BEAUTIFUL MAUDE. 
Beautiful Maude, with the golden hair, 
Twisted and plaited In meshes rare; 
Catching the beam* or the shimmering sun, 
Like the halo around an anointed one. 
Wearing her maidenly bloom like a rose 
In the flush of its summer-beauty shows, 
Oh! a moon in the heaven of all fair girls 
Is beautiful Maude with the golden curls. 
Beautiful Maude, with the tender eyes, 
Wherein such fathomless pity lies 
That, should she look at yon, you roust feel 
Like as a worshiper, ready to kneel. 
I have seen them so tender in time of need— 
Sorrow to solace, hunger to feed— 
That my eyes have bent down to the sufferer's prayer, 
Aa If something purer than earth was there. 
Beautiful Maude, with the exquisite voice. 
Thrilling and low. A* the woods rejoice 
At its singers, singing on leafy thrones, 
So might your heart throb to hear Its tones. 
The old people down In the village say 
That she talks with the angels; and 60 they may, 
For the melody of her soft voice sccmB 
Like the melody heard but In heavenly dreams. 
Beautiful Maude, with the hands so small, 
As white and as soft as the snow-flakes fall; 
Folded so meekly across her breast, 
Like two little doves in iheir mother's nest; 
And the pinky and delicate almond nalle, 
Like shells breathing yet of the Orient gales. 
Oh, surely our Maude of the soft white hand 
Is the brightest and host throughout all the land. 
« 
Beautiful Maude, with the beauty of youth, 
The beauty of tenderness* hope and truth. 
Walks not alone in the cooling shade 
Of the beech-trees down In the silver glade. 
No; and they tell, when the summer days 
Faint in the bosom of autumn lays, 
Our beantifhl Maude, with the golden hair, 
Will take other name, and go otherwhere. 
Mercy go with her; shine in her eyes 
With the lambent beams of Paradise; 
Crown her with many a year of grace, 
That shall into each other, like vines, interlace; 
Over her pathway strew many a flower. 
Blooming and fragrant, from Joy's sweet bower; 
Crown her with wreaths that shall tremble and shine 
In the heart of her love, with a love divine. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
COUNTRY SKETCHES-No, HI. 
Our sugar party was a success, if plenty of 
sugar and fun were to bo desired. The neighbor¬ 
ing young folks were ull there. Robert and 
Marv seemed to play the part of host and hostess 
with becoming dignity. I thought MAuy was a 
trifle too queenly but that could be easily ex¬ 
cused considering it was her failing, and this was 
such a good, opportunity to display her powers. 
Susan flirted all the cvcuing with a young city 
beau, a new arrival in town, and I noticed Rob¬ 
ert's eyes held a displeased, uneasy look, as he 
glared at them; for a perfumed, conceited dandy 
was Ills abomination. .Jane played the witch as 
usual; now here, now there, giving everybody 
a witty word or arch look. She was a general 
favorite, and every one looked pleased when it 
tame Iheir turn to enjoy her lively company. 
Rufus and Bert w ere there too. Rufus en¬ 
joyed it in his own quiet way, quite unobserved, 
but not unolrecrving, I assure you. Those deep, 
dark eyes took in every little event, every look 
and word, with their exact Influence and mean¬ 
ing. lie could have given you a great deal bet¬ 
ter account of our party than I can, but he only 
talks and paints, never writes a word if lie can 
help it. So I shall have to tell you in my own 
poor way aud let It. go 60 . Bert was in great 
glee over the kettles of bubbling sirup, and with 
watching the fun aud frolic of the company until 
it grew late, his eyelids drooped heavily mid lie 
kept them open only between long winks, and 
at last he wished lie hadn't, come, bnt was safe 
at home snugly tucked up in his little trundle- 
bed. 
The spring advanced rapidly; the work of the 
season hurried the farmers on to unceasing per- 
severeucc from day to day, the weather was fine 
for sowing early crops and the promise oi seed¬ 
time and harvest seemed in prospect to be abun¬ 
dantly fulfilled. The old house resounded to the 
raps of busy hammers, tread of light feet, merry 
voices aud ringing laughter of the gay young 
movers, and a “new atmosphere'' seemed to 
float into the desolate, diugy rooms. They 
brightened as though struck by a gleam of sun¬ 
shine, and after everything was arranged, though 
of the simplest kind, there was an air of cozy 
comfort that was irresistible. The open doors 
seemed to hold forth a silent invitation to all 
who might choose to enter. A proffered chair 
to rest in, and a kind word to cheer them, was 
the reception one would always meet there. 
The windows thrown high up gave the soft 
spring wind free circulation, aud it drifted in a 
shower of sweet white petals from the boughs of 
the cherry tree. 
Did you ever think how every home has a 
characteristic atmosphere ? You but step inside 
the door of some houses and a chill strikes you. 
Others seem to hold warmth aud light aud 
geniality. 
Bert came to live there and help his brother, 
as he had promised, and when they plowed the 
garden he aud the girls monopolized a portion 
of it for flower beds. He was an industrious 
little fellow, aud loved flowers better than most 
boys do; so they gave him one bed all to himsei f, 
and he hoed and raked and marked aud sowed. 
He had little sticks all labeled and put along the 
edge of his bed, just like theirs, and watched 
eagerly to see the first little green spears point 
up through the dark mold. 
Everything went ou pretty smoothly In the 
housekeeping line. Susan got a bran-new re¬ 
cipe book, and there were a great many new 
wonders to be developed in cookery. Mary 
kept still and let the girls experiment One day 
they had a wonderful pudding for dinner—at 
least it hail a wonderful high-sounding French 
name. It was not made exactly like the potato 
pudding told of in the “ Widow Bedott Papers,’’ 
but it was decidedly heavy, “ and when it's heavy 
it aint so light or good, yon know,” as Mrs. 
Mudlow said. Susan was the author of the 
pudding, and stood the railery of the others 
pretty well, considering how it hurt. For if 
there is anything mortifying to a young cook it 
is to find her want of knowledge fully manifest 
by an evident failure. 
Robert talked of asking in the young city 
gent to tea and having some of the pudding 
served for his especial benefit. After awhile the 
dinner was finished, aud when. Susan began to 
get over feeling provoked at her mistake and 
the sport that hud been made at her expense, 
she began to consider whether there was not 
something to be learned outside of books, and 
whether it was not really worth while to learn 
how to make a real f/ood pudding, and resolved 
to set about it aud redeem her reputation. Next 
time 6hc vould ask Mart a few questions, and 
not toss up her head and say she could cook as 
well as anybody. Erie. 
Home, May, 1867. 
- - 7 - 
FEMALE ECONOMY. 
IIe is a mean man who accuses a woman of 
meanness, because her expenditures are carefully 
regulated, and her outlay watched with close 
and unremitting economy. To be sure, no hus¬ 
band and father ever reproaches wife or daughter 
with undue care in circumscribing hor expenses, 
but, whether consistently or not, all men—save 
our more just selves, perhaps—charge the female 
character with containing a strong tendency to 
meanness and close-fistedners, qualities which 
no one tolerates ltl another than himself or those 
who may spend for him. You may remember 
that no tradesman fears the exactions of any 
male purchaser so much as he docs u woman. 
Nobody, it is said, biggies so long about, the half 
cent per pound ou the price of mackerel, or has 
so keen ou eye for “ remnants." They arc 
charged with being bargai n hunters, and are sup¬ 
posed to he a very set of dragons in their desire 
to save a penny. 
Now, one word for the ladies. Who sharpened 
their mercantile wits? Who taught them, in a 
hard school, the lesson of economy, and obliged 
them, willing or not, to keep their expenditures 
down to the lowest limit? Who? Why, these 
husbands and fathers. They—except in rare in¬ 
stances of female supremacy — rule over the 
treasury, wear the clothes of authority, and 
control every appropriation. With, a close fist, 
they hand out little dribs of stamps, or, once Id 
a while, a solitary, companionless, forlorn green¬ 
back, to the female members of their household, 
And they, driven by this stern necessity, obliged 
by higher authority to be economical, attempt 
to make fifty cents buy a dollar's worth. 
Gentleman of justice, pause and ponder. 
When your wife trades your second-best coat to 
the Jew peddler for a pair of parlor ornaments, 
or sells your files of valnble papers at 60 much 
per pound, Inquire with the severity that inward 
examination ought to have, how much you have 
given her for spending money this quarter. 
Upbraid her not forilUberality if you have forced 
her to it. Here we stand to plead her cause, and 
assert the reason, if not the propriety, of Fe-‘ 
male Economy.— Ladies Repository. 
A LADY. 
The New York Evening Gazette give a sketch 
of Mrs. Lucia Gilbert Calhoun, the brilliant let¬ 
ter-writer and fashion critic of the Tribune, who 
has come so quickly into high fame among our 
literary women. She is a native of Brookfield, 
Mass., her maiden name being Lucia Isabella 
Gilbert, and while a school -girl she married 
Henry Calhoun, recently deceased, for many 
years deputy-collector in the New York custom¬ 
house, and has ever since resided in that city. 
“She seems devoid of literary vanity or ambi¬ 
tion, which, for a woman of society as she is, is 
not a little remarkable. 
Brilliantly as she writes, (and to judge from 
her gorgeous coloring and dazzling efflorescence, 
we would rather think her a sister of Hafiz than 
a descendant of any Roundhead,) her personal 
friends say her private letters arc much superior 
to her published efforts. Personally she is, in 
her early widowhood, little beyond her fifth 
lustrum; not handsome in the usually received 
sense, though her face is very expressive; her 
figure tall and lithe, and her carriage graceful 
and attractive. The glory of her face, her 
friends say, is her eyes, which, according to 
Harriet Prescott, 1 arc yellow, and the most beau¬ 
tiful I ever saw.' " 
-»-«•» 
HOW TO DO IT. 
A party of ladies and gentlemen were laugh¬ 
ing over the supposed awkwardness attending a 
declaration of love, when a gentleman remarked 
that if ever he offered himself he would do it in 
a collected and business-like manner. “For 
instance," he continued, addressing a lady pres¬ 
ent, “ Miss Smith, I have been two years looking 
for a wife. I am in the receipt of about three 
hundred a year, which is on the increase. Of all 
the ladies of my acquaintance I admire you the 
most; indeed, I love yon, and would gladly 
make you my wife.” “ Yon flatter me by your 
preference," good humoredly replied Miss 
Smith, to the surprise of all present, “ I refer 
you to my father." “Bravo!” exclaimed the 
gentlemen. “ Well, I declare!” said the ladies, 
in a chorus. The lady aud gentleman, good 
reader, were married soon after. Wasn’t that a 
modest way of coming to the point, and a lady¬ 
like method oi taking a man at his word? 
Inquisitive people are the funnels of conver¬ 
sation ; they do not take in anything for their 
own use, but merely to pass it to another. 
dtoicc HEtiscoltaan. 
A HARVEST SCENE. 
Fair and fresh the winds are blowing, 
Brightly whines the min to-day 
Over meadow, hill and woodland,— 
On the newly gathered hay. 
White and purple, green and golden, 
Fleclc the fields afar and near; 
While the harvest hands are singing, 
“ We'll hnve well-filled barns this year.” 
Hear the winding brook that ripples 
Thro’ the meadow, copse and glen, 
How It murmurs ub if ans'ring 
Back the joyful sounds of men. 
Now in sunshine, now In shadow, 
Winding out, and winding in, 
Like n mirror it retlectetli, 
All day long the hurvest scene. 
Length'Ding shadows now from woodlands 
Over brook and meadow creep, 
While behind bin gorgeous curtains, 
Sinks the harvest sun to sleep. 
Giving promise to the reapers. 
After labor, rest shall come,— 
Tired hands he Calmly folded, 
'Midst the sacred scenes of home. 
Patiently the farmer waited— 
Work’d and waited like a man, 
Never doubting that the Master 
Well would end what he began. 
Now he hath the promised blessing, 
Fruit for ull his honest toll; 
Never lord was half as happy 
As this tiller of the soil. 
TRAVEL. 
Not alone in the cities, but in villages and 
quiet farm houses, arc many who will travel, for 
rest and change and social enjoyment, in these 
warm weeks of mid-summer. Fathers and 
mothers will go far west to visit sons or daugh¬ 
ters, see how they get along and keep the golden 
chain strong and bright; aud those children, 
grown up and with their children prattling about 
them, will plan to get away for the season, and 
see the dear old homestead once more. These 
journeys are often long, and, if time allows, the 
travelers stop ou the way, or turn aside to see 
places or scenery of special interest. 
We boast of the iron bands that hold fast 
Nebraska to Maine, and bind the regions be¬ 
tween by the same firm grasp; but the tics of 
sympathy, kindred, common literature, lan¬ 
guage, pursuits and ideas, subtle and Invisible 
are yet stronger than Iron, and without them the 
continuous rail w'ould never have reached from 
the Atlantic to the Plains, and would not now 
be moving on toward the Pacific. 
Think of it, you who may have a journey in 
view. What a broad realm, what varied wealth 
of beauty and grandeur. One is embarrassed, 
not knowing where to turn. Shall it be on the 
St. Lawrence, 60 broad and clear and swift, with 
its famed “ thousand isles ? " Shall it be to New 
England, through the rude mountains, along the 
brawling streams, past the sweet villages and 
lovely valleys of Western Massachusetts, and 
through the beautiful valley of the Connecticut, 
eastward, past lovely towns and great factories 
and green pastures to the rocky shore gnawed 
by the Atlantic’s surges ? Suppose some errand 
carry you to Pennsylvania. You will be sur¬ 
prised at every curve the cars sweep around, by 
6ome new scene—a bold mountain, a broad river, 
a noble forest. 
Do you turn west ? What sweep of prairie aud 
plain!—what groves and forests and broad lakes. 
Suppose yon turn aside to Lake Superior—an 
ocean amidst the continent—a thousand miles 
of steamboat journeying, across rivers and lakes 
until you reach the great mines and wondrous 
“pictured rocks,” and look down into the. trans¬ 
parent water, aud breathe air bracing and pure 
as ether for the gods. At this season we should 
not go south; but there would be found another 
realm of varied wonders. We need not go to 
any fabulons distance. A few houra’ ride by 
rail, will land us at Portage Falls, and we shall 
sec the Genesee, so placid nearer the lake, rush¬ 
ing over rocks into dark chasms with solid walls 
of stone hundreds of feet high on either side. 
Or the great Niagara awaits our coming; or w e 
can reach Lake George — that pure gem set in 
the dark hills —and so on to the majestic Adi- 
rondaclcs, or even the White Mountains. But 
it is useless to say more; we can only suggest, 
and the reader’s thoughts will call up mauy a 
spot, seen or heard of, worth a long journey 
to see, and soon we are to catch sight, from the 
car windows, of the long ranges of the Rocky 
Mountains, their snowy peaks nobly grand 
against the pure sky. 
It has been our lot to travel in twenty States, 
and we meet with constant surprises, new scenes 
so marvelous it seems strange they are unknown, 
on every journey. Travel is an education, placing 
ua en rapport with men aud Nature; our facili¬ 
ties of motion, our varied breadth of territory, our 
wide kinship of blood, and thought, aud action, 
are all helping to rear up a race fit, let ns hope, 
for broad views and wise work. Travel is a 
good tonic, too. Breathe new air and see new 
men and things, and you can “ throw physic to 
the dogs,” and wax hearty apace without it. 
“ I honor great power of thought — few per¬ 
haps more. I reverence a man of genius for wit, 
poetry, science or executive power to organize 
matter or men. But most spontaneously do I 
bow to a man of great justice. AY hat delights 
of affection there arc. Love is the great idcalizer 
of man’s life. There are many such in nature 
and in art. There is music, a sweet and com¬ 
mon idealizer. But if I could have but one of 
the three gifts, intellectual, moral or affectional, 
I would take the latter.”— Selected. 
YOUNG MEN IN DIFFERENT COUNTRIES. 
Edmound About in his book, “The Roman 
Question," makes the following comparison 
of young men of twenty-five in the different 
countries. After describing the education of 
young Roman nobles, he says, in this flashy 
way: — “One fine day they attain their twenty- 
fifth year. At this age an .American has already 
tried his hand at a dozen different trades, made 
four fortunes and at least one bankruptcy, has 
gone through a couple of campaigns, had a law¬ 
suit, established a new religious sect, killed half 
a dozen men with his revolver, freed a negress 
and conquered an island. An Englishman has 
passed some stiff examinations, been attached 
to an embassy, founded a factory, converted a 
Catholic, gone round the world, and read the 
complete works of Walter Scott. A Frenchman 
has rhymed a tragedy, written for two news¬ 
papers, been wounded in three duels, twice 
attempted suicide, vexed fourteen husbands, and 
changed his politics nineteen times. A German 
has thrashed fifteen of his dearest friends, swal¬ 
lowed sixty hogsheads of beer and the philoso¬ 
phy of Hegel, sung eleven thousand couplets, 
compromised a tavern waiting maid, smoked a 
million pipes, and been mixed up with at least 
two revolutions. The Roman prince has done 
nothing, seen nothing, learned nothing, suffered 
nothing. His parents or guardians open a clois¬ 
ter gate, take out a young girl as inexperienced 
as himself, and the pair of innocents are bidden 
to kneel before a priest, who gives them permis¬ 
sion to become parents of another generation of 
innocents like themselves." 
A LITERARY TASTE. 
To a young man away from home, friendless 
and forlorn in a great city, the hours of peril are 
those between sunset and bedtime; for the moon 
and stars see more evil in a single hour than the 
sun in his whole day’s circuit. The poet’s vis¬ 
ions of evening arc all compact of tender and 
soothing images. It brings the wanderer to his 
home, the child to its mother’s arms, the ox to 
his stall, and the weary laborer to Ills rest. But 
to the gc-ntle-hearted youth who is thrown upon 
the rocks of a pitiless city, and “ stands homeless 
amid a thousand homes,” the approach of even¬ 
ing brings with it an aching sense of loneliness 
and dissolution, which come down upon the 
spirit like darkness upon the earth. In this 
mood his best impulses become a snare to him 
and he is led astray because he is social, affec¬ 
tionate, sympathetic and warm-hearted. If there 
he a young man thus circumstanced, who may 
read these words, let me say to him that books 
are the friends of the friendless, and that a 
library is the home of the homeless. A taste 
for reading will always carry you to converse 
with men who will instruct you by their wisdom 
and charm you by Iheir wit, who will soothe you 
when fretted, refresh you when weary, counsel 
you when perplexed and sympathize with you at 
all times. Evil spirits, in the middle, ages, were 
exorcised and driven away by bell, hook and can¬ 
dle; you want hut two of those agents, the book 
and the candle. 
TALENT AND TACT. 
Talent is something, bnt tact is everything. 
Talent is serious, sober, grave and respectable; 
tact is all that, and more too. It is not a seventh 
sense, but it is the life of all the five. It is the 
open eye, the quick ear, the judging taste, the 
keen smell and the lively touch; it is the inter¬ 
preter of all riddles—the surmouuter of all diffi¬ 
culties—the remover of all obstacles. It is useful 
in all places aud’at all times; it is useful in soli¬ 
tude, lor it shows a man his way into the world; 
it is useful in society, for it shows him his way 
through the world. Talent is power —tact is 
skill; talent is weight — tact is momentum; 
talent knows what to do —tact knows how 
to do it; talent makes a man respectable—tact 
will make him respected; talent is wealth — tact 
is ready money. For all the practical purposes 
of life tact carries it against taleut — ten to one. 
WIT AND WISDOM. 
A thorn in the bush is worth two in the hand. 
Woman is a delusion; but men will hug de¬ 
lusions. 
The best capital to begin life with is a cap¬ 
ital wife. 
Question for Actors.—C an a man be said 
to work wben he plays? 
The richer a man makes his food, the poorer 
he makes his appetite! 
How do we know that Pharaoh was a carpen¬ 
ter ? Why he made Joseph a ruler. 
“ I’ll he round this way in a minute,” as the 
second hand said to the pendulum. 
Ik Marvel says a country house without a 
porch is like a man without an eyebrow. 
Wait for others to advance your interests, 
and you will wait until they are not worth 
advancing. 
Emerson finely says:—“The poor are only 
they who feel poor, and poverty consists only 
in feeling poor.” 
Why is a man ascending Vesuvius like an 
Irishman trying to kiss a pretty girl ? Because 
he wants to get at the crater’s mouth. 
The man that forgets a good deal that has hap¬ 
pened, has a better memory than he who remem¬ 
bers a great deal that never happened. 
Custom—A charter, incorporating all the incon¬ 
gruities of modern ignorance and superstition, 
gathered from all the precedents of the past. 
“I can’t find bread for my family,” said a 
lazy fellow in company, “ Nor I,” replied an in¬ 
dustrious miller; “I’m obliged to work for it.” 
It may seem paradoxical, hut it is a fact, that 
while some aver that the rage for chignons is go¬ 
ing down, the fashion seems to be “going up.” 
Written for Moore’s Enral New-Yorker. 
THE SUMMER LAND.” 
BT BELL CLINTON. 
*’ Over the river,” the “ Sommer Land ” lies, 
Fadeless its blossoms unclouded its skies, 
Towers shimmer not in the sun-ray’s light, 
Stars never glow—for there falleth no night. 
O’er it God’s glory transcendantly flows, 
Bathing it ever in holy repose. 
Ah! we get gleams of that glorious land, 
When by the river's bank trembling we stand, 
Watching the waves that unceasingly flow 
Over the crossing where loved ones must go, 
They see tho beams of the heavenly light 
Gilding its glittering columns of white. 
They hear the songs, and the rustle of wings, 
We—but the echo their ecstacy brings— 
Why do we sorrow when happy they lie 
Heady for angels to bear them on high ? 
Such treasures we need their sunlight to throw 
Over our pathway while waiting below. 
Are there no flowers in tire bright Summer Land? 
Aye, tenderly kept by our Father's hand. 
Borne in his love from the chill light of Time, 
Transplanted, they bloom in a heavenly dime, 
—May we be welcomed at last, to tho band 
Who. “ sinleeH,” are roaming the blest Summer Land. 
Chenango Co., N. Y. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
BE HAPPY. 
TnE only true way to be happy is, to take the 
drops of happiness as God gives them to us in 
our every-day life. It has been, perhaps, the 
same old routine, sunshine and shade, but of 
late more shade than sunshine. To'day, how¬ 
ever, the clouds are breaking, there is a drop of 
happiness for us. Shall we take it heartily and 
thankfully? or shall wednve it away with bitter 
thoughts of the past, or what is still worse, 
dark forebodings of the future ? If joy alone 
were given to us might we not forget the Giver, 
even undervalue the joy itself? ’Tis the con¬ 
trast that gives life and beauty. What is the 
rose pipped of Us thorns and green leaves? 
And eveu these are beautiful when partaking of 
the colors of the bud. So pleasures, pure, and 
rightly enjoyed, shed a bright halo over the 
dark days of sorrow and depression that come 
to every earnest, striving heart. The memory 
of them is like thB fragrance of the rose, remain¬ 
ing long after its beauty has faded. 
Yes! God means his children to be happy and 
has given us many beautiful thiBgs to make us 
so. And who should be happy if not His chil¬ 
dren who can trust their future wholly to Him, 
or why did He say, “ If ye loved me ye would 
rejoice,” and “In the world ye shall have tribu¬ 
lation, but be of good cheer.” Then let us take 
these little drops of happiness, tenderly and 
sacredly, as gifts from our Heavenly Father, and 
when in after life we look back upon them, they 
will seem, as it were a sea of joy. 
June 21, 1867. Reb. Ratmond. 
BORROWED SERMONS. 
Writing on Sunday, to a London paper, a 
correspondent says: 
“ This morning in one of the principal West 
End churcheB, I heard the incumbent deliver a 
very beautiful sermon which I recognized imme¬ 
diately as one of Dr. Arnold’s early school ser¬ 
mons. There may have been some addition in 
tho shape of mtiue and tail, but I um quite sure 
that all, or the greater part, was reproduced 
word lor word from the printed volume. A few 
years ago, I heard, also in one of these West 
End churches, a sermon on Whitsunday, which 
I also recognized as a printed sermon published 
by me not loDg before. Now, I know’, from 
many years’ experience in London, in the coun¬ 
try, aud abroad, that it is, on the w'hole, more 
edifying to a congregation to listen to the 
wholesome doctrine of some master in Israel 
than to the original, perhaps, but necessarily 
mediocre, thoughts of average minds. If these 
recitations of many of the best passages in which 
onr theological literature is ec> rich were more 
frequent, there would be less of the now increas¬ 
ing outcry against sc-rmons; people would then 
sit to listen as they sit to listen to readings and 
recitations from Milton and Shakspeare. We 
should remember, however, that whenever Mac- 
ready or Kean, or any celebrated master of elo¬ 
quence, makes us sigh or weep by the mighty 
force of the words which he utters, he does not 
give us to understand at the same time, or even 
allow it to be implied, that these ‘words of 
power ’ are the result of the speaker’s own labor, 
or thought, or imagination. I would say, by all 
means, let us have good recitations or readings 
of religious prose or poetry in the churches, but 
let the congregation be told what it is they are 
about to receive.” 
Be Master. — It is not by regretting what is 
irreparable that true work is to be done, bnt by 
mailing the best of what we are. It is not by 
complaining that we have not the right tools, bnt 
by using well the tools we have. Where we are, 
and what we are, is God’s providential arrange¬ 
ment; and the wise and manly way is to look 
onr disadvantages in the face, and see what can 
be made of them. Life, like war, is a series of 
mistakes, and he is not the best Christian nor 
the best General who makes the fewest of false 
steps. Poor mediocrity may do that; but he is 
the best who wins the most splendid victories 
by the retrieval of mistakes. Forget mistakes; 
organize victory out of mistakes. 
Would you touch a nettle without being 
stung by it ? Take hold of it stoutly. Do the 
same to other annoyances, and few things will 
ever trouble you. 
