Written for Moore’? Rural New-Yorker. 
SIXTEEN. 
BY G. P. BARTHOLOMEW. 
Suppose your hand with power supplied; 
Say, wonld yon slip it ’neath my hair 
And turn it to the golden side 
Of sixteen years?—suppose you dare? 
And I stood here with smiling mouth, 
Red choeke, and hands all softly white,— 
Exceeding beautiful with youth,— 
An d that some sly consenting sprite 
Brought dreams as bright as dreams could be, 
To keep the shadows from my brow, 
And pluck’d down hearts to pleasure me, 
As you would roses from a bough,— 
What could I do then ? Idly wear. 
While all my mates went on before. 
The bashful looks and golden hair 
Of sixteen years, and nothing more ? 
Nay, done with yonth is my desire; 
To time I give no (also abuse; 
Experience is the marvelous fire 
That welds our knowledge into nse 1 
And all its fires of heart or brain. 
Where purpose into power was wrought, 
I’d bear, and gladly bear again, 
Rather than be put back one thought. 
So, sigh no more, my gentle friend. 
That I have reached the time of day 
When white hairs come, and heart-beats send 
No blushes through the cheeks astray; 
For, could you mold my destiny 
As clay within your loving hand. 
I’d leave my youth’s sweet company, 
And suffer back to where I stand. 
Whitehall, N. Y., 1868. 
-^ «•-» - 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT IT IS TO BE 
MOTHER. 
A SERIES OF LETTERS ON HOME TRAINING.—I. 
BY MBS. LAURA E. LYMAN. 
Dovecote, April 186-. 
My Dear Mary:—You know how we u6ed to 
write compositions on the Beauties of Spring, the 
Glories of Summer, on Fireside Joys, and on Edu¬ 
cation, when we were schoolmates; and how, wheu 
we graduated, we thought, poor, simple girls that 
we were, our education was completed. No more 
weary poring over books, no more fear of the reci¬ 
tation hour, no further answering to school hells 1 
LLappy days of gayety and freedom that come bnt 
once and pass so soon! I now recall them as a 
dream of flowers and sunshine, as a dewy morning 
that has merged into a mellow noon; and when 1 
look into the three pairs of bright eyes that follow 
my every word and action,— the three pairs of rosy 
lips that call me “ma-rna,”—and think how much 
of the present and future of these darlings is in my 
handB, to make it a blessing or a curse, I tremble 
and know not what to do. is it so with you, Mary, 
that you seem never to have rightly understood the 
meaning of the term education, now that the joys 
and responsibilities of motherhood are yours ? How 
I should like to sit down with you and talk over all 
these mattere that now are so engrossing, and of 
such vital moment to us both. And since 1 cannot 
talk with you, I will lay aside the little frock I have 
been embroidering for Jamje, my baby boy, and take 
up the pen. I remember so well that at school wheu 
we girls were taking wax flowers and embroidery, or 
reading Childb Harold and Henrietta Temple, 
you would Bcnile at os and pore over Plato’s Dia 
logues or Bacon’s Essays, and a great many other 
books that then seemed hopelessly dull to me; but 
I have thought, of late, that yon were a great deal 
wiser than we, that maybe you found in those grave 
books ideas that are of great help to you now since 
you, as I, have been called to the dignity of mother¬ 
hood. You have three children, too, about the ages 
of mine. Perhaps you are never at a loss how to 
control and train them in the best manner. How 
often 1 wish that, instead of spending so many hours 
over my needlework and in practicing my piano les¬ 
sons, 1 had read more History, studied Arithmetic 
harder, and learned my Moral Science better. Maybe 
then I should have been a more sensible mother, and 
more perfectly fitted to train my boys to be good 
and useful men. I wish you would write me a long 
letter and tell me all about bow you have governed, 
and taught, and disciplined your children, and thus 
you will aid me in rearing mine. But Jamib wakes 
from his nap and calls me. Cannot you write soon 
to Your old friend and schoolmate, Julia. 
human soul, and the storms of great passions, or 
who illuminate the records of dead empires, and 
give us the wisdom that comes where Philosophy 
teaches by example. 1 cannot but think that if 
young ladies, whose minds are all the time run¬ 
ning on dress and frolic, on beaux and balls, would 
bnt project their thoughts beyond the bridal tros- 
seau and the nuptial hour, which they are too apt 
to count the ultimate goal of their destiny, into the 
years that succeed, and take in the actual proba¬ 
bilities of their lives at thirty-five and forty years of 
age, there would result from such wise forecastings 
advancement for the race in notable mothers and 
noble 6ons. 
You will think 1 am not touching the subject mat¬ 
ter of your letter, but if your little Carrie grows 
up with the hope of some day dressing and undress¬ 
ing live babies of her own, instead of dolls, the ex¬ 
pression of these views may not be in vain. I will 
speak of this subject again, and 6ome others cognate 
with it, in future letters, and reply at once to some 
of your suggestions. 
To begin at the outset, I awoke from the first 
long, deep sleep, after the tiny form bad been laid 
on the pillow beside me, and the first refrain of 
melody, iueffubly sweet, struck from the chords of 
maternal love, had filled my whole being with unut¬ 
terable delight; I awoke, and in the darkened cham¬ 
ber, as I lay successive days brooding with bound¬ 
less love over the wee bit of humanity 6walked in 
flannel and lawn beside me, thoughts like these 
passed through my mind:—I have found my mis¬ 
sion. Here in my arms lies a baby boy. Not more 
totally will his physical wellbeing depend on mine 
for many months to come than his moral nature, 
even in infancy, reproduce my own, catching the 
tone and reflecting the hue of my habitual thought 
and feeling. And as he grows older and his mind 
develops, I shall find nse for every faculty, every 
acquisition, every power I possess, in rightly form¬ 
ing his intellectual tastes, his social habits, his 
moral character. More intimately than in the dumb 
and embryonic life from which be has just emerged, 
does his existence now depend on mine, for, super- 
added to physical ties are the higher interests which 
link soul to soul and take hold on immortality. A 
new love of life sprung up within me, &ince as to 
no mortal could 1 bequeath the unfathomable ma¬ 
ternal love that pulsated through all my being, so 
to none could I delegate the great trust, solemn, 
sweet and sacred, that clothed me with the dignity, 
the happiness, the honors of motherhood. 
Most fortunately, my husband’s view's and mine 
relative to the training of children are and have 
ever been in perfect harmony. We rejoice in the 
burden, we accept the exalted mission. Every suc¬ 
cessive child has been right heartily welcomed into 
this breathing world. We count no practical wis¬ 
dom of so much importance as the right apprehen¬ 
sion of parental duty. We see at once philosophy 
and religion in the primal ordinance which setteth 
the solitary in families. 
If, by a recital of methods which we have found 
successful, I can aid you, it will give me the sin- 
cerest pleasure to do so. 
As ever, yours, Mary. 
-^ »-»■- 
STYLES FOB. SPRING. 
There are pretty variations of the polonaise out 
for spring. Some are cut with revere, and sleeveless, 
others have only a laced bodice over the high-necked 
waist of the lower dress, which shows a flounce, at 
the edge or the skirt. Ruffles to the knee and 
flounces in graduated rows are seen on walking 
dresses, and the fichu is seen on almost all light 
material. 
Plaid wraps are admired for traveling, and add 
much picturesqueness, to the somber suits usually 
chosen for that purpose. 
The chignon, it is said, will soon be replaced by 
masses of curls. If this be the case, a lady’6 hair 
dresser will be indispensable in every town. 
The black lace mantilla will be a feature of toilets 
for watering places. 
A long-pointed black veil, caught together near 
the end by a bow of ribbon, and flowing behind, was 
seen on some French hats last season, and is popular 
this spring. 
Black lace and Mexico blue are a stylish combina¬ 
tion of bonnets. This tint is a light, clear azure, not 
so deep as Empress. 
White muslin bonnets with puffed crowns, trim¬ 
med with 6weet brier roses and blue ribbons a 
Vnfcant are a sure and charming device, which is like¬ 
ly to be popular, especially among ladies who wish 
to look as young as possible. 
-- 
HOW A ROYAL BRIDE WAS DRESSED. 
OCV. UICU a-XJ V/AV* til** WOUH, *11 --——-- » 
and divided it between them! lections,”—we find that in the highest social ranks thie man —hifi correct and blameless life—and held 
Home, April, 186-. 
My Dear Julia :—Your letter was very welcome, 
indeed, and recalled many pleasant reminiscences of 
onr school days at the “ old Academy.” It hardly 
seems ten yearn ago that we sat together under those 
maples, studying out problems in Algebra and con¬ 
struing our lessons iu Virgil, but this eight-year old 
boy doing sums in multiplication at the table where 
1 write calls me “mother,” and the recollection of 
the bright hour when his infant breath first warmed 
my cheek, and his little brown head nestled in its 
own home near my heart, verifies his claim to call 
me thus. It is true we are no longer girls—the 
full responsibilities and honors of motherhood are 
ours and we rejoice in the burden, for it is our star 
and the badge of our title to the full nobility of 
womanhood. 
I feel some diffidence in writing you my views and 
practices as to home training, for you know how 
many parents called judicious, sensible and wise 
have failed in the final results of their domestic 
discipline, and how many children, who 6eem to 
have been brought up carelessly, have yet made 
fine men and women. But, however this may be, I 
will have the satisfaction, at least, that I tried to 
do all a mother can for the beBt good of my chil¬ 
dren ; and how glad shall i be to aid you, if I may, 
in this most delicate and important trust—the 
proper education of onr offspring. 
I know not how it may be with young ladies in 
general, but with me, from my earliest girlhood, 
the tie of mother and child seemed mo .-1 sacred and 
holy of all that make life dear. And when 1 read of 
noble mothers, my girlish heart bounded wire 
hope of one day becoming one myself. I will con¬ 
fess to you that this probability spurred me alike iu 
my studies and in the regulation of ray temper. I 
was quite indifferent to the so-ealled accomplish¬ 
ments of young ladies, except drawing and oil paint¬ 
ing, because 1 could not see how wax flowers and 
h embroidery, how music and dancing, how hair-work 
f and potichomanie, would aid me as much as knowl- 
I edge of more worth in developing the noblest capac- 
, ities of my nature, and fitting me for highest uses. 
7 Therefore wove 1 few garlands for Terpsichore and 
1 Euterpe— they of the fantastic toe and the sound¬ 
ing lyre. My muses were Urania, Melpomene aud 
1 Cuo,—they who teach us of the glories and solem- 
k nities of the material universe, of the depths of the 
The young Princess, Mary Theresa, of Austria, 
who was married the other day at Vienna, wore a 
robe of white silver brocade, with large volante of 
silver lace, trimmed round about with little bou¬ 
quets of myrtle and orange blossom. From her 
waist hung the heavy rnanteau de cour , also of white 
silver brocade, and trimmed with a broad a. par 
embroidered garland of raised silver flowers. It was 
borne by two pages and a head stewardess. Her 
simply-parted dark hair wore in front a wreath of 
myrtle blossoms; the back of her head was envelop 
ed in a net of solitaires , of which, too, the hand of 
the wreath consisted. A silver lace veil, flowing 
do wn to the train, completed this tasteful head-dress. 
Costly diamond r/livieren formed the ornaments Of 
her neck, shoulders, and arms, and the ear-rings, 
girdle, and Inclo&ure of the waist were composed of 
chains of brilliants. The remaining archduchesses 
had all of them white, silver-brocaded dresses, with 
rich lace coverings and costly diadems of brilliants— 
the difference between their dresses and that of the 
bride being the color only. 
-• ».■♦»« ♦■- 
Loving and Falling in Love. — Nothing is in¬ 
deed so common in this world as falling in love, yet 
Written for Moore’B Rural New-Yorker. 
VANISHED DAYS. 
* 
BY A. A. HOPKINS. 
Thb vanished days are never dead; 
They glide off into spaces 
We know not of; the light, they shed 
Gleams somewhere still, though it be fled 
From wonted places 
And frequently the song they knew 
Upon the air is stealing; 
And to us, all the distance through. 
Again tb« beautiful and trne 
They are revealing. 
Their noble words and fruitful deeds 
Forevermore are living; 
Their ripened gladness far exceeds 
The hoping? that would cheat our needs 
In lien of giving. 
So not in sadneee ehonld we yield 
The Present to their keeping; 
Sometime their joy will be revealed,— 
They are not. dead, the days concealed, 
Not dead, but sleeping. 
To-day steals quietly away 
Behind the dreamy curtain 
That veils the vanished Yesterday, 
And heralding To-morrow play 
The lighte uncertain. 
Sweet sleep be on the years we mies— 
A restful sleep, and holy 1 
They hold somewhat of all onr bliss; 
The Future has the rest, and this 
Is coming slowly! 
For Past and Future ever hold 
The sum of all our pleasures; 
Sweets arc not sweet that now unfold, 
And happiness is not controlled 
In present measures! 
--—-- 
SOCIAL ABSURDITIES. 
Not many months ago a very celebrated actor 
went to Boston and favored the play-going public 
of that immaculate city with his renderings of the 
tragic. The elite,—feminine gender, particularly,— 
went into ecstacies over the acting and the man. 
Compliments and bouquets were showered upon 
him in the greatest profusion ; his elegant appear¬ 
ance was the all-absorbing topic of conversation; 
hi& smiles and attentions were as eagerly sought 
after as were ever those of a Prince Royal. But the 
enthusiasm of the Allies did not stop with this, or 
so, at least, runueth the newspaper 6tory. The 
anxiety to procure something belonging to him, to 
keep as a souvenir, was for a time the grand passion 
of not a few. It was gratified finally, in this wise : 
Learning that he was having someEblrts manufac¬ 
tured at a certain place, several of the enthusiastic 
ones proceeded thither, secured an old garment, in 
use for measurement, aud divided it between them! 
Boston has a Great Organ, and numerous other 
things of which it is exceedingly proud. It also 
claims to have the most genteel society on the 
Continent. Is gentility which makes such foolish 
exhibitions as the one mentioned, anything to boast 
of? In civilized aud refined circles absurdities like 
this arc not to be expected. We are even surprised 
to hear of a similar one as Occurring among people 
whom we have J Aofore suppos'd far behind the 
Bo6t.onian6 in Wdightenraent. The character of 
South Americans, in point of refinement, has never 
been of the highest, but the manner in which they 
lately indulged a social infatuation should give them 
rank with the Boston ton. Gottschark, the Pianist, 
has been playing in Uragnay and Buenos Ayres, and 
created a regular furore there. The Paris L'Art Mu- 
sieale says the ladies of Montevideo were so infatu¬ 
ated that they thought themselves fortunate if they 
could get bits of his gloves to wear in lockets. 
They were, however, entirely thrown into the shade 
by their neighbors of Buenos AyreB who, hearing that 
the handsome and attractive musician had been to 
have his hair cut, marched in solemn procession to 
the barber’s and purchased the locks of hair which 
had fallen under the scissors of the Argentine Figaro. 
These they bore off in triumph, and, placing them 
in elegant little reliquaries, wore them round their 
necks as relics. 
If demonstrations like this were confined to half- 
civilized countries, wc should not now speak of 
them. But they are not so confined. Boston has 
shown that they are not: indeed, it was shown 
previously in many other communities claiming to 
possess good taste. Booth has beeD toadied by 
New York’s “Upper Teudom" for years, aud in 
nearly every city in the United States Gottschalk 
has found those willing aud eager to indulge in man¬ 
ifold social absurdities. 
Now this is all wrong, and wc very deeply regret 
the tendency of society at large to hero-worship. A 
man’s ability to delineate Hamlet well, or to finger 
the ivories in a masterly manner, doe6 not deify him. 
It is not strange, perhaps, that the ladies admire 
this ability, especially when coupled with a tine face 
and tigare; but it is absolutely painful to see admi¬ 
ration overcome delicacy and sense. That It has 
done this, time after time, either of the gentlemen 
named, aud scores of others, could truly attest. 
Probably the ladies imagine that the stuff they 
make heroes of is pure and worthy, but such is too 
rarely the case. Even if it were true, always, 
hero-making would be none the less foolish and 
disgusting. 
And not alone are the ladies at fault in this matter. 
Mankind is not. much behind womankind in making 
: heroes, infatuated hero-worship may show a lack 
of delicacy in woman uotobservable iu man; yet the 
latter loses greatly in self-respect by such yielding 
of adoration. To get down in the dust, so to speak, 
before a fellow mortal, is to meanly abase yourself. 
Written for Moore’B Rural New-Yorker. 
flowers. 
How we wait and watch for flowers, all through 
the glad April days; and how the chill and weari¬ 
ness turns to leave the heart, just as it leaves the 
earth, when the first tender buds burst from the 
mold. Ah, we forget, a while, the sin aDd hollow¬ 
ness of the world, as we look into the tiny celestial 
faces of the flowers. Our hearts seem to go back 
to that far-off time when they were pure and loving 
as the sweet, glad blossoms that clasp and kiss each 
other all the long bright days. 
Home is not home without flowers—they teach ns 
so much of love and trust, as they blossom around 
the door. I care not how lowly the home may be, 
if flowers are there we may know love sits by the 
hearthstone. They will fade I know, but not until 
they have told ns, by every eleani of sunlight on 
their faces, by every dew drop nestling in their 
hearts, that the dear God careth for all. 
Grace G. Slough. 
BOOKS AND AUTHORS. 
At an auction sale of rare books, in New York, 
on the 38th of April, among others was a perfect 
copy of Eliot’s Indian Bible, which brought 
eleven hundred and thirty dollars , the highest price 
ever paid for a printed book in this country. This 
Bible, the first ever published on this continent, 
was printed at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 166S, 
the work having been begun three years earlier. 
There are now no living men who can read it, for 
the race to whom the noble-hearted missionary de¬ 
voted his laborious life has passed away from the 
earth, and the Boob which he prepared for their 
eternal good, with so much self-sacrifice and toil, 
remains only a monument to his scholarly genius 
and Christian zeal. The heathen and their loving 
apostle have both passed away, but John Eliot’s 
unreadable Bible still preaches a sermon of no ordi¬ 
nary eloquence. So say6 the Examiner & Chronicle. 
Charles Lamb relates, in one of his unpublished 
letters, some criticisms made upon Shaksuearb by 
Wordsworth. One of them was that “Shak- 
sj’fare was a great poet, very able genius, indeed;” 
that “much of his merit, however, lay iu his style, 
and a peculiar manner he had,” whicb Wordsworth 
thought other people could imitate—in fact, that he 
himself could write, like Shakspeare, if he had a mind to 
it. “No you see'' Lamb added, “ he wants nothing 
but the mind." 
Mr. James Pakton, whose latest work—“ People’s 
Biography”—we noticed last week, is described in 
the Cincinnati Commercial as “ tall, slender, pale, 
high-nosed, dark-haired, with beard all worn but 
close clipped, his face grave and impressive, his eye 
black, big and meditative. Altogether he has the 
look of a Spaniard of the olden time, thinned in flesh 
by hard study, aud ‘ sicklcd o’er by the pale cast of 
thought.’ ” 
In a recent English book—“ An Old Lady’s Rec.ol- 
A friend in Adrian, Mich., sends ns the following ex¬ 
pressive lines which were found among the selections of 
a dear son after his decease. We have no doubt that they 
will prove, as she suggests, of touching interest to some 
invalid reader of the Rural : 
THE ANSWER. 
“ Allah, Allah !” cried the sick man, racked with pain 
the long night through. 
Till with prayer his heart grew tender, till his lips like 
honey grew. 
But at morning came the tempter; said, “ Call louder, 
child of pain t 
See if Allah ever hears or answers. • Here am I,’ again.” 
Like a stab, the cruel cavil through his brain and poises 
went; 
To hie heart, an icy coldness, to his brain a darkness sent. 
Then before bim stands Elias; says, “My child why 
thus dismayed? 
Dost repent, thy former fervor? Is thy soul of prayer 
afraid?” 
"Ah!" he cried, "I’ve called so often, never heard the 
1 Here am I;’ 
And I thought, God will not pity; will not turn on me 
Hie eye." 
Then the grave Elias answered—“ God said ‘Rise, Eli¬ 
as; go 
Speak to him, the sorely tempted; lift him from his gulf 
of woe; 
Tell him that his very longing is itself an answering cry; 
That his prayer, 1 Come, gracious Al l a h I’ is my answer 
‘ Here am I.’ ” 
Every inmost aspiration is God's angel undeftled; 
And in every “ O my father t” slumbers deep a “ Here, 
my child!" 
-- 
CONFESSING CHRIST. 
It means more than we sometimes stop to think 
when an individual stands up iu the gathered con¬ 
gregation, and publicly declares bis belief and trust 
in the Lord Jesus Christ as the only Redeemer of 
sinners. 
Not long since, we attended the funeral of a man, 
past middle life, who had always been a firm and 
liberal supporter of evangelical worship—who was 
found in his place on the Sabbath, an attentive lis¬ 
tener to the word—who, by an almost nameless air 
aud manner and expression of countenance, gave 
evidence that he was listening not with the ear 
only, but with the heart, and who, in the lingering 
illness that preceded his death, seemed to trust joy¬ 
ful ly in the only Saviour of sinners; but he had 
never made a public profession of religion. 
It was the one sail reflection in those funeral ser¬ 
vices, that this man, in the years of his active life, 
had not publicly avowed the Lord Jehovah to be 
bis God, and Christ as the only hope of pardon and 
eternal life. Naturally modest and retiring in his 
disposition, he had shrunk from this open declara¬ 
tion. And doubtless those, who are no friends of 
Ohri6t and his church, bad many times pointed to 
in that country as lately as L8CI5, it was only the 
married wom"n who dressed expensively; satins aud 
velvets were considered too heavy and old looking 
for maidens. Not so now. 
Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, author of the “ Battle 
Hymn of the Republic,” the best lyric of the war, 
converses finently in eight different languages—just 
eight more than a good many people can converse in 
correctly. 
Lord Lytton’s “Miscellaneous Prose Works,” 
the bishop of Oxford’s Life of his father, William 
Wilberforcc, and an essay by Dean Stanley, on the 
“Connection of Church and State,” are among the 
latest English publications. 
Henry Kingsley says, in the introduction to a 
new edition of “Robinson Crusoe,” that the story 
iB no romance at all, but merely an allegorical ac¬ 
count of DeFoe’s own life. 
DeFoe could find no publisher for “Robinson 
Crusoe;” Thackeray, for “ Vanity FairCharlotte 
Broute, for “ Jane Eyre;” Emerson, for his first essay 
on Nature—until patience had been exhausted. 
Jean Ingelow's popularity in this country is 
him up as an example how ranch better a man may 
be out of the church than in it, counting bim on 
their side, and covering their own impiety by his 
example, when he was not on their side. The vir¬ 
tues and excellencies of his character, so far as we 
cau judge, were Christian virtues. He was not self- 
righteous. He was not trusting in his works. He 
himself made no merit out of those things, for 
which others boasted of him, and his public testi¬ 
mony ought to have been on the side of Christ and 
His people. 
We have no wish to add improper members to 
the church. Mere increase in numbers, in itself 
considered, is no strength. But in a Christian com¬ 
munity like yonr own, there are many individuals, 
who stand related to Christ and his flock very much 
as this man did, and who ought to come out and 
bear open testimony for the Redeemer.— Selected. 
- «■! » "» - 
FAITH AND WORKS. 
Two gentlemen were one day crossing the river 
in a ferry-boat. A dispute about faith and works 
arose, one saying that good works were of small 
shown by the fact that sixteen thousand volumes of importauce, and that faith was every thing, the 
her works were sold last year. 
Dr. Holland’s “ Kathrina” has reached its forty- 
fifth thousand. In view of this some one asks— 
“ Have we a Tltpeh among us ?” 
Whittier calls attention to the fact that 6ome of 
the best contributions to our periodical literature 
are by persons who have never published a book. 
A book of poems, by Adah I&aac6 Menken, is an¬ 
nounced in London. 
Kioyte Bakin is the Dickens of Japan. One of 
his stories is in 120 volumes. 
- .« ♦ - 
THE UNCHANGEABLE LAND. 
Things do not change in the East. A6 Abraham 
pitched his tent in Bethel, so does an Arab sheik now 
set up his camp; as David built his palace on Mt. 
Zion, so would a Turkish pasha now arrange his 
house; in every Btreet may be seen the hairy chil¬ 
dren of Esau, squatting on the ground, devouring a 
mess of lentils like that for which the rough hunter 
sold his birthright; along every road plod the sons 
of Rechab, whose fathers, one thousand years ago, 
bound themselves and theirs to drink no wine, plant 
no tree, enter within no door; and their children 
have kept the oath; at every khan young men 
around the pan of parched corn dip their morsel in¬ 
to the dish; Job’s plow is still used, and the seed 
is still trodden into the ground by asses and kine; 
olives are shaken from the boughs, ns directed by 
Isaiah ; and the grafting of trees is unchanged since 
the days of Saul. The Syrian house is still, as form¬ 
erly, only a 6tone tent as a temple was but a marble 
teut. What is seen now in Bethany may be taken 
as the exact house of Lazarus, where Mary listened 
other asserting the contrary. Not being able to 
convince each other, the ferryman, an enlightened 
Christian, asked permission to give his opinion. 
Consent being granted, he said.—“ i hold in my 
hand two oars. That in my right hand I call 
‘ faith,’ the other, in my left, * works.’ Now, gen¬ 
tlemen, please to observe, I pull the oar of faith, 
and pull that alone. See! the boat goes round, and 
the boat makes no progress. I do the same with 
the oar of works, and with a precisely similar re¬ 
sult—no advance. Mark! 1 pull both together, 
and we go on apace, and in a very few minutes we 
shall be at our lauding place. So, in my hnmble 
opinion,” he added, “faith without works, or 
works without raith, will noi suffice. Let there be 
both, and the haven of eternal rest is sure to be 
reached.” 
As the flower is before the fruit, so is faith before 
good works. Faith is the parent of works, and the 
children will bear a resemblance to the parent. It 
is not enough that the inward works of a clock are 
well constructed, aud also the dial-plate and hands; 
the one must act on the other, the works must reg¬ 
ulate the movement of the hands — Arch, Whately. 
_- 
Said Mr. Moody, in one of the noon-day prayer 
meetings in Chicago:—“ I used to think that Christ 
loved me more than God, because he gave his life 
for me; but since God gave me a child I don’t 
think so. Why, there isn’t a pain that my little 
daughter suffers but that I would gladly, if I could, 
take it out of her breast aud put it into mine; there 
isn't a disease that enters into her system but that 
I would gladly divert into mine. She experiences 
no pain that does not, like a knife, pierce me also. 
To Bave her life I would willingly lay down my 
His noY“ovrSe one to Z Proper^ripeet for oth^s, who hav'e good 'qualities and Martha toiled, or as the house of Simon, the 0 wn. And yet, God so loved the world that he 
flower that may bloom and wither iu a night, the of head and heart, should not be withheld; giving leper, where the precious box of ointment was broken gave his only begotten son tout whosoever beheveth 
other is the rich fruit from the flower, that can sur- more than that is unduly lowering the standard of and whence Judas set out to betray his Ma&tei. in hnn shall not perish, but have everlasting 
Dickens' All the Year Hound. 
other is the rich fruit from the flower, that can sur¬ 
vive the sun aud storm, and ripen to decay no more. 
When feverish anxieties have passed away, when 
“ hopes, and fears that kindle hope,” cease, when 
selfish jealousies and lover’s quarrels are buried, 
self, aud will work a deep injury. 
Fos&ibly social ethics demand some new excite¬ 
ment occasionally, in which or upon which com¬ 
munities and the general public may vent their 
in him shall not perish, but have everlasting life.’ 
DAY. 
A Day ! It has risen upon us from the great deep 
when “honeymoons” are long forgotten, and the superfluous enthusiasm. A moderate-sized hero, A Day ! It has nsenup s _ 
snowy brow has become wrinkled, and the eye lost then, may attunes be useful-one just large enough of eternity, girt round WithJ° nder ’ 
its moisture, then does love, worthy of the name, to perform the work properly, and then vanish, the womb of arvueos, , . r , t 
i bceome the inmate of the heart and home —a love Weston served a purpose, perhaps. War heroes light spoken into being iy t t . 
such as youth never dreamed of nor realized. had come to be an old story. The popular heart itself one entire an per ec &p e „___ t 
Js young lady at a fashionable dinner pestered Dr. 
Johnson with a conundrum—a thing which the bluff 
old philosopher utterly detested. “ Why is the let¬ 
ter J like the end of spring, doctor?” wa6 the 
question. Of course the doctor eouldn't tell. ‘ ‘ Be¬ 
cause it is the beginning of June,” was the solution. 
“ Now, miss, will you tell me why the letter K is 
had come to be an old story. The popular heart 
had been gathering enthusiasm, as the cloud6 gather 
electricity, and it must spend itself in some way. 
The pedestrian proved a fair conductor, and the 
popular heart at length acquired its normal tone. 
Thie hero-making, however, has an air of fickleness 
about it, and does not speak well for the earnest 
good sense of a people. Lionizing one man to-day, 
I another to-morrow, and a third next week, implies 
like a pig’s tail?”’ sternly asked the doctor. The that our professed regard is very unstable and val- 
young lady had to give up. “ Because it is the end ueless. It is an absurdity foolish and damaging, bu 
of pork, miss.” The doctor was bothered with no amusing, withal, ou the part of men, — dangerous 
more conundrums. and highly reprehensible, on the part of women. 
itself one entire, aud perfect sphere of space and 
lime, filled and emptied of the sun. Every past 
generation is represented in it; it is the flowering 
of all history, and in so much it is richer and better 
than all other days which bave preceded it. And 
we have been re-created to new opportunities, with 
new powers—called to this utmost promontory of 
actual time, this center of all coming life. And it 
is for to-day’s work we have been endowed; it is 
for this work we are pressed and surrounded with 
these faculties. The sum of our entire being is 
concentrated here; aud to-day is all the time we 
absolutely have.— Chapin. 
There is a Christian friendship which human, 
philosophy seldom comprehends; it is the associa¬ 
tion of two souls who pat in common their faith and 
prayers, and raise themselves together towards God. 
p k\yk i. is tiie key pf the day, and the lock of the 
night. And we should every day begin and end, bid 
ourselves good-morrow and good-night with prayer. 
This will make our labor prosperous, and our rest 
sweet ,—Lonl Berlecley. 
With men it is u good rule to try first and then to 
trust; with God it is contrary. I will first trust him 
as most wise, omnipotent, merciful, and try him 
afterward. 1 know it is as impossible for him to de¬ 
ceive me as to be deceived. 
A broken and contrite heart unlocks our inward 
senses, and makes us see, and hear, and feel the 
things that could no more be seen, heard, or felt be¬ 
fore, than a man in deep sleep can hear, and see, aud 
I feel the thiugs that are said and done. 
