STOAX, 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
LETTERS. 
MY JEWEL. 
Jir MR8. M. R. KWIKO. 
I ru vk no golden diadem, 
No pearls to deck my hair, 
No gem* or trinkets bought with gold, 
No costly robes to wear. 
But I own a priceless jewel 
That for twenty years, aye more, 
I hare prized above all rubies 
Or mines of golden ore. 
Long years, with all their changes, 
Ne’er dimmed its lustrous light; 
In days of grief and sadness 
It shines more clear and bright. 
This CTcr precious jewel 
I keep within my heart, 
I could not. live withont itr— 
’Tis of my life a part. 
I cherish, guard and prize it 
Sacred where'er I rove; 
Have you guessed, or shaU I tell you ? 
It lfl—ttiy husband’s love. 
- v ■« ___ 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
REPLY TO “SCOLDING AND 
SUGGESTING.” 
Mi Dear Mrs. Overton:— In consequence 
of a few weeks absence, [ Jiavo not, until tin- 
present moment, perused our favorite Rural, or 
received the benefit (?) of your “scolding.” 
Those who have sent communications to the 
Ladies Department, must feel exceedingly 
obliged for the “womanly," delimit, and charac¬ 
teristic criticism; wherein their efforts were so 
unsparingly condemned, and their incapacity 
and inefficiency so glaringly exposed. Probably 
the other Writers, unlike Mrs. Overton, have 
mistaken their vocation. 
As one article in this department had been 
contributed by myself, I embrace the earliest 
Opportunity to return thanks for my share of the 
compliments, and express my appreciation for 
the refined and lady -like manner in which they 
were conveyed. Having thus far lived in igno¬ 
rance of the. meaning of sundry strikingly ex¬ 
pressive words, bad immediate resource to 
“Webster’s Unabridged,” but, strange to relate! 
all wore not there—one was condemned by that 
authority as “vu/gar,” “a low, cant word,” and 
when reading the definition of "twaddle," was 
assured a more convincing illustration of that 
word Could not 1>© found than the article in ques¬ 
tion. Ah ! “consistency is a jewel.” Rut of 
A letter! —alas! a letter is 'but a feeble con¬ 
solation for the absence of one who is beloved. 
Surely separation must be a heavy evil, when 
we are obliged to felicitate ourselves on a conso¬ 
lation so imperfect and so sad. I know not if 
there In- more of joy or sorrow in the receipt of a 
letter from the dearly loved—if it should be most 
properly said to communicate a painful pleasure 
or a pleasing pain. These may sound the same 
to the ear, but the heart known we)] tliatit makes 
much difference which shall be the substantive 
and which the adjective. A letter is ever a wit¬ 
ness of the absence which renders it necessary— 
at the same time that it represents very feebly 
the presence for which the spirit pines. Arid is 
it not sad to read of sentiments which maj 
be dead ere we have learnt of their existence, 
and to receive assurances for the heart, because 
time may have overthrown all which they prom¬ 
ise by the moment when they reach us? ’ 
Two fond hearts, separated by distance, exist 
not, if I may use the expression, at the same 
time. One is over in arroar of the other, and the 
good announced is, even at the time of its an- 
nouncemcDJ, a good gone by. A letter, too, must 
always want that cammunv/n of sentiment, that 
commingling of feeling which makes so much of 
the chain of personal communications— tbatsym- 
pafhy which increases emotion in sharing it, and 
is like the incommunicable odor of flowers. Y our 
friend may copy for you the form and colors 
of the rose which some loved one 
placed in your bosom in the 
the year and of your loves 
for you the perf ume which is its greatest charm— 
the mystery of its enchantment—the sjdril of its 
beauty? it is no more to bo traced bymorlu 
pen or pencil, than is the fading with which it 
was placed, by Lore’s own hand, in its sweet 
resting place! Eugenie A. Biunton. 
Rochester, N. Y., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
REVERIES. 
nr OARR MVBICK. 
may have 
in the spring time of 
your loves; but who shall paint 
W intbr comes with haggard eje, 
Wreathed in ice drops damp and cold, 
With frozen lips, and pieiving cry, 
Winter old. 
Heary pall he bears to hide 
Summer in her grave of snow; 
For with broken heart she died, 
Sad and slow. 
He has slain her fairest flowers 
With his breath so damp and chill, 
And they lie in icy bowers 
Cold and still. 
On the altar of my heart 
He has lain a form of snow 
That I crowned with flowers of love 
Long ago 
See how cold and still it lies! 
How pale the brow ! hashed the breath ! 
Sunken are the violet eyes, 
dosed by death! 
Winter grim, I hnU thee thrice ! 
Welcome is thy hollow moan I 
Hide me ’neath thy pall of toe, 
AU alone 1 
Penfield, N. Y., 1862. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE UNWRITTEN HISTORY OF WAR 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MY FASHION. 
it 
course 1 must bo mistaken, ,Mr8. Overton 
so 
hatos “ twaddle ,” anil oru* possessing such extra¬ 
ordinary discernment as to recognize a notoriely- 
seckei- iu a hasty, impulsive article, must lie 
right, and should not be accused of having tHe 
object in view so readily imputed to others. 
“Little girls' and boys’ quarrels” arc con¬ 
temptible! What infinite superiority is mani¬ 
fested for a wiser, i. e., older {head, 'to quarrel 
with them!! Surely we should he charitably 
inclined towards “coxcombs” who write “about 
something they know nothing about,” as they but 
imitate the example of their superiors. 
Dow fortunate for us Rumlltos that this de¬ 
partment is to be rescued and redeemed! What 
an intellectual treat is in store for us! What 
rare, laborious, literary emanations will flow 
from so gifted a pen! What animated discus¬ 
sions will arise oil the great questions of the day 
Doubtless, charming essays of great rhetorical 
finish, abounding in wisdom, and heightened 
with brilliant scintillations of wit. will be read 
in Philosophy, Metaphysics, Polities, Belles Let- 
tres. and the Fine Arts—but the list could bo 
extended ad infinitum, such a Jicide range of 
thought is suggested, such an immense field of 
study and research opened. 
f had supposed in my “girl”-ish ignorance, 
that matrimony, the “end and aim” of many, 
was wonderfully interesting—that “Old Maids” 
were worthy of discussion,—and if words would 
avail to Joud one thoughtless young girl to con¬ 
sider the sacred ness of the marriage covenant, 
they were not in vain. The subject did not 
necessarily exclude others, a variety ul' topics 
being certainly most desirable. And 1 further 
thought, that no subject, or article, was expected 
to please, or interest the whole world; .but that 
there was time and space, for any questions that 
might arise, providing the discussions were not 
carried 
been,) and in that case: even, w hen not parson 
ally interested, had yet to be enlightened, that to 
treat the writer to insult and abuse, was the most 
approved method. But rather, as example 
more potent than “scolding" or “suggesting.”— 
and as notoriety is undesirable, it would onlv 
have been necessary, when disgusted with such 
“ineffable nonsense,” to have sent contributions 
ol high order, and of such vast mental worth 
that, others seeing them, should go and endeavor 
to do likewise. Lanchlottl 
December 31st, 1862 
I dislike precise people. Just as though 
makes any difference if I go out in the street 
dressed comfortably, whether I am just in the 
tip ot the fashion or not. Suppose my bonnet 
isn’t a perfect “sky-scraper,” and I don't wear 
“Garibaldi” nor a Balmoral skirt, won't 1 live 
just as long? If I chance to be black as night, 
am I going to dross in bine because it is the 
fashion? I halo these fashionable parties and 
this fashionable tea-drinking, that is patented 
now-a-days. When anybody comes to see rno, I 
w r ani them to come in the morning and spend the 
day. I don’t want to lx- obliged to put on my 
befit bib and tucker and entertain the slip-shod 
aristocracy, who will laugh about me the minute 
I am out ot sight, i abominate the fashionable 
literature of the day. I don't want to read the. 
moon-slnick fancies ot an enamored swain any 
more than I want to hear them. 
I like to see people have a mind of their own. 
Nine-tenths act and think as the other tenth tell 
them to. I don't believe we were ever made to 
walk or talk by rule. Lot those who wish to put 
on airs, and imitate some of their acquaintances, , 
do so. I never shall go into the hysterics because A 
somebody tells me I must; it isn’t my fashion. 
Docember, 1862. j, 
" ■- ♦ • — _ _ , _ 
WOMAN’S DEVOTION. 
There is nothing in the world like the beauti¬ 
ful devotion of a woman to the sick. She feels 
no toil, nor pain, nor timid terrors. If she have 
grief she hides it, lest it add one feather’s weight 
to the afflictions of her charge. Her courage 
rises as her hopes recode. The grim specter that 
hovers and threatens may appall her, but she 
gives no sign. Her eye is clear and gentle: her 
soft and sweet as the breath of summer; 
Girls must think little, and talk less, of matri¬ 
mony. If they will look Upon marriage as the 
height of worldly aspiration, as the grand source 
of earthly happiness, we can toll them of a better 
way to reach that goal than] by frequent discus¬ 
sions of the theme. Let them seem, by assid¬ 
uously cultivating the graces of life, by attention 
to tho needs, tastes, and happiness of their asso¬ 
ciates, to forget their own personalities. Let 
them cultivate cheerfulness, physical health, in¬ 
dustry. and the Christian graces Bpringing from 
conscientious devotion to duty, and they are sure 
to become the (objects ot that solid admiration 
which recommends them for wives and mothers. 
Disguise. — Were we to take as much pains to 
bo what we ought to be, as we do to disguise 
what we really are, wcjmight appear like our¬ 
selves, without being at the trouble of auy dis¬ 
guise at all. 
voici 
her touch so tender that the simplest, kindly of¬ 
fice soothes like a caress. The dawn of her smite 
chases away suffering as light dispels the mists 
>f the universe. There is a balm in her very 
presence. Her delicate instinct teaches athou- 
sand arts of comfort, and consolation which expe¬ 
rience might study in vain. There is a wisdom 
above science in her loving heart. She knows no 
sacrifices—wonders if von speak of any. She is 
calmest at times when men yield to a turbulent 
sorrow. She chains her emot ions with her sense 
of a lgilant duty. In her weakness she is stronge 
than the strong. This mastery of self—this pu¬ 
rity of devotion — this eager and unsleeping 
watchlblness- lids radiant reflection of hope and 
trust—this outpouring of all that nature, lofty 
and true, can lavish—do they not mark the no¬ 
blest heroism of humanity ? From woman life 
comes; she feels that it is hers to guard it! Ilow 
well will she not guard it! And when she has 
restored it to yon—when the peril is past, and 
you meet with no ill of yours to bind her sympa¬ 
thy take care, for she will plague you to the 
brink of tho grave again, if you give her the 
chance.— 1 far iter's Mae/azine. 
The 
Beautiful.— Beautiful things are sug¬ 
gestive of a purer and a higher life, and fill us 
with a mingled love and tear. They have a 
graciousness that wins us, and an excellence to 
which we involuntarily do reverence. If you 
ire poor, yet modestly aspiring, keep a rase of 
flowers on your table, and they will help to main¬ 
tain your dignity, and secure for you considera¬ 
tion and delicacy of behavior. 
gular fact 
to preserve 
Domestic Sweetmeats.— It is a sin 
that many ladies who know how 
everything else, cannot preserve their tempers. 
^ ®t ’t may easily be done on tho self-sealing 
principle. It is only to “keep the mouth of tho 
vessel tightly closed.” 
Not in the rolling drum, the screeching fife, 
the rattle, of musketry, the bursting shell, or the 
deep-toned voice of cannon as they belch forth 
their missiles of destruction, — not in those 
scenes of which warriors tell, and historians 
chronicle, lie so much the horrors of war as iu 
its Unwritten History. 
“Still waters flow deepest,” and so with that 
still and silent grief which wears upon the mind, 
and consumes the heart, unnoticed and un- 
noticeftbie, save in the sunken eye and pallid 
chock. There is a charm in the excitement of the 
battle-field which dispels tear and robs Death of 
his terrors. But who can tell the anguish of a 
mother’s heart, when her son.— perhaps her 
only,—the pride of her heart :t#id the stay of 
her declining years, is suddenly snatched away. 
PerhapR, amid the tumuli, the excitement, the 
glare of the battle-field, he died while nobly fight¬ 
ing in his countiy’s cause. Perhaps, a lone 
picket, he stood in the depth of some Southern 
forest in the still hour of night. He is thinking 
of home —of the dear, anxious ones who wait 
and watch and hope for his coining; and Fancy, 
sweet, cruel deceiver, bring* him loving words 
and fond embraces. There is a rustling in the 
thicket,—lie stoops to listen. Crack! A rebel 
bullet has pierced his ho.iR—the tide of life is 
streaming,and exclaiming, “() God! inymother!” 
ho falls to the ground. A moon-boum steals 
through the foliage and reds upon his counte¬ 
nance. A pallpr has overspread it,—his lips trem¬ 
ble and glow white,—a film creep* over his 
eyes,—a rattle in his throat, and the heart stands 
still, No pomp or ceremony attend his funeral. 
picket is found dead in the morning. Ilia 
comrades hastily shovel away a few foot of 
earth,—all that is granted him of the land for 
which he died,—and he is laid down to rest. 
“Our loss is very small —only one picket killed 
last night,” says tile Captain. 
Let a home in the dear North-land tell the loss. 
Perhaps an aged father with silvery locks and 
wrinkled brow, and whose steps totter upon the 
verge of the grave, has given his son, like Ben¬ 
jamin, his youngest and most beloved, to battle 
for freedom and the rights of man. I low’ fondly 
did he watch the development of his childish 
intellect. With what anxious solicitude did ho 
direct his infant steps, and train tho youthful 
mind to habits of industry and virtue. Ho is 
proud of bis boy. His hopes are centered in 
him. But his country calls, and with trembling 
voice he bills him go. In the gloomy ward of a 
hospital in a distant city’, surrounded by all the 
horrors of sickness, wounds, and death, lie lies 
Struggling with the King of Terrors. No kind 
friend is near to administer consolation in his 
last moments. Even the physicians are busy in 
other wards, and the bravo soldier dies alone. 
W hat misery is unseen,—what sorrows are un¬ 
chronicled! When human thoughts are visible,_ 
when it is given to one to know the secret sor 
reiW'S of his fellow beings, and to explore the hid 
den recesses of another soul,—thou, aud not until 
then, can be known the “Unwritten History of 
set-m, with low laughter, to be seeking the white 
sails which were gliding over its calm bosom like 
happy thoughts in a morning dream. 
See yonder nuns overgrown with twining ivy. 
I ale moon Imams shed their silvery radiance 
around a rustic seat, now covered with mosa 
There, under the wide canopy of heaven, with 
Luna, “Queen of Night,” looking meekly down 
upon us, we once sat, building air-cast]es for the 
mystic future, but they, too, like that once mighty 
city, crumbles] at our feed. 
Alas! the golden day-dreams of our youth are 
often realized like bis, 
“ WIi Cl on the brow of A mountain’s top 
A porn that shone like fire bv night, 
But climbed tho peak, and found it soon, 
A lump of ice in the clear, cold moon." 
We saw an unfinished picture there, which 
lacks but the heroic deeds of noble-mipded 
mon for its completion. Then, ye brave ones, 
substitute all for the sword , and fight nobly and 
willingly the battles of our country. 
Ellington, Oliau. Co., N. Y., 1863. ’ Jhnnib. 
BE YOUR OWN RIGHT HAND MAN. 
People who have been bolstered up and lev¬ 
ered all their lives, are seldom good for anything 
in a crisis. When misfortune comes they look 
around for somebody to cling or lean upon. If 
the prop is not there, down they go. Once down 
they are as helpless as capsized turtles, or un¬ 
horsed men iu armor, and cannot find their feet 
again without assistance. Such silken fellows no 
more resemble self-made men, who have fought 
their way to position, making difficulties their 
stopping stones, and deriving determination from 
their defeat, than vines resemble oaks, or splut¬ 
tering rush lights the stars of heaven. Efforts 
persisted to achievements train a man to self-re¬ 
liance, and when be has proved to tho world that 
lie can trust himself, the world will trust him. 
We say, therefore, that it is unwise to deprive 
young men ol the advantages which result from 
their energetic action, by “ boosting” them over 
obstacles which they ought to surmount alone. 
No one ever swam well who placed his confidence 
in a cork jacket; and it. when breasting the sea of 
life, we cannot buoy ourselves up and try to force 
ourselves ahead by dint of our own energies, we 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE WAY OF PEACE. 
BT JKJTNIB M’LOUTH 
are not salvage, and it is of little consequence 
wheitber we “sink or swim, survive or perish.’ 
One of the best lessous a father can give to Ids 
sons is this:—“ Work; strengthen your moral and 
mental faculties, as you would strengthen your 
muscles, by vigorous exercise. Learn to conquer 
circumstances, yon are then independent of for¬ 
tune. The men of athletic minds who leave their 
marks on the years in which they lived, were ail 
trained in a rough school, They did not mount 
their high positions by the help of leverage; they 
leapt into chasms, grappled with the opposing 
rocks, avoided avalanches, and when the goal was 
reached, felt that, but for the toil that had strength¬ 
ened them as they stiove, it could never have 
been attained.” 
Much of tho joyous light of life has faded, 
The dreams of youth are fled; 
O'er wreaths of hope that once 1 fondly braided, 
I mourn,—their flowers are dead. 
High on the heights of fame my eye once rested, 
Bright visions then were mine, 
In rainbow hues were those far summits (Tested, 
With glory half divine. 
Fault now and weary, sad and broken hearted, 
Weeping I stand alone, 
Long, long ago those rainbow hues departed, 
Hope, love, and joy are gone. 
Rouse up, Oh ! fainting heart, rejoice in gladness, 
Inhale renewing breath, 
And, like the Phoenix, rising from thy ashes, 
Life shall spring forth from death. 
Weave now once more the threads of life so broken, 
Christ’s precious promise see, 1 
Words sweeter e’er than these were never spoken, 
“Ye weary, come to me.” 
Welcome, Oh 1 Sa viohb, make my heart thy dwelling, 
Calm Thou its ceaseless strife; 
Give me to know the peace all bliss excelling,_ 
Guide Thou rny aimless life. 
Tench me and lead me, keep me hnmble ever 
I’ve walked so long with pride 
That now I fall when I the bonds would sover, 
Unless Thou lie my guide. 
And give me patience that each little duty 
May seem no idle thing, 
Thus may my life grow strong in truth and beauty 
Until my soul take wing. 
Thus would 1 live, and when that life is ended, 
Sweet mem’rics leave to all, 
Fragrant os flowers whose leaves, by dew distended, 
Welcome the twilight fall. 
Manchester, N. Y., 1862. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SYMPATHY FOR THE ERRING 
BE KIND TO THE AGED. 
Age, when whitening for the tomb, is an object 
of sublimity. The passions have ceased—hopes 
of sell have ceased. They linger with the young, 
and pray for the young—and 0, how careful 
should the young be to reward the aged with 
their hearts, to diminish the chill of ebbing life! 
Tho Spartans looked at a reverential respect ter 
old age as a beautiful trait of character. Be kind 
to those who are in the autumn of life, for thou 
knowest not what suffering they may have endur¬ 
ed, or how much of it may still be their portion. 
Do they seem unreasonable to find fault or mur¬ 
mur? Allow not thine anger to kindle against 
them; rebuke them not, for doubtless many have 
boon tho crosses and trials of earlier years, and 
perhaps their dispositions, while in the spring¬ 
time of life, were less flexible than thine own. 
Do they require aid of thee? Then render it 
cheerfully, forgot not that the time may come 
when thou rnayest desire the same assistance from 
others that thou rendereet unto them. Do all 
that is needful for tho old, and do it with alacrity, 
and think it not hard if much is required at thy 
hands, lest when age sets its seal on thy brow, 
and fills thy limbs with trembling, others may 
wait unwilling, and feel relieved when the coffin 
has covered thy face forever. 
A BEAUTIFUL IDEA 
^ ar -” A Soldier. 
Camp Leslie, Co. II, 60th Reg N. Y. V., 1862. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
PICTURES IN MEMORY’S GALLERY. 
A verb is a word signifying to be, to do, or to 
suffer. Woman’s life is a verb. 
Welcome! ye bright-winged messengers of 
tho glorious past; ye loved sunbeams of the long 
ago; ye relics of happy by-gones—welcome all 
Thrice welcome are ye to tliis life of ours, glad 
dening our hearts with your joyous presence. 
Yonder, “hung upon the willow ” is a grand 
old harp, and as our footsteps keep time to its 
inspiring music, wo again tread tho hails of 
Memory, and once more view some soul-stirring 
scone of our youth. 
Beautifully and vividly penciled upon the 
record of time is the picture of an arbor situated 
upon tho beach. A sweet resting-place of ours 
was this in the soft summer time. Morning's 
golden sunbeams were wont lo rest awhile here, 
and blue-eyed flowers shook their saucy heads iu 
the gentle morning breeze. Troops of winged 
musicians left their nightly abode, and flew hither 
to hold their morning concert, A thousand tune¬ 
ful voices joined in the anthem, while diamond¬ 
shaped leaves danced to their music, and dew- 
drops that rested upon the clustering flowers of 
yon clambering vine shone forth like rabies. 
Near by is a merry lake, whose foamy waves 
In the mountains of Tyrol it is the custom of 
the women and children to come out when 
is bed time and sing their national songs until 
they hear their husbands, fathers, and brothers 
answer them from the hills on their return home. 
On the shores ot the Adriatic such a custom pre¬ 
vails. There the wives of the fishermen come 
down about sunset and sing a melody. After 
singing the first stanza, they listen awhile for an 
answering melody from off the water, and con¬ 
tinue to sing and listen till the well-known voice 
comes borne on the waters, telling that the loved 
one is almost home, Ilow sweet to the weary 
fisherman, as the shadows gathered around him, 
must be the song of the loved ones at home, that 
sing to cheer him; and bow ttiey must strengthen 
and tighten the links that bind together these 
humble dwellers by the sea! Truly it is among 
the lowly in this life that we find some of the 
most beautiful customs in practice.— Tourist's 
Journal. 
A great Thing. —A loving heart and a pleas¬ 
ant countenance are commodities which a man 
should never fail to take home with him. They 
will best season his food and soften his pillow. 
*t were a great thing for a man that his wife and 
children could truly say of him, “ He never 
brought a frown or unhappiness across his 
threshold.” 
T sometimes think wo have too little sympathy 
for those who deviate from the straight lino of 
conduct drawn by us according to our idea of 
right and wrong. Elevating ourselves on a pin¬ 
nacle of fancied goodness, wo are apt to forget 
that we, too, are mortal, and liable lo bo jostled 
by tin' next blast of temptation from our eleva¬ 
tion, and precipitated to a level with those we 
now condemn. We are all faltering and stum¬ 
bling—aye. falling, too, over the blocks and stones 
teinplution easts before ns in the highway of life, 
and if we iiave thus fur in our lifo-journey pre¬ 
served our garments pure—free from the mire of 
thought into which others may have suddenly 
fallen, shall we not rattier lift, them, if possible, 
Irom the murky depths, and bathe them with our 
tears, than, through tho foolish fear of soiling our 
own immaculate raiment, pas* them by, with 
averted face, and “stand-thou-aside” look! 
Wo know not what great temptations await us 
in the untrodden path before us, nor how ineffi¬ 
cient we may find our unassisted strength to cope 
with the powers of darkness combined against us. 
Tho strongest have found themselves “weaker 
than a bruised reed ” in the fiery hour of trial, and 
in that perilous moment have brought upon their 
hitherto fair name a stain so deep that, years of 
repentant team failed to obliterate the foul blot. 
Peter, before that fearful trial hour, would never 
have believed himself capable of such weakness 
as characterized liiyi when he so basely denied 
his Lord. That hour awaits us all. We are to be 
“ tried, so as by fire,” and if we have not thrown 
up around us the secure wall of an unyielding 
Christian character, we may find ourselves sur¬ 
prised and ingloriously defeated when deeming 
ourselves most secure. 
Let us not, then, judge too harshly the erring, 
for where others have stumbled only, we may 
fall not to rim- again, unless, Samaritan-like,some 
of our follow-travelers, taking us kindly by the 
hand, lead us gently back into the “pleasant 
paths” again, pouring the while on our bowed 
heads the healing-oil of kindness—as sweet and 
refreshing to the stricken soul as silvery drops of. 
dew to the flowers that droop beneath the scorch- 
ing rays of a mid-summer sun. 
Oxford, N. Y., 1862. F. M. Turbhk. 
The Christian’s Trust.— If you have been 
looking at work, duties and qualification, instead 
of looking to Christ, it will cost thee dear. No 
wonder you go complaining. Graces are no 
more than evidences; tho merits of Christ alone, 
without thy graces, must be the foundation for 
thy hope to bottom on. Christ only is the hope 
of glory, lie that builds upon duties, graces, 
etc., knows the merits of Christ This makes 
believing so hard, and so far above nature. If 
thou believest, thou may every day renounce 
(from being any part of thy dependence) thy 
obedience, thy baptism, thy' sanctification, thy 
duties, thy graces, thy tears, thy meltings, thy 
humblings; and nothing but Christ must be held 
up,— Wilcox. 
A hundred weight of error will not form one 
grain of truth. 
A Golden Tuought.— I never found pride in 
noble nature, nor humility in an unworthy 
mind. Ot all the trees, 1 observe that God has 
chosen the vine—a low plant that creeps upon 
the wall; of all beasts, the soft, patient lamb; of 
all fowls, the mild and gentle dove. When God 
appeared to Moses it was not in the lofty cedar, 
not the spreading palm, but a bush—as if He 
would, by these selections, check the conceited 
arrogance of man. Nothing produces love like 
humility, nothing hate like pride. 
Passions, like wild horses, when properly 
trained and disciplined, are capable of being ap¬ 
plied to the noblest purposes; but when allowed 
to have their own way, they become dangerous 
in the extreme. 
