A LOST CHORD. 
BY" ADKI.Aini. ASS 1C PkOCTOiS. 
Skated one day at the organ, 
I was weary and ill at ease, 
And inv fingers wandered idly 
Over the noisy keys 
I do not know what I ttw playing, 
Or what I was dreaming then; 
But I struck one chord of music, 
Like tiic sound of a great amen. 
It flooded the crimson twilight, 
Like the dose of an Angel's Psalm, 
And it lay <>n my fevered spirit 
With a touch of infinite calm. 
It quieted pair and sorrow, 
Like love overcoming strife, 
It seemed Hit liarmonious echo 
From our discordant life. 
It linked all perplexed meanings 
Into our perfect peace, 
And trembled away into silence 
A* if it were loth to cease 
1 have sought, hut seek it vainly. 
That one lost chord ciiidne, 
That Came from the soul of the organ, 
And entered iuto mine. 
It may be that death's bright angei 
M ill speak in that chord again, 
It may be that only in heaven 
I shall hear that grand Amen! 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
A TALK WITH THE GIRLS. 
Excuse me. girls, if 1 am a little inquisitive 
this afternoon, for 1 came here expressly to ask 
questions. I want to have a little talk with you 
alone; but if there are any young men around 
who are afraid te go to the war, or who prefer to 
show their patriotism by selling hooks and eyes, 
Augustus about the last novel, where the hero¬ 
ine was so lovely and the hero “suc/i a hero:' 
But such talk isn’t current among sensible peo¬ 
ple, If Charles Augustus was possessed of 
the qualities of true manhood, he would discern 
that “these are the times that try men’s souls.” 
He would shave that elaborately curled mous¬ 
tache. and some of these due mornings, come to 
say “good-by” ere he was “off to the wars.” 
Life is real, and novel reading is a poor prepa¬ 
ration for its realities. There are some books 
that it is worth while to have lived to read. 
They silence doubts, quiet fears, and strengthen 
the spirit. If you are a confirmed novel reader 
you will meet with the Hill of Difficulty ere you 
can relish these books. 
Ah, well, you are getting weary, so I will 
close without saying all I intended. With Mr. 
Moore's permission we will resume the talk 
another time. Elsie Chaig. 
Rutland, vt., 1803. 
Written for Mooro's Rural New-Yorker. 
OUR FAMILY ABOVE. 
Peace, happy band! Away from earth your 
weary feet have early gone. Dimmer shine the 
stars in our household crown, but brighter glow 
they in the diadem above. Four times hath the 
Angel of Death crossed our threshold and taken 
for himself, within the shadowy vale, a priceless 
gem. 
For one, he came long years ago, ere yet he 
had scarcely opened upon the lading world his 
trembling gaze. The little lamp wentfeebly out, 
and the young spirit, leaving all undrained life’s 
cup, sped over the dark bounds “that mark our 
late repose.” 
Years tied upon the wing with silont flight, 
and again Death called for our darling boy, our 
dune blossom, over whom but two brief Springs 
I bad smiled. Very well do 1 remember it, for it c 
was the first great sorrow of my childhood, f 
Sadly, and with many (ears, they laid the little 1 
cherub down to sleep among the summer flowers. 1 
m 
Written for Moore'* Rural New-Yorker. 
TWILIGHT 
Got,DBS flow the locks of sunset 
O’er the landscape’s level rim, 
And the sun like burning ruby 
Glows upon the western brim 
Sit. beside me ’ne.vti this elm tree, 
With thy hands laid dose in mine, 
Watch with me the Iength’niug shadows, 
And the daylight’* slow decline. 
Watch the lake's expanse of waters, 
Ruddy in the nuneet's glow. 
See the wave* come dancing laud ward, 
Hear them babbling hoarse and low 
And the wavelets murmur kisses, 
Lot re’s sweet kisses to the shore; 
And the bird high lathe elm tree 
Warbles twice its lore-song o’er 
See the evening’s (mop of shadows 
In their gentle, brown array, 
Charge, with steady march triumphant, 
O’er the battlements of day. 
Crowding the vast vault of heaven, 
Are those steadfast gems of light, 
Ami the darkness hangs in ringlets 
Curling down the neck of night. 
See from many a cottage window 
Now gleams forth the evening lamp; 
Homeward we retrace our footsteps, 
’Cross the meadow pool and damp 
Jamestown, N Y , 1863. J. II 
Written lor Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
THE VALE OF TEMPE. 
and tape, instead of shouldering a musket, why All nature woke the melody of hearts with gush- 
let them put on crinoline and come Into the uig songs, and through the open window came 
parlor. the merry sound of birds, and breezes fragrant 
■ Let me beseech you to lay aside your flirting with the bPeath of morning. But unto the bleed- 
and visiting, your music and drawing, crotchet- i»g heart, it came back as a wild mockery to our 
iag and embroidery, for one afternoon, and think grief 
of something really useful. Again the dread King called. It was in the 
What, do you think it a waste of time to draw, autumn time, when the flowers had faded, the 
says Miss Euokntk. buds had flown away, and the wild-winds whis- 
I think, my dear, that you already draw quite tied through the branches, and among the yellow 
too heavily on your papa’s puree and your leaves that summer left. Another was called 
mother's patience, and if you used less Bristol- home—our own, dear M illie. Though brief 
board, and more exercise around the house, you his pilgrimage on earth, a bright halo rests upon 
would find many days of sunshine where you and that young life reflects a glory we would 
now see only shadow. not forget 
In the first place, allow me to ask if you can ?'©t there came another call, not where the 
make a loaf of bread? 1 don’t mean can you light of home could cheer his lonely conch, and 
make it after the yeast is all prepared, but can loving hands administer to his every want, did 
you do it entire and alone? If you cannot, 1 cu- he lie down and die. The war clarion resounded 
treat you to learn; for most of you expect to throughout our land, and her brave and noble 
many sometime, and I tell you, in the strictest BOns lushed eagerly to the contest of liberty and 
confidence, that though your husband may look right. He was there. Tenderly he bade us 
upon you as an angel, the first loaf of poor bread “good bye." and where duty and his country 
you set before him will dispel the illusion. He called were his footsteps hastened. Not long, 
will discover that you haven’t wings. Il will however, did he tarry. Disease laid her hand 
save you much mortification, and perhaps some upon him, wasted the bloom of health, and when 
tears, If you learn these things under the super- the snow of winter wrapped the earth in its pure 
intendence of your mother; but if you will not 
learn, I shall hold myself blameless, for I give 
you fair warning. 
How many of you can make a plate of nice 
biscuit, that will neither be sour nor heavy, or 
worse than either, be golden with saleratus? i 
have visited at some of your homes, and, without 
embrace, they brought him back to us. But his 
“eye was heavy.” aud the sealed lips could not 
speak. Gently they laid our dear soldier boy 
away where the beating drum, and clash, and 
tumult of war, shall no more disturb his slum¬ 
bers. 
Peace, happy band! Four brothers are united 
any betrayal of hospitality, will say that 1 have upon the shores of Life, yonder —four remain to 
seen but very few of you that were capable of 
getting tea alone. Instead of your doing it, 1 
have soon you in the parlor vainly endeavoring 
to entertain visitors of three-score years, while 
nmnni was overseeing the preparation of sup¬ 
per. To meet you on your own ground, was this 
polite? Politeness is kindness kindly expressed, 
but do you consider this as kinduess (o your 
parents or*to their guests? I need not ask you 
about cake, pastry, &e.. for you have doubtless 
learned something about them from your cook 
books, and succeeded tolerably well, without 
much experience. 
I should like very much to know if you can 
cook meats and vegetables properly, for this 
knowledge la very essential to your success as 
a housekeeper. I5y the time Bridget sends up 
the steak overdone, and fowls underdone, a few 
times, you will be ready to attend to these things 
yourself. 
IIow many of you take the entire care of your 
rooms and wardrobe? Isn'i your eyesight as 
good as your mother's that you bring her the. 
torn dress to be mended with the daintiest of 
little stitches? Wlmt in the name of common 
sense hinders your doing these things for your¬ 
self? It would be a thousand times better for 
your health than this fashionable idleness. 
There is no use of your dreaming away your 
lives in waiting for some great thing to do. Do 
the duty that lies nearest you. It is of no use to 
spend the day in glorious plans for the future. 
A log hut over one's head is a far better protec¬ 
tion from the cold than the lordliest of these 
castles in Spain. There i.-only one queen bee in 
a hive, and the chances are that you are not that 
one; so you must take your choice between a 
drone and working bee. I tell you. girls, 
“ The world has need of wealth and arts, 
But far more need of patient hearts 
The world lias need of glorious plans, 
But far more need of working hands." 
And now. I want to know what you read. If 
your tables are loaded wllh novels anti Ledgers, 
there Isn’t much hope for you. Such reading 
destroys the taste for that which is solid and sub¬ 
stantial. You might as well expect to preserve 
your body healthy and strong, by dining wholly 
on sweetmeats, as to expect a strong, well- 
balanced mind, when all the aliment it furnished 
is of the the milk-and-water order. It may be 
very pleasant for you to talk with Charles 
cheer ns in our earthly home. Very desolate 
seems the household now, with the vacant chairs, 
and the absence of music tones and those dark 
and dreamy eyes. The pathway to the upper 
world seems not so distant since their radiant 
footsteps have ascended the shining hills. Nearer 
approaches the day when the same kind, loving 
Father, shall call us also to Himself, and then, 
when the anxious longing we have ever had to 
behold our sainted ones, shall be exchanged for 
a sweet reality. y. p. s, 
Huotobnrgh, Ohio, 1863. 
A GENUINE “LADY.” 
The following incident was observed on the 
cars bv a getitlemau while on his way east to 
Pittsburgh, Fa. Our lady readers will not need 
to have the moral appended. On one scat was a 
pale soldier, wan and weak, returning,as it prov¬ 
ed, from service in Arkansas, to be nursed by 
his mother, near Pittsburg, wbosu only son he 
was. At Wollhvillo most of the passengers got 
out for refreshments. Some passengers cairlod 
food along and ate it in the cars; but none offered 
anything to the soldier, who, either too weak to 
walk, or not havingmoney to spare, sat still, silent 
and alone. As the train was about starting, two 
middle-aged ladies came in, and opening a basket, 
began to ear a bountiful lunch. From their con¬ 
versation they appeared to lie from New England. 
They were richly dressed, and judging them to 
be aristocratic, the writer was not favorably im¬ 
pressed with them. After a little while one of 
them, casting her eye forward, saw the soldier. 
She stopped eating, and whispering a moment to 
her companion, who nodded assent- she went for¬ 
ward and conversed pleasantly with the soldier, 
and returned for her basket, from which she 
supplied him liberally with the best it contained. 
Alter eating the remnants in tho basket herself, 
she sat down by his side and talked pleasantly 
with him most of the way to Pittsburg. The 
writer conceived there were few dry eyes among 
those who saw what had passed. Wav not that 
woman one of the true aristocracy? Whether tho 
needed food, or the kind manner and conversa¬ 
tion of the lady, was most refreshing to tho long 
time homeless patriot, or whether both were not 
equally so. we leave the reader to decide. 
The more you affect, the less you will probably 
effect 
The Vale ok Temrk, so celebrated in classi¬ 
cal literature tor its natural beauty, is the rocky 
gorge or defile between Mt. Olympus on the 
north, and Ossa on the south, through which the 
river Peneus, leaving the plain of Thessaly, finds 
a passage into the Aigean sea. “The defile is 
aboutfi vemiles in length, and is so narrow in parts 
as to afford space only for the river and the road.” 
The Vale received the name of Tempe, or The 
Cuts, from the legend that Neptune with his 
trident struck the hills, and, by tho fissure, open¬ 
ed for the imprisoned waters of Thessaly a pas¬ 
sage to the sea. 
Though an important military pass, from the 
circumstance of its being the principal avenue of 
access to Thessaly from the north and east, its 
sylvan beauty is the speoial feature of interest 
which the Valk ok Tempe possesses for the 
rural reader. From the various descriptions 
of this celebrated Vale, we select the following 
as among the most reliable and pleasing deline¬ 
ations of tho character of its scenery: 
“After riding nearly au hour close to the bay 
in which the Peneus discharges itself, we turned,” 
says Professor Palmer, “south, through a de¬ 
lightful plain, which, after a quarter of an hour, 
brought us to an opening between Ossa and 
Olympus,—the entrance to a Vale which, in situ¬ 
ation, extent, and beauty amply satisfies what¬ 
ever the poets have said of Tempe. The country 
being serene, we were, able to view the scene 
from various situations. The best view is from 
a small hill, about one mile south from the 
chasm. Looking east, you have then Ossa on 
your right hand; on your left, a circling ridge of 
Olympus, clothed with wood and rich herbage, 
terminates in several elevations, which diminish 
as they approach the opening before mentioned. 
In the front is the Vale, intersected by the Pe¬ 
neus. and adorned with a prolusion of beauties, so 
concentrated as to present, under one view, a 
scene oi incomparable effect. The length of the 
Vule, measured from the station to the opening 
by which we entered, I estimate at three miles; 
its greatest breadth at two miles and a half." 
The description which follows is by Dr. 
Wordsworth: 
“The prominent features of Tempe have a 
stern and severe aspect. The rocks which wall 
in the valley on either side arc lofty in size, ab¬ 
rupt in form, in color gray and sombre. The 
amenity of this celebrated glen does not consist, 
if we may so say, in the walls of this natural 
Corridor, but in its yaverrent. Let us pursue 
the comparison: it cannot boa t of possessing 
any mural arabesques or frescoes, but it is in¬ 
laid with flowers, and adorned, as it were, with 
a tessolated floor, in this mosaic, more beau¬ 
tiful than that which may be seen representing 
the Nile and its living and inanimate scenery 
in the Temple of Fortune at Prwne*te. the river 
Peneus runs in a gentle stream, stimulated here 
and there by eager springs, bubbling from the 
earth by its side. * Growing 
in the river, and spreading their broad branches 
and thick foliage over its waters, are shady 
palm trees, around whose boughs twine clusters 
of ivy and tendrils of the wild vim;. The banks 
are fringed with the low Ientisk, the pliant 
Agnus Casing, and the sacred Bay from which 
Apollo culled the shoot which he transplanted 
to the borders of the C a.-tali an rill. The stream 
is said to abound with fish. The solitary wood- 
pigeon haunts the trees. 
“Such are tho beauties of Tempe, but it pos¬ 
sesses other charms from its proximity to objects 
contrasted with it. The traveler who has toiled 
through long and sultry days across the dusty 
plains of Thessaly, without a tree to shade or a 
breeze to refresh him, and with little variety of 
hill or dale to relieve the dull monotony of the 
landscape, will gladly and gratefully turn his 
stops inlo this valley, and wili tread with de¬ 
light the green turf by the water-side, beneath 
the shadow of these branching palm tree*, aud 
of the. grand and picturesque cliffs above him; 
and he will not then inquire too scrupulously 
what portion of the pleasure which he enjoys is 
derived from the presence of some agreeable 
qualities of the scene, and how much of it is due 
to the contrast it presents with others of a dif¬ 
ferent description through which he has passed.” 
To the classical and historical reader, the Vale 
of Tempe is invested with associations higher 
than those connected simply with its sylvan 
” | beauties. It is the only eastern outlet of the 
hill-girt plain of Thessaly, the fairest and most 
fertile part of Greece,—“a land of corn fields, 
of flocks ami herdH. of horses and of battles.” 
, The lofty, conical peak on the south is the fa¬ 
mous Ossa which the giants, in their fabled 
wars with the gods, “piled upon Pelion " to en¬ 
able them to scale the heavens. The cloud-pierc¬ 
ing mountain on the north is the still more re¬ 
nowned Olympus whose snowy summit was the 
mythological residence aud court of “the Ho¬ 
meric deities." The laurel-fringed river of the 
| Vale is the historic Peneus which Xerxes 
thought to dam up that he might flood the plain 
of Thessaly; and by which the vanquished 
Pomj’KV halted to water his steed, in his flight 
after the battle of Pharsalia, whoso issue changed 
the Republic of Rome into the Empire of the 
C.-ESARS. R. 
THE TRANSLATION OF THE RAIN. 
As the rain falls heavily on the roof, it 
speaks maSifold things, and this is the trans¬ 
lation: 
•• My errand is life. I have roused the sleeping 
streams; they leap from the rocks and tear down 
through the chasm, roaring aud teaming, and 
proclaiming wealth and prosperity to man; I have 
my lioury companion on the mountain tops, who 
will not yield tip his treasures until wooed by the 
summer sun; 1. answering the prayer of thirsty 
earth, am here. T wili smite on the cabin roof 
aud wake the Bleeper to labor; I will beat the 
window pam* and rouse the debtor from his stu¬ 
pefied despair. Gathering my forces I will turn 
them against the hills and unearth treasures that 
make the veins and arteries and the heart of com¬ 
merce pulsate with fever. My power shall be 
fell by every kingdom, from the jeweled queen 
to the Lazarus by the wayside. 1 will send mes¬ 
sengers ol joy to the dwellers by the Missouri and ' 
the Kennebeck. the Solway and the Shannon, the 
Rhine and the Loire, and the tawny people of • 
pagan lands. 1 will make the hearts of emperors ^ 
swell with pride and ambition or tremble with f 
fear, as golden levers shake their throne*. I • 
quicken the cold blood of the miser, as lie adds 
to his store, and answer to the widow, who cries 
in herdesolation for bread. I sharpen the settler’s 1 
axe, and scud him further into the forest, and ' 
temper the plowshare for ground that is unsub- J 
dued. I will have a voice in the council of nations, 
and when empires and republics are weighed I 
will even the balance ; and then 1 will freight 1 
the rivers and seas with ships, some to gather * 
the moss ol' the world's waters, and some to ( 
r 
wreck against the icebergs of Arctic sea*. 
Oli, what a heaven-sent monarch am I! My ' 
scepter is gold, my empire is the world, my sub- 1 
jeets everywhere, my power infinite, my reign 1 
ages of ages! But gently! To the quiet, sleeper, s 
peace; to the sinking and despondent heart, hope 1 
and joy; to wives and children, raiment and ' 
bread! To deserted fathers and mothers, the re- 1 
turn of their prodigal sons: to waiting maidens, a 
the embraces of strong arms and the kisses of lips ^ 
unpolluted by untruth; and to God the gratitude J 
’of all!” r 
UNDER THE CROSS. 
I cannot, rannot say, 
Out of my bruised and breaking heart, 
Storm driven along a thorn-set way. 
White blood drops start 
From every pore, as I drag on— 
“Tliy wilt, O Gon, be done !” 
I thought but yesterday, 
My will was one with Gon’s dear wilt; 
And that it would be sweet to say— 
Whatever ill 
My happy state should smile upon,— 
“ Thy will, my Gon, he done I” 
But I was weak and wrong, 
But weak of soul and wrong of heart; 
And pride in me alone was strong, . 
With cunning art, 
To cheat me in the golden sun, 
To say, “ Gon’s will be done I” 
<), shadow, drear aud cold, 
That frights me out of foolish pride; 
O flood, that through m,v bosom rolled 
Its billowy tide,— 
I said, til] ye your power made known, 
“Goo’s wili, not mine, be done !’’ 
Now, faint and sore afraid 
Under my cross, heavy and rude— 
My idols in the ashes laid, 
Like ashes strewed, 
Thy holy words my pale lips shun— 
“ O God, tliy will he done!” 
Pity my woes, O Goo ! 
And touch m.v will with thy warm breath; 
Put iu my trembling hand thy reel, 
That quickeus death: 
That my dead faith may feel thy sun, 
And say, “ Thy wilt be done!” 
THE THRONE OF GRACE. 
Home Tyrants.— For hig rule over his family, 
and for his conduct to wife uud children, subjects 
over whom his power is monarchical, any one 
who watches (lie world must think with trembling 
of the account, which many a man Mill have to 
render. For in our society there is no law to 
control the king of the fireside, lie is master of 
property, happiness, life almost lie is free to 
punish, to make happy or unhappy, to ruin or to 
torture. He may kill a wife gradually, and be 
no more questioned than the grand seignior who 
drowns a slave at midnight. lie may make slaves 
and hypocrites of his children, or friends and 
freemen: or drive them into revolt and enmity 
against the natural law of love. I have heard 
politicians and coffee-house wiseacres tulkingovcr 
the newspapers, aud railing at (he tyranny of the 
emperor, mid wondered how these, who are mon¬ 
arch*, too. in their way. govern their own domin¬ 
ions at home, where each man rules absolute. 
When tho annals of each little reign are shown 
the Supremo Master under whom we hold sover¬ 
eignty, histories will be laid bare of household 
tyrants cruel a* Amurath. savage as Nero, aud 
reckless and dissolute a* Charles. Thackeray. 
The True Physician.—To the true physician 
there is an inexpressible sanctity in the sick 
chamber. At its threshold the mere human pas¬ 
sions quit their hold on his heart. Love there 
would Is* profanation. Even the grief permitted 
to others must be put aside. He must enter that 
room a calm intelligence. He is disabled lor his 
mission if he suffer aught to obscure the keen, 
quiet glance of his science. Age or youth, beauty 
or deformity, innocence or guilt, merge their dis¬ 
tinction in one common attribute—human suffer¬ 
ing appealing to human skill. Woe to the house¬ 
hold in which the trusted healer feels not on his 
conscience the solemn obligations of his glorious 
art .—Sir E. Bulwer Lytton. 
TruTh and Its Development.— A philoso¬ 
pher should aim solely at truth and should refuse 
to estimate the practical tendency of his specula¬ 
tions. If they are true, lei them stand: if they 
are false, let them fall. But whether they are 
agreeable or disagreeable, consolatory or dis¬ 
heartening. safe or mischievous, is a question not 
for philosophers, but for practical men. Every 
new truth which has ever been propounded has 
ter a time-caused mischief: it has produced dis¬ 
comfort, and often unhappiness, sometimes by 
disturbing social or religious arrangements and 
sometimes merely by the disruption of old and 
cherished association* of thought.— Buckle. 
Sweet is the music of the flute to him who 
has never heard the prattle of his own children. 
Ik you want your spiritual life to be more 
healthy and vigorous, you must just come more 
boldly to the Throne of Grace. The secret of 
your weakness is your little faith and little 
prayer. The fountain is unsealed, but you only 
sip a few drops. The bread of life is before you, 
yet you only eat a few crumbs. The treasury of 
heaven is open, but you only take a few paces. 
Oh! man of little faith, wherefore do you 
doubt? Awake to know your privileges; awake, 
and sleep no longer. Tell mo not of spiritual 
hunger, and thirst aud poverty, so long as the 
Throne of Grace is before you. Say rather you 
are proud, and will not come to it as a poor sin¬ 
ner; say rather you are slothful, and will not 
take pains to get more. Cast aside the grave- 
clothes of pride that still hang around you. 
Throw off the Egyptian garment of indolence 
which ought not to have been brought through 
the Red Sea, Away with that unbelief which 
ties and paralyses your tongue. You are not 
straitened in God, but in yourself. Come boldly 
to the Throne of Grace, w here the Father Is ever 
waiting to give, and Jesus stands by him to 
intercede. Come boldly, for you may. all sinful 
as you are, if you Come iu the name of the Great 
High Priest. Come boldly and ask largely, and 
you shall have abundant answers; mercy, like a 
river, and grace and strength like a mighty 
stream. Coma boldly, and you shall have sup¬ 
plies exceeding all you can ask or think. Hith¬ 
erto you have asked nothing; ask and receive, 
that your joy may be full. 
VITALITY OF CHRISTIANITY. 
The religion of God and the religion of man, 
differing essentially in their aim and tendency, 
will exhibit equal difference in their practical 
operations. And thus it ever has been. Where 
human wisdom has been taken as the only guide 
ill religious things, an Egyptian night of moral 
darkness ha* rested upon the land; the hungry 
passions of the corrupt heart have been let loose 
with whetted appetites to seek for prey ; the 
rights of others have been disregarded, and 
violence and wrong have reigned supreme. But 
when Christianity controlled the hearts of men, 
the reverse lias ever been the case; moral light 
has shed it* genial rays; the passions and appe¬ 
tites have been restrained, and their carnality 
destroyed: charity and philanthropy, broad as 
the human family, have pervaded all, waiting 
tender sympathy for the wronged and afflicted 
wherever found, stimulating to the most vigorous 
activity, noble daring; aud generous self-sacrific- 
ing to promote the social and spiritual good of 
men of every clime.— Christian Instructor. 
“What should I do without It.”—“D id ye 
ask me if' I had a Bible ?■" said a poor old woman 
in London,—“ Did ye ask me if I had a Bible ? 
Thank God I have a Bible. What should I do 
without my Bible? It was the guide of my youth, 
arid it is the staff of my age. It wounded me and 
it healed me; il condemned me and it acquitted 
me. It showed me I was a sinner, and it led me 
to the Saviour; it has given me comfort through 
life, and 1 trust it will give me hope in death.”— 
Golden Fountain. 
Redemption is general, in so far that the ran¬ 
som is sufficient to save the whole world; it is 
particular, in so far as it ordains the special ac¬ 
ceptance* of the ransom by the individual sinner. 
It is general—" God so loved the world/’ «fcc. It 
is particular—“ The Master is come and calleth 
for time.” By general redemption. God has done 
all to make man inexcusable; by particular, he 
has taken all glorying from the individual saint. 
No death, perhaps, is untimely, if we knew all. 
Some lives are longer, some shorter, but all lives 
end at the hour, not before. Some spirits light 
upon tho planet only to spring away again. 
Some stay a few months, some a few years—some 
wait to learn the earliest lessons in the alphabet 
mysteries of experience, some spend a generation 
or two in care, duty, toil, sorrow. 
