Hattie*’ ftijiatt incut. 
losses. 
Upon the white eea sand 
There sat a pilgrim band 
Telling the losses that their lives had known, 
While evening waned away 
Prom breezy cliff and bay, 
And the strong tides went out with weary moan. 
One spake, with quivering lip, 
Of a fair freighted ship. 
With all his household to the deep gone down; 
Bnt we had wilder woe 
For a fair face long ago 
Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 
There were who mourned their youth 
With a most loviug truth 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green; 
And one upon the West 
Turned an eye that would not rest 
For far-off bills whereon its joys had been. 
Some talked of vanished gold, 
Some of proud honors told. 
Some spoke of friends that were their trust no more; 
A'd one of a green grave 
l jaide a foreign wave 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 
But when their talcs were done, 
There spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free: 
" Sad losses have ye met, 
But mine is heavier yet, 
For a believing heart hath gone from me.” 
“ Alas t” these pilgrims said, 
“For the living and the dead. 
For fortune’s cruelty—for love’s sure cross, 
For the wrecks of land and sea! 
But, howe’er it came to thee. 
Thine, stranger, is life's lust and heaviest loss.” 
-^ - 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
HOW MARJORY WENT TO WASHINGTON ; 
OR, THE WILL AND THE WAV. 
BY LIZZIE M. BOYNTON. 
[Continued from page 376, last number.] 
CHAPTER III. 
The days glided rapidly by; the tangled mass of 
colored strips had met with a final winding up, and 
In the shape of brilliant balls had been sent to the 
weavers. I doubt if carpet of tapestry or velvet 
ever contained in its woof so many pleasant memo¬ 
ries and bright anticipations. At any rate “ the 
carpet” was finished, and Marjory busily eugaged 
in putting her own modest wardrobe in order. 
This bright morning discovers her among her 
treasures,—dainty raffles and flutings, little patches 
of embroidery, with here and there a gleam of color; 
foamy drifts of lace with ribbons of sea-weed, re¬ 
minding one of a shower of snow-flakes and autumn 
leaves. The choicest treasures were the gifts of 
friends, and Marjory was wondering why every¬ 
body was so kind to her, and determining to ren¬ 
der herself worthy of such friends, as the door was 
opened by her mother. Something in Mrs. Mat’s 
face hinted at possible disappointment, and instant¬ 
ly changed the current of Marjory’s thoughts. 
However, she listeued quietly as her mother said,— 
“ Marjory, I am very sorry that you have so set 
your heart upon this journey, especially as it ap¬ 
pears that you may be disappointed. Dr. Holmes 
just called here to tell me that Sister Mary is very 
sick,—threatened with a fever he thinks. She must 
have careful nursing, and I know it is my duty to 
have her brought here. She may rally in a few 
days, or she may be ill for weeks. Try to be pa¬ 
tient. It is hard, I know, but you are young yet, 
and there are yet other winters in store, I hope. 
Come now, and assist me in putting her room in 
readiness. 
Poor Madge ! She began to question if the will 
did insure the way. Slowly the little treasures 
were folded and laid aside. At first she thought, 
(as we are all apt to think when we encounter ob¬ 
stacles,) that the belter way would be to give it up 
at once; hut in a moment she w r as her own brave 
self again, and determined to continue her prepara¬ 
tions and endeavor to patiently bide the result. 
Leaving this pleasant cottage home, let us enter 
the “ palatial residence ” of the village. Look into 
the elegant parlor. Elegant carpets, gilded, star¬ 
ing mirrors, a few pictures vailed with tarletou, fur¬ 
niture shrouded with linen; not a flower, wreath 
or shell,—not an accessible piece of music,—not an 
open book. Everything inaccessible and under lock 
and key, (the music locked in the music-stand and 
the books in the library,) like the hearts of the in¬ 
mates. Judge Holt, his only daughter, Hattie, 
Nbllib Gwynne, a school-mate, and at present a 
guest of Miss Hattie's, and our young friend, Guy 
Gordon, completed the group. Guy chanced to 
have obtained special favor in Miss Hattie’s sight, 
and was her guest to-night by special iuvitatiou; 
meanwhile, his heart was wandering towards a cer¬ 
tain pleasant cottage. 
Hattie Holt had been taught from babyhood 
that the life-work of woman was the preservation 
and cultivation of personal beauty. She had proved 
a faithful scholar, and was now able to reduce her 
lesBons to practice. Truly, as we look at her now, 
she is very beautiful. Her filmy greeu dress, with 
its bauds of foamy lace, affords a beautiful setting 
for her cameo face. She reminds us of a beautiful 
picture, perfect in form and coloring, but wanting 
the last, great touch Iu which the artist paints his 
soul. A bird without voice, a flower wiihoui per¬ 
fume, a woman without heart,—such was Hattie 
Holt. Living, in this great, suflering, beautiful 
world, without thought or care but for her own lit¬ 
tle self, a life with everything that is most beautiful 
and lovely entirely “ crowded out." 
Her fair face seems unusually animated just now, 
because she remembers that she has an item of news. 
“ What do you think I heard to-day, Nell ? Mar¬ 
jory May is going to Washington! I do think she 
attempts more than any poor girl I ever heard of. 
Won’t she create a sensation ! Only think of it,— 
the very best evening dress Bhe has is a tucked, 
white Swiss. I asked her if she did not dislike to 
go with so plain a wardrobe, bnt she said something 
about going to see Washington, not to have Wash¬ 
ington see her. But, oh! Nell, I wish you could 
see her bonnet.” 
“ Why, is it old-fashioned ? Well, when one has 
so many beautiful thoughts inside of their head it 
does not make so much difference about the out¬ 
side. However, I guess Marjory will not go, after 
all. I met her, this evening, and she told me that 
her Aunt Mary was very sick at their house, and 
that, as they could not afford to hire a nurse, she 
would not leave her mother with so much care. I 
think it is too bad; only think of making a rag 
carpet in order to procure money to defray her 
expenses!” 
“ For pity’s sake, Nell, she did not do that, did 
she? Wouldn’t she be beautifully snubbed by 
some of those Washington belles if they knew 
it? I should think that indolent, good-for-nothing 
brother of hers could help her.” 
“ Pardon me, young ladies, hut I fear you are a 
little inconsistent. You blame a young man if he 
does not work, and censure a young lady if she 
does. Please explain, will you ?” 
“ Oh! you know, Mr. Gordon, girls are not ex¬ 
pected to work. You gentlemen teach us that, by 
always admiring weak, dependent women. Do you 
remember what one of our charming poets says ; 
“ Oh, Neahea. you exquisite infant, whose duty 
Is but to be fair, tuid whose soul is your beauty.*' 
For the first time Gut Gordon discovered a prom¬ 
ise of development in Nellie Gwynne, because the 
tones of her voice, as she repeated those lines, hint¬ 
ed of dissatisfaction with the sentiment. However, 
he was surprised from his answer, by the sudden 
appearance of a bachelor brother of Judge Holt’s, 
who had heretofore been unobserved, and who thus 
essayed: 
“ The very fact that girls are not expected to 
work i 3 the reason that they should receive greater 
credit for it, when they do. We seldom perform 
more than is expected of us. Did I understand you 
to say that Madge had made a rag carpet ?. - Good 
evening.” 
It was Hattie’s turn now. 
“ Why in the world didn’t you tell me that Uncle 
John was there ? I did not want him to know' a 
word about it. Marjory is a great favorite with 
him ; mark my word&, she will go to Washington.” 
Meanwhile Marjory was endeavoring to conquer 
her disappointment, sitting iu the quiet room, watch¬ 
ing the sleeping invalid—the lamp burning low and 
the ticking of the clock < ckoing her own brave heart¬ 
beats. How often in life we reach for the coveted, 
beautiful blessings, and receive instead only ashes 
and bitterness; and yet, wc know, that, “ like as a 
father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitietb them 
that fear Him.” 
Madge had attained to the security of happiness, 
inasmuch as iu the presence of little disappoint¬ 
ments, as of great trials, she could say, “ Thy will 
be done.”—[To be continued. 
ENGLISH AND AMERICAN GIRLS. 
In his last letter to the Springfield Republican, 
Dr. Holland draws the following comparison be¬ 
tween English and American girls: 
“I have said that the Englishwoman Is larger 
than the American. I have the authority of a com¬ 
petent and candid Englishwoman for the statement 
that the American woman is the handsomer. There 
can be no question, I think, that the average Ameri¬ 
can girl Is more beautiful than her cousin across the 
water. She has greater delicacy of feature, and gen¬ 
erally a finer make up. She matures earlier, and, it 
is quite likely, fades sooner, hut the fact that she is 
prettier is not to be disputed. The girl here is, also, 
uuder the usages of English society, a suppressed 
creature, without the freedom that favors vivacity. 
The American girl is perfectly at home in society 
before the English girl sees society at all, or has 
ever been permitted to escape the eye of her gov¬ 
erness or her mother. The American girl may be 
much too forward, but I am sure that the English 
girl suffers by too great bondage. 
Female education in the two countries differs 
greatly, and, siugular as it may seem, the education 
of the English girl is more showy than that of the 
American. As a genera! tiling, the English girl 
knows little or nothing of mathematics and the 
natural sciences. These branches in America ab¬ 
sorb a great deal of time, as you know; and you will 
find multitudes of American girls who are adepts in 
them. That, in the education of the English girl, 
which strikes an American, is their knowledge of 
language, of literature, of music and of drawing. 
Everything which contributes to show in society is 
acquired by the English girl. I cannot recall among 
my English traveling acquaintances a lady who could 
uot speak French, and several of them have spoken 
French, Italian and German with entire facility. 
With these languages at command, with a wide ac¬ 
quaintance with history and belles Icttrcs, and with the 
accomplishments of sketching and playing the piano, 
it must be acknowledged that the English girl shows 
for all that she is, and that for social purposes her 
acquisitions are greatly superior to those of the 
American girl. 
-- 
FARMERS’ WIVE3. 
I think of many and mauy a sad-eyed woman I 
have known in solitary country homes, who seemed 
never to have smiled, who struggled with hard hands 
through the melting heat and piuching cold, to hold 
back poverty and want that hovered like wolves 
about an ever increasing flock of children. How it 
was scour iu the morning and scrub at uight and 
scold all day long! llow care blurred the window 
like a cloud, hiding the lovely landscape! How 
anxiety snarled at her heels, dogging her like a cur! 
How little she knew or cared that bobolinks, drunk 
with blind idleness, tumbled and sang in the mead¬ 
ows below, that the earth was telling the time of 
year with flowers in the WQod above. As I think 
of these things, of the solitary, incessant drudgery, 
of the taciturn husband coining in heavy with sleep 
—too weary to read, to talk, to think, I do not won¬ 
der that the mad houses are so richly recruited from 
the farm houses, as the statistics show—that the 
farmer’s daughter hangs enchanted over stories in 
the weekly paper of the handsome Edward Augus¬ 
tus, with white hands and black eyes—nor that tile 
farmer’s son bears the city bells that long ago rang 
to Whittington, “ Turn again Whittington, lord 
mayor of London,” riuging to him as he pauses iu 
the furrow, “ Turn again, ploughboy, millionaire 
and merchant!” 
- <4 ■ » -- 
PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS. 
Innocence— The pet lamb that strayed away off, 
years ago, from the rest of the flock, and has’nt been 
heard from since. 
Why is a baby like wheat? Because it is first 
cradled, then threshed, and finally becomes the 
flower of the family. 
The difference between Eugenie and the deposed 
Queen of Spain is that one is a belle on a throne 
and the other Isabelle off. 
Whatever may be the end of man, there can be 
no doubt, when we &ee those trains gracefully 
sweeping the floors and streets, that the end of wo¬ 
man is —“ Dust." 
Oltve Logan thinks that any woman who can 
protect hersell' in a horse car is qualified to vote, 
and exclaims, “Now girls, be men!” Rather a 
diflicult command to obey. 
Some employments may be better than others; 
but there is no employment so bad as the having 
none at all. The mind will contract a rust and an 
unfitness for everything, and a man must either fill 
up his time with good, or at least innoceut business, 
or it will run to waste—to sin and vice. 
Choice Ipswltottg. 
SOMEBODY 
BY A. A. HOPKINS, 
[The following verses were written several years ago, ‘ 
and published under a uom de plume. Since then they 1 
have been drifting about through the press, with some- 1 
times a stanza or two left off, and have met the usual fate ] 
of sneb, typographically. We take pity on the estray, and 
send it forth in proper dress again, with our blessing.] 
Somebody'? eyes have grown dimmer, 
Off in some quiet old home, 
At morn, when the evening stars gLimmer. 
Watching for some one to come; 
Watching while heart grows the sicker, 
As djy after day glides along, 
Watching while tears fall the thicker, 
Choking the lullaby song. 
Somebody, wandering over 
Lands far away from his own, 
Scents aa of old, the sweet clover 
That grows by the old door stone; 
Longs to go back and to mingle, 
As in the dim days of yore, 
With those round the old cottage ingle— 
Those who, alas ’ are no more. 
Somebody's prayers are ascending, 
Ever for dear ones away. 
Prayers that His blessing attending. 
May keep them from going astray; 
Prayers that, float nearer and nearer 
The throne of the Father above, 
And, reaching the car of the Hearer, 
Are answered in Infinite Love. 
Somebody’s life-work is ended— 
Patient they wait now to go; 
Long have they faithfully wended 
Toilsome paths here below; 
Soon the reward they’ll be reaping 
That to the faithful is given— 
“ Well done,"—“Come up,” and he keeping 
Watch for somebody In Heaven ! 
Somebody ever is weeping,— 
Rachel-likc mourning her dead. 
Shunning all comfort, and keeping 
Vigils while stars arc o’erhead. 
O that io such hearts whose feeling 
Shuts out the thought of “Thy will,” 
Gilead'e balm, with its healing, 
Would come and the wild throbbinge still 1 
Somebody's heart has grown weary.— 
Weary of watching for aye 
The time when the night now so dreary, 
Shall end in an Infinite Day; 
When life shall roll onward forever. 
As peacefully solemn and grand 
As rolls on Eternity’s river 
That washes Eternity’s strand! 
--»-- 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
A FEW THOUGHTS UPON POETRY. 
A description of Nature, iu itself, is tame and 
tiresome, however well done. Something more 
than mere taleut is wanted. Sometimes, the better 
part of the man must go with it. This, however 
rendered, if pure, will huve Us effect, ncnce 
Wordsworth. Not even Theockatus or Virgil 
can compare with the chief of the Lake School. 
So wo find more outside of the description, often, 
than it contains, as in the surrounding- of Lamb, 
Cowfee, Burns, the Brontes und others. In the 
far future, when these externals are forgotten, little 
will he remember^ of the writers. It was the mis¬ 
fortune of these waters that they could not incor¬ 
porate this in their poetry. 
Nature is nothing; the man is all. Nature is but 
a medium; and sometimes in her humblest forme 
she has the greatest effect. Tam O’Suanter is as 
much Burns, as the style of the younger B Oliver is 
uot his. Burns, when awakened, gave us this potm. 
Burns was great; hence the poem. But the strains 
of the best poets are embodied in the poems of 
Owen Meredith. We have Burns iu the one 
case; we have not Bulwee iu the other; only part 
of him,— his rendering of others, with sufficient 
sensibility to appreciate them. 
So WoEDSWORTn gives us in the Small Celandine 
what certainly the flower does not possess, though 
it seems to; it only suggests to the poet, aud he 
invests it with his quality. When a more elevated 
subject was attempted, as hi the Excursion, there 
was comparative failure. Nature did not speak 
through the man; or but faintly, disjointly, and 
not clearly. She was deprived of her province, 
which is to lead. A mau can never share the 
honor with Nature. Much that Shaksfeare wrote 
was thus written—Nature directing. She found but 
a medium in this matchless delineator, who was 
armed at all points, aud needed but to be directed. 
If he was master, it was only through the guidance 
of the mistress. He wrote, not to please, uot to a 
purpose, save as that purpose gave him gratifica¬ 
tion,—for who would not be gratified, amid such a 
world of fancies of life, to reproduce them, to show 
them ? that is part of the gratification. 
. We write, then, for the pleasure we have iu eoru- 
inuuiealmg, else there would be greater pleasure,— 
that of mere enjoyment of the materials, which the 
unexpressed poet iudulges in. In this respect we are 
all poets; all enjoy our thoughts when in a state of 
animation. To express this condition is an art, aud 
must be learned, aud learned like all arts, familiarly, 
in order to be successful. 
Elaboration, of any kind, in poetry, is so much 
harm done. Any interference with pure inspira¬ 
tion, will be felt, will mar. A life-long culture is 
required — from injancy up: the motfuT tongue 
must be the poetic tongue; and it must learu to ex¬ 
press itself with the first teachings. Then there 
will be the natural expression of a natural feeling. 
This will make it direct. This will give us the man 
(and the child.) And it will give us the man iu his 
best, when he is awakened. It will be successful if 
it is of a good quality, aud is free from affectatiou, 
the great bane of our liturature and poetry,—less so 
of painting aud sculpture, and their kindred arts. 
F. G. 
- 4 • « ♦ «- ^ 
BOOKLESS HOUSES. 
We form judgments of men from little things 
about their houses, of which the owners perhaps 
never think. Flowers about a rich man’s house 
may signify only that he has a good gardener, or 
that he has refined neighbors, aud does what he 
sees them do. But men are not accustomed to buy 
hooks unless they want them. If, on visiting the 
dwelling of a man of slender means, we find that 
he contents himself with cheap carpets aud very 
plain furniture, in order that he may purchase 
books, he rises at once in our esteem. Books arc 
not made for furniture, but there is uothing else 
that so beautifully furnishes a house. The plainest 
row of books is more significant of refinement than 
the most elaborately carved sideboard. 
Give us a house furnished with books rather than 
furniture. Both, if you can; but books at auy rate! 
To spend several days iu a friend’s house, and hun¬ 
ger for something to read, while you are treading 
on costly carpets, aud sitting upon luxurious chairs, 
and sleeping upon down, is as if one were bribing 
your body for the sake of cheating your mind. 
Books are the windows through which the soul 
looks out. A house without them is like a room 
witbont wludows. No man has a right to bring up 
his children without surrounding them with books, 
if he has the means to buy them. It is a wrong to 
his family. Children learn to read by being in the 
presence of books. The love of knowledge comes 
with readi ug, and grows upon it- And the love of 
knowledge in a young mind is almost a warrant 
against the inferior excitement of passions and vice. 
Let us pity those poor rich men who live barrenly 
iu great bookless houses. Let us congratulate the 
poor that, in our day, books are so cheap that a 
mau may every year add a hundred volumes to his 
library for the price of what his tobacco and his 
beer would cost him. Among the earliest ambi¬ 
tions to be excited in clerks, workmen, journeymen 
—and, indeed, among all that are struggling in the 
race of life —is that of owning, and constantly 
adding to, a library of good books. A little library, 
growing larger every year, is an honorable part of a 
young man’s history. 
It is a man’s duty to have books. A library is 
not a luxury, but one of the necessaries of life.— 
Episcopalian. 
-- 
SELF - GOVERNMENT. 
There is little gained and much lost by losing 
one’s temper. Anger unbalances us, and makes us 
the prey or the sport of the less irritable. We say 
and do things under the influence of anger which 
we afterwards regret. Anger lessens our power and 
lowers our dignity. When the- sacred writer says, 
“ He that goveraeth himself is fit to sit with the 
king,” he meanE the government of temper. The 
power to quell our raising passion, to say to the 
provoked spirit, “ Peace! be still! ” this is a mighty 
and noble power. This brings man sovereignly to 
the judgment-seat of his highest reason and con¬ 
science. 
The Proverbs have it, that “a soft auswerturncth 
away wrath”—that “a contentious woman destroy¬ 
ed the peace of a household.” A Christian tem¬ 
per-peaceful, charitable, kindly, considerate aud 
forgiving — what else can give so great a charm to 
character, or such luster to the soul ? The atmos¬ 
phere of such a temper is fruitful of blessedness. 
There all is sunshine and blossom of spirit. There 
are no social frosts, nor clouds, nor storms. Child¬ 
hood is softened by its example, aud old age under 
its influence reveal6 the freshness and mellowness 
of youth. 
O, that the Angel of Peace might visit every home 
of man, and sweeten the contentious tempers that 
make so much daily life a wearying, withering curse. 
- - - 
CONCERNING LOVE. 
True love—we mean now, true love in its bache¬ 
lor state, not the Darby-and-Joan jog-trot—seldom 
survives in a man after thirty. The truest, faithful- 
est, hottest and most blissfully uncomfortable love 
of ail is calf-love, which seldom lasts after seven¬ 
teen. All subsequent passions are a mere imitation 
of this—not half so absorbing, not a third so blind, 
not a tenth so pure. The calf outlives its calfdom, 
gets the better of spuouiness, laughs at it, and a few 
years later tries to produce it over again. But he 
never succeeds. The taurine passious ore a mere 
stage play. He may persuade himself that he is 
desperately in love with the dear girl, that she is an 
angel, that if she jilted him he would do something 
desperate,—go mad, emigrate, blow out his brains, 
perhaps; but in his inner soul he knows that this is 
all a mere pretense; that bis heart is uot as a raging 
fflmace, hut tepid as mildest shaving-water; that 
his pulse would not hear her and beat had he lain for 
’ a century dead — mdeed, it does not even quicken 
now when she enters the room. He sees her faults 
—none clearer: and he intends to correct them one 
‘ day. There is nothing in his love like the wild 
adoring passion of the schoolboy; that, comes but 
ouce in life, and the love which is bold enough to 
5 propose and callous enough to treat of settlements 
1 is a mere earthly imitation of it .—London Leader. 
-■ ». »♦ ««♦ •- 
THE NECESSITY OF OCCUPATION. 
Occupation of some kind is necessary to the 
1 health of mind and body in most persons. Yet 
1 we are so lazy by nature that, unless wc are forced 
1 to work, we are apt to do uothiug. For this rea- 
! sou it is that Coleridge would have every literary 
" man exercise a profession. The body requires a 
> certain amount of atmospheric pressure to the 
■ square inch. The mind must have the pressure of 
' incumbent duties, or it will grow lax aud spongy 
1 iu texture for want of it. For want of sueli press- 
' ure, we see so many rich people always restless in 
1 search of rest, who cannot be easy in Fifth avenue 
or Beacon street for thinking of the Boulevards, 
and once there, are counting the days until they 
' are home again. A life of mere gossip and amuse¬ 
ment may do well enough in some Old World cap- 
•• itals, but it Is desperate in Americau cities. A 
5 wicked Parisian would find it punishment enough 
1 to he seut to Philadelphia or New York, or even 
1 Boston, when he dies .—Atlantic Almanac for 186'J. 
i - «• - 
SANDWICHES. 
1 _. 
' “ Heaven gives enough when it gives us opportunity. 
Pride costs us more than hunger, thirst and cold. 
* The opposite of the seeds of discontent—Caraway 
5 seeds. 
Boast of your treasures of grace, and you are soon 
i robbed. 
5 A sanctified heart is much better than a silver 
^ tongue. 
1 The best thing to lay up for a rainy day—An 
i umbrella. 
Benevolence is allied to few vices, selfishness to 
few virtues. 
Every day is a little life, and our whole life is hut 
a day repeated. 
The duty of the happy is to help the suffering to 
bear their woe. 
,. A fan is a good thing; but to a gentleman a 
i Fanny is better. 
J Marrying a woman for her beauty is like eating a 
J bird for its siugiDg. 
1 When oue link in the chain of love is broken, all 
i' its strength and security are lost. 
3 The honest man will rather he a grave to his 
i neighbor’s errors than expose them, 
j! The man who showed his grit was in the sand-paper 
1 line. The man who was caught napping is supposed 
to have been a hatter. 
i Because a man who attends a flock of sheep is a 
! shepherd, makes uo reason that a man who keeps 
- cows should he a cow-ard. 
Jtofektb Heading. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. j, 
THANKFUL FOR ALL. 
BY A. H. LINTON. 
To-day can our hearts be dumb ? 
Or our voices refuse to sing? , 
Can we measure of pleasure and pain the sum 
And then never a tribute bring 
To our bountiful Lord and King 'l 
For the sweets do our thanks go up.— 
For the sweets of the wine we sip. 
But the sweet It is fleet, and the lees in the cup, 
Like tbc tears from onr lids that drip, 
Are as Marab upon our lip, 
And the trllmte we bring is small; 
Just an offering, slight, for bliss, 
With no thought as we ought for the sorrows all, 
And the sweet fulfillings we miss,— 
Aye, an offering poor is this! 
For our sorrows are tender things. 
Like the pleasures we press so near; 
And his trilling that's filling the air, who sings 
To the undertone of a tear, 
Is of melodies all, most dear! 
And our sorrows are worth a hymn 1 
Would we meagerly thankful be? 
No! to-day let us say, though our eyes are dim, 
And we may not so clearly sec, 
“ For our tears we alike praise Thee I” 
For our pleasure not more than pain; 
For the bitter not less than sweet 
We endeavor to sever the two in vain 
When our heart would its t h a nks repeat; 
Both only our life complete. 
And ’tis this when the sum is said,— 
This lift , with Us Tounded whole, 
With its measure of pleasure and pain outspread, 
That should wake the Tt Denm of soul 
Which up to our King should roll! 
Rochester, N. Y., Nov. 26,1868. 
■ »»» » * ♦ » - 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
“WORTHY OF JESUS.” 
Miss Rankin, who has done and Is doing so 
much for the cause of Christ and education in 
Mexico, addressed us recently at morning devotions 
on the subject of personal responsibility and duty. 
The subject, though not new, appeared to some in 
new light and with additional interest, as she re¬ 
ferred to her own early experience, in a very frank, 
graceful manner, the substance of which was as 
follows: 
“When I engaged to teach my first school, I re¬ 
solved to begin each morning’s exercises with read¬ 
ing the Scriptures and prayer; believing it only the 
part of duty for God’s children to acknowledge 
Him in all their ways, and ask His assistance in all 
things. My pupils seemed to enjoy reading ‘ verse 
about’ in the Testament, aud as they were children 
from five to twelve years of age, I telt uo hesitancy 
in praying before them. Everything passed on 
smoothly, and I felt satisfied iu trying to do my 
duty to God, as well as to my school. After a few 
days there came a larger boy, fifteen years of age, 
and I felt that I could scarcely take up my cross 
before him; but not till I entered the school-room 
oue morning and found a young man added to the 
number did I decide to omit prayers— this once , at 
least, because I cannot pray before a man , said my 
cowardly pride. 
“The children not knowing my thoughts, took 
their Testaments as usual, aud as it would not look 
well for me to tell them to put them away without 
reading, 1 thought wc could read a chapter any 
way, and then I need not pruy if it should not seem 
duty. Fortunately for my feelings, the chapter was 
long, and I was glad the. little children read slowly, 
for I dreaded to come to the end and make my decis¬ 
ion; thinking all the time, what would he say if I 
should uot get the words c.f my prayer just right! 
When we came to the fifth verse from the end of 
the chapter, it was my turn to read, aud was Matt. 
10, 38: And he that ialcclh not his cross andfollomlh 
after me, is not worthy of me. It was as a flash of 
lightning, shivering the strong walls of doubt and 
pride that would hold and hide my love and faith. 
And it wa6 not the accusing sense of unworthiuess, 
hut mercifully, then, its opposite that affected me. 
“ Worthy of J esus ! I worthy of Ifim—so pure— 
so holy—so full of compassion and love? No, I am 
not, und never can be, worthy; but the gift of grace 
is free, and it is mine if I will only arise and take 
It. Am I too proud to accept of that for which I 
cannot pay ? Am I so ungrateful and unwise as to 
disregard such love, and lose so great an inherit¬ 
ance, even heirship with CnRisr in the kingdom 
eternal? Why, I do accept daily, hourly, momen¬ 
tarily, things innumerable for which I do not, can¬ 
not pay anything,—life, light, happiness, friends; 
the free, pure air, the undisputed liberty of thought 
and choice. Would I, a child, accept a few favors 
from my parent, but dishonor Him and disgrace 
myself so much as to scorn the greatest aud most 
costly gills ? And if I receive this and follow after 
Him, does He count me worthy of Him ? Blessed 
Jesus, forgive my foolish, blind, proud heart! Need 
I tell you, youug ladies, that the remaining verses 
seemed long, so anxious was 1 to kneel down aud 
humble myself before that same Jesus? 
“Now, whenever you are called upon at any 
reasonable time, or in any suitable place for prayer, 
if yon feel hesitancy or doubt, just ask yourself 
whether it is real humility or worldly pride that 
stands in the way. True; humility is not only con¬ 
scious of ill deserts, but willing to confess and ask 
to be.forgiven. This much you can do at least, and 
if you do not love Jesus more than you fear poor 
sinful people like yourselves, then indeed are you 
not worthy of Him.” Gene Pratt. 
-- ♦ •->♦»- 
LAZINESS IN BIBLE READING. 
The following confession and prayer by Rev. Dr. 
Thomas Fuller, it is to be feared, covers the case of 
mauy others besides himself: 
“Lord, I discover an arrant laziness in my soul. 
For when 1 am to read a chapter in the Bible, before 
I begin it, I look where it endeth; aud if it endeth 
uot on the same side, I cannot keep my hand from 
turning over the leaf, to measure the length thereof 
on the other side; if it swell to many verses, I begin 
to grudge. 
“ Surely, my heart is not rightly affected. Were 
I truly hungry after heavenly food, Iwould not com¬ 
plain of meat. Scourge, Lord, this laziness of soul. 
Make the reading of Thy Word not a penance, but 
a pleasure npon me. Teach me that as among heaps 
of gold, all equally pure, that is best which is big¬ 
gest, so I may esteem that chapter iu Thy Word the 
best which is the longest." 
--^ '» » »■ -- 
Of a great many that seem to come to Christ, it 
may be said that they have not come to him, because 
they have uot left themselves.— Archbishop Leighton. 
