deathless sorrow converts the heart into “ a waste of 
despair.” The eye never grows dim in watching 
for sights which never bless its vision; the ear 
grows not heavy in waiting for sounds it never 
hears.—for in 1'iopia the inhabitants are blessed. 
Jonesville, Mick. 1802. Klsik Vaughn. 
threshold 
There was a little empty chair at the 
family table, and the patter of little feet was heard 
no more. They said that Gon had taken little 
Henry to live with Him in heaven: and often, at 
the close of day, you would gaze on the gates of 
heaven as they seemed to unfold in the western sky, 
and think you saw him smiling on you through the 
rich sunset 
And thus, while “ Nature glided into your darker 
rnusings, with a mild and gentle sympathy.” you 
learned to love her. To you, all her seasons were 
beautiful—Spring, with its smiles of sunshine and 
showers of tears—Summer, with its songs of birds, 
and breezes, and blushes of bloom—Autumn, with 
its sunsets of gold and garnitures of grain—and 
Winter, with its voices of storm and mantles of 
snow—all, all were beautiful. Hour after hour, you 
would sit at your little window and watch the snow 
banks on the distant hillside, eaten and pierced by 
the April rain: and as they wasted away like huge 
giants, with streams of dark blood running down 
their sides, and their long white arms clasping the 
earth in their dying agonies, you mourned for their 
departure as that of a dear friend. And then came 
the May. like a spoiled child—now crying, then 
laughing, now pouting, then radiant with smiles. 
Her warm breath quickened the pulse of nature, 
and the trees and fields put. on their new attire to 
greet the coming summer, and the peach and apple 
orchards blushed beneath her welcome kiss. But 
the little girl died on the very threshold of summer; 
and then followed June, redolent with the breath of 
flowers and joyous with the song of birds. Of all 
the months, June w as the dearest, for then the flow¬ 
ers opened their bright eyes to return the glad 
smile of the sun. and the breezes seemed to blow 
direct from the balm-hreathing gardens of heaven; 
and that was the last month that you played with 
little IIenrt, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ALONE. 
Sung at the Dedication of the Second Presbyterian Church 
Elmyra, June 13, 1962. 
BY JENNY A. STONE, 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE DYING GIRL. 
COMPOSED BY A. S. THURSTON 
I know not, when in future years 
My heart -hall turn to this sad hour, 
Whether fond smiles or bitter tears 
Shall mark the memory of its power; 
For Life’s bright angel soars above, 
And Death is folded to my heart, 
I know the bitterness is past— 
We are not called again to part. 
I know that in the May-time sweet 
The tender grass and wild flowers’ bloom 
Will creep amid the withered leases 
To Oliver o'er my darling's tomb. 
I know that little nameless grave, 
Hid in the forest's lonely shade, 
Is folding to the lap of earth 
The casket where tnjr gem was laid. 
And yet I sit and cannot, weep, 
Though my own precious Iamb is dead, 
And in a dream 1 wander round 
The home whence all the light is fled. 
I sit and fold my empty arms, 
And say my vltiid has gone to heaven; 
Shall I. a childless mother, weep 
Because He tubes what He lias given? 
’Tis hard to know a*years roll on, 
Through summer's heat and winter’s cold, 
Though I may live to watch and wait, 
My lamb shall never seek its fold; 
And yet I shall lie down at last, 
And rise to clasp her to my heart; 
Its long dull aching will be o'er 
When Death shall lose its power to part. 
Hadley, Mich 1562 
Time—"Old Hundred 
Oh, Lord, our God! from Thy high throne 
Vouchsafe this tvuiting throng to bless; 
To Thee we cry—to Thee alone— 
To God we dedicate this place. 
Within these wails, when prayers arise 
From hearts where sin has left its trace, 
Bend from Thy throne above the skies, 
And hear in Heaven, Thy dwelling place. 
When to this house the contrite come, 
In penitence, to hide their face. 
With heavenly light their souls illume, 
And hear, in Heaven. Thy dwelling place. 
Should famine, pestilence, and war, 
Revisit Thy rebellious race. 
Be Thou the God that Jacob saw, 
And hear, in Heaven. Thy dwelling place, 
When overhead the hurtling skies 
Like brass become, and night-dews cease, 
If hitherward we turn our eyes, 
Hear Thou, in Heaven, Thy dwelling place. 
When hither to the font we bring 
Our infante, smiling, or in tears, 
Accept, oh. Lord, the offering. 
And guard their steps through coming years. 
And when before this altar stand 
The plighted pair, in life's young morn, 
Savior, conduct, them by Thy hand 
’Mid flowers of vernal beauty born! 
And bearing here our coffined clay, 
Death’s icy river safely crossed, 
Grant, oh, our Father, that we may 
In Heaven rejoin our loved and lost. 
Oh, Lord, our God! from Thy high throne 
Vouchsafe this waiting throng to bless; 
To Thee we cry—to Thee alone— 
Hear Thou, in Heaven, Thy dwelling place. 
It is a glorious afternoon in mid-summer, and 
everything seems full of life and motion. Every¬ 
thing did I say?—then you will ask me. “Why is 
that group in yonder room so still and silent? Go 
with me there and we will see why it is that such 
mute agony is written on every brow. Do you see 
the couch which that group has gathered around? 
Well, there lies a young girl whose lime here is 
almost done; all that wealth and friends could do 
has been done, to purchase one hour of life tor that 
suffering one. but all in vain. Oh! how powerless 
are breaking, can do nothing to save. But. hush, the 
dying one is speaking: 
“Friends, dear ones, weep not for me, for I have 
early learned that, in the way in which all must go 
tbero are snares and pitfalls concealed by the fairest 
blossoms, and you know not bow happy it makes me 
to know that 1 am so soon permitted to go to that home 
where (riends are waiting for me, and where years 
roll not and change is not known.” And she 
reclines upon the pillow and all is still again 
except the heavy breathing of the dying one, and 
the low ticking of the small watch that hangs by the 
bedside; and how painfully it falls upon the ear— 
for well they know, who hear it, that before it has 
recorded the passing of another hour it would beat 
the knell of a departed spirit. 
Come nearer now and look upon that broad, high 
forehead, from which that mass of curls have been 
brushed back, and lie dauk and heavy upon the 
pillow—and those quivering lips. Can it be that 
Death will claim her for his own?—that that form 
must pass from our sight forever? But see; he who 
has been her guide in heavenly things, her faithful 
pastor, bends over her and says:— “Ella, we think 
you are almost home; are you happy? She opened 
her eyes half in wonder and whispered, “What 
shall 1 do?" The answer is ready:—“Behold, the 
bridegroom cometb, go ye out to meet him.” A 
bright smile ctrrved her lips, and she murmured, 
“ Yes,” and with that, answer the golden shell was 
broken, and the spirit went home to Him who 
gave it. 
It matters not now that her sisters kneel by her 
side and wildly kiss the cold lips; it will not bring 
her back; and we feign would weep when we 
remember that we shall never hear that sweet voice 
again, as when she sang the praises of Him who 
redeemed her. But we will rejoice that the young 
blossom is taken—taken, before the blight of sorrow 
falls upon it, to a better borne, where it will bloom 
forever; and may we not believe she is happy now 
as with the eye of faith we see her kneel at the 
Savior’s feet, and, with that blood-bought throng, 
sing the story of Redeeming Love? 
One more scene and we are done. It is morning, 
the sun is shining in a cloudless sky. and we are 
standing around an open grave; by its side is a 
coffin from which the cover has just been removed. 
Let us now take a last look of her we loved so well. 
Yes, she is there, royally beautiful, even in her 
prison house: the rich black locks are swept back 
from the marble temples, and a smile rests upon the 
lips. We retire ami weep, while friends and stran¬ 
gers press forward to take one more look at that 
young face ere it, is hidden from their sight forever. 
Now all is over, the lid has been replaced, and we 
hear the solemn words, “Earth to earth, ashes to 
ashes, dust to dust,” and leave the grave with aching 
hearts, knowing that our Ella sleeps to waken no 
more until the resurrection rnoru. 
F arewell, Ella — farewell! Peaceful be thy rest. 
Heaven has won thee, and we would not call thee 
back. Happy, thrice happy, shall we be if, when 
death shall come, onr souls shall be pure and free 
from sin as thine; and, Ella, shall we not meet on 
the far-off shores of that “better land?” 
Salem, Washington Co,, N. Y., 1862. E. J. Stehi.e. 
BY FRANCIS 8. KEY 
O, SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly wo bailed at the twilight's last gleaming, 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous 
fight. 
O'er the ramparts wc watched, were so gallantly streaming; 
And the rocket's red glare the bombs bursting in air, 
Gave proof tlinmght the night that our flag was still there— 
O, say, does that Star-spangled Banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the Free and the home of the Brave? 
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
■What is that which the breeze o'er the towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream— 
Tis the Star-spangled Banner, O, long may it wave 
O'er the land of the Free and the home of the Brave! 
And where is that band who so vanntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps’ polution. 
No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave! 
And the Star-Spangled Banner in triumph doth wave 
O’er the land ol' the Free and the home of the Brave! 
O, thus be it ever when Freemen shall stand 
Between their loved home and the war's desolation; 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land 
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we roust, when our cause it is just, 
And this be our motto—In God is our trust! 
And the .Star-spangled Banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the Free and the home of the Brave! 
There were days of shadow as well 
as sunshine—clays when there was no smile on the 
lips of Nature to return the glad smile in your heart 
—days like those when the sun rises with closed 
eyelids and sleeps all day in his chariot, and doesn’t 
deign to smile on us once, and the clouds weep 
tears of woe, and the songs of the little birds—the 
key-note in the great anthem of nature—ore hushed 
in the daily night; or days of storm, when Nature 
moves forth in her majesty, and “the dread arrows 
of the clouds ” pierce the vail of heaven, and the 
loud artillery thunders, and shakes a fresh baptism 
over the fields—when the sweet birds, like fright¬ 
ened children, fly away to their nests, and the giant 
tempest wrestles with the tree tops, but can’t throw 
them down, and then hurries on, against the eternal 
mountains; or there were days when the rain poured 
ever and anon, and the sun opened his eyes, and 
with his bright glance turned it to gold, like tears 
of joy. and the brook sung louder its song to Ibe 
God ol’ Nature, for its new strength to run and 
embrace the river; but to you these days were most 
welcome, for the light of the world without seemed 
to flee to the world within, and you could not be¬ 
lieve that Nature was angry with one who loved 
her so dearly. And then the nights, when the 
leaves danced to the patter of the rain, and the 
sentinel stars went to sleep on guard, and the moon 
hid her face in the clouds—the sleeping dress of 
night—giving it a silver lining; or when the whis¬ 
pering trees talked to each other, and the moon¬ 
beams played hide and seek among the leaves, and 
the sweet stars, half awake, half asleep, kept wink¬ 
ing all night long. 
But the Summer faded, and its rich glories melted 
into (he sober hues of Autumn, And then came 
the decay of Nature, when the forests blush beneath 
the parting kiss of Summer, and the leaves fall like 
withered hopes, and the cold winds weave a leafy 
shroud fyr the dying year: but even the Autumn 
soon passed away, and then—Nature died. Oh, how 
desolate! 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
OUR LIVES AND DUTIES. 
“ Life is real, life is earnest, 
Life is something more than play.” 
Every day adds to our lifetime, and whether 
each day shall be a day lost, or a day gained, we 
ourselves only can be the disposers; and though we 
are employed in that department ot this great busy 
earthly whole which to us may seem insignificant, 
and obscured from the major part of the grand 
and intricate machinery constituting the fabric of 
nations, yet one single minor key. if touched by 
skillful fingers, will produce a harmonious note that 
will aid in soothing the jarring din of disordered 
machinery; while if that one little note is neglected, 
the jar will grow worse and the tumult be increased. 
So, however obscure onr pathway, or humble our 
duty, if trod uprightly, and performed faithfully, 
our8 shall be a glorious life. Though not on the 
tongues of the populace shall our glory be sounded, 
yet far sweeter to our consciences will come in 
after years the remembrance of days not idly 
wasted, but fulfilled with tasks faithfully accom¬ 
plished-days rife with honest purposes so far per¬ 
formed as lay within our ability, and that “still 
small voice” within shall answer, and satisfy the 
feverish longings that come to interfere with our 
homely labors. 
It may be no great part we were summoned to 
perform on the stage of life; all cannot be siar 
actors — all are not fitted to. It may for a moment 
keenly touch our pride to consider that we are less 
capable of standing in high places than others, but 
if we should rightly consider, laying aside false 
pride, we should determine. Let us occupy no 
position where we are not capable of standing; let 
us seek no elevation where we should sit. uneasily. 
Our duty lies in the plainest every-day life. We 
have not to wait for more eventful times—surely 
not at present: we have not to wait for the pressure 
of trying circumstances, nor any different oppor¬ 
tunity to distinguish ourselves. For most likely, 
should we so wait, and should such circumstances 
arrive, exactly in accordance with our most cher¬ 
ished expectations, far different should we encounter 
severe trials from what our own fond private fancy 
had pictured, and instead of heroes, we might prove 
cowards. 
If a blacksmith should sit idle, refusing to shoe 
any but handsome horses, would the muscles of his 
arm gain strength?—but, by pursuing bis labor 
constantly and diligently, he grows stalwart and 
rugged, until he possesses almost a giant's power. 
So we, through life, by perseveringly pursuing 
small duties, may finally possess the ability of ful¬ 
filling more important ones, should they ever belong 
to our portion of earthly responsibility; but if we 
lie abjectly powerless, surely little shall we be ever 
able to do. Erie. 
Home, 1S62. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE GREAT MASTER - POET. 
A wav back, years and years ago, before man ever 
trod this flower-decked earth, there was a Great 
Master-Poet at work. Harmoniously the golden 
cords were strung upon the harp of existence, and 
poetry and music vibrated through every rock and 
shrub; while every created thing, as the cycles of 
ages are filled out, but more perfectly portrays (he 
music of the Great Master’s thoughts; for all the 
time He is writing with their footsteps the poems 
that shall live after them. To us it is given to read 
the poems that have come down through long ages, 
sweeping indelibly by—a study laden with the rich 
aroma of the Author's power and goodness. Upon 
the shores of the “Long Ago” the play of many 
waters left unfading lines. Upon tablets of atone 
are written the songs of many hushed voices. 
There is a mysterious lore in the twilight; 
Wild, sad strains in the tempest’s fitful roar ; 
And the waves are chanting sonnets, 
As they move from shore to shore. 
The flowers breathe hymns; from the fountains 
gush songs of praise; and the soft-sighing of the 
night wind is the kneil of the departing day. These 
songs of earth, heard at morning, noon, and even¬ 
ing. echoing through the spirit land within us, seem 
the far notes of a seraphim wrapping the human 
soul in prayer. The Critic’s eye sees no fault in 
these soul-stirring melodies; the nature of the Great 
Master is woven into them with golden threads that 
will not grow dim or wear away. There are peans 
wafted from every tongue, though sometimes harsh 
and rude; they are borne on every breeze, zephyr, 
or gale; they sound through the dim isles of Time 
as bright signals guiding to a fount of joy. Thus do 
earth’s thousand voices raise their tributes of love 
and homage to Him who wrote them in His vast 
volume of Nature’s works and laws—who set upon 
them His divine seal. 
Human life, too. becomes a part ot this master¬ 
piece, and though the measure seems not all per¬ 
fect—for in the deeds of men lie much of discord— 
yet here we find the greatest and grandest theme 
of all. the life poem of His Son, which to read is 
light and life. 
This, the poem of Creation, is inscribed to Time, 
aud when the cadence of every line shall be filled, 
then will He open the “ Book of Life ” revealing 
that greater one, the Resurrection, dedicated to 
eternity. Beautiful, holy, and undying will be 
the anthem the blessed sitting at the Master’s feet 
shall chant forever and forever. Iota. 
Marseilles, Ill,. 1S62. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.j 
NATURE. 
Reader, did you ever talk with Nature? Did 
you ever go out when Spring had kissed the Earth 
and made her smile, and the leaves danced to the 
tune of the little birds, and yon could feel the 
sublime in your soul expanding like the blooming 
flowers, and could hear the breezes talk, and the 
trees talk, and everything talk!’ If not, then you 
have never known the rich beauties of her lan¬ 
guage. But methinks I hear you say, “Oh yes, 
there was a time, ere my ears were deafened by the 
tumult of life, when the voice of Nature, though 
sad or joyous, was always’(musical, and her every 
form was an attitude of beauty.” And as you think 
And as you think 
of this, your childhood, with all its little joys and 
griefs, comes marching back up the long path of 
years, and stands before you. You remember the 
old bouse where they said you were born, aud the 
gristmill across the creek, whose water-wheel sung 
your lullaby every summer night, and the little 
bridge (you thought it very big then) where the 
children used to play till bed-time, and then cry 
because they could not stay longer. And yon 
remember your mother (oh yes, she was the dearest 
one that you ever knew), and how, when you had 
lain awake a long time at night, and watched the 
stars as they smiled at you through your little win¬ 
dow, you heard her footstep on the stair, and shut 
your eyes as she kissed you, and smiled to see you 
sleeping so calmly. You didn’t think of it then, 
but that was your first lesson in deception. 
But, by and by, there was a new era in your life— 
you were sent to school. You remember the old 
school-house at the corner of the road, under the hill. 
It stands there now, but you think it is changed, 
though you sometimes wonder if the change is not 
in you. The stream by the. roadside murmurs along 
as it did of old. but the orchard behind the school- 
house is half decayed, and the woods upon the 
hillside are ali cut down. Your life then was only 
four summers long, and the world to you was the 
neighborhood in which you lived; but, till this day. 
you remember the songs that the frogs used to sing 
to you as you sat, hour after hour, on i,he banks of 
the creek, and made willow whistles. But the 
sunshine could not last forever. You had an only 
brother—younger than you and gentler. Hour 
after hour in the long summer days, you played 
with him, till at last the glad smile laded from his 
lips and eyes. How often you would steal up to 
his bedside, and gaze on bis pale brow and flushed 
cheek—a rose in a desert—till, at last, you saw even 
his cheek grow pale and his dimpled hands grow 
white and thin. Day followed day, oh! how wearily; 
and one night, at the hour when birds fly away to 
their nests and children are bushed to repose, little 
Henry went to sleep. All that night, and the next 
day, he slept, and strangers came and moved about 
noiselessly, and spoke in low whispers, as if they 
feared they would wake him; and then the next 
night, when it was all still—oh, how still!—you 
stole into the little parlor. There was a little coffiu 
on the table, and your mother sat in her accustomed 
seat, with her head resting upon her hand. She 
was all alone. The old clock in the corner ticked 
louder in the stillness, and the candles were burn¬ 
ing dimly on the mantel. You crept up into your 
mother’s lap, and asked her why she had bought. 
Henht a nicer cradle than yours, and if he would 
wake up in the morning; and then wondered why 
she cried so bitterly. She kissed you tenderly, and 
said Henry would never wake up any more; but 
you looked up into her face as though you thought 
that she did not mean it; and then she took you in 
her arms and Carried you (o the coffin, and laid 
back the lid, so gently, and smoothed the white 
shroud, and let you look down into his face —he was 
dead! 0 Gon I the utter desolation of that first 
heart-grief. Many years have passed since then, 
but nothing has ever been able to divest death of 
the terror which that scene inspired. They bore 
him out aud laid him in the old churchyard, but the 
shadow of his little coffin still lingered on your 
You remember the first day of Winter— 
how the cold gray clouds slept in the sky, like ice¬ 
bergs in a frozen sea, and the snow, like a sky-born 
spirit, came down, half reluctant to mingle with 
the things of earth, and the storm kept knocking at 
the window, but couldn't come in, to chill with its 
icy presence the hearts of those within—how the 
howling winds chased each other round the house, 
and the brook sighed like a heart that breaks, and 
the water wheel groaned under its load of ice. But 
the Winter wore away, and Spring came with its 
buds and blossoms, sunshine and song; and thus 
the years went and came; and, as you became more 
conversant with the world, you grew less sensible 
of those pure influences of Nature, which taught 
you to neither swallow the world nor allow the 
world to swallow you, but rather that God-like 
motives should fill your bouI while the world was 
under your feet. And now, when almost insensible 
to the glories of Summer, that are ali around 
you, you feel that Nature has either changed or the 
fresh spring time of your heart is slowly fading. 
Reader, reflect! Is the change in Nature or in you? 
Charles M. Dickinson. 
Lowville Academy. N. Y., 1862. 
A PRISON INCIDENT. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
“ SOMETIME.” 
There is an island down the river of years to 
which we look with eager longing and high hopes. 
No mariners' oars have touched its borders,—its sod 
no foot has ever pressed. The glorious Sometime is 
the Utopia of our dreams. There lie the waters 
ever calmly on the shore of life. No angry billows 
dash over shining hopes, sweeping away their 
brightness; poets’ dreams and angels’ lives are no 
more beautiful than the reality there. Fame crowns 
her votaries with laurel leaves, the boon which they 
have craved is granted at last; the world bestows 
its admiration ungrudgingly now. There is rest 
there — rest for the weary, Those who shrink from 
their conflict with the world, find calm and quiet in 
Utopia. Sometimes a longing for rest comes over 
us—rest which is found, alas! by but few, and we 
would fain take ourselves from the associations by 
which we are surrounded, and tly to some distant 
shore, where care and trouble will reach us never 
again. 
When such thoughts come over us, instinctively 
we turn to Utopia, for we know that rest awaits us 
there. Change comes not there to darken life. The 
hearts that beat true and fondly for us once, 
beat forever. The countenance that greets us with 
smiles is never covered with frowns, but all are the 
same forever and ever. Death never enters there; 
our loved ones fade not away before our gaze; the 
hand we hold in our own grows never cold in our 
grasp. The weary night is never spent in striving 
with the Father to let the white winged angel pause 
not in its flight, nor the morning light found shining 
on senseless clay. In Utopia the sunbeams lie ever 
goldenly on the green sward, broken by no mound 
that covers the heart's dearest treasures. There the 
soul is not grieved with others' woes; the orphan's 
cries, the widow's tears, are unknown, and happi¬ 
ness, perfect, glowing, glorious happiness, rests like 
a halo on all the isle. There no mildew of pain or 
passion falls on the soul, blighting the good and 
beautiful, or taking the freshness from life. No 
with tinsel. His eloquence consisted in rounded 
sentences. He never preached a sermon to display 
his scholastic learning or his power of logic; but 
his aim was ever to win souls to Christ. If fine and 
elegant sermons are tolerated at all, it is in the 
press only, when they are to be read as discussion 
of a subject, and read either as an intellectual exer¬ 
cise or as a discipline of conscience. In the pulpit 
splendid sermons are splendid sins. They dazzle, 
and amuse, and astonish, like brilliant fire-works, 
but they throw daylight on no subject. They draw 
attention to the preacher instead of the subject. 
The splendid preacher, like the pyrotechnist, calcu¬ 
lates on a dark night among his attendants; and 
amid the coruscations of the pulpit, bis skill and his 
art are admired and applauded, but Christ is not 
glorified. If angels weep and devils mock, it is 
at the pulpit-door of a splendid preacher.— Dr. 
Jenkyn. 
» ■ ♦ > ♦ - - 
The Bible is seeking to incarnate its truths in the 
family, in civil society, and all the developments 
of it—in its laws, its institutions, its customs, its 
pleasures, its arts, its sciences, its literature. There 
is a vast amount of accumulated moral truth that 
has got into the very texture and framework of 
human society, so that men tbink they are obeying 
divine truth. Such is the great school of education 
through which men are going, that often those who 
reject the Scriptures are living simply by that part 
of Scripture truth which has been embodied into 
civil society, and living further up on the scale of 
religion, in some respects, than many Christians 
are.— Beecher, 
A care of our thoughts is the greatest preserva¬ 
tive against actual sins. It is a most certain truth 
that the greatest sin that ever was committed, was 
at first but a thought. The foulest wickedness, the 
most monstrous impiety, arose from so small a speck 
as a first thought may lie resembled to. The most 
horrid thing that ever was done, as well as the most 
noble and virtuous action that ever was accom¬ 
plished, had no greater beginning than this. 
Of such a quick growth and spreading nature is 
sin, that it rivals even the kingdom of heaven, which 
our Lord likened unto a grain of mustard seed. 
But the Apostle James represents it by a simile of 
another nature, comparing the origin and growth 
of it to that of the mushroom, that springeth up in 
a night. It is absolutely necessary that we govern 
and manage onr thoughts, without which it will be 
impossible that we should avoid falling into actual 
sins, even the greatest; that we resist the begin¬ 
nings, the very first emergencies of evil, if we hope 
to avoid the last degrees of it.— Chilcott. 
Don’t Write There. —“Don’t write there,” said 
one to a lad who was writing with a diamond pin 
oil a pane of glass in the window of a hotel. “ Why 
not?” was the reply. “ Because you can’t rub it 
out.” There are other things which men should 
not do, because they cannot rub them out. A heart 
is aching for sympathy, and a cold, perhaps a heart¬ 
less word, is spoken. The impression may be more 
durable than the diamond upon the glass. The 
inscription on the glass may be destroyed by the 
fracture of the glass, but the impression on the 
heart may last forever. On many a mind and many 
a heart there are sad inscriptions, deeply engraved, 
which no effect can erase. We should be careful 
what we write on the minds of others. 
We do not know what wo ask or desire when we 
covet other people’s spiritual joys or strength. 
These sorrows aud joys are in the same cup. 
The firmest friendship is formed in adversity, as 
iron is welded in the fiercest flames. 
