Slje jfamilg; ®mb.
"HE GIVETH»HIB BELOVED SLEEP.”
BV LILLIAN HOPE.
Leave her to sleep.
Fold the pale hands<ebove the pulseless breast; —
Leave the dear maiden to her quiet rest; —
Why do you weep?
We, LOVED HER SO !
Her smile the brightest of the smiling throng,
Her step the lightest, hera the sweetest song.
A month ago!
A week ago,
Her fair cheek flushed like roses after rain,
It ne’er had known the withering touch of pain
A week ago !
But yesterday,
She brightly smiled as I stood trembling near.
And whispered, “Love hath power to banish fear,
I know the way.”
The flight, camei down, •; r i j}
A starless night, a night without a moon ;
And on our'brt>ws‘as rayless And as Seen, '' 11
A thorny crown.
We tried to pray, "
But in the gloom we faltered one by one, ,
We could not say, ‘iThy wiU alone .be done,”
We could nqt| pray..
.1 - ■ : . j
i Till one whose faith,
Tho’ often tried was stronger then our own;
Bade us remember He who heard each moan.
. Had conquered death.
• We breathed her name,
But angel.wings, were rustling o’er her—hark!
Lo! thro' the solemn silence and the dark, 1
• • The summons came. '■
i Beloved, sleep;—
Fold the pale hands'above the'pulseless breast; —
Leave the dear maiden to her dreamless rest; — '
But let me weep.
Marquette, Mich. '
DUHIE ASB WEE lOE.
I belieye only six of the Pardoe children went
to oburob that day,—though,it may have been
seven.. , But, if I amnotacourate asto numbers,
the story of their advdntiire is perfectly true.
They lived on* an island iirthbmiddle bf the
river, ‘in a little World by themselves. It was
early springtime. The earth appeared to be
covered .with 'a ,patohwx>rk /quilt.of whitey-broWn
and grayish-green. Under .this ragged old quilt
the forces of na > tuife,.w|i4!|fiard at work. The
dry grass was undergoing thorough repairs, and
the “ sod” would “turn to violets” one of these
days. All in due time; .but just now things
looked dismal enough. The trees were only
sketched in outline, and even the willows showed
as yet no little vapory touches of green. The
roads were full of holes, gnii, as Grandpa Pardoe
said, it ■ was “ dreadful travelling • r underfoot ”
Overhead it was scarcely l better. It seemed as if
the “upper deep” had tipped over, and was
pouring itself into the lap of the .earth. .
But on this particular Sunday the dripping
clouds were ready for a day of rest; The wee
bit girlie of the bouse; Dnnie Pardoe, looked out
of the window, and said with intense surprise,
“ Why, mamma, mamma, ’tißn ’t yain in’! There’s
a little bit o’ sun ou’ doors. I sawed it!” ,
“She’s a precious; baby to tell thenews,” cried
Brother Phil, smothering her with kisses: I’ve
a great mind to take her' to Sabbath-school. May
1, mother ? She wants to see things as much as
anybody else.”
“Well, if you take her, Philip, you must be
responsible for her,” replied the ,b,usy Mrs. Par
doe, who was at that moment tying the shoestrings
of the next to the ‘youngest. so
much to do, her mind qad“ slipped Into ahard
knot; it seems to hM
sion of her faculties, she would, never, have, con-
{Jo} go; out Vfhenl® £roads
were scarcely navigable except for boys’ boots.
Dunie clapped her hands.
‘“'o, s will- they let' me-iti?* 1 ' she’eske'd';• “ for,
when I go to the school, then somebody comes
that,’s ft teacher,., and tells, me,,‘(}o home,' and
says I must n’t stay.”
Dunie was three years old, and the “ commit
tee-men,” overlooking her peouilar merits, had
not considered her a scholar. But this was only a
Sabbath-school; nobody would object to her go
ing, just for one day.
Then there was a scramble to get her ready;
but when she was fairly enveloped in her Rob
Roy cloak and red quilted hood a inurmiir of ad
miration ran round the room. Who so beautiful
as our, Dunie? Such a splendid, “ adust com
plexion,” such wonderful “ Indian-red ” eyes,
shaded by the blaokest of lashes! She was a
litt|e: sister "to, be. prOud of.;' Not one of’ the
other ten had ever been so cunning or so fat.
Well, they took her to' ehurob, and, in order
to get there, they had to cross a bridge. They
looked over the railing, and saw around the piers
a fev? logsfloatipgin the high water, though
they could not move far, being looked in with
ice. ■ ■ ' -
“ I shouldn’t think,” said Mary, with mock
gravity, “’twas proper for logs to go swimming
n Sunday-.” , i
, “Nor I either,” said Phil; “they ought to be
‘taken up’ for.it. But come let’s hurry; we’re
late 5 ”' v
“ Hurry!” echoed four childish voices,—“hur
ry With Dunie!” •
“ My shoes loon’.t walk,” said the littfe one, by
way of apology. It wsb her feet which were at
fault. They were not large enough to carry her
plump little body; and though she had now en
larged them with mud, that did hot seem to help
the matter at all. There was no wayfor it but
to carry her in arms, “ for fear they might lose
her in one of the holes ” _
They reached the main-land at last, and the
church,; and I believe Dunie only spoke in meet
ing ‘ohce;‘and then she said *I so tired.” Phil
observed that afterward the clergyman preached
faster,—from sheer pity, he presumed.
Dunie practised gymnastics just a little, and
uov and then opened her rosy mouth, inlaid
with pearl, and Very gently yawned. But soon
the “ spirit of .deep sleep ” fell upon her, and she
lost the .Sabbath school exercises which followed
the sermon. This would hereafter be a subject
of regret to“ Dunie ; but, it wfis just now a real
r.-hei to her five “responsible” brothers and si»v
ters., ... -. s 1; * - ■■
THE AMERICAN PRESBYTERIAN THURSDAY, JANUARY 28, 1869.
After their lessons had been repeated, and
school was out, the six Pardoes started for home.
But a change had come over the weather. The
wind had started up from a sound sleep, and was
blowing as if all the people in the world were
deaf, and must ho made to hear.
“Never mind,” said the eldest sister, cheerily,
“It will blow us home. Dunie, what made you
talk in church ?”
“ I never,” replied the young culprit, rubbing
her eyes. “ But,” added she, indignantly, “ that
man up in the box, lie kep’ a talkin’ all the
time.” .•
“But what made jou go to sleep, dear, and
lose the Sabbath-school ?” said Moses, who was
pext younger than Phil, and, though kipdly dis
posed, had a peculiar talent for making little
ones cry.
“I went asleep in Sabber-school ?” sobbed
Dunie, completely discouraged,—“ in Sabber
school ? Where’d they put it? ~/never sawed
“ There, don’t' you tease her, Moses,” said the
youngest but two. “ We’ve got'ks 1 much-as’we
can do, to get her home, —for I begin to believe
-she’s chip-footed,—l do.”
•The next'to the oldest was to '"'correct
his brother, andsay“ c?ii6 footed,” when l a fright
ful noise was heard',—not thunder, it • was too
prolonged, for that. It was 8' deep sullen- .roar,
heard above the wail of .the wind like -thp, boom
of a cataract. , . . . . .
The ice was going out, .
There is always more or less excitement; to
New England children in such an event This
■Was‘an unusually imposing spectacle, for the ice
was very strong, and 1 the, freshet was hilriing it
down stream with grcflt force. ' .
' The white blocks; incrusted* with snow, wete as
blue at heart as turquoise, and they trembled
and crowded one anotherlike an immense com
pany of living things. The powerful tide was
crushing them Between - . Vast "’masses of logs, or
heaving them upward to fall headlong and side
ways, andr'Crumble themselvesinKTismalier frag-
’/ v 1 . . i * ' ...,
The sun came out of clbud, and shone on
the creamy, frozen waves in their n#?d -dance.
Then they sparkled-and quivered as if the river
had jbhrown up from its unquiqt bed a mine of
diamonds. 1 ; i; 4 ’: . " ,1 ' v
“ Howsplendid !” exclaimed the.childten, lost
in rdpture. .
“But it-makes.rafe scared,”.said little Dunie,
falling, face downward; into a mud puddle.
“ Why, what are you afraid of?” said Moses,
picking her; dp,. And partially'cleansing JEer with
his pocket handkerchief. “ The ipe can’t touch
us.” . . . . ; ■
“Hullo there !” screamed the toll-gatherer, ap
pearing at the door of his small house with both
arms raised above his head.. “ Children, child
ren, stop!. Don’t go near the bridge for your
lives!”
“0, it’s going off, it’s going off!” screamed
the five Pardoes in concert, joined bythe terrified
Dunie, who did notknow what was “ going off,”
but thought likely it was the whole world and
part.of the sky. ~ . , ■
The children forgot to admire any longer the
magnificent white.fiood.;TKe iceihight be glorious
in ; 'beahty, but, alas ! it was terrible iuetrength.
How could they,get home ? What wouldjfoeoome
|KM;?} "They house&ipihe
distance; but when and bow were they to reach
it? It might as well hate Then leagues away.
• bfe ‘days’ahd 'days';" 'ciiCd Maryj il be
fore ever we’ll, be able to cross this river iu boats;
What ,will be done with us ? for, we,.can’t sleep
on the ground.” •
“And nothing toeat/’.wailejl hungry Moses;
tortured with a fleeting vision of apple-pie and
doughnuts, •
“It is a hard case,” said the toll-gatherer,
compassionately, “but you -.donlt want to risk
lives. Look at them blocks, crowding ~up ag’inst
the piers; hear what a thunder they makes; and
the logs coming down m booms. You step'into
our house, children; and my wife and the neigh
bors, we’Jl tcu^jq,w«you,a.W^|Somewhere.”
Crowds df people were on the bank,
watching the ice “go out.” The Pardoes stood
irresoluteyyfob'n
ffie other end of ’the bridge, as loud and shrill as
a fog-bell, “ Children, eome —homk I” ;
■lfjyrdqelsydice.f:;; r ii , r i
“"What shall we do ? what shall we do ?” said
Philip, running round and round.
, “”T won't do to risk it, Neighbor Pardpe,”
screamed the toll-keeper.
“ Children —run—there’s—time!” answered
the father horsely.
It was Mary who replied, “ Yes, father, we’ll
come.” . -
‘i He knows,” thought she. “If he tells us to
do it, it’s right. ■.
Firm in obedience and faith, she stepped upon
the shaking bridge. For an instant Philip hesi
tated, looked up stream and down stream, then
followed cautiously with Dunie. After him the
three other children in all stages of fright, with
white lips, trembling limbs, and eyes dilated with
fear.
fi '“:Quick ! quick!” screamed Mr.'Pardoe. “Run
for" your lives!” shouted the people on the
.Theroaringtorrentand the'high wind together
were rocking ttie bridge like a cradle. If it had
not been.for Dunie;! AH the rest*eould. rnns-j It
seemed as if there was lead in the child’s dhoes.
She hung a dead weight, between Philip, and
Mary, who pulled her forward without letting her
little toddling feet touch the ground.
’ "The small procession of six! How eagerly
everybody watched “ what speed they made, with
their graves so pigh.” Only a few brittle planks
between them and destruction ! More than one
man was on the point of rushing after the little
pedestrians, and drawing them back from their
doorp.. Yet all the anxiety'pf the ; multitude
could not have equalled the agonizing suspense
in that one father’s heart. He thought he knew
the strength of the piers, and the length of time
they could resist the attack of the ice.- But
what if he had made a mistake? What if his
precious children were /about to fall a sacrifice to
their obedience?. Every moment seemed an age
to the frantic father, while the little ■ creatures
ran for their lives: Blit it was over at last; the
bridge was crossed, the children were sale 1
Tho people on the opposite bank -set up a
shout; but Mr. Pardoe was speechless. He
caught Dunie, and held .her close to his heart, as
if, i-n her little person, he embraced the whelp
six.
“ Q, father 1” criediPhilip,-.” if J°u oould know
how we trembled 1 ’T was like walking over an
earthquake 1” °
“With Dunie to drag every step!” added
Moses.
“ I’ll tell you what I thought,” said Mary,
catching her breath, —“I thought my father was
a stone-mason, and ought to know more than a
toll-keeper about bridges. But anyway, if he’d
been nothing but a lawyer or a doctor, I’d have
don# what he said.”
“ Bravo for my Mary!” said Mr. Pardoe, wip
ing his eyes.
Five minutes after, this the bridge was snapped
asunder. The main body of it went reeling
down stream, the sport of the ice. Mr. Pardoe
closed his eyes, shuddering at the fancy of what
might have been.
Everybody fell to kissing Dunie, for this had
long been, afamily habit whenever there arose
any feeling which was beyond Re poorer, of ex
pression.
“ I'm glad we got all home/’ gasped Dunie, her
eyes expanding. With a perfectly new idea, as she
watched the ruins from the “That
bldge is a goih’ way off! The ice catched it!
'How'l did yiin On that b’idge, so the ice would’pt
catch nie / But.” added the little innocent, with
a sudden play of; fancy; “ I, wasn’t
nia, for I’ looked up to the,sky, apd "then* Grod
Bended some ; bob,ftil clouds;'and I fought I saw
two'littfe&tage)S'‘?i&Q’ on '’em/'.-RS'oii/ti'e 'Mcigliu
Oui-Young / 1 : 1 '
(jliMi ANp/THE'RAGE'E. ; / 1
. A child, was papfured by; an, eagle; near Meiga
yille, Tenn,,.on Christmas Eve, an,d. caerjed,about
two miles before it was fesqued, Hewß.a bright
little Yellow, just old enough,,t,o be learning to
Walk. When no one was in the ,hbuse^’,he man
aged to roll outof his trundle bed and crawliuto
the front yard. A great gray eagle came swoop
ing dAwh; apd' festdnett’-nslmmebs'e talons in the
cjothingof the“little boy, then rdse'Up with much
difficulty, ab’d'/sailed' off'''across - the- adjacent
woods, just skibiining the tops of the trees! Its
course lay toward the GUniberland. Biiver. A
servant'girl sawtfche'eagle/and gavei chase. She
dashed into thd tangled wood, and tried to keep
a Straight line; thinking the bird would do'the
sam£. The patch of wood was’fully ainileahd
a 1 half through ; h’ut the'girPmhde the rub to'the
, other edge of r ip .without Reeling, fatigue. Beyon d
jthie wooiiy and : bettyeen -it and Re Cumberland
.River, Jay ft,-patch;. pf,< cleared,,ground, : partly
marshy, and partly. qorn^field,.full ; of old stumps.'
.When ‘the girl jefßthe wood, and Rad a clear
viewyshe saw the leaglefiitße ajr; Re, seemed'jin
clined to alight with his;,burdensomewhere in
the neighborhood ,of; the , river. gave her
new courage. ‘ It happened that .there was aman
, hunting,in the neighboring marsbes, and, just at
the moment when Re eagle reached the ground
With his burden;, a shot w e e.t.pff so .djtn'gerbusjy
near him that Re rnouuted into Re akmgain, but
this .time, without^the boy, ; The pursuing',girl
began a vigorous as she ran, which .at
tracted the hunger’s' attention, who, seeing the
eagle quite nearßim, and a dadyrushing down
the slope with] streaming hair ■US 1 garments, and
wildly shputing,iOOncludedat once that there was
something rstrange., and.nperhaps, i dreadful in his
• immediate "vicinity;, he also, set .up a .vigorous
hallooing, and proceeded Jo reload : his gun. T.he
eagle soon became-aware; of, Rs formidable oppo
sition he would meet if he! attempted to recapture
hjsprey, hovered,over, the spotja moment, and
then wheeled •arpund .in one grand sweep across
Re river,. and disappeared, behind,Re,shelving
ifoek whicßforniß.Re ,opposite-bank.[ • W.hen the
.girl .came Rowft to ( .the„ hunter, .she feihstiff/and
was not.able (even ;tp .indicate .what, was the,mat
ter,, The; rough, gallant then. heard the .scream
of a child, and soon found a fine, healthy, rosy,
hoy, with. torn plothes, but otherwise uninjured,
endeavoring R rise up.oa, his, little feet. The,
streamed dowPjßis and his jface
wore,, a most*
,took the huby. in/Kis arms and:,carriedß?to, the
girl,.who was now rpcoyered. * Sfee..clasped ;it ,R
herhosorn, it with hisses, and wpjit.with
joy, pChe.parenß in the'; mean tiipe
the,, little; p.be,’a.id r had.' become/very uneßy.
There vras laughing and crying, enough when the
wanderers R.turhed/ab'd, the wonderful voyage pf
the little fellow was explained.
MRS., VIQEr PRESIDENT DOLE AX.
Harper's Bazar has a very excellent pic
ture of the wife of theVice-Ef esident elect.
It does greater justice lo her beauty than
the fair portrait of her in the a’oeompanyipg
textj-whichls’pll we can .copy: , j }
Nellie Wade, as she is familiarly styled by
her friends, is the daughter of Theodore D.
Wade, the eldest bpoth’er of Benjamin F. ;
Wade, nqw; Prevident of the Sen ate atid Yiee-
President of thle jttnited ,' Her step
mother is aunt.' the sister of hpr own
mother. Her father who died some five
years ago, wag an Ohio farmer, and.she has
spent .her whole life when' not .at school
(she whs educated at ; the-Cleveland and the
Willoh^bby 1 (Ohio) female 1 seminaries,) in
thefarm-housdVhere she was borhyengaged
in domestic and home duties, wh'ibh werb
varied .oiilj'j by occasional visitsyto, her* rela-;
tives in difforent parts: of the/country. It
was on oiie of these visits to her aunt in
Washington,.threeyears ago, that Hr. Colfax
formed the acquaintance which ripened.into
an engagement last summer, during a trip
to. the/Rboky Mountpins.- The picture shows
a sensible, earnest abd, thoughtful face,
owner of which would be likely to give none
but goodscounßel to hep Husband in, his res r
ponsible'position. But still more striking
is the graphic portrait, kindly drawn for us
by a friend who knows .her well.; “She is
just thirty-two,” He says, “and-not ashamed
of her age.” She is not tall, not short, nor
stout, but will average one hundred and
forty pounds. She is not handsome,-, but
good-lodking; She is quiet, reserved, re r
pressed, self-poised and self-controlled to a
remarkable degree But you think of her
that still waters run deep. .She seems. ,to
have had a :lifo,T-a quiet, epuntny to wn, vil
lage, and farm -life,—that has nftt been .con
genial, hr rather; has’,not drawn .her . out at
all; and har. repressed: manner .and nature
are due possibly ito. this.TaThore*iff,nO;g!Wh,
no brilliancy, no show, no exuberance in
manner, appearance and style. Her new
life will bring her out; but she has nothing
of what is called “society manners,” and will
make bo impression upon the multitude.
Fastidious and feminine to a very high and
rare degree in one of such experience, she
is a most admirable selection for a wife for
Mr. Colfax, —a sweet, true, self-adjusted wo
man, with a younger heart than 1 ever saw
at thirty odd years, who never would make
a career for herself, but would accept and
fill whatever place came to her in the way
of duty.” Judging from this brilliant bit
of character-painting the women of America
will have reason to : bo satisfied with their
representative in the second lady of the na
tion. ■ : ' ’ 1
VOYAGE IN THE ARM CHAIR.
Ob pa pa! dear papa ! we’ve bad such a fine game,
We played at a.sail,,on the sea;
The old arm chair ruade sucb ,a beauti sjiip, v
’■ And it sailed—oh, as hide as could he. ! ,J ‘
We made Mary the captain, arid Bob was the boy,
1 Who cried “Ease her " “Back' her;” arid “81ow,”
And dan e, was the steersman who stands at the
wheel, ,
And l watqiied the engin.es be}o^.
We had for,a passenger grandmamma's cat, , ,
And as rom couldn't pay he went free;
From the fireside we sailed at half past two 1 o'clock,
And we got to the sideboard" ,at‘three.'
But ohljonly think, dear, papa, sy,hen, half way,..
Torn overboard jumped to the door;
And though we "Tomlcpme backj’ddii’t
be drowned,”
right out at tlih docky ’ ‘ 1 r
But papa, dear papa, listen one mouieDt ihokey 1 ■
i 'filial tell :you the end,of our sail; 1o ■i.t-rm 'hi !
.From; th ( e Bidp-b,oard yt e went ,gt; five minutes, past'
" ; ; three;., .... <' ■’ i>’ j, j
And at four o'clock saw'such a whale? . ,
The' whale was the sofa, and jt, dear pap'a," -' ‘;
Is at least twice as large'ks ! cmr ship; 1 “ 11 ' ■;
Our captain called out,’“ turn thCship round about,
r 0, liwisli we had not cocud this trip!''’' I i
And we all cried, “ Oh, yea, let us get away home,
,And bide in, some corner-guile snug;’’ . ~,
So we sailed for the fireside as cjuick as we could,
s And we.landed illdafe bntlierug. >» Am
:QVBE THE LINE. o
v Br Bfiy. <! ,
Uevef ytas there a time when it-would, bo
more appropriate to carve on the very walls
of the sanctuary, and for every Christian;
tb ; ’grave“ oh the,palms of his'hands ” this
divine 1 admohitioh; “Be ye holt Conformed
to this world.” ■ “ Whosoever therefore will
be a friend of the world,,is the enemy of
God.”
No share is so subtle, constant, and perjl
”oiiB to the hf GiirisV as conformity
■tblthe whrld. 1 ; Nothing sooner saps his spir
ituality p Nothing hitideijs a : revival in>ithe
,Church.;flipre eflfectupjijV Cpnformi,ty im
plies resemblance. And when a professed
Christian begips,.tp looklike a-,worl.giing, jahd
jiveljkg awprldling, dyyeljleth tiieTjoye
of Christ in him? For there isp cpmplpte
and irrecpncileame antagonism between ( what
the Bib I? calls the “ world” and the' spry ice
.pf.sQhrist. ■ '
Tne bhief end of a Chyistiap,’a ! jiifei,.iB to
glorify God. Is this the chief end of life
with the people Of the world ? Ask any one:
iny Interests; in
gratifying my.tastes, ahd in'taking my com
fort. w»n.t<.tog,et all I.can,,and jtp getithe
most out* of "it. He “ looks, only , thpse
things which are seen God
is ignored entirely ythe'soul is ignored; eter-:
•nity is forgotten.hThei pleasures inost'relish
ed are the pleasures of sinijtfor God is nptiin
any ope pf shym. The worldling, commonly
delights most in what a consistent Christian
finds to be forbidden fruit on forbidden,
ground. That forbidden fruit is potion to
the Christian; : ! ;
Bear in mind that every pure pleasure
which an.unconverted heart can enjoy, such
as the joys of home and of friendship, the
love of letters or art, the sight of beauty, or
the delig.t.ofjredieying.sorrow,,all .thesethe:
Christian can have nnd enjoy likewise. They
arc, not ftinful, and the child of God can par-;
take of them with a clear conscience. Bat
just jyh.ere a .Biblo-eonscienee tells him to!
stop , the license of the world begins, Tho
liVord of Gqd.drawS ;a'dividing ;line. r iQver>
that line, lies the path of self-indulgence.
Over that line,ließ;selfipampej;iDg,'fjpivqlity,
slavery tcffashiqn,. .Qvprithat .line,/God is
ignored, and often deified ! • Christ ic.woand
ed there and crucified afresh.. Oyer,
line, the follojyer pi' Jesus .has „np business:
,to go. , It was over -inich a “ fttiile/” that'
Runyan’s Pilgrim looked wistfully; for the 1
path. f iyas,sqfp ;a^d-l s Jtirt, e| d yyith.flowers,-, but
vyhen he.Blppped Boo n rljaund him
self in the dungeons of Giant Despair.
, .Oyey. the; Jine, w-hjch f ;SpparateB tgure piety
from the world, the Christiau, if he goes at
ail, must,go as a piar.licipant’in.the pleasure
of the world, or as,, a, protestapt against
them. If he goes to,partake,>he offends
Christ ; ifjjhegpes, to, protest, he offends "his
ill-chosen associates. Christian! if yon ever
attend a convivial party, a.bali-roomtaspem
bly, a theatre, or a gaining company, ~ : do
you go as 1 a partaker in the sport, or-to
make your .prptest against" such ain.uBe
ments ? If you go for the first object, jyc>u
offend your Lord;.if yo.u.gp for. the second,
you offend yonr company. They do not
want you if here, are .quite,surethatno
bpvy of merry-makers- would be the hap
pier over their cups, or their cards, or their
cotillions, if alf the-,Blders and Deacons of
our Church were to come in, suddenly
among, them. 'Brethren 1 the “world”
don’t want you in their giddy and Godless
pleasures,.unlessayp^,are willing ;to' go all
lengths with^them., IL.yQu,,walk,- one
thile wi.th thempY(orth<vliue, they will•“ com
pel you to go with tffem twain* If your
conscience, yieldsjthe epat”,-th»y will soon
rob you of “ your closdr, also." V ~. % >
Vanity Pair would have welcomed Chris,
tian and Faithful to their jovial town, if the
pilgrims had only been willing to doff their
Puritan dress and “ take a hand with them
in all their revelries. But because the godly
men refused to be conformed to the fashions
and follies of Vanity Fair, one of them was
soon sent to the prison, and the other to
Where does the dividing line ran between
true religion and *tbe world ? We answer
that it runs just where Clod’s Word puts it;
and a conscience which is enlightened by
the Word and by prayer does not commonly
fail, to discover it. Wherp God is honored is
the right side ; where God is dishonored, or
even ignored, is the wrong side. Where
Christ would be likely to, go JT he Wpre on
earth, is the right side; butwheye,® Chris
tian would be ashamed tp have lps Master
find him, there he ought neverJto.find him
self. Wherevera .Christian csngf>, apd con
scientiously ask God’s blessing cm what he
is doing, there lqt that Christian gq. • He iB
not likely to .wandef .pjfir the line. 'And
when a fchurcb member can enter a,,play
house, or, into a, daneing frolic, and
ask Gpd’s blessing on the, amusements .and
.eom.o ,a.way a bptter i; phH for, it, then
let him .befoftf. , Wheu a Ohris
tian invokes the diyine hlpssing on ihb bot
tle which' he puta tp his neighbor’s lips, he
had better, look sharply, whether there is
not a “ serpent”'and a stinging adder ”in
thp, 3 sparkling ..liquor. lY^thp-u^,going into
farther illustrations, we come .to .this funda
mental priueiple,that w hate ver. of work, or
of recreation a Christian, engages ip to pro
mote the health, of Jos bpdypr soul and in
which he can glorify Christ, lies on the safe
sidevpf. the dW-itfing; lintc. moment he
crosiefe''jit HMibecohre -IW “Friend- oi- the
world” he becomes the “enemy of God.”
But should not every good man be a
“ friend of the worids?*'' oVSJas not the Divine
Jcs.us a friend of the world whop he bo
ldveditt.bat He gave. Himself for its" re
deinptionT Did' not PaiiMbve theworld
when he endured hard&hipJhurniliatrVonß'and
-martyrdom eto.r lead ; Binders to the cross ?
Ah.l jy.ep—very, truehut whbh. i&® Re
deemer, and, JEJis Sipostle were ; ,was not
sinner’s sins,' but sitipprs’ souls. And
they sought to save the woVld hot by con
oforMityttr it, but <by ‘trailsform iag it' to a
higher and'holieicitleai' of‘ } lifb: r -Love not
the world, nor the -things' that are ini the
world, xlf any man love the Ssvbrldythe love
of ihe Fatheris not in him:.”-;'
- : 'I left
I sighed to do good, bat I epuld not.' My
friends had neighbors were all independent
and needed,no aid from me. My means
were so limited .that I had nothing with
.wbh'h tp assist the .poor and needy, aid my
health 39 delicate that ! could be of no ser
vice to the sick'and 'suffering. 'The‘power
pf doing good,, I- ,felt )f grp,atly , to )m;y regret,
had been denied me.. Akl walked, musing
in this way) I beheld an old man approach
ing. ,His formwas bent, his phpek furrow
ed;, hip hair whitp and.thin. In ope hand
wap a staff, in the
he held across his shoulder and upon which
s.was Suspended a- w-Allet .containing, as I
supposed-, a few articles of apparel. He
came feeblyopward and as I drew near he
stbppeii from the walk and. Stood for me to
pass. T glancVd at him, bid whole Appear
ance indicated poverty and want. My heart
, w.en,t ppt,toward * wppjU'Oid man. I did
pot speak,, but withmy .feelings expressed
ip'rny fa.cp,,l.smded,kindly upon him, “Ah,
how de-do: h'owdjk.atp}’’ inplahtly and with
strong emphaai.-i, ppoke put the old man, his
whole countenance lighting up and his
whole manner changing. Nothing more
was said, we hoth paßSed in Bilence along.
' : A- short tint# aVter ihrs) at nearly the same
spot-in which I"had pih'ebwitbf tbe-old man,
*1 saw a woman sitting upon the-grass, by
! the road-side, With herelbow upon her knee
and her head' resting upon her hand. She
did- not l passed her, for her
eyes were closed, but she looked -so worn
and tired and, her'attitude w,pprrpo.Bad and
thoughtful, that my sympathies were at
opce excited and 1 turned back to address
her. In my hand I.parriedasmall .basket
of, early apples which I emptied upon the
grass, beside thp woman,saying: “Madam,
you ar,e ..worn ;,and tired j these apples may
refresh, you pceept them ?” At
the sound pf my,: voice she; started,, looked
.earnestly at me and said: “ Accept them !
,Q yes, Miss,, with a thousand thanks.”
Conversing with her a few moments, I learn
ed that shp had be.ep to see a .poor sister, re
siding several mileif distant, who was sick
-and dying. Ab inth-rued-to leave, '"with a
-few-words of- sympathy-,-, ahe s ,thanked me
again and again, and* then .filing hep eyes
enquiring upork)me, sh t e said 5 : Mayn’t I
ask, Midi's, if you ain’t theyoung ‘lady that
spoke So kindly, last Week* to my poor old
lather'?” t: * it .
6S I imet;aPi.old. man, just about this spot,
lashwp&k, and-I ! s.n B iled,»p,pn hip, but I did
o,ot ; speak,” I replied. “ That was my fath
er !” she exclhimedj’grasping my hand,” and
I thank • yon, for him, 'for ’the smile. He
has talked about it ever since and tells every
dayithow mn,ch gpod’it did him. And now
towj much good your kipincss has done me,
lady,” and she pressed my hand and
burst into tears. And I felt, at that moment,
that I would' never say again that 1 could
not’ do Igood in the world. —-Lutheran Obser
ver.' ■ - , >.
Look hpward for the gr’ac'e 'needed now,
and forward for the rfedt that remaineth.
Gijilt upon the conscience will make a
feather bed hard ; but jieaee 6f mind will
make a straw bed soft and easy.
Ws may be engaged In the work of tk«
XiOrd a» well with' a s£kde' or a in oef
hand, as ‘biir 'knees scmbbing a
floor,: qson lonrikh-ees in the* attitude * B “
act tfW*W**i9mhw.j< 3
POWEB OF A SMILE-