Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ORPHAN’S PLAINT. 
Alone, alone I bow much that word 
Can of the soul's deep sorrow tell, 
When to its heat, Its only friends, 
It has forever bade farewell. 
When Death has seized and borne away, 
The beet of parents from our sight. 
Ere we can know how strong our needs, 
Or hair their love to us requite. 
And then to feel that, lone and end, 
Life’s weary way we still must go, 
With none to note our grief, or bid 
The tears or sorrow cease to flow: 
And still as day by day we pass, 
Find the cold world grow colder still— 
•Giving our grief a vacant car; 
Ilow ’twill the warmest feelings chill. 
And from the home of childhoods day, 
If we by adverse fate are borne. 
Still more wc feel our orphan state, 
More for those dear lost friends we mourn. 
O, for a father's wntchfui care 
To guide our wand'rlng footsteps here! 
O, for a mother’s tender love 
To chase awfty these clouds so drear! 
It may not be; thlB lonely heart 
Must Btlll Its loneliness endure.; 
But look to heaven, for there at last, 
Thou ehalt find happinesB secure. 
Elkhorn, Wis., 1866. b. e. D. 
Written ter Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MUSINGS.—THE HOLIDAYS. 
4 
How stiff, desolate and awkward do the bare 
tree-branches look! Something In this season of 
the year reminds me of youth and old age. How 
graceful the gait and bounding the step of a 
child; how broken and unsteady the carriage of 
an old person when the “weight of years” is 
so keenly felt and the “snows of many winters” 
chill the blood! A few months ago aud the now 
stiff branches swayed gracefully to the summer 
breeze, clothed in their bright garments. Now, 
the “ old age ” h»6 come to them, ju6t as it must 
come to all of tis. Oh! that we may be fully 
prepared for old age — the gradual nearing 
of the other shore, intervened by the dark, cold 
river which all must cross alone. 
I wonder if the approaching desolate, cold, 
gu 9 t.y days do not awaken an echo of sadness in 
every heart in the laud — sadness that the mys¬ 
tical, bright summer days have flown; and gone 
with it are golden opportunities not improved, 
and happy hours perhaps never to return again. 
I heard a little girl say to another in the street 
to day, “ Christmas lu juBt five weeks, and 1 ana 
going clear to Grandma's Thanksgiving.” Obi 
And that set me thinking. There is a picture in 
my min d of a grandmother, too, and of dear 
faces occupying the accustomed places around 
the well-filled board. Will they miss some that 
will not be with them this year? Will they 
long for the empty places to be filled? Then 
how vain is longing, for three will never, can 
never meet again in that dear old farm-house, as 
they are lying cold and still in the “silent city 
of the Dead,” sleeping the sleep that knows no 
waking. There is a bright 1 Ittle face with flaxen 
hair, blue eyes and baby lips, that will not lisp 
out her wants at the family board to attentive 
“Grandma” this year, and they will miss a 
bowed form and grey head in the person of 
“Grandfather; ” aud there is a noble, dark-eyed 
man missing, whom aching hearts sigh for in 
vain among the group. And f, Oh! no — I am 
not “going to Grandma’s,” hut I hope that lit¬ 
tle girl (God bless her,) will not be disappointed 
in her anticipations. 
What a pity people ever grow too large to 
“hang up their stockings?” I suppose one 
might, but gone are all those blissful feelings in 
regard to “Christmas and New Year’s eves.” 
Oh, that they might return! Can we not all 
remember sleepless nights in childhood, occa¬ 
sioned by alternately wouderiug what would 
“Santa Claus” bring, aud if it wasn't near 
morning enough to warrant going down stairs 
to the chimney and examining the contents of 
said stockings, planed and huug the night be¬ 
fore, Oh, so carefully, together? Yes, of course, 
such reccollections we all have! Else why the 
use of happy, care free Childhood, mysterious 
Santa Claus, Christmas and New Years r 
Watkins, N. Y., Nov., 1806. A. M. M. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE KEEPSAKE. 
“An 1 knoweet thou when to dieluncc driven, 
When friendship weeps the parting hour, 
The simplest gift that moment given 
Long, long retains a magic power.” 
It is only a faded bunch of Forget-me-nots, 
tied with a hit of sky-blue ribbon, that lies 
before me. Hardly a 6bade of their original, 
beauty remains, for the years iu which they 
have been stowed securely away in the corner 
of the ancient chest in which I kept my effects 
when a child have withered their leaves, and 
robbed them of their sweet perfume. Yet they 
have power to awaken within my breast olden 
memories, and again I seem to be standing on 
the distant shore of Lake K., gazing far out over 
its blue waters, following with wondering eyes 
one solitary ship that moved Bteadily on its 
course, like a thiDg of life. The waves run 
high at my feet—turning up with each dash 
rare pebbles and tiny shells, from the depth 
below, as they did on that spring morning, 
years ago, when I, in company’ with a loved 
one, visited its banks. 
All this I see thro’ my “mind’s eye,” as I 
gaze upon these faded blossoms —and more. 
For to and fro, close by the water’s edge, we 
trod—listening to the soft sighing of the wind 
.as it blew over the headland, or the dull mur¬ 
mur of the wave upon the shore converting 
of the years that had passed, years in which we 
had hand iu liand trod up from the green paths 
of childhood—longing for even one short hour 
of that old time to come to us again. The 
years that huve passed since that never to be 
forgotten hour have brought, their mingled load 
of joys and sorrows, strewing the’life-paths of 
some of God’s children with roses, while along 
the way of others there has been more of thorns. 
He who was an earthly treasure, meekly folded 
his “thin white hands” and passed away, leav¬ 
ing an aching void in a once happy home. Many 
times have the Forget-me-notB blossomed in the 
cold green sod above his breast,—many times 
have the pure white wreaths of snow draped 
the turf above his narrow tomb,— 
“But whether 1 wandered amid the crowd, 
Or out in the pathless woodland« air. 
With thine Angel form, or thine early shroud, 
I have seen tby visioned presence there.” 
Long years have passed since last 1 knelt by his 
lone gruve among the hills, and perhaps never 
again shall my weary feet press the long grass 
around his tomb. But unseen, I shed a sister’s 
bitter tears a6 my soul wells np in tones of 
prayer, that when the tide of life for me no 
more may flow, he will come and guide me to 
that “ unseen shore ”— 
“For my spirit, would rise like one from sleep, 
She would spread her outward gleaming wings, 
And soar away with tbee o'er the deep, 
To dwell amid heaven's Immortal things.” 
Crawford Co., Pa. E. H. 
FASHIONABLE CALL. 
Enter Miss Lucinda Cinderella, nearly out 
of breath with the exertion of walking from her 
papa’s carriage in the street to the door of her 
friend. 
Lucinda Cinderella— “O, Maria, how do you do? 
How delighted I am to see you. How have you 
been since you were at the ball last Thursday even¬ 
ing? Wasn’t the appearance of that tall girl In 
pink perfectly frightful ? Is this your shawl on 
the piano ? Beautiful shawl! Father says he is 
going to send to Paris to get me a shawl in the 
spring. I cau’t bear home-made shawls. How 
do you like Monsieur Espray? Beautiful man, 
ain’t he? Now, don’t laugh, Maria, for I am 
sure I don’t care anything about him ! Oh, my! 
I roust be going. It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? 
Maria, when arc you coming up to see me? 
Oh, dear! what a beautiful pin I That pin was 
given to you; now I know it was, Maria, don’t 
deny it. Harry is coming np to see me this 
evening, but I hate him —I do really; hut lie 
has a beautiful moustache, hasu’t he, Maria? 
Oh, dear, it’s very warm. Good morning, Ma¬ 
rla! Don’t speak of Harry in connection with 
my name to any one, for I am sure it will never 
amount to anything, butlhatc him awfully, I’m 
sure I do. Adieu.” 
« • + ' 
BLUE MONDAY. 
Think of a country where it is possible—not 
a universally prevalent custom, we admit, but 
possible and not unheard of—for the mistress of 
the house to have her year’s washiug done, as we 
do “ spring cleaning,” all in a few days of a 
single month in the year! This, however, the 
German housewife may do. All the dirty linen 
is stowed away, some of it, of course, for eleven 
months, together in a room set apart for that 
nse. In Germany women still weave, and their 
pride iB still In countless pieces of clean linen, 
pure and white. When summer comes, this ac¬ 
cumulated mass is washed at once —an acute 
attack of cleanliness, severe, indeed, while it 
last*, but infinitely better than our chronic inter¬ 
mitten ts. This system is partially adopted even 
is families not wealthy. The heavier articles, as 
table-cloths and sheets, are reserved for summer 
washing and bleaching, while the smaller, of 
which a much greater number is requisite, are 
washed weekly by a servant whose business is 
to wash and scrub. No one supposes that 
American heads of families would ever so far 
decline from the first principles of political 
economy as to look with favor upon the prac¬ 
tice of locking np capital in linen after the man¬ 
ner above described. It is a custom which 
must he left to countries where the rate of inter¬ 
est is not much over three per cent per annum. 
— Nation. 
. _ +.»■+- 
VOLTAIRE ON MARRIAGE. 
Voltaire said:—“The more married men 
you have, the fewer crimes there will be. Mar¬ 
riage renders a man more virtuous and more 
wise. An unmarried man is but half of a perfect 
being, and it requires the other half to make 
things right; and it cannot be expected that in 
this imperfect state he eau keep the straight 
path of rectitude any better than a boat with one 
oar or bird with one wing can keep a straight 
course. In nine cases out of ten, where married 
men become drunkards, or where they commit 
crimes against the peace of the community, the 
foundation of the6o acts was laid in a sngle 
state, or where the wife is, as is sometimes the 
case, an unsuitable match. Marriage changes 
the current of a man’6 feelings, and gives him a 
center for his thoughts, his affections and hi6 
acts. Here is a home for the entire man, and 
the counsels, the affections, the example, and 
the interest of his ‘ better half’ keep him from 
erratic courses, and from falling into a thousand 
temptations to which he would otherwise be ex¬ 
posed. Therefore, the friend to marriage is the 
friend to society, and to his country.” 
The London Lancet calls attention to the 
danger of using “perambulators” too much, 
for children old enough to walk, and remarks: 
"A pebble in the streamlet scant 
Hath turned the course of many a river, 
A dew-drop on the baby plant 
Has warped the giant oak forever.” 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
COMPENSATION. 
BV K4TB WOODLAND. 
We who grumble at our fate, 
Injustice charging upon Heaven, 
Rarely pause to contemplate 
What good gift to compensate 
God In love to us hath given. 
One has riches—one lias power— 
One a life devoid of care. 
Friends who guard each passing hour, 
Fearful leBt a wayside flower 
Might disclose a thorn less fair. 
One has beauty, wit, or grace, 
One lias Intellectual wealth, 
Gift of song, or power to trace 
Nature’s beauties from her face. 
Mind content, or perfect health. 
Envy not thy neighbor's lot. 
Pleasant though It may appear, 
Some rich blessing he has not. 
Thou perhaps lu humble cot, 
Canst enjoy without a fear. 
Let us not complain of fate, 
Nor charge injustice upon fleaven; 
If wc panse to contemplate, 
Some good gift to compensate 
Wc shall find that God has given. 
Van Buren Co., Mich. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE TEULY H0N0EABLE. 
Cu ill December has come, and with its mighty 
powers has closed the summer scenes. The plow 
stands in the furrow, fixed by the frost, which 
bids defiance to the lusty stcere to move the 
6od, or deprive the soil of its wiuter’s rest. 
The faithful steers are relieved from their toll, 
and enter the comfortable stall to rest until the 
coming spring calls them to renew their wonted 
task,—a small boon for the summer’s faithful 
labor, yet that, pittance by selfish man is too 
often denied. The farmer is relieved from his 
perplexing cares, his anxiety about the coming 
erop is past, the noxious weeds have ceased to 
grow, aud the devouring insects rest in sleep. 
The lengthened evenings invite him to forego 
his worldly cares, and enjoy the rich boon with 
which the Creator has blessed his summer’s 
toil, aod by the cheerful fire with conscious 
gratitude review the past and meditate on the 
future, so that he may faithfully perform the 
part allotted by his Creator. 
Mankind are created to be the regulators of 
their actions and the abettors of their own hap¬ 
piness,—the Lord of the Universe neither feeds 
nor clothes them, nor shelters them from the 
winter’s blasts, nor screens them from the 
summer’s scorching sun; but he has created 
them with powers, and supplied them with 
the means, to accomplish all these great and 
important objects, so that every hnman being 
has a duly to perform, which calls forth the 
active energies of body and mind,—yes, a 
solemn duty demanded of them by their 
Maker. No one has the right to spend his 
time in idleness or folly. 
Aristocratic pride, which is reared in luxury 
and sloth, has succeeded in attaching tho name 
of Honorable to the pomp and display of wealth, 
and branded useful labor as degrading, low, and 
mean, which is false and unjust, and ruinous 
to the health, happiness and prosperity of the 
human race. Tho diversified pursuits of civil¬ 
ized man afford ample room for all to be use¬ 
fully employed, and every calling or pursuit 
which adds to the general good of society is 
honorable,—no useful vocation in the checkered 
scenes of life is servile nor mean. The title of 
great, or honorable, are the just tributes to wis¬ 
dom and goodness; they who perform the part 
allotted to them iu life with judicious prudence, 
and do their duty to themselves and fellows as 
required of them by their Maker are truly great, 
far “an honest man is the noblest work of 
God;” and they who with a congenial glow 
spread happiness around their sphere, are justly 
deserving of honor. 
The cobbler on his bench may he equally as 
honorable as he who occupies the Presidential 
chair, or they who wear the Monarch’s crown; 
and he who cultivates his fifty acres, so as to 
produce the greatest vulue and not impoverish 
tho soil, is equally deserving of the honored 
name of a good farmer as those who occupy 
their hundreds. Aud those who skillfully use the 
mechanic’s tools, though solitary and alone, may 
be equally as great and honorable as those who 
oversee a thousand. The kitchen maid who 
prepares the daily food is much more usefully 
employed than they who spend their time at the 
toilet for vain display, and ought to be more 
honored. The matron, who, with judicious pru¬ 
dence, prepares the earth’s productions to feed, 
clothe and comfort her household, and trains 
the infant minds to fix tho moral chart, so as to 
shun the rock of vice, and to expand t he soul and 
lay the foundation for its future greatness, per¬ 
forms the noble part allotted her by her Creator, 
and is the most honorable of the hnman race. 
Bhe who attends the sick, and wipes the sweat 
from the achiDg brow, or mitigates the sorrows 
of the unfortunate and cheers the weary and 
forlorn, enjoys the heavenly balm of conscious 
pleasure which the idle and frivolous can never 
know. 
Those who instruct the young to unlock the 
door of science, and expand the mighty power 
of mind, are much more honorable than they 
who ape the butterfly and flutter life away as an 
empty dream. To promote virtue and increase 
hnman happiness, make labor honorable, and to 
prevent crime, brand idleness as mean and de¬ 
grading. W. Garbutt. 
Wheatland, N. Y. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ONE MOEE VIEW OE AUTUMN. 
Dear Rural : — It may be jastly repeated 
that nothing truly original can be penned con¬ 
cerning Autumn,—that all her beauties and 
charms have been rehearsed over and over, and 
her poetry “sang out” by sweet voices long 
ago in the most harmonious strains. It would 
he strange Indeed, if the heart, ere now, had not 
been moved repeatedly, and hurst fo th in praises 
of the autumnal exhibition of God’s handiwork, 
both in poetry aud prose. Often It has been, 
and as the same season, again in its glory, passes 
before and bathes ns in the mellow tide of its 
pure and gentle influences, why may not the 
bosom re-kindle and burn afresh with emotions 
of joy and gladness, felt often before, in time of 
“ Antumn’s holiest mood.” 
The spring-time brings hack the robin with 
the same carol, the hedge with its blue-eyed 
violets, and the new foitaged forests with a thou¬ 
sand fresh and inviting attractions and charms. 
How gladly we welcome them back again! 
Then a rehearsal of antumnal scenes may again 
strike upon the chord of the soul’s acolian love for 
the beautiful, even aB it did when provoked to 
music by a Eimilar touch in dayB agone. Shall I 
say, then, how majestically the “harvest moon” 
appears when viewed from my window, aa ahe 
looks forth in beauty from the blue skies? 
Shall I write of the Blue Juniata, musically 
mumuring, and flowing peacefully on aa the 
“ tide of memory,” radiant with striking daguer¬ 
reotypes of the starry heavens above it? Shall 
I paint a landscape of froBtcd fields, scintilla¬ 
ting in the moonlight, like merriment in a con¬ 
vivial eye? Walk into the open fields when 
evening reigns, and the happy scene is before 
you. Rejoice in the beauties of Nature, and 
learn to adore her God. Nothing was ever 
more talked of or admired, that Autumn engen¬ 
ders, than her many-hued forest leaves. Na¬ 
ture’s chemist adroitly compounds in the vast 
laboratory those choice tints for the dying foli¬ 
age. How kind in the Creator to mingle with 
the “fall of the leaf" so much beauty aud mag¬ 
nificence. It gives a happy transition from 
summer’s maturity aud vigor, to the soreness 
and russet appearance of autumnal wane, and 
makes her funeral garb set gracefully upon her. 
The artist In his studio can exhibit no richer 
colors than the foliage of Autumn. The scarlet 
leaf of the vigorous maple, the deep crimson- 
topped sumach, and the oscillating foliage of 
the broad ash, stained with yellow gold, may 
well put Washington Allston’s paint king to 
blush, and defy his art. 
A beaut iful follftdum can be made of autumnal 
leaves, by pressing them between smooth sheets 
of fine paper, until dry, aud then arranging 
them tastefully, so as to contrast the different 
colors, in a blank book tiiade for the purpose. 
Such a collection Is quite as pretty as au herba¬ 
rium of the choicest and most beautiful flowers, 
and calls up many pleasant associations when 
made a winter’s companion at the cheerful fire¬ 
side, on a cold and boisterous night. It is said 
that in many countries of the East, autumnal 
foliage changes Immediately from its original 
greenness into the dark and gray aspect of decay 
and death, without even one beautiful hue to 
attract the attention, or call forth admiration. 
Italy may boast of her gorgeous sunsets, and 
moonlight evenings; Switzerland of her snow- 
crowned mountains and sun ny vales,—but neither 
can compare with American autumnal scenery 
in a point of grandenr or magnificence,— 
“ When all tho hues of twilight ekies 
Shed o’er the forest tops their dyes, 
And the tired sun In languor set, 
Leaves there his blushing radiance yet.” 
Huntingdon, I’enn., Nov., 1806. Ella E, M. 
Mysterious Feeling. —There is a mysterious 
feeling that frequently passes like a cloud over 
the spirit. It comes upon the soul iu the busy 
bustle of life, iu the social circle of life, in the 
calm and silent retreats of solitude. Its power 
is alike supreme over the weak and iron-hearted. 
At one time it is caused by the flitting of a sin¬ 
gle thought across the mind. Again, a sound 
will come booming across the ocean of memory, 
gloomy and solemn as the death-knell, over¬ 
shadowing all the bright hopes and sunny feel- 
iugs of the heart. Who can describe it, and 
yet who has not felt the bewildering influence ? 
---- 
Conversation calls into light what has been 
lodged in all the recesses and secret chambers of 
the soul. By occasional hints and incidents, it 
brings old useful notions into remembrance; it 
unfolds aud displays the hidden treasure of 
knowledge with which reading, observation and 
study have before furnished the mind. By mu¬ 
tual discourse the soul is awakened and allured 
to bring forth its hoards of knowledge, and it 
learns bow to render them most useful to man 
kind. A man of vast reading, without conver¬ 
sation, is like a miser, who lives only for himself. 
WIT AND WISDOM. 
Brains are king—industry prime minister. 
Why is life the riddle of riddles ? Because we 
must give it up. 
War is the letter D like a naughty little boy ? 
It makes ma mad. 
Beautv is the woman you love, whatever she 
may seem to others. 
When are soldiers like blacksmiths ? When 
they are drilling and filing. 
Which runs the fastest, heat or cold ? Heat; 
because you can catch cold. 
Want less than you have, and you will always 
have more than you want. 
The virtue of prosperity is temperance; the 
virtue of adversity is fortitude. 
Gold is the only idol that is worshiped in all 
lands without a temple, and by all sects without 
hypocrisy. 
usings. 
THE CROSS. 
Quaint though the construction be of the follow¬ 
ing poem, yet never has the story of the Cross been 
told with more truthful simplicity: 
Blest they who seek, 
While in their youth. 
With spirit meek, 
The way of truth. 
To them the sacred scriptures now display, 
Christ aa the only true and living way; 
His precious blood on Calvary was given 
To make them heirs of endless bliss in heaven. 
And e’en on earth the child of God can trace 
The glorious blessings or his Saviour's grace. 
For them he bore 
His Father’s frown; 
For them he wore 
The thorny Crown; 
Nailed to the Cross, 
Endured ira pain, 
That His life's loss, 
Might be their gain. 
Then haste to choose 
That better part, 
Nor e’en dare refuse 
The Lord thy heart. 
Beat He declare, 
“I know you not;" 
And deep despair 
Forever be yonr lot. 
Now look to Jesus who on Calvary died. 
And trust on Him alone who there was crucified. 
“GO ON, SIR; GO ON.” 
Arago says, iu his “ Autobiography,” that 
his master in mathematics was a word or two 
of advice, which he found in the binding of one 
Of his text-books. Puzzled and discouraged 
by the difficulties he met with in his early stud¬ 
ies, he wa3 almost ready to give over the pur¬ 
suit. Some words which he found on tho waste 
leaf used to stiffen the cover of his paper-bound 
text-book caught his eye aud Interested him. 
“ Impelled,” he says, “ by an indefinable curi¬ 
osity, I damped the cover of the book, and care¬ 
fully unrolled the leaf, to see what was on the 
other side. It proved t© be a 6hort letter from 
D’Alembert to a young person disheartened like 
myself, by the difficulties of mathematical 
study, and who had written to him for counsel. 
“‘Go on, sir; go on,’ was the counsel which 
D’Alembert gave him. ‘The difficulties you 
meet will resolve themselves as you advance. 
Proceed, aud light will dawn and shine with in¬ 
creasing clearness on your path.’ 
“ That maxim," says Arago, “ was my great¬ 
est master in mathematics." Following out 
these simple words “ Go on, sir; go on,” made 
him the first astronomical mathematician of his 
age. What Christians it would make of us! 
What heroes of faith, what sages in holy wis¬ 
dom, should we becomo, just by acting out that 
maxim, “go on, go on! ” 
- »»♦ - 
VALUE OF A SOUL. 
A city is nothing when weighed in the bal¬ 
ance against the human soul. Phidian Jupiter 
was a statue of gold and ivory 60 magnificent 
that a man that died without 6ccing it might 
be commlsserated, and a Jinan that had seen it 
might say, “Now let me die in peace." That 
statue, whOBe annual disclosure was so august 
that men and women, in their enthusiasm, fell 
before it with outcries and exclamations; that 
statue, which. I would willingly have made a 
piJgriraage to see, if it had been 6aved from 
medimval violence and iconoclasm, was won¬ 
derful beyond all description. But one poor 
soul, dragged out of the slough and saved, and 
beginning to speak the language of heaven and 
to shout the praises of God, is more wonderful 
and more glorious, iu the sight of angels and 
Ged, than the lordliest statue of the greatest of 
all artists. And I would go further to save one 
soul than to see a million Phidian works of art. 
— H. W. Beecher. 
THE CHURCHES OF THE SOUTH. 
A correspondent of the Atlanta Era, com¬ 
menting on Mr. Beecher’s comparison of the 
churches and school-houses of that section to 
“ light-houses, twinkling along the edge of the 
continent of darkness,” says:—“In 1850 there 
were 21,387 churches in the Northern States, 
and 10,058 in the Southern States. The pro¬ 
portion, one church to 628 persons in the 
North, and one church to 503 persons in the 
South. The accommodations of these churches 
were S,650,001 sittings for 13,434,033 persons 
North, and 5,541,875 sittings for 9,064,656 per¬ 
sons South. Thus 04 persons out of the hun¬ 
dred could attend service at the same time in 
the North, and 57 out of 100 in the South, 
including whites and blacks alike. Thus the 
Northern States had only 7 per cent, greater 
accommodations than the South. Sorely, this 
was not a sufficient difference to jastify a charge 
of heathenism upon the Southern people.” 
____ - - 
Too Late Regrets!— The moment a friend, 
or even a mere acquaintance, is dead, how surely 
there Etarts up before us each instance of un¬ 
kindness of which wc have been guilty towards 
him. In fact, many and many an act or word 
which, while he was in life, did not seem to us 
to he unkind at all. now “ bites back" as if it 
were a serpent, and shows ns what it really was. 
Alas! ’twas thus we caused him to suffer who 
now is dust, and yet then we did not pity or 
reproach ourEelves. There is always a bitter¬ 
ness beyond that of death iu the dying of a 
fellow-creature to whom we have been unjust 
or unkind._ 
Never do what you cannot ask Christ to 
bless; and never go into any place or pursuit iu 
which you cannot ask Christ Jesus to go with 
you. 
