61ji gait it'd Cirdr. THE MYSTIC UNION. A light of glory to our feet benighted! A. voice of resurrection to the dead! E'en as the Father to the Son united, So shall ye be to Christ, your living head. What does it mean I In these poor hearts of ours Can the Omniscient a sojourner be, As sunbeams nestle in the souls of flowers, Or angels come to sleeping infancy? Ah, yes Rejoice, ye contrite, broken-hearted! His holy presence dissipates your sin ; Remember how the raging storm departed From the lone ship when Jesus slept therein. Oh, let His love a sacred fire out-going, Consume each molten image from our sight ; And be our spirits to his truth in-flowing • Transparent as the diamond is to light ! It is the soul which makes its own external ; All things are outbirths from her inmost sphere ; Sunshine of peace on landscapes ever vernal, And wastes of winter, come alike from her. The love of Ged—the fealty which we owe Him, Grafted upon our hearts and fruitful there, Will make the outward life a noble poem, By making first the inner life a prayer. Is not the holy, beautiful Ideal, The father of our hope and joy and love, Which come incarnate in the grosser Real, Remoulding it by patterns from above? Joy springs from sorrow, virtue from tempts- tion, And daily death is but a happier birth: Then comes our Sabbath of regeneration, Uniting heaven forevermore with earth. W. H. HOLCOMBE THE FUGITIVE SLAVE AND THE BOUND BOY, BY THE AUTHOR OF " DAVID WOODBURN, THE MOUNTAIN MISSIONARY.'' CHAPTER 11. Again it was a night in December, just such a night as the one on which Jake made his first appearance at Our house. The family, with the excep tion of myself, had all retired to rest. I sat by the fire, absorbed in the pages of some book of surpassing interest ; but at length, in spite of my pleasant book, the storm without drew my at tention. For a while I listened quietly ;to the tumult of the ,lements ; then a strange terror crept over me ; I imagined that the wind sounded under the eaves, like the wail of a lost spirit. The windows shook and rattled fearfully; I looked timidly around at last, and took a survey of the room, shuddering at the weird figures on the white walls, which were in reality nothing but the shadows caused by different articles of furniture in the dim firelight. At length, making a desperate effort at self control, I arose and stepped to the window. The light of the moon was obscured at intervals by scudding clouds, and the snow, whirled by the wind in every direction, rendered ob jects still more obscure; but I was certain that I saw a dark-looking figure in the path that led along the upper part of the orchard to the house. The garden palings shut out the view par tially, but I was almost sure it was a human being. Whoever it was, seem ed to be in a stooping posture ; he might be trying to hide, or possibly he was cowering from the el:fees of the cold. This strange apparition added not a little to my terrors. At this juncture, greatly to my re lief, Norah made her appearance in her night gear, just as she had risen from her bed. Holding the candle close to my face, she said, "Why, what's the matter? Have you seen a ghost, and what are you doing up this time of night, naughty child ?" "Oh ! Norah, "cried I," there's a man up there in the orchard, come and see." She looked out of the window, and then said, "it may be one of those poor fugitives. Run and gall Jake, while I dress; I am going to see." Norah's resolve seemed to me like the extreme of rashness, but I did not dare to expostulate. Jake soon appeared, and he and Norah set off. As they approached he object crouching in the snow, it rose to its feet in the shape of a stal wart negro. Before Norah could speak, he ran away along the beaten path towards the barn. Then she cried after him, "If you, don't stop, I shall think you are here to do us a mischief, and the dogs will be let loose on you; but if you are an honest man, come into the house out of the storm." The negro hesitated, and finally stopped. After a short parley, he owned that he was a runaway, that his mas ter. had caught him and was taking him back to bondage; but that he had broken away at the toll gate, about three miles distant; that he had run all the way, and his master was after him. The poor creature was in such mortal dread of being retaken, that he could scarcely make himself intelligi- ble, and was so exhausted with fatigue, hunger and cold, that he was nearly helpless. It seemed that he had been lying in the woods, and travelling in a circle for the last twenty-four hours. The shackles were still on his wrists, though 'he had managed, somehow, to separate them. Holding up his hands with the broken fetters dangling from each wrist, he besought Norah not to betray him. She assured him that he might as well expect the stars to fall; she would shelter and hide him from all the men-stealers in the world. Upon this, he surrendered at discre tion to Norah and Jaie, and was mar shalled into the kitchen by the two THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN, THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1865 heroes. Norah's first precaution was to hang two heavy, stuff quilts over the shutterless windows to prevent the light from betraying us, in case of pur suit ; then Jake made a rousing fire, after which, he brought a file from the carpenter's shop, and filed off the hand cuffs. While this was doing, Norah prepared some hot supper for her strange guest, who devoured it, I thought, like a famished wild beast; but Jake looked on with immense satisfac tion. After supper, our black friend grew garrulous, and quite vindictive, in re spect to a certain agent in the neigh boring village, whose , name was Scruggs, and who also, being well paid for hunting up runaways, had by his zeal in the cause, made himself quite obnoxious to thit class of his fellow creatures, as well as to all who sympa thized with them in their forlorn con dition. He gave his name as John Cornish; said he was taken captive by Scruggs while he was asleep ; that he had seen his old master in Brookville with the Sheriff; that he would know him in a hundred, he was such a mighty tall man; that he wouldn't be " tooken again," he would kill himself first. And then he lifted the corner of No roah's shawl and kissed it reverently; while great tears rolled down his black cheeks, saying the while, "Oh, Miss! you won't betray me, I know you won't." To which Norah answered that she never would. Then she made a shake down of blankets before the fire, telling John he might sleep there till morning. During all this, I was in great perturbation, and did not feel safe till Norah had led me off to our own MOM. On the following morning, Norah laid the case before father. I thought from his manner that he was impress ed with the idea that she had done a good action. But the question was, what was to be done with the fugitive, till the hue and cry after him should be over. After much consultation, it was con cluded to send Jake to. one of the de serted huts, with necessary bedding, provision, etc., and there John was left " alone in his glory,", and as events turned out, not a minute too soon, either, for by ten A. M., Mr. Scruggs appeared. This gentleman scorned to own that he was a paid agent of the slave owner. No, no, not he. Mr. Scruggs was a church member, in good and regular standing. He, only, with the purest motives, assisted flip Sheriff to main tain the laws of the land. On this particular morning, father took Norah gently by the arm and led her from the room ; he then stepped to the door and received his guest with the utmost politeness. Mr. Scruggs was very urbane ; and father, who was usually a rather quiet man, launched forth into a steady stream of conversa tion, which he kept up for nearly an hour, so that Mr. Scruggs was appar ently overpowered by such unwonted eloquence. After several vain attempts to turn the tide of conversation, which seemed to run mainly on the subject of missionary enterprise• and church extension, he took his departure, with out a single chance to sift and cross-ex amine, as his manner was, when out on one of his excursions in the capa city of detective. John remained in retirement till the search was relinquished, and then came forth and commenced work as a hired hand on my father's farm. He was industrious and 'diligent, and was withal so eager to learn to read and. write, that by the time spring set in, he had acquired some facility in both these branches, under Norah's faithful instruction. His chair in the kitchen corner was never vacant through the long winter evenings. There/ by the light of a blazing pine -knot, he pored over the Bible,. and some few other books which Norah recommended. Jake, who always occupied the oppo site corner, dipped into different au thors more extensively, among which were, The Arabian Nights and Robin son Crusoe. John was strongly op posed to light reading,' and felt scanda lized, that Jake should indulge in such trifling books, especially in his imme diate proximity. This would often lead to an animated discussion between the two. On such occasions, Norah was always.appealed , to, as arbiter; and whichever side she espoused, the op posite one considered himself, for the time, .as vanquished. Time passed on until it was nearly midsummer. John had fairly come to consider himself a free man, and told Jake confidentially that he had " em barked on a career." The meaning of which not being clear to that individual, he carried the matter to Norah, with the request that she would unravel the mystery. Norah informed him that, in ordi nary cases, a career meant a race, or the course of some distinguished per son, but in John's case, she thought it might mean, that he felt he was no longer the property of any one; but his own master, and, therefore, free to run a race if he saw proper. Jake then went on to say, that he feared John was growing proud. On her ii;k qniring why he thought so, he inform ed her that John often expressed him self in this wise, "Jacob, why don't you go , on and improve yourself like I do ? Now, just look : one year ago, I was a poor, - ignorant - slave. -I- did'nt know S from a side of sole-leather, and now I can read and write, and mean to study for a year or so, and then enter the ministry. Just you wait awhile, and you will see me, with a white cravat, and a tall,. white hat, and riding on a white horse." Jake intimated that he had treated these brilliant anticipations with some contempt; that he had asked John, if he was not getting above his busi ness?, and if he didn't expect to pur chase grey Bess? (grey Bess, being a splendid young mare, and a great fa vorite in the family.) To this John retorted, that "he thought he, Jake, was wanting in pro per respect to one so much his senior in years, and that he might live to see him, John, high up in the world, for he had a presentiment that the days of slavery were 'drawing to a close, and then polored folks would take a stand a good deal higher than some poor white trash he could name." Otie morning about this time, it was in hay harvest, Norah had risen very early to' direct Jake in some gardening operations. They had just reached the gate, when the latter called her at tention to a man who was riding very leisurely along a road that skirted a clover-field below the house. " Oh, me!" cried Norah, "tli - at is Scruggs again. Jake, run and hide, "while I tell John." She then walked slowly through the yard, and up the orchard path towards the barn. But Scruggs saw the movement, and seem ed to understand it, for he urged his horse into a gallop. When Norah saw this, she too, set off at a brisk run. In a moment she reached the barn, and cried, " John, John, hide quickly, here is Scruggs." John's black face turned a sickly yellow, as he asked, " here for the Lord's sake, Miss Norah, where can I hide ?" " Under the threshing floor, you stupid, be quick." Then John disappeared under the the threshing floor, creeping face downwards, between the ,great, beams. Noah, then, with a very demure face, face, opened the door of the sheep-fold, and as the lambs, with their fleecy mothers stepped out, she patted their woolly heads, and was so deeply in terested, that Mr. Scruggs having now' arrived at the gate of the barn-yard, sat for some time, hat in hand, waiting to bid her good-morrow. But Norah being entirely occupied, did not see that gentleman at all. So he was fain to interrupt her in her all-engrossing employment. This he did by saying, in a very loud voice, " A pleasant morning, Miss Norah." Norah looked up apparently in great surprise, and said, "Why, Mr. Scruggs, is that you? really. It must be urgent business that brings you out so early." " Miss Norah, its no use trying to conceal it you know you've got that nigger, John Cornish hidden in the barn, and its better now to give him up quietly. We have him safe this time. The whole place is surrounded, he can't get away, and you see, I don't want to make a fuss with a lady." Norah's blue eyes sparkled with mischief as she replied, " Not the slighest danger of a fuss with a lady, Mr. Scruggs. I scorn to bandy words with persons of your profession, and shall call my father. I dare say he will make no objections to your searching the barn." By this time father had appeared, Jake having aroused the family, whoi were all peeping furtively out of the, windows and doors. Norah, with a scornful toss of her little head, walked back to the house, signifying John's retreat to her father, as she passed him on the way. Scruggs was very angry and insult ing to father, who remained quite calm; owned that such a man had been on his farm. lately, but that he had not seen him that morning; he might be in the barn, they were wel come to search. " I known he's in the barn," cried Scruggs. •"I saw him there, not twenty minutes ago, and that girl ran and told him." Saying this, he signalled his men; they all came 'up and a vigorous search was made. The' men worked with a will, looking into all the.out houses everywhere, but the chattel named John Cornish, was nowhere to be found. So, Mr. Scruggs, looking quite crest fallen, called off, his myrmidons, and rode away. It was a long time before the poor creature could be prevailed on to leave his retreat; he did not leave it, indeed, until driven by hunger, and then he fled to a mine in the neighborhood, and dwelt among the iron ore and the It4sh miners, which last bound them selves by a Solemn league and. cove nant, that they would defend him from all men-stealers to the last drop of their blood. This little incident in our family history had a depressing influence on us all. John's willing hands and good natured ways were sadly missed, and by none more than Jake, who, now that John was overtaken by misfor tune, forgot all his imperfections, and. dwelt entirely on his good qualities. Norah, however, had set herself to work in earnest, to mar all Mr. Scruggs's plans for the rendition of John Cornish. She stated the case to a gentleman who was known to have little transactions of the kind with the owners of runaway slaves, and. through him, a negotiation was brought about with John's former master, wherein, for the consideration of $3OO, John's freedom was bought and presented to him. This was a very moderate price, the estimated value of an able bodied man being $l4OO at that time. The, delight and gratitude of the poor fellow . was unbounded, and he strove to show it by renewed industry and diligence. He grew erect in port, and looked every inch a free man, never losing sight of the great aim he had set for himself, namely, to become a preacher of the Gospel. [TO BE CONCLUDED.] ONE PAIR OF STOCKINGS. An old wife sat by her bright fireside, Swaying thoughtfully to and fro, In an ancient chair whose creaky craw Told a tale of long ago ; While down by her side on the kitchen floor, Stood a basket of worsted balls—a score. The good man dozed o'er the latest news, Till the light of his pipe went out, And, unheeded, the kitten, with cunning paws, Rolled and tangled the balls about] Yet still sat the wife in the ancient Chair, Swaying to and fro in the fire-light.glare. But anon a misty.tear-drop came In her eye of faded blue, Then trickled down in a furrow deep, Like a single drop of dew; So deep was the channel—so silentthe stream— The good man saw naught but the dimmed eye beam. Yet he marvelled much that the cheerful light Of her eye had weary grown, And marvelled he more at the tangled balls ; So he said in a gentle tone, "I have shared - thy joys since our marriage vow, Conceal not from me thy sorrows now.' Then she spoke of the time when the basket there Was filled to the 'very brim, And now there remained of the goodly pile But a single pair—for him. Then wonder not at the dimmed eye-light, There's but one pair of stockings to mend to night. I cannot but think of the busy feet, Whose wrappings were wont to lie In the basket awaiting the needle's time— ' NoW wandered so far away How the sprightly steps, to a mother dear, Unheeded fell on the careless ear. For each empty nook in the basket old, By the hearth there's an empty seat; And I miss the shadows from off the wall, And the patter of many feet; 'Tis for this that a tear gathered over my sight At the one pair of stockings to mend to-night. 'Twas said that far through the forest wild And over the mountains bold, Was a land whose rivers and darkening caves, Were gemmed with the rarest gold ; Then my first-born turned from the oaken door, And I knew the shadows were only four_ Another went forth on the foaming waves And diminished the basket's store— But his feet grew cold—so weary and cold— They'll never be warm any more— And this nook, in its emptiness seemethto me To give forth no voice but the moan of the sea. Two others have gone toward the setting sun, And made them a home in its light, - • And fairy fingers have taken their share. To mend by the fireside bright; Some other baskets their garments fill— But mine ! Oh, mine is emptier still Another—the dearest—the fairest—the best— Was taken by angels away, And clad in a garment that waxeth not old, In a land of continual day. Oh, wonder no more at the dimmed eye-light, While I mend the one pair of stockings to-night. PURITAN CHILDHOOD. FROM REV. DR. BRAINERD'S "LIFE OF JOHN BRAINERD." • We can form a very ready concep tion of the early life of John Brainerd. The writer's grandfather was his con temporary, and a deacon in the church of Haddam, only twelve years his junior, being born in 1732, and died 1815, aged eighty-four. My own father was born in 1754, resided in Haddam fifty years, within three miles of John Brainerd's early home; and in possession of all his faculties, died in Lewis County, N. Y., 1838, aged eighty-four. We had enforced on us in early life —with too little effect, we fear—many of the principles which formed the characters of David and John Brainerd one hundred and fifty- years ago, : A boy was early taught a profound . respect for his parents, teachers, guar dians, and implicit, prompt obedience. If he undertook to rebel, " his will 'was broken" by persistent and ade quate punishment. He was accus tomed every morning and evening to bow at the family altar; and the Bible was his ordinary reading-book in school. He was never allowed to close his eyes in sleep without prayer on his pillow. At a sufficient age, no caprice, slight illness, nor any condition of roads or weather, was allowed to detain him from church. In the sanctuary he was required to be grave, strictly at tentive, and able on his return at least to give the text. From sundown Saturday evening until the Sabbath sunset his sports were all suspended, and all secular reading laid aside ; while the Bible, New England. Primer, Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, 13axter's Saints' Rest, etc., were commended to his ready attention and cheerfully pored over. He was taught that his blessings were abundant and undeserved, his evils relatively few and merited, and that he was not only bound to coil tentment, but gratitude. He was taught that time was a talent to be always improved; that industry was a cardinal virtue, and laziness the worst form of original sin. Hence he must rise early, and make himself use ful before he went to school ; must be diligent there . in study, and be promptly home to do "chores" at even ing. His whole time out of school must be filled up by some service,— such as bringing in fuel for the day, cutting potatoes for the sheep, feeding the swine, watering the horses, pick ing the berries, gathering the vegeta bles, spooling the yarn, and running all errands. He was expected never to be reluctant, and not often tired. He was taught that it was a sin to find fault with his meals,* his apparel, his tasks, or his lot in life. Labor he was not allowed to regard as a burden, nor abstinence from any improper in dulgence as a hardship. 'His clothes, woolen and linen, for summer and winter, were mostly spun, woven, and made up by his mother and sisters at home ; and, as he saw the whole laborious process of their fabrication, he was jubilant and grate ful for two suits, with bright buttons, a year. Rents were carefully closed and holes patched in the "every-day" dress, and the Sabbath dress always kept new and fresh. He was expected early to have the " stops and marks," the " abbrevia tions," the " multiplication table," the "ten commandments," the " Lord's Prayer," and the "Shorter Catechism," at his tongue's end. Courtesy was enjoined as a duty. He must be silent among his superiors. If addressed by older persons, he must respond with a bow. He was to bow as he:entered and left the school, and bow to every man or woman, old or young, rich or poor, black or white, whom he met on the road. Special punisjiment was visited on him if he failed to show respect to the aged, the poor, the colored, or to any persons whatever whom God had visited with infirmities. He ' was thus taught to stand in awe of the rights of humanity. Honesty was urged as a religious duty, and unpaid debts were repre sented as infamy. He was allowed to be sharp at a bargain, to shudder at dependence, but still to prefer poverty to deception or frail& His industry was not urged by poverty, but duty. Those who imposed upon him early responsibility and restraint led the way by their example, and commended this example by the prosperity of their fortunes and the respectability of their position as the result of these vir tues. He felt that they governed and restrained him for his good, and not their own. He learned to identify himself with the interests he was set to promote. He claimed every acre of his father's ample farm, and every horse and ox and cow and sheep became construct ively his, and he had a name for each. The waving harvests, the garnered sheaves, the gathered fruits, were all his own. And besides these, he had his individual treasures. He knew every trout-hole in the streams; he was great in building dams, snaring rabbits, trapping squirrels, and gather ing chestnuts and walnuts for winter store. Days .of election, training, thankigiving, and school-intermissions, were bright spots in his life. His long winter evenings, made cheerful by sparkling fires within, and:cold, clear skies and ice•crusted plains and frozen streams for his sled and skates, were full of enjoyment. And then he was loved by those whom he could respect, and cheered by that future for which he was being prepared. Religion he was taught to regard as a necessity and luxury, as well as a duty. He was daily brought into contemplation of the Infinite, and made to regard him self as ever on the brink of an endless being. With a deep sense of obliga tion, a keen, sensitive conscience, and. a tender heart, the great truths of re ligion appeared in his eye as sublime, awful, practical realities, compared with which earth was nothing. Thus he was made brave before men for the right, while he lay in the dust before God. Such was Haddam training one hun dred years ago. Some may lift their hands in horror at this picture ; but it was a process which made moral. he roes. It exhibited a society in which wealth existed without idleness or profligacy; social elevation without arrogance; labor without degradation; and a piety which, by its energy and martyr endurance, could shake the world. We are not to suppose that the boy hood of John Brainerd under these in fluences was gloomy or joyless; far from it. Its activity was bliss ; its growth was a spring of life ; its achievements were victories. Each clay garnered some benefit; and rising life, marked by successive accumula tions, left a smile on the conscience, and bright and reasonable hopes fqr the future. We might have desired that this Puritan training had left childhood a little larger indulgence,—had looked .with interest at present enjoyment as well as at future good,—had smiled a little more lovingly on the innocent gambols, the ringing laughter, the irrepressible mirth of boyhood; and had frowned less severely on imper feclions clinging to human nature it self. We might think that, by insist ing too much on obligation and too little on privilege,—too much on the law and too little on the Gospel,—too much on the severity and too little on the goodness of the Deity,—the con= , science may have been stimulated at the expense of the affections, and men fitted for another world at an unneces- * When the writer complained of any thing at table, his father would say : " You don't like 'yeur mother's provision. You may leave the table." sary sacrifice of their amiability and happiness-in the present life. But in leaving this Puritan training, the world " has gone farther and fared worse." To repress the iniquity of .the age and land, to save our young men for themselves, their country, and their God, I believe we shall gain most, not by humoring childhood's caprices and sneering at strict house holds, strict governments, and strict Sabbaths, but by going back to many of the - Modes which gave to the world such men as John Hampden, William Bradford, Jonathan Edwards, TimOthy Dwight, and David and John Brainerd. OLD AGE Let it always be respected. It has its dark side always ; and its bright sid, when the life has been godly. But in all cases let the young revere - the aged, and honor the old men and aged women. Our heart always goes' - out to the children who are kind and re spectful to the occupant of the old arm chair, who love to wait on the grand mothers and grandfathers. Old age—we are always glad to see it in comfortable circumstances. 'When people have been industrious to bear the burdens of life in the heat of the day, it is a peculiarly pleasant sight to.{ see them surrounded by a competency in old age. It is a bad policy that squanders in youth and in the vigor of manhood, instead of accumulating something against the time of old age. At that period the sprightliness of youth and the strength of mid-life have passed. The infirmities of age, the load of years, when they that look out at the windows are darkened, when one starts at the sound of the bird, when fear is in the way—all these make it desirable that the aged be most kindly administered unto by children, grandchildren, and all other members of the household. And this care and respect of QM age, the Bible enjoins as a filial and sacred duty upon the young. Old age may be the lot of any of us; and we have said that it has its bright side. Sometimes it is contemplated with much pleasure. You and I-love to see an old man, reverend in years, glorious in gray hairs, and in the ripe fruits of a long religious life. There is a patriarcha halo and brightness resting on the last years and acts of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph' and Moses There is a cheering record given us of Simeon in the temple, and Anna of "about fourscore and four years, who served God with fastings and prayers night and day." Fathers and mothers in Israel these, and thousands su . :11 there are among- us now, who seem preserved by a gracious Providence as the salt of the earth, for the twofold purpose of connecting the present with past generations, and of praying for the peace and prosperity of the Church of God. Emphatically is it true, that kind nesses done to the aged saint are the same as if done to Christ. And if the aged be poor, and if some of them have been ungodly even, in earlier portions of life's journey, still be kind to them ; for if God has borne with such fourscore years, then our children and grandchild-ea can a few days. " Thou shalt rise up before the hoary head." But religion shall make old age a welcome closincr ° and ripening scene to a well-spent life. A glorious sunset is as pleasant to look upon as a sun rising. These wait for thy salvation, 0 Lord.—Christian Treasury. MORAL RESPONSIBILITY. Insanity obliterates the distinction between right and wrong, and hence an insane person may violate human law and be guiltless. Such a person, however, should not be allowed to go at large, but should be restrained in confinement from doing damage. But to acquit an 'individual who is guilty of crime, on the ground that he is de ranged, and yet permit him to• have his freedom, is unjustifiable. Convict ed in a human court, let him be hung, or put into a prison, or put into a lu natic asylum. It is getting to be quite too common to acquit persons accused of crime, on the plea that they are in sane and incapable of distinguishing right from wrong, and yet allowing them opportunity of preying further upon the community. The question arises whether in case of any particular crime an irresistible propensity to the commission of it can be urged to screen thcdelinquentfrom the penaly of the broken statute. It may be urged; it is urged ;• but ought not to be successfully urged. There is no protection for the public, if such a plea at bar is a valid plea. A thiev ish boy once said to his father, "I am fated to steal, I cannot help it." The father replied, "I, too, am fated to punish you, I cannot help it ;" and then proceed vigorously to apply the rod. If there is an indomitable obli gation to sin, there is an indomitable obligation to punish sin. The iron rule works both ways. . THE SAvioua has, indeed, said that "narrow is the way that leadeth unto life." He has never told us, however, that it is a thorny roan. It is unbelief, in and'out of the Church, and not faith in God, that has represeitted it as such a road. In denying ourseli`es and taking up the cross, as re quired, Christ promises us not sorrow and sighing, but joy unapsakable and full of glory, not wearisomeness, but rest.
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