Jamils §mb.
JESUS LIVES.
Oh, show mo not my Saviour dying,
Ab tm the cro=s-ho bled;
Nor in the tomb a captive lying :
For ho has left tho dead.
Then bid me not that form extended
For iny Kodeemor own,
Who, to the highest beavons ascended,
In glory the throne.
Weep not for bim at Calvary’s station ;
Weep only for thy sins;
View whore ho lay with exultation ;
’Tib there oar hope begins.
Tot stay not there, thy sorrows feeding,
Amid the scenes ho trod; -
Look op and seo him interceding
At tho right hand of God.
Still in the shameful cross I glory,
Where his doar blood was spilt;
My soul is melted at that story
Of him who bore my guilt.
Yet what, ’mid conflict and temptation,
Shall strength and succor give ?
He lives, the Captain of salvation!
Therefore his servants live.
By death, he death’s dark king defeated,
And overcame the grave;
Basing, the triumph he completed;]
*He lives, he reigns to save !
Heaven’s happy myriads bow before him;
He comes, the Judge of men :
These eyes shall see him and adoro him ;
Lord Jesus! own me then. •
THE OBPHAIT ASYLUM AT NOBFOLK.
“ Come and see our Orphan Asylum,”
said a friend the other day, and so we
took our way, through the quiet grass
grown streets of old Norfolk, to the
Asylum. It was a day in the
end of June, and as we passed the sub
stantial English-looking houses* many of
them closed, as though quite uninhabit
ed, our_cqmpanion told us that this and
that mansion had been confiscated by
the “ Federate;” that from this house,
there had gone a son to the “ Confed
eracy,” and from that one, husband,
father and sons had perished in the re
bel ranks. The gardens which we pass
ed, were rich in bloom and fragrance.
The air was heavy! with the scent of
jessamine and rose, and tall magnolia
trees, with their splendid white blos
soms, gleaming like great waxen cups,
through the dark, glossy leaves, towered
far above tho brick walls that surround
ed 'many of the inclosures. The smile
of the summer flowers is the only smile
of welcome that a stranger from the
hated “ Yankee” nation, meets in Nor
folk. As the Jews upon their Babylo
nian conquerors, as tho Romans, on the
vandals of the North, as the
the Norman, do the natives of the soil
look upon those who wear the uniform
of their country, and who love its flag.
There is a Bort of controlled bitterness,
in the looks with which they regard the
people who are making Norfolk and
Portsmouth cleaner, healthier and bet
ter than they oyer were before. The
ladies remain indoors as much as possi
ble, and when on the street pass rapidly
along, with veils down. : I heard of one,
a few days since, who has not crossed
the threshold of her door since [the
“ evacuation,” and who declares^that
she will never voluntarily walk
streets again, till the “ Confederates”
Come back. The happiest faces here
are those of the careless, contented,
laughter-loving colored people, thrice
happy now in the possession of their
freedom, which so long has been the
misty dream of their race. For them
the day has dawned, the jubilee has
come. Little black children make jibe
streets ring with their jubilant songs,
“Jesus loves me,” “A beautiful land
by faith I see,” and the “ Battle-cry of
Freedom!”
* The Presbyterian church (Dr. Arm
strong’s) is at present closed, but the
churches of other denominations are
open. St. Paul’s Episcopal church, I
think the second oldest in the country,
has for its rector a truly loyal Chris
tian minister, who came here as dele
gate of the Christian Commission, and
who haß been called to the charge of the
church, by its members.
The Orphan Asylum was founded
many years ago, by a union of the vari
ous denominations, and has continued
in successful operation through the pre
sent trying times. I believe the ladies
who have it in charge are receiving
some assistance from the Government.
It contains forty children, moßt of them
girls, who are kept till they reach the
age of eighteen, when they are prepared to
undertake their own support. One rarely
Sees brighter, happier faces, anywhere,
than those of these children. Not one
wore the pale wan look of sickness, but
the bright eyes and rosy" cheeks, spoke
of health and vigor. The ceilings are
high, and the rooms well-ventilated; the
dormitories are spacious} and perfectly
clean; the beds are large and comfort
able, and there is one room set apart
for the sick, but seldom called into use,
however, which is so charming with its
neat and' pleasant arrangements, and
its windows looking out upon the wind
ing river, that it would seem almost a
treat to be sick in it.
Dear children who may read this, did
you ever take a serious thought about
the word “orphan ?” Oh! what a sad
word it is ! The mother’s heart thrills
with terror as she thinks of the bare pos
sibility of that word ever being applied
to the darlings of her little flock. No
father! No mother! Nobody to chide
you, as only those who love best can,
when you are tempted to do wrongno
body to praise you, with such hearty,
hopeful, honest words of cheer, when
you bravely do right! No little corner
by father on the sofa! No mother to
kneel down by you, when you say your
prayers at night f Oh ! love and obey
your parents while you have them. No
asylum, however perfect, can ever he
like the “ain fireside.”' '* i
Some of these orphans were taken
up after the dreadful year of the “Fe
ver,” here, alone, so literally* that their
very names could not be discovered,
and others have been given them. Every
vestige of their parentage had been swept
away by the’pestilence that Surrounded
the city*’desolating rich-and [poor alike.
There is another institution here, sus
tained by the sisters of charity, for the
children of their faith, and a beautiful
estate, a-little distance from the city,
has been taken by the: government, for
colored orphans. M. E. M.
COMDBS,
SOCKS FOE JOHN BAND ALL.
The following extract is from a little
book just published by the American
Tract Society, entitled “ Soldiers and
Soldiers’ Homes.”
It was a matter of talk that
Randall knit so many socks for the sol
diers. She was a poor woman and had
little to do with, but shfe must have
spent a great deal for yarn, buying so
much of the best war prices. Knit
ting seemed almost a. mania: with her.
She was sometimes seen knitting before
breakfast. _ No sooner was her house
work done, than out came her knitting,
and her needles flew, click, click, faster
even than they did when her'fingers were
young and supple ; while her pale, sad
face bending above them, made one al
most weep to look at her. She was one
of those who do not weep, but who ever
carry a full fountain of tears sealed up
within them.
Not a society box in all the country
near was sent to the soldiers, that did
not contain a pair of Widow Randall’s
socks; and box after box from the San
itary Commission carried her contribu
tions. Always welcome they were, so
soft, so warm, so nice, were her sqcks ;
none Bofter, nor warmer, nor nicer were
found among the gifts of the loving wo
men of the North to the cherished, half
worshipped heroes on the Southern bat
#e-grounds. The appreciative could not
help unrolling them, feeling their softness,
and giving them their praise; and al
ways carefully stitched within them they
found a letter. Sometimes it was only
“ To my dear son, John Randall, from his
ever loving mothersometimes it told of
her love and hope, and earnest prayer :
sometimes it implored him to write to her
and telhher of his welfare if he lived.
It was a long time that Widow Ran
dall knit on untiringly, scattering her
gifts as widely as she might, that so, by
chance some one might reach the lost
loved one. Knit, knit, knit; the longer
she knit the faster, for tho more must be
done, since the chances were growing
fewer, the field growing wider. How
many soldiers were thus blessed through
her love for one! How many felt a
glow of thanks as they drew her comfort
ing socks over their benumbed feet, and
dropped a tear upon her tender letter to
the son who might then be uncared for,
unknowing how a mother’s love had
sought for him, labored for him, prayed
for him unceasingly.
A pair of “ socks for John Randall”
once fell into the hands of a poor mother
less English boy. His lone, yearning,
orphan heart responded to the maternal
tenderness ufaich he had missed and
mourned for in his own life; and with
the instincts of a son he wrote the
widowed mother a letter of love and
thanks in the name of all the absent and
wandering sons, and sent her gold, and
offered to be to her a son, if God had
bereaved her of her own.
An old soldier, a rough, hard, swearing
man, was given a pair of “John Randall’s
socks,” and carelessly dra wing them upon
his travel-stained feet, he felt the mother's
letter in them. He drew them off with
an oath, and read, “ To my well beloved,
John.” Was it to him? His name was
John. So his mother had addressed him
once ; but he had no mother now. She
had been long dead and no one would
write him now; no one cared for him ;
and he tried to think he cared for no one,
cared for naught. But the roughest have
a tender, human spot in them; he cared
for the dead, and could not help shedding
a tear over th e words “son ” an d ‘ ! moth er. ”
for they had come to him so inspired by
a mother’s love and devotion, that they
carried him back to his own mother, his
boyhood, his home, his early hope of
heaven. He sat with uncovered feet,
looking through his 1 tears at the Bocks
before him, turning them, admiring
them.
“ They looked like mother’s knitting, '
he said at last.
PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, JULY 21, 1864.
' I didn’t know youever had a mother;
you don’t seem like it,” exclaimed a com
rade still rougher than himself.
“None o’ that,” replied the veteran;
“ none o’ that joking with me.; I had a
mother like an angel, and it’s for her
sake I never see a woman wronged, as
you well know I won’t.”
The rude listeners were hushed, for
there was strength and sac-redness in the
old soldier’s utterance, and ho still look
ed at “John Randall’s socks,” and said
again they were just like his mother’s
knitting; and read the note again;
and it might have been long'before he
could have had the heart to put the socks
to common use, had not the drum sounded
and hurried him to the review.
A pair of “John Randall’s socks”
worked their way into a Kentucky regi
ment at the West. There another rough
man got possession of them, and found
the note within them, and read it aloud
to the silent group around him. In that
group was a lone youth who had come
a stranger into the regiment, and whp
never, spoke of his home Or friends,'
though one could easily have’ told that
his birthplace was in the Eastern States.
No one listened to the note so intently
as he, and it was strange to see how his
color came and went ashe listened. Then
the tears rolled fast down his cheeks.
“ Give me the letter,” he said; “it .is
from my mother. The letter and the
socks are mine.”
“Yours ! Is. your name John Ran
dall ?”
“Yes.” ; •
A hearty laugh.
“Randall! You can’t come that
game so easy, Boy George.”
“ Boy George,” as the youth was fa
miliarly called, colored deeper than be
fore, but persisted. “My real name is
John Randall, and the letter and socks
are. mine.” ‘
“ Yours when you get -’em, and not
much before,” .answered the man who
had them. . » ■
“If you’ve changed your name once,
you may change it a dozen times, but
that won’t give_you my socks.”
“Boy. George” said no more about
the socks, but again asked for and re
ceived the letter.
He sought a quiet place,and read it, and
read it again. “My [dearest son, dear
beyond all expression, if: you are still
living, write to me and tell; me so; if
you love me still, be a good boy, and try
to meet me in heaven.”
This was all; but it was enough for
the heart of that undutiful and suffering
son. His mother lived; he had thought
her dead. And she 'loved him the same
as ever, notwithstanding his long absence,
his follies, and his sins. What a mother
she was ! What a heart she had to seek
for him so, to try to minister unto him,
even when she knew not where he was !
How came she to send, socks for him
away out into that Western regiment?
John Randal]—for 1 “ Boy George’ ’
was indeed he—kissed his mother’s let
ter, and folding it carefully laid it in his
bosom, his first letter since ho had been
in the war, the only treasure he now had.
Others had their letters and tokens, and
his heart had melted to see their joy in
them. Alas, he thought there was no
one to send him aught, no one to remem
ber or care for him. He had left a
mother when he went to the; war, but he
had heard that she was dead, and he
feared that he had broken her
heart. Thank God that in his mercy
this bitterness was spared from his cup.
His mother still lived* still loved him as
of old. He would write to her—would
tell her all, all his sins, all his sorrow, —
would ask her forgiveness, her blessing.
He tjpok the letter from his bosom
and read it again, then lifted up his
heart to God, the first time for long
years. He prayed that God would spare
his life—would spare his mother’s lire,
that they might meet again! He sought
the soldier to whom had fallen his
mother’s socks, offering his own and
money in exchange for them.
“ Then it was your mother that knit
them, was it?” questioned the rough
soldier when he had heard the strong
desire of “Boy George” to obtain them.
“ Well you shall have them.”
• The exchange was made.
“ Now tell me how it is that our ‘Boy
George’ and John Randall are one and
the same?”
The explanation was given. The wild,
adventurous boy, failing to obtain his
mother’s consent, had gone to the war
without it, changing his name and en
listing in the regiment of a distant State.
He had taken care that none of his
early friends should know where he was,
and he knew little of them. He had in
some way heard that his mother was
dead, and he feared that his own miscon
duct had caused her death, at least had
hastened it. The poor youth was
wretched at the thought. Army life had
grown distasteful and wearisome to him;
‘and his yearnings for home and love, his
regrets and remorse, were at times al
most unendurable.
What a startle did he feel when “John
Randall” was read from jthe letter in the
Sanitary socks. It was so long since
the name had,fallen on his oar, the name
by which he had so often been tenderly
called by loving lips. “ John Randall!”
who else bore that name ? Who besides
him? He crowded forward to hear.
He heard the letter. It was his. He
ktjew it; he knew his mother’s expres
sion ; knew her love, recognized her act.
Her gift was for him, her own son; and
he claimed it.
How precious these socks seemed to
him. Every stitch wrought by his mo
ther’s kind hand ; and with every stitch
a sigh, heaved, .or a prayer, breathed;
He seemed to hear the sighs and prayers;
lie held the socks in his hand and drop
ped tear after tear upon them, until his
heart was moved, so softened, that he
fell upon his knees as he had not done
since a child, and prayed, “ God forgive
me!”
It was broad daylight and no work to
be done in the house, when Widow Ran
dall dropped her knitting work just as
she was binding off the heel, never taking
care to fasten her needles, and letting
her ball roll neglected on the floor. For
one of her neighbors had brought her a
letter which he said “hadcome from the
war,” and he “ mistrusted that it might
be from John, or might tell her some
thing about him.” No wonder then that
the mother dropped her needles quickly
and forgot her ball. News from John!
John alive!
She read: “ dear mother, how 'shall
I write you ? lam alive, but I shall
never see you again, never hear you
speak my forgiveness. lam mortally
wounded, and have notlong to live. • The
.socks with your note in them came just
before the battle. They broke me all
up, and sent me to my knees before God.
Bless you, mother, that you never for
got to pray for me ; and it is your pray
ers that have led me to pray at last.
God forgive me all my sins for the sake
of Him who came and died to save sin
ners. How I have mourned for you,
mother ? I heard you were dead, and
feared it was my unkindness that caused
your death. May God and you both
forgive your repentant and dying son!”
The full fountain so long sealed is at
last opened. The eyes that have not
wept for many a year weep now., Joy,
grief—which is uppermost f which is
strongest? Widow Randall knows that
she is childless, but she knows that her
son-died repentant and prayerful. She
knows too that her labor has not been in
vain in the Lord; not in vain the bread
cast on the wide waters ; nor in vain her
hope and patience and prayer. Never,
never is prayer in .vain when prompted
by love and winged by faith.
EXTBAOTS FEOM A PASTOR'S DIAeY.
Many of our clerical, and perhaps
some of our lay readers, will keenly ap
preciate 4n the following article the
skillful treatment of a delicate subject.
While few pastors’ diaries would afford
experiences exactly similar, still the evil
so happily touched upon (although with
some exaggeration,) is, one with which
the Christian public throughout the land
is more or less familiar. With slight
variations, thin “ Diary” of a Methodist
clergyman would find an appropriate
place in many parishes:— Exchange.
A new light has appeared in our
midst. I was preparing for church last
Sunday morning, when I heard the door
bell ring, and immediately after Hetty
came in search of mo.
“Who has come?” I questioned her.
“One of those strolling good folks,
papa.”
Hetty, as well as her mother, has a
particular dislike to entertaining reli
gious strollers, and she seems to recog
nize a member of the class intuitively.
“ What makes you think so ?” I asked.
“0, he is so sociable, and he looks
hungry, and : —and he wears a white
cravat. He’s come to stay, I guess.”
Hetty’s black eyes danced roguishly.
“Well, tell him I will be down di
rectly.”
I found that Hetty had guessed very
correctly in regard to our visitor. It is
impossible to give an idea of the conde
scending cordiality withx which he re
ceived me. My natural reserve, which
often repels the advances, of strangers,
did riot afiect him in the least. He was
quite at home, and seemed amiably de
sirous to make me so.
“ Fine morning, sir. Happy to meet
you. This is a very pleasant location.
How long have you been here, may I
ask?”
“ Seven or eight months.”
“Your first year, then. Well, in
many respects the first year's residence
of the itinerant in a place must be. the
pleasantest. Moving-time is so far dis
tant that you scarcely dread it. How
many inhabitants are there in this vil
lage?”
“I do not know.”
ln passing up the street this morn
ing I was exceedingly pleased 1 with the
order and thrift manifested. So neat
and tasteful a factory village is a rarity.
Many foreigners ? ”
“No sir.”
“ Ah, that accounts for it. 'How
many churches are there ? ”
“ Seven.” ; .
“ And which is the largest denomina
tion ?
“ The Baptist and Methodist number
nearly the same, and are the most num
erous.”
“ That is gratifying, very. I like to
see all churches prosper, but the two
churches you have mentioned lie nearest
my heart. I was brought up a Baptist,
but I became a Methodist after my con
version. I began to preach among the
Methodists, and that brings them still
nearer ; and since I have been a travel
ing evangelist I have always found a
home in the houses of my brethren in
the ministry.”
I made no reply to this appeal to my
hospitality, and he went on:
“I have been laboring during the
autumn among my Baptist brethren in
New Hampshire, and have not only been
flattered by the intense interest mani
fested by them in my labors, but grati
fied by seeing the rich fruits of my min
istry. ”-
Another pause, during which .lie at-.
tempted to caress Mrs. Dean s cat,
which lay sleeping on the window-sil!.
.and got scratched for his pains.
“ I am preaching now in various
places,” he recommenced, “ to aid the
Bible cause. My health is poor, and I
find that travelling suits me. I pursue
a regular method in my labors, and so
far the results have been mast satisfac
tory. I sell tracts and Testaments at
prices that do not pay the cost of print
ing.”
I was still silent, and Mary, who
began to fidget over my unusual want of
courtesy, asked pleasantly:
“ What is your method ? ”
He turned with alacrity to reply to
her.
“Well, madam, I first introduce my
self to the acquaintance of the people
by preaching to them, as I hope your
husband will permit me to do to-day.
Then I spend a week or two, or more,
visiting them in their homes, talking to
them, praying with them, and disposing
of religious reading suited to the differ
ent cases I find.” ,r -..'4
“I thought all that was the work of
their regular pastor,” remarked Mary,
quietly.
“Yes; 1 only co-operate with him.
After a week or two I commence extra
meetings, and when the preacher in
charge cordially works with me, and I
see the usual fruits, these extra means
are continued indefinitely.”
“Indeed I”
“I am but a poor, humble servant of
of the Lord, madam, but he deigns to
use me in promoting his work. I sup
pose sir,” turning to me, “ you will not
object to my preaching for .you to-day.”
“ Have you any papers to show that
you are regularly authorized to preach
the Gospel?”
“No, sir. I get’-my commission from
a higher authority than man. I am
called of God to the work.”
“ Nevertheless, as you come a stranger
to us, I have no means of judging of
your heavenly calling, and shall decid
edly decline your help in my pulpit and
parish. As it is nearly time for our
morning service, excuse me for wishing
you good morning.”. . ...
I had scarcely entered' the pulpit
when brother Lester came tiptoeing up
the aisle to inform me that there was a
clergyman in the house—in brother
Lee’s pew. Glancing in that direction,
I was not surprised to see my morning
visitor ; but I must own that, the pecu
liar sanctimonious look which he had
put on for the occasion was truly ama
zing. 1 told brother Lester that I had
already seen him, and considered him a
humbug.
I think I did not have my usual lib
erty in preaching. I felt a little harass
ed by the incident of the morning, and
also by the presence of my unwelcome
guest. His frequent responses to my
remarks were anything but animating
to me. They came with a suddenness
and sharpness that startled me.
I soon found that he was attracting
more attention than myself. The young
people exchanged amused, smiles and ex
pressive looks, wUile some of the chil
dren giggled outright, and got a whole
some shaking from their parents in con
sequence. Those who were disposed to
listen to the sermon were not able to do
so, and the entire service appeared to
be a barren and profitless occasion to all
concerned. When he joined his deep,
nasal bass to the music of the choir, a
little dog who was curled up in the
broad aisle by his master’s pew, started
up and howled terrifically.
In the afternoon it was worse yet,
with this difference, that he grew devout
and noisy just in proportion to the cold
ness and insensibility that crept over
me. There were large additions to the
audience from the young people of the
other churches, who, according to Hetty
came to see the fun.. It was any thing
but sport to mo. I was conscious that
my effort to preach was a failure, and
that I was totally eclipsed by the new
light.
In the evening prayer-meeting he
availed himself of the liberty of speech
accorded to all Christians, and succeeded
in introducing both himself and his mis
sion. I had been undergoing a harden
ing process all day, and could have
borne this new success on his. part with
equanimity, but the eager interest taken
in him by many of the church members
puzzled and confounded me. “ Surely,”
I thought, “ they cannot help knowing
that his whole course is a studied inßult
to their pastor.” It humbled me in the
dust to know that they were capable of
encouraging him. Not that they in
tended anything of the sort—let me do
them justice—-but their childish delight
in the novelty of the affair rendered
them absolutely blind to its inconsist
encies.
Persons who had never manifested
the least concern for the prosperity of
the church since my coming among them,
engaged readily in the prayers and ex
hortations, and in warm and fluent lan
guage told of their longing to see a
“good old-fashioned revival.” Even
brother Luton, who had neglected the
class-room and the Lord’s Supper for
years because of Tom Blair, became so
animated that iie arose and gave the
always-faithful, patient old church-mem
bers a rousing exhortation to shake off
their slothful habits, and do a little for
the Master before it was too late.
“Your opportunities for usefulness are
fast slipping by,” he said earnestly.
“ They will soon be gone forever. There
is no such thing as recalling the past;
but 0, brethren, remember, that there is
no chance to work for God in the grave
to which you are. hastening.” ' i '
I rubbed my eyes and looked .r . .
speaker. There was notaiSlakc: jr - K :
brother Luton. It was quite a
after the meeting closed to see •
brethren crowding round the stran d
shaking hands, and pressing upon'jFi
acceptance the hospitalities of tl 1
homes. f
“ He s booked for a long stay, 7 ’
Mary, as she hung her cloak on jl
rack after arriving at home. '§
February lOtA.—For some time af®
writing last, I felt that my trust in m
good providence of God was being m Mi
severely tried. . Mr. Sharpley eontiruifv
to usurp my place, and I heard of jL
objection to the new arrangement. T
I attended a prayer-meeting or cl;
meeting, he was there before me,
often did not deem it necessary to avjV?
my coming to oommence the exercial
If I called on the sick.Lwas told
brother Sharpley’s blessed minis trabi (
by the , bedside. He crossed my p-oq
everywhere. In church, on the Sabba.ffi
he sat in the altar beneath the pu>|<s
with the resigned air of a atartyr reafe/
for the stake. . w " W
“ Ready for a steak.’’ punned Iletj
who still thought he looked hanj
Mary, after her first outbreak, nnj
tained an obstinate silence bn the d
ject, lest, as she now says,; she ska
express the thoughts that fairly fris
ened herself. So I struggled al
without sympathy from any, quarter
last Sunday _ evening. .During
prayer-meeting I reached the limit
human endurance, and made up
mind to give up my pastoral charge
leave the place. I was utterly dis*
raged. v
We were leaving the vestry, and !
pened to be near /Mr. Sharpley, t.
Mary suddenly pulled my sleeve.
x “ See there, Ernest.” . J
I followed her glance, and hadf
privilege of seeing Mr. Sharpley taf
into custody by two police detecj
officers from New York. They {
been in the meeting, and, though ■!
occupied a shaded corner: by the st
I had observedr- their interest in
strange proceedings. -
“Sorry to take him away,” said
of the men in reply to some remonst.
ces of brother -Lester. “ Fear it
break up your revival.”
Both the men laughed aloud.
“ There must be' some mistake,
brother Lester.
“No mistake at all. He know
ter than that. He’s a keen one.
have been working up his case mor
month, and should have missed him j
if Bill here had n’t remembered that
was a Millerite preacher once. Soj
took up that thread and followed it.
here he is.” i
“ But what has he done?” asked <
eral voices in chorus. .... fi
“ He’s troubled with a short met
that’s all. Forgot all about his r
dear wife and her children, till she t|
him a call while he was snugly keot
house with his second love. One oi
finest young ladies going. Rich t
Brother Luton, who had stood by
culprit, as in duty bound, considc
that he was soon expecting to re:
him into his family as a son-in-law,
suddenly turned away, and seizing
daughter by the arm, marched he:
toward home with great speed, as i
feared she might become the third
Sharpley unawares.
The officers conducted the prison
the hotel, after giving him an oppoi
ity to take leave of his friends,
he did not improve. I did not jo
Mary’s expressions of triumph, 1
did not, as I ought, try to temper
warmth. For once I hare had the
sure of seeingthe Miffdomites thorou;
ashamed of themselves. I hope it)
last, for “before honor w humility.
AY UfOUEABLE DISEASE.
The pious John Newton closes i
ter to a friend in the following :
instructive language: “You kindh
quire after my health; myselt’l
family are, through the Divine 1
perfectly well; yet healthy as I;
labor under a growing disorder
which there is no cure—l mean oh |
I am not sorry it is a mortal di
from which no one recovers; fo !
would live always in such a wo:
this, who has a scriptural hope of
heritance in a world of light? >
now in my seventy-second yeavt
seem to have lived long enough foi
self. I have known something o
evils of life, and have had a large =
of the good. I know what the >
can do; it can neither give nor
away that peace of God, which pa
all understanding; it cannot soot
wounded conscience, nor enable j
meet death with comfort. That}
my dear sir, may have an abiding
abounding experience that the go j
a catholicon, adapted to all our >
and all our feelings, and a suitable
when every other help fails, is tli 5
cere and ardent prayer of your '
tionate friend.”
Essex, who c<> manned the arm
the Parliament at'the outbreak e ;
great civil war, was an atcompi
soldier aDd a Parliamentarian ; bt
shrank from civil war, —be h
through it all for an acoommodatio
the King, and “ next to a great
drmded a great victory." Under so
leader the war could never prosper
it was snon found necessary to rc]
him hy Hampden, who carried intc
field the boldness and courage be
show hv: politics, tied who" bad
sagacity to B<-e from-.the outset
‘\in war 0/ all kinds, moderation a >
cihty” ' ’ . ;