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GONE BEFORE. 
All day I Bit amid his unused treasures. 
With folded hands, and head upon my breast ; 
His broken toys—a miue of endless pleasures— 
Scattered and heaped, just as he left them, rest; 
And side by side, within the distant comer, 
Placed as they left his feet, 
Battered, aud worn, and red, his little sandals 
My aching' vision greet. 
I hear again his burst of childish laughter 
Pulse softly on the amber-oolored air, 
The gay halloo that follow* quickly after, 
And then his footsteps on the nursery stair ; 
I hear his hand upon the knob slow turning— 
Oh, nameless hopes and tears 
Within the doorway stands there not my darling ? 
I cannot see from tears. 
Oh, breaking heart! cease in your vain endeavor; 
From out earth's darkness and its bitter gloom, 
He dwell* with God, for ever and for ever, 
In gardens where celestial roses bloom ; 
He walks with angels, and his seemiug presence 
Alone stands in the door! 
Oh, heart, be strong 1 Not lost, the missing darling, 
Not lost, but gone before 1 
HOSPITAL STORES WANTED. 
AN APPEAL TO THE WOMEN WHO HEAD THE RUHAL. 
Mr. Editor: —With your permission. I wish to 
address the women who read the Rural. I know 
most of them are truly patriotic. I know, too, they 
are energetic, and do not spend all their patriotism 
in attending war meetings, reading the papers, and 
talking over the news. They are of the class who 
act as well as speak. I wish to remind them that 
the vast increase of our army implies a correspond¬ 
ing increase of hospitals, with all their scenes of 
untold suffering, Aud who are to fill those narrow 
beds? Our husbands, our sons, our brothers, our 
neighbors. We can not shut our ears against their 
groans, even if we could disregard those of stran¬ 
gers. 
Many of us are now actively engaged in prepar¬ 
ing hospital stores, but we do no more than supply 
the present demand; what, then, must we do, if the 
army is doubled? Must we not double our exer¬ 
tions, and enlist in the work those who have, as yet, 
done nothing? I hope no reader of the Rural is 
included in the latter class. 
Besides, it will not do to wait until the hospital 
wards are full ol sick and wounded men. Our 
boxes must be prepared and sent to New York in 
advance. I do not ask you to dry a little fruit—I 
ask you to secure all the fruit and vegetables you 
have, and all you cau get Suffer nothing of the 
kind to decay, this year. If you have no fruit but 
apples, why not send a cask of cider apple sauce, or 
apple butter? .loin with your neighbors, and fill 
a barrel of pickles. Send from your dairy a tub of 
butter or a cheese. Gather from your garden every 
vegetable that can be preserved fresh in cans or 
bottles. 
Now is the time for securing these precious stores. 
We must lay aside our fancy work in such times as 
these. Extravagance in dress, if ever allowable, is 
disgraceful to an American woman now. Our suf¬ 
fering soldiers need our time, our strength and our 
money. M. 
JpuioiN. Wo mncB ohpprfnlly give place to the 
above timely and all-important appeal, from (he pen 
and heart of a lady in Tompkins county, who hopes in 
this way to stir up many of her countrywomen to 
good works. The appeal should come home to the 
conscience of the mother, wife, daughter, sister, or 
acquaintance of every volunteer, as well as to that 
of every woman who loves her country, and it 
ought to incite all such to immediate action in aid of 
the wounded and dying soldiers who have so 
patriotically risked their lives to sustain the glo¬ 
rious cause of the Union. Read it again, carefully, 
and then see what and how much you can do in 
furtherance ol the laudable object—remembering 
that early and decided action is important.— Ed. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
GREEN-AND-YELLOW MELANCHOLY. 
Ann, you'll be more miserable yet. if you don't 
stop calling me ‘spirit-sister,’ and leave off your 
heart-broken nonsense and making a goose of your 
self generally; I'll make a fuss, see if 1 don't! You 
eat too much cabbage for dinner, Simpkins; ‘that’s 
what’s the mailer,' and you know it isl” 
Of course, the only response to this was “ that she 
was unappreciated, totally unfit to live in such a 
cold, heartless world," etc., etc. I used to laugh at 
herlhen; offer her ‘ Spalding's Prepared Glue - ’ to 
mend her broken heart, and make all sorts of fun of 
her. Finally she found society more congenial than 
that of her “spirit-sister." and. mutually disgusted, 
we dissolved partnership. 
Poor Simpkins! I can appreciate her now. 
heard, not long ago,thatsbe had married a widowed 
undertaker, with seven red-headed infant under¬ 
takers to commence the world with. "What an un¬ 
dertaking! I wonder if he is “spiritual,” and if 
Mary Ann is miserable yet? (I should think she 
would be!) 
Miss Simpkins had a fraternal relative, Samuel 
by name, and that interesting youth was excessively 
devoted to me; but, when his fair sister withdrew 
her love from me, she also induced the wretched 
“SAMtVKL ” to go and do likewise, and it was to my 
intense disgust that he went and did it. Now, here 
would have been a glorious opportunity for me to 
have become broken-hearted and gone into a decline! 
—to have written sonnets headed ••Faithless,” “De¬ 
serted,” “Forsaken.” etc., and to have moaned of 
blasted hopes and secret sorrows; but. I didn't do 
any such a thing. 1 called in my young affections 
from the false Samuel, and set them on the next 
vest-pattern I come across; and. flattering myself 1 
had done a sensible thing, went on my way rejoic¬ 
ing. But it agonizes me to dwell any longeron that 
portion of my life. 
I shall immediately set about becoming thin and 
miserable; and I must break myself of that abomi¬ 
nable habit of laughing. Melancholy young ladies 
don't laugh, I believe, they only smile mournful 
smiles; and I shall also take to writing blank verse 
and rhyme by the wholesale, and cultivate hidden 
griefs and heart-aches. I have composed a lew 
poems al ready. My affecting “ Stanzas on the Death 
of a Promising Young Gander" I showed to Geor¬ 
gius Rex, and, if you'll believe me, that depraved 
yound man actually laughed! Laughed until I 
thought he would burst a blood-vessel, and went 
about the house singing my stanzas through bis 
nose for several days afterwards. As for my 
“ Elegy in a Country Barn-Yard, ' he pronounced it 
a most.rbwf production; said he should think I'd be 
ashamed to look a hen in the face again, after 
writing such stuff! 
Of course I expect to meet with coldness and 
depreciation, but for beartlessness and conceit, and 
nasty qualities generally, commend me to a young 
man—that’s all! especially when that young man is 
your brother! 
Well, J have several other pieces. There’s my 
“Wail of a Dilapidated Heart;” my “Thoughts 
Suggested by the Loss of a Fine-Tooth Comb;” my 
“Ode to the Youth with Yellow Whiskers;” aud 
two or three others, “ too numerous to mention.” I 
intend to have them all published some t me or 
other, but I shall do nothing at present but be 
intensely, supremely, superlatively and delightfully 
melancholy and miserable, and enjny tnysvlil 
August, 1862. Bajiba ua G. Moorb. 
----- m 
earth is the matter now? Any new disaster befal¬ 
len that dilapidated organ of yours?” 
“O, Barbara, I’m very miserable!” 
“Well. 1 can tell you what, mvmelaucholv Mart 
€imn Ipsifltag. 
aclers seems to be this;—One is miserable in try¬ 
ing to make himself happy; the other is happy in 
trying to make others happy, or in doing to them 
ns Tip* wrmltl hp hxr Tan’# U 
jluMaUt < 
Ufijskt] 
•“ II 
AFTER THE SHADOWS, THE MORNING. 
The tempest, may dasti on the Tale and bill, 
But the sunshine will smile behind it; 
The caverned rock hide the mountain rill, 
Yet a gleam from above will find it. 
Gladness will sleep upon Griefs pale breast 
To soften the voice of Its warning : 
Over the darkness sweet Hope will rest. 
And after the shadows, the morning. 
Life may grow darkened, though Love ha* thrown 
The strength of its light around it, 
Till, longer and deeper the shadows gTown, 
Hide the halo of bliss that crowned it. 
Clouds may dost down on our valleys of peace 
And crush our meek flowers with scorning. 
Yet never this song in our spirits shall cease : 
After the shadows, the morning. 
Never so closely doe* Pain fold its wing*, 
But the white robe of Sympathy's near it ; 
And each tear that the dark hand of misery wrings 
Brings the touch of a blessing to cheer it. 
As fades the dim night at the coming of day 
When it weaves its bright web of adorning, 
So Hoateth pale grief from our life, path away, 
Comes, after our shadows, the morning. 
[Hotton Transcript. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
SCRAPS. 
be a true, earnest, unselfish man? 
Belleville, Pa., 1862. 
THE GATHERING HOME. 
J. K. Hartzler. 
bY If ARY E. LESLIE. 
A WORD TO MOTHERS. 
“ Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below; 
Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome wo. 
Plunge me in glooms," etc —II. K. White. 
“ There's nought in this life sweet, 
If man were w ise to see't, 
But only melancholy.’' 
—Beaumont and Fletcher. 
“ There’s such a charm in melancholy, 
I would not, if I could, be gay." 
Of course I wouldn't: besides, gaiety isn’t the 
fashion, now-a-days. Ail the young women of my 
acquaintance are dying of blasted hopes aud broken 
hearts, and I don't see why I shouldn't be as forlorn 
and miserable as the rest of my lovely and sorrow¬ 
ing sex, and I'm just going to be—so there! 
Heretofore it’s been against my principles to 
indulge in sorrow of any kind; I have laughed at 
care, and worn a cheerful countenance on all occa¬ 
sions, however distressing; and it shocks me to 
think how gay and light-hearted I have been during 
all the years of my sojourn in this vale of tears, 
when I might have been so delightfully wretched 
and sorrow-stricken! But, it isn't too late to mend 
yet, and I rather reckon, if I take a notion, I can 
wade through as many calamities, and disasters, 
and misfortunes, and vicissitudes, and woes, and 
trials, and troubles, and tribulations,—through as 
much affliction, and misery, and anguish, and dis¬ 
tress, and weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of 
teeth, and things generally, as any other young 
female of my size in existence. Anyhow, I mean 
to try it. 
When I was a school-girl, I had a chum, whose 
“sponsors in baptism” had bestowed on her the 
euphonious name of Mart Ann Simpkins. She 
was a yoimg maiden of the bean-pole order—long, 
lank and lean; excessively addicted to Btron and 
Moore; to eating slate-pencils, chalk, and drinking 
vinegar to keep herself thin and interesting, (she 
had a powerful appetite); to writing sonnets to the 
sun, moon and stars, etc.; all of which I thought 
very ridiculous then, for I was a merry, laughing 
girl, terribly unsentimental and matter-of-laet. 
Well, Mart Ann continued to grow more and 
more melancholy, and took to sighing and weeping 
in a style quite distressing to witness; also, began 
to call me her “ spirit-sister,” and all that sort of 
thing. “ Barbara,” she would say, “ my spirit- 
sister, tell me that you love me, for this poor heart 
feels so unutterably wretched and world-weary!” 
To which I would very irreverently andunsympa- 
thizingly reply, “ For pity’s sake, Simpkins, what on 
Each mother is a historian. She writes not the 
history of empires or of nations on paper, but she 
writes her own history on the imperishable mind of 
her child. Thai tablet and that history will remain 
indelible when time shall be no more. That history 
each mother will meet again, and read with eternal 
joy or unutterable grief in the lar-coming ages of 
eternity. This thought should weigh on the mind 
of erery mother, aud render her deeply circum¬ 
spect, and prayerful, and faithful in her solemn 
work of training up her children for heaven and 
immortality. 
The minds of children are very susceptible and 
easily impressed. A word, a look, a frown, may 
engrave an impression on the mind of a child which 
no lapse of time can efface or Avash out. You walk 
along the sea-shore when the tide is out, and you 
form characters, or write words or names in the 
smooth, white sand, which has spread out so clear 
and beautiful at your teet, according as your fancy 
may dictate; but the returning tide shall in a lew 
hours wash out and efface forever all that you have 
written. Not so the lines and characters of truth, or 
error, which your conduct imprints on the mind of 
your child. There you write impressions for the 
everlasting good or ill of your child, which neither 
the floods nor the storms of earth cau wash out, nor 
Death's cold fiDgers erase, nor the slow-moving ages 
of eternity obliterate. How careful, then, should 
each mother be of her treatment of her child. How 
prayerful, and how serious, and how earnest to write 
the eternal truths of God on his mind — those truths 
which shall he his guide and teacher when her voice 
shall be silent in death, and her lips no longer move 
in prayer in his behalf, in commending her dear 
child to her covenant God. 
THE EXPECTANTS. 
V no shall tell the hopes and fears that are stitched 
into little fairy frocksfor the form not yet seen! All 
the world over, the quiet, thoughtful brow of ex¬ 
pectant womanhood bends over them silently. 
Sometimes a glad smile lingers on the lips; some¬ 
times the busy bands lie idly folded over the soft 
cambric folds, as memory carries them back to their 
own childhood. Just so their mothers must have sat, 
with just such thoughts busy at heart and brain, be¬ 
fore. they nestled in a mother's welcoming arms. Ah, 
never till now did they fully realize what a mother's 
love may be. Never till now did they retrace the 
steps of childhood girlhood, aud maturity so care¬ 
fully. to note all the Christ-like patience and ten¬ 
derness to which those long years bear witness. 
Then solemnly comes the thought, just as 1 looked 
up to my mother, this little one will look to me. 
Me! Warm tears fall on the little frock that lies 
on the lap. Me! Ah, how do I know that I shall 
teach it aright? and with the happy Ipve-thrill is 
mingled a responsibility so overwhelming that it 
cannot be borne alone. -Nor, thank God, need it be, 
nor is it. Ah! whatsoever fathers may think, 
mothers must needs look upward. The girl-mother, 
from that sweet sacred moment, will rise, if ever, 
disenthralled from her past frivolity, and with the 
earnest seal of a new baptism on her brow .—Fanny 
Fern . 
Few have been so unhappy as to wish they had 
never Jived, and none so happy that they would 
ive their lives over again. 
A person ambitions “to be somebody.” as the 
saying is, but unable to accomplish what he wishes 
—whose heart is strong but whose head or hand is 
weak—whose abilities are not nearly equal to his 
aspirations—is a melancholy sight; but a sadder sight 
is one who does not care wbat lie becomes—who 
abandous himself to the impulse of the hour— 
who forms no plans or purposes of improvement 
—who has no “extraordinary generous seeking” to 
guide his actions through life. 
Riches beget idleness, and idleness begets pov¬ 
erty. For a person to be idle because he is rich, is 
as disgraceful as to be poor because he is idle. 
There is no more reason why the possession of 
riches should absolve a person from labor, than the 
possession of health render the observance of tem¬ 
perance unnecessary. If for nothing else, the rich 
.should labor for the sake of affording example and 
encouragement to the poor. 
The War now waging on this Continent, gives 
the study of Geography such an impulse as it has 
never before received since it was first introduced 
into common schools. Youug and old alike feel 
new interest in and enthusiasm for this most useful 
science. We are all learning the location and many 
particulars of scores of places of whose very exist¬ 
ence we belore knew nothing. We study maps to 
better pnrpose than ever belore, because impelled 
by an immediate practical interest in them—by a 
real desire to understand them. 
How curiously several of the States are bounded! 
Virginia has a long, narrow strip of land running 
up between Ohio and Pennsylvania, very appro¬ 
priately called the Pan-handle ; she has, also, a 
piece of territory beyond (lie Chesapeake bay, and 
naturally belonging to Maryland ; Delaware and 
Maryland ought, lo be one: Florida shuts off Georgia 
and threatens to bar Alabama from the Gulf; 
Louisiana treats Mississippi in the same way; Mis¬ 
souri runs down into Arkansas without any appa¬ 
rent excuse, and Michigan looks as if she might any 
moment be sunk fathoms deop under water. 
Mrcn misconception arises from the careless con¬ 
founding of pleasantry and ridicule. It. would not 
perhaps be so easy to define them separately, as to 
say that they differ from each other chiefly in that 
the latter is spiced with malice. 
Locke’s division of power into active and passive 
appears inconsistent and improper. As power is 
the ability to produce effect, it would seem that the 
state oi being acted upon, or susceptibility to effect, 
would be belter expressed by some other term— 
passivity , perhaps. 
Tub unwillingness or inability of the public mind 
to follow abstractions in Religion or Politics, is 
perhaps the reason why the masses show more 
devotion to the exponents of the principles to which 
they are attached than they do to the principles 
themselves. 
A transition, to be agreeable, must not be too 
sudden, and should, generally, I suppose, partake 
of the upward movement. “It is but a step from 
the sublime to the ridiculous,” somebody says; but 
the step is downwaid. A change from the ridicu¬ 
lous to the sublime is more pleasing than vice versa; 
so, also, from the grave to the gay, the serious to 
the playful, the tragic to the comic, Ac., Ac. 
These words of Caroline Chesebro, “Ye have 
no faculty who sit, and pine for lack of employment,” 
are a dagger to those whose conscience impels them 
to work, but who are so difficult they can never 
find the right thing to do. A. 
South Livonia, N. Y., 1862. 
GOOD TASTE. 
Good taste is the “luminous shadow” ol all the 
virtues. It is social discretion, it is intellectual 
kindness, it is external modesty and propriety, it is 
apparent unselfishness. It wounds no feelings, it 
infringes on no decorums, it respects all scruples. 
A man thus gifted, even though he be not a wit, 
spreads a genial influence about him from the trust 
he inspires. The stiff man can unbend, the cold can 
thaw, the fastidious can repose on him. No one is 
committed to more than he chooses—no ungenerous 
use is made of an unusual or transient impulse. 
Good taste is practical, though not deep, knowledge 
of character; it is perception of the distinctive 
points of every occasion; and thus it reconciles and 
harmonizes, where bad taste perpetuates differences, 
and necessitates separations. And yet we by no 
means wish to make good tasle a synonym either 
for virtue or intellect—it is rather that quality 
whirb sets off both at their best It is an affair, in 
some degree, of social training — it is one aspect of 
knowledge ol the world. Those who are little in 
general society—who confine themselves to family 
intercourse, or to that of a set or clique, whatever 
the position, whatever the intellectual or moral pre^ 
tensions of that clique— are almost sure to fail in it 
in new scenes. 
All persons of a single idea, engrossed by one ob 
ject, are perpetually infringing on the rules of good 
taste. If’ they are religious, they are pragmatical 
and intolerant, regardless of sensibilities. If they 
are useful, they do their work wiih unnecessary 
fuss. If they are learned, or deep, or clever, they 
make those good gilts unpopular. If they are grave, 
they are a check and restraint. They fail in every 
social crisis. In every difficulty they take the wrong 
way. They are forward when they ought to be re¬ 
tiring— their diffidence is constantly misplaced. 
There is no knowing wherp such people are — to 
what lengths an emergency or excited spirits will 
drive them. It i6 the cause of half the seeming in¬ 
justice of society. 
The man of bad taste cannot comprehend why 
things are not tolerated in him which are allowed in 
others. He is the last to see lhat the presence or 
absence of a correct taste makes the same practice 
or amusement agreeable or repugnant—that nothing 
can be judged fairly without taking the manner of 
doing it into consideration. He is therefore forever 
grumbling at. the inconsistencies and partialities of 
mankind. The fact is, every hinge with some peo¬ 
ple grates aDd creaks, at each turn jarring on sensi¬ 
tive nerves; while good taste is the oil which keeps 
the machinery of society, with the least wear and 
tear, noiselessly and profitably at work .—London 
Saturday Review. 
They are gathering homeward from every land 
One by one ; 
As their weary feet touch the shining strand. 
One by one. 
Their brows are inclosed in a golden crown, 
Their travel-stained garment* are ail laid down, 
And clothed in white raiment they rest on the mead 
Where the Lamb loveth His chosen to lead 
One by one. 
Before they rest they pass through the strife, 
One by one; 
Through the waters of death they enter life, 
One by one. 
To some are the Roods of the river still, 
As they ford on their way to the heavenly hill ; 
To others the wares run fiercely and wild, 
Yet they reach the home of the undefiled, 
One by one. 
We, too, shall come to the river side, 
One by one ; 
We near its waters each eventide, 
One by one. 
We can hear the noise and dash of the stream 
Now and again through our life's deep dream ; 
Sometimes the floods all the banks o'erflotv, 
Sometimes in ripples and small waves, go, 
Ooe by one. 
Jesus! Redeemer! we look to Thee, 
One by one ; 
We lift up our voices Iremhlingly, 
One by one ; 
The waves of the river are dark and cold, 
We know not the spots where our feet may hold ; 
Thou who didst pass through in deep midnight, 
Strengthen us—send ns the staff and the light— 
One by one. 
Flant Thou Thy feet beside as we tread, 
One by one ; 
On Thee let us lean each drooping head, 
One by one. 
Let Thy strong arm around us be twined, 
We shall cast all our fears and cares to the wind. 
Saviour! Redeemer! with Thee full in view, 
Smilingly, gladsomely, shall we pass through, 
One by one. 
OUR RELATION TO GOD. 
THE SUNSET OF TWO LIVES. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
ISN’T IT WORTH WHILE ? 
Do you wish to see a very ugly man—I mean 
one that you cannot like, one whose presence seems 
to chill all genuine, genial feeling, and who is de¬ 
based in character aud withal very unhappy? 
Look at him who is thoroughly self-satisfied, al¬ 
ways distrusting and disparaging others, never 
weary of looking out for his own comfort, interest, 
and safety, and utterly forgetful and regardless of 
the interests and rights of others. 
Look, now, at the man whose magnanimous heart 
earnestly and practically desires and seeks the well¬ 
being of others as well as himself. He loves hu¬ 
manity though it is weak and imperfect. The 
benevolence and excellence of an exalted nature 
light up his features, pervade his whole being, and 
appear in every word and action. He is ever ready 
to drop kind words and do “ little acts of love.” 
Young man, which of these men will you choose 
for your “chum” at school—which of them for 
your friend? Which one will be the more likely 
to encourage and assist you as you start out into 
life and business? Which one makes you feel the 
happier and the more like doing all the good you 
can? Which one is the better and truer man? Or, 
to come nearer home, as you may some day stand 
to others in the relation of “chum,” friend, neigh¬ 
bor, or business man, which of these will you be? 
It is not difficult to decide which is the better, 
wiser, and happier, and which exerts the wider 
influence. Tile difference between the two char- 
“ A. H. K. B.” writes in an English magazine a 
pleasant essay about “ Beginnings and Ends.” 
Here is his description of a life-sunset: 
“ I have been touched by the sight of human life, 
ebbing almost visibly away; and you could not but 
think of the sun in bis last little space above the 
mountains, or above the sea. I remember two old 
gentlemen, great friends; both on the extreme verge 
of life. One was above ninety; the other above 
eighty. But their wits were sound and clear; and, 
better still, their hearts were right. They confessed 
that they were no more than strangers and pilgrims 
on the earth; they declared plainly that they sought 
a country far away, where most of those they had 
cared lor were waiting for them. But the body was 
very nearly worn out ; and though the face of each 
was pleasant to look at. paralysis had laid its grasp 
upon the aged machinery of limb and muscle which 
had played so long. I used, for a few weeks, to go 
one evening in the week and sit with them, and 
take tea. They always had tea in large breakfast 
cups; other cups would not have done. I remem¬ 
ber how the two paralytic hands shook about, as 
they tried to drink their tea. There they were, the 
two old friends; they had been friends from boy¬ 
hood, and they had been over the world together. 
You could not have looked, my friend, but with 
eyes somewhat wet, at the large teacups shaking 
about, as the old men with difficulty raised them to 
their lips. And there was a thing that particularly 
struck mo. There was a large old-fashioned watch, 
always on a little stand on the tea-table, ticking on 
and on. You seemed to feel it measuring out the 
last minutes, running fast away. It always awed 
me to look at it and bear it. Only for a few weeks 
did I thus visit those old friends, till one died; aDd 
the other Boon followed him, where there are no 
palsied hands or aged hearts. No doubt, through 
all the years the old-fasbioned watch had gone 
about in the old gentleman’s pocket, life had been 
ebbing as really and as fast as then. And the sands 
were running as quickly for me as for the aged pil¬ 
grims. But then with me it was the middle, and to 
them it was the end. And I always felt it very sol¬ 
emn and touching, to look at the two old men on 
the confines of life, and at the watch loudly ticking 
off' their last hours. One seemed to feel time, 
ebbing, as you see the setting sun go down. 
Do you suppose a man to know himself—that he 
comes into this world on no other errand but to rise 
out of the vanities of time, into the riches of eter¬ 
nity? Do you suppose him to govern his inward 
thoughts and outward actions by this view of him¬ 
self, and then to him every day has lost all its evil? 
Prosperity and adversity have no difference, be¬ 
cause he receives and, uses them both in the same 
spirit; life and death are equally welcome, because 
equally parts ol his way to eternity. For poor and 
miserable ns this life is. we have all of us free 
access to all that is great, and good, and happy, and 
carry within ourselves a key to all the treasures 
that heaven has to bestow upon us. We starve in 
the midst of plenty; groan under infirmities, with 
the remedy in our own hand; live and die without 
knowing and feeling anything of the One, only 
good, while we have in our power to know and 
enjoy it in as great a reality as we know and feel 
the power ol this world over us; for heaven is as 
near to our souls as this world is to our bodies; and 
wo art! created, we are redeemed, to have our con¬ 
versation in it. God, the only good of all intelli¬ 
gent natures, is not an absent or distant God, but is 
more present in and to our souls than to our own 
bodies; and we are strangers to heaven, and with¬ 
out God in the world, for this only reason, because 
we are void of that spirit of prayer which alone 
can, and never fails to unite us with the One, only 
good, and to open heaven and the kingdom of God 
within us. 
A root set in the finest soil, in the best climate, 
and blessed with all that sun. air and rain can do 
for it, is not in so sure a way of its growth to per¬ 
fection, as every man may be whose spirit aspires 
after all that which God is ready and infinitely 
desirous to give him. For the sun meets not the 
springing bud that stretches toward him with half 
that sympathy as God, the source of all good, com¬ 
municates himself to the soul that longs to partake 
of him. We are all of us by birth the offspring of 
God, more nearly related to Him than we are to 
one another; for in Him we live, and move, and 
have our being.— William Law. 
Pretty Preaching. —I am tormented with the 
desire of preaching better than 1 can. But I have 
no wish to make fine pretty sermons. Preltiness 
is well enough, when prettiness is in its place. I 
like to see a pretty child and a pretty flower, but in 
a sermon prettiness is out of place. To my ear it 
would be anything but commendation should it be 
said to me, “You have given ua a pretty sermon.” 
If I were upon trial for my life, and my advocate 
should amuse the jury with his tropes and figures, 
burying his argument beneath a profusion of the 
flowers of rhetoric, I would say to him, “Tut, man; 
you care moro for your vanity than my hanging. 
Put yourself in my place, speak in view of the gal¬ 
lows, and you will tell your story plainly and 
earnestly .”—Robert Ball. 
Affability.— Be good natured, if you can, for 
there is no charm so great, no attraction so admir¬ 
able. A face that is always full of the expression 
of amiability is always beautiful. It needs no paint 
and no powder. Cosmetics are superfluous lor it. 
Rouge cannot improve its cheeks nor lily-white 
mend its complexion. Its loveliness lies beyond all 
this. It is not the gaze into the faco of a noble man 
or woman, it is not the shape of the features that 
you really see, nor yet the tint of the cheek, the hue 
of the lip, the brilliancy uf the eyes; you see the 
nameless something which animates all these, and 
leaves for your instinct a sense of grateful fasciua- 
tion; you see an indescribable embodiment of heart¬ 
felt goodness within, which wins your regard in 
spite of external appearance, and defies all the 
critical rules of the {esthetic.— The'WUness. 
Intemperance. —A drunkard is the annoyance of 
modesty, the trouble of civility, the spoil oi wealth, 
the destruction of reason. He is the thief of his 
own substance, the beggar’s companion, the con¬ 
stable's trouble. He is his wife’s woe, his children’s 
sorrow, his neighbor’s scoff, his own shame. He is 
a spirit of unrest, a thing below a beast, and a 
monster of a man. 
We pray for those whom we love; we love those 
for whom we pray. 
A Pardoning God. —Show me one. if you can; 
there is no sin-pardoning God besides our God. 
“Who is a God like unto thee, that pardoneth?” 
None can pardon as Thou dost. None cau pardon 
so freely, none so fully, none so continually, none 
so eternally, none so indifferently, [impartially,] 
whether in respect of sinners or sin, as Thou dost 
It is all one to Thee what the sins are, and all one 
to Thee whose the sins are, so they come to ask Thy 
pardon. And that which is a disadvantage to ask 
pardon of man, is an encouragement to ask it of 
God—the greatness of our sins. The Psalmist did, 
and any man may. make this his plea: “Lord, par¬ 
don mine iniquity, for it is great .” Dare any be 
a competitor with God in this work?— Caryl. 
Little Thrones.— The only throne the Chris¬ 
tian can erect for those ne loves, is a foot-stool 
about God’s throne in Heaven. The moment a 
creature becomes an idol, then a blight falls upon 
the worship. But we may place our loved ones, by 
care and prayer, among the saints in heaven, and 
that will only increase our treasure above, while 
making us enjoy the sweeter place below. The 
little thrones will only make the great throne of God 
the more sublime. 
1\[e do not find friends by seeking for them. God 
brings them to us. They are hk own special gift, 
and should be regarded as holy. We should keep 
ourselves for them as sacredly as for Him. Only 
thus can they answer our soul’s needs.— Sfiiith. 
