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Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
SONG—“PUT THE BRIGHT SIDE OUT TO 
MOTHER/’ 
» 
BT KATK WOODLAND. 
“ Put the bright side out to Mother,” 
Tmis a youthful prisoner said, 
To the comrade who was gently 
Pillowing his dying head. 
“Do not tell her all I've suffered 
Since they brought me to this pen ; 
It would grieve her sore to know it, 
Do not let her hear it then. 
“Put the bright side out to Mother; 
It would break her heart to know 
All that J have bornu and suffered— 
All the miser}’, want and woe.” 
“ Put the bright side out to Mother, 
Tell her gently what you must," 
And his pallid face grew radiant 
With a look of holy trust, 
And his spirit, held no longer 
By a guarded prison door, 
Hastened to the Father's Mansion, 
There to hunger nevermore. 
“ Put tb« bright side out to Mother; 
It would break her heart to know 
All that I have home and suffered. 
All the misery, want and woe.” 
Soon the glad release was given; 
And that comrade sought with joy. 
In her home, the widow ed Mother 
Of the brave young soldier boy; 
And he pondered, as he journeyed. 
On the words of him who died. 
And he said ” Amid such misery, 
Who could find a brighter side?” 
“ Put the bright side out to Mother; 
It would break her heart to know 
All that I have borne and suffered. 
All the misery, want und woe." 
Then a voice appeared to whisper. 
Softly, gently In Ids ear, 
“ Tell that Mother thou art seeking. 
That her brave boy knew no fear, 
Tell hor of his patient spirit, 
How unmnrmurlngly he died, 
Tell her, too, his dying message ; 
This will show a brighter side.” 
“Put the bright side out to Mother, 
It would break hor heart to know 
All that I have home and suffered, 
All the misery, want and woe.” 
Van Buren Co., Mich. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
MAIDIE’S PARLOR, 
A RESTING place! Rest,, that for which wc 
strive all through our weary lives, and are 
satisfied if, at the close, it he granted us. Is 
there, theu, no rest for us this side the gates of 
pearl? Arc there no places where “ Heaven is 
begun” on earth? Ah, yes! Where Christ's 
“little ones” dwell, there we find the resting 
places. 
Maidie grew beautiful there. Others too 
could not resist the sweet influences of that 
little room. It was a little room; but it does 
not take great places to fatten souls in ; they 
often flourish best in lowly ones. Its walls were 
low, bnt they were white and pure a;- Maidie’s 
heart; and all about hung pictures, little bits, 
moat of them, like M.uihe herself, some in 
pencil, the work of her own hand. In all really 
pretty parlors the carpet is a sub-servant; thus 
it was in this one — one of the old-time carpets 
when dreams and hopes followed the swift shut¬ 
tle and were woven with every thread, Perhaps 
its delicate tints were a little faded; 1 think 
they must have been, therefore, the; more valua¬ 
ble; lor w hen a carpet comes to be something 
more to ns than a covering for oar floor, then it 
becomes a part of our home. Maiph? loved the 
old carpet; for it, became a part of the parlor be¬ 
fore herself; and she would not have it removed. 
Then there were full white curtains of line tex¬ 
ture for the windows. Mother liked them, and 
Maidie thought they contrasted prettily with 
the green of the blinds. The chairs—>tlicy were 
not common chairs; many loved forms had 
rested in them, leaving behind a touch of eonse 
cration. The sola—could Maidie ever separate 
it in thought from the fragile little figure which 
had rested there many summers ago, when she 
was only a child ? A cousin who had traveled 
far in search of health came here at last one 
summer’s day. With tl£ consuming fire bright- 
cning her eye and burning in her cheeks, her 
long curls floating over the white pillow placed 
by kindly hands, she lay upon the sofa in the 
cool parlor. How well Maidie remembers that 
afternoon as she sat on a little stool by the side 
of the invalid. The white curtains were softly 
swaying in the gentle breezes which wafted in Die 
sweet perfume of flowers and made low music iu 
the tops of the tall pines without. At last the 
weary one closed Her eyes, murmuring, “ flow 
beautiful! How beautiful! I can rest here.” 
Maidie’s child-heart pondered long her words. 
Beautiful to her who had seen so much? But 
Maidie had begun her life-lessons, und as she 
grew strove to make herself and her homo beau¬ 
tiful that she might give the weary rest. Ob, 
blessed privilege! More ye&TJ ones have rested, 
more hearts gained strength, in Maidie’s parlor 
than she knows. 
A few books are scattered here and there — 
pure and beautiful thoughts of pure authors; 
aud one can but think how sweetly the noblest 
utterances of these gifted mimls harmonize with 
the little room and its appointments. There are 
many other books iu the house and a musics* 
instrument, but not hare; this is the parlor, 
that part of the house in all country homes de¬ 
voted to company; not exclusively in many 
homes, but too often destitute of any educational 
element, any help in its suggestions. 
Chandeliers iu Maidie’s parlor? Oh, no! 
only one little astral lamp and the pair of silver 
candlesticks that used to be grandmother’s, to 
hold the waxen candles. But the friends who 
gathered there on winter evenings think the 
blaze of the hickory lire on the hearth far prefer¬ 
able to gas light. 
I believe some city friends were snow-bound 
here once, and for many days communed with 
their own hearts with these sweet influences 
about them, to their own great good. 
Maidie trails her silks over velvet carpets in 
othe.r parlors sometimes; she does not wear 
jewels, (moss roses and lilies do not need them) 
only her soft laces, and carries her bright young 
head ns gracefully within those lofty walls as in 
her own lowly home. She is always graceful 
because always forgetful of self. 
Ton may .not know Maidie when you 
meet her; but if you have studied well your 
own heart you certainly will. Ah, my pure 
Maidie, my true-hearted little xvoman, many 
hearts bless thee; many whose hands thine have 
never clasped thank God for thy being ? 
East Bloomfield, N. Y., 1867. M. L. 8. 
SHORT DRESSES. 
The reign of trained dresses cannot last for¬ 
ever, and at least one advantage will result 
from the impossibility of their adaptation for a 
a walking costume, and this is, that short 
dresses will be the prevailing fashion for spring. 
It is a most sensible and useful fashion, and in 
short dresses ladles can walk, or ride, or travel 
with great case and comfort. They should be 
tastefully suited to the style of the wearer, made 
of nice material, and gracefully trimmed. For 
those who are of “ frugal mind” we add the fol¬ 
lowing directions: 
“ The lower skirt should by no means touch 
the ground, but should be of sufficient length to 
appear well when w alking. It is composed of 
eight breadths, the back and front being with¬ 
out scam down the center. The front width 
measures thirty-nine inches iu length, is twenty- 
four inches wide at the lower edge, and slopes 
on each side up to the waist wherq it only meas¬ 
ures six inches. The back breadth is precisely 
the same width, hut is forty-one inches long. 
The three intermediate ones are alike, being 
twenty-one inches wide at the lower part, and 
sloped on one side up to three inches. The 
breadths are sewed together so that the gored 
side is always nearest the back of the dress. 
The upper skirt Is composed of eight smaller 
gores, and as in the lower skirt the front and 
back widths are without scam down the center. 
These breadths are the same in width, sloping 
on each side from nineteen inches to the waist, 
which is but six inches. The front breadth is 
thirty-one inches long, and the hack thirty- 
three. The other widths arc thirty-three inches 
long, and slope from eighteen to three inches. 
The edge of the upper skirt is notched or den- 
tated In fancy uotits of designs. For instance, 
points with the ends cut oil’, forming squares, 
turrets, slanting teeth, scallops, lozeugc-shnped 
ends, graduated slops, the sharp points known 
as folios, and many other inexplicable designs, 
that fancy alone dictates. The tips of the 
points or ends are generally finished with fringe 
or jet trimming mode on the material, with 
bugles and beads.”— Paris Cor. • 
THE EFFECT OF MARRIAGE. 
Doubtless you have remarked, with satisfac¬ 
tion, liow the little oddities of men who marry 
rather late in life are pruned away speedily after 
marriage. You have found a man who used to 
be shabbily dressed, with a huge shirt-collar, 
frayed at the edges, and a glaring yellow silk 
pocket-handkerchief, become a pattern of neat¬ 
ness. You Lave seen a man who took snuff 
copiously, and who generally had his breast cov¬ 
ered with snuff, abandon the vile habit. A wife 
is the grand wielder of the moral pruning knil’e. 
If Johnson’s wife had lived, there would have 
been no hoarding up of bits of orange peel; uo 
touching all the posts in walking along Die 
street; no eating and drinking with a disgusting 
voracity. If Oliver Goldsmith had married, lie 
would never have worn that ridiculous coat. 
Whenever you find a man, whom you know lit¬ 
tle about, oddly dressed, or talking ridiculously, 
or exhibiting eccentricity of manner, you may 
be sure he is not a married man; for the little 
corners arc rounded off, the little shoots are 
pruned away, in married men. The wife’s advice 
is the tiller that keeps the ship steady. She is 
like the wholesome, though painful, shears, nip¬ 
ping off the little growths of self-conceit and 
folly.— Frazer's Magazine. 
NOT QUITE BANKRUPT. 
“Iu the time of adversity consider,” says the 
wisest of men, and experience has shown that 
under such circumstances it is wise to consider 
our blessings that are left. How happy for one 
who has a bosom friend w ho will point liim to 
such an improvement of misfortune : 
A bankrupt merchant, returning home one 
night, said to bis noble wife: 
“My dear, 1 am ruined; everything we have 
is in the bauds of the Sheriff.” 
After a few moments of silence the wife looked 
calmly in his face, and said; 
“ Will the Sheriff Sill you ? ” “0,no!” “Will 
the Sheriff sell me ?” “0, no!” “Will the Sheriff 
sell the children ?” “O, no!” “ Then do not say 
we lost everything. All that is most valuable 
remains to us —manhood, womanhood, child¬ 
hood. Wc have lost but the results of our skill 
and industry. Wc can make another fortune if 
our hearts and hands are left us.” 
-- 
A lady about to marry was warned that her 
intended although a good man was very eccen¬ 
tric. “ Well,” she said, “ if he is very unlike 
other men, he is more likely to be a good 
busbar, cl.” 
Benefits, like flowers, please when they are 
fresh. 
iflinkf iflStbrcITann. 
DRIFTING. 
nr T. BUCHANAN READ. 
My soul to-day is far away, 
Sailing the Yesuvlan Bay; 
My winged boat., a bird afloat. 
Swims round the purple peaks remote 
Round purple peaks it sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 
Where high rocks throw, through deeps below, 
A duplicated’golden glow. 
Far. vague and dim, the mountains swim ; 
While on Vesuvius’ misty brim, 
With Outstretched bands, the gray smoke stands 
O’erlooking the volcanic lands. 
Here Ischia smiles o’er liquid miles; 
And yonder, bluest of the isles. 
Calm Capri waits, her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 
I heed not, if my rippling skifl' 
Float swit or slow from cliff to cliff;— 
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 
Under the walls where swells and falls 
The Bay's deep breast at intervals 
At peace I lie, blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 
The day, so mild. Is Heaven's own child, 
With Karlh and Ocean reconciled;— 
The airs I feel around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 
Over the rail my hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 
A joy intense, the cooling sense 
Glides down uiy drowsy indolence. 
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies,— 
O’ervoiled with vines, she glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 
Her children, hid the cliffs amid, 
Arc gamboling with the gamboling kid; 
Or down the walls, with tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 
The flsher’e child, with tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 
With glowing lips sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 
Yon deep bark goes where traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows ;— 
This happier one. its course is run 
From lands of snow to lands of snn. 
O happy ship, to rise and dip. 
With the blue crystal at your lip ! 
O happy crew, my heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 
No more, no more the worldly shore 
Upbraids me with Its loud uproar! 
With dreamful eyes my spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise I 
-- 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
daring deeds of the army of blue. Others, with 
shattered limbs, have come back to us, and tell 
the talc of captivity, war and bloodshed racist 
pitifully; while others there are who have come 
uurnaimed and with the firm elastic bearing of 
true soldiers, and many “large stories” have 
they to tell of soldierly prowess and honorable 
deeds. 
Yesterday is fast drifting into to-day; and yet 
wbat are we but “ children of a larger growth?” 
Now, as then, wc have onr likes and our dislikes, 
our work and onr play, our friends and our ene¬ 
mies, our hopes and the fulfillment of hope, 
sorrow and joy commingling. To-day is not so 
very far distant from yesterday, after all that has 
intervened. Our capabilities have grown with 
our growth and strengthened as strength has 
been given us. We fee] more intensely than we 
did then, iu proportion with our strength. But 
no sorrow or joy, however great, can blot the 
memory of these happy, care-free days from our 
recollection. Queer. 
January, 1S67. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“SO COMMON.” 
_ 
“It’s a quite pretty flower—but then it’s so 
common; you see it is in everybody’s garden.” 
Yes, would-be dainty lady, it is common, thank 
God for that! His imperishable love to all 
shines forth from that flower. You that set 
yourselves in the high places of the earth cannot 
drink in all beauty — the flower is common, hut 
beautiful also, and it is open and free to all. Its 
perfume is sent forth in the poor man's garden 
as sweetly as in the more highly cultivated 
grounds of the wealthy. It imparts its lessons 
of purity and beauty, and a love for God’s beau¬ 
tiful creation In the one place as well as in the 
oilier—and so it is classed under the 6pccics of 
“ common.” Who tinted it and gave It life and 
beauty? Who placed it here for all to enjoy? 
Who gave it its brilliant color to please our eyes 
and perfume to refresh onr senses? Ami what 
of the rising and sotting of the sun, the beauti¬ 
ful panorama that is spread before us every clear 
night, the countless lives that exist in air and 
water, our own living and dying, our character¬ 
istics and habits ? Tinted and molded are we no 
more than that flower, the same aud no more 
“common” are we. God pronounced all “good,” 
and all is uncommon attd a mystery. The dan¬ 
delion by the roadside is as full of uncommon¬ 
ness as the most costly foreign flowers, and is 
also just as “good.” We earnestly protest 
against this custom of calling all beautiful things 
“common” that come under the limited re¬ 
sources of all to purchase and therefore are for 
all to enjoy. e. j. c. 
Le Roy, Genesee Co., N. Y. 
REMINISCENCES. 
Reminiscences are old — what is new? Ours 
are like the jagged ends of a broken stick — un¬ 
even and fragmentary, culled from stray gleams 
of the “ Long Ago ” of our childhood. Thought 
and imagination are with that childhood now; 
and again arc wc in the little red school house, 
where the opening years of our life were passed, 
mingling again with those who are not of earth, 
and with others who are far distant. Many a 
merry shout, goes up from its well-known pre¬ 
cincts even now; hut the faces and forms of our 
childhood are not there — of course not; weird 
looking children would they be had they stood 
still while Time strode onward. Yet even now, 
while sober reason almost dethrones imagina¬ 
tion, wc are with them once again. Happy 
Mary, somber Nellie, noble-hearted Henry, 
studious Harry, wide-awake Nettie, mischief- 
loving Dick and loving Jennie and Eliza, are 
all with us, and their blue, black and brown eyes 
are looking into our grey ones; and voices of 
many different tones are calling our name; and, 
in spite of reason’s warning voice, we are at last 
again all playing gleefully together, with au oc¬ 
casional quarrel for variation. Thus etormily or 
quietly we played on; and storm fly or quietly 
the years have rolled onward, and it is to-day. 
The haunts that knew us once know us no more. 
The little joys aud sorrow s that wm all together 
experienced are blotted and blurred by the 
greater ones of to-day. We wonder, idly per¬ 
haps, if this or that one of our number still so¬ 
journs on earth, and if on earth, where they arc. 
Of some we know; others arc lost sight of in 
the mist of years. Wide-awake Nettie and 
gentle Mary are training their own children in 
a Western State, far from the haunts of {heir 
school days. Eliza quietly sleeps; the struggle 
of life was not for her, and one bright October 
day wo laid her to rest. The Dick of yesterday 
is the man of to-day; ambition is urging him 
onward, and he is seeking after the god 
g61d. Success in life, never failure, for 
the studious Harry. Henry M., the most 
loved and also the noblest of our baud, came 
to an untimely death one bright autumnal 
day, while nature was all jubilant aud glad and 
cheery brightness around. As falls the sturdy 
young oak, so fell ho; aud the autumn leaves 
were his dying pillow’, and the mossy earth his 
resting place. Peacefully he sleeps in a seques¬ 
tered yard, a short distance from where we so oft¬ 
en had congregated. One week from Henry’s 
death, Jennie died—lovely in mind as in person, 
but frail iu constitution; consumption, that fell 
destroyer, fastened its iron grasp upon her, and 
she died. Little did we realize, when we coup¬ 
led their names in the old school-room, that 
they so soon, and together, would wear the 
golden crown of immortality. “Surely, the 
ways of Providence are past finding out.” 
Some of the,“hoys” of yesterday sleep in 
Southern graves, and some in their home grave¬ 
yards. Immortalized are their names, by the 
MISTAKEN DUTY. 
Many a noble and useful life is actually wreck¬ 
ed for the sake of some self-created or, at best, 
strongly exaggerated duty, into which circum¬ 
stances had drifted the individual, and for which 
all other duties (including the one, not to man 
but to God, to preserve for llis utmost service 
the mind and body which He bestoifed) arc com¬ 
pletely neglected. A mother will sacrifice all her 
children, and herself, upon whom her whole 
family depends, to save some one child who hap¬ 
pens to have more influence over her than the 
rest; u sister will strip herself of every penny, 
and perhaps come to subsist upon charity in her 
old age, to supply the wanton extravagance of 
some scapegrace brother, for whom a workhouse 
crust of his own earning would be a salutary les¬ 
son; or—though of this evil let us speak with 
tenderness, for it verges on the noblest good—a 
daughter will waste her health, her strength, all 
the lawful enjoyments of her youth, perhaps 
even sacrifice woman’s holiest right—love and 
marriage—for the 6ake of some exacting parent 
or parents, who consider that the mere fact of 
having given life constitutes the claim to absorb 
into themselves everything that makes life pleas¬ 
ant or desirable. These are hard words, but they 
are true words; and though it may be a touching 
and beautiful sight to see one human life devoted 
—nay, even sacrificed—to another, woe he to that 
other—ay, even though it were a parent—who 
compels the sacrifice!— Author of “ John Hali¬ 
fax-" ___ 
Life’s Perspective. — In this strange land¬ 
scape of our mortal existence there is bnt one 
true and sale point of sight, and that is neither 
from self wlthiu us nor from the world without 
us, but/mn ahorc. Tlic man who feels, humbly 
j'et proudly, that his life is owed to Him who 
gave it, to be fashioned according to the clear¬ 
est vision he has of His pattern, possesses in 
himself a permanent center whence lie can judge 
of all t hings with an equal eye. He is like wliat 
David says of “ a tree planted by rivers of water;” 
he grows firmly on his own root, and every de¬ 
velopment of his character, every act of his life,- 
is in due proportion .—Miss Muloek. 
TUB LUNCH. 
A gothic window, where a damask curtain 
Made the blank daylight shadowy and uncertain; 
A slab of agate on four eagle talons, 
Held trimly up, and neatly taught to balance; 
A porcelain dish, o’er which in many a cluster 
Flump grapes hung down, dead ripe, and without 
luster; 
A melon cut in thin, delicious slices; 
A cake that seemed mosaic work in spices; 
Two china caps, with golden tulips sunny, 
And rich inside with chocolate like honey; 
And she and I the banquet scene completing 
With dreamy words and very pleasant eating. 
[T. B. Aldrich. 
— .. _. — - 
A gentleman, who takes a business view of 
most things, when recently asked respecting a 
person of quite a poetic temperament, replied, 
“ Oh! he is one of those men who have a soar¬ 
ing after the Infinite and diving after the un¬ 
fathomable, but who never pays cash.” 
SaBBa!§ ftaa&ing. 
THE DYING CHRISTIAN FATHER. 
MYdayisdippin' in the West, it’s gloamin wi’ menoo, 
I hear the sough o’ Jordan's waves, that 1 maun travel 
through; 
Yet tis na Jordan's wave I fear, nor trouble at the. 
strife, 
But oh! this sunderin’ o’ hearts, this leavin' weans 
and wife. 
What tho" we ken o’ better things—a fairer world 
abune, 
Wbaur lost Men's are a’ waitin' ns, an' a’ maun 
travel snne. 
This rendin' o’ the siller strings that tether heart to 
heart, 
Oh! it tries pair Iranian nature Bair, an' makes us 
laith to part. 
Gae rax me bye the Bible, wife, while yet I’m fit to 
sec, 
Ere death creep o’er my cauldrife back, and flap my 
failin’ e’e. 
An’ let ns sing a ’e partin sang, before we sunder’d 
be, 
For ye canna hae’ .me lang noo, I haena, iang to dree. 
There pit the pillow to my back, an’ ease me up awee, 
An’ bring them a’ to my bedside to see their father 
dee; 
Noo raise the Bible up a thocht, its ower laigh on 
my knee, 
An’ shift the licht a hennin back, its ower strong for 
my e’e. 
He walo^, he sang the partin’ sang, his voice was firm 
aud clear. 
And read the fourteenth o’ St. John, nor did he shed 
a f ear; 
Sae is It. wi’ the man o’ God when life’s day’s darg is 
sync, 
Nae future fears disturb his mind, nae ruefu’ looks 
behin’. 
Oh but it gies me great relief, the singin’ o’ that 
sang, 
My clay is crumblin’ fast awa’, my spirit noo grows 
strang; 
My wife, my weans, we a’ maun part sae dinna sab 
sae sair; 
But dicht the tears frae aff your face, and let ns join 
in prayer. 
And let us join In prayer to Him that’s wantin’ me 
awa’, • 
That He inay be a faithfu’ Men’ and Faither to ye a’— 
He turned his Auxin' e’e to Heaven, and raised his 
wither'd liand, 
Noo safely thorough Jordan’s wave he’s reach'd the 
better land. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
L 0 Y E. 
BY HEB. RAYMOND. 
Is it worth that wins, in this dark, cold world 
of ours ? Worth of morals, intellect, or gold, the 
people’s god ? Oh ! weary, aching heart of ours, 
thou knowest these can never fill the void so 
deep and wide, can never still the yearning cry 
for love, for sympathy, that binds ns hero to 
life and duty. For friendship dost thou plead ? 
A cold, unfeeling word. A dreary life to live, 
if that were all* 
Duty, friendship, and moral worth may claim 
respect, yet who would choose to tread life’s 
pathway with these alone ? With wealth ’twere 
barely possible. With love, such as our Heav¬ 
enly Father teaelics, pure, ennobling, holy, it 
were beauty, peace, and joy. Our Father gives 
us love divine, not cold, indifi'erent friendship; 
and He asks our love again, is satisfied with 
nothing else. Within each heart He builds a 
censer filled with love, a holy light, destined to 
rise beyond the petty likes of life, yielding sweet 
perfume o'er the cares and toils arouud us, 
making life worth living lor. Aud should we 
spurn this lamp He gives us, extinguish the 
light forever ? Ah, no, wc cannot! Pride may 
keep it down, or the stern realities of life quench 
the flame that should blaze forth; but the smoth¬ 
ered embers glint aud flicker, blackening and 
charring the walls that surround it, till the 
weary, aching heart, with all its yearning ten¬ 
derness, is stilled forever. Till God in pitying 
love has gathered the lone lamb to His arms—to 
love that knows no ending, we may not learn 
the w ealth of love abounding iu the truest heart. 
There is a future where the dust of earth 6hall 
be swept from tlic surface; then it will be heart 
to heart; aud love, the sw eetest flower, will 
bloom iu perfection in the sunlight of a Sav¬ 
iour’s approbation. 
♦ ’ - 
RELIGIOUS MISCELLANY, 
Religion is the only metaphysics that the 
multitude can understand and adopt. 
The trimmer to popularity is a traitor to God. 
His presence destroys unity and zeal of action. 
In the spirit of the Christian there is a per¬ 
petual spring tide, aud in the wintry valleys he 
beam the ripple of ever-flowing streams. 
The god of metaphysics is hut an idea; but 
the God of religion, the Creator of heaven and 
earth, the Sovereign Judge of actions and of 
thoughts, is a power. 
Brother, religion is not a jumble of principles 
thrown together without system, order, affinity, 
aud completion! They form a complete zone to 
encircle you round about. 
Let us be men with men, and always children 
before God; for in his eyes we are but children. 
Old age itself, in presence of eternity, is but the 
first moment of a morning. 
This life is but the cradle of the other. What 
avail then sickness, time, old age, death—differ¬ 
ent degrees of a metamorphosis which doubt¬ 
less has here below only its beginning ? 
We should speak to men of destruction ODly 
to make them think of duration, and of death 
only to make them think of life; for death runs 
into life, and destruction precipitates itself into 
duration. 
