’S 2UFB.AL IEW-YORKEE. 
HELEN GRAY, 
Bkcauuk out love? you. Helen Gray, 
Is that a reason yon should pout, 
And like a March wind veer about. 
And frown, and say your shrewish say? 
Don’t strain the cord uutil it maps, 
Don't split the sound heart with yonr wedge, 
Don’t cat yonr Augers with the edge 
Of your keen wit; you may, perhaps. 
Because you're handsome, Helen Gray, 
Is that a reason to he proud? 
Your eyes are bold, your laugh is lond, 
Your steps go mincing on their way; 
But so yon ml** that modest charm 
Which is the surest chonn of all; 
Take heed, you may yet trip and fail, 
And no man cure to stretch his arm, 
• 
Stoop from your cold flight, Helen Gray, 
Come down, and take a lowlier place, 
Come down, to fill it now with grace; 
Conic down you must perforce some day; 
For yeurs cannot be kept at bay, 
And fading years Will make you old; 
Then in your turn will men seem cold, 
When you yourself are nipped and gray. 
[Mac At Man * Magazine. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
EVERY HEART KNOWS ITS OWN SORROWS. 
It lias been truly said, “every heart knows 
its own Borrows." Who of the millions that 
have traversed earth’s varied pathway, has not 
felt the truth of the above saying? Although 
all may seem bright and Joyous to the outward 
observer, and the pleasing aud fascinating scenes 
of earth seem to be enjoyed without alloy, yet 
there may he sorrow deep and hitter rankling 
beneath a gilded exterior—all the more deep ami 
pungent from being bid from human sympathy. 
“ Every heart knows its own sorrows." From 
youth to old age thero may still be found, at 
times, Borne sorrow rankling lu the heart which 
may seem trivial compared with those which 
may crush the heart in after years. Yet the 
present Borrow, to the afflicted one, Beems en 
veloped in the gloom of almost impenetrable 
darkness. Listen to the lamentations of that, 
lisping boy, when thwarted in his earnest en¬ 
deavors to reach some wished for toy. Could 
he express his grief, think you would he call his 
disappointment and grief trivial? 
The aspiring School-boy, often bending long 
over the midnight lump, striving to clear up the 
mysteries of knowledge,—assuring himself that, 
the coveted prize must be his own,—feels the 
deepest grief when, by some trifling mistake, 
corrected by a companion of Inferior scholar¬ 
ship, he sees the laurel ho earnestly endeavored 
to win wreathed around another’s brow. In the 
bitterness of his heart he feels earth is indeed a 
vale of tears, and that all his fondest hopes are 
doomed to disappointment. The manly youth 
who has lavished his heart's best treasures upon 
a fair and gentle being, feels an agony of grief 
surging over his soul aB the destroyer of many 
fond hopes summons the cherished one from 
the Bociety of loving friends, to inhabit the 
lonely tomb. The death knell peals a sad re¬ 
quiem to his fondly cherished hopes, and aa he 
turns away from her narrow home, he feels tliut 
earth for him is a wide-spread wilderness, with 
out an oaeis of rest for his weary heart. The 
doating father, as he watches the expanding in¬ 
tellect of a cherished son, and strives to instil 
into liis mind lessons of wisdom and truth, 
trusting that he will prove to him ft solace and 
support when his head is whitened with the 
bhows of age, turns away heart-broken as he 
secs the loved one deliberately pursuing the 
downward road to crime and rain. 
Recorded upon the life pages of all may he 
found sad disappointments, hidden heart aches, 
unrealized aspirations and petty trials, which at. 
times come to each of us like a load of misery 
to crufih our weary hearts, until it seems almost 
a burden to live—with 6ueli an array of bright 
hopes unrealized, and good resolves broken for 
future warning. But life is not nil sadness. 
Although those wc have trusted as our dearest 
friends may prove false, and wrong motives at¬ 
tributed to our purest actions and designs — 
although we may feel the sting of the poiBonous 
tongue of Blander, which, like the deadly upas 
tree, withers all before Its touch; —although 
base ingratitude may reward our most loving 
efforts to accomplish good,—yet, if with hope¬ 
ful hearts we trust in Him who “ordereth all 
things well," we shall find n “ balm for every 
grief," and, in the enjoyments and blessings we 
still possess, find ample sources for gratitude 
and happiness. How often do wc see the ocean 
of gold and blue, overspread with one sheet of 
golden sunshine, suddenly clouded with dark 
and threatening clouds, followed iu quick suc¬ 
cession by the terrific storm ? The heart is, 
like the sky, easily clouded, yet how pure Its 
depths at times. There is always a lingering of 
fiunshlue slumbering belaud the darkest clouds, 
which may break forth the brighter after the 
storm. How joyous and refreshing to the heart 
seems the clearing away after the Btorm of sor¬ 
row. Hope bungs her bow in the clouds, and 
smiles through the falling tear drops. 
After the storms of life are over, “They that 
trnst in the Lord Bhall be as Mount Zion, which 
cannot he removed, hut abldeth forever.” In 
that land of rest where the “heart knows no 
sorrow," they shall Join in the jubilee of a ran¬ 
somed world before the burning throne of God 
—“ there shall they obtain gladness of joy, and 
sorrow and mourning shall flee away." 
Wilson, N. Y., IvStlfi. Annis. 
♦ « » ■- — 
Under the title of The Question of Women, a 
fortnightly magazine is to be published iu St. 
Petersburg, to advocate female education and 
other rights of the sex. A free school for girls, 
arcuding-room and worksliip are to be connected 
with the magazine. 
HUSBANDS AND THEIR WIVES. 
8ome husbands never leave home In the 
: morning without kissing their wives and bid¬ 
ding them “good-bye, dear," in tones of un¬ 
wearied love; and whether it be policy or fact, 
It has the effect of fact, and those homes are 
generally pleasant ones, providing always that 
the wives are appreciative, and welcome the 
discipline in u kindly spirit. We know an old 
gentleman who lived with his wife over fifty 
years, und never left home without the kiss and 
the “good bye, dear." Some husbands, before 
leaving home, ask very tenderly, “What would 
you like for dinner, my dear ?" knowing all the 
while that, she will select something for his par¬ 
ticular palate, and off he goes. 
Some husbands will leave home without say¬ 
ing anything at all, but thinking a good deal, as 
evinced by their turning round at the last, point 
of observation, and waving an adieu at the pleas¬ 
ant fuee or faces at the window. Some husbands 
never say a word, rising from the breakfast table 
with the lofty indifference of a lord, and going 
out with a heartless disregard of those left be¬ 
hind. It Is a fortunate thing for their wives 
that they can find sympathy elsewhere. Some 
husbands never leave home without some un¬ 
kind word or look, apparently tldnklDg that 
such a course will keep things straight lu their 
absence. Then, on retiring, some husbands 
come home jolly and happy, unsoured by the 
world; some sulky and curly with ite disap¬ 
pointments. 
Some husbands bring home a newspaper or a 
book, and bury themselves for the evening iu its 
contents. Some husbands are called awuy every 
evening by business or social engagements; 
some doze iu speechless stupidity ou a sofa 
until bed time. Some husbands are curious to 
learn of their wives what has transpired through 
the day; others are attracted at nothing short of 
a child’s falling down stairs or the house taking 
fire. “Depend upon it," says Dr. Spooner, 
“ that home is the happiest where kindness, 
interest, and politeness, and attention 1 b shown; 
of course all the responsibility rests with them, 
and temptation finds no footing there."— New 
York Methodtit. 
SPEECH AT A MARRIAGE FESTIVAL. 
Tub following little speech, which smacks of 
the poetical genius of Alexander Smith, was 
made in Memphis recently by a bridegroom at 
the wedding supper-table: — To night I shake 
hands with the past. 1 live henceforth in future 
joys. An unknown door is opened wide, aud I 
enter an abode of perfect beatitude. Those two 
persons, whose lives have been well spent, have 
reared and trained, in love and kindness, the 
sharer of my future Joys aud woes. If my life 
he blissful I will owe them much, in that they 
have imbued the mind and heart of their adopted 
child with lessons of purity, kindness, truthful¬ 
ness and love. I am confident of the future. 
The shadow of the preseut shall fall upon it 
even when my bride aud I have grown old, and 
invested it with sunset glories. The man who, 
in youth, knew some soft, and subduing air, 
melts when again he hears it sung. 
Although It is not half so touching, yet it 
awakens sweetest echoes in dreamland, aud to 
age It repeats the story of youthful hopes, pas- 
sious aud love. I may not deserve the good I 
have won. Love is not won. It gives itself; 
and if not given, no wealth, genius, beauty, 
state or wit, no gold of earth or gem of Heaven, 
is rich enough to purchase It. Loving thee, my 
bride, ray heart, shall keep Its old memories like 
the Bca-shell its wonted melody. But away with 
forebodings on a wedding night.! Love’s music 
steals on m like dawned light which over all the 
Heavens spreads aud in vests the word with beauty 
and glory. The road that led on through the 
unknown future was dark and dreary, but a ce¬ 
lestial splendor now lightB up tbc gloom, and 
the fair bride, her spirit-self u Peri at tbc 
gates of Paradise, invites me onward and up¬ 
ward to a life of purest pleasure aud duties of 
beneficence. 
T1IB BABY SOLDIER. 
Another little private 
Mustered In 
The army of temptation 
And of sin. 
Another soldier arming 
For the strife, 
To fight the toilsome battles 
Of a life. 
Another little sentry 
Who will stand 
On guard, while evils prowl 
On every hand. 
Lord, our little darling 
Gutdc and save, 
’Mid the perils of the march 
To the grave. 
The fears which cause most of the trouble 
and worry that men experience, result from un¬ 
due nuxiety lor the riches and so-called good 
things of this life—not having the calm faith 
that sustains one in doing cheerfully and gladly 
the duties of to-day, feeling fully assured that 
the morrow will take care of itself, and that 
strength will be given to do the work when it is 
needed. 
A recent lecturer on common law says that, 
according to that code, “a woman when she 
married lost her identity, her distinctive char¬ 
acter, and was like a dew-drop swallowed by a 
sunbeam." 
What is the difference between accepted and 
rejected lovers ? The accepted kisses the mis¬ 
ses, and the rejected misses the kisses. 
Dido fell in love with ./Eneas, but be gave Her 
the cut direct. And he ba3 bis imitators. Men 
have been cutting didoes ever since. 
When do ladies look most killing? When 
they are ready for sleighing. 
€>Ww fpswMattg. 
A “NOVEL" POEM. 
BY rOUEQTOL 
“John Halifax" and “Rachel Ray" 
Met at “The Wayside Cross," 
Intent on doing “A Dark Night's Work” 
At “Tho Old Mill on the Floe*,” 
Which was “John Marchroont's Legacy,” 
Left to " Dennis Duval," 
Brother-in-law to “ Miss Mackenzie,” « 
lletress to “MordauntHall." 
But •‘Strathmore" and “ Aurora Floyd,” 
On tho “ Wife's Evidence," 
Either induced by "Very Hard Cash,” 
Or a “Mother's Recompense," 
Gave tho couple "Notice to Quit,” 
Or lose a "Bosom Friend," 
And be “Quite Alone,” and with “NoName," 
And “Seif" should "Look to the End.” 
The “Uncle Silas," of “Orlcy Farm," 
Amud with his “ Sword and Gown,” 
Said they toast yield A Point of Honor," 
And thenceforth “Live it Down:” 
Let “Mncnria" and “Our Mutual Friend," 
Aided by “Martin Polo,” 
Now second “Olive Blake’g Good Work" 
In teaching them “Self-Control.” 
“TwoMtn” "From Richmond to Paris" pass'd 
“Tim Morgesoua" to defraud ; 
And “Mattie, a Stray,” lost ancient “Caste” 
By being “ Married Abroad 
But “ Miles O'Reilly, bis Second Book" 
The “Minister’s Wooing" decried. 
So nil the “ Southern Colony" folk 
“ Blew Hot, Blew Cold"—and died. 
»■« - 
Wrlttea lor Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE COLISEUM. 
BY OLOFFE VON KOHTLANDT. 
1 have often thought that one could enjoy 
as much iu the way of traveling In the quiet of 
one’s own luxurious chamber, as in the whirl¬ 
ing car, tho tossing steamship, or the jolting 
diligence. In the one ease, the imaginative mind 
goes roamiDg; in the other, tho body is wbat 
experiences tho pleasures and discomforts, while 
the spirit is continually at home. Thought, as 
well as intellect, is unfathomable, and plays very 
queer tricks, sometimes: the alphubet which is 
to Epell ont the hitherto unexplainable mentali¬ 
ties, like the formula which will complete Hie 
great unfinished problems of the universe, is 
jet to have an origin. And who will say, after 
reading such wildly thanmaturgic stories as 
Bulwbr sometimes Indulges In, that the attain¬ 
ment 1 b very fur off? 
So I am in Rome. Not the queenly city, which, 
throned upon her everlasting hills, rules In opu¬ 
lence and might over all the world, but the one 
sitting in sackcloth, amid ashes, wailing over the 
Ewect dead face of the sad dead past. And In 
quiet I have come to an immense ruined atruc 
lure, grim and silent amid the Eternal Citj’, aud 
splendid in it« desolation. In the center of the 
seveu hills, and towering high as their lofty sum¬ 
mits —6till bearing tracce, faint though they be, 
of the sublime magnificence with which its regal 
builder adorned it, bO many centuries ago. 
I etand in the dim Bhudows of the Roman 
Amphitheater, and as I vainly attempt to scan 
the length of the half illumined corridors, or 
look over the grass-grown arena, marked by a 
single path, from far down the vista of the past 
seems faintly breathed that awe - inspired, 
prophetic utterance of the Pilgrims from the 
North — 
“ While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand, 
When falls the Coliseum, Rome will fall, 
And when Rome falls, tho world I " 
ThoughLc&rries me back to tbeeventsund times 
of which this ruin Is the monument, und its sug¬ 
gestions the epitaph. The gorgeous spectacle of 
Rome’s congregated wisdom and beauty throng¬ 
ing the vast galleries, the glitter of wealth aud 
the pomp of power, which once rendered this 
a scene of unequalled pageantry, all come at the 
call of memory to contrast themselves with the 
solemnity of solitude and decay. Iu the corri¬ 
dors where successive generations of Romans, 
from the emperor to the meaneet slave, wit¬ 
nessed the spectacle of humanity in all Its dig¬ 
nity—abandoned iu this wide area to the sports 
of the beasts of the forest, or stretched in agony 
or death on the clammy ground, — the voice 
Bounds strangely, and those walls which once 
re-echoed with applause so unnatural at the 
murdereus fights of the gladiators, are silent 
now, and raise themselves up as if to crush the 
earth like a pigmy beneath them. They speak 
through crumbling ruin, and their ebadows 
bring up mournful aud melaucholy remembran¬ 
ces of the glory, honor, virtue, genius, cruelty 
and folly of Rome. 
Speak? Yes—telling of the dignity of mis¬ 
fortune and tho grandeur qf sorrow. Remind¬ 
ing of that mutability which is written upon ail 
things earthly. Echoing the quiet words of 
Hilliard, “ As the same blue eky smiles upon 
the ruin, which smiled upon the perfect struc¬ 
ture, so the same beneficent Providence bends 
over our shattered hopes and our unswered I 
prayers." 
Of beautiful and sublime spectacles, too, these 
silent walls must have been witness. Nowhere 
could youth seem so pure in its loveliuess, man¬ 
hood so noble lu its might, or age eo venerable 
lu its majesty, as here. If in this ruined amphi¬ 
theater, humanity has been most debased by the 
hand of cruelty, nowhere could she exhibit more 
of the stiblimest of her energies, the spirit of 
seifeacriflcc. Though faces impressed with 
ferocity and revenge have beeu turned iu impo¬ 
tent hatred to the smiting sky above, how often 
have eyes, beam lug with earnest Christian spirit, 
looked up into its blue, depths from the awful 
death of the Coliseum! It is well that Retribu¬ 
tion never iorgets, and though the mills of the 
gods grind late, yet they grind to powder. 
Yet still the principle which so long sustained 
those terrible customs, like the spirit of bittter 
hostility to the good, the noble, the virtuous, 
where they stand opposed to the impulses of our 
baser nature, is still existent, operating etcr- 
nailj’. Those who comprehend the system of 
Christianity in its purity, comprehend the whole 
philosophy of the principle. There are still ar¬ 
rayed against roan the forces of circumstance 
without and of passion within. And there are 
still spectators, likewise, too often as hearties?, 
curious and cold lookers on, as those who 
thronged the galleries of the Coliseum. 
— And eo the visions and the thoughts I have 
been conjuring up are growing dim and disap¬ 
pearing. J push aside the curtain at my elbow, 
and look out iuto tho nlgbt. While the eun on 
the morrow will be giving us his kingly greeting, 
it will benight about the Eternal Cty, aud the 
radiant moon may be peeping at the void arena, 
the crushed scats and the deserted corridors of 
the Coliseum —she and her train of stars seem¬ 
ing like tears on the scutcheon of Roman gran¬ 
deur. 
Rochester, N. Y. 
« - -T - - 
CLAY, PLASTER AND MARBLE. 
The Evangelist drawB an impressive moral 
from the processes of the sculptor, in prepar¬ 
ing a bust or human form for immortality: 
“At Rome I visited the studio of Bartholo¬ 
mew of Hartford. He showed me many marvels 
of art, among them tho repentant Eve, which 
made me both prond of my countryman, and 
surprised that he was not better known. In 
the other apartment were many pieces of statu¬ 
ary, finished. Not far from these w ere workmen 
engaged in chipping the marble from the blocks, 
in careful imitation of models placed before 
them. After examining what was to be seen 
here, we passed into a emaller room within. 
About It were disposed immy models in plaster. 
But in the center was one still incomplete, in 
clay. On this the sculptor had been engaged 
when called out to meet me; aud while talking 
about it be made two or t hree changes in its de¬ 
tails, In a moment, with his fingers. The clay 
was soft, so soil that it barely held together on 
the Inner frame to which it adhered. The slight¬ 
est touch Indented it. 
The btatuc was of Washington, and since that 
I have seen it in marble in the chief street of the 
city of Baltimore. 
The process of the sculptor is this: first the 
clay, then the plaster, and then the marble. In 
the clay a change may be made with the greatest, 
ease in the briefest period, if the plaster docs 
not suit, you may break It In pieces and get a 
new mold from the clay. But when once the 
statne has been put Into the marble it endures. 
At Rome you see many things In marble older 
than 2,000 years. In plaster or clay, not one. 
Wbat. lessons come from the clay, the plaster 
and the marble! Parents, and Sabbath school 
teacher, and minister of Christ, what Icsbous to 
you 1 Childhood is the soft clay; youth, the 
plaster which Is molded on it; and mature age— 
and what is beyond It—the enduriDg marble, 
shaped from the plaster and the clay. When I 
saw that Btatuein stone, with the swelling waters 
of the Atlantic between it and the spot where It 
was born in clay, I had a look into eternity. All 
there was fixed which here Is facile. All there 
was done which here is doing. O, sculptor In 
Immortality! look well to the molding of that 
which, when once It has passed from thy hands, 
thou canst change no more forever! Look well 
to that which shall endure to eternity / Mold not 
out of thine own heart or intellect, but after 
Christ! Remember the clay, the plaster, the 
marble!" 
_ »» » - 
Early Rising.— Early rising gives long days, 
invigorating light iu abundance, and healthy 
cheeks. This passage from Bulwer’s Caxtons is 
worthy of remembrance:—“I was always an 
early riser. Happy the man who is! Every 
morning, day comes to him with a virgin’s love, 
full of bloom and purity and freshness. The 
youth of nature is contagious, like the gladners 
of a happy cbild. 1 doubt if any man can be 
called “ old," as long as he is an early riser and 
an early walker. And youth, take my word for 
it—youth In dressing-gown and slippers, dawd¬ 
ling over breakfast at noon, is a very decrepit, 
ghastly image of the youth who sees the sun 
blush over the mountains, and the dews sparkle 
upon blossoming hedgerows." 
“nx who would thrive must rise at five.” 
So says the proverb, though there is more rhyme 
than reason in it, for, if 
He who would thrive must rise at five, 
it must follow naturally, 
lie who'd thrive more must rise at four; 
and it will Insure a consequence that, 
lie who'd still more thriving be 
Must leave his bed at turn or three; 
Aud who this latter would outdo 
Will rouse him at the stroke of two. 
And, By way of climax to all, it should be held 
good that 
He who’ll never be outdone. 
Must ever rii*e as noun as .one. 
But the best illustration would be 
He who’d Uourioh best of ail, 
Should never go to bed at all. 
“Do not pity him; he is guilty.” Harsh and 
revolting words! He is guilty, and it is this that 
draws out my tendcrcst compassion. 
Philosophers are like graveyards—they take 
all things just as they come, and give them a 
decent burial and a suitable epitaph. 
WnAT an absent-minded man was he who, on 
falling into the river, sank twice before he recol¬ 
lected that he could swim. 
The winning post to the race of life is a slab 
of white or gray stone, standing out from that 
turf where there is no more jockeying. 
Let us go always beyond the duties marked 
out, and keep within the pleasures permitted. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
RESIGNATION. 
BY KATE WOODLAND. 
God knoweth what Is best: 
He will not smite in vain, 
Unmindful of the sonl's distress, 
Unheeding all its pain. 
From out a eeemlng 111, 
He brings a greater good ; 
Oh, doubting soul be patient still 
And filled with gratitude. 
Oh, mourning heart, although 
Thy path with thorns is paved, 
Thou knowest not from what greater woe 
And anguish thou art saved. 
Say not, in thy despair, 
“No grief can equal mine;" 
God knoweth what the soul can bear, 
And rules with love Divine. 
Hast thou no blessing lefi ? 
Doth not the sun shine still? 
No heart is utterly bere ,v 
That strives to do 1! . .ill. 
God will not smite In vain: 
Accept thy fate, and trust, 
And He will somettm! make it plain 
That, all His ways are just. 
Van Buren Co., Mich. 
_ - - ■ — .»♦ ■ ■■ 
CHRISTIAN CHARACTER A GROWTH. 
It mattes not if you cannot tell just when you 
became a Christian. If we pow a handful of 
wheat in onr garden, wc could not tell though 
wc watched it ever so narrowly, the exact mo- 
mentwben it germinated. But when we see tte 
waving grain in the autumn, wc know it did 
germinate, and that is all we care for. Tho 
young disciple should not expect too much light 
at once. It will grow brighter with every 
Christian duty he performs. The Christian life 
Is a sort of mountain path; and the higher one 
climbs the clearer the atmosphere, and the 
BOoncr be will see the morning sun. To the ad¬ 
venturous traveler who has ascended to the sum¬ 
mit of Mount Blanc, the sun rises earlier and sets 
later, and the nights are, therefore, shorter than 
to a peasant who lives down In the valley at its 
base. So it is in the Christian life. Clearness 
of vision, and firmness of foot, and beauty of 
prospect come only to those who have etrug- 
gled up the heights to the heavenly places in 
Christ Jesus. Conversion may be the work of 
a moment, but a saint is not made in an hour. 
Character, Christian character, is not an act, but 
a proeeee; not a sudden creation, but a develop¬ 
ment. It grows and bears fruit like a tree, and 
like a tree it requires patient care and unwearied 
cultivation. 
A LOST LIFE-TIME. 
A young man was converted during an illness 
which proved fatal, though lids was not appre¬ 
hended wheu he seemed to give his heart to 
Christ When hia physician announced an un¬ 
favorable change in his condition, he expressed 
entire resignation, and requested his friends to 
sing a hymn expressive of that feeling. An hour 
or two after, iu the &ilenco of the room, he wa3 
heard to say, “Lost, lost, lost!" This sur¬ 
prised the mother, and caused the immediate 
inquiry:—“My eon, are yonr hopcB feeble?” 
“No, mother; but ob, my lost life-time! I’m 
twenty-four, and, until a few weeks since, noth¬ 
ing has beeu done for Christ, and everything for 
myEclfftnd pleasure?. My companions will think 
I’ve made a profession in view of death. Oh, 
that I could live to meet this remark, and do 
something to show my sincerity, and to redeem 
my lost, lost life 1 ” 
» »♦-- 
A Good Reply. — Lord Bolingbroke once 
asked Lady Huntingdon how she reconciled 
prayer to God for particular blessing’, with ab¬ 
solute resignation to the Divine will. “Very 
easy," answered her Ladyship; “just as if 1 were 
to offer a petition to a monarch, of whose kind¬ 
ness and wisdom I have the highest opinion. 
In such a ease my language would he, I wish you 
to bestow on me 6uch a favor; but your majesty 
knows better than I how far it would be agreea¬ 
ble to you, or right in itself, to grant my desire. 
I therefore content myself with humbly pre¬ 
senting my petition, and leave the event of it 
entirely to you." 
The blessedness of the Gospel is not in wbat 
it gives only, but in what it preserves; surround¬ 
ing, indeed, mankind with a new heaven, and a 
Heavenly Father enthroned in them ; and a new 
earth peopled, not with fleuds and enemies, but 
our brother men; but also keeping unspoiled, 
in the heart of man, that delicate, spiritual im¬ 
pressionability, which is the sense of the holy, 
the good and the divine. 
Confession of Faults.—" Ascertain clearly 
what is wrong with you; and so far a6 you know 
any means of mending it, take those means, and 
have done; when you are examining yourself, 
never call youreelf merely a 1 sinner, 1 that is 
very cheap abuse, and utterly useless. You may 
even get to like it, and be proud of iL" 
Definition of Firmness.—T hat profound 
firmness which enables a man to regard difficul¬ 
ties but as evils to be surmounted, no matter 
what shape they may assume.— Cockton. 
Living without Reflection.—W hen a man 
passes a day without reflection, he may well 
exclaim at night, “I fear that I have done some¬ 
thing wrong." _ 
A bitter jest is the poison of friendship, and 
he who restraineth not his tongue shall live in 
trouble. 
