MOOEE’S EUEJlL EEW-YORKER. 
UHus’ 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
ELNORA, 
BY CLIO STANLEY. 
Oh, bright peerless maiden, 
With beauty bloom-laden, 
Elnoka; 
With wavy tress flowing, 
And cheeks warmly glowing, 
Elnoka; 
Thou com'st with the glory of morning 
From the golden hound gates of the east, 
Dld’et spread in the wilderness, bounty, 
And bade me sit down to the feast; 
Ki.nora 
Oh, suuuy browed maiden, 
Sweet prophet of Aidenn, 
Elnoka: 
With light footstep dancing, 
And eyes with joy glancing, 
Kl.voua; 
With the shadow aud silence of evening, 
Thou wilt hasten away to the west, 
In the gloaming wilt leave me forsaken, 
Like a birdiing alone in its nest 
KlNORA 
Philadelphia, Pa , 188b. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MAEY. QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
Opinion fully crowned her “queen of fhe 
world.” She touched Ibe minds of her subjects, 
and ofttimofl in her error, turned the channels of 
reason into those of folly, Poets hung upon her 
mandate*, and in their light have sang the his 
tories of the great and gone. Like the wheel of 
fortune, she orders one (brown to the very 
depths of injustice; and in the Kamo breath, 
another is carried to the very heights of fame. 
We witness these caprices, and follow lovely 
characters in their alternate rounds of praise 
and censure, until we sometimes forget that they 
carry with them ever the same firm elements of 
worth and unvarying excellence. Such has 
been the history of Mary. Queen of Scots. 
Now given to us, warm with the breath of 
praise, crowned with the laurel wreath of ap¬ 
proval, and now pierced with a whole volley of 
denouncing epithets, until (he literary world is 
so presuming as to question the validity of her 
character oft exemplary. That Mart, Queen of 
Scots, was a woman who found plenty of faults 
to overcome, as well as other women, we doutq 
not for a moment—humanum eat errare ,—but 
that in the aggregate of these faults, her charac¬ 
ter was destitute of the good principles charac¬ 
teristic of our pattern women, we cannot but 
doubt with the whole force of belief. 
Let ns first, look at the childhood days of this 
Scottish queen. Contrast them with our own 
early histories, and we will find a difference 
greater than ice have ever felt. Surrounded in 
early infancy by all the disadvantages of orphan¬ 
hood, her boat was launched on one of the most 
boisterous periods which the French court was, 
in that day, akin to. Freighted with an unusual 
cargo of impulses and passions, aud threatened 
with a constant whirlwind of danger and vice, 
she proudly pushed her royal bark along, and at 
the age of accountability there was not a single 
woman in her land—and even in the great gal¬ 
axy of crowned princesses—to vie with her in 
beauty, rank or talent. Bom for a queen, his¬ 
tories of every age acknowledge her been vigor 
of mind and inherited powers of resolution to 
be unequaled by auy sister queen. Surely no 
one will have the effrontery to say that in sin¬ 
cerity Mary was ovor excelled. This was a 
very part of her existence—a characteristic pecu 
liar to herself. 
The love of the beautiful was hers also, to 
such an extent that upon ascending the Scottish 
throne she vowed in all the earnestness of 
youthful zeal to acknowledge nature in alt her 
reign. Her works of every kind realize to us 
the ardency of her purpose. Literature and the 
fine arts were her especial province. She knew 
one in authority could do much, and Hume tells 
us, she so felt her responsibility as the offspring 
of her nation's destiny, that she exclaimed, 
“Where is one with the health of my people 
successfully at heart, that I may resign this fear¬ 
ful command.” Does not this discover a mind 
well calculated for the government of king¬ 
doms? 
But the greatest and perhaps the most promi¬ 
nent characteristic of this woman was her su¬ 
premo devotion to her religious faith. Reared 
in the Catholic dispensation of her fathers, her 
text-book of all actions, thoughts and purposes, 
were in strict conformity to her belief. We may 
in our own faith condemn her religion , but we 
can never do anything but admire her adherence 
to it. She fully believed in it, and she placed 
before us an extraordinary example of faithful 
devotion to our faith. Would the people of our 
own land and day but accept her a* a model in 
this respect, our destiny in the hands of God 
would be more of a glad surety. 
A lovely character in power is too often an 
especial mark of jealous criticism. Our ideal 
may be perfect, yet we realize here only perfec¬ 
tion broken in some respect. Perfidy and cruelty 
of the fiercest sot of nobles who existed in her 
age may have excited Mary’s wrath to a just 
degree, yet the frank proporiionateness of her 
general character is a much more worthy sub¬ 
ject for judgment, and when we consider that it 
was between the ages of 10 to 2, r > that so much 
was required of her,—just that time when the 
impulses of youth are (he most ardent, and the 
judgment so apt. to yield to wrong convictions,— 
>ve cannot withhold placing a crown of well- 
earned laurels upon her youthful brow, and 
wishing, in all fervor of soul, that her mantle 
might indeed fall upon us. Some may find it 
difficult to reconcile their fancy to her as a wife, 
but her qualities as a sovereign and a true, just 
woman, merit undisputed applause. In fact, to 
the moment when she proudly laid her head 
beneath the axe. she exhibited that dignity of 
judgment and wisdom which permeated her 
entire character. 
Mart has gone. Her tongue can no more tel 
the bravery uf her heart; but we are left, and 
should we not all feel it. onr imperative duty to 
improve every opportunity to eradicate the dark 
stains which some have put upon a character 
most worthy in itself? Mary Price. 
Adrian, Mich., 1863. 
HINTS TO MOTHERS. 
POLITENESS IN CHJLDREN. 
When your child first begins to speak, teach 
him forms of courtesy. It is one of the surest 
ways of teaching him to be kind and gentle in 
his heart and behavior. One on whose lips the 
law of kindness dwells, will not bn rude and 
coarse in his feelings. Even baby lips can be 
taught the little words “please” and “thank 
you,” when a favor is received, and they will 
learn it far easier than older children. The 
habits you form now will be life-long, ft was a 
principle with the old Jesuits, that if they might 
have the first seven years of a child's life they 
cared not who had the after training. 
In teaching your children these little sweet 
courtesies of life, you must expect to be con¬ 
stantly repeating over the same old lessons for 
the first few years. It requires line upon line, 
and you must not bo discouraged even after a 
seventy-times repetition. The reward will come 
at length, and you will rejoice to sec the little 
child you have taught so laboriously acting vol¬ 
untarily on the principles you have Instilled, 
requiring no prompting or correction, for cour¬ 
tesy has become a habit. 
In no place is the distinction between the re¬ 
fined and the ill-bred more marked than at the 
table. If your children are not early taught 
politeness there, you must prepare yourselves 
and them for a thousand mortifications in future 
life, and must look to see them regarded as an¬ 
noying and disagreeable by those whose good 
will you may most desire to secure. “ A child 
left to himself brlngeth his mother to shame.” 
However humble your position in life, though 
your family gather about a table of pine instead 
of mahogany, your children may and should be 
taught the same lesson of respectful behavior. 
It is a duty which God requires of you, and He 
holds you responsible for every unchecked mani¬ 
festation of disrespect or disobedience you allow 
in your presence. Let your children learn to sit 
quietly until all older than thcmsdvcB are 
helped, and do not begin compromising with 
some little insurgent by a lump front the sugar 
bowl. If you do, li will by no means be M the 
beginning of the end.” As they advance in 
yoars, encourage them to join pleasantly, but 
always modestly, in the family conversation 
around the table. Let the meat time be one of 
the most cheerful hours of the day, and in en¬ 
deavoring to weed out evils which would make 
it far otherwise, do not commit tho error of ex¬ 
pecting too much from the little people at once, 
Try and impress one lesson at a time. Too 
many rules confuse the mind; aud be sure you 
do not fail to be yourself what you would have 
your children be. Your example will bo a 
constant and most powerful teacher.— N. T. 
Chronicle. 
<Ma 
HOW WE LEARN. 
BY H. BONAK. 
Great truths are dearly bought. The common truth, 
Such as men give 8iid take from day to day, 
Com*, in tho common walk of easy life, 
Blown by the careless wind across our way. 
Bought in the market, at the current price, 
Bred%f the ainile, the jest, perchance the bowl; 
It tells no tales of daring or of worth, 
Nor pierces even the surface of a soul.' 
Great truths arc greatly won. Not found by chance, 
Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream; 
But grasped in the great struggio of the soul, 
Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream. 
Not in the general mart, 'intd corn and wine; 
Not in the merchandise of gold and gems; 
Not in the world’s gay hall of midnight mirth; 
Not ’mid the blaxe of regal diadems; 
But in the day of conflict, fear and grief, 
When the strong hand of God, put forth in might, 
Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart, 
And brings the imprisoned truth seed to the light. 
Wrung from the troubled spirit, in hard hours 
Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain, 
Truth springs, tike harvest, from the well-plowed field, 
And the soul feels it has not wept in vain. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT WILL PEOPLE SAY? 
MOTHER’S LOVE. 
Oh! who has known tho depth, the breadth of 
a mother’s love, until the knowledge (too late) 
brings gratitude, which pinks into bitter remorse 
and self-upbraiding over the tomb? Who re¬ 
members all the self-sacrifice, life-long, and as 
unfaltering as unpretending, which breathes out 
from the mother’s heart, to make a world of fra¬ 
grant beauty for her child? Alas! we forget the 
love until it has passed from ua and left the 
earth gloomy—deserted by its brightness. We 
forget tho self-sacrifice until it has consummated 
by death, and offers its last oblation to heaven. 
Then we weep bitterly but fruitlessly, seeking in 
vain to recall any return for tho kindnesses with 
which our lives have been overwhelmed. Wo 
weep bitterly, I said; for there is no grief so cut¬ 
ting as that of self-contempt, self-reproach; and 
fruitlessly, unless the weeping urges into growth 
a future harvest of good deeds. And this is not 
so, often. We resolve and re-resolve, but onr 
words are all that we in truth offer as an atone¬ 
ment for the past wrong—the by-gone sin. We 
quiet our consciences with the thought that, 
had she lived, we would have done differently; 
as she is dead, our grief is all we can offer on her 
tomb. Does it not seem, then, that we believe, 
in reality, that the lost are in truth the dead?— 
that, as the sleeping body may not know either 
our wordy grief or our acted repentence, there 
is nothing beyond that can discern “ what man¬ 
ner of spirit we are of?” Is t here, then, no spirit 
land? Does the soul that has existed but love to 
act love—the mother’s pure, tender, unselfish 
soul—does it lie down forever with the uncon¬ 
scious clay in the dark grave? Can it no more 
rejoice in our joy, grieve in our sorrow, be trou¬ 
bled with our pains? I do not think thus.— Car- 
ine fitcinburgh. 
Thk Ideal. — As to every leaf and every 
Jlower there is an ideal to which the growth of 
the plant is constantly urging, so is there an 
ideal to every human being.—a perfect form in 
which it might appeal’ were every detect re¬ 
moved and every characteristic excellence stim¬ 
ulated to the highest point.. Once in au age, 
God sends to some of us a friend who loves iu us 
not a false imagining, an unreal character; but 
looking through all the iiihbish of our Imperfec¬ 
tions, loves in us the divine ideal of our nature, 
—loves, not the man that we are. but the angel 
that we may be,—17. 77. Slot pe. 
- - --—-N 
Be not niggardly of what costs thee nothing— 
as courtesy, counsel and countenance. 
SnRK enough, Mr. Pcttiman, what will they 
For the first and only time in your life, you have 
dared to do something on your own responBi 
bility, without advice or consultation. You 
knew it was right —you felt that it was—your 
conscience would not let you do otherwise, but 
now, if the truth must be told, you are half 
ashamed of it and wish it had been left undone, 
And why? Because, forsooth, other people may 
not think as you do about, the matter, and may 
say something. Say something? And suppose 
they do? Will words hurt you? Do you take 
them for balls and bullets that will strike you 
dead if they hit you? 
I really believe there, is no question bo often 
on your lips, no greater bug-bear in the world 
to your mind, than this silly one of “ What wil 
the people say ?” As though it were not enough 
to test au opinion, determination, or rule of ac¬ 
tion, by the simple touchstone of “ Is it right?” 
you, and other craven-spirited individuals of 
your calibre, must needs run at once to Mrs. 
Grundy to inquire what she thinks about it. Is 
it popular? Will it pay? How will It affect my 
influence? These and similar interrogations, 
propounded day after day by timid, time-serving 
people, and answered negatively by Mrs. C., do 
more towards frightening them from accomplish¬ 
ing anything laudable or heroic than hosts of 
real difficulties could possibly do. 
Instead of blushing for what you did, Mr. 
Pcttiman, especially considering that it was the 
most manly act of your life, 1 wonder you do not 
blush for yourself at being weak and cowardly 
enough to care what people say in such a case. 
Why, the majority of them know as little as 
yourself) and as for conscience, if they have any 
idea of it at all, they would doubtless define it 
as something hard, like a mlll-stoue, or stretchy 
like India rubber. My friond, are you forever to 
remain a know-nothing aud u do-nothing be¬ 
cause you can’t summon courage to say and do 
things a little differently from other people? i 
think jf your Creator had intended you to act 
like your neighbor, Mr. B., or take your politics 
from Win, and your religious creed, and all your 
public and private opinions, he would have 
made you like him, would he not? No doubt, if 
he had thought it best, bo could have made us 
all alike; everybody speaking, aud thinking, and 
doing just like everybody else. Such a state of 
things would have exactly suited you, 1 fancy. 
But humdrum enough it would have been, and a 
little too monotonous for my taste. Bless me, 
how wholly tired we should have grown of see¬ 
ing ourselves doubled and quadrupled, redupli¬ 
cated and retriplicated and reflected, over and 
over, wherever we went; losing our own identity 
in that of somebody else at every street corner. 
It would have saved us heaps of money iu buy¬ 
ing looking-glasses, but then, I fear me much, the 
whole human race would have died of sheer self- 
contempt before a year was over. 
This is a digression however, so I’ll return to 
the point, my friend, and that, you know, is you. 
One of your failings is tenderness about Injuring 
somebody’s feelings; a morbid dread of getting 
into a quarrel with some one. I know that you 
will answer that by quoting the scripture about 
“ Blessed are the peace-makers,” und then, 
because it’s an argument from the Bible, you 
will think you have silenced me. But if you will 
read tho commentaries or^ that passage, Mr. P„ 
you will find that the peace-making referred to 
there means a shaking of hands between Mercy 
aud Trutb, and permitting Righteousness and 
Peace to kiss each other. It has nothing to do 
with shaking hands with Falsehood and holding 
out the olive branch to Wickedness — that, too, 
for the pitiful excuse of not getting into trouble, 
and being unpopular. If only Truth und Justice 
lived in the world, and it was on their rights you 
were afraid of trampling, no one could complaiu. 
But there are other beings in existence totally 
unlike these good spirits, and these others are 
Error, and Oppression, and Fraud—as true sous 
of Belial as ever were born. And talk about 
peace measures as’ long as you please, there 
has been, and still is, a fight between these good 
aud wicked forces. 
There is no peace and can be none until 
Error and her legions get worsted, and the 
milleninl day comes and gives Truth the victory. 
But she will owe you no thanks, Mr. Pcttiman. 
or any of your sort — you who were but simple 
privates in her ranks, and half unwilliug ones at 
that—you who never ventured to draw a bow 
at Error, and never received a shot yourselves, 
but in the back. A fine figure, truly, will you 
present, by the side of the Major-Generals and 
standard-bearers in the army of Truth, who 
led her battalions and kept her flag aloft through 
legions of foes and rivers of blood —her martyrs 
and heroes who sang songs on the scaffold and 
rejoiced amid the flames. 
Thank Heaven we are not. all alike. Thank 
Heaven there are names, names that stand alone 
and are not ashamed of it: at whose mention the 
heart of the human race may well beat with 
noble pride: the echo of whose heroic words and 
deeds will be heard in ages yet to come. There 
are men, even now, a few at least, who dare to 
be singular—dare to be called fanatics —dare to 
sacrifice their lives, if need be, for the sake of an 
idea. 
Do they, standing there, the whole world pitted 
against them?—do they look feebly round asking 
“What will people say?” Do they, delaying, 
hesitate to unsbeath the sword, timidly inquiring 
“ Whether it be popular?” Do they blush for 
shame wheB one-eyed Prejudice sneers, or the 
finger of Scorn is pointed at them? Do they fear 
the angry voice of a mob, or the drawn swords 
of insolent traitors? Never! The word “fear’ 
is not in that vocabulary, unless it be the noble 
fear of making peace with corruption, and com¬ 
promising with deceit and treachery. Other 
men’s “names are writ in water,” but the names 
of these valiant conqucrore for Truth wil] glow, 
in letters of light, as long as the stare endure. 
And even so long as there are crowns for mar¬ 
tyrs, palm-branches lor victors, and snow-white 
robes for snow-white souls, so long shall there be 
crowns, and palms, and robes for them. 
November, 1863. A. M. P. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SLEEP. 
Night closed in very calm and peacefully 
upon the sweet shores of Paradise. Peering 
through the dimness and the shadows came the 
soft smiles of the starry sisterhood, and the 
queen of the nightly throng never looked down¬ 
ward with a purer, holier light, than it shed 
there upon the beauties of the young creation. 
Reclining on a mossy couch in tile “ beautiful 
garden,” were Adam and Eve. All day had 
they wandered through tlowery fields, by gush¬ 
ing fountains, and deep, wido rivers, drinking in 
the fragrant odors wafted with the bird-songs, 
and now they were weary, aud longed for rest 
and hallowed communion in spirit with their 
Maker. * * * * » 
In beaveu that night an angel silenced the 
song upon his golden harp. With head bowed 
low he approached the throne, and a voice from 
thence, said “What would’st thou?” Aud he 
answered, “ Behold In yonder world he whom 
thou hast formed in thine own image, fair aud 
beautiful. Grant that I may bear to him the 
message of repose and rest, for weariness wraps 
his mortal form.” And it was answered, “ Be it 
unto thee even as thou wilt” 
Aud so it was, that while Adam and Eve 
communed in spirit with the Eternal and Un¬ 
seen, that a form on viewless wings wrapped 
them in the folds of slumber, for the angc-l's 
name was Sleep. All through the silent night- 
watches he guarded his trust with unfaltering 
devotion, but when morning, with her rosy fin¬ 
gers, put aside the curtains of the East, he 
escaped through her golden portals, and he who 
would fain have clothed him with numberless 
blessings, sought, but in vain. 
Go on, then, Messed angel, in thy earth mis¬ 
sion of love, and purity, and mercy. Go with 
thy noiseless tread ever to the couch of care and 
suffering, and ovor the weary spirit distil thy 
balmy dews. Spread gently thy wings over the 
brow of the babe in its innocence, aud upon the 
temples 'neath the white locks of the aged. 
Think ye not the soldier on duty in the tented 
field longs for thy presence, that, through the 
land of dreams he may snatch a glimpse once 
more of the forms, and catch the tones of dear 
beloved ones mingling in the sweet melodies of 
that home he loves so well. The captive, bound 
with chains in his dungeon, aDd he that walks 
’mid the splendors of his palace home, alike woo 
thee as the “ sweet restorer ” of weary nature, 
where each for a season may bury their sorrow 
and strife. Go on then, even until Death, thine 
own twin-brother, Bhall claim thy subjects, and 
secure them in that last, long sleep that “ knows 
no waking upon these mortal shores.” 
Huntaburgh, Ohio, 1S63. F. P. Strong. 
HARMONY IN AGE. 
All men whose cultivation keeps pace with 
their years, grow “ better-looking” as they grow 
older. They need not regret the roses of Spring, 
for they are exchanged for the richer fruits of 
Autumn, which represents all the worthy labor 
that has been expended in the years of manhood 
while they grew and ripened. As a man lives 
on, all parts harmonize more perfectly to pro¬ 
duce uuity and wholeness. Not a gruy hair can 
be missed without disturbing the concord, not a 
wrinkle obliterated without destroying some 
part of the beauty of age. 1 have seen some 
old people “ got up ” in a manner to make them 
ook actually frightful, while, I doubt not, they 
supposed themselves in a condition to challenge 
admiration. It is quite amusing to see old fel- 
ows of fifty or thereabouts, rejuvenated, as they 
believe, with wigs on their heads and hair-dye 
on their whiskers, and playing the agreeable at 
balls and parties, and iu the horse-cars, to girls 
whose mothers had resisted the charms of their 
youth. They think it is all right, but the girls 
augh at them, and call them old fools. 
Perversion. — Nothing conveys a more inac¬ 
curate idea of a whole truth than a part of a truth 
so prominently brought forth as to throw the 
other parts into shadow. — Blackwood's Maga¬ 
zine. 
Ahtetfc fftlnmfjs. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
LITTLE THINGS. 
BY MANLY 8. HARD. 
A pebble, dropped in ocean, 
A word, lot loose in air, 
May give a ripple motion, 
Which breaks—wc know not where. 
A look, may sink a spirit, 
A word, may save a soul, 
An act, may ne’er permit 
That heart to reach its goal. 
’Tis trifle* tap the heart joys 
Whence sweetest hopes should flow. 
’Tis constant trust in earth-toys, 
That causes half our woe. 
Who scans each word they speak, 
As if t'were said to them; 
Let each act be thus meek, 
Each hour would be a gem. 
Onr souls arc tender —others too, 
This let us beep in mind, 
We should find life’s woes were few 
If always we were kind. 
Jamesville, N. Y., 1863. 
- •» ■ » - 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GOD OUR HELP IN SORROW. 
“ There are fountains enough in the desert, 
Though that by our palm-tree be dry.’’ 
Reman Life is a checkered scene; an alter¬ 
nate succession of weal and woe; and in the 
cup of the most prosperous are mingled “the 
wormwood and the gall.” Disappointments and 
afflictions are sent to lessen onr attachment to 
earthly thing*, and prepare us for the Great 
Enemy of human life. We cannot expect life 
to be all sunshine, shadows will darken our path¬ 
way for a time, but “joy cometh in the morning.” 
Though the fountains by our palm tree bo dry 
let us not be discouraged; but wait patiently un¬ 
til our “ toils are ended, and our troubles are all 
o'er;’’ when the bright bow of promise which ap¬ 
pears In the distauce will shed a mild and genial 
radiance over the soul. Let us manifest a spirit 
of resignation, which is the ornament of a meek 
and gentle spirit, “a charity that seeketh not 
her own,” a heart overflowing with gratitude to 
a kind and indulgent Providence. lie has been 
merciful to up, and permitted the crystal waters 
of the fountain of life to flow freely in the 
“ Desert of Life ” where the weary traveler can 
quench his thirst, and bathe his parched brow. 
What moan those effulgent rays that penetrate 
this dark cloud of affliction and sorrow ? It Is 
the bright Star of Bethlehem, illumining the 
pathway of fhe jusf, and guiding them to those 
mansions of eternal rest where “God in Christ 
is All in All.” Oh, who on earth has not had 
some hope of happiness blasted? Where we 
expect to see roses we find thorns. The earth is 
a scene of trouble, and we are pilgrims journey¬ 
ing to that land “where the stare hold their fes¬ 
tival around the midnight throne.” Why all 
this toil for triumphs of au hour ? What though 
surrounded by wealth, or standing upon the 
pinnacle of fame, earth’s highest station ends 
in “here he lies;” and “dust to dust” concludes 
her noblest song. 
It is a melancholy, though instructive thought, 
that all things must decay. Though tho waters 
in our fountain in the desert become dry. and 
though our palm tree ceases to look green, still 
there is a “ Tree planted by the River of Waters,” 
and beneath its spreading branches one may find 
shelter. Be not discouraged with life because of 
its vexations, but remember 
“ If one rein of stiver bo exhausted, 
It is easy another to try. 
There are fountains enough in the desert, 
Though that by your palm tree be dry.” 
Seneca Falls, N. Y., 1863. “ Zkta.” 
No Good Deed Lost. —Philosophers tell us 
that since the creation of the world not one 
single particle of matter has been lost. It may 
have passed into nets shapes—it may have been 
combined with other elements—it may have 
floated away in smoke or vapor—but it is not 
ost. It will come back again in the dew drop of 
the rain—it will spring up in the fiber of the 
plant, or paint itself on the rose-leaf. Through 
all its transformation Providence watches over 
and directs it still. Even so it is with every 
holy thought, or heavenly desire, or humble 
aspiration, or generous and self-denying effort 
t may escape our observation—we may be una¬ 
ble to follow it—but it is an element of the moral 
world, and is not lost. 
The Maintenance of Piety.— The individ¬ 
ual who would beBaved, must not only enter upon 
the Christian pilgrimage—the king’s highway— 
but must continue therein to the end of his 
journey. It will not answer to enter the strait 
gate, go a short distance in the path to heaven, 
and then stop. He must continue on the way 
he first set out through light, and shade, joy, and 
despondency, never turning aside, or halting, 
until he reaches the Celestial City, and passes 
through its portals. “ He that endureth unto the 
end, the same shall be saved.” 
Next to the Bible and history, our old men are 
connecting links with the past, sent down from 
one generation to serve as a conservative element 
in the next succeeding, without which they might 
madly destroy themselves. 
Fodk things come not back; the broken word, 
the sped arrow, the past life, and the neglected 
opportunity. 
No support, when we are right, can be derived 
from those who are very ready to yield to us 
when we are wrong. 
