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SWEET RUTH. 
BY JAMES 6. CLARK. 
The summer will soon be here, Sweet Kuth, 
For the birds of brighter bowers 
Are singing their way from the balmy South 
To the land of opening llowers; 
Bat the summer will fade, and the flowers will die, 
And the hirds, from bank and plain, 
Go mourning back to a warmer sky 
While I wait for thee in vain. 
O ! many a heart and many a hand 
I have pressed in puin and bliss, 
Dave found that rest in a better land 
Which they never knew in this; 
And of all the forms that fled with thee, 
From a kingdom fraught with tears, 
There are none that seem like thine to me 
Thro’ the golden mist of years. 
But I never have wished thee hack. Sweet Ruth, 
In the years that since have rolled,— 
And I guard the memory of thy truth, 
As a miser would his gold; 
The lowliest glens of my being know 
How the birds of peace may sing, 
And the darkest waves have caught the glow 
From a guardian angel's wing. 
-■ » < ♦ •»> ♦ »- 
Written ror Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
FARMERS’ WIVES. 
Young wife, if you would make home happy, 
strive also to make it beautiful. There is a grave 
mistake made, in this respect, oftener in “the 
country” than elsewhere, but quite as censurable 
as the idle, frivolous habits so often and so justly 
reproved in our city and village girls of the present 
time. 1 would speak of this other extreme, which 
has caused many a household in a few years' time to 
he governed solely by a spirit of avarice, and a love 
of gain to the exclusion of all that was ennobling 
or elevating to the mind or principles. Habits of 
industry and economy are very necessary, and a thor¬ 
ough knowledge of kouskeeping should be indis¬ 
pensable to every woman. No matter what position 
she intends to fill, she should be capable of manag¬ 
ing her own household well and properly at all times. 
Mauy of our young farmers’ wives, from the day 
of their marriage, devote themselves so entirely and 
exclusively to the all-absorbing idea of housekeep¬ 
ing, that they soon know very little of what is taking 
place in the world outside the “kitchen and dairy.” 
No matter how good an education they may have 
acquired in their girlhood, or how many accomplish¬ 
ments, they are all alike forgotten in the thousand 
and one cares they mil take upon themselves, how¬ 
ever competent or faithful their domestics may be. 
They will insist upou “ baking, brewing, pickling 
and preserving,” year in and year out, until with 
their physical strength nearly exhausted they be¬ 
come sour, fretful, faded women. Aside from being 
good “housekeepers,” they of course desire to be 
“ good wiveB and mothers; ” and in one sense they 
are, for a bountiful table i 6 usually provided by their 
own hands; but while in the performance of those 
duties the children must he veo'y careful not to get 
in their way, neither must they trouble “mamma” 
with questions when she is busy and tired. 
Now, being a farmer’s wife myself, 1 know from 
experience that it is not necessary for the class 
spoken of to become “ kitchen maids'” and nothing 
else, unless they do it purely from cb oice. A woman 
of refined, cultivated taste 6 , may, if she will, devote 
a portion of each day, however short, to the enjoy¬ 
ment of these tastes, no matter how much butter is to 
be made or how many cheeses there are to torn. 
Farmers, ae a general rule, understand how to keep 
the purse pretty well filled, without any anxiety, or 
extra exertions on the part of their wives, save what 
they may do by careful economy and good judgment. 
So, weary wives and mothers, stop and rest, and — 
consider. Stay less in yonr kitchens, an d devote more 
of your time to adorning and beautifying your homes. 
Cultivate llowers, if only a few; and if yon under¬ 
stand music, and have an instrument, because you 
are married do not dose it and pile away your 
music with the mistaken idea that yon will have no 
more time to practice. Take time for your music, 
and yonr reading also. Above all, do not entirely ' 
neglect yonr personal appearance in your great eager¬ 
ness to accomplish just sucb an amount of labor. If 
you do, it will be nothing strange if your husband 
sometimes compares the untidy woman he sees every 
morning, noon and night in his house, to the neat, 
tastefally dressed, cheerful girl that always greeted 
him in the days of courtship; and the comparison 
will surely co 6 t him a sigh. 
Then there are the children: they should never be 
neglected for anything. Besides being parent and 
teacher to them, be also a companion, and even 
sometimes a playmate, thereby gaining their confi¬ 
dence, and making them understand that they have 
yonr sympathy as well as love. Combine as much 
as possible the beautiful with the useful. Bring all 
the refining influence you can into your homes, that 
they may make a lasting impression on the tender 
minds and hearts of your offspring while yet they 
are young, and that your husband may realize at last 
that there is something else to live for, some other 
“end and aim” in life than merely to “get rich.” 
Make an effort to fill your homes more with music, 
books, pictures, flowers and cheerfulness, and you 
will see ere long that the lessons they teach of purity 
and contentment will be felt, all through your house¬ 
hold. Truly, there is a vast amount of labor for 
“farmers’ wives ” and all others; yet not more than 
one-third of it should be done “in the kitchen.” 
G. c. 
-<«« ♦ >.»- 
KISSES. 
Thebb’s a formal kiss of fashion. 
And a burning kiss of passion, 
A father's kiss, 
A mother's kiss, 
And a sister's kiss to move; 
There’s a traitor's kiss for gold 
Like a serpent’s clammy fold ; 
A first kiss, 
A stolen Mse, 
And the thrilling kiss of love; 
A meeting kiss, 
A maiden kiss, 
A kiss when fond hearts sever, 
But the saddest kiss 
On earth is this— 
A kiss to part forever. 
i The Sorrows or Genius.— The sorrows that are 
born of genius are like the tendrils of some delicate 
vine, which, when reaching forth for support, meet 
only rudeness, and they wither and dry. The juices 
t of the plant which sustained them are sent back to 
the heart, and the rev ulsion of strength which went 
out towards another is like so much poison, that re- 
L tards its growth and renders the plant sickly, if in- 
t deed it does not die. —Northwestern Ch, Adv. 
Written lor Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
TEARS. 
“Tears are cheap things,—but there is no use 
wasting them for naught.” 
80 says “T. Raveleh” in “Ilavelings, No. V.” 
Strange assertion! Certainly, the man who framed 
that sentence could not have been familiar with the 
subject- His nature must be superficial, indeed, or 
he has not yet encountered the tempest that 6 hook 
it to its foundation, that stirred his 60 ul to its very 
depths, else he could not speak thus lightly of so 
great a blessing. 
Tears are a gift from Heaven direct to sorrowing 
man; an antidote for woe; a balm that soothes the 
breaking heart; that cools the scorching brain, the 
fevered imagination, wheD corroding cares and crnel 
wrongs have fanned to a flame the fires of hatred 
and revenge. Tears are alike the solace of youth 
and old age,—the oil poured in upon the infant 
mind, to prevent the friction of the bustling world 
until the little, tender, trembling creature shall 
have gained strength of mind and body sufficient 
to enable it to strive witb the striving multitude. 
“ Tears are cheap things.” Would it were true! 
Bat memory 1 b too faithful to her trust to entertain 
the illusion. Every tear has been purchased at a 
fearful cost,—the leveling of some beautiful struc¬ 
ture hope had reared; the severing of the nearest 
and most sacred ties of earth; or, perchance, the 
memory of some sin yet unforgiven, the thought of 
having offended a merciful God. 
“Cheap things?” No, they are costly, precious 
thiDgs; sacred things; holy things! 
Wheaton, I1L, May, 186S. Sarah M. Smith. 
-«->-»- 
WOMEN IN ENGLISH COAL MINES. 
An account of the condition of the colliers of 
South Lancashire, England, published in the Lon¬ 
don Dally News, describes the women who are em¬ 
ployed in the pit-months. The number of women 
thus employed in the neighborhood of Wigan is 
five hundred; most of them are unmarried. Their 
ages vary from twelve to fifty; a few are the widows 
of colliers. They generally wear a peculiar attire, 
consisting of coarse trowsers, resembling those worn 
by men, fastened by a belt round the waist, a soft 
bonnet and a shawL The petticoats are generally 
tucked into the trowsers 
Sometimes they may he seen wearing jackets, like 
the men, smoking, drinking and behaving as if com¬ 
pletely nnsexed. It is acknowledged that the 
habitual wearing of this costume tends to destroy 
all Bense of decency amongst them ; but it has not 
been ascertained that their morals are more lax than 
those of the generality of females employed in ag¬ 
ricultural operations. They naturally belong to a 
very low class; but in some cases they make good 
wives and mothers, and many of the younger ones 
regularly attend, in appropriate female costume, 
the neighboring Sunday Schools; still, the system 
cannot be easily defended. The colliers, as a body, 
are ashamed of it. 
The labor required of the women is hard and very 
dirty, rendering their persons and clothing black as 
coal. They have to assist in removing the tubs of 
coal from the cages at the month of the pit, some¬ 
times assisting to tip the tubs into the coal wagons. 
The work is severe even for men, yet the women 
appear accustomed to it, and, as a class, seem heal¬ 
thy and robust. The hours of labor are from (5 a. 
m. to 5 or 6 v. m., including the necessary Intervals 
for breakfast and dinner; but the labor is not al¬ 
ways of a very heavy character, the females being 
frequently employed in picking and cleaning coal, 
the men using the shovel; in fact, the women have 
the cheaper kinds of labor, their wages seldom ex¬ 
ceeding Is. fid. per day, while the men whom they 
assist receive from 3s. fid. to 3s. per day. The aver¬ 
age price of female labor is Is. fid. per day. Where 
the women are married the wages are often spent in 
drink by the husband; iudeed, there are 6 ome meu 
— fortunately a few only—who live absolutely on 
the earnings of their wives and offspring. 
-- 
DOMESTIC LIFE IN GERMANY. 
1 took tea not long since, at the house of a Bar¬ 
oness, with a party, and not a servant was seen. 
The Baroness made tea after we were seated at the 
table, with a convenient and elegant apparatus, pre¬ 
pared for the purpose, and two beautifal young 
ladies, a niece of the Baroness and a friend, passed 
around the table and served the guests. 
On a certain occasion 1 called on a wealthy family, 
and was received by the lady of the house, who told 
me that her two daughters were in the kitchen cook¬ 
ing. They were both to be married soon, and a 
professional cook had been employed to come three 
times a week to give lessons in the art of cooking, 
aud initiate them fully into atl the mysteries. In 
five minutes one of these young ladies came into the 
parlor to see me, neatly dressed, and conversed with 
rue iu beautiful English. 
A thorough acquaintance with domestic economy 
is considered an indispensable qualification in a 
young lady for the married life. In addition to all 
this, mothers teach their daughters that one of the 
chief duties after marriage is to strive to make their 
husbands comfortable and happy. When a German 
husband comes to his home, at the close of a day of 
toil aud auxiety, his wife receives him with a smile, 
arranges his arm chair, brings him his study gown 
and slippere, places before him refreshments, gets 
him a cigar, and while he eats and smokes, converses 
with him in the most entertaining manner about the 
events of the day. What will your lady friends say 
about this picture of domestic life in Germany? — 
Coi'respojuknl. 
-»«»- 
OUR SPICE BOX. 
The weapon that no enemy can parry is a bold 
spirit. 
Adhesion to low habits—Telling lies and sticking 
to them. 
A truly great man never puts away the simplicity 
of a child. 
Never open the door to a little vice, lest a great 
one should enter. 
The duty of the happy is to help the suffering 
to bear their woe. 
It is better to weep with Jerusalem at noon than 
mourn with Babylon at night. 
Looking glasses don’t lie, but they tell some 
awful plain truths uow and then. 
Thebe can he no objection to a broil in the house 
as long as it is confined to the kitchen. 
If you want to see a pretty tolerable specimen of 
vanity, consult—your own looking glass. 
1 | 
Tiieeb never was a hypocrite so despised but he 
had yet some mark or other to be known by. 
The repentance that is delayed uutil old age is but 
too often a regret for the inability to commit more sin 
People oftener want something taken away to 
make them agreeable, than something to be added. 
f|lisccllan|). 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
SHINING THOUGHTS. r 
Light and Beauty walk together hand in hand 
Through the heart’s congenial chambers, day by day. ( 
Catching up the shining thoughts all fair and bland 
Which are dropped into their garner as they stray; 1 
Yet unseen by mortal vision is the charm 
That enhances all their dainty store with grace, 1 
Save when bonny Beanty from her jeweled arm 
Flings their ever changing splendor o’er the fhce. ( 
Then the eye that loves to search for golden truth 1 
Borrows hope and gladness from those kindling beams, < 
Till it dances like a fondling in its youth, < 
While it drinke the eparkllDg bliss or real dreams; 1 
And the spirit is refreshed with living worth j 
Ae their diamonds glitter in its mystic cell, , 
Till it longs to break the galling chains of earth 
And with God the fount of thought forever dwell. 
Light reveals the shades of feeling as they throng , 
Every human breast, with vividness and power; 
Beauty is the music of impressions song, 
And its hues blend like the variegated flower. 
Thus they weave the chain of thought with rosy links, 
And Its crowning glory is their gold refined; 
From their magic fountain he who early drinks 
May possess the brightest treasures of the mind. 
Oh, the world is wealthy with its gifted few, 
For the lowly from their lips may wisdom learn; 
And one little shining thought, if pure and true, 
In a thouaaod faithful hearts for years may burn, 1 
Giving life and strength aud courage to the soul. 
Making all Its burdens lighter far to bear, 1 
Teaching goodness, patience, meekness, Belf-control, 
And preserving those who sorrow from despair. 
L. M. D. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
RAVELINGS — NEW SERIES. 
BY T. BAVELBB. 
NO. VI.-THE MAIDEN AUNT OF STORY. 
“ How ridiculous I” 
For a half hour before making this exclamation 
Aunt J BRUSH A. had been deeply absorbed in “The 
Very Weakly Tale-Bearer,” a copy of which the 
officious news-boy had thrust into her lap. We 
were taking our first summer airing by rail. 
“How very ridiculous 1” __ 
“What is it, Aunt Jehusha?” 
She handed me “ The Very Weakly Tale-Bearer,” 
in answer, with her index finger pointing to one 
of the stories therein contained. It was entitled 
“ Prudence Prevost’s Regret.” I read the story. 
It, opened with a lovers’ quarrel. Prudence Pre 
vost was the kind, sweet-hearted, mild-mannered, 
much beloved, uncommonly-eommon (for further 
compounds see the dictionary or druggist) maiden 
aunt who knew Of the quarrel, and sacrificed her 
sensitive feelings by opening a chapter from her 
own early experience, to show the young girl (one 
of the lovers) how exceedingly dangerous a little 
quarrel between lovers was. The chapter thus open¬ 
ed formed the “Regret” of Prudence Prevost. 
Having read it through, 1 dropped the paper with 
the simple utterance— 
“ Well ?" 
“ Well ?" echoed Aunt Jerubha, with more spirit 
than usual. “It isn’t ’tell, at all! The story tell¬ 
ers ought to be ashamed of themselves! I haven’t 
picked up a story in a month but I have found 
the maiden aunt figuring in it in some such way 
as this.” 
1 thought the good woman was slightly exagger¬ 
ating, yet was conscious of au impression that Miss 
Prudence Prevost was an old acquaintance under 
a new name. 
“ In this particular story,” Aunt Jehusha con¬ 
tinued, “6he is a round hundred years old: it’6 a 
fact—the story teller says it. Now don’t you think 
it about time the poor soul be allowed to die in 
peace ?” 
1 involuntarily nodded an affirmative. 
“ To be forever giving the maiden aunt a ‘ regret,’ 
or a ‘ mistake,’ long as life lasts! It’s a downright 
imposition! D u people suppose because she is un¬ 
married that she carries with her a ghost of a sor¬ 
row continually ? Is it Inevitable, since she is sin¬ 
gle, that some doleful experience made her 60 ?” 
Aunt Jbrusha was waxing more and more indig- 
uaut. Her cheeks glowed, her eyes sparkled with 
an augry light,, and she was for the moment ten 
yearn younger than the family Bible represented. 
She hadn’t forgotten, however, that 6he was speak¬ 
ing for her class. 
“ I say, is it a necessity, because she is a maiden, 
that she must father, or rather mother, these lugu¬ 
brious productions of the story writers? Answer 
me, Thomas. Is it?” 
“ My dear Aunt Jbrusha, don’t you think it 
rather incumbent upon a woman to mother some- 
thing?" 
Soberly conning it over, since, I have questioned 
if my answer didn’t deserve the contempt she gave 
it. Seeing that she waited for some farther reply, 
I added,— 
“ But are. the experiences of the fictitious maiden 
aunt purely fictitious in themselves ? Would a 
woman remain always a maiden without some such 
experience ?” 
“ There it is again! Now I should like to know, 
Thomas, why a worn n may not live a single life 
simply from choice, and choice in no wise influ¬ 
enced by any touch of disappointment? i think 
she can. 1 think a great many women do. 1 don’t 
take it for granted that you are a bachelor solely 
because you quarreled with a pretty girl years ago.” 
1 must confess I winced a little at this. This talk 
of my Aunt Jehusha interested me, though. You 
know when I first introduced her to yon I said 
that she probably had her story. I really imag¬ 
ined she had, and hoped some time she would 
favor us with it. 
“ All of mankind, and perhaps some of my own 
— I see a woman wrote that”—and she pointed 
scornfully to the “Tale-Bearer”—“seem to be¬ 
lieve that celibacy, with woman, is an unpleasant 
outgrowth of a more unpleasant heartache. The 
belief Is sheer nonsense. If you say it is founded 
on the assumption that every woman must have a 
heart-experience,—must fall in love, as it is term¬ 
ed,—anJ t uat the assumption is correct, then 1 con¬ 
tend that half the women marry solely because of 
some previous disappointment; for that number, 
at least, fail to marry the man they first love. 
“ But do not that half forget their sorrow in a 
■ second love?” 
“ Granted. Then may not the reBt ?” 
“ But they do not, Aunt Jerubha.” 
“Because they do not care to. If a married 
woman’s first love is not with her a life-long sor¬ 
row, no more is the first love or the only love of a 
single woman, be it admitted she ever had sych a 
thing. 1 saw a poem, a while since,—a pitiful tale 
about a young girl who allowed her lover to go 
away without knowing her love,—the last verse of 
which began — 
* 80 she is living her long regret.' 
And the story tellers,—poor, mistaken scribblers !— 
think that is the case always with the maiden aunt. 
They ought to know better. She hasn't, any ‘long 
regret.’ Tnis one of Miss Prudence Prevost, 
here,” and she crumpled the paper in her hand, 
“is a gross libel. A libel, too, on a woman a cen¬ 
tury old 1 " 
Aunt J brush a smiled very derisively. I was about 
to speak, when 6 be resumed: 
“I ask, again, if it isn’t about time the maiden 
aunt of the story-tellers had a peaceful burial ? 8 he 
has labored for them very faithfully a good three- 
quarters of a century, and should at least be allow¬ 
ed to retire on a pension. If you have any story¬ 
telling friends, Thomas, you can repeat what I 
have 6 ald, to them, if you please. And, I beg of 
you, ask them to bring out their bachelor uncle 
for a while!” 
Which request I therefore now most earnestly 
make. 
JfoHxtb Heading. 
I 
PRAYER. 
BY MYRTA MAY. 
CONCERNING LEISURE. 
The most fallacious ideas prevail respecting leis¬ 
ure. People are always saying to themselves, “ I 
would do this, and I would do that, if I had leis 
ure.” Now there iB no condition in which th e 
chance of doing any good is lesB than in the condi¬ 
tion of leisure. The man fully employed may be 
able to gratify his good dispositions by improving 
himself or his neighbors, or serving the public in 
some useful way; but the man who has all his time 
to dispose of as he pleases, has but a poor chance 
indeed of doing so. To do increases the capacity of 
doing, and it is far less difficult for a man who is in 
a habitual course of exertion, to exert himself a lit¬ 
tle more for an extra purpose, than for a man who 
doe 6 little, or nothing, to put himself into motion 
for the 3 ame end. There is reluctance in all things 
to be 6 et a-going; but when that is got over, then 
everything goes sweetly enough. 
Just so with the idle man. In losing the habit, 
he loses the power of doing. But a man who is 
busy about some regular employment for a proper 
length of time every day, can very easily do some¬ 
thing else during the remaining hours ; indeed, the 
recreation of the weary man is apt to be busier than 
the perpetual leisure of the idle. As he walks 
through the world, his hands hang unruffled by his 
side, and he can sometimes do more by a single 
touch in passing, than a vacant man is likely to do 
in a twelve-month. Let ko man ask for leisure in 
order to do anything. Let him rather pray that he 
may never have leisure. If he really wishes to do 
any good thing, he will always find time for it, by 
properly arranging his other employment.— Ex. 
-- » <«-»«•> »- 
ARTISTS’ MODELS IN ROME. 
The living models are a curious class of people, 
and quite numerous. They are in a great part Ital¬ 
ians, and follow no other business. A model gets 
his ruu of customers and makes his engagements 
weeks ahead. In a school they generally pose for a 
week at a time, for four hours each day, and iu pri¬ 
vate ateliers for any required time. The schools gen¬ 
erally have men for models two weeks, then a 
woman for one week, as the latter are more scarce 
and more easily drawn than men. Tne firmly mark¬ 
ed muscles of the male figure offer a much more 
difficult problem thau the smooth contour of a 
womau. Tne same models pose in all the schools 
in their turn, coming around once in a year or so, 
or oftener, right along, all their lives, perhaps. I 
know of one who has posed in a certain atelier regu¬ 
larly for more than thirty years. One franc an hour 
is the ordinary compensation, but no model will 
come at all for less than four francs. Some who 
have extraordinary forms are able to get larger 
prices. There is a baker in town who has a face 
and form finely adapted to pictures of the time of 
Louis XIV., who is often employed by Missonier 
and others at ten francs per hour. There is another 
fellow who has a Greek east of form, who gets six 
francs; and an Italian who poses for Christ for eight. 
A11 the Italian models profess to pose for Christ, 
however villainous they may look; many also in¬ 
cline to the role of 8 t. John. The women often 
have special fortes, as the Virgin Mary, or Minerva, 
Venue, &c,— Cor. Chicago Republican. 
-- 
BOY CHOIRS IN GERMANY. 
8ome of the finest church choirs iu Berlin, Dres¬ 
den, Potsdam and Halle consist chiefly of boys. 
One thing is a little peculiar—I have not yet seen a 
lady in a church choir. The mystery is, how the 
singing master manages to get so much aud such a 
variety of music out of such unmusical looking 
heads; yet he does, and it is not all sound simply, 
but harmony of the sweetest kind—thrilling, rap¬ 
turous music. Aud what is more marvelous, these 
boys’ voices imitate the most cultivated tones of 
the female voice, giving all parts in sweetest unison. 
If always on the thorns my feet must tread, 
And heavy clonds hang darkly o'er my head; 
If all the sunshine from my life depart, 
And cold, gray ashes lie npon my heart, 
If all my hopes, like swift-winged birds must fly, 
And every flower of promise droop and die; 
If always through a mist of gathering tears 
My eyes watch sadly for the coming years ; 
O, Father, when Death's river I’ve crossed o'er, 
And my feet stand npon the further shore, 
Shall not thy seal npon my forehead be 
“ Perfect through suffering,’' purified by thee? 
[Advocate. 
-—-- 
BYGONE S. 
In what sense are bygones to be bygones ? We 
answer In the sense of exercising Christian char¬ 
ity ; in the sense of forgiving the faults, and cher¬ 
ishing reticence concerning the imperfections and 
failures of our fellow-men. Nothing more clearly 
displays the littleness of the natural man, or the 
weakness of the spiritual life in the professed Chris¬ 
tian, than the constant allusion to the faults of .oth¬ 
ers who are regarded as enemies. Nor does any¬ 
thing show greater nobility of character, and truer 
assimilation to the holy God-Man, than the forgive¬ 
ness of, and sympathy with, wrong-doers. Oh, it is 
a beautiful and God-like thing to pass by private 
offenses with silent compassion for the offender. 
We do not counsel the reader to look with com¬ 
placency on the sins of any person. “The best 
man hates them most; the worst man cannot love 
them; but are these the man ? Does a woman bear 
that form In virtue of these ? Lies there not within 
the man and the woman a divine element of broth¬ 
erhood, of sisterhood; a something lovely and lova¬ 
ble?" Let that divine element be recognized by 
us. Let us love the brother and sister, but so hate 
that which is unlovely about them as to hasten to 
forget It. 
Making bygones bygones thus would neither en¬ 
danger nor lessen public security. We make a dis¬ 
tinction between private and public wrongs. A 
Christian man, however influenced by charity, is 
still a citizen of the earth, aud has social rights 
which Christianity does not ask him to forego, but 
rather to defend. To he Christ-like is not to be a 
coward. Public sins should be followed by chas¬ 
tisement. The law and its penalty, which are a 
terror to evil-doers, mnst he upheld. But when 
justice has had its demands, and especially when 
the correction has proved reformative, it is the 
part, not only of Christian charity, but of common 
fairness, to say, “Let bygones be bygones.” Do 
not check the man’s eager efforts to gain an honest 
livelihood, to offer society some degree of repara¬ 
tion for the past, and to reinstate himself and those 
dear to him in the esteem of men, from which in 
the hour of temptation he fell. Remember how 
the Divine Father deals with you, and think of the 
heart-probing petition put into your lips by Jesus, 
“Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who 
trespass against us.” How can we expect to receive 
forgiveness of God while we exclude a brother from 
our mercy ?— Rev. J. H. Hitchens. 
-- 
OUR CHART. 
If you would know whether the Bible he true in 
its teachings, you mnst do by it as you do by a chart 
A chart is nothing but a piece of paper, and what 
good would it do for half a dozen captains to sit 
down on shore and discuss its merits? How can 
they know whether its. descriptions are correct or 
not? Let them take it on board and prove it by 
sailing by it. That is a time chart on trial. If there 
is a rock where it says “rockif there is a shoal 
where it says “ shoalif there is a current where 
it 6 ays “ current;” if it is safe where it 6 e.ys “ safe,” 
then it is a true chart, no matter who made it, or 
how, or when or where it was made. 
It is the sea that is the best test of a chart, so is 
the human life the test of the Bible. Take God’s 
word, in which human life is chartered down, and 
measure character aud conduct by it; measure your 
whole self by it; measure God’s grace by it, and see 
if it is not true. Would you know the truth of the 
Bible ? Become a Christian. “ If any man will do 
my will,” says Christ, “he shall know of the doc¬ 
trine which I teach, whether it be of God.” 
LIVING TO LOSR. 
Who is there that lives past twenty that does not 
live to lose? First goes our youth down into that 
deep, deep sea which gives ns back none of aU the 
treasures that it swallows up. Youth goes down, 
and innocence with it, and peace is then drowned, 
too. So, many happy, joyous feelinge that belonged 
alone to youth, like the strong swimmer from some 
have seen choirs of from forty to one hundred shipwrecked bark, struggle awhile upon the surface, 
boys, bebiud them a huge organ, and when the hut are engulfed at last. Strength, vigor, powers of 
singing service is introduced, one is nearly lifted enjoyment, disappear, one by one. Hope, buoyant 
from his feet, as that hundred - voiced, youthful hope, snatching at straws to keep herself afloat, 
choir, accompanied by organ and congregation, Btnks, also, in the end. r l hen life itself goes down, 
sends forth the anthem of praise. These boys sing and the broad sea of events that has just swallowed 
with a will—sing lustily—throw back.their heads, another noble ship, flows as calmly as ever, and 
open their mouths, expand their lungs, and pour myriads cross and recro 6 S on the same voyage, the 
forth such volumes of sweet sound that one never spot where others perished scarce a 4 day before. 80 
would have dreamed resided there. But the Ger- life is a continued loss from the cradle to the grave, 
mans are ready singers, natural singers, love sing- aud these losses taken away one by one, should ad- 
ing, and in some form and somewhere are always monish ns that nothing is stable here, but heaven is 
engaged in it. The children all sing, are taught it to be gained only by the loss of all earthly things 
ear ly—so early, that one almost concludes they are that please for a moment and then vanish forever.— 
bom singing .—The Methodist. J- L. Mersey. 
_ _,, _ __- - 
_ ’ ~ „ .. FIVE KINDS OF CONSCIENCE. 
Don’t Write There.—“ Don’t wnte there, said _ 
one to a lad who was writing with a diamond pin on ^ fiye kind6 of conscieace on foot ^ 
a pane of glass in the window of a hotel. world: First, an ignoraut conscience, which 
“ Why?” said he. ^ neither sees nor says anything, neither beholds the 
“Because you can’t rub it out. sin8 ^ a 60u i nor reproves them. Secondly, the 
There are other things which meu should not do, flaUeri consciencei whose speech is worse thau 
because they cannot rub them oat. A hcrtis ich- j wbicht though , eolng Bln , B00 thes 
uig (or sympathy, and a cold, perhaps a heartless committing thereot Thirdly, the 
»ord b spoken. The impression may be more du- conBctellC e, which has neither sight, speech 
rable than that of a dramond npon the glass. The are past feeling. Fourthly, 
inscription on the ear may as ureter. a wounded conscience, freighted with pepitence for 
Oh many a mind and many a heart, ead msenp. *™ u an „ ^ ^ clc „ con . 
tinnR. are deeply engraved, which no effort can erase. 61U - . ..... 
uons arc . . science, pacified in Christ Jesus. Of these, the 
We should be careful what we write on the mmds “ ^ tetto than the ttiree , or . 
of others. J er ry s j useum. mert 60 a wise man would not take'a world to 
" change with them. Yea, a wounded conscience is 
KNOWLEDGE.—Knowledge, like wealth, is simply ful thaQ 6ijjful an auction, an offense; 
an element of power and enjoyment. Its posses- is in the ready way, at the next remove, to be 
sion does not imply either wisdom or virtue. ^ quiet conscience.-17«». Fuller. 
Knowledge is an increased power to do good or_ ^ t 11 ^ _ 
eyil. There is a necessity, therefore, that man’s ^eediugly charitable, andibelievee no 
whole nature should be educated to make him a 
complete being; it is essential that the develop- U1 of tx0Cl ' 
ment of his moral nature keep pace with that of his He who loves little, prays little ;.he who Jloves 
intellectual faculties. much, prays much. , 
-T723 
