Written tor Moore’s Bural New-Yorker. 
TO MY MOTHER. 
LrKE silver bella through memory’s chamber pealing, 
Now soft and gad, bow loader in their glee, 
My childhood 'h happy hours come softly stealing, 
Freighted with memories of home and thee. 
Like fairy tales with strange, wild beauty teeming, 
Or like the glimmer of some distant star, 
These float across my hours of peaceful dreaming. 
With thrills of rapture which no time can mar. 
No after joyB have seemed like those of childhood. 
No flowers have bloomed, since then, go bright to 
view 
As those I gathered in the distant wild wood, 
And brought them home, my Mother dear, to you. 
Cut time, who moves on restless, tireless pinion. 
Has crept upon us almost unawares, 
Gathered our joys Into his vast dominion. 
And left, instead, a life of toil and caret. 
And she, who shared with me my youthful pleasures, 
• Wept at my grief, and smiled on all my joys, 
In Heaven rests, among those priceless treasures, 
“Where moth nor rust corrupt," nor time destroys. 
But we are left, dear Mother, to each other, 
Nor grief, nor time, can our affection move; 
No earthly power save death, can ever smother 
That priceless blessing,—a tree mother’s love. 
And e’en in death ’tis like some beauteous flower, 
That blossoms bright, then for a season dieB, 
But to revive again with tenfold power, 
To bloom for endless years beyond tbe skies I 
Porter, N. Y., 1867. a. e. h. 
Written for Moore's Ilural New-Yorker. 
MAN’S LIFE vs. WOMAN’S. 
-Much has been said upon this subject, and 
yet much more might be said. Although to 
“ Creation’s lord ” the Little uuthought-ol'feel¬ 
ings of a woman’s life arc naught, yet to us they 
are existence itself. Once let the happiness of 
a woman’s heart be reut in twain, ouce plant 
in her bosom a doubt that the being whom she 
THE ROMANCE OF LIFE. 
A maiden lady, by the name of Klingling, who 
settled in Warren county, Ohio, many years ago, 
from Germany, was killed by being thrown out 
of her buggy some days since, about a mile west 
of Lebanon. She leaves an estate worth *20,000 
or *40,000, which she bequeaths to Warren 
county for the purpose of building and main¬ 
taining an orphan asylum, provided the county 
will raise a like sum for the said purpose. 
Should this county decline to comply with the 
conditions of the bequest, the estate goes to the 
German Orphan Asylum of Cincinnati named in 
her will. 
There is a bit of romance connected with the 
history of Miss Klingling that may not be unin¬ 
teresting. in her youth, in Germany, she had a 
lover to whom she pledged her troth,—but the 
marriage being prevented by opposing relatives, 
she and her lover entered Into pledges never to 
marry, and she came with a brother, since de¬ 
ceased, to this country. Years after, her lover 
died unmarried, leaving by will a large sum of 
money to found an orphan asylum at Frankfort. 
Subsequently Miss Klingling became entitled to 
an estate in Germany, and thereupon devoted a 
large portion of it to swell the fund bequeathed 
by her lover, and now her death reveals the fact 
that she has devoted the bulk of her property to 
found a similar institution at the home of her 
adoption. 
EARLY MARRIAGES. 
WE were not permitted to depart without 
seeing the ladles of the house, and accepting the 
invariable Eastern hospitalities. Attending the 
venerable mother, entered a young girl, of about 
fourteen, small and delicate in form and feature, 
and exceedingly pretty. Her black hair was 
plaited in broad braids that were long enough 
to reach the shoulders, about which the ends 
were left to fall in soft fringes. Her wide Turk¬ 
ish trousers were of rose-colored silk; the sleeves 
of her embroidered jacket fell away loosely from 
a white arm; a little, jaunty Greek cap sur¬ 
mounted the glossy braids, the silken tassel 
(film 1 a ^illscsltann. 
has enshrined in her iuinost soul is unworthy of reaching to the silky fringes of her hair. She 
the affection bestowed, and life becomes a mere did not take her scat, English fashion, with the 
blank—existence a wearisome burden. mother, on the divan, as is sometimes done by 
You may curl your lips in seom if you will, way of courtesy to the guest, but dropped, a la 
and sneer, in the pride of vour manhood, at the Turk, ou the cushions near our feet. While we 
weakness, frivolity and fickleness of woman ; were saying to ourselves, “ What a sweet child 
but if there are any holy memories in your thi6 is! ” and wondering whether she would 
heart, they are of your mother, your wife, your ever develop the affections of young ladyhood, 
sister or your sweetheart,. It may be that, long the old man spoke of her as the wife of his son, 
years ago, your mother was laid away “in the and said they bad been married three years. It 
valley and shadow of death,” But many a time is not uneommou for marriages to take place in 
you call to mind her gentle counsel to her way- the East when the bride is only eight years of 
ward boy, and you feel, oh ! how fully, that a age. The favorite wife of the Prophet Moham- 
mother’s heart is generous and warm. Per- med was seven at the time of his betrothal, and 
chance your wife or sister slumbers in the he waited for her but a year, and took, mean- 
shade, unmindful of the busy onward floiv of time, one or *•»•<> aUimv, » solace for Uls (one* 
itfc. But very many times do you remember liness.— Damascus Cor. K Y. Tribune. 
the gentle touch of a soft bund upou your brow, -_ 
and the tender light of loving eyes, and you GOSSIPPY PARAGRAPHS 
know a woman's heart must he true. They ._ 
may all have left you,—mother, wife, sister and » „ . , 
CJ1 .„ , . . ' , ’ ’ A gentleman called to see a tenement that 
sweetheart,—but you can look hack over the w r* “ 
,-enr, tUnt were bleed with their presence, end Tf * tot V *°" a h ' m >3 * >’ rc , y 
feel how little yon knew oi their life. C “ tJ " ,0,n ‘ n - wLo “ “““f 8 ohamied hor 
visitors. 
T ou, when disappointment assails, when any “Arc you to be let, too?” inquired he, with a 
grief breaks in upon your usual calm, can seek languishing look, 
the busy street, aud, in consultation with your “Yes, sir,” said she; “I am; I’m to be let 
fellow men, for the moment partly forget. You alone! ” 
can enter into speculation, and in the excite- , 
mcnland whirl of bu.ta« drown your sorrow. . Ba,d “ 1 ”“ b "' d t0 «*• 
There arc a thousand pursuits open to yon, a h ‘ tto " U< V" 'l”'"* “P 
thousand amusements attainable for you But regulated famine, "when a man and 
did you ever think of a woman's life ? Did yon h ’f b “ ,d ® Wh “" sld “" tUe 
ever measure the lull extern of her Isolation- I” 111 ''* 1 f “ 11 ' ’’h?,?tho two ought to.dvance 
shut out from the society of father husband l °™ d « » teWMUiation!” "The best natnred 
brother, or lover? Did you ever tblnt „f the ,n4 '“ «f ““ “ ld «“ P»“NS 
weariness of the long days, engrossed with some b " m0 ““ *»»«“. ' rtud ‘ »“ *•«" Wltb 
petty household care, watting and watching for UUCt Sbc 1K '- l>m l u, - ror 
an appreciation which never came? Did you JonN G ‘ Saxe > writing of what he saw in 
ever notice the flush on tho check, and the tear Euro P e > says: —“I saw more pretty girls in 
in the eye, when you have failed in some of Dl,blin lhan in London; and many more in Lon- 
those little attentions which make up the sum don than in Pade * Tlie sweetest voice I ever 
of a woman's existence ? Did you observe the heard in conversation came from a German 
lading of her cheek at that harsh tone of your woman who sold beer and biscuits in the suburbs 
voice, aud the heaving of the bosom at your of Gollu b with smiles benignant enough to turn 
careless good bye ? cakes and ale luto ambrosia and nectar, 
Man lives in the world, iu all around him; “Mr DEAR,” said a fond husband to his wife, 
hut a woman lives in her affections. Cold lip one day, “where would you go should I fail in 
and careless eye may attest your indifference businessV" “Where 1 always go when 1 can, 
now, but when sickness 6hall “have lain the love,” was the answer, “into the arms-bouse,” 
strong man low,” you will long for the gentle llt »d &o saying the lovely wife hid her blushes in 
presence of the life so thoroughly the opposite Hrn circling embrace of her husband. 
—1 TV . < ... 9 
of jours. Beware how now the harsh Word, or Squabbles, an old bachelor, shows his stock- 
unkindly look, or indiltereut act, benumbs the ings. which he has just darned, to a maiden lady, 
heait from which your own lile must sometimes who contemptuously remarks: 
draw its vitality. “Pretty good for a man-darner.” 
tort Atkinson, VV is. Sara G. Chafa. Whereupon Squabbles rejoins: 
•"“*-- “ Good enough for u woiuau, darn her.” 
THE BOSTON POETESS. At no moment of difficulty does a husbaud 
know so well his own helplessness, aud draw 60 
Mrs. Julia W ard Howe, the Boston poet, closely to his wife's side for comfort aud assist 
and wife ot the philanthropist, Mr. Samuel G. unce, as when he wants a button sewed on to his 
Howe, is also the daughter of the late Samuel 8jlirt collar 
Ward, the eminent hanker of New York, who is ‘ , ’ . , 
held in remembrance as a man of great public ^ mR0RS are placed m ™ dows °f f<f*s 
spirit, and the liberal patron of the StuvLaut “ B ™ SSCls a ‘ an lad * °{ 
Institute, the Historical Society, and the Univer- ^ ° home T Z ^ TT 
sity of the city of New York- More remotely, f el ‘ w ‘ e ^ r J - is at homc 0r not UDtl1 she ^ 
Mrs. Howe is descended from an old soldier of °° Cl * m 
Cromwell, who left his country because he A young lady being requested by an old bach- 
couldn’t stay in it, and settling in llhodc Island clor lo UVC a 6eat upon Lis kuee in a crowdcd 
daring the reign of Charles II., married a daugh- 6lci S h ’ uudc ll,e 1 ' ollowin S ■ ~ “ No, thank 
ter of Roger Williams, and became the father of - vou 5 r . n afraid 6Uch an old seat would tweak 
Richard Ward—a Governor of the State—and the dovni ,vlLh mc ‘” 
grandfather of his son Samuel, a member of the Ti^v havo an accomplished musical professor 
old Continental Congress. Thus Mrs. Howe in- at ligfoot Academy, Wis., in the person of a 
herits good blood—blood which dyed English y'ung lady, who, at one and the same time, 
grass in the days of the old Cromwellian, and two airs upon the piano, whistles a third 
after six generations, has pouredit6ell'intosonir aud sings a fourth! 
ii-jii .. . . 01 1 
and thrills the hearts of twenty millions o! 
American freemen. More than any other poem 
of the war, Mrs. Ilowe’s Battle hymn of the 
Republic fired the soul of the North, and nerred 
it.to tho great struggle with the rebellion. 
“My dear,” said a smiling spouse to her 
other half, “I’m going a shopping to-day and 
want a little change.” “ Pooh! ” responded the 
savage, “ that would be no change at all; you 
go shopping every day.” 
t EQUINOCTIAL. 
t - 
) The Sun of Life has crossed the line, 
The eumsner-shine of lengthened light 
Faded and failed,—till, where I stand, 
’Tis equal Day and equal Night. 
One after one, as dwindling hours, 
B Youth’s glowing hopes have dropped away, 
And soon may barely leave the gleam 
That coldly score# a winter's day. 
I am not young, I am not old 
^ The flash of mom, the sunset calm, 
Paling, aud deepening, each to each, 
Meet midway with a soiemr charm, 
i 
c One side I see the summer Helds 
Not yet diBrohed or all their green; 
While wearily, along the hills 
Flame the first tint* of frosty sheen. 
r Ah, middle-point, where cloud and storm 
c Make battle-ground of this my life! 
Where, even-matched, the Night and Day 
Wage round me their September strife! 
t I bow me to the threatening gale: 
I know, when that 1* overpast, 
Among the pearefu I harvest days. 
An Indian entnmer comes at last! 
) 
r 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-rorker. 
A LAY SERMON. 
LET HIM WHO TIITNKETH HE 8TANDETH TAKE 
HEED LEST HE FALL. 
t 
ET F. H. STAUFFER. 
Mr. Evans was walking slowly up and down 
his verauda. It was habitual with him thus to 
exercise himself; especially during the long 
summer evenings. Such were his most profit¬ 
able seasons for meditation. His face was 
placid, his eyes blue and calm, his mouth ex¬ 
pressive. The former wore the patience of 
resignation; it was not the effect of trials aud 
sufferings, for the world had ever dealt kindly 
vvith him. It rather sprung from the peculiarity 
of his organism. He paused In his walk to re¬ 
turn the salutation of a passing neighbor, then 
a second after beckoned him to approach. 
“Good evening, friend Cole,” he said. “ You 
are in uo hurry?” 
“No—I am not. I might say that I was 
merely loitering by.” 
“ EBjoying a walk, eh ? That is what I have 
been doing, doubling a score of times on my 
circumscribed path. I have been on this beat 
summer alter summer for the last fifteen years. 
On this monotonous patrol I have thought out 
many problems — organized many victories over 
a defiant spirit—ofteu have been lifted out of 
the slough of despondency and placed upon 
solid ground again. Pray be seated, neighbor 
Cole. It has occurred to me several times du¬ 
ring the week that I ought to drop over and see 
you. You were expelled from church last 
Sabbath?” 
“ To my everlastlug 6hamc be it said,” re¬ 
plied Mr. Cole, sorrowfully. “ And for drunk¬ 
enness, as you may have supposed.” 
“I was very sorry to hear it. llow do you 
feel under the circumstauces ?” I 
“now do I feel ? Mr. Evans, do not ask me! 
It has almost broken the heart of my poor wife. 
She sits and moans and weeps; teems lifeless, 
purposeless, in her distraction. 1 feci miserable, 
wretched, God-forsaken. Behind me lies a 
waste of misspent years; around me jackals 
crouch and howl; in front of me stretches a sea 
of impenetrable blaekuess, From the bottom 
of my soul comes an agonizing, fir-away sound¬ 
ing cry of lost! lost! lost! Can any thought 
be more Bhuddering than the thought of a lost 
60Ul ?” 
“ You are despondent, neighbor Cole. Your 
soul is not lost as a consequence.” 
“ Consequence of what ?” 
“ Either of your fall or of your expulsion.” 
“The week has been oue of fearful strug¬ 
gling.”* 
“And you have kept sober?” 
“ I have not touched a drop.” 
“ I am glad to hgar that. You are a hero.” 
“ But no conqueror, Mr. Evans.” 
“ I do not know about that. So much pos¬ 
itiveness should make you hopeful,” 
“But you do not know what I suffer—the 
desperateness of the struggle,” 
“I can imagine it.” 
“Imagine it? No — never! You can never 
realize the gnawing for strong drink — the crav¬ 
ing of a diseased appetite. It is more ravenous 
than the horse leeches daughters—more horrible 
than starvation — more cxcruckling than tho 
slow torture of fire. You are a strong man, Mr. 
Evans Tour force of character—strength of 
wiP — tenacity of purpose, are proverbial. But 
the passion for strong driuk would try vpu 
sorely.” 
“I would fall, friend Cole. My very strength 
of purpose would trip me up. In all probability 
I would depend more upon myjelf than upou 
Divine aid. Docs not the good pook say ‘Let 
him who thioketh he etandeth take heed lest he 
fall ?’ Did you pray for strengthr” 
“Did 1? That aloue has thus far saved me 
from headlong destruction since'' last Sabbath. 
Yes, I prayed —but I saw no light —I felt no 
influx of strength; 1 groped about like a child 
in the maziucss of my prayers, yet with all the 
trustfulness of a child.” 
“ That very trustfulness has saved you. God 
rarely answers in the thunder stroke of the 
lightning. Elder Faxes was most active in 
bringing about your expulsion?” 
“He was.” 
“You are embittered against him?” 
“ I should not be.” 
“No; it would not be in accordance with the 1 
divine precept. Elder Fales has been pre- 1 
sumptive; he has been over-zealous; he may j 
j himself he standing upon the flimsiest encrusta¬ 
tion. He is tinctured with religious bigotry. 
Does his religious life sparkle ? It is like the 
sparkle of the icicle; there is no out-gushing 
warmth about it. It is built upon a snow bank 
of rigid, outward discipline. The growth of 
bis Christian charity is stunted. He may yet 
learn that ‘he who thlnketh he standeth should 
take heed lest he fall.’ A word of advice to 
you, friend Cole. Still keep sober —still con¬ 
tinue to pray. Read your Bible constantly— 
wrestle hourly for the victory. Come to-mor¬ 
row evening and we will have another talk. I 
shall also make it. my business to speak to Mr. 
Fales and the other elders. You must he re¬ 
stored to church fellowship.” 
“ Thank you, Mr. Evans. And you will pray 
for me?" 
“Fervently, repeatedly.” 
A few nights afterwards a man, while stagger¬ 
ing along the pavement, fell heavily against Mr. 
Cole’s door-step. Mr. Cole heard the noise, 
went to the door, and carried him in. The man 
was drunk; his face was covered with blood 
oozing from a cat received ia his fall. Mr. Cole 
laid him on the settee and washed his face. 
It was Elder Faxes. He came to in a short 
time. Opening his eyes, he recognized Mr. 
Cole. 
“ How did I get here, Mr. Cole?” he asked. 
“ You fell, and 1 carried you in.” 
“ Do you know that I am drunk?” 
“ Yes, sir.” 
“Beastly drunk?” * 
“You are not so now.” 
“ Who else witnessed my disgrace ?” 
“ Nobody else.” 
After a few moments of silence Mr. Faxes said: 
“Neighbor Cole —our oil company met this 
evening. You know I am President; we had 
news of a sudden aud astounding yield of oil. 
Champagne was brought in; I protested against 
it. I refused to drink, but refusal was of no 
avail. I drank; I became intoxicated; most 
surely and most suddenly so, at your door. You 
took me in; you stood, and yet &taud, between 
me and public disgrace.” 
“Your secret shall be my secret, neighbor 
Fales.” 
Kales took Cole’s hand in his and pressed it 
warmly. 
“ 0 the humility of my spirit! I, who prided 
myself on my inflexible righteousness! The 
scriptures say— 1 Pride cometh before a fall ’— 
‘ let him who thinketh he standeth take heed 
lest he fall. Can it be that I am but a prayer- 
mouthing Pharisee?” Do you know, friend 
I Cole, that it was I who urged, and insisted up¬ 
on, your expulsion from church?” 
“So I learned.” 
“And you could crush me.” 
“ I am not resentful.” 
“ No—you are more the Christian, and I more 
the veritable sinner. I wronged you; I oppressed 
you; I turned you out of the visible church.” 
“The grievance can be atoned for.” 
“How ?” 
“By restoration.” 
“ It shall he done. I am uow able—no, sober , 
enough to go home. I thank you for your 
charity towards me —for your kindness—your 
Christian spirit. I humbly ask your pardon for 
the wrong I did you. Come to my house to¬ 
morrow evening. We will hold a prayer meet¬ 
ing—you aud T 7, at least, feel thut God 
should encompass me about.” 
Mr. Cole became a devout, praying church 
member again, and in a few years the leading 
elder in the church. Mr. Fales became a 
changed man; he did his good works more in 
secret; he became less selfish and more charit¬ 
able. “ Let him who thinketh he standeth take 
heed lest he fall!” 
PROVERBS FROM DON QUIXOTE. 
The jest that gives pafb is no jest. 
The golden load is a light burden. 
Every one is the son of his own works. 
Who 6its in the sqddle must get up first. 
Good expectation is better than bad posses¬ 
sion. 
Better a flush on the face thau a stain in the 
heart. 
Fortune always leaves some door open in 
misfortune. 
“I will give thee” is good; but “Here, take 
it” is better. 
By the streets of “ by-and-by ” oue arrives at 
the house of never. 
The fire is discovered by its own light; so is 
virtue by its own excellence. 
The Lesson of Children, — Children may 
teach us one blessed, one enviable art—the art of 
being easily happy. Kind Nature has given to 
them that useful power of accommodation to cir¬ 
cumstances which compensates for manyextemal 
disadvantages, and it is only by Injudicious man¬ 
agement that it Is lost. Give him hut a moderate 
portion of food and kindness, and the peasant's 
child is happier than the duke’s; free from arti- 
fiicial wants, unsatiated by indulgence, all Na¬ 
ture ministers to his pleasure: he can carve j 
felicity from a bit of hazel twig, or fish for it 
successfully in a mudpuddle. 
How to be Agreeable.— The art of being 
agreeable is to appear well pleased with all 
the company, and rather to 6eem well enter¬ 
tained with them than to bring entertainment to 
them. A man thus disposed, perhaps, may not 
have much learning, nor wit; hut if he has com¬ 
mon sense, and something friendly in his behav¬ 
ior, it conciliates men’s minds more than the 
brightest parts without this disposition; and 
when a man of such a turn comes to old age, he 
is almost sure to he treated with respect. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
r PROMISES. 
ET A. H. LINTON. 
> The earth ia full of promises. 
The leaves that rustle on the trees 
Whoa shakes by the passing breeze, 
Their promise give ; 
^ It is that though they fade and die, 
Though over blessings lost we sigh, 
TVithin the glorious by-and-by 
The good will live I 
The crystal brook, that laughing plays 
Adown the shady del! always, 
And seems to shun the sun’s glad rays, 
Is trilling low 
Of silver waters, calm anti deep, 
On which the sunlight lies, asleep, 
Aud where is found a grander sweep— 
» Sublimer flow, 
I 
i The flowers that by the wayside bioorq, 
1 The buds that blossom ou the tomb, 
j Light up with promises the gloom 
O’erhauging death: 
“ TUe beautiful may fade away, 
But bright their resurrection day 
Shall be," the blossome sweetly say 
With dying breath 1 
The root that of the germ Is born, 
Of golden grain and ripened com 
Foretells the coming harvest-mom; 
And every blade 
That from the qulck'ning mold upaprings, 
Throughout thu summer gladly sings 
A song of hope, and better things, 
In sun and shade. 
O, thankless heart: give better heed! 
i There is for oach and every need 
Of thine, a promise true indeed • 
In earth and air; 
And there’s a pledge of greater bliss 
In every fancied good you miss: 
Another day, or haply this. 
Will answer prayer! 
WHAT THE FALLING LEAF SAYS, 
Every season has its lesson of life. The 
•Spring—for that is the true beginning—has 
one of unfolding; the Summer, one of growth; 
the Autumn, one of transition ; and the Winter, 
one of age and waiting. Perhaps, of these, if 
any oue be more suggestive thau another, the 
lesson of the falling leaf is the deepest The 
drying up of the vital essence of life—the fad¬ 
ing, when the little day is nearing the sunset— 
touche# the heart as nothing else can. But it 
ought never to make the heart sadder. It is 
only a prelude to the winter’s waiting—a wait¬ 
ing that will bring a glorious unfolding when 
the April showers come! 
In “ Nature and Life," a new volume of ser¬ 
mons by Robert Colly bb, the falling leaf en¬ 
forces its own lesson very beautifully. We ex¬ 
tract the following from what the leaf says: 
“I am a fading leaf certainly; watching for 
the sun and frost to give the signal for my dis¬ 
solution. I have had to hear heavy rain6, to 
wrestle with great storms, to shudder in elec¬ 
tric fires, to fight my way and hold my own as 
well as I could in the teeth of foes and parasites, 
ever since I began to spring. But this I can say, 
os I fall, that there has been no day since I first 
began to grow, when I have not tried to be true 
to the law of my life, as the mediator, bridging 
the gulf between senseless matter and the senti¬ 
ent soul. 
“ And now, in my falling, I shall fall lor bless¬ 
ing, and cease to be a leaf because, as a leaf, I 
am no longer needed. But, in ceasing to be 
what I am, I may well remind you of what one 
has said who loves us, aud takes us into his 
heart beyond all men living:—’We compare 
ourselves to leaves: the leaves may well scorn 
the comparison, if we live only for ourselves. 
If ever iu the autumn a pensiveness steals over 
us, as the leaves flutter by in their fading, may 
we uot wisely look up to their mighty monu¬ 
ments ; aud as we see how fair they are, how 
far proiouged in arch aud aisle the avenues of 
the valleys, the fringes of the lulls, so stately, 
so eternal; the joy of man, the comfort of all 
living creatures, tbe glory of the earth—remem¬ 
ber that these are hut the monuments of fading 
leaves, that faintly flit past us to die ? Let them 
not die before we read aud understand their holy 
revelation; so that we also, careless of a monu¬ 
ment for the grave, may build one iu the world, 
by which men may be taught to remember, not 
where we died, but where we lived.’ 
“You can think as you like, therefore, about 
man, as he fades and falls,—make the cud of 
your lile here as mournful as you please,—dis¬ 
honor death by evil names and images, as its 
shadow falls upon your rac-e; but I ask you, 
once for all, to leave me out of your ead analo¬ 
gies, I protest against being counted as one 
that shudders at dissolution. I might have 
done that iu June, when my life was all to 
live; but in September, when it has had its 
day, as I begin to loosen from the spray where 
God caused me to spring, the loosening seems 
as good as ever did the springing.” 
------ 
Faith Working by Love.— All true and lively 
faith begets love; and thus, that heavenly light 
is the vehicle of heat. Aud as, by this means, 
true faith has a tendency to the practice of obe¬ 
dience, so, all true obedience depends upon 
faith, and flows from it, But it also proceeds 
from love, because faith flr&t produces love, and 
then works by it. All knowledge of mysteries is 
vain and of no value, unless it have an influence 
upon the affections, aud thereby, upon the who.e 
conduct of life. The luminaries of heaven are 
placed on bigh; but they are so placed that they 
may shine, and perform their periods, for tie ’ 
benefit of this earth.— Leighton. 
| 
Murmuring is a black garment, and it becomes 
none so ill as saints. 
