gentle presence. They were now on anoth¬ 
er mission to the lost and erring ol their own 
sex; night after night, guarded by a policeman, 
they have ventured after midnight into the 
dance-houses where girls arc led to ruin, and, 
with gentle words of tender, motherly coun¬ 
sel, sought to win them from their evil ways, 
telling them where they might go the next day 
to find friends who would open to them an 
asylum, and aid them to seek a better life. 
As I looked upon these women, dressed with 
such modest purity, I began secretely to think 
that the apostle was not wrong when he spoke 
about women adorning themselves with the or¬ 
nament of a meek aud quiet spirit; for the 
habitual gentleness Of their expression; calm¬ 
ness and purity of the lines in their faces; the 
delicacy and simplicity of their apparel, seemed 
themselves a rare and peculiar beauty. I could 
not help thinking that fashionable bonnets, 
flowing l0.ee sleeves, and dresses elaborately 
trimmed could not hove improved even their 
outward appearance. Doubtless, their simple 
wardrobe needed hut a small trunk in travelling 
from place to place, and hindered but little their 
prayers and ministrations. Now, it is true, all 
women are not called to such'a life as this; but 
might not all women take a leaf from their 
book? I submit the inquiry humbly. It seems 
to me that there are many who go monthly to 
the sacrament, and receive it with sincere devo¬ 
tion, and who give thanks each time sincerely 
that they are thus made “ members incorporate 
in the mystical body of Christ,” who have never 
thought, of this membership as mcanging that, they 
should share Christ’s sacrifices for lost souls, or 
abridge themselves of one ornament or en¬ 
counter one inconvenience lor the sake of 
those wandering sheep lor whom he died. Cer¬ 
tainly there is a higher economy which we need 
to learn—that which makes all tilings subservi¬ 
ent to the spiritual and immortal, and that not 
merely to the good ol our own souls and those 
of our family, but of all who arc knit with us in 
the great bonds of human brotherhood, The 
Sisters of Charity and the Friends, each with 
their different costumes of plainness and self-de¬ 
nial, and Other noble-hearted women of no par¬ 
ticular outward order, but kindred in spirit, have 
shown to womanhood, on the battle-field and in 
the hospital, a move excellent way—a beauty and 
nobility before which all the common graces 
and ornaments of the sex fade, and appear like 
dim euudles by the pure eternal stars. — Mrs. 
II. H. Stowe. 
FEMININE GOSSIP. 
A young lady should take heed when an ad¬ 
mirer bends low before her. The hod beau is 
dangerous. 
The Ohio House of Representatives is discuss¬ 
ing the question of electing a young lady clerk 
of that. body. The subject was referred to the 
Judiciary Committee, to report whether such an 
election would he constitutional 
A bachelor sea captain who was remarking 
the other dav that he wanted a gdod chief officer, 
w as promptly informed by a young lady present, 
that she had no objection to be his first mate, 
lie took the hint—and the lady. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
APRIL DAYS. 
BY W. H. BANKS. 
In tin? April time, so long ago, 
I stood by the big-wheel, spinning tow; 
Buzz z, buzz-*, buzz-*, so very slow. 
Dork, rough logs, from the ancient trees, 
Wholesome cracks for the cooling breeze, 
Fireplace wide, for the children’s glees. 
Above, the smoky boards and beams; 
Down through a crevice poured golden gleams, 
Till the wheel-dust glimmered like diamond dreams. 
Mother, busy with household cares. 
Baby, playing with upturned chairs, 
Old clock, tolling how fast time wears; 
These within. Out under the sky, 
Flecked mists were sailing, birds flitting by, 
Joyous children, playing “hie-spy.” 
Up from the earth curled leaves were coming, 
Bees in the warming sunshine humming, 
Away iu woods, the partridge drumming. 
O, how I longed to burst away 
From my dull task, to the outer day I 
But we were poor, and I must stay. 
To buzz-z, buzz-z. buzz-z, ’twas very slow, 
Drawing the thread from the sltining tow, 
When the heart within, was dancing so. 
Then hope went spinning a brighter thread; 
On, on, through life’s long lanes it led, 
A path my feet should one day tread, 
Making sweet fancies, time to beguile, 
’Till my mother said, with her sunny smile, 
"My child may rest, I will ‘reel’ the while.” 
Rest! ’twas the rest that childhood takes; 
Off over fences, and fragrant brakes, 
To the wild, where the earliest wood-flower wakes. 
O. what enchantment the woodlands fling! 
Spring of the year, and life’s sweet spring, 
Words arc poor for the joys ye bring. 
But yc come together to me no more; 
Your twin steps rest in the fields of yore; 
You are mine on youder immortal shore. 
How hard to leave, those April days, 
The mossy path iu the forest maze, 
For common work, and its humdrum ways. 
But my steps were turned, I was up the lane, 
Back to the buzzing wheel again. 
My yarn had finished the ten-knot skein; 
And my gentle mother stroked my head, 
“Your yarn is very nice,” she said, 
’Twill make a beautiful table-spread ; 
“You're ma's good girl to work so well.” 
Great thoughts, my childish heart would swell, 
'Till the happy tears unbidden fell. 
I would toil for * I r. 1 would gather lore, 
From many bootfs, a mighty store. 
And pay her kindness o'er and o’er. 
She should have rest, in the years to come, 
My earnings should give her a cozy room, 
Bright; and warm, for the winter’s gloom. 
A soft arm chair for weary hours, 
Books aud music, pictures, flowers, 
And all love brings these homes of ours. 
So the sweet dream ran, as the wheel buzzed ou, 
Till the gleams of golden light were gone, 
And the April rain came dripping down. 
Ah! my heart, has it e'er been so— 
Cold clouds shading life's warmest glow, 
Hope’s flowers blighted in April snow ? 
In the same, low room, my mother pressed 
Each child to her softly heaving breast, 
And closed her eyes, and went to rest. 
The old walls crumbled long ago, 
Hushed the big-wheel's buzzing slow, 
Worn to shreds is the shining tow. 
Yet with the bursting leaves aud flowers, 
The gushing songs and pearly showers, 
Life brightens as in Childhood's hours ; 
And Hope spreads out a shining way. 
O'er this life's griefs, aud shadows gray, 
To the far dawn of heavenly day. 
Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ABOUT LETTERS. 
I love letters. I love to write them. I sup¬ 
pose everybody loves to get them, but I know 
that not everybody likes to write them. 
Do you remember the first letter you ever re¬ 
ceived? I mean the first that ever came to you 
through the post-office directed to yourselt in¬ 
stead of your father and mother. That was a 
proud day to you. You stretched yourself up 
to your full stature, and made all at once a long 
step towards manhood. Had not your name 
passed through public, and was you not hence¬ 
forth a person of distinction to be individualized, 
especially at the post-office? That letter was 
something to lie remembered If it did begin with 
the time-honored sentence, “I take my pen in 
hand to write you a few lines to inform you that 
I am well, and hope this may find you enjoying 
the same blessing.” You knew it was a good 
old sentence and worthy of respect, if age is al¬ 
ways a claimant of respect, for had not your 
fathers and grandfathers used it for at least a 
dozen generations before you ? 
Letter-writing lias been an institution since 
then. It is not the same thing to sit down and 
write a letter to a friend that it is to speak face 
to face, there is so muc h one wishes to say but 
cannot, and yet we can, and often do, say much 
on paper, which Is ft bettor index of the heart 
than all our face to face converse may be. 
True, you have uot t he pleasant) look of your 
friend, the smiles, the tones of voice to give as¬ 
surance that your words are understood and 
awaken a pleasant echo iu the heart to which 
they arc sent, neither have you the penetrating 
glauee of the eye peering directly into your own, 
aud causing the warm waves of consciousness to 
surge across your face, aud you, perhaps, to re¬ 
lapse into reticence. 
In writing letters we unconsciously reveal our 
real characters, our inuer life. How many quires 
of note paper have been written close with cross¬ 
ed lines, by schoolgirls, to their "dear, dearest 
friend on earth,” telling how they longed to be 
out from under the espionage of that hateful, 
gdrgon-eyed preceptress, who would not let them 
walk or attend a concert with such an elegant 
young man, with whom they, had become ac¬ 
quainted on the street, aud he was so splendid ! 
The girls were all crazy after him! Aud so on, 
ad infinitum. 
Some people never write anything more than 
that somebody is dead, somebody else married, 
and some other somebody is going to be one or 
the other, and requesting a reply to the sup¬ 
posed - to - be - interesting letter, immediately. 
Others go further, and tell how much corn and 
wheat they have raised to the acre, how many 
gallons of sorgho sirup they have made, how 
many times the whooping cough or measles have 
been through the neighborhood, what small 
profits they have made on their merchandize, 
and liow hard the times are, and are to be. 
The soldier gives us an account of the last bat¬ 
tle, a vivid and glowing description without 
doubt, but after all very unintelligible to us. 
“Mrs. Royal Purple Jones” writes of the 
last brilliant party given by Mrs. Grundy; ex¬ 
patiates upon the beautiful garnet silk worn by 
Mrs. Fi.ashy, and speaks very modestly of the 
lovely ermine cloak presented by Mr. Jones to 
his amiable spouse on Christmas, though she for¬ 
gets to write that Mr. Jones is a “shoddy con¬ 
tractor," and can afford to dress liis wife in sable 
and ermine. 
It is well and pleasant to know the interests 
which concern our friends, but do we not all 
rather wish to know something of them besides 
those mere business facts; to get now aud then 
a glimpse into their hearts, to know that they 
ore something besides a local newspaper? Is it 
not gratifying to us to know the hopes aud aspi¬ 
rations by which they are governed, to know the 
pleasures which thrill them, the thoughts which 
dwell clad in beautiful attire within the heart, to 
know the soul, aud find, if indeed, the waters at 
the fountain head are the refreshing streams 
from which we love to drink ? 
Those letters are always the mosWcharruing 
which are written iu a conversational style, 
cheerful, chatting letters, winch make us feel as 
if we were sitting by the visitor’s side, engaged 
In the free and unrestrained confidence of con¬ 
versation, such as makes ns take np our burden 
of life again and labor on with more perseverance, 
more joy and hopefulness for the future. Dkl you 
ever fiud among your correspondents one whose 
letters gave you no pleasure ?—between whom 
and yourself no chord of sympathy ever seemed 
to vibrate? As you looked across the pages 
down into the heart, yon saw no principle of 
right as the basis of character. It seemed almost 
as if the writer had no character. Yon felt in¬ 
clined to drop the correspondence as of no bene¬ 
fit or pleasure to yourself. Perhaps you did so. 
Do you not know that the Creator has planted 
in every breast a germ ol goodness; and that, 
however far down it maybe hidden, under what¬ 
ever rubbish of foibles and education it may be 
buried, it is there , ready to burst forth and grow 
whenever the true light is opened to it? Per¬ 
haps it is for j-ou to find it. Your words may be 
the gracious spring drops which are to fall upon 
this germ of life and cause it to grow. Perhaps 
your letters may cause the light to break through 
clouds, and the bouI, which seemed a desert 
waste, to bloom as a beautiful garden. 
Our influence is ulwuys acting in all wc say or 
do. Even our letters bear it forth on their silent 
pages as winds hear the perfume of flowers across 
the meadow and woodland in spring-time. So 
w r e are are ever responsible not only for our ex¬ 
ample, our conversation, but for every word we 
may write. L. Jarvis Wilton. 
THE GROOVES OF SOCIETY. 
It has been said that society in Europe runs 
in parallel grooves, and, as a rule, this is true. 
Men in the old world generally accept the con¬ 
dition in which they were born as their ultimate. 
They are content to be what tludr fathers wore 
before them, and usually move along the old 
track at the vdd pace, without any desire to 
switch off into another where the grades are 
easier. It is the reverse here. The switches 
that connect oho social groove with another in 
this coutry can readily he opened by enterprise 
and ambition, while abroad a miserable pride of 
class guards every line and resists to the utter¬ 
most all attempts at innovation. Not one 
American in a hundred is satisfied with the 
position in life to which circumstances seem to 
assign him at the outset. If his lather is a brick¬ 
layer, he would at least be an architect; if a 
brakeman, be aspires to be the president of a 
railroad company. And if the sons ol the brick¬ 
layer and the brakeman have brains and energy, 
there is no reason why the one should not build 
national monuments and the other control rail¬ 
roads. 
CHANCE CHIPS. 
The great man is the man who does a grea 
thing for the first time. 
Maki; a man think he is more cunning than 
you, and you can very easily outwit him. 
There should be joy in every fibre of n youth¬ 
ful frame, like the sap of life in a tree in spring. 
Always lend a crutch to halting Humanity; 
but trip up, if you will, the stilts of Pretension. 
There are many idlers to whom a penny beg¬ 
ged is more acceptable than a shilling houestiy 
earned. 
A misanthropist enjoys the corruptions of 
human nature as un epicure enjoys long-kept 
and tainted venison. 
However many may be the roses that bloom 
in the face, it is well that the wild weed merri¬ 
ment should grow strong iu the heart. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
YE PRAYERLESS 01?ES. 
BY A. T. ALIAS. 
Whither, prayer! ess voyagers 
Tolling as ye glide 
O’er life’s tempestuous sea, 
Breasting wind and tide, 
Whither are yc steering ? 
To what friendly anchorage, 
On what friendly shore, 
Where in safety you may rest 
When life’s trip is o'er, 
Are your frail barks nearing? 
Are they lightly tripping on, 
Skimming o’er the deep, 
While afar the angry winds 
In their caverns sleep, 
Waiting for the morning? 
Do the breezes gently float 
’Neath a sunny sky, 
Bearing on your fragile boat, 
Breathing not a sigh 
Or a note of warning ? 
Come there, from their cavern homes 
Never as ye sail, 
Storm-clad spirits of the deep, 
Riding in the gale, 
Round you thickly flying ? 
Hear ye not the rash and roar 
Of their shadowy wings, 
Making you forget awhile 
All these earthly things, 
With the thought of dying? 
Comes there not a spirit voice 
In the breeze's moan— 
In the angry tempest's roar— 
In the thunder's tone? 
And a spirit Anger, 
Pointing upward to a hand 
That will safely guide-. 
If ye trust It, to the laud 
On the other side ; 
Bidding yuu not linger ? 
Whither, Oh yc prayerless ones! 
Will ye look for aid, 
If that spirit's gentle voice 
Shall be disobeyed, 
When by wild winds driven? 
Or when voyaging is o'er. 
Land shall heave in sight, 
Can yc, as ye near the ehore, 
See the friendly light 
In the port of Heaven? 
Stephen's Mills, Steuben Co., N. Y. 
SOBER SABBATH THOUGHTS, 
There is a difference between happiness and 
wisdom — he that thinks himself the happiest 
man really is so; but lie that thinks himself the 
wisest man is most generally found to be the 
biggest fool. 
Talents without the accompaniment of reli¬ 
gion are but fatal presents; they not only add 
strength to the vices of the individual, but what 
is worse, they render them more conspicuous to 
the world. 
Richard Baxter once said, I seldom hear the 
bell toll for one that is dead but conscience asks 
me, “What hast thou done for the saving of 
that soul before it left the body ? There is one 
more gone into eternity! What didst though 
do to prepare him for it? And what testi¬ 
mony must he give to the Judge Concerning 
thee?” 
As the Word of God contains in it mysteries 
capable of exercising the most penetrating wits, 
so does it also afford plain aud manifest truths 
lit for the nourishment of the simple and less 
knowing. Upon its surface there is rniJk for 
children, and within its secret recesses there is 
matter of admiration and wonder for the most 
profound. It is like a river whose water is shal¬ 
low enough for a lamb to wade in, and deep 
enougli for an elephant to swim. 
Ttie beauty of a religious life is one of its 
greatest recommendations. What does it pro¬ 
fess? Peace to all mankind. It teaches us 
those arts which will render us beloved and re¬ 
spected, and which will contribute to our pres¬ 
ent comfort as well as our future happiness. Its 
greatest ornament is charity; it Inculcates noth¬ 
ing but love and sympathy of affection; it 
breathes nothing but the purest spirit of delight; 
In short, it is a system perfectly calculated to 
benefit the heart, improve the mind, enlighten 
the understanding. 
Religious action must bear up like the waters 
of the great geyser, mountains high; boiling 
from the deep central spring, and woe betide 
the pots, pans, kettles, or beef-steakes (vide 
“ Voyages to Iceland ”) that stand in the way of 
it. Yet sometimes the geyser has seemed tube 
a well conducted, well behaved little thing, and 
travelers have boiled and washed over liis bab¬ 
blings. This is oven that which many of us 
have done. We have used that great geyser, the 
religious instinct in man, as a means for keeping 
our pot boiling, and almost all our modern de¬ 
signs about religion look in that direction.— 
Eclectic Jieview. 
THE VICARIOUS ATONEMENT. 
Now look at the imaginary god of the Indians, 
watching with a kind of savage delight the ago¬ 
nies of liis votaries; and then look at your Re¬ 
deemer, bearing away all the sufferings to which 
you were devoted, and assisting you In the con¬ 
flict that you have yet to undergo. He was 
verily and indeed crucified for our sakes, and 
liis body nailed to the tree ; but when Ho turns 
to us, He lays the cross gently upon our shoul¬ 
ders, and when He commands us to be crucified 
with Him, He asks for no torments, no blood, 
but that we should “ render our bodies a living 
sacrifice, holy and acceptable, which is our reas¬ 
onable service;” that we should offer them as 
temples for his holy Spirit, that we may glorify 
him iu our body and in our spirit.— Wolfe. 
