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For the Advocate and Guardian. COMFORT IN SORROW.

FATHER, it is Thy hand that holds this cup, Bidding me drink the bitter draught again; "Tis Thy same love that bears my spirit up,

When it would droop in weariness and pain.

Sometimes the clouds seem thick about my way,
Sometimes the billows o'er my spirit roll;
O, then I think of Thee, my surest stay,

And beams of light break in upon my soul.

Each cloud dissolves and gently floats away,
Each wave I find is but a shining crest;
The morning dark has ushered in the day,

In Thee, my Father, I have found sweet rest.

"Tis not one sudden sorrow, fierce and deep;

"Tis not that grief which comes with crushing power

It is not these which sometimes bid me weep,

But 'tis the lingering pain of every hour.

Days, weeks and months have glided into years,
And still disease o'er this frail form holds sway;
The beacon-light of hope grows dim with fears;
A shadow seems to hover o'er my way.
Father, one gift Thou hast in love denied,

• A precious boon my weary heart would seek; But if its absence draws me near Thy side,

I'll murmur not, but feel I'm strong when weak.

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CLOTHING, PROVISIONS, &c., received from August 25th to September 10th, 1864.

R. I.-Hope Valley and Locustville, one half bbl. containing six quilts and a package of children's clothing from the ladies.

N. Y.-Delhi, a quilt pieced by Willie and Ettie Frisbie four and five years old.

Perry Center, a quilt from a friend.

Scio, a quilt from Martha A. Sheldon.

Binghamton, package of clothing from friends and basted work from Mrs Fancher.

Burlington Green, two toilet cushions from Mrs Witherhead.

Lockport, Augusta Trowbridge, a feather flower.

N. Y. City.-Basket of peaches from Alfred Edwards. Ohio.-Ashley, small package from Dorcas and Martha Osborn, per Joseph Morris, Cardington.

Important Legacies have been lost to the Home through informality. It is therefore earnestly requested of those who design to benefit the Institution by giving it a place in their last Will and Testament, that they would use the following:

FORM OF A BEQUEST.

I give and bequeath to the American Female Guardian Society, incorporated by the Legislature of New York, in the year 1849, the sum of $- -, to be applied for the Benefit of the Home for the Friendless, or to other charitable uses of said Society.

The Will should be attested by three witnesses, who should write against their names, their place of residence, and state that they signed the instrument at the request of the testator, and in the presence of the testator and each other, and that the testator declared to them that it was his or her last Will and Testament.

POSTAGE ON THIS PAPER.

By the new law, the postage on single copies of the A. & G. is now six cents a quarter, payable in advance, in all parts of the United States.

A package of four copies, which weighs 4 ounces, sent to one address, is subject to no more postage than a single copy, according to Instruction 36, which Postmasters whi please see.

From 5 to 8 copies, to one address, 12 cents a quarter. From 9 to 12 do do 18 do do and so on, at the rate of 6 cents a quarter for every 4 ounces or fraction thereof.

In order to receive the paper at the lowest rate of postage, it is necessary to take them, not singly, but at least 4 copies; and so of clubs, they should be made up, if possible, of 8, 12, 16, 20 and so on.

As an inducement to those who now receive it singly, to make up a small club of four or eight, the Ex. Com. propose to put the subscription price for four copies, to one address, at 75 cents a year, and for eight copies, in the same way at 60 cents a year.

Twelve copies, and over, will be at the rate of 50c, a year. At offices where there are several single subscribers receiving it to their separate addresses, by their uniting together and having it in one package, to one address, it will materially reduce the postage on each.

The postage must be paid in advance, either quarterly or yearly, at the office where received.

A POSTMASTERS and others, desiring papers to be discontinued, will please send the name of the P. O. as well as of the subscriber.

The names cannot be put on papers taken in clubs, without subjecting each paper to full postage of 24c a year, and entailing a large additional expense on the publishers

Alms of the Am. Female Guardian Society. 1st. The Society aims to rescue from degradation, physical and moral, the children of want, homelessness and sorrow, wherever found, who may be committed to the Society in accordance with its Charter, and after a suitable probation in their institution, to learn to what they are best adapted, &c., to secure for them permanent country homes in Christian families.

2d. To reach as many as possible of this same exposed class of children, who, though prevented by surrounding circumstances, from becoming Home beneficiaries as inmates, may, nevertheless, be withdrawn from the education of the city street, taught habits of industry and propriety of conduct, the knowledge of the Bible, &c., and surrounded by Influences that may be protective and saving.

(Several hundred of this class receive food raiment, instruction and watch-care through the agency of the Society.) 3d. To afford a place and means of protection for destitute respectable young women, without employment, friends or home, and within the age and circumstances of temptation. 4th. To aid and encourage destitute American widows with small children, to avoid a separation as long as practicable, by furnishing apparel, bedding, etc., at discretion; securing remunerative employment as far as it may be obtained, and also to admonish the unwary of the moral pitfalls that often abound in the pathway of the lowly. 5th. To use the Press to enlist the Public mind in behalf of the several classes and objects above named.

The Home," since it was established in 1847, has sheltered, fed and clothed, temporarily, many thousand children and adults. It is sustained by charitable contributions, and is constantly needing donations of money, clothing, provisions, &c.

MAP OF THE UNITED STATES,

About 6 feet square, with a large amount of valuable statistical and other information, based on the last Census, and the Counties, &c., distinctly designated Can be sent by express. Price, $8. Address, Advocate and Guardian Office, 29 East 29th St.

WONDERFUL CRADLE! BROWN'S PATENT BABY-TENDER, a vertical, noiseless and delightful SPRING-CRADLE, easily converted into a Ba by-jumper, Baby-horse, Baby-walker, High-chair, Springchair, Nursery-chair, Hobby-horse or Ottoman; the whole designed to obviate the evils of the rocking motion and

TAKE THE PLACE OF A HIRED NURSE. Ornamental, compact, strong and durable. The wonder and admiration of parents and the delight of children.

MR. ANGELL, Gen. Agent of the A. F. G. S., after using it in his family for more than two years, says, "If mothers generally knew the great value of the Baby-tender in the care of children they would deny themselves one meal a day (if necessary) to procure it."

Agents wanted in all parts of the North and West. An excellent opportunity for profitable and useful employment. Send for illustrated circular,

699-708.

BROWN & CO., 483 Broadway, N. Y.

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STEREOSCOPIC VIEWS OF "HOME" SCENES. There have been prepared, in order to give our distant friends a more perfect idea of the institution in its details, a series of twelve beautiful pictures, taken with life-like accuracy, by the well-known photographer, E. ANTHONY, embracing the following:

1. HOME FOR THE FRIENDLESS, 32 E. 30th St

2. CHILDREN'S DORMITORY.

3. NURSERY DORMITORY.

4. NURSERY CHILDREN.

5. SCHOOL CHILDREN AT PLAY.

6. HOME CHAPEL, 29 E. 29th St.,

7. CHILDREN IN SCHOOL.

8. CHILDREN IN CHAPEL.

9. CHILDREN ON GALLERY-Anniversary.

10. CHILDREN AT DINNER-Thanksgiving. 11. PLAY GROUND SCENE.

12. ADVOCATE & GUARDIAN PRINTING OFFICE

Price, plain, 25c: each, the whole set, $2.50; colored, 35c.
STEREO.
each, $3.50 the set, sent by mail free of postage.
SCOPES (in which to view them,) from $1 to $5.
Profits entirely devoted to the "Home."

Address: Advocate and Guardian,
Care Mrs. Sarah A. Stone
Box 4740, New York.

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EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE. Camp near Petersburg, Va., Sept. 5, 1864. From one of our eighty brave "Home boys." -Mrs. Penfield,-I have often taken up my pen to write to you, but before I could accomplish it, we would be on the move. I have passed through a great many hardships and seen a great deal of fighting since I last wrote to you, but the kind Saviour has protected me from all harm. The regiment that I belong to lost very severely in the battle on the 25th of August. In the battle of Ream's Station we lost fourteen officers and four hundred and fifty men. Our colonel and all the field officers were wounded. I came very near being taken prisoner, but rather than gratify the rebels in that way, I thought I would let my legs try what they could do, notwithstanding the many obstacles in the way. The shot and shell were flying in all directions too, and I did not know but my legs would be carried away, for the men were falling around me on every side.

You will find enclosed $5, one dollar for the Advocate to be continued for another year, and the remainder for the benefit of the Home children. I expect soon to get pay from the government and I will try and do more.

Truly your friend, J. C. B.

"A Pioneer Missionary."—Dear Madam,-I well remember the time when, years ago, you made my father's house your stopping-place on the occasion of a Semi-annual meeting. I have from that time cherished a particular reverence for the noble work in which you are and have been so long engaged. Your paper is always welcome to our hearts and home, and although circumstances forbid me from contributing to the funds of the Society, yet my heart is with you. I was made a life-member of your Society by my mother, (now in heaven.) My husband has always labored as a pioneer missionary on a scanty salary. He is now in the army as a private.

Mrs. S. A. Stone,-Enclosed is five dollars from Henry Buckley, Jr., the proceeds of some potatoes raised for the benefit of your Institution. (His little sister, Laura S., helped a little about planting, by dropping a part of the seed.) H. B.

From a far Country.—The enclosed check, for $25, is contributed by Mrs. Sarah Williams, wife of S. Wells Williams, LL. D., now Secretary of Legation, residing at Pekin, China. Respectfully, W. H. T.

Jersey City, Sept. 9, 1864.

The "sheets" remembered.-Ever-dear friends at the Home,-We have read the call in the Advocate for sheets to furnish those fifty bedsteads. We respond to the call, and herein send you three dollars to purchase material for one pair of sheets. Mr. H. gave one dollar and Mrs. P. fifty cents.

Since the war, our only sewing society is the Aid Society, and we have not helped the Home as much as formerly, or as much as some of us have desired. May the time speedily come when the most urgent call will not be that of sick and wounded soldiers in our hospitals. A. A. D.

Dear Home friends,-Our Heavenly Father has kindly spared our precious little one to complete his first year. To-day is his birthday, and being desirous to cultivate in him a spirit of practical benevolence, I will enclose for him one dollar to aid the little needy ones in your charge. That he may feel deep interest in and use his abilities and means for the friendless and afflicted, if his life is spared, is the earnest and sincere prayer of the

HAPPY MOTHER OF LITTLE WALTER.

DIED Recently, in Nelson, Portage Co., Ohio, Miss Polly Hannahs, aged 62 years.

more.

In my far-off Western home, the news has reached me that Miss Polly Hannahs is no She was a woman full of good works and alms-deeds; frugal in her personal expenses, but always ready to help the needy; a firm friend to the Female Guardian Society, always cheerfully doing more than her share taken the Advocate and Guardian from its in filling a box for the Dorcas-room. She had been a most devoted and industrious member commencement. Since the war began she has of the Soldiers' Aid Society, in the village where she had long resided. But her work on earth is done, and we trust she has gone to ple of God. The summons came suddenly, enjoy that rest which remaineth for the peobeing found dead in her house, without any previous illness. "Blessed are those servants whom the Lord, when he cometh, shall find watching." F. S. R.

Grinnell, Iowa, August, 1864.

For the Advocate and Guardian.

TO YOUNG HUSBANDS.

YOUNG husband, your wife is very lovely; I do not wonder you are proud and fond of her; that you are pleased to be the protector of any one so bright and pure. But I do wonder if you ever thought how much she gave up, when she became your wife? And whether you understand the responsibilities which you assumed when you became her protector? Perhaps you fancy that as she is so full of love for you, she has resigned little and gained much? You would not like to say so in words, for it sounds egotistical, but "really if it was self-denial to become my wife, why did she say that momentous Yes!" Because she loved you and expected much happiness in that love; see to her mother's loving, protecting arms and trustit that she is not disappointed. She has left ed yours-be worthy of that trust. Never let her look back regretfully to "when I was a girl." Mark what made her the sweet, gentle, girl that stole your heart away, and treat her as she has been treated hitherto. Gardeners in transplanting trees, and plants, give them as nearly as they can, the same sort

of soil they have thriven in before transplantation. Husbands make large mistakes here. The lamb taken from the fold will sicken, if deprived of its natural food, although held in the arms, and loved never so fondly by the child. Thus the buoyant, bright girl becomes the quiet, sad, sometimes bitter woman from the withdrawal of circumstances which made her light-hearted, and gay. The husband wonders at the change, suspects she does not love as well as he, and perhaps is moody over it. But, alas! the real evil is unknown to either party. See to it that you make not shipwreck here. She had a name unsoiled before she became your wife. Let not the wearing of your name cause a blush of shame to mantle her cheek. Your wife has received attentions and happiness from others before she knew your love. Voices have been melted to sweetness before they addressed her. No pains have been spared to promote her pleasure, and enjoyment. Voluntarily, she has assumed the cares, pains, and responsibilities of life. Suffer them not to warp, corrode or vex her young heart; she will lean upon you. Disappoint not that confidence. Be wise that she may seek your judgment. Be tender and kind, that she may gladly run to you for sympathy. Be compassionate and forbearing, with her mistakes, that she never learn to hide a matter from you. Be careful of her need, and she will learn to rest in your loving thoughtfulness. Is there too much self-sacrifice in all this? Hear what the Lord saith: "Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church and gave himself for it," again, "Let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself." Thus living, your peace, love, and joy, shall be as a river, broader and deeper, as you together journey toward the ocean of eternity.

*

For the Advocate and Guardian.
HELP THE POOR.
BY ANDREW DOWNING.

"He that giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord,"
HELP the poor! ye who are favored
With a goodly share of wealth,
Who have known no years of sorrow,
Who have youthful strength and health;
Help them in their deep distress,
And thy store will not be less.

Help the poor! they're all around thee;
Find them out and give them aid;
Give to them from thine abundance,
And thou'lt surely be repaid;
Be repaid with joy and peace,
And thy riches will increase.
Help the poor! the dreary winter
Brings to them new sufferings,
And they feel the frosty breezes-
Feel the tempest's icy wings
Creeping slyly in their homes,

Where no warmth or sunshine comes.
Help the poor! they need assistance-
Need more food and warmer clothes;
Give to them, if but a little,

Much 'twill mitigate their woes;
And thou'lt have a sure reward,
Lending thus unto the Lord.
Princeton, Ill.

ADVOCATE AND GUARDIAN. TERMS.

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$1 a year, [in advance] to Single Subscribers. Four copies, to one address, at the rate of 75c a year. Eight do do 60c do Twelve copies, [and over] to one address, 50C do Letters concerning the Advocate and Guardian, and those containing funds for the Society, should be addre sed: MRS. SARAH A. STONE,

29 E. 29th Street, Box 4740. New York. Letters designed for publication, should be addressed to the Editress of the Advocate and Guardian, 29 E. 29th St., New York. Box 4740.

Letters designed for the Board or Executive Committee, and Reports of Auxiliaries, address Corresponding Secrets ries, A. F. G. Soc., 29 E. 29th St., New York. Box 4740. Advertisements. Only short ones are received-20c a line

[No. 703. Oct. 1, 1864.]

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Published, Semi-monthly, by the Executive Committee of the AMERICAN FEMALE GUARDIAN SOCIETY, at the House of Industry and Home for the Friendless, 29 E. 29thSt.

EDITED BY MRS. SARAH R. I. BENNETT.

For Terms and Notices, see Last Pages.

For the Advocate and Guardian.
TRUST.

"I have learned in whatsoever state I am therewith
to be content."-Bible.

SINCE Thou dost guide my lot, my Father, it is well,
For well Thou knowest my heart, and what I need,
And patiently I wait to hear Thee tell

Whate'er Thy heavenly wisdom hath decreed. If life, and friends, and earth's best joys be mine, I thank Thy bounteous love that I am blest; Or, if my life be shadowed, I resign

My all to Thee-Thou knowest what is best. If friends prove false, if all I've trusted here Fails in my clinging grasp, and dust remains,

Thou dost permit it; with a filial fear

I claim Thy love, blest healing for all pains. Thou canst not err-Thou, who hast made all worlds, Thou, my Creator, Thou, my Sovereign Friend; Be the blest banner of Thy cross unfurled O'er every clime, till time itself shall end.

EFFIE JOHNSON.

For the Advocate and Guardian.
NO BOYS AT HOME.
BY KATE CAMERON.

No boys at home! How still it seems, how strangely quiet! No loud, quick step on the walk at meal-time; no merry whistle, no ringing laugh, no gleeful song. No disarranging of books and papers, no shouting in the hall, or lively tread upon the stairs. There is nothing now to shock your sense of propriety, no need of saying, "Hush! don't make so much noise." That wild exuberance of spirit, would you check it now?

In what a monotonous way the days steal on, only varied by the coming or going of letters-these bright links that still keep the chain of household love strong and warm. We call them our absent ones, and yet every hour are they present with us; we never forget them, never cease to yearn for them with

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fondest love, never neglect to pray for their looking girl, with a certain quiet, subdued air

safe return.

The labors and cares of another day are ended-its petty trials and vexations already forgotten, its perplexities all laid aside. Now is the hour of sweet, familiar intercourse, ere we separate for the night's repose. Alas! how painfully do those vacant chairs remind us of our broken circle! We have lost the sweet pleasure of expectation; no boys will come home to-night; we need not sit up to admit a late-comer, nor listen for the click of the nightlatch. The boys are far away to-night!

On how many, many households has a darker shadow fallen, even the shadow of the grave. Their boys were young and brave and ardent as ours. They went-but never to return; or if they came back it was with pale, still faces that felt not, and answered not the kisses so full of anguish, that 'mid bitter, blinding tears, were pressed on those cold lips

and brows.

It may be that imprisonment, worse than death, is wearing out those young lives in scenes whose loathsome horrors we shrink

from contemplating. Ah! those tenderly reared boys, was it for such a doom that they were watched over and preserved through infancy and childhood? Heaven alone knows the magnitude of the sacrifice thousands have laid on their country's altar, and will not suffer it to be in vain! Oh! God pity all these desolate hearth-stones, and send consolation even into these darkened Ramahs, whence ascends the voice of lamentation and weeping, and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children and will not be comforted because they are not!

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about her that attracted me; an interest not lessened, by the whispered words, "She is wholly without friends, and I am seeking a home for her."

"Wholly without friends!" A young girl, alone-a stranger in this great city. No home, no place of shelter, no kindly, cheering words, no single, familiar face-no hope of finding any-in all this crowded world. What can be more utterly desolate ? There are many such that pass us in the street, that sit beside us in the cars, that look into our faces every day, in vain, for friends who may care for them.

The young girl referred to, will find-bas found a home, and to some extent, a pleasant and kind one; and already her face is brighter, her heart lighter. Still, she is alone! "She has not a friend in the world!" No parent, or brother, or sister, not one tie of relationship, not one to whom she can impart the glad intelligence, that she has shelter and care, and the hope of independent support. True, the future is hopeful; friends may be won, ties of relationship may be formed. A few years, and she may be the centre of a little world of her own. There is hope for the young-certain hope in her case. Why? How is it that she was guided and befriended, when so many make shipwreck of the very image of God upon them? It is simply told: The kind friend who met her, heard her story, befriended, and found this home for her-first took her to her own. Having occasion to enter the room assigne her for the night, she found the poor girl kneeling by her bed in prayer. Alone, in the wide world yet with the great God close to her, she sought His help and guidance. Did ever any seek in vain?

But how many of the friendless and homeless girls, that come into this great Babylon, know anything of God-or knowing, seek His guidance? Desolation or want has found them in their country homes. The hope of employment, the excitement of change, or perhaps, the allurements held out by Satan's own chil

dren-whom the father of lies might refuse to own as his-has brought them here. What will become of them? who will care for them? God would not have it so; He did not mean it so.

"He setteth the solitary in families." How repeatedly and touchingly He gave to His Israel the charge, "Consider the heart of the stranger, for ye were strangers in the land of Egypt." Who of His children heed the charge? His children? rather, how many of His professed followers care for this-think of it—would not consider it an impertinence if it were asked or expected of them? Well may the scoffers at religion say, "Where are the fruits of your boasted piety? in what are you better than others?"

For this is peculiarly

the Christian's work; not solely, for it appeals to every humane and benevolent heart, and there are some, thank God! who hear and heed it; but must the whole work be theirs? What right has any one to withhold altogether of what God has so richly given them?

There is yet another class to whom a little kindly assistance and advice, that cost nothing, might be given, as a simple Christian duty. A single fact will illustrate what I mean.

A few years since, a clergyman, well known in all our churches, while on a visit to New England, stopped at my father's house. One day, in the table-talk, he gave us this little incident by the way. As nearly as I can recall them, I will use his own words.

"When I took the cars at Cleveland, in the early morning train, I observed a young girl, of perhaps seventeen or so, of very pleasing appearance, seated just before me. There were many people in the car, but I saw that no one noticed or spoke to her; she seemed to be alone. My interest increased as the day wore on, and I observed that at none of the way-stations, or at any time through the day, did she once leave her seat. Once, I offered her some refreshment, but she declined it, politely, but in a way that made me think any attempt to converse with her might be intrusive. She had with her, a large carpet-bag, that she held tightly all the time. As it grew dark, she seemed more pensive and sad. Roused often from sleep by the conductor, I could see by the glimmer of the lamps that the poor girl's face looked troubled and anxious, and sometimes, was wet with tears. It was midnight when we got into New York, and I lingered, while the passengers left the cars, as my fair friend seemed to do, for I was resolved to see what became of her, though surely, I thought, some one will meet her here; but hugging her carpet-bag, she passed out before me, and walked hurriedly, but quietly, through the crowd of passengers and hackmen, and had passed into Chambers St., when I thought it time to speak. Accosting her in a way I thought least likely to startle her, I told her I had been her fellow passenger through the day, and seeing she was alone, I might be of

assistance to her. She eagerly and warmly thanked me. Taking my offered arın, I held out my hand for the bag-she gave it. Where do you wish to stop? I asked. She mentioned

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Hotel. I knew that only gentlemen 'put up' at that house, and told her so. Are you not mistaken?' she said. 'My brother wrote to me to stop there, and just how to find it.' So you will meet your brother? No sir; he is in California. I am going to him.' But you have friends here? 'Not any; I was never from home before.' (You clearly ought not to be so, now, I thought; it is a queer story, but she seems a nice girl.) My dear child, I said, New York is a very wicked city. No woman ought to be in its streets alone, after dark, and here you are, at twelve o'clock at night, going to a public house, with which you seem unacquainted, while you accept my assistance and give up your property to me, a perfect stranger, without hesitation! Don't you see, you are quite unfit to journey so far alone? How could your friends at home let you do so? She did not speak for a moment, then she said, in a shaking voice, 'How could we help it, sir? We did not know-my mother and I— that it would be night when we got here. I thought you seemed like a good man, sir. I saw you look at me very kindly, often, to-day, and I wished you would speak to me; you don't seem quite like a stranger. I have been praying, ever since it grew dark, that God would keep and guide me safely, and I think He will do it.' Rest assured He will, my dear child. I am His servant, a minister of His. You may trust me with so much of what concerns you, as you would like to tell. May I ask, where is your home? 'In Chicago.' And you came from Chicago, and are going to California, alone? Yes, sir.' How could your mother let you undertake such a journey? 'She thought one of us must go. There are only three of us, sir-my mother, my brother and I. All our dependence is upon this brother; he is ill-we fear it is consumption; he wants us to go to him, and he wrote just how to go, and where to stop. It was the way he went himself. My mother could not go, but she thought I ought. We could not learn of any one going-we tried, and we waited, but mother thought it would not do to wait longer, and miss another steamer; it will sail to-mor

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thought would interest his care for her, I left, promising to call in the morning. Early as possible, I went to see her. The waiter took me directly to her room, and without knocking, threw wide open the door. She was sitting in a most dejected attitude, her head bent upon her hand, the tears raining down upon the open Bible before her. She had not heard us. Closing the door gently, I waited till she answered my knock. 'Oh, sir,' she exclaimed, 'I am so glad you have come. I feared you would forget me, and now, it is a new trouble; they tell me, the steamer will not sail for a week, and how can I stay here?'

"I thought a moment-I knew a good, kind, motherly woman in the city, a warm friend of mine. I would see if she could stay with her. .So bidding the poor girl cheer up and have her bag ready by my return, (there was no appearance that she had changed her dress, or rested at all that night.) I went on my errand. The good woman received me with the old cordial greeting, I was not half through my story when she interrupted me with, 'Bring the dear child here, let her stay with me? To be sure I will, how stupid to leave her there, go right back and bring her.' I did not wait for another bidding, and the warm, motherly greeting that received the poor girl brought wonder and gladness to her pale face.

"I could not stay in New York, but I promised to return before the steamer sailed and when, a week after, I shook her hand at parting, it was as if I bade good-by to my own daughter. She clung to me as a child might. 'What can I say,' she sobbed, how can I thank you. I have no words to tell you how grateful I feel; what should I have done but for you!'

"I told her I had done only what I should wish another to do for my daughter, and as she must, as she had opportunity, befriend others in need. I gave her my address and took hers. She promised to write at the end of her journey and I know she will."

Of all the passengers on that day's journey, only this man cared for this friendless girl, and yet what one of them all, but would give far more than the time and trouble it cost to secure the rich blessing of that one grateful

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For the Advocate and Guardian.

JANE'S SOLILOQUY.

"ENDURE as seeing Him who is invisible." ENDURE! why, I have everything to endure. Was anybody's fate ever as hard as mine? I like often to sit down and sum up my sorrows, and get a sort of relief in hugging my grief. I often wonder why I have so little happiness in the religion I have professed so many years for I have thought that verse, "Whom He loveth He chasteneth," was peculiarly applicable to my case. No! "Endurance is not always a virtue," is a maxim of mine. When one has a fretful, sickly, unlucky husband and a house full of children to work for, cook for, contrive for, how can they always forbear?

And yet, let me look further, "Endure as seeing Him who is invisible." Is it possible that I could gain strength and companionship. by taking Him as my constant Friend, in my kitchen, in my chamber, in my walks, in all I do. At any rate I will try it, not merely praying to an invisible personage in my chamber, I will try to see Him everywhere. But how this will rule my conduct. How careful I must be, not merely in outward act, but inward thought. How I must look at motives, to see that no deception or hypocrisy is there.

* * * I have tried it, I used to think, if I only could sit at His feet and tell His sympathizing heart everything, how it would relieve my burden, tell Him of my failing strength and yet added burdens, of all the little trials and privations that small means bring in their train, of the disappointments of the year, but since this new feeling and determination came into my heart, I will place my Saviour in every room in the house, and I will always find Him by the eye of faith, as a sweet consoler always appeal to Him in every temptation to fret, or worry over small trials, and trust His grace to enable me to bear large ones. Now I cling to Him as I used to cling to my mother before God took ber. He seems to whisper "Courage, Jane, your lot seems hard, but brighten up your mercies, forget all the sorrows, think only of the joys."

Then, I try to compare my condition with that of many of my acquaintances. True Mrs. Chase lives in a fine house with a delightful garden and fruit and flowers in plenty, but then, her husband drinks and gambles. How pale and thin she looks among her treasures. Then all my children are healthy, and the butcher's bills are easier to pay than the doctor. To be sure I have a weak and failing frame, but then, I have a good hope of heaven at last, I feel this wonderful companionship all the time with my Saviour. Many a rich friend has said with tears and earnestness that called forth my wonder, "How I wish I could exchange my hope for yours. Oh! how I wish I could feel as you do."

So I have lost my doubts by ever seeing Jesus in my path. Doubting is a long, dreary moor, the bleak wind drives one hither and

thither, but believing and seeing by faith, is warmth and comfort and shelter. It is coming in out of the storms of life, to glad arms and gentle encouragement. Why does not everyone try it? David said, "I have set the Lord always before my face." Why should we go mourning all our days, with Jesus afar off, saying when questioned on experience, "I don't know, I can hardly hope, I am not as when the candle of the Lord shone brightly in my dwelling." Such, worship afar off, the blood of Christ can bring all of us near to Him. Let us creep beneath the shadow of His wings, forget ourselves, live for others' welfare and happiness and all doubts and clouds will flee.

I. A. G.

For the Advocate and Guardian. DISAGREEABLE PEOPLE.

DISAGREEABLE people-who has not seen them? Wherever we go we come in contact with them. Proud people, affected people, conceited people, touchy people, selfish and mean people, harsh and angular people, illmannered people, untidy people. The world is full of such. All mixed up are they with society, growing, as weeds will grow, if permitted, in a rich flower-bed in June. The flowers are very sweet and pretty, but they are far less pleasant for their proximity to the ill-smelling weeds around them; and indeed among the pig-weed and chick-weed, and ragweed and smart-weed, one often feels inclined to pass the flowers by, it is so troublesome to get at them. Just so, we have seen persons shrink from society, failing to enjoy the choice spirits therein, because they are so mingled with those that are peculiar and disagreeable.

How came these individuals so disagreeable. It is their nature, you say. That is true doubtless, but not the whole cause of the difficulty. Take, for instance your own nature. Supposing you had been left to grow up without care, your heart unweeded like the flowerbed, would you have come to be an agreeable person? Be honest with yourself. With all the advantages of culture you have had, are there not still radical defects in your character and spirit, which are distasteful to some one? I am afraid it is so, you hesitatingly say. Then can you not see just what is the matter with many a one who is particularly repulsive to you? They have had no training, or perchance a sadly misguided education. This is not their own fault. It is their misfortune. They are the sad victims of parental ignorance or mistake, or perhaps culpable neglect. Or they may have been orphans, left to an unloved and untended childhood. Are they then to be blamed as much as pitied for their disagreeableness?

But you say, they are old enough to correct 'these faults in themselves. We will allow that, but then they do not see them. The very lack of early training of which we have spoken pre-supposes an obtuse moral

sense, a want of spiritual perception and an utter self-ignorance, so that the individual not seeing himself as others see him, is quite unconscious that he has annoying faults, which, for the comfort of those around him should be corrected. His self-love whispers that he is right enough-certainly as good as other people-and if there is any repellancy, the cause is on your side and not on his. It is not that he is particularly offensive, but you do not esteem him as you ought, nor treat him as you ought, nor bestow upon him the polite attentions that he expects, nor yield the deference to his opinions which they deserve. And in this blind, unconscious condition of the offender, what is to be done?

He ought to be told of his faults? Who shall tell him? It is not a very gracious task to tell even your dearest friend of his failings. Though he wishes to know them for his own improvement-though he solicits you in all fidelity to tell him what you think of him, and how he appears to you and to others, still it is painful to apply the knife and lay open the diseased spot. How much more unpleasant then is it to give, uninvited, to a neighbor or acquaintance your opinion of his character; to unveil his obliquities and infirmities to his own gaze.

And we are not required to do this. If one has really injured us, it is our duty to go to him in the spirit of kindness and tell him his fault between him and us alone. But we are nowhere instructed to take upon ourselves the correcting of the numerous petty failings, and unpleasant personalities which we daily see in those around us. We should have abundant occupation in such a task. And meanwhile, we may venture to ask, Who will correct ours?

For have we not all, as we have before suggested, faults-of manner, of disposition, of character? Are we perfect, that we should criticise others so mercilessly, or be disgusted with those who do not come up to our standard of refinement, or offended with such as have real and serious faults? Is our character more symmetrical, our life more harmonious, than that of our associates? Have we not many imperfections? Have we not disagreeable habits? Do we not manifest tempers, express sentiments, give utterance to feelings, quite as obnoxious as those of which we complain? What, then, is to be done with us? Are we to be frowned upon, avoided, censured, despised? What are we to do in our dilemma ?

im

There is but one way to get along in this world, where all are alike, if not equally, perfect. We must cast the beam out of our own eyes, before we undertake to remove the mote from our brother's. And if we wait to do this it will be a long time, and we shall have ample exercise for patience with les disagreeables around us, before we shall feel prepared to deal with them.

Then again we must consider our brother when tempted, lest we fall into the same temptation; and this will keep us so watchful

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