<i And now. homing this letter may bring you to a 
sense of your situation, and that you will still 
remain my Serene. I must say good night. 
(t Ever your Barbara.” 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
“TIRED TO DEATH.”' 
BY JENNY A. STONE. 
How these words of a bitter thought are flung 
Like mockery from the careless tongue; 
Wearied and worn with n daily care, 
Little we know what the soul can bear. 
Little we know of the bitter strife 
The heart must feel ere 'tis tired of life. 
Laying the eruss of their pilgrimage down, 
And reaching up for the starry crown, 
Over the broad earth's quiet breast 
Hearts that were weary are laid to rest 
How woll they may sleep, let the stillness show, 
Under the green grass and under the snow. 
When we are "tired to death,"tre shall rest 
With a hillock of earth upon each breast; 
We shall nut head when they shut out the light,— 
Slumber is always the sweetest at. night,— 
But the soul that was w eary and could not die 
Shall seek l’or its rent in the boundless sky. 
Grand Rapids, Mich-, 1862. 
But, I don’t believe it will have a bit of influence 
with Serene, do you, reader? Love is blind, and 
lovers are obstinate. No doubt she will show the 
letter to her Henri, and they, deluded souls! will 
both laugh over it and the old-raaid-writer thereof. 
I have but one consolation—I 've done my duty, and 
if Serene still insists upon getting married. I shall 
live in the cottage alone. I anxiously await her 
reply, and some time, courteous Rural reader, I 
will tell you what she says. 
Barbara G. Moore. 
Old Maid’s Retreat, July, 1862. 
[Written for Mood’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE CAPTIVE. 
BY SHIRLEY CLAIR. 
He sat apart, his thoughts afar. 
His proud bead bent upon his hands, 
Nor heeding not the noisy group. 
The motley throng of many lands 
Haggard and wan. with dreary air. 
His end eyas peering through the gloom, 
As though he sought in that dim light 
Some herald of his coming doom 
Ah. the fondly remembered recollections of home 
are endearing to every one. It is not always in 
the gorgeous palaces of pomp that we can find a. 
home in the true acceptation of the term. Discon¬ 
tent, jealousy and hatred find their way, too often, 
into these princely dwellings. Our social interests 
depend upon the fountain: and as is the character 
of one. bo will be the destiny of the other. 
A home to go to, is one of the greatest comforts 
of this world’s gifts. The gentle scenes of home 
ever live: the pleasant fancies of the fire ever glow 
with the same smiles; friends may go and come, 
hearts grow cold, but a pleasant home, "Home, 
sweet home,” where childhood lived and loved its 
reveries, never-never dies. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SHADOW LIKE AN ANGEL. 
BY JAMES A. M’MASTEIt. 
TO MOTHERS. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
THE COMMON DELUSION. 
Tea was over and the dishes washed! I drew a 
deep sigh of relief as I sat down by the open win¬ 
dow to watch the sun’s decline and have a quiet 
little time to think in, all by myself. 
Broad belts, orange-colored, black, and crimson, 
circled the western horizon, giving to that part of 
the heavens the appearance (ah, my unromanlic 
pen!) of a huge Balmoral skirt. Presently came in 
sight countless oloml-barges, with gay-hued banners 
unfurled, and tiny golden ships, with purple sails 
outspread, speeding their way through that wonder¬ 
ful, fairy-like sea of amber and blue; while, a little 
to the south, a dim, silvery crescent gave token that 
when night and darkness mantled the earth, the 
modest new moon would “be up and doing.” 
Any quantity of peacelhl-iooking cows were chew¬ 
ing the “cud of sweet and bitter fancies" (or, was 
it grass”) in yonder '-green pastures,” and the 
emerald fields to the right were dotted with white- 
fleeced, solemn-faced sheep, and cunning little gam¬ 
boling lambs. Afar off, a saucy quail was making 
the evening air vocal with Ills energetic inquiries 
tor “Bob White.” while a dear little robin chanted 
his vesper hymn on a tree near my window. 
A sweet country scene, and I watched it a long 
time with my head laid ou the window sill and a 
feeling of quiet content at my heart. Then, being 
naturally an industrious young (!) woman, 1 began 
to do up my thinking. There were fond, loving 
thoughts and a. hn.lf-bre«{hed prayer for the dear 
absent members of the home-circle; a host of kind 
thoughts about all my friends in general ami my 
friend Serene Sanders in particular; and I fell to 
wondering why the latter individual was so long in 
answering my last letter. It was a shame! 
But, while wondering and thinking, the minutes 
had slipped away and so had the sun; the ships had 
arrived at their destined havens in safety, it was to 
be hoped: the sensible West had laid aside her 
gaudy Balmoral and donned the “sober livery” of 
“twilight gray:" and robin and quail had both 
sought their neats. It was growing chilly, so I 
drew in my head, and drew down the shades: lit the 
lamp; and just then in came Groroius Ren with a 
letter for me in a well-known handwriting. You 
know Georgius, don't yon? No? Well, he is a i 
distant relative of mine—a brother, in fac-t—and 
quite a “proper youth and tall.” I call him King ! 
Georoe, because, at times, his dignity is such that, 
to use an elegant expression, you can't touch him 
with a “ ten-loot pole.” • 
N. B.—He’s a dear, good boy, though! 
} es, the letter was from Serene, as I knew the ( 
moment 1 glanced at it, and contained such a start- j 
liug piece of news! I did not fainl away—it’s A 
against my principles to do that on any occasion > 
whatever — although 1 was excessively shocked. ( 
Serene had actually gone and engaged herself to a i 
dh'lnc young man—i, e., a minister—and was to be , 
married to him some time or other; that was what A 
was the matter! ^ 
And. only to think— Serene and I. when school- t 
girls—not so very long ago, either—had solemnly t; 
'bound ourselves to a life of single-blessedness; we n 
were to live together in just the dearest little cottage I. 
in the world, with roses and things running over it: 
alone by ourselves, with our music and books: to 
be forever innocent of shirt-buttons, pantaloons and 
babies, and were going to have such a nice time 
generally! And now Serene must upset all these g 
delicious arrangements, because, forsooth, some ti 
masculine had asked her hand and she had not S 
sense enough to say No. It was too bad! ir 
My conscience, which is extremely tender, would 01 
not allow me to say my prayers and go to bed with- a ! 
out first writing to Serene and giving her a piece 01 
of my mind, as she seemed to have lost hers en- e; 
tirely. My epistle, when finished, read something w 
like this—in fact, precisely like this: st 
The first book read, and the last book laid aside by every 
child, is the conduct of its mother. 
L First give yourself, then your child, to God. It 
is but giving him his own. Not to do it, is robbing 
God. 
2. Always prefer virtue to wealth—the honor that 
comes lrom God to the honor that comes from men. 
Do this for yourself. Do it for your child. 
3. Let your whole course be to raise your child 
to a high standard. Do not sink into childishness 
yourself. 
4. Give uo heedless commands, but when you com¬ 
mand. require prompt obedience. 
5. Never indulge a child in cruelty, even to an 
insect. 
6. Cultivate sympathy with your child in all law¬ 
ful joys and sorrow's. 
7. Be sure that you never correct a child until you 
know it deserves correction. Hear its story first and 
fully. 
8. Never allow your child to whine or fret, or to 
bear grudges. 
9. Early inculcate frankness, candor, generosity, 
I magnanimily. patriotism, and self-denial. 
10. The knowledge and fear of the Lord are the 
beginning of wisdom. 
11. Never mortify the feelings of your child by 
upbraiding it with dullness; but do not inspire it 
with self-conceit. 
12. Pray with and for your child, often and 
heartily. 
13. Encourage all attempts at self-improvement. 
14. Never deceive nor break a promise to a child. 
15. Reprove not a child severely in the presence 
of strangers. 
16. Remember that life is a vapor, and that you 
and your child may be called out of time into eter¬ 
nity any day .—American Baptist. 
A captive! Slow the how? drag by. 
Lengthening to months of sickening pain, 
' Till time seemed but a dreary blank 
And life a dream all dark and vain 
In vain? Ah should be ne'er bo free. 
Nor feel again a freeman's joy? 
If not. the pale lips sadly moan. 
“ O, Gon protect my orphaned boy. 
Man. through ail ages of revolving time— 
Unchanging man, in every varying dime— 
Deems his own land of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside: 
His home the spot of earth supremely blest— 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.” 
La Grange, N. Y.. 1862. Delta. 
“A shadow like an Angel with bright hair." 
Whe.v autumn once with matchless skill 
Had tinged the leafy trees with gold, 
And down Uie distant western hill 
The suu life chariot wheels had rolled 
And Sabbath evening, all serene. 
Her influence o'er the stillness east, 
Swiftly across the lovely scene 
A shadow like an angel passed. 
‘ My boy, my boy, O, could I clasp 
Thy young form to my aching breast. 
Thy kisses warm could case the pain 
And woo this priaonod form to rest. 
In dre&tns I see thy gladsome smile. 
And heorthy sweet voice soft and clear: 
But, ah, I wake 'mong gloomy walls, 
And weep to find thou art not near 
DVritten lor Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
OUR OWN OLD HERO. 
And music, like the gentle sound 
Of wavelets on the shelly shore, 
Came floating tunefully around 
Where silence reigned alone before. 
I saw the singer gliding by,— 
I need not say that she was fair.— 
She seemed a daughter of the sky,— 
A shadow like an angel with bright hair. 
“ Leng’st thou for me, tny blue-eyed boy, 
As o'er the flowers thy foot-steps roam, 
While I, a captive, sad and worn. 
Pine for a word of thee and home?'” 
His head still bowed upon Ids hand. 
His comrade’s form he did not see. 
Till, like a dove, with snowy wing. 
A letter fluttered to his knee. 
A letter! Bright the sad eyes beam 
Quick, eager fingers break the seal, 
A sunny smile plays round his lips, 
While down hfe cheek two round drops steal 
He reads; a captive still, yet hall’ forgot; 
He reads, and dreams of future joy. 
Those cheering words from far away 
That tell hitn of his blue-evcd boy 
Cincinnati, Ohio, 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
HOME. 
AMERICAN AND ENGLISH OPERATIVES 
Anthony Trollope, in bis Interesting work on 
America, thus contrasts the appearance of the oper¬ 
atives in Lowell, Mass., and Manchester. England: 
“ That which most surprises an English visitor, on 
going through the mills at Lowell, is the personal 
appearance of the men and women who work at 
them. As there are t wice as many women as there 
are men, it is to them that the attention is chiefly 
called. They are not only better dressed, cfleaner. 
and better mounted in every respect than the girls 
employed at manufactories in England, but they 
are so infinitely superior as to make a stranger 
immediately perceive that some very strong cause 
must, have created the difference. We all know that 
class of young women whom we generally see serv¬ 
ing behind counters in the shops of our great dries. 
They are neat, well-dressed, careful, especially 
about their hair, composed in their manner, and 
sometimes a little supercilious in the propriety of 
their demeanor. It is exactly the same class of 
young women that one sees in the factories 
Lowell. They are not sallow, nor dirty, nor ragged, 
nor rough. They have about them no signs of want 
or of low culture. One would, of course, he dis¬ 
posed to say that the superior condition of the 
workers must have been occasioned by superior 
wages; and this, to a certain extent, has been the 
cause. Women’s wages, including all that they 
receive at the Lowell factories, average about 14s. a 
week, which is, 1 take it. fully a third more than 
women can earn in Manchester, or did earn before 
the loss of the American cotton began to tell upon 
them. But if wages at Manchester were raised to 
the Lowell standard, the Manchester women would 
not he clothed, 1<*<L eared for and educated like the 
Lowell women. ' 
AMERICAN GENTILITY. 
“So, my deluded Serene, you shouldered your 
pen at last, did you, and wrote to your Barbara 
after neglecting her so long! O, Serene! 
In European countries the aim at anything like 
gentility implies the keeping of one or more domes¬ 
tics to perform household labors; but in our free 
States, every family aims at gentility, while net one 
in five keeps a domestic. The aim is not a foolish 
one, though tollies may accompany it; for the aver¬ 
age ambition of our peopleincludes a certain amount 
of refined cultivation; it is only that the process is 
exhausting. Every woman must have a best parlor 
with hair-cloth furniture and a photograph book; 
she must have a piano, or some cheaper substitute; 
her little girls must have embroidered skirts and 
much mathematical knowledge; her husband must 
hare two, or even three, hot meals every day of his 
“ But, when a young woman has been and gone life; and yet her bouse must be in perfect order smiling glances meet a quick return. 
e3ri y in the afternoon, and she prepared to go out sire, whose head is bleached by the fa 
7_ 1 wifh X AvC^qq onrl « nor-/? VAfirc Will lift IllC tvnnHVilirr error* 
known to be a fact; history proves it. and so does a 
lot of other things —too numerous to mention—as 
the advertisements say—so, there’s no use in wnst- 
the advertisements say—so, there’s no use in wast¬ 
ing ink in Irving to dispute it. But. who would 
have thought it? 0 . Serene! ! 
“Where, faithless girl, are all the solemn vows 
_ — .. . - H « L.. i I. a v ,ua n nin 4 lJi r.-> A 3! r 
i j] oeg a and pay calls, with a black silk dress and a card 
ion—as case. In the evening she will go to concert or a 
i wast- lecture, and then, at the end Of all, she will possibly 
vuuld g - t U p a f} er midnight with her sewing machine, 
a VfjWg doing extra shop work to pay for little Ella’s music 
e a free lessons. All this, every'-capable" New England 
rgotten woman will do or die. She does it, and dies; and 
you made but two years ago, to live and die a free lessons. All this, every “capable” New England 
and independent old maid? Have you forgotten woman will do or die. She does it, and dies; and 
^oS”£iX th and e ^ .rar «*»« « «*.>■» *«- »■» •*» 
getherY 0, Serene! !! out sooner than that of an Irish woman in a shanty, 
“ And a minister’s wife, too, of all things! Have no ambition on earth but to support her youDg 
yon weighed the matter seriously, my dear? Have Patricks with adequate potatoes.— T. W. ITigginson. 
you really thought what it is to make flannel petti-_ t _ 
coata for all the romantic, I mean, rheumatic, old _ ~7 " ’ 
women in the parish?—to take the lead in the Fe¬ 
male Prayer-meetings, and to have vour last new 
bonnet and your behavior generally picked to pieces 
at the Sewing Societies? O Serene, I ache for you. 
“IVhen he will be making you help him with his 
sermons, because you compose so nicely; besides a 
S -eat many other things that will fall to your lot 
at won’t be nice at all. And you will grow old so 
fast, too; I guess I have seen ministers' wives! O, 
think it all over; arouse yourself from this delusion 
into which you have 1 alien: renounce the parson¬ 
age, and stick to onr dear little cot by the sea; let 
the minister ‘skedaddle - (excuse rue, dear, tor 
Sorrows of Children.— The transient nature 
of the sorrows of children has been often remarked 
on by writers; but by none so beautifully as in the 
following lines by Sir Walter Scott: 
“ The tear down childhood’s cheek that flows, 
Is like the dew drop ou the rose; 
When next the summer breeze comes by 
And wares the bush, the flower is dry.’ 
Home! What name more familiar or wedeome to 
• every ear, than the name of home? What a crowd 
’ of food associations come rushing upon the mind as 
it falls from some careless lip and is left vibrating 
1 upon the ear like the sweet strains of some far-off 
but well-known melody, awaking all the finer feel¬ 
ings of the heart, and lulling its discordant passions 
into a sweet and dreamlike repose. Truly, there is 
no other word in our language that can awaken 
such happy thoughts as this simple monosyllable: 
there are joys surrounding it that all cares and 
turmoils of life cannot destroy. 
No spot on earth can be more dear to us than our 
childhood’s home. It matters not whether Time, in 
his ever-changing course, has scattered the happy 
group that once gathered around its hearth, or 
placed many weary miles between us and it. Aided 
by imagination, we cross mountain and desert, forest 
and lake, and once more stand beneath its peaceful 
roof. Again do we join the joyous group gathered 
there, and grow lmppy in its association. The kind 
neighbors and friends; the old school-house, with 
its group of merry children; the little stream that 
flowed gently by; the clump of stately pines that 
made such sweet music in the passing breeze.—all 
are subjects that memory loves to dwell upon. 
And in after years, when childhood has merged 
into youth, and youth into manhood, when the ties 
that bound us to our childhood’s home have been 
severed far and wide, when the group that used to 
welcome us there have been scattered—some to the 
tomb, and some out upon the great sea of life—we 
still dream of a home; not, perhaps, the one of our 
childhood, for Hope points in the future to a cottage, 
with its clambering vines and its warm hearts, and 
wo almost imagine we are participating in its joys. 
And who is there that does not love and reverence 
the name of home? Much as bards of old have 
said in its pfaise, much as modern poets have sung 
of its worth, still Ihe name is ever new, and may 
justly be remembered with the few that were never 
born to slumber in the human breast, or lose their 
value by being oft repeated. 
The lonely traveler, wandering far from the home 
of Jjis youth amid some trackless forest, will often 
turn in imagination to the scenes left behind him: 
and how his heart beats with fond emotion, as he 
thinks, “ I shall yet behold, in living reality, the 
home of my youth, around which cling my heart’s 
affections.” The sea-tossed mariner, “rocked in 
the cradle of the deep," will often turn to the quiet 
scenes of home, and amid the lightning’s flash and 
thunder's peal, will listen (in imagination) to the 
tender and ever soothing voice of his young wile, 
and he cheered by the constant prattle of those who 
gathered near him around the winter blaze. 
The prisoner, banished far from his native land, 
shut from the light of day, will forget tor awhile the 
cold straw couch, the iron grate and massive walls 
which bind him to his lonely cell, and will linger in 
thought around the home where plenty smiles, 
loved forms mingle, sweet voices greet the ear, and 
smiling glances meet a quick return. The aged 
sire, whose head is bleached by the frosts of four¬ 
score years, will lift his prattling grandson to his 
knees, and entertain, as with, magic- power, while 
he reflates the joy of home; perhaps he will wander 
with his dog across the flowery mead, (near by 
his youthful home), or with loaded gun upon his 
shoulder, saunter forth to play the gamester's part, 
and rob some feathered warbler of its sportive life; 
or. ever and anon, by moonlight, he will hasten to 
his merry mates, where they, in sportive glee, will 
while the happy hours away, and by the pale 
moon’s flickering ray, will tell joy gone and joy to 
come. But here the aged sire will pause, and sigh¬ 
ing deeply, will reply, these are scenes and joys of ( 
an early, happy home. The wild and frantic ma- 1 
niac, sporting with some fairy child, is startled at 1 
I presume every hamlet has its own particular 
hero, who has left his business, his friends, and his 
home for the war. to fight for the safety of what he 
has left, and the maintenance of our excellent Gov¬ 
ernment. We have several young heroes, but one 
old hero deserves particular notice, and forms the 
subject of this little sketch. 
Many years ago he left the East and came to the 
West. lie says when he first came here it seemed 
like a sacred place,—no sounds were heard but of 
the murmuring winds, the song of birds, or the sway 
of grass, “I followed my oxen day after day as 
one entranced with the stillness, the beauty, and 
sublimity of what surrounded me.” He has labored 
for thirty years in this vicinity, and many of the 
improvements in society, moral and social, and of 
the country, in roads and buildings, are of his own 
planning and execution. He built tbe first grist¬ 
mill in the south half of Lee county. It was while 
at work on this building that he fell with Ihe staging 
thirty feet or more, alighting right side up, but upon 
only one foot, which struck an oaken plank, and it 
is said, went through. Whether this be true or not, 
one leg has since been shorter than the other, so as 
to cause him to limp perceptibly. He is a man of 
uncommon muscular powers, and can yet walk with 
a sprightliness few can equal, carrying his heavy 
body at a rapid gait, and with an endurance unusual 
to his years. 
When the war commenced, and the first call for 
volunteers was made, be began to show his mettle— 
to feel the fires of youth anew. When the second 
call was made he colored his whiskers, rejuvenated 
his exterior, and volunteered. Many wise ones said 
he would not he accepted, but he was, and with his 
limp plainer than for several weeks before his 
enlistment, paraded our streets in uniform. 
Finally, he was mustered into service, and, accord¬ 
ing to his oft-expressed desire, met the enemy at 
Pittsburg Landing. He says, "during that bat¬ 
tle I kept cool, and fired forty-four rounds, taking 
good aim and making nearly half that number of 
rebels ‘‘throw up their hands.” Such is his report. 
When the news of the battle came and I inquired 
for onr hero, John Dexter, I was told ho came 
back to his quarters limping. Who. during this or 
any other war, has left his comfortable home in his 
old age to fight the battles of his country more man¬ 
fully than our own old hero? 
Amboy, Lee Co,. 1U . 1862. W. H. Gardner. 
Then swifter flowed The silver stream, 
And brighter glowed the golden trees, 
And warmer grew the sun's soft beam. 
And balmier blew the fragrant breeze; 
And even when the peaceful night 
Had spread her curtain through tbe air, 
There passed along, in visions bright, 
A shadow like an angel with bright hair. 
Down through the portals of the east. 
Laden with joy. the morning came. 
And when the sun approached the west. 
'Twas love adorned his purple flame; 
And still the days and nights go by 
On wings of gold, and life is fair. 
I know there is, beneath the sky, 
A shadow like an angel with bright hair. 
Murray, Orleans Co . N. Y., 1862. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
JESUS, OUR ALL-SUFFICIENT FRIEND. 
Jesus; there is a peculiar charm in that name. 
Breathe it softly in the ear ol the dying saint, and 
the purple lips that respond not at the mention of 
any earthly friend, quickly part, and echo back— 
Jesus. Oh. how the dim eye brightens with holy 
joy, the pale countenance glows with seraphic 
beauty, as the trembling voice feebly murmurs, “I 
know Jesus; He is my friend.” 
Is it not a sweet, a blessed assurance to feel, to 
know that we have one true friend, to whom we may 
all our joy and grief unfold, who ever lends a 
listening ear to our feeblest cry, whose great heart 
of love is ever ready to sympathize with our every 
woe, and, bending kindly down from His shining 
throne, encircles us with arms of love, and gently 
whispers, “ Be of good cheer.” 
Our most cherished earthly friends often prove 
false and betray onr sacred trust, but Jesus will 
never leave nor forsake us, 
“ Weak though we are, He still is near 
To lead, console defend ; 
In all our sorrow, all our fear. 
Our all-SUffleieut friend. 
SHALL WE CHANGE OUR OPINIONS? 
The other day we overheard a pompous and very 
self-satisfied-looking gentleman exclaim, in a rather 
loud tone of voice, to a weak negative appearing 
individual: “I am no weathercock, sir! What I 
believe once I believe always. I never change my 
opinion. When you see me once, you sec me 
always.” We set that pompous gentleman down as 
one born out of due season. He belongs to the age 
of the Ptolemies, and should have been mummified 
three thousand years ago. According to his own 
confession he knows no more to-day than he did 
when he was a boy. There are several more of this 
kind of belated gentlemen among us. who have 
never learned anything since they left tbe primary 
school. They are always right and everybody else 
is wrong. They are snags in the river of life, and 
will neither move on themselves nor permit, if they 
can help it, anybody else to move on. 
Dr. Johnson once said: “When a man changes 
bis opinion he only acknowledges that he is wiser 
to-day than he was yesterday.” We humbly bow 
to the great man’s decision. He who on Tuesday 
believes on all subjects precisely as he did on 
Monday, has lost a day. The sun may have stood 
still in Joshua's time, but it doesn't do anything of 
the sort in our day. Everything moves onward 
and upward. Change, change, change, is the pro¬ 
gramme of the times. 
If Watt and Fulton had been unchangeable, we 
might never have known the luxury of river aud 
ocean steamers. If Huskisson and Stephenson had 
not been “weathercocks,” we might still be travel¬ 
ing iu stage-coaches. If Daguerre had learned only 
what be was first taught, we might yet have been 
charged thirty or fifty dollars for an ordinary 
miniature. If Col. Hoe had never changed his 
opinions, we might still have been working on the 
old obsolete printing presses, at the rate of five 
hundred impressions — instead of. as now, twenty- 
five thousand— an hour. 
We therefore advocate all changes — whether of 
faith or practice — that improve upon those that 
have gone before, and promise to increase the 
happiness, enlighten the minds and elevate the 
morals of the human race .—Household Journal . 
Who would not follow such a friend, though we 
might have often to pass through dark and fearful 
places, on whose gloomy shades the sunlight never 
smiles, nor bird nor flower greets our longing eyes. 
The dark places through which we pass are perhaps 
the ouly way that leads to the green fields that 
border on the “still waters.” in whose sparkling 
tide is reflected tbe sunlight of God's unceasing love. 
AII lie ted ones, when the waves of sorrow are 
rolling over thy bowed head, bearing thee deeper 
down at every angry surge into the chilling flood, 
where there is no eye to pity nor arm to save, Jesus 
streteheth forth Ilis hand, grasping thine, and 
sweetly whispers, “Follow me.” Ob, thrust Him 
not from thee iu that hour of trial, for He will lead 
tliee safely through the rayless depths, and firmly 
plant thy feet on the shining heights to which the 
surging waters may not rise. 
Ye that wander through the tangled wilds of sin, 
vainly seeking happiness—a plant that thrives not 
there—hear ye not, like strains of gushing melody 
floating on the still evening air, the voice of Jesus 
saying to thee, “ Follow me?” Will ye not listen to 
the blessed invitation, accept so true a guide—one 
who leadeth those that put, their trust in Him, with 
great joy, out from the deadly ways of sin, into the 
pleasant path that leadeth up to the Beautiful City, 
where peace and joy reign supreme ? 
Oh, is it not a soul-cheering thought that, when 
our weary feet falter on tbe verge of the “misty 
vale,'' and, our dearest earthly friends weeping, 
stay behind, leaving us to tread alone the darksome 
way, Jesus will illumine with heavenly light the 
lonely passage, and lead us in great peace from 
this world of darkness, to the morning land whose 
cloudless day hath no evening hours? 
Oxford, N. Y., 1862. F. M. Turner. 
CHECKERED PROVIDENCES. 
A man’s first care should be to avoid the re¬ 
proaches of his own heart—his next to escape the 
censure ol'tke world. If the last interferes with the 
former, it ought to be entirely neglected; but other¬ 
wise there cannot be a greater satisfaction to an 
the name of home, and for a while will pause, as if honest mind than to see those approbations which 
the minister ‘skedaddle’ (excuse me, dear, for 
making use ot such a term, hut It Is the most ex¬ 
pressive one 1 can think of!) and cleave to your old 
friend Barbara. Ministers should not get married: 
what business have they to love young women? 
Doesn't the Bible say, ‘.Set not your uffections upon 
things on the earth, etc.? and St. Paul, that great 
__1.. ^.1 An nrtTTrtu tiroo vvi n a d O ^ 
Educate your children to activity, to enterprise, 
to fearlessness in what is right, and to cowardice in 
what is wrong. Educate them to make for them¬ 
selves the noblest purposes of life, and then follow 
them out. Educate them to despise suffering that 
stands in the way ol the accomplishment of many 
aims, and count it as a little thing. Make them free 
again endowed with reason, and in laughing accents 
will repeat—home. Why are those tears stealing 
down the cheeks of that young and lovelyjgirl as 
she mingles in the social circle? Ah, she is an 
orphan; she, too, once had a happy home, but its 
loved ones are uow sleeping in yonder cliurch-yard. 
The gentle mother that watched over her in infancy, 
aud sung that low. sweet song which none hut a 
mother can sing, who in girlhood taught her of her 
Savior, and tuned her youthful voice to sing praises 
to Ilis name, has passed from earth to the mansions 
of joy above, and is mingling her song with those 
it gives itself seconded by tbe applause of the pub¬ 
lic. A man is more sure of his conduct when the 
verdict which he passes upon his own behavior is 
thus warranted and confirmed by the opinion of all 
that know him.— Addison, 
God doth checker his providences white and black, 
as the pillar of cloud has its light side and dark. 
Look on the light side of thy estate, Suppose thou 
art cast in a law suit — there is the dark side; yet 
thou hast some laud left—there is the light side. 
Thou bast sickness in thy body — there is the dark 
side: but grace in thy soul — there is the light side. 
Thou hast a child taken away— there is the dark 
side ; thy husband lives — there is the light 
side. God’s providences in this life are various, 
represented by those speckled horses among the 
myrtle trees, which were red and white. (Zech. 1, 
8.) Mercies and afflictions are interwoven; God 
doth speckle fits work. “0,” saith one, “I want 
such a comfort;” but weigh all thy mercies in the 
balance, and that will make thee content. If a man 
did want a finger, would he be so discontented for 
the loss of that as not to he thankful for all the other 
parts of Ms body? Look on the light side of your 
condition, and then all your discontent will be 
easily dispersed. Do not pore upon your losses, 
but ponder upou your mercies. What! wouldst 
thou have no cross at all? Why should one man 
think to have all good things, when he himself is 
good but in part? Wouldst thou have no evil about 
thee, who hast so much evil iu thee? Thou art not 
fully sanctified in this life, how then thinkest thou to 
be fully satisfied ?—Thomas Watson. 
example for clergymen, never was married. So, if ,7’7 ~ aiuu ” ox joy aoove, ana is mingling ner song witn tnose 
your divine makes any objections, just state all this ““ in g them up into the storms of life, and uot by of the angels. Poor one! she is now left to tread 
to him, that's a good girl. covering them down with soft and downy plush. the thorny paths of life, a lonely, homeless wanderer. 
Error.— The walls of a castle have been under¬ 
mined by the burro wings of small and despised 
animals; and the beginnings of error, though at 
first unheeded, will soon, if not checked, sap the 
foundation of truth, and build up its own wretched 
dogmas on its ruins. All great errors arise from 
small beginnings. They rapidly increase to large 
ones to desolate society. 
Gospel ministers should not be too hasty and 
eager to wipe off any aspersion that is cast on them 
falsely for Christ’s 6ake. Dirt on the character, if 
unjustly thrown, like dirt on the clothes, should be 
let alone for a while until it dries, and then it will 
mb off easily enough. 
The Bible is a window in this prison of hope, 
through which we look into eternity. 
