m 
¥. 11 . 
POLLY 
Brown eyes, 
Little nose; 
Dirt pies, 
Rumpled clothes. 
Tom books, 
Spoilt toys; 
Arch looks, 
Unlike a boy's. 
Little rages, 
Obvious arts; 
(Three her age is,) 
Cakes, tarts; 
Falling down 
Off chairs; 
Breaking crown 
Down stairs; 
Catching flies 
On the pane; 
Deep sighs— 
Cause not plain; 
Bribing you 
With kisses 
For a few 
Farthing blisses; 
Wide awake, 
As you hear, 
“ Mercy’s sake, 
Quiet, dear!” 
New shoes, 
New frock, 
Yagne view s 
Of what'6 o'clock; 
When it’s time 
To go to bed, 
And scorn sublime 
For what is said; 
Folded hands, 
Saying prayers. 
Understands 
Not, nor cares; 
Thinks it odd. 
Smiles away; 
Yet may God 
Hear her pray 1 
Bedgown white, 
Kiss Dolly; 
Good night !— 
That’s Polly. 
Fast asleep, 
As you see ; 
Heaven keep 
My girl for me 1 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
DEATH IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 
BT CARRIE C. BAILEY. 
Close the sightless eyes, compose the frigid 
limbs, lay the nerveless hands above the still 
heart, let the sunny locks wave around the mar¬ 
ble brow, wrap the lifeless form in snow-white 
garments, and lay it softly down to sleep. Tread 
lightly, speak in whispers, break not the silence 
which reigns around. Comenear, take one fond 
look of that calm face, and say—is not Death 
beautiful S’ Aye, even though it should break our 
hearts to gaze, there is beauty there! But it is 
not like the varying beauty life gives the ani¬ 
mate form, it is the impress the glorified spirit 
leaves upon its clay tenement, to bid us take 
heed of immortality. 
So Jessie died—our darling, beautiful Jessie ; 
and they gathered roses, and wreathed them 
around her head, while one little snow-white 
bud nestled close to her heart, as though it 
would bring back the young life which had fled 
all too soon. How sweetly she looked—yet how 
our hearts ached ! And when they laid her in 
the grave it seemed like sacrilege to throw the 
moist earth over her beautiful form, In the 
agony of our grief we forgot Him who was 
without guile, and who bore the accumu¬ 
lated reproach of our race for our sakes, and 
who has bidden all the weary to come unto Him 
and find rest. Unconsciously we had made an 
idol of our Jessie, and as 6he passed away from 
our clinging hearts, we shut our eyes and groped 
in darkness. Ah! how desolate to us had all 
things then become; for we utterly refused to 
be comforted, because our Jessie was no longer 
ours, 
Then came one whose steps were slow and 
feeble, and whose once raven locks were now 
white as the drifting snow,—with starting earn¬ 
estness saying: — “It is appointed .unto man 
once to die, and after death the judgment. Know 
ye not that she, whom yc so bitterly mourn, 
is now a white-robed angel and amid that Heav¬ 
enly throrig who stand at the right [hand of the 
Redeemer ? Would you have had her longer in 
this world of sin, to suffer from the thousand 
evils that beset mankind, because it. pains your 
hearts to part with her now ? 1 have seen many, 
youDg and fair as she, go forth into the world 
to combat with its snares and temptations, and 
failing to overcome evil, 6ink down at last to 
the grave in shame, not a vestige left of that 
sweet purity which made them once so like the 
angels. Rather be ye comforted, that He who 
gave her to you for a season, also took her away 
before her pure spirit had been sullied by con¬ 
tact with the tilings of earth.” 
Three times the moon had “waxed and 
waned.” Once more we stood in the presence 
of the resistless conqueror. He who had roused 
us from our sinful grief, and taught us to look 
beyond the grave, and up to Him who died 
for ail, was also going away. His mind seemed 
wandering; he talked of the brook and the 
meadow, of the sweet wild flowers and his child¬ 
hood’s playmates. Then he spoke of his mother 
and a sister who had died in childhood, saying : 
“They are coming fer me, and there is Jessie 
with them. Here they come. Oh! Nellie — 
(addressing Jessie’s almost heart-broken mo¬ 
ther,) can you not see her ? There she is, right 
by you — and see how happy she looks! 1 
knew’ our Jessie was an angel. Yes, mother, 
I’m coming, but I wanted them to see Jessie 
first.” So, almost ere we were aware, his spirit 
t@ok its flight. Reverently we closed the IldB 
over. the eyes which had but just looked upon 
angels, and meekly folded upon the pulseless 
heart the hands which Should no more rest in 
blessing upon Our heads,—feeling in our in- 
moBt hearts that, after all, it is a blessed thing - 
to die. 
Gowanda, N. Y. 
A SINGULAR STORY. 
The Macon Telegraph tells the following sad 
story of the war: 
“ I learned on yesterday the circumstances of 
a melancholy quandary in which a young lady, 
one of the most estimable and lovely in this 
part of the country, was placed. A gallant, offi¬ 
cer was betrothed to her. He fell on the fatal 
field of Sburpsburg. She loved him dearly, and 
was afflicted far beyond what ladies of a more 
buoyant temper would ha ve suffered. She went 
into mourning, secluded herself from society, 
devoted herself to religious and charitable deeds, 
and was “ dead to the world.” A few months 
ago, a young gentleman of great wealth, supe¬ 
rior talents, and handsome person, accidentally 
formed her acquaintance iu the progress of a 
business transaction. He was fascinated with 
her; persevered till he overcame her aversion 
little by little, and finally they became engaged 
to be married only a fortnight ago. She liad 
already made out her order for an elegant trous- 
seau. But four days ago, the first lover returned. 
He had been carried to a Northern hospital 
from the battle-field, with no hope of life, and 
has just been liberated and returned. He baa a 
frightful scar across hiB face, only one eye, is an 
invalid for life, and is poor; but in his bosom 
burns a manly and noble soul. The poor girl 
has shut herself up, and will not see either of 
them. The meeting between her and her first 
lover, the other day, is said to have been distress¬ 
ing. His letters had failed to reach her, and she 
firmly believed he was dead till he stood before 
her, the ghastly min other lover, once so hand¬ 
some and manly. Poor fellow! I have caught 
a glimpse of him once as he passed along the 
street, with his crutches and melancholy face. 
God bless him. 
OUR CONSECRATIONS. 
From out each yesterday of life 
All have some precious store to keep: 
Some little store of golden worth, 
Some treasure rescued from the deep 
Of those gone hoars, ere yet the waves 
Of t ime have closed their quiet graves. 
Thrice dark iff all dark days that one 
Which leaveB no brightness from its hours, 
No nightingale to sing at eve, 
No after-fragrance from its flowers, 
No holy dew distilled from Heaven, 
To consecrate it fresh at even. 
Blcss’d art them, heart that yearnest (though 
The tears that dim thine eyes be vain) 
To call back something from thy past, 
Some yesterday to ] ife again, 
The gladdest Summer of our years 
We consecrate by Autumn tears. 
Each consecrates some precions part, 
Some secret store of hidden worth; 
We garner each Our harvest Bb.ea.ves, 
Our golden memories of earth, 
Against the Winter time of need; 
That wc may after come and feed. 
And when the yesterdays of life 
Shall all be numbered, still I deem 
Each oue shall have hiB store to keep, 
His fadeleee relic of earth’s dream : 
Some shadows softened by God’s light, 
Some star that made his journey bright. 
if Harper'/; Monthly foi' November. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“THE MELANCHOLY DAYS.” 
BY C. A. L. 
THE FRENCH MOTHER. 
There are seldom more than two children iu 
a menage , three at the utmost, whatever the rea¬ 
son may be, and these children are commonly 
idolized both by lather and mother, and the 
children in return have an aetual cnltcfor "ma 
mere.” Of the father one hears less; but the 
words “ma mere,” pronounced with a certain 
intonation, in the pnipit or on the stage, never 
fail to set handkerchiefs in requisition in all 
directions. I remember an amusing instance, 
in a melodrama by Dumas pere, in which a cer¬ 
tain notorious bandit was boasting of his high 
and mighty deeds, and was interrupted by a 
friend with the gross remark, “After oil, you 
are nothing bnt a ro bber. ” “ Stay, my frien d,” he 
replied,—“I have a mother.” Profound sen¬ 
sation in the audience. Every ear is picked 
eagerly. The bandit resumes, “Once in every 
mouth, I leave my eagle eyrie; I descend into 
the lowly plain. Crossing it with hasty and in¬ 
dignant steps, I enter the city of Valencia. 
There I enter a lofty mansion in the dead of the 
night. I mount the marble 6tairs. I push a 
heavy oaken door— a chamber lies before me; in 
that chamber a couch; on that couch a woman, 
a venerable woman! I approach that sleeping 
saint. But does she sleep? I impress a kiss 
upoD her sacred lips, and 6he—she gives me 
back that kiss 1—Now dare to say I am a robber! ” 
Tremendous explosion of applause and universal 
weeping. 
FEMININE TOPICS. 
A prominent bachelor politician on the Ken- 
nebeck remarked to a lady that 6oap-stone was 
excellent to keep feet warm in bed. “Yes,” 
said the young lady, who had been an attentive 
listener, “ but some gentlemen have an improve¬ 
ment on that, which you know nothing about.” 
The bachelor turned pale and maintained a wist¬ 
ful silence. 
Miss Dorothea L. Dix has resigned the 
office of superintendent of female army nurses, 
and that corps has been disbanded. 
Mrs. Lincoln has acknowledged the receipt 
of $5,04.8, the contribution of the people of 
Rhode Island to the “ Lincoln Testimonial 
Fuud.” 
An old maid, nine married couple, and eleven 
children, comprised the population of Chicago 
36 years ago. This year’s census makes it 
177,956. 
At Visalia, California, married women go to 
[ school with their children. Sometimes the 
mother and children are all between four and 
eighteen. 
The notorious Belle Boyd, it Is said, will 
shortly appear on the stage. If her histrionic 
abilities are not better than her literary one, as 
displayed in her book, she had better not. 
During thereeentbathingseason at Llandudno, 
on the coast of Wales, a prize was offered for the 
best lady swimmer in a fifty yards race. The 
prize was won by a little girl buteight years old, 
the daughter of a London banker. 
A French traveler, recently in this country, 
says that the chief occupation of the ladies at 
Saratoga, was dressing, undressing and redress¬ 
ing. A young lady of lashion was accustomed to 
change her water! ail three limes a day. 
At au agricultural exhibition the following 
toast was given: “ Our fair sisters—in the lan¬ 
guage of the orator, ‘ the best friends and most 
efficient patrons ol‘ the farmer, for they would 
have all men to betue best hnsband-men.’ ” 
Nineteen sisters of charity left Southampton 
on the 18th ultimo, In the West India steamer 
brine, to attend the sick and dying. Many of 
them were persons of high standing. They 
were clad in coarse garments, with large white 
bonnets. 
Young men in Lawrence, Kansas, have to 
marry to get shelter from the weather, the land¬ 
ladies there taking none but married people. 
The unfortunate youths say it is a conspiracy 
between the young ladies and the boarding-house 
keepers. 
An English legend says that, on a certain day 
in the year, the young women of Abbotsbury used 
to go up to St. Catherine’s Chapel, where they 
made use of the following prayer:—“ A husband, 
St. Catherine; a handsome one. St. Catherine: 
a rich one, St. Catherine; and soon, St. Cather¬ 
ine.” 
The year ha6 fallen into the “ sere and yellow 
leaf.” The clouds are leaden, the air moist and 
chilly, and the cold, pale Ann- rays are unable to 
penetrate the one or impart warmth to the 
other. Heavy rains seem to have washed out 
the brilliant dye3 of the foliage, and the fierce 
blasts swoop off the leaves and scatter them far 
and wide, to cover the still green earth with a 
damp, soggy carpet. 
To-night we are having the first flurry of suow, 
and the trees groan and sob in the wind, and 
there is a rush of meeting gales overhead, and a 
scampering sound of dead leaves rustling below. 
It is damp, and cold, and uncomfortable with¬ 
out. The heaviest covering could not keep this 
first chill breath of the waning year from pene¬ 
trating to the bones; and the dark, angry skies 
above, the black uncertain ground beneath, and 
the rude, hustling, worrying gust? of wind—now 
driving lull in your face, now whisking you 
about with a sudden turn and impelling you 
forward at a break-neck pace—impress you only 
with a peevish eeuse of uncomfortable, strug¬ 
gling existence. The wrath of the elements 
banishes pleasant reflections. You take a very 
sober view of your position in the world. Your 
distempered fancy ransacks the repertory ofyour 
life, and crowds your mental vision with pic¬ 
tures of the saddest of your experiences. The 
losses you have sustained and the disappoint¬ 
ments »you have met with loom up before you 
frowningly, and seem to threaten future woes. 
Sorrowful faces of the dei'rly beloved, long 
since gone to their last earthly resting-place, 
peer out. wistfully from the darkness, and beck¬ 
on you to CO iripaniouship with them. A terrible 
sense of the nothingness of life and the near¬ 
ness of death overpowers you. Your thoughts 
summon up sad images of “ the stern pal!, the 
bier,” and the air Is full of charnel-house sug¬ 
gestions. Yes, my friend, the mercury is very 
low, and our feelings go down with it. 
But within everything is different. Come 
with me into this cozy room, draw the curtains 
close, rake over the fire, 
“ Bring in great logs, and let them lie 
To make a solid core of heat;” 
and as the flame leaps up, diffusing a mellow 
light and genial warmth around and sending 
fitful shadows over the ceiling, our hearts again 
swell with hope, and life 6Cems a blessed and a 
glorious thing. Here the storm sounds musi¬ 
cally as it beats against the pane, and the gust 
which rattles the casement and even shakes the 
whole house itself, only awakens a keener sense 
of comfort and enjoyment at the fireside. Here 
we can sit and enjoy the season “sentimentally 
considered,” and read the poems written in 
praise of all that we have just been decrying — 
poems composed In sung libraries, by the cheer¬ 
ful evening lamp and fire. 
Not to be too severe on late autumnal aspects, 
most ol the commendations bestowed upon 
them, wc arc iuelined to think, are conceived 
within doors, and represent the seasou not as it 
is, but as it ought to be. There is indeed a 
supernal charm in the hazy Indian-eummer time 
—when It comes; but we have noted very few 
days, in our not over-brief existence, that were 
worthy of the deefigrlation. Wc suspect that 
fabled season must-have gone oat with “The 
Last of the Mohicans.” At least the evidence!! 
gives of its presence is eo vague and unsatisfac¬ 
tory, that no two persons of our acquaintance 
have ever agreed upon the period of its actual 
appearance. No, the season is very cold, very 
damp, and not the least summery —Indian or 
otherwise. Even Irenhius, who loves to linger 
“ under the trees,” announces that the next of 
his charming series of letters will come “from 
the fireside.” 
But to the poets. I said above that I thought, 
most of the poems on this season must have 
been written with in doors, and by a cheerful 
lire. Some of these effusions, however, are so 
full of gloomy suggestions, that we can sec 
plainly enough they took on form and substance 
while their authors stood under angry skies and 
were pelted by cold, drizzling showers. I 
imagine that Tennyson [lingered knee-deep in i 
faded flowers when he wrote the following lines : 
A spirit haunts the year’s last hours. 
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers ; 
To himself be talks: 
For at eventides, listening earnestly. 
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh 
In the walks; 
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 
Of the mouldering flowers. 
The air is damp, and hushed, and close, 
As a sick man’s room when he takes repose 
An hour before death: 
My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves 
At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves, 
And t.he breath 
Of the fading edges of box beneath. 
And the year’s last rose. 
The ■ most genial of this class of poems are 
those which look beyond the lowering aspects 
of the present hour to the time when morning 
shall dawn on clearcr skics, and nature shake off 
her lethargy at the sweet call of the spring birds. 
Not without a gleam of hope are these sad stan¬ 
zas by Thomas Irwin, an Irish poet: 
Amid the ivy on the tomb 
The Robin singe his wintcr-eong, 
Fall of cheerful pity: 
Deep grows the evening gloom. 
Dim spreads the snow along. 
And sounds the slowly tolling bell from the silent 
Sing, Bweet Robin, sing [city. 
To one that lies below; 
Few hearts are warm above the snow 
As that beneath thy wing; 
So sing, sweet, sing 
All about the coming Spring. 
When Slimmer, with hny-ecented breath, 
Shall come the mountains over, 
Sing, Kobiu, throngh the valley, 
Above the tufts of flowering heath, 
And o'er the honied clover, 
Where many a bronzed and humming bee shall 
Sing, brown spirit, sing [voyage musically; 
Each Summer evening 
When I am fur away; 
I know not one I'd wish so near 
The dust 1 love as thou, sweet dear; 
So sing, sweet, sing 
Still, still about the coming Spring. 
But, dear reader, I did not bring you in here, 
“out of the wet,” as the phrase has it, to fur¬ 
nish you with my complaints about the weather 
—complaints which, alter all, are only half in 
earnest — or to make yon listen to dull remarks 
upon “ mournful rhymesbut to ask you what 
you are going to do this winter. Have you 
formed any plans for turning ttie season to ac¬ 
count ? Do you care anything about being more 
of a man —more earnest, better informed, 
stronger intellectually next spring than you 
are to-day? Why, there are men all around us, 
young men too, blessed with every advantage 
which opulence and intelligent society afford, 
who have ceased to grow intellectually; whose 
mental development has ended almost before It 
bad fairly commenced. Mere automatons hulks, 
they only serve to show the connecting link be¬ 
tween humanity and the lowest order of animal 
existence. By a kind of galvanic action they 
keep up a twitching of the muscles, and exert a 
certain amount of dull, unthinking force on ma¬ 
terial things; but they are so far from manifest¬ 
ing any higher notion of life than as a field 
where hard labor will supply physical necessi¬ 
ties, that their influence upon the world is 
hardly greater than it would be if they were 
buried. When a mau reaches 6uch a point his 
career is practically accomplished — life has no 
farther sweets for him. Pat up his headstone: 
“Sacred to the Memory of-Do not tell , 
me that I am laying too great stress on intel¬ 
lectual progress, and that I seem to ignore the 
fact that life has some moral significance; for i 
observation will teach you that a man who is in | 
a state of intellectual stagnation cannot pursue < 
high moral alms. , 
Winter in this severe climate is really about , 
five months long. Many of us will have more | 
leisure during this time than in the busy sum- \ 
mcr, and moreover the nights are long and the , 
weather better adapted to reading, study aud j 
reflection than at any other period of the year. 
What shall we do with all these days aud hours ? j 
For my own part, I have refitted my “6nug- \ 
gery,” and propose to burn a little “ midnight , 
oil” over my books; to take up the threads of , 
research and Investigation which active business t 
cares compelled me for a time reluctantly to re- , 
sign. I assume that you will do a similar thing, j 
Are you a farmer? Then perhaps you know E 
something of Agricultural Chemistry. If not, j 
study it; for moat of the fatal agricultural 
blunders of the day are due to an ignorauco of j 
this important science. Are you a mechanic? { 
Those wonderful modern inventions which have , 
revolutionized the laborsyetem, were the mighty ^ 
achievements of meu of your own class —of 
men many of whom did not have half your op- c 
portunitles. Are you a young man, or a young t 
woman, and seeking a “sphere” In life? Give j 
up vain reveries, and vague, pulseless “yearn- j 
ings,” and go to work and win it. Choose a f 
“ specialty,” and by dint of hard study and uu- 
tiring perseverance wring something out of it. f 
It is a very common and mischievous notion ( 
that grown-up men aud women are too old to 
learn, especially from books. Any mau who is p 
able to work, if he has not stultified himself by 
bad habits is also able to study, Let us all then t1 
apply ourselves earnestly, and perhaps we may [ 
hail the coming spring with broader views and 
deeper knowledge than we ever supposed wo „ 
could possess. 
LORD, 
THINE. 
Yes, I do feel, my God, that I am thine 1 
Thou art my joy; myself, mine only grief; 
Hear my complaint, low bonding at Thy shrine; 
“Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief I” 
Unworthy even to approach so near. 
My soul lies trembling like a summer’s leaf; 
Yet, O forgive I I doubt not, though I fear! 
“Lord, 1 believe; help Thon mine unbelief!'’ 
OI draw me nearer for, too far away, 
The beamings of Thy brightness are too brief—13 
While faith, tho’ fainting, still has strength to pray, 
“ Lord, I believe; help Thou mlno unbelief! ” 
-». ♦ 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LOOK INTO THY HEART. 
BY L. MC G. 
Uncertainty as to our true Christian statue, 
as well as an entire mistake in the matter of our 
regeneration, is the result of the improper means 
we use to discover our relations to God. There 
are few Christians who have not often doubted 
their regeneration, and suspected the truth of 
their religion. We are led astray by the imper¬ 
fection of our tests. In our self-examinations, 
we are apt to consult our actions, and if they 
satisfy our standard, we Infer that we are of the 
household of faith; if they come short of that 
standard, our minds are clouded with doubt. 
In other words, we try ourselves by the same 
tests which we apply to others. Our failures iu 
the attempt to estimate the religious worth of 
our neighbor, ought to be a sufficient condem¬ 
nation of such a test of our own Christian char¬ 
acter. The process is doubly dangerous, because 
it leads us into error of judgment in two direc¬ 
tion ; to mistake good for evil and also to mis¬ 
take evil for good. The motives of the heart, 
as they find expression in our outward actions, 
are so refracted aud travestied, that their origi¬ 
nal character may not safely be inferred from 
these actions. They come out through a medi¬ 
um which is variable and treacherous. We can 
only know them aright by examining the source 
from whence (hey come. These outward mani¬ 
festations may he the signs by which onr fellow 
men estimate us, but they are not the true mir¬ 
ror of our Christian character. 
It is to this error in self-examination we thiuk, 
that a great deal of the doubt and uncertainty 
in the Christian mind is owing. Insuch acourse 
we reason with premises which have no logical 
connection with tho conclusion. Our religious 
state canuot be inferred. It cannot be proved 
or refuted by circumstantial evidence. We 
ought not to trust a witness who stands im¬ 
peached. 
Where shall we find the true test, where seek 
the evidence which is reliable? Wc answer,—in 
the heart. It is the heart and the heart alone 
that is the unerring guide. Paul 6Uid he knew 
he was of the household of faith, because he 
loved the brethren. It was the heart of Paul 
that discovered this assurance, and developed to 
him his Christian status. How did the Pharisee 
satisfy himself as to his relations to God? He 
said to himself:—“I am not an extortioner, I 
fast twice in the week, I give tithes of all I pos¬ 
sess, &c.” The error ol his conclusion from 
these premises is a sufficient refutation of his 
reasoning. The rich youog man who came to 
Christ, inferred that he was perfect, because ho 
had “ kept ull the commandments from his youth 
up.” He went away sorrowful at the answer of 
Christ. Who of us can say even as much as 
that rich young man? Yet with all he could 
say. It was no evidence that he was at. peace 
with God. The Pharisee aud the rich young 
mau committed the very error which too many 
Christians of our day commit. They reasoned 
from their own acts; they asked their minds 
and were satisfied with the answer of human 
reason. 
Home.—H ome should be viewed as asocial 
nursery within whose protecting walls a young 
lady must lit herself for a higher and more diffi¬ 
cult sphere. It is the place of opportunity; the 
dressing-room of life, the auto-chamber leading 
iuto the great hall of assembly, in which she Is 
bound to act some more or less Important part. 
— Young Ladies' Counsellor. 
A man must have a very bad opinion of him¬ 
self not to be willing to appear what he really is. 
Wc do not undervalue the importance of up¬ 
right conduct and good actions ; but we insist 
that they are not trustworthy indexes of our 
relations to God. The heart alpne is a trust¬ 
worthy guide. Over its counsels each iudividu 
al presides for himself. Its 6ccrets are known 
only to God and himself. It is a ready and 
truthful witness. Tell mo what arc the coun¬ 
sels of the heart, and you have told me how its 
possessor stands with God. 
It is important, too, that we should put im¬ 
plicit faith in the responses from the oracle of 
tho heart. These responses are to the heart 
what the deliverances of consciousness are to 
the mind If we do not trust them we will ever be 
in a state of mystery aud doubt. We should not 
only not seek our Information in any other quar¬ 
ter, but when the heart has responded to our 
inquiry we should not question its decision. 
If it decides unfavorably, we have reuson to 
fear, and to seek salvation; if it decides'fa¬ 
vorably, wc have reason to persevere and push 
forward in the direction we are going. Wheu 
the Psalmist said—“ The heart is deceitful above 
all things, aud desperately wicked,” he was de¬ 
scribing a state of the heart, not its relations to 
Its possessor. The very statement is in harmo¬ 
ny with our position. Tho heart does deceive 
the world, aud would aspire to deceive God; 
but it does so through the very means which, 
with ourselves, w nought to discredit as evidence, 
viz , the actions, and all the outward aud human 
manifestations. 
Christian reader, it' you would examine your¬ 
self go to the heart. Be not deceived by the 
false, flitting evidences of the world. Judas 
cried, “ Hail, Muster!” and kissed our Saviour; 
but, be was Judas still. Rather let your course 
be guided by that Chart which U contained iu 
the revealed Word of God. The compass which 
Goo ha« placed in every heart will always indi¬ 
cate ihe direction in which yon are sailing. If 
the needle points eoutrary to tho chart, change 
your course or.you are lost. If It is heavenward, 
spread all the sails, and throw every impediment 
overboard, for the haven is before you. 
