Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker 
BURIED. 
BT OLIO STA.VLEr- 
Hidden deep in the strong man’s heart, 
Buried away from sight, 
Never coming to sun itself 
In the pure, sweet morning light; 
Buried there, 
In the silent air, 
Away from oil tilings byight; 
The love that gladdened other days 
Now lie* in voiceless night. 
The tender clasp of a woman’s hand, 
The light cm a woman's brow, 
Can never wake to the olden joy 
The love that slumbers now; 
Buried deep, 
In tearful sleep, 
Beneath!* steady brow, 
The love tiiat once would wildly thrill 
At a maiden’s whispered vow. 
The gleeful laugh of a little child 
Falls on the aching brain 
With a weight that, to the sober man, 
Is fraught with deepest pain; 
Buried away 
From light of day, 
Lo I Memory, with a train 
Of hopeful visions and happy loves ! 
Alasl but graves remain. 
Weeds grow in rank luxuriance where 
The scent of early flowers 
Was w ont to bless the dewv air, 
In other, happier hours; 
Buried beneath,— 
A faded wreath— 
From summer’s brightest bowers; 
A woman’s hand has crushed the buds 
That should have grown to flowers. 
Philadelphia, l'a., July, 1803. 
--- - 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
RAIN-DROPS. 
Pin you ever listen to the rain as it fell in great 
shining drops, uutil (lit! pattering on the roof, or 
window-frame, soemed the gentle, tapping of 
some unseen visitant at the door of your heart, 
then spoke in tones more intelligible, until you 
perfectly understood its every word, and fancied 
each drop hail a message for you. aod which, 
although you so plainly understood, was heard 
by no other ? How little heed do we give lo the 
many voices speaking to us from every side. 
Would we but listen, only listen, bow many 
voices would we hear coming as it were from the 
deep heart of the Universe, and which might often 
be interpreted as the voice of God himself. Could 
we but draw aside the enchanted vail that hides 
the mysteries of Nature from us, how many les¬ 
sons could we learn which would lead the heart 
upward from earthly things, aud awaken nobler, 
higher aspirations in our minds. 
Seat yourself by your window and listen to 
those sparkling rain-drops that are falling so 
plonteously this summers day. Holy andblossed 
are the thoughts awakened by those little mes¬ 
sengers, and the words they speak sink deep into 
the heart, whether they be of commendation or of 
warning. 
But they speak not to all alike, nor at all sea¬ 
sons the same; their music is as varied as are the 
thoughts of those upon whose ears it falls. The 
same drops that are so plainly speaking to you 
in such joyful tones, making all that great mys¬ 
terious future one bright cloudless day of perfect 
happiness, may be telling a far different tale to 
the friend at your side ; and their words to you 
now, may be very unlike those of a short time 
hence. 
When the smiling Spring, clothed in her lovely 
robe of green, Dips lightly through our village, 
dissolving the strong icy fetters by which old 
Winter has so firmly bound us: by her very 
presence transforming the cold barren earth into 
a fruitful garden of loveliness and beauty; calling 
again into life the sleeping dowers, and awaken¬ 
ing in our hearts new hopes and desires, the 
rain-drops speak gentle, hopeful words : bidding 
us mark the wonderful changes transpiring about 
us, and assuring us that no less marked shall be 
the change in our naturally cold and uncultivated 
hearts, if we will but yield to the many influ¬ 
ences of good which surround us. 
At the close of the sultry summer's day, falling 
in cool ref resiling showers upon the parched and 
thirBty earth, they bid us look upward with grate¬ 
ful hearts to that source whence cometh all good: 
from whence, when we grow weary and dusty in 
the turmoil of life, we may receive refreshing 
showers into our hearts. 
Then when the sail, mournful days of Autumn 
come, robing the earth in garments of unsur¬ 
passed yet transient beauty, as if to compensate 
for the bright summer beauties of which it has 
robbed us, they sing a plaintive dirge o'er the de¬ 
parted, and falling, make low, mournful music 
on the fallen leaves: and they whisper amid their 
sobbings, through the chilling breezes, that 
though here. l, we all do fade as a leaf." there is 
a land whose fadeless beauty far excels the most 
glorious tints of earth, and a life which is unend¬ 
ing. 
To the sorrowing and bereaved they ever speak 
words of comfort and consolation ; the downcast 
aud disheartened, they bid, with strong hopeful 
words,;to look upward, and see the bright bow 
ofjpDdmisg t spanning the heavens, and which is 
but the brighter for resting on so daik a cloud.— 
They reiuimLthe timid and doubting that not a 
spWFpwfallft^oJhyigliouBd without the heavenly 
and haughty remem¬ 
ber ; ,ersons ; Ue 
maketb fl&e/piu to^him?, .op ,$ie eyi.},and on the 
the good, and sendeth ruin on the just and on the 
ucoonip^ed by the lead thunder and vmd 
lightning. 
As we find deeply imbedded in the solid rock, 
impressions made by the falling rain, ages ago, 
so the thoughts awakened by these little drops 
in our more quiet hours, when the heart is most 
susceptible to the influence of good, leave im¬ 
pressions never to be erased- 
Ob. we lore the shining rain-drops; and we 
love to listen to their words; we love their gentle 
yet cheering music, as they glide past us in the 
little rippling brook. We love to think ot them 
as appearing again in each little flower and blade 
of grass ; and we only wish our mission might be 
as well performed. Lora. 
Lima, N. Y., 1863. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker 
RURAL LETTERS.-NO. II. 
How many different ways people have of doing 
the same thing! Do not imagine, Mr. Rural, 
that I consider the above remark vastly original. 
Far from it, but, comparing the character of two 
neighbors,—Mrs. Glenn and Mrs. Lee, —who 
have just taken their departure. I am led to this 
exclamation. 
Mrs. Glenn is one of those persons who con¬ 
sider nothing good unless it has been tested by 
time. She looks with suspicion upon new books, 
new inventions, and new people. In other words, 
she is always behind the age. Her husband is a 
wealthy farmer, able and willing to provide all 
that she requires, but she still clings to the old- 
fashioned way of performing labor. No washing- 
machine, sewing-machine, or oilier woman- 
helping invention is found in her house. Sewing- 
machines, she says, are useless and troublesome; 
while washing-machines s’he does not hesitate to 
pronounce •• humbugs." 1 U*r garments are made 
in the fashion of years gone by. She thinks the 
time spent on music thrown away, and tlmt em¬ 
ployed in reio lug, (unless It be some work on 
Domestic Eco imy,) worse than wasted. ‘-Things 
were not so hen 7 was a girl," she says oracu¬ 
larly. <• The.) the buzzing of the spinning-wheel 
was music <■ .ough for us, aud as for reading, we 
had someth ig else to attend to: but now-a-days, 
girls must' ive their French and German, their 
pianos am' -uclodeonB, and everything else non¬ 
sensical and extravagant Oh dear ! What is the 
world coming to.” 
With Mrs. Lke it is quite different She has 
confidence in things, neither because they are 
old Or new, but because they are worthy. Her¬ 
self and children are neatly aud fashionably, 
though not extravagantly, clothed. Her house is 
well-stocked with good books and papers, aud 
she spares no pains in cultivating those graces 
which tend to refine and elevate the mind. 
With less labor, and in less time, she accom¬ 
plishes much more than her old-fashioned neigh¬ 
bor. Her workls never behind-haml. for she has 
a time for everything, and everything is done in 
its proper time. In addition to this, she has 
charity for the faults not only of the present, but 
of all past ages. Without heralding her good 
works abroad, sho is the “ Good Samaritan ” of 
our village. A model housekeeper, a kind, eom- 
pasionate friend, and a true woman. 
Mrs. Glenn, who never allows her sympathies 
to go boyound the circle of her own family, won¬ 
ders why it is that her neighbor is regarded with 
so much more respect and affection than herself; 
never considering that a lack of charity, a narrow 
selfish bent of mind, and constant adherence to 
obsolete forms and ideas, are sufficient reasons 
for the difference. Barbara Brands. 
Wisconsin, 1863. 
_ 
MRS- SWIBSHELM IK THE HOSPITALS. 
Mrs. Jane Swiss helm is now a hospital nurse 
in Washington. Not long since she made an 
appeal for hospital supplies, and in response to 
the gifts forwarded to her says : 
“1 have been here in the hospital ten days, 
dressing wounds, wetting wounds, giving drinks 
aud stimulants, comforting the dying to save the 
living. The heroic fortitude of the sufferers is 
sublime. Yet 1 have held the hands of brave, 
strong men while shaking in a paroxysm of 
strong weeping. The doctors have committed 
to my special care wounded feet and ankles, and 
I kneel reverently to the mangled limbs of those 
heroes, and thank God and man for the privilege 
of washing them. 1 want whisky—barrels of 
whisky—to wash feet, and thus keep circulation 
in wounded knees, logs, thighs, hips. I want 
pickles, pickles, pickles, lemons, lemons, 
oranges. No well man or woman has a right, to 
a glass of lemonade. We want it all in the hos¬ 
pitals to prevent gangrene. I will get lady vol¬ 
unteers to go through the wards of as many 
hospitals as I can supply with drinks. My busi¬ 
ness is dressing wounds where amputation may 
be. avoided by special care. I write at the bed¬ 
side of Arsauius Littlefield, Augusta. Maine, 
wounded ankle, where 1 have boeu since two 
o’clock in the morning, his life hanging in doubt. 
Four days ago I unclasped the arms of A. E. 
Smith, of Belvidere, N. J., from around my neck, 
where ho had clasped them dying, as I knelt to 
repeat the immortal prayer of the blind Barte- 
meus—laid down the poor chilled hands, and ran 
to Mr. S., then threatened with lock-jaw. Ob 
God, there is plenty of w ork ; with the great ad¬ 
vantages of the most skillful physicians, the 
utmost cleanliness and best ventilation, the ex¬ 
ceeding and beautiful tenderness of ward mas¬ 
ters and nurses, there is much to do, if the right 
person appeared to do it. Dr. Baxter, physician 
in charge, will not permit female nurses here, 
and from the manner in which he cares for his 
patients and for the reasons he gives tor his de¬ 
cision, I havo no disposition to quarrel with it. 
The chaplain, the Rev. N. M. Gaylord, and lady 
are indefatigable, and aid in the distribution of 
all comforts to the wounded. 
In answer to many letters. I say we would 
rather iiave fruits and wines than money. 
It"- is not the number of our friends that gives 
liS^feakire, but the warmth of the few.; 
MY BOY. 
I heard a shout of merriment, 
A laughing boy I see; 
Two little feet the carpet press 
And bring the child to me. 
Two little arms are round my neck, 
Two feet upon my knee; 
How fall the kisses on my cheek ! 
How sweet they are to me ! 
That merry shout no more I hear; 
No laughing child I see; 
No little arms are round my neck, 
No feet upon my knee! 
No kisses drop upon my cheek, 
Those lips are sealed to me. 
Dear Lord I I could not give him up 
To any but to Thee. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
EVENING THOUGHTS 
From the brow of yonder lofty hill the sun has 
just flashed back to earth his last parting glance, 
and out from the gloomy eaves of night, dark 
shadows arc gliding like spectres grim and grey, 
creeping silently across fields of blooming clover 
and verdant grass, tripping lightly over flowery 
vales and mossy knolls; darting swiftly up the 
woody hill-sides, and folding all thin weary world 
in one broad robe of darkest grey, Pressed by 
unseen fingers the flowers unclose their jeweled 
doors, and pouring forth a flood of fra¬ 
grance fill the air with richest perfumes. The 
song of the merry little brook, seems set to a 
minor key, so soft and subdued are its nmrmur- 
ings. A state of dreamy languor pervades all 
nature, and in the “ blessed hush” of this holy 
hour, unbinding the galling shackles of toil and 
wrapping about my weary frame the soft mantle of 
quiet repose, 1 yield to the gentle influence of 
peace, thut falls like the silvery drops of a summer 
shower on my weary, aching heart, washing 
i herefrom the accumulated dust of another day’s 
march in the great highway. 
All day conflicting thoughts have thronged my 
brain. On the troubled water of fear and donbt 1 
have drifted up and down, while the chilling spray 
fell thickly on my trembling soul. Surging high 
above my head the gloom-crested waves tlireat- 
oned to overwhelm my little burke, hope, with 
all its holy freight of happiness and joy; but now 
safely anchored in thesunny cove of Trust, 1 look 
back over the foaming sea, and spanning the dark 
expanse, with colors undiinmed, the bow o* 
peace appears, and smiling sweetly down upon 
me from a sky serene, the sun-rays of Hope flood 
my soul with pure aud holy joy. I seem in a new 
world. Calm as the rays that lull upon me from 
the rising moon, are the waters on which I rest 
to-night Over the murmuring sea on balm laden 
gales, from that not far away spirit land, are 
wafted voices attuned to angel melodies, w hose 
thrilling strains rouse the slumbering energies of 
my soul, and from Us joy-lit recesses, in answer¬ 
ing harmony with the angel chorus, rises a swell¬ 
ing praise to Him w ho maketh it light at evening 
time, aud whispers in my listening ear in accents 
softer and sweeter than the breath of flowers, “My 
peace i give unto you; not as the world giveth 
give I unto you." 
After holding with the invisible communion so 
8w r eet aud soul satisfying, and beholding with 
Faith’s clear vission the untold glories of the 
Eternal, what wonder that the “chained soul” 
longs to break the chords that bind It to earth, 
and soar on untrained wings up into the higher, 
purer realms; shrinking from the touch of things 
terrestial. and, like the awe-stricken Apostles, 
wishing never to leave the holy mount; rather 
makiug thereon tabernacles for an eternal habi¬ 
tation. But life has its sterner duties from which 
we must not shrink. There are deep and sunless 
vales of hard endeavor, as well as joy-wreathed 
mounts of peace, for us to pass in our journey to 
the Celestial City. “ Go work in my vineyard ” 
is a command resting upon all. None are ex¬ 
empt,—the Divine edict extends to every son 
and daughter of A dam. It is our duty, then, as 
subjects of an all-wise Ruler, to labor,—it is es¬ 
sential to our happiness and the fulfillment of our 
mission on earth. We disobey G<>d and incur¬ 
ring the Divine displeasure, suffer a merited pen¬ 
alty, if folding our hands in inglorious ease we 
eat daily of the honied bread of idleness. But 
labor hath a deeper import,—a higher and holier 
object than simply gathering the perishable 
tilings of earth. There is a heaven ly manna,—the 
soul's daily food,—for which we ought all to 
earnestly seek, without which the fiamished soul 
shrinks into an image of deformity,—au object of 
pity in the sight of wandering angels. Ah ! how 
many are there starving the soul to nourish and 
adorn the body ; forgetful of the exceeding worth 
of the inner above the outer man. 
Oxford, N. Y-, 1863. F- M. Turner. 
The Mcsic of a Great Artist— It spoke 
separately to each heart, roused up the secrets 
hidden there, and fanned dying hopes, or silent 
longings. It made the light-hearted lighter in 
heart, the light-minded heavy in soul. Where 
there was a glimpse of heaven, it opened the 
heavens wider; where there was already hell, it 
made the abysses gape deeper. For those few 
moments each soul communed with itself, aud 
met with shuddering there, or exaltation, as the 
case might be.— Miss Hate. 
_ _ _« < .... - - 
Peculiar Taste.— Cosmo of .Medicis took mos, 
pleasure in his Apennine villa, because all that he 
commanded from his windows was exclusively 
his own. IIow unlike the wise Athenian who 
when he had a farm to sell, directed the crier to 
proclaim, as its best recommendation, that it 
had a good neighborhood. 
Where one man or woman is injured by lov¬ 
ing too much, nine hundred and ninety-nine die 
from not loving enough. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
AMBITION. 
Man’s unconquerable ambition has ever been 
a conspicuous actor in the history of the past 
Time and again it has lead him to commit some 
rash act which might have been avoided had 
reason held sway in the brain. Frequently it 
has brought misery and suffering upon him,— 
caused him to languish in body and mind, und 
blasted the happy dreams of future success. 
This is indeed the noblest passion God has given 
to man, if properly used; yet, abused, it is a 
baleful curse. Man without ambition — wbat 
would he be? A sleepy, inactive being, without 
a motive and hence without action. A world 
peopled with such beings would be without 
enterprise.—without anything necessary to make 
our world wbat it is. No ships would plow the 
ocean’s waves—no rail cars traverse the fruitful 
plain — no mechanic would be in his shop — no 
merchant in his store, and no tanner on his farm. 
All would be one scene Of dull, idle inactivity. 
What this country was years ago it would be 
now, and what the natives of the forest were then 
we would be to-day, had man no higher ambition 
than to “ live, move and have his being." Ilap- 
pv for us all that such is not the case. 
Man’s ambition, though indispensable to his 
good, has brought about/jvils untold. 
“ Aspiring to be GODS, angek fell, 
Aspiring to be ariffch t, vvn rebel.’’ 
Cain, ambitious to render to the Lord a more 
acceptable sacrifice than Adel, was bo grieved 
when disappointed that he stretched forth his 
hand and slew him ; and Judas, too, ambitious, 
when among his associates, to acknowledge the 
“meek aud lowly Jehus," denied his Lord and 
reaped the bitter harvest of bis folly. 
We may trace ambition by the “serpent’s trail” 
from Eden's morn till now. Sacred history is 
full of precious lessons to warn ns agninst its 
wily snares. In modern times the history of blood 
is the history of ambition. Hanniral, led on 
by an ambition to subdue the world, pursued 
his “ way of glory" while the “blood of millions 
was dripping from his garments.” The mighty 
conquerors who have from time to time revolu¬ 
tionized the Eastern world, “ from centre to cir- 
ference," all possessed an inordinate share of am¬ 
bition. For the desire to wed that beautiful but 
fickle Helen, 
“ Whose celestial charms 
For nine long years did keep the world in arms,” 
ambition is alone responsible. 
Ambition must be restrained within its proper 
bounds and it will lead to the endless improve¬ 
ment and benefit of our race. That ambition 
which leads man to advance his own interest by 
imposing upon the rights of others,—which in¬ 
duces him to do wrong.—should be seduously 
avoided, and that laudable ambition which has 
for its object the good of all mankind should be 
earnestly and ardently cultivated. Let the de¬ 
sire of all be not to secure the happiness of a 
few only, but the happiness of all,—to bring good 
out r of this discordant world of evil. Such 
an ambition will not drench the world in blood- 
will not cause sorrow and suffering, but promote 
general welfare arid hasten on the reign of peace. 
Hopedale, Ohio, 1863. Arno. 
-- 
WHAT LONDON IS. 
Have any of the untraveled readers of The In¬ 
dependent an idea of the vast traffic that rolls 
daily through the interminable streets of Lon¬ 
don ? 
Here are some interesting statistics, gleaned 
from a recent return, which go to show what a 
gigantic place the British metropolis has grown 
to be: 
On an average day, by actual count, 57,705 ve¬ 
hicles of all kinds pass through forty-eight streets 
—all of which streets are named in the return, 
with the respective numbers attached. These 
fifty-seven thousand conveyances carried in one 
day 171,0S0 passengers. The number of foot 
passengers was535,555—making atota! of706,G21 
passengers who pass daily through forty-eight of 
the streets of London. Aud there are gome hun¬ 
dreds of streets and alleys in the city ! 
It is a curious fact, too, that cut of this aggre¬ 
gate of more than 700.000 passengers, less than 
one-fourteenth entered these streets during the 
night. In other words, out of nearly three-quar¬ 
ters of a million of people, only 49.000 w ere out 
after 11 o’clock at night For so great a city, 
this is a very small proportion, showing that the 
majority of Englishmen love to go to bed be¬ 
times. 
Through Cheapside, one of the busy sections 
of the city, 13,000 vehicles roll daily—going from 
west to east—every afternoon between four and 
five o'clock. The number of persons who cross 
London Bridge every day is reckoned at 84,027, 
and the number of carts and wagons reaches 
12 , 000 . 
The present population of London is about 
2,800,000—or just two millions more than the city 
of New York.— B. Independent. 
Bayous. — Bayous, (pronounced By-u) of 
which we hear so much of late, are the offshots 
of large rivers along the low alluvial regions of 
the South-west. The word is French, and means 
a gut or channel, and many of them are as jag¬ 
ged and serpentine in their course as the intes¬ 
tines themselves, and a good deal longer in their 
measurement. Some of them, for example, will 
strike away from the parent waters, and make a 
long voyage of discovery through the unknown 
interior" of the country: and after visiting the 
most outlandish places, here and there, and 
everywhere, bending and doubling, and curving 
themselves into all sorts of fantastic shapes, re¬ 
turn once more to the bosom of their mother, 
often scores and even hundreds of miles from the 
original startirg-point oftheir wanderings. They 
are most sluggish streams, not very deep nor 
very wide; and they form a net-work of commu¬ 
nication through most of the Mississippi country. 
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW. 
To day, a lisping child, with hair sun-golden, 
And blue of Summer morning in his eyes, 
And cheeks aglow with kisses Of new loving, 
Sees old things new, with ignorant surprise; 
To morrow, and he knows the songs they sing in Par¬ 
adise. 
To-day, a youth, in pride of early manhood, 
With light of far off hope upon his brow, 
With eager expectation of the coming, 
And wild impatience of the loitering now; 
To morrow he hath touched the throne at which all 
angels bow. 
To day, she stands beside the bridal altar; 
All joy and promise round about her shine; 
AIL truth is in the heart of him she lovetli, 
And her pure faith makes bright the flower-wreathed 
shrine, 
To-morrow, hark I a fairer bridegroom, maiden, must 
be thine, 
To-day, an old man Ungers in his sadness; 
Great griefs have digged deep furrows in his cheeks; 
A cold grave with the long ago departed, 
In stammering words, is aU the boon he seeks: 
To-morrow, with unfaltering lips, the joy of heaven he 
speaks. [ Christian Inquirer. 
» ■<- 
THE SOUL SET FREE 
Happy is that soul which, freed from its earthly 
prison, at liberty, seeks the sky; which sees 
there its Lord, face to face ; which is touched by 
no four of death, but rejoices in the incorruption 
of eternal glory. At rest and secure, it no longer 
dreads death and the enemy. Now, O Lord, it 
possesses thee, w hom it has long sought, and al¬ 
ways loved. Now it Is joined to those who sing 
to tl»y praise, and forever it sings to thy glory the 
sweut sounds of never-ending blessedness. For 
of the fatness of thy house, and the rivers of thy 
pleasure, thou givest it to drink. Happy is the 
band of the heavenly citizens, und glorious the 
solemnity of all who are coming back to thee from 
the sad toll of this, our pilgrimage, to the joy of 
beauty, and the loveliness of universal splendor, 
and the majesty of all grace. There shall the 
eyes of thy people see thee face to face ; there 
nothing at all that can trouble the mind is per¬ 
mitted to the ears. 
What songs of praise ! What sounds of harmo¬ 
nious instruments ! What sweetly flowing chor¬ 
uses ! What music rises there without end! 
There Bounds continually the voice of hymns and 
pleasant chants, which are sung to thy glory by 
the heavenly inhabitants. Malignity and the gall 
of bitterness have no place in thy kingdom, for 
there is no wicked one, nor is wickedness found 
therein. There is no adversary, nor any deceit- 
fulucss of sin. There is no want, no disgrace, no 
wrangling, no turmoil, no quarreling, no fear, no 
disquietude, no punishment, no doubting, no 
violence, no discord ; but there is the excellency 
of peace, the fullness of love, praise eternal, and 
glory to God, peaceful rest without end, and 
everlasting joy in the Holy Spirit 
O how r blessed shall 1 be if ever I hear those 
most sweet choirs of thy citizens, those melliflu¬ 
ous songs ascribing the honor that is due to the 
Holy Trinity. But O how exceedingly blessed 
shall I be If I be found among those who feing to 
our Lord Jesus Christ the sweet songs of Zion.— 
St. Augustine's Manual of Devotion. 
Trials.— It is the pruned church, like the 
pruned vine, that bears the most precious clusters; 
it is the crushed soul, like the crushed aromatic 
plant, that is the most fragrant. The b arp of David 
reserves its sweetest note- for dirges, and the pen¬ 
cil of the Holy Spirit draws its brightest pictures 
on a dark ground. He who is a stranger to suf¬ 
fering is a stranger io the depths of Divine 
mercy, to the heights of Divine promise, ot the 
riches of religious joy. Man never appears more 
glorious, nor God more gracious, than when the 
prophet stands among lions. It is true greatness, 
says Seneca, to have in one the frailty of man and 
the security ol God. Hence persecution is spoken 
of as a gift:—“Unto you It is given in the behalf 
of Christ not only to believe on him, but also to 
suffer for his sake:’’ and the prediction of suffering 
is in the clear words of the Master:—“ In the 
world ye shall have tribulation.”—Advocate and 
Journal. 
The Evil of Revenge.— A pure and simple 
revenge does in no way restore man toward the 
felicity which the Injury did interrupt. For re¬ 
venge is but doing a simple evil, and does not. 
in its formality, imply reparation; for the mere 
repeating of our own right is permitted te them 
that will do it by charitable instruments. All 
the ends of human felicity are secured without 
revenge, for withuut it we are permitted to re¬ 
store ourselves; and therefore it is against natu¬ 
ral reason to do an evil, that no way co-operates 
the proper and perfective end of human nature. 
And he is a miserable person, whose good is the 
evil of his neighbor; and he that revenges, in 
many cases, does worse than he that did the 
injury: in all cases as bad. 
Going to Sleep. —The leaves of many plants 
droop at night as if they were sleepy. A little 
girl, who had observed this drooping in the 
leaves of a locust-tree that grew before her nur¬ 
sery window, upon being required to go to bed a 
little earlier than usual, replied, with much 
acuteness, “ O, mother, it is not yet time to go 
to bed : the locust-tree has not begun to say its 
prayers.” 
There are three kinds of silence—the silence 
of peace and joy, the silence of submission and 
resignation, and the silence of desolation an 
despair. Lovely are they whose delight is in t e 
first; miserable are those who are driven to the 
second; and most wretched and miserable are 
those who are driven to the last. 
