314 e ta firdt. CHRIST AND THE LITTLE ONES. " The' Master has come over Jordan," Said Hannah, the mother one day ; "He is healing the people who throng Him, With a touch of his finger, they say, And now I shall carry the children, Little Rachel, and Samuel, and John ; I shall carry the baby Esther, For the Lord to look upon." The father looked at her kindly, But he shook his head, and smiled; "Now, who but a clouting mother Would think of a thing so wild? If the children were tortured by demons, Or dying of fever, 't were well; Or had they the taint of the leper, Like many in Israel —" " Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan; I feel such a burden of care; If I carry it to the Master, Perhaps I shall leave it there. If He lay His hands on the children, My heart will be lighter, I know; For a blessing forever and ever Will follow them as they go." • So, over the hills of Judah,. Along by the vine-rows green, With Esther asleep on her bosom, And Rachel her brothers between ; 'Mid the people who hung on his teaching, Or wait His touch and His word, Through the row of proud Pharisees listening, She pressed to the feet of the Lord. Now, why shouldst thou hinder the Master," Said Peter, " with children like these ? Beast not how, from morning till evening, He teacheth and healeth disease 1" Tben Christ said : " Forbid not the children, Permit them to come unto Me 1" And He took in His arms little Esther, And Rachel He sat on His knees. And the heavy heart of the mother Was lifted all earth-care above, As He laid His hands on the brothers, And blest them with tenderest love ; As He said of the babes in His bosom, " Of such are the kingdom of heaven." And strength for all duty and trial That hour to her spirit was given. —Julia Gill, in Little Pilgrim. THE SOFT SUMMER SHOWER. DY MRS. SOUTHEY. Oh, the rapture of boauty, of sweetness, of sound, That succeeded the soft gracious rain, 'With laughter and singing the valleys rung round, And the little hills shouted again. The wind sunk away like a sleeping child's breath, The pavilion of clouds was unfurled ; And the sun, like a spirit triumphant o'er death, Smiled out on this beautiful world. On this beautiful world such a change had been wrought By these few blessed drops. Oh, the same On some cold stony heart might be work'd too, niethought, Bunk in guilt, but not senseless of shame. If a few virtuous tears by the merciful shed Touch'd its hardness, perhaps the good grain That was sown there and rooted, though long seeming dead, Might shoot up and Sourish again. Oh, to work such a change ! by God's grace to recall A poor soul from the death-sleep ! To this—:. To thisall joy that the angels partake, what were That the worldly and sensual call bliss. BUILDING OASTLLS IN THE AIR. BY JENNY BRADFORD The busy crochet needle went slower and slower, till the pretty pair of hands sank down in the drift of white worsted, and lay still. You could have seen that they were quite forgotten by those sun ny blue eyes which wandered away over the dreamily swaying sea, which dashed up and sank back on the beach below. "Isn't she a beautiful picture ?" thought Mrs. MacGregor to herself, as she looked down on her; but like a sen sible mother, she only said, " Where have you gone now Agnes'?"' Instantly Agnes' eyes came home ; the rose deepened a little in her cheek, the tremulous light of her face concen trated into a smile, and her fingers went briskly to work again. " Only visiting one of my castles, mother," she said. " Dear child, I wish you didn't love to build them so well." "Now, mother dear, I really can't see the harm of it. I know all the wise people talk as if it was a dangerous habit, and so sometimes I resolve I will stop ; but the first I know I am floating along some beautiful reverie, and I cannot see that it hurts me any." "On the contrary you find it a great pleasure, I'll warrant," said her mother. "That I do!" Agnes exclaimed warm ly. "It is one of _the grand comforts of my life. My castle in the air is my refuge from all vexations. Now, mother, don't you think it is a real blessing to me ? Whatever goes wrong I can just withdraw to it. There the sun always shines, or else the moon. Oh, you don't know how delightful it is !" "Don't I, child? Hadn't I dreamed dreams and seen visions for twenty years before ever your blue eyes were opened!" exclaimed Mrs. MacGregor, with a smile full of the past. " Did you, mother ? Then lam sure I may; f)r if I am ever one-half as good as my blessed mother; I shall be quite satisfied." A shade of sadness glided over Mrs. MacGreagor's sweet face, and she re plied seriously " My Agnes must make a far stronger and better woman than her mother, and I want her to come to it with less pain. So I do sincerely wish she would quit dreaming in the day time." "Now why, mother dear ? I wish you would just explain to me how it can be bad." " Do you really want to know, Agnes? Will it do any good ?" asked her mother, with an incredulous smile. ".Certainly -I do. If I < could see, myself, any great harm in it, I think. .1. should try to give it up, dearly as I love it ; don't you, mother ? Don't you think I am a rather sensible girl, on the whole?" " Why yes, my dear, looking at her with a smile that told some other things she thought, or rather felt, " I do give you that credit. Well, then, prepare yourself. First, and worst and chiefly, because it makes one selfish. Self is al ways central and supreme in an air castle. There every one admires you— every one loves you—everything bends to your will. You have lived long enough, Agnes, to have learned that the universe is not built quite on this plan." " Indeed, I have !" with a sorry shrug. " That is the very reason I love my dreamland so well, where I can have everything to my mind." "But what sort of a prepa.ration,Agnes, for a world where we are sent not to be ministered unto, but to minister, is this long dream of selfishness ?" asked Mrs. MacGregor, earnestly. "But I al*ays imagine everything charming for you, mother, and all my friends, and then often plan how many beautiful charitable things I will do when I get into my castle." "There it is! That is one great thing I am afraid of—that you will get used to doing your kind and noble deeds in the future, instead of the present. You feel all the glow of one who has really done a good thing, without any warrant for it, while a thousand golden opportu nities of the present are passing by you unnoticed. Ah, Agnes," shaking her head sadly, "it cheats you so, this dream ing of heroic and generous actions. It is a thousand times easier and pleasanter to sit and admire the future self all noble and sweet, than it is to keep faithfully at work making the present self live the sweet and noble life ; and it makes one far• more self-conceited." Agnes looked sober; but said nothing, and her mother went on. " Your heart forms a Paradise for itself, and you call it yours. Of course, you grant what eveybody says—that we mustn't expect future happiness, that life is uncertain and full of disappointments, but down in that hopeful heart of yours, you smile at it all. You embrace your beautiful ideal of life, and say 'it is mine.' All that future love and happiness you have rev eled in so long, you have come to feel is your right. Then if your Heavenly Father comes to you, and says, 'This is not for you, my child; give it back to Me,' 0, my darling, spare yourself that desperate pain! Do not let your day dreams strike root till it will tear your heart to pieces to have Providence take them from you! just trust your future life with your Father, and take what he sends you just as it comes. Do not elaini anything; then you will live grateful and happy." Mrs. MacGregor spoke with tender, almost painful earnestness, and Agnes sat reverently thinking -how much deeper the currents of her mothers's being than her own, how much richer her experience, of life. At length she said, "It seems as if it would leave my mind a blank to strike the future out of it." "I would not have you strike it out," replied Mrs. MacGregor, "but I do not want you to live in the future, as long as your duties lie here in the present. How can you throw yourself into daily life with spirit .and nerve doing with your might what your hands find to do, if the best part of you is away in your castle? This is one great harm of the habit; it gets you into a listless, half hearted way of meeting life. And then I dread the intellectual effect of these day-dreams, Agnes. lam really afraid you will lose the power of, connected, vigorous thought. I can see now that your mind revolts from actual work." " Oh, well, my dear mother, I expect that will come in time," said Agnes, de precatingly; " you mustn't despair of me. I really don't know how to think now ; haven't the least idea how to begin I can't set up an exalted subject, and make myself reflect upon it for the next hour." "Of course not, child," said her mo ther' giving her a little playful switch with the rose spray she held in her fin gers ; "but there are things you can do, if you only wish to reform." "Well, what ?" asked Agnes, leaning her chin on her hand, and looking up in her face. "In the first place, you can set your self to planning pleasure for others, in stead of dreaming pleasure for yourself —something which can really be done, I mean. Then you can force yourself to concentrate your thoughts on the work in hand, whatever it is. This is the reason I like you to study mathema tics and difficult music-they compel you to fix your mind to the point before you." "But you see mother," replied Agnes, " I do a great many things, like this crocheting, for instance, that don't re quire my whole attention." " That's true ; and the natural current of thinking, when you are at leisure to let your thoughts run, will be directed very much by the books you have been reading." "Now, mother dear, please don't come down upon that?" with an imploring look. Mrs. MacGregor only smiled mad went on. " You are two or three days read ing a novel, and it fills your thoughts for that time ; but when it comes to an PHILADELPHIA, THURSDAY, OCTOBER 6, 1864. end you cannot part with it. Your ready imagination works the story over, and carries it on. You fancy yourself min gled with the characters, you slide into the place of the heroine, over all the adventures and, more. By the time this key-note has spent itself, you get hold of another romance, and the process goes over again. Every new story fills your sails afresh, and sends you floating over your enchanted sea. Now, for . a very matter-of-fact, prosaic person, consider able of such reading may be a good thing, but for a girl like you, made up mainly of heart and imagination, it is ruinous." Agnes was listening, with her head bent over her work, but with a deepened color and a conscious smile, which testified to the truth of her mother's description. Mrs. MacGregor added : "It is easy to read romance, to dream romance, but to live romance—ah, my child !—that needs the brave heart, the clear head, the quick self-control which your reveries are robbing you of. It is only by bearing, well the little daily tests that we can be ready for the great crises of life." "But, mother, how can I read learned books all the time ?" asked Agnes forlorn ly. " No . one wants you to read learned books all the time," her wither answered, " but must I have the mortification of believing that my daughter can relish no literature but stories? There is a broad range of delightful belles-lettres, which I am sure you would appreciate if you would make yourself acquainted with it. If you have no taste for such books, I beg you will be ashamed of 'the lack, and study to form one. "But you will need to be resolute with yourself, my dear. Determine, that you will find your reading in something be side novels for so long a time— t whatever you really think best for yourself. You should take them only very rarely, and then when you do read one, choose care fully—not seize the first that comes to hand—read only those that, have such intellectual and moral tone us to quick en your best impulses. If you will only do this, Agnes—reform your reading— I think your habits of thought would re form themselves." Agnes, still sitting on the step of the piazza., at her mother's feet, •had laid down her head in her lap, and was gazing out over the sea again, but thoughtfully, not in a dream. " Oh, I do - want you to come out of Cloudland, and live in the real world, my darling !" said the mother, stroking fond ly her bonny brown hair—" the world where earnest, self-forgetting women are sorely needed. I want you to know men and women as they are, and find out the meaning and beauty of life as it is. This element of romance in your nature would not hurt you ; it would throw its mosses and vines over many a rough spot, and make you all the happier, if you would only keep it in its place -,but if you give it a chance, in all these hours of dream ing, to overrun everything else, it will make a silly, craving, dissatisfied woman of my Agnes.—Congregationalist. A LIE OF HONOR-THE STORY OF A LAWYER. On entering college, I promised my mother, whom I loved as I have never loved another mortal, that while there I would not taste of intoxicating liquor, nor play at cards, or other games of haz ard, nor borrow money. And I never did, and never have since. I have lived well nigh sixty years, yet have never learned to tell a king from,,A. knave among cards, nor Hock from Burgundy among wines, nor have I ever asked for the loan of a single dollar. Thanks to my mother ! loving, careful, anxious for me, but not; over-careful, nor over-anx -10119. How could she be, when ; ,I was so weak, and ignorant of my weakness, feeling myself strong, because my strength was untried, and such a life as human life is, such temptations as beset the young, before me. She did not ask me to promise not to swear. She would not wrong me by the thought that I could swear, and she was right. I could not. How can any one so , nsult the Holy, the All-Excel lent, our Father and best Friend? Nor did she ask me not to lie. She thought I, could not lie. Had she thought otherwise, my promise would. ha,ve been of little value to her. And I also thought I could not. I despised lying as weakness, cowardice, meanness, the concentration of baseneSs. I felt strong enough, manly enough, ,to accomplish my ends without it. I had no fear of facing my own acts. Why should I shrink before my fellows for anything I had done? Lie to theta to conceal my self or my acts'? Nay, I would not have faults to be concealed. My own character, my own life was more to me than the esteem of_ others. I would do nothing fit to have hidden, or which I might wish to hide. I thought I could not lie and I could not for myself. During my second college year, there was a great deal of card-playing among the students. The Faculty tried to prevent it, but found it difficult. Though I never played, my chum did, and sometimes others played with him in our room when I was present. I not unfre quently saw the students at cards. One of the Professors questioned me upon the subject. "Have you ever seen any card-playing among the students ?" "No, sir," I answered firmly, deter mined not to expose my fellows. "A lie of honor !" I said to myself. What coupling of contradictions ! As well talk of "honest theft I" " innocent sin." " You are ignorant of any card-play- ing in the college buildings, Brown ?" " Yes, sir." " We can believe you, Brown." I was ready to sink. Nothing else could have smitten, stung m?,, like that. Such confidence, and I so unworthy of it ! Still I held back the truth. But I left the Professor's room an other person than I entered it, guilty, knimbled, wretched. That one false word had spoiled everything for me. All my past manliness was shadowed by it. My ease of mind had left, me, my self-respect was gone. I felt un certain—unsafe. I stood upon a lie, trembling, tottering. How soon might I not fall. I was right in feeling un safe. It is always unsafe to lie. My feet were sliding beneath me. One of the students had lost a quarter's allow ance in play, and applied to his father for a fresh remittance, stating his loss. His father had made complaint to the College Faculty, and there was an in vestigation of the facts. The money had been staked and lost in my room. I was present. " Was Brown there ?" inquired the Professor. " He was." The Professor's eye rested on me. Where was my honor then ? my manli ness ? and where the trust reposed in me. Did any say "we believe you, Brown," after that ? Did any excuse my lie ? any talk of my honor then ? Not one. They said, "We didn't think it of you Brown !" "I didn't suppose Brown would lie for his right hand." It was enough to kill me. But there was no help. I had to bear my sin and shame as best I might, and try to out live it. No one trusted me as before. No one could, for who knew that my integrity might not again fail? I could not trust myself until I had obtained strength as well as pardon from God, nor even then, until I had many times been tried and tempted, and found his strength sufficient for me.—Congrega tionalist. AN ECONOMICAL PUMP. An amusing illustration of ingenuity appears in a story of an Italian gentle man who devised a plan of keeping his pump at work with but little expense to himself : "The garden wall of his villa adjoined the great high road leading from one of the capitals of Northern Italy (Turin), from which it was distant but a few miles. Possessing within his garden fine'spring of water, he erected on the outside of the wall a pump for public use, and chaining to it a small iron ladle, he placed near it some rude seats for the weary traveler, and by a slight roof of climbing plants protected the whole from the mid-day sun. In this delightful shade the tired and thirsty travelers on that well-beaten road ever' and anon reposed and retreshed themselves, and did not fail to put in requsition the services of the pump so, opportunely presented to them. From morning till night many a dusty and way-worn pilgrim plied the handle, and went on his way, blessing the liberal proprietor for his kind considera,- tion of the passing stranger. But the owner of the villa was deeply acquainted with human nature. He knew in that sultry climate that the liquid would be more valued from its scarcity and the difficulty of acquiring it. He, therefore, to enhance the value of the gift, wisely arranged the pump so that its spout was of rather contracted dimensions and the handle required a moderate application of force to work it. Under these circum stances the pump raised far more water than could pass through its spout ; and to prevent its being.-wasted, the surplus was conveyed by an invisible channel to a large reservoir judiciously placed for watering the nroprietor's own houses, stables, and garden—into which about five pints were poured for every spoonful passing out of the spout for the benefit of the weary traveler. Even this latter por tion was not entirely-neglected, for the waste pipe conveyed the part whieh ran over from the ladle to some delicious straw berry beds at a lower level." PROFANITY A SIGN OF IGNORANCE. The vulgar sin of profanity is more common than formerly in the streets. We wish all addicted to the habit could understand how vulgar it is, and how generally it is accepted as a proof of an empty head and a weak will. The North American Review says well: There are among us not a few who feel that a simple assertion or plain statement of obvious facts, will pass for nothing, unless they swear to its truth by all the names of the Deity, and blis ter their lips with every variety of hot and sulphurous oaths. If we observe such persons closely, we shall generally find that the fierceness of their profanity is in inverse ratio to the affluence of their ideas. We venture to affirm that the pro fanest men within the circle of your knowledge allure afflicted with a chronic weakness of intellect. The utterance of an oath, though it may prevent a vacuum in sound, is no indication of sense. It requires no genius to "swear." The reckless taking of sacred names in vain is as little characteristic of true in dependence of thought as it is of high moral culture. In this breathing and beautiful world, filled as it were with the presence of the Deity, and fragrant with incense from its thousand altars of praise, it would be no servility should we catch the spirit of reverent worship pers, and illustrate in ourselves the sen timent that the Christian is the highest style of man. THE LAST HOURS OP PRINOE ALBERT. There has reached us from abroad a most interesting extract from a letter which was written by a member of the Queen's Household shortly after the death of Prince Albert. - The extreme confidential position which the writer held at the time not only gives the as surance of perfect reliability, but invests the following lines with very special interest. After describing the grief and fears of the whole household for the Queen, the writer speaks of the perso nal loss sustained in the death of Prince Albert : How I shall miss his conversation about the children ! He used often to come into the schoolroom to speak about - the education of the children, and he never left me without my feeling that he had strengthened my hand, and raised the standard I was aiming at. Nothing mean •or frivolous could exist in the atmosphere that surrounded him; the conversation could not be trifling if he was in the room. I dread the re turn of spring for my dear Lady. It was his favorite time of the year—the opening leaves, the early flowers, and fresh green were such a delight to him ; and he so loved to point out their beau ties to his children that it will be terri ble to see them without him. The chil dren kept his table supplied with primroses, which he especially loved. The last Sunday he passed on earth was a very blessed one for the Princess Alice to look back upon. He was very ill and very weak, and she spent the afterno©n alone with him, whilst the others were in Church. He begged to have his sofa drawn to the window, that he might see the sky and the clouds sail ing past. He then asked her to play to him, and she went through some of his favorite hymns and chorals. After she had played some time, she looked around and saw him lying back, his hands folded as if in prayer, and his eyes shut. He lay so long without moving that she ;thought he had fallen asleep. Presently, he looked up and smiled., She said, " Were you asleep, dear papa?" "Oh no," he answered ; " only I have such sweet thoughts." During his illnes, his hands were often folded in prayer; and, when he did not speak, his serener face showed that the "happy thoughts" were with him to the end. The Princess Alice's fortitude has amazed us all. She saw from the first that both her father and mother's firmness depended on her firmness, and she set herself to the duty. He loved to speak openly of his condition, and had many wishes to express. He loved to hear hymns and prayers. He could not speak to the. Queen of himself, for she could not bear to listen, and shut her eyes to the danger. His daughter saw that she must act differently, and she never let her voice falter, or shed a single tear in his presence. She sat by him, listened to all he said ; repeated hymns ; and then when she could bear it no longer would walk calmly to the door, and then rush away to her room, returning soon with the same calm and pale face without any appearance of the agitation she had gone through. I have had several interviews with the poor Queen since. The first time she said, "You'can feel for me, for you have gone through this trial." Another time she said how strange it seemed, when she looked back, to see how much for the last six months the Prince's mind had dwelt upon death and the fu ture state ; their conversation had so often turned, upon these subjects, and they had .read together a book called i " Heaven our Home," which had inter ested him very much. He once said to her, " We don't know in what state we shall meet again; but that we shall recognize each other and be together in eternity lam perfectly certain." It seemed as if it had been intended to prepare her mind and comfort her— though, of course, it did not strike her. then. She said she was a wonder to herself; and she was sure it was in answer to the prayers of her people that she was so sustained. She feared it would not last, and that times of agony were before her. She said, " there's not the bitterness in this trial that I felt when I lost my mother—l was so re bellious then ; but now I can see the mercy and love that are mixed in my trial." Her whole thought now is to walk worthy of him, and her greatest comfort to think that his spirit is always near her, and knows all that she is doing.—London Paper. THE SABBATH A BOON. It seems to me that we put Sabbath keeping generally on too low ground. We call it duty when it should be privi lege. The Sabbath is a feast, and not a fast. It is less a command than a boon. It is granted to us, above - , and beyond being imposed upon us. It is our great rest-day, given us that we may not faint from over-much weariness. After a week's toil of body, or mind, or both, God, in his fatherly love and tender care, presses upon us this great gift that our souls may live. He stays the sweeping tide that we may take our soundings, reckon our latitude and longitude, find where we are and whither we are steering. In the dizzying whirl of life we need-0 how greatly do we need, and how sorely do we suffer without it !—this regularly re curring interval of quiet, that we may look gratefully back over all the way which the Lord our God hath led us, and trustfully forward through all the future till the end come.—Stumbling Blocks. IN SEASON. ‘c I am very sorry I kept you waiting, uncle," said George with a blush, as fie took his seat in the carriage for a drive. " I hope you have not been here long." " Just thirty-five minutes," said the old gentleman, looking at his watch. Then carefully folding . ap his newspaper, h e gathered up the lines, and gave them a little admonitory shake. "I am very sorry, indeed; but you s ee , I was detained, and could not get oirb e _ fore." He would have colored still deeper, if obliged to explain the frivolou s cause of his delay. "If it could not b e helped," said the other, " of course it i s all right; but if it might have been avoid ed, why then it is another matter. Half hours are precious things, my boy, and you will find them so if you live long. Punctuality must be a young man' s watchword, if he ever hopes to make any thing of himself or his opportunities. I had a young friend in New Haven once, who went into business for himself, just as you hope to next fall; but he had this standing failing—he was always a little behind tune. " I remember once he had need of a thousand dollars, to make a payment on a certain day. He could have gathered it up easily enough, if he had begun in time. But the day had arrived, and he was in great perplexity. Still there was an easy way out of the difficulty. He ran around to an obliging neighbor, and bor rowed the sum for three days. Well, he felt quite at ease after the bill was paid, and the three days slipped by thought. lessly, and he was no more ready to pay the borrowed money than he had been the other. "It could make no difference to the merchant, he was sure, and he hastened to him with abundant apologies. " It will make no difference at all with me,' said the gentleman, blandly, but it will make much difference with you.' " How so ?' asked the other. " I shall never lend to you again,' he said as politely as if it were a pleas ant fact he was communicating. I was young then, and I always remember the little circumstance, and have often been influence by it._ Poor E. did not suc ceed well. Business men will soon lose confidence in you, George, if you are not always as good as your word, and every one needs the good-will of his fel lows. Perfect punctuality should be your lowest aim in this respect. You will lose untold amounts of time for want of it, and cause others to do the same. And that is the worst kind of pilfering. Stolen gold can be got back or re placed, but no power can bring back a lost half hour."—Chronide. DANIEL WEBSTER'S REVERENT USE OF THE SCRIPTURES. One of our Boston exchanges justly rebukes our literary men for the irrever ent manner in which they use the Scrip tures, by misquotations, misapplications, association with trivial and ridiculous circumstances, &c. We' are reminded of the very different and honorable course of the greatest of American orators to wards the inspired Volume. Says Mr. March, in "Daniel Webster and his co temporarin "While Mr. Webster's public produc tions and private conversations attest how deeply he is imbued with the spirit of the Scriptures, neither the one nor the other ever contained the slightest irreverent allusion to any passage in them—anything in the way of illustration, analogy or quotation, that would seem to question their sanctity. He has been scrupulous ly delicate in this regard ; and therein differs widely from most of his cotem poraries in public life on this continent; for it is made matter of reproach to us, as a nation, that our public speakers, in Congress particularly, take the grossest liberties with the most sacred. texts of the Scriptures, use them to garnish the most ordinary topics, or illustrate their own ignoble pursuits and histories ; and in fact, pay them no more regard than profane books. It is not so in England. Good taste if not a religious sense avoids any such irreverence." MORAL OOURAGE. Young man, would you become moral ly strong'? Would you grow up perfect ly competent to resist every foe to your happiness, every enemy which may dis-f pute your progress in the way of noble manhood ? Would you fit yourself for usefulness in this world and for happi ness in the next ? Then listen to the feeblest voice of conscience, calling yoL to duty and to right. There is no more: certain method of cultivating and pro moting moral strength than by heedin. continually that light which " lightetl every man which cometh into the world. When some specious temptation is pr • seated before you, when there is throw over it the witching gauze of fashion an • • show, do you not hear that gentle an,' precious voice bidding` von look awn; and shun the specious temptation ? Tha . voice is soft as the whispers of angels and as kind as the melting tendernes. of a mother's pure love. You canno disregard it but at your imminent peril Every time you listen with, attention: your ear becomes keener to hear at your strength more competent to resin temptation. It will soon become ens; to do right. The charm of temptatio would lose its power over yon. Morn ing Star.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers