For the Advocate and Guardian.
A STORY WITH A MORAL.

In the year of our Lord one thousand, eight hundred and sixty, Deacon Solomon Dolorus, dwelling in Athens, which is by the way of the sea towards the sun-rising, made a vow to fast and pray, one day, at every full moon, for the sins of his household.

Solomon Dolorus was a great man in Athens; he could tell, with mathematical accuracy, in what age of a past eternity old chaos was resolved into matter; compute to a demonstration the ages that rolled away before the first Silurian layer was formed, and what was the nature of that great convulsion that laid the Crustacea in their stone coffins. Through all the mysteries of the universe, it was Solomon's pride to expatiate, and such lore is greatly esteemed at "the hub."

Moreover, Solomon had written three folio volumes to show that original sin did originate in Adam, and so clearly was the argument rendered, that the Hegelians, Pelagians, old and new school theologians, alike claimed that he belonged to each; the one asserting that he proved all men were born contaminated in their moral nature; the other, that they were born with a nature liable to sin, and that certainly would sin; and others yet that he reasoned, however man was born, it was necessary to the development of his highest nature that he should sin; while the unlearned wondered what this difference could be 'twixt tweedle dum and tweedle dee;" and the poor simple believer sighed to think how one half this time and labor and talents might be given to induce men to forsake sin.

But the crowning glory of Solomon's life was the setting at rest the vexed question as to who ordained Cranmer. He demonstrated that once the hands of a bishop laid upon the head, be it by Romish or British apostolicy, bulls and anathemas, cursings and excommunications, are all in vain; the act is done and is beyond the reach of three worlds, to take away the sacred depositum.

Solomon was rich also in worldly things, for he was born in Gotham, which is a great city, the chiefest among the cities, and the Gothamites are skilled in all manner of money craft. He was a man of commerce and wise in his generation. Men knew the rise and fall of stocks when he bought cheap and sold dear, or "held on;" yet he was righteous in all his dealings, he only looked out for the main

chance.

Thus blameless in life and most scrupulous in piety, in the sunset of his days, he found a peaceful asylum, where (since it saved his gold) brains were more esteemed than bullion.

But the old man was desolate, for of all the children God had given him not one cared for his age or loved him as a father. The wife of his youth had died in her summer, and her grave was far away among the western hills; his eldest born, a man of strong passions and iron will, had forgotten his father and his fa

ther's faith, his country, too, for he was renowned among her foes. And one, a grave, silent man, whom few knew and none loved, yet in whose face you read, that with happy freedom,

"The right life had been lived, And Justice done to divers faculties, Shut in that brow."

He passed his father in the city streets, nor asked if it were well with him. One, of queenly beauty, wedded to rank and wealth, was alien to God and her kindred. She had staked heart and soul for power and place, and won it. And the last, earnest, loving, strong of mind and heart, the true, noble woman that might have been, lived weary and joyless in her social bondage. In her life there had been no heart-warming sunshine, thick clouds and cold airs, all through its morning; and its afternoon, was cold, and dull, and grey. She had never known a father's love, and now she heeded not the solitary old man whose heart grew heavy within him as he thought on these things in his lonely chamber, for it was the day of his fasting, and he mourned according to his vow, for the sins of his children.

The hush of night had fallen upon the city, and yet Solomon prayed and wept sore, for sorrow was upon him and there was none to comfort. But as the hand upon the silent clock pointed to the hour of twelve, a man in long, flowing beard and ancient garb, stood before him. Silently he beckoned, and Solomon

rose and followed.

along a great road, familiar as a day's travel, till they came to where the moon shone clear and soft, in the midnight quiet, upon the spires of a great city, and entered a fair dwelling that Solomon knew as his home when his children were young and their mother was with them.

Days and weeks Solomon and his guide passed in this dwelling, unseen by its inmates, marking the manner of their life at hearth and board and prayer. There was a stern, dark man, a fair, sad mother, and silent, thoughtful children. Peace without and plenty within, but oppressiveness and gloom hung round it like a shroud. No free, joyous laughter or sound of festal gladness echoed through its walls, but weariness, and care, and sullen reserve shadowed those fair young faces, and bitter thorns choked out the sweet blossoms of childhood, and the mother's heart died down in her hopeless love, and her beauty dimmed by disquiet, and Solomon wondered not, for he saw it was but the ripening of the seed sown by that grave, stern man, who sat at his hearth-stone as a reprover and a judge, exacting a rigidness of discipline that he made wearisome by trivialities, and his religion hateful by the pride of a false devotion and a spirit that delighted in rebuke.

Again his guide beckoned him away, and they journeyed on, the same great road before them, past many a crowded city and dark fortress, grand in their uprising from wild forest and mountain cliff, familiar in the years long

past, when he traveled this road with his wife and children. Unwearied they journeyed on, till fair and stately, crowned by the glory of centuries, that moaned and swayed and whispered back old ocean's dirge, for the greater glory laid low, there rose before them the city of the golden gates.

Through the eager, jostling crowd they walked unseen and entered a low, narrow chamber, where life-weary, a woman lay, and heard her summons to the grave and welcomed it as rest. Solomon grew sad as he gazed upon that pale, worn face, so like the fair young mother's he had seen, so strangely like his own Rebekah. That tall, dark man stood by and saw his work, yet knew it not, for his heart was strong in the pride of his false wisdom. Age had silvered his hair and drawn deep furrows in that stern face, but he had not mellowed by the touch of Time, and his soul was darkened by the love of gold.

The same forms he had seen in childhood were there, but grown to manly strength and woman's beauty; his sons-noble, and gifted, and earnest one, one, gentler grown, through memories of his mother's love, alike scorned their father's counsels and despised his faith. The keen relish for life's warfare and life's work that come but once in life's morning, had been chilled and stifled by the bent of an evil nature, and now in the dew of his spring days, he looked out into the coming strife, a reckless and a world-weary man.

The little ornaments of dress, the pleasures so eagerly desired by all Eve's daughters, "For the creature was made subject to vanity," was denied to his; he called them sinful, but it was that he valued his gold more than his children's happiness. He starved their social nature, and made their home solitary and loveless. A shelter indeed, but hiding within its walls the discord of opposing interests and the bitterness of mortified pride.

Again, and still unwearied, Solomon and his guide journeyed on, as if borne on a returning tide, till the way-marks grew familiar and they trod again the hushed, forsaken streets of Athens.

The moon was still bright over the threehilled city when they entered the lonely chamber, where an old man sat, alone and desolate, and yet it was the same face and form seen beside the youthful mother in that fair, but unhappy home, and the same in the cheerless dwelling of that far distant city. Through all its changes the face had seemed to Solomon as one familiar, and now he knew it as his very own. He saw the way he had journeyed was the path of memory, he saw the workings of his profitless wisdom and his self-seeking, covetous life; he saw the treasures committed to him trampled on and cast aside; the lives made desolate by his folly and his sin; a wintry wilderness that might have bloomed as the garden of God, and he mourned no more for his children's sin, but he grieved bitterly for his own.

ETHEL.

For the Advocate and Guardian. THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

ON a broad, majestic ocean, swept by many a changing tide, Vessels gay and richly laden, sail in all their conscious pride. Swept by fierce and wrathful tempests is each restless, surging wave,

Threat'ning with a fearful danger every vessel that they Jave.

Hidden whirlpools sparkle brightly in the sunlight, calm and fair;

Heedless of the impending danger, many darkly perish there.

Scorning every kind remonstrance of a Friend who yearns

to save,

Sinking in the treacherous waters, find a sad, unlooked for

grave.

Bordering on this mystic ocean is a realm of fadeless light, O'er whose young and deathless beauty rests no shadow, falls no blight.

In the calm and radiant sunlight shining on forever there, Angel forms of wondrous beauty stray through pastures green and fair.

Chanting in majestic chorus of the love of One who gave His own life a precious ransom, for the souls He sought to

save.

Often do these angel harpings-seraph strains so soft and clear,

Echo, with a thrilling sweetness, o'er the waters far and

near.

And these high and holy anthems, answering to the Spirit's call,

Girt with solemn, tender beauty, even grief's o'ersweeping pall.

oe,

Distant from this land of glory is a realm of sin and From whose shores of death and danger throngs of hurrying travel rs go.

Sailing o'er that solemn ocean, each a different course pursue;

Some, to gain those heavenly mansions, others, perishing in view.

Happy, blest beyond conception is the end of those who reach

That fair land of joy and beauty, anchoring on its shining beach.

Clad in robes all pure and spotless, victor palms within their hands,

Lovingly, by crystal waters stray they with the angel bands. But a sad, uncertain mystery shrouds the dark and fearful fall

Of those self-destroying wanderers, who reject the heavenly

call.

Wrecked on shores of dreadful danger, lost forever they remain:

Weeping, wailing in their anguish, stung with unavail ing pain.

As a bright and sunny morning broadened to the brighter day,

Suddenly across the waters darted there a shining ray. Resting with a dazzling glory on a fairy, joyous child, Launching in her tiny vessel on that ocean dark and wild. For that young and guileless creature drooping low her shining head,

In a low and heartfelt language sought her Heavenly Guardian's aid.

Lo, to bless the mute petition did the ray of glory come; 'Twas a bright and wished-for earnest of her dear and heavenly home.

Then methought a glorious figure, speeding from the heav enly shore,

Took its bright and dazzling station near that vessel ever

Onward sped the gallant vessel, onward from that dangerous shore

Sailed she o'er the treacherous ocean, with a joy unfelt before.

For upon her happy spirit burst the bright and dazzling dawn;

Yes, the first immortal glimmerings of the everlasting morn. O'er her waved a snow-white banner, and a mystic cross it bore;

'Twas the touching, mystic symbol of His love whose seal

she wore.

To her had a chart been given, guiding to the home she sought,

Which would safely lead her over, if she followed where it taught.

Now was she a child no longer, for her bark had glided on, Leaving all her radiant childhood in the mystic distance gone.

Lovelier in her soul's expansion grew the maiden day by day;

Shone a sweet and pensive beauty in her eye's expressive ray.

Long she sailed o'er quiet waters, gliding over peaceful seas, Cared she not for storm or danger, might she reach the port of peace.

But her wiser, loving Father saw that if she sailed for aye
O'er unruffled, sunlit waters, ruin would at last be nigh.
Lo! across the smiling heavens gathered fierce, tempestu-
ous clouds,

Blotting out each ray of sunlight, as a pall with blackness shrouds,

Fiercely howled the gathering tempest, moaning round that vessel frail,

Still with confidence unshaken sailed she through the boisterous gale.

For within her priceless treasure, in the "chart" she held so dear,

She had read her homeward voyage lay through tempests

Happy in the calm enjoyment, living in each other's love, Thought not of the fleeting nature of all joys but joys above. Far more dangerous than the tempest, was this fair, deceitful calm,

Stealing o'er their dreaming spirits like a soothing, healing balm.

For the maiden's eye no longer fixed its calm and earnest ray

On the fair and shining Orient, where a bright foreshadow. ing lay.

Floated not the Memnon music from her soul's immortal strings,

And the Angel-presence near her, sadly drooped its shining wings.

Then her fond and tender Father, saved her from impending wo,

Laying low her cherished idol, with a single crushing blow. Clouds and darkness gathered round her, not a single ray

of hope

Shining o'er the waste of waters, bore her fainting spirit up. Then upon her dazzled vision, burst a bright and wondrous sight

Of the Home to which she journeyed swelling in the fadeless light.

And among the shining angels, straying with the ransomed throng,

Saw she there her earthly idol joining the immortal song. Then with calm and saintly patience, sped she on her dangerous way,

Lured not by the fierce temptations thronging round her night and day.

Vanished even the dreams of childhood, yielding to life's sterner truth;

Now upon her broke the dawning of her soul's immortal youth.

Soon her dangerous voyage ended, she had reached the heavenly shore,

Anchoring in its peaceful harbor, to depart? oh, nevermore. Entering on her new existence, in that glorious Home above,

Hymning with archangel-voices, anthems of eternal love.

EVANGELINK.

Children's Department.

For the Advocate and Guardian. ROSE AT THE FUNERAL. ROSE was sitting by her grandmother's side, holding four knitting needles very awkwardly, while she tried to learn the mysterious process of transforming blue yarn into a shapely stocking. "I must learn to knit," said Rose, "so that I may make a nice old

to make

That valiant, fearless spirit in its confidence to shake,
And as ceased the wild commotion and the elemental strife,
Floated through her soul's deep chambers visons of the bet-
ter life.

And a healing balm, descending, soothed the faint and weary one,

While a voice, the silence breaking, thrilled her with its music tones.

"Blessed art thou, gentle maiden," said those accents sweet and low:

"Soon, this dangerous voyage ended, thou shalt all my glory know."

Now again o'er peaceful waters sped the vessel, homeward bound,

And the angel presence near it spread its radiant glory round.

Now beside her bounding vessel sailed a gay and gallant bark;

She had found her life companion on those waters wild

and dark.

Sailing o'er that crystal ocean with a sweet and mutual joy, They forgot that earthly pleasure ne'er can be without alloy,

ed at her grandmother's busy fingers, through which the needles glittered, and the yarn flew rapidly.

The grandmother sat in her old chair, polished by the rubbing of many years, with her soft, white hair parted on her peaceful forehead, and the knitting sheath pinned at her side, smiling on Rose and her work through her spectacles, while the little grandchild prattled of old age, which seemed to her full of wisdom and beauty.

The church-bell began to toll, sounding dim and far away in the hazy autumn air. "Hark !" said the grandmother, "it is tolling for a death; count the strokes, child' A great awe fell on Rose as she listened; the old custom of marking the passing away of a soul, Rose had never heard of before. The child held her breath while she counted the years of the dead. Very soon the tolling

Rose waited for another vibration, it seemed to her that some old person, almost blind, unable to walk, had fallen asleep in this season of withering leaves and frost-smitten flowers. "Only thirteen," sighed the grandmother, she has lost much joy and much

sorrow.

"Only thirteen," repeated Rose, wondering how people would feel if her ten brief years were tolled from the church. "It must be Catharine," continued Rose's grandmother; "they said she was failing."

A new feeling of awe possessed the child, the bell had not tolled for an unknown girl of thirteen years; the remembrance of Catharine at the society, slender and delicate, with blue-veined temples and bright cheeks, was vivid. "I shall never be old," the young girl said, and now the bell had tolled for this short life ended. The knitting-work was put away, Rose ran into the yard and looked up with a great hush on her joyous spirit, for to-day some one she had known and spoken to had passed far away into the

third heavens.

It was the day of Catharine's funeral, bright and fair. Seated in the chaise be tween her grandfather and grandmother, Rose had a kind of Sabbath feeling, although men were gathering ripe grain from yellow harvest-fields, and children were looking from the old red school-house windows. It was a

very solemn time for Rose's grandfather when any of his flock left his care for the Good Shepherd's fold.

There was not much conversation in the chaise, the old minister said once, "Cather ine was not much older than my little granddaughter when her grave was ready for her." Then the sweet voice of the grandmother, who saw in the death of Christ's children, the blessed beginning of an endless life, replied, "Dying is but going home." Rose pondered these words, on one side the grave looked very dark and dreary, an awful place of shadow and gloom, on the other shone a bright light of glory everlasting.

Groups of men were standing near the door of the old farm-house; Rose could hear the loud beating of her heart as she was lifted out by strong arms. Everything looked cheerful and sunny about the homestead. A few late roses in the homely garden, clusters of grapes hanging on the vine near the door attracted Rose as she entered the house reluctantly. Rows of people, looking grave and solemn, filled the first room, they went into another where a coffin rested, Rose caught a glimpse of veiled faces, and heard a sound of stifled sobbing. Then her grandmother drew the child gently to see her little friend, with the last faith of the soul shining through the white face. Rose saw the meek hands folded over flowers halfopened, and the wonderful peace left on lip and brow, before she was led into a little room adjoining where she stood by the win

they had walked together. The voice of the old minister sounded through the house words of consolation from the holy Book, They began to sing, "Asleep in Jesus, blessed sleep," the music came from different rooms, from the stair-way, where some of Catherine's friends were sitting, from voices around the open door. Rose felt comforted while she thought of this dread lying in the grave as a long sleep in which Jesus is concerned and watchful. After the hymn the old minister continued, "That where I am, there ye may be also," his words sank deep in Rose's heart as he went on to speak of Christ's compassion for the little ones, taking

them to Himself before the

way

becomes

very rough for their tender feet. Catherine had trusted in Christ, with the loving faith of a child, glad to go when He summoned her to be with Him forever. Rose listened

with envy, to this account of the young girl's belief in her Saviour, for she was not ready, like Catherine, to lie down and die.

Silence fell through the house, broken only by the feet of young men who carried the sleeper forth from her home. Rose followed in the procession, winding over the pleasant roads, until they reached the churchsoftest light on earth and sky. yard at the hour when the sun throws his

the look on the mother's face as she saw her The weeping child saw the open grave, darling lowered therein, and heard the triumphant voice of the grandfather saying,

“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord."

Rose walked softly over the green grass to the chaise, praying as she went, that she, too, might have this victory over deatheven faith in our Lord Jesus Christ.

COUNSEL TO A DAUGHTER.

The following good advice is found in a let ter of the late William Wirt to his daughter.

"I want to tell you a secret. The way to make yourself pleasing to others, is to show that you care for them. The whole world is like the miller at Mansfield, who cared for nobody-no, nat he-because nobody cared for him.' And the whole world will serve you so, if you give them the same cause. Let every one, therefore, see that you do care for them, by showing them, what Sterne so happily calls 'the small, sweet courtesies of life' those courtesies in which there is no parade-whose voice is too still to tease, and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks, and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking, sitting, or standing. This is the spirit that gives to your time of life, and to your sex, its sweetest charm. It constitutes the sum total of all the witchcraft of woman. Let the world see that your first care is for yourself, and you will spread the solitude of the Upas tree around you, in the same way, by the emanation of a poison, which kills all

the juice of affection in its neighborhood. Such a girl may be admired for her understanding and accomplishments, but she will never be beloved.

The seeds of love can never grow but under the warm and genial influence of kind feelings and affectionate manners.

sons.

Vivacity goes a great way in young perIt calls attention to her that displays it; and if it then be found associated with a generous sensibility, its attraction is irresistible.

On the contrary, if it be found in alliance with a cold, haughty, selfish heart, it produces no further effect, except an adverse one. Attend to this, my daughter. It flows from a heart that feels for you all the anxiety a parent can feel, and not without a hope which constitutes a parent's highest happiness. May God protect and bless you. Your affectionate father,

WM. WIRT."

FARMERS' BOYs.-Every farmer's boy should know how how, sooner or later:

1. To dress himself, black his own shoes, cut his brother's hair, wind a watch, sew on a button, make a bed, and keep all his clothes in order, and neatly in place.

2. To harness a horse, grease a wagon, and drive a team.

3. To carve, and wait on table.

4. To milk the cows, shear the sheep, and dress a veal or mutton.

5. To reckon money and keep accounts accurately, and according to good book-keeping rules. 6. To write a neat, briefly-expressed, business letter, in a good hand, and to fold and superscribe it properly; and to write contracts.

7. To plough, sow grain and grass seed, drive a mowing machine, swing a scythe, build a neat stack and pitch hay.

8. To put up a package, build a fire, whitewash a wall, mend broken tools, and regulate a clock.

There are many other things which would render boys more useful to themselves and othersthese are only a specimen. But the young man who can do all these things well, and who is ready at all times to assist others, and be useful to his mother and sisters, will command far more respect and esteem than if he knew merely how to drive fast horses, smoke cigars, play cards, and talk nonsense to foolish young ladies at parties.

For the Advocate and Guardian.' } CHRISTIAN HOMES.

CHRISTIAN homes! We hear of their holy influence and their solemn responsibility. They are spoken of as both the nurseries and the foreshadowings of heaven. What are they? Let us analyze the expression and inquire first, What is a home? It has been beautifully said, "It is home where the heart is "where the spirit rests, though our steps wander far from its loved precincts-where parents, and brothers, and sisters cluster round the altar and the hearth. A quarrelsome family cannot fail to banish the most precious endearments of home. The affections fly from an atmosphere always murky with the tempest, wandering restlessly up and down the highways of

life, perhaps to wander forever in desolate inquietude, or else to centre outside the appointed boundaries. In its noblest, purest sense, a home must be truly Christian, but if it is not the abode of loving hearts, the word is a complete misnomer.

If, proceeding in our analysis, we ask, What is it to be a Christian? the word itself tells us, it is to be like Christ, following Him, not great way off, but as closely as fallen humanity can follow divine purity. Is a man publicly numbered with the disciples of Christ? It is not enough, for so was he who counted into his purse the price of blood. One must show more than his name on a church-book, even a life full of faith and good works, to prove him a Christ-like man. He must show more even than the garments which the widows showed round the bier of Dorcas-more even than the most heroic devotion and self-sacritice, for Ananias and Sapphira were condemned when they sacrificed their possessions for money to lay at the apostle's feet, since they sought therewith to purchase equivalent applause, and a like spirit may incite to still greater sacrifice. Do we not lie to the Holy Ghost when our actions, seemingly prompted by holy love and fervor, are really but a simulation to gain admiration? Do we not often deceive, even ourselves, in regard to the true character of our motives?

Doubtless a man may be far from what he ought to be, and yet be saved "so as by fire," but to be worthy of the name of Christian in its fullest meaning—to be like Christ, surely he must be constantly working, even as the Master worked, for the temporal and spiritual good of those around him, and all this, prompted by

Christ-like motives. What in His earnest life it is possible for humanity to follow, is our example, and the command is, "Be ye perfect, even as your Father in heaven is perfect." Who in this highest and truest sense dare call himself by this exalted title? A proud, an indolent, or a selfish man may indeed claim it, but will Christ acknowledge such a life as a copy of His own? We cannot believe it. What, then, is a Christian home? Is it where church members live for themselves, who feel not their solemn responsibility that the name of Christ be not dishonored in the house of His friends, whose hearts shrink at the name of sacrifice and glow not at the name of Christ, where the fire has grown dim and flickering on the altar, whence no high and holy influence goes forth, no voice to warn the erring, no word to cheer the repenting? *** Reader, are you a Christian or only a church member, so lifeless that only the voice of the archangel shall awake you from your slumbers? Then you are doing all in your power to make your home as worthy of heathen darkness, as a home, not fully pagan, can well be. It may have an outside morality, but as far as you and your influence are concerned, it cannot be Christian.

What are you doing for those of your family who are not Christians? Do they find around them the influence of a living piety-do they feel a warm Christian heart throbbing with vigorous life next their own-do they know that you weep and pray for them? Or, when they feel your pulse, does it beat in sluggish weakness-do they note your course as marked with the curse for those "asleep in Zion "—do they find themselves as aliens, thrust out from the warm home-heart? Woe to thee, O Christian, if such be the truth! How shalt thou answer at the judgment for the mantle thou hast rudely rent to let pass beyond the holy influence of a Christian home, those to whom God gave the birth-right to be encircled within its folds?

ECILA.

Advocate and Guardian.

NEW YORK, JULY 1, 1864.

66 BLESSED IS HE THAT CONSIDERETH THE POOR."

THE following note is from a kind friend who has respect to the precepts, "As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men." "Remember the words of the Lord Jesus, how He said, it is more blessed to give than to receive." "The poor shall never cease out of the land, therefore I command thee, saying, thou shalt open thy hand wide unto thy brother, to thy poor and to thy needy in the land." "Freely ye have received, freely give." "The liberal soul shall be made fat, and he that watereth shall be watered also himself."

The "endowment fund" is to be set apart and used sacredly for the worthy poor, who may become Home beneficiaries.

Hoosick.

Dear Madam,-Enclosed you will find a check for $100, which I wish to invest in the endowment fund, for the "Home for the Friendless." You have my sympathy in your self-sacrificing labors of love in rescuing so many of the children of poverty and wretchedness, from both moral and physical pollution in your great Babylon of wickedpollution in your great Babylon of wickedness. That your labors may be blessed by the Good Father of us all, is the prayer of your friend and co-laborer,

DELIA VAN HOOSEN.

Many thanks for the above addition to this fund. We trust it will prove a good investment, returning fourfold interest.

WHO HATH NOT LOST A FRIEND ?

As we scan the long lists of names that appear in the daily papers, representing kill ed, wounded, and missing, the heart sickens and the eye grows dim, "Who hath not lost

a friend?" Who is not ready to weep with the bereaved? Whose circle that is unscathed to-day, may be thus to-morrow? Such thoughts come unbidden as we look abroad from hour to hour, and remember how thickly death's arrows fly among the living. Every number of our silent messenger goes to some household that since its last issue has been

bereaved by the crash of arms or the death of kindred from other causes. То some, who have listened to the last parting words, pressed the dying hand for the last time, looked into the dark grave, while the thrill came, caused by the fall of the first cold turf upon the coffin-lid, and who have felt, in their desolate anguish,

"From wounds that sink so deep,

No earthly hand relieves." How solemnly these voices from the grave appeal to the living. How tenderly do reminiscences from the sick-room come back to survivors, making the most valued treasures of time seem but the empty pageants of an hour. As we write a glance of the mind brings a score of precious friends to our side, as they were and as they are.

In the one, we see countenances beaming with intelligence, dear, familiar faces, expressing deep interest in the joys and cares of life-in the other,

"They come, in dim procession led,
The cold, the silent, and the dead,"

reminding us that they are but the shadows of our future selves.

But yesterday we stood with a group of mourners in the home of wealth. One who had been long the light of that dwelling, its centre of attraction as the devoted wife and fond mother, whose hand had given grace to all it touched-whom none knew but to love was to be borne away to Greenwood. "Tears befit earth's partings "and they were freely mingled-but her lifework was finished. "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away." And now what was there in the review upon which memory may ever love to linger? She was unselfish, affectionate, generous, noble; ever a friend to the poor, a helper in the work of Christian charity. Her sick-room was a place of prayer and praise, of sweet submission and consecration to the will of her Saviour, and there is every reason to feel that she was prepared to sing the new song, with the ransomed around the Throne. To her it was gain to die. She has gone from the crowded city, full of sin and suffering-with work and care never ceasing-to a city which hath foundations whose builder and maker is God.

And thus, week after week, hundreds pass away from the million city, some to the world of light and love, more, we fear, to the place of darkness-the crowds close in, and the tide of life seems unbroken.

Not thus in the rural villa does death leave its mark. The tolling of the bell sounds as a knell for miles around. The procession to the cemetery moves with a hushed stillness, evoking sympathy from all who behold it, and where the departed has been esteemed and loved all feel that they too have lost a friend.

We are so often put in communication with the bereaved, by multiplied obituaries and otherwise, that, were we to be guided only by feeling, words of condolence might be written till the catalogue should be exhausted. It is a privilege to know that He who became a man of sorrows, is the best Comforter. That the sorrowing may ever find solace in His precious Word—a safe resting-place beneath His cross-light afflic tions, which are but for a moment, working out for them a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory. May this, through grace divine, be the happy experience of all our readers in whose hearts and homes death has left a void.

THE RIGHT SPIRIT.

In the last Am. Missionary-a very excel lent sheet, published at No. 61 John St., N. Y.-in speaking of the hundred and fifty teachers the Association have sent among the freedmen, a letter from one of the applicants is published to illustrate the spirit in which in many instances this good work is undertaken. We copy the letter, thinking it may not only interest our readers, but present an example of just the type of Christian character and efficiency specially needed in every missionary work, whether home or foreign. The demand for Christian laborers of like spirit was never greater than at present, and, the field open to women, whom grace has thus prepared to enter the moral vineyard, constrained by the love of Christ and of souls, is constantly enlarging. Let the deep, strong feeling become as universal as the theory, "Anything that has a soul in it, is worth saving," and those who may hail from Africa or India, or the highways and by-ways of the dark places of Christendom will find a hand of equal love extended, to lead them to the fold of the Good Shepherd.

LETTER FROM AN APPLICANT.

I LIVED in New-Haven, enjoying the advantages of the best seminaries there until I was seventeen years old. I then entered at South

Hadley, and graduated in 1861. After a few months, I went to Ohio, to teach a young ladies' school, and here I commenced my work for the poor little black children, which I hope is not finished yet. I went out half a mile from town for a walk one day, and came by acciby free blacks. I say free, but if ever any dent upon a collection of negro huts, occupied human souls were bound in chains, they were. It was a beautiful country-in a grove just off the great central Ohio railroad, that I found this, my first missionary field. I had longed for it a great while, and when I saw it, I knew it. The woods were swarming with little wooly-headed, half-dressed children, and my heart warmed to them in a minute. I said to the mother of six or eight of the young savages, for really small Hottentots would not have looked any more like real live heathen to me than they did: "Don't your children go to Sunday-school?" "No, de white boys, dey stone 'em-dey stone all little ones; so dey be 'fraid." I can't stop to tell you all I learned of abuse and degradation and ignorance. I sat down on a log and cried. Four miles off was a colored Methodist church and school, but it was so far away-and then, "the white boys stoned de little ones."

I went there the next Sunday, and sat down under a tree, with a great log in front of me, their little bare black legs hanging down, too whereon sat thirty-four half-naked children, short to touch the ground, aud had a Sundayschool. And what a school it was to me! In all the mission-schools I have been in, there never was anything like it. Such singing! they caught it as if they were inspired. It seemed hardly five minutes before they knew the tune and the spirit of those dear old home songs I knew and loved so well; hardly five minutes before they were singing correctly and believingly with their simple, touching African faith,

and

"I have a Father in the promised land,"

"Beautiful Zion, built above,

Beautiful city that I love."

One old woman stood by and wept; and the mothers came round, with their babies in their arms-crying babies, too-but I did not care for that. I told them I would come again, and I went home with a joyous heart; for had not the almost visible presence of the Lord Jesus been there, and wasn't he giving me his own, blessed work for the "little ones to do -that work for which I had been hungering and thirsting so long? But you will hardly believe it-you people who live and breathe in Northern light and liberty, the next morning the whole town was in an uproar! I had occasion, early on Monday morning, to go down through the main street of the town to give a music lesson, and found, shrinking stranger that I was, (I had only been there two weeks) that I was an object of universal attention to everybody-especially, it seemed to me, to the boys and rowdies around the stores. Oh ! it was horrible! I heard muttered words on all sides "abolitionist, nigger-stealer!" As a litsides—"abolitionist, nigger-stealer!" As a little later, I passed into my school-room, two of my aristocratic lady pupils, who, by the way, could not spell two sentences correctly, drew up their dresses, as I went by, and muttered; "Nigger teacher." One young damsel announced in loud tones at recess, "Papa

said if Miss D

would teach niggers, she wasn't fit to teach anything else, and she should leave," and she left, and her two sisters, and more left; and by-and-by, my school had only ten scholars in it. The excitement increas

ed as the week went on. My friends came to me and told me I must stop my colored school, or my white school would stop. The gentleman in whose family I boarded was a noble, Christian man, with a clear, cool judgment, and he and two or three others said: "Go on." I prayed; and God said, "Go on;" and so next Sunday I went. The streets were crowded through which I had to pass. It was an interesting excitement for these bloated, idle loungers. "A young lady teaching niggers!" It was quite as amusing and entertaining as a Sunday-school for cows would have been; and this in the free State of Ohio, in the summer of 1862!

To be sure it was only twenty-seven miles from the Virginia line. The rank vapors of slavery had blown over and settled pretty thick. I decided to go into a large cabin belonging to an old colored woman, on the second Sunday, our first pleasant out-door situation being too much exposed under the circumstances. We had a glorious Sunday-school. We always did. Sometimes they hooted and fought, (the white men who thronged about the door,) but the spirit of love was inside, and, more than all, the loving Saviour.

There were a great many things after that which almost stopped us. I had to go to God many times and plead, almost with the agony of desperation, with Him—not for my own sake, nor for the children's sakes or any body's but His own cause's sake, to keep that school goingso much seemed to hinge on it besides the mere good of the children-that was comparatively little, though great. It was to turn the tide one way or the other of public opinion, to let scoffers see that God was God, and would defend His little ones if they were poor and black; and He did.

I have told you the story to let you see why I love this work. My whole heart is in it. Circumstances prevent my going back to my old field; but the work is going on in the hands of others, and I want some more. Have you got it for me?

Thanking God that your noble Society is doing so much to bring on the time when "de white boys" of this free exalted Republic shall no more stone de little ones, I am, sir, yours respectfully.

INFLUENCE OF EXAMPLE.

WHEN we hear of the death of one who has been long before the public eye, we instinctively review his life. We do not fix our scrutiny on one act alone, that which more than all others made him famous, but on the series which made up the whole. If we see high principle, love to God and man, linking all these together, we say it was worth while for that man to have lived; the world is better, heaven is fuller, hell is emptier, for his humane and Christian efforts and example. Is there a nobler sight than that of a man of genius, of power, not only lifting up his voice against oppression and wrong of every kind, but taking by the hand those who have borne the yoke until it has become a reproach to them, and calling them brethren?

Or to see a man whose nature grace has