-THE AD^AKCE, MAECJH 9, 1861 8ABBATTT TREASURY. •AttTBDAY BffiUlMU. , How »w««t thft evanfeg shadows feU» * Advancing from tho w««t; An «hd« tho wnary wm«k of toll, And com«« tta« d*j of rwt. Bright o'er U>« earth the tUr of ovo ifpr rfcdlant bounty rtwd*; And myriad «l«Uirti calmly WMTO Tholr light around our nuadn. '\ ' fUmt, man. from labor; rent firrnn tttn Th» world'* hard contort cloao; The holr hour* with Uod boffin; , , • YUld UMW to »we«t rvpoae. Britfht o'er thr *arth the morning ray I&McmlllKht will cart; Fair wnbhmi of the glorious day That evarmor* •hall lant. TH1 1X1B0I81 OF DUTT. A. 8KKMON, »T ILRNRY WAIID BRBCHEK. O IN TUB OK HBI.IQIOU8 DUTIES. In a Christian community, the great bulk of orderly citizens profess to follow duty. They may not 1»e very good stu- douts of duty ; yot, in words, they admit tho authority of rectitude, and they make endeavors, with a greater or less degree of wal to be obedient to what seems rkrht. It is to such 1 that I speak, and by criticising the method* of obedience, I shall endeavor to make the way of right clearer and easier to them. One of the first things to be noticed is the habit, very widely prevalent, of de- laying otxdisnc* as long as possible. Men do not mean in the end to disobey, l*it they mean to hold the performance of duty in KUsiH'nstf. As men differ in settle- ment of <U;btfl' Which they do not mean to repudiate, but which, for their own conv enience, ait not to IKS paid as long as they can pitt it off, so with duties. They do nut deny the duty ; they merely give it the go-by ;\ they put it out of the pres- ent into the future ; they procrastinate ; they iMliourn ; they reconsider; they for- get. Jnen often go along rolling together and heaping up unperformed business, so that at length their affairs come into great confusion. There are just such ways of doing business in conscience.'— There is such a thing as conducting work negligently, taking hold of work on the wrong Bide, omitting the finishing up, until everything comes to be disorderly. Thereto just such a way, also, of per- forming the work of conscience. There is what wo call shiftleasness in house- keeping. Many people manage to get their house in order once a week^ or once a month ; but during the whole interme- diate period, it is a scene of varied dis- order. Things that ought to l>o done in th« morning are neglected till evening ; anil things that ought to l>e done in the evening, are neglected till morning. Tliq contents of the house are scattered hither and thither. There is ^ust such house- keeping in men's conscience. Duties of yesterday drill into to-morrow. There is a want of distinctness of purpose, reg- ularity, and efficiency. TUB Wrf,LI&<l AND KARNRflT VXBRCIBJC OP DUTT. There is in connection with this, also, a narrow and mean method of obedience practised toward our conscience, which deserves attention. For oftentimes men seem to study, not how abundantly and nobly they may do what is right, but hour stingily they can do it. M«n do not ask, \ How much can I do ?\ but \How little will Ite enough for me to do?\ Men perform duties as miner* give their (Jolcti, not following the impulse of a generous sympathy, but rather acting under the influence of the utmost avarice. There- fore you see men profuse of self-indul- gence, but frugal of duty. They spend freely toward inclination, but are very economical toward moral obligations. It was thin that watt aimed at in the Jewish ceremonial, when Clod's people were for- bidden, in milking offerings and sacri- fices, to bring anything but the Itcst— The lame, the maimed, the spotted, the blemished, the chance-killed, were not to be accepted. Gud would not take such things. First fruits nnd Itest fruits were reqouttf. AJL<1 SO it is now in th« court of UoU, toil, in «v«ry generous and noble heart One is anluuuixl to give a meager gift. I think that generosity in love is always charncteriifrd by the feeling that a thing which is not fit to-keep is not fit to give away ; and that things which are best fitted to keep are bust fitted to give away. Only that which seems to you rich oan convey the sentiment of affec- tion from you to any one. And if thin ia so between man and man iu life, how much more should it be the case tietweeJtt tis and Ood in the performance of our duties! It is not, then, to be with us a question of how Little we can perform duty, but rather a question of how largely and bow broadly we should perform it. It is a pcrniciotiH and demoralizing habit to delay duty in common things, merely under the pretense of analysis— to question whether wrong is wrong; whether right is right; whether virtues are *• virtuous; whither vices are, so wicked ; whether the path of custom is the path in rectitude which alone is safe. There are many who, instead of perform- In^ things thut they know to be right, dream of them; weave them into this and that form; spin out their thoughts concerning them; hover around about them. Tnere is a kind of moral reverie into which men fall. SKIiF EXAMINATION. But tho full extent to which men are wont to put off duty cannot be known, nlcss we specialize the different meth* s. For it would seem as If all; the lower feelings were' jealous of tho su- premacy of the moral faculties; and each one disputes duty before the chief justice. Wherefore, we find men who are acous- tomed to submit their convictions of right and wrong to the judgment of their interests, Often men's first intuitions are right. There are a grqat many intuitions tliat arc pot right, because they are par- tial—they are right only a little way.— Our very intuitions must become the sub- ject-matter of investigation. But there are in many of the more familiar spheres of life, convictious of right and duty that rise above man's ordinary life. I suppose that in every profession there we certain casuistical realms, and that there is no conscientious man who has not moments and hours in which he shrinks from the allowed wickedness of his calling in life. Almost every man, whether he works on the land, on the sea, in the shop, upon the street, or in the office, and wheiher he be physician, or lawyer, or mechanic, or business man—almost every man, wherever he may work, ami whatever he may be, soon comes to a point of mist and perplexity, where moral principle seems to require some adulteration before it is current, according to the feelings, and customs of society. And I suppose there U almost no man that docs not sometimes say, \ I think it is impossible for nve to l>e a Christian and follow tho business I am in.' 1 It is not the conrplaint of one or two professions; it U the almost Uni- versal expression of human experience- There is a point at which all business seems to take hojd of selfishness and pride in such a way as to violate a man's conscience. While a man is young and generous, ho does not mean to bt obedi- ent to bad customs • but the more a man feels the burden of life, the larger his business is, the lets power he ha« .to con- trol his business, the more complex his business becomes, the more other people's thoughts and remarks and interests get mixed up with his business, the more does he feel a certain sort of moral in- competence. Bo he allows a slight pre- varication here, and a little indirection there, until a large amount of his busi- ness comes to be such that he knows that if he were to brim* it openly before the tribunal of conscience, he should con- demn it. There are luminous hours ex- perienced by every man, in which he feels that his course is to be disallowed. There are times when a man's better feelings rise above all reasonings, philosophizings, and perversions, so that ho gets cloar views of time, nnd eternity, and life, and death, and manhood, and duty, and God, and honor, nnd purity; and at those times he feels, \ I see what, is the straight way, and what is the crooked way. — There is a powerful moral influence in him to do me trritn? that is right. Ah ! thai then there might bo instantaneous execution. There ure a very few who have faith in right so that they no longer question it We sec some children that, when they re- ceive a command from father or mother, seem to have no other thought than sim- ply to understand what is said. To hoar, with thorn, is literally to obey. We see other children that will obey in the end, but not until they have interposed an immense nuralwr of reasonings, objec- tions, whys, hows, and nervous question- ings. And as it is with children, so it is with conscience. Few persons have such a conscience that when they see what is right they instantly ol>ey it. On the other hand, if we look upon ourselves, we shall find tliat wo are carrying in silent thoughts a better creed than ever exudes upon our daily life, wo shall And thatoftei rtnd often our inward conceptions and inward feelings are far letter than those thai we choose to oxecute, and let mo sec; !>©- cause there is this question perpetually arising in our mind : \ What will ty the effect upon our standing in sociefjy t— What will men think of us ?\ In other words, we evoke approbativencss, th^ love of men's favorable opinion, and filet it over our conscience; and when things ap])car to us right or wrong, before we obey our convictions, we l>egin to meas- ure obedience \>y its supposed^effect upon those around about us. There are very few that have such a sense of the dignity and beauty of right, that they dare to trust themselves to it without a question. There arc very few that believe that in the end thoy mnst stand highest who always do tho things fchat are purest, trueat, best* UNFAVORABLE INFLUENCES. Nothing is more difficult/ than tp *sct one's self against wrong tl»at is oorrcnt •ml fashionable. We are under the do- minion of the present, so under the do- minion of sympathy, and so under the do- minion of that most deceitful of all feel- ings, the love of human applause, that it is almost impossible thqt we^suould }>ring rtur eonscientioifs convictions within tho influence of these things and yet, hold them. Whether in schools, in shops, in ships, in stores, in churches, in the state, or in the nation, nothing is more difficult than to follow a conviction that does not carry with it the sympathy of men's praise ; and men, when they know* what is right, or what is wrong, instead of let- ting the conviction instantly take hold on practice, stop it till, they can pass it in review before tlicur love of praise. Fulfill promptly and efficiently the con- viction of the moment and of the hour. I plead tho habit of doing this. It is good to do it even from impulse, but I plead the habit of doing it. That must be a base man who does not rise at some times into a kind of momentary lic#oism, which leads him to do the thing tnat is righ't, no matter what men may say or think,; but it U the habit of doing it in all moods and circumstances and feel- ings, that I plead. And if any duty is more distasteful than another, that is the very one which you ought to do first.— If there is anything which you do not want to do, but which vou ought to do, let everytlung else go till you nave done that. If any duty is heavier and more repulsive than any other, l>e more thorough in that than in any other. HABIT AND IMPUL8B. That man does not know how to do right who does it only from impulse.— The man that has formed the habit of doing right, and then feels a generous impulse, so that the soul lifts itself up— that is the man who knows how to do right. No man, until ho has been drilled into moral habits, habits of prompt obe- dience in moral things,.knows now to live a life of rectitude. Therefore, a man that has to stop before an impulsion of duty, and say, \ What will it cost ?\—a man that does duty as some people buy a hat or a suit of clothes, examining it, holding it uj>, turning it round, thinking whether it will fit, higgling over the mat- ter, and at length, half-decided, taking it, and clothing himself with it—BUCTI a man, who, before performing duty, looks it all-over, measures himself to see how he will appear in it, tries a little of it, and then a little more, and finally clothes himself with it, piece by piece— such a man is ignorant of what is a true, manly course of action. The fullness, the force, the largeness, the generosity of performance, is that which will make it easy; whereas the stinginess of it, the weakness of it, the narrowness of it, is that which will.make it hard. When a man has become \wann- ed tip to his work,\ when his feelings be- pn to glow, when he comes to like that in which he is employed, how easy it be- comes ! Then he would rather work than play. And I think it is no small thing for a man to l>e able to say, that be would rather work than play. Indeed, work is play. Tho best play is to do great things and right things because you like to do them. There is nothing so hard as a per- petual urging of conscience in reference to character and duty, which makes a man feel that he must, must, must do things that ho don't, don't, don't want to do! But how many men there are that do not want to get up, that do not want to work, that do not want to do the things that they ought to do, that go grumbling through the morning and through the afternoon, that go to sleep grumbling, and that wake up grumbling 1 There are others that take life with sad- ness, and that may t)c heard saying, \Oh ! what a world this is I\ There are still others that talk about the hardness of the way of life. It is because you have no way of life tliat it seems so hard to you. There are yet others that tell of what they suffer. It is because you do not take things as you ought that you suffer so much. You can make things easy, or you can make it hard. There IB nothing tliat can make it easy except the habit of do- ing what your hands nnd to do, instantly, efficiently, thoroughly, and gladly. And this habit of instantly doing the thing that is right, this habit of follow- ing one's convictions immediately, gives a large, frank, generous way to a man's character. There is a kind of frank wick- cdrtess. It is where a mah does not pre- tend to l>e good. It is where a man is not afraid to be examined, because he is just what he pretends to be—a jolly wick- ed man. It is thorn men that are l>ad while they pretend to be good, that do not like to ue examined. But these frank wicked men say, \ I know I am wicked: I never pretended that I was not.\ They take life boldly and freely. Then there is an intermediate class who wish to be right, and yet are conscious of going wrong. These are the men of ex- pediency, in the bad sense of that term; these are the men who .maintain com- promises between right and wrong, be- tween duty and inclination ; these are the men whose natures are opaque; these are the men who are without momentum; these arc the men who are least interest- ing to others, the least palatable to them- selves, and tho least valuable to tho world. I am afraid that this class in- cludes the great mass of men. \OOD 1L SHOW ME TEE WAT.\ \ Yes, sir,\ said tho man, running his hand through his shaggy locks, his harsh face showing the marks pf unusual intelli- gence, u mining in this region be a hard life, but I think we've all been better since little Pinky went away.\. \And who was little Pinky?\ asked the gentleman, while the dark eyes of the young lady at his side sparkled in antici- pation of a story. \ Well, you see—it be something of a tell—and if yb\l move farther on to the shade of the old oak yonder, it'll may- hap bo plcasanter for the young miss, for the sun be hot.\ The lady and 4et>tleman foHoWcd the brown and %ve«thfcr-l>c*teH man to the cool shadow of the oak, and finding a. seat for the young lj^ilv on a convenient root that came squarely up frwii the ground, the miner began, with his cus- wHnary preface :-— \You see—Pinkey were the son of Jess Pjokhanv, a voung man, and a regu- lar good one, as the saying goes. I reck- on Pinkam was the only man of us as ever said tho Lord's Prayer, or any other prayer. He were a nice young fellow, that's the fact f But we're a rude set, sir. we of the mines, and 'specially in this place; we did'nt like anything what wo call * pious.' Sunday, sir, used to be the regular—well, I might say devil's day with us. It was nothing but drink- ing and dancing, pitching, and cards, and swearing. 41 Well, sir, you see Jesse he got mar- ried to a regular lady-liko girl, sir, and it turned out a pious one. They didn't none of 'em—that is, Pinkam, his wife, and old mother—jine us in our merry-makings on a Sabbath, but sometimes the young man and Bessy—tlfat's his wife, sir- would walk five miles to hear a parson •preach. We tfa8 all down upon Jesse, 8 ir—you see the real thing was, he made ufr asnatoed of ourselves !*y his goodness, and I was worse than the rest, trying my best all tlui time to pick up a quarrel with him. Well, sir, one Saturday night what did we see but a notice stuck up on this very tree, that there'd be a parson from Franistown on the morrow, to preach to us. We didn't like the news, and wp could tell pretty well where the move come from, 'cause you see we knew Jesse was pious. So we determined, the greater part of us, that we wouldn't have no pgalra-singing—no canting-pray ing- no reading out of the Bible. \ Well, tho minister came, and he found a Bible. We all tfot together, and we raved, and laughed, and pitched quoits, and made such a noise that the parson had to give it up. He tried agin and agin, •nd came right among us—he was plucky, I tell ye—but we hooted in his ears, and threw mud on his bettermost clothes, and so he was fairly driven off—'cause you see we had liquor enough in us to set us alt crazy. 11 Poor Jeme !—how we jeered him after that 1—but he bore it meek, sir, and I was piteq ashamed of myself, though I'd died afore I'd coafewed it. But I am sorry enough for my part of it; for pne <Jay there came a rumbling, heavy noise, shaking the earth, and then a crash like rattling thunder beneath our foet, and we knew tliat somebody was buried alive.— It was in the working shaft where Jesse w&s,' and there didn't happen to be a soul in tie iilaco except him, poor fellow !— They'd all gone into another shaft, where lie didn't like to fojjow 'em 'cause they was such a wicked set • and as they was *atfnft their dinners tmd he his, the accident happened. „ \We dug him out, sir t He wa»awful cruBhcd^HUl but his face^—that looked smiling and peaceful-likc, and we couldn't bear the sight; it made us think how we'd a-treatcd him. So we carriod. him home to Bessy. She didn't cry and take on, as most the men's wives do when an accident happens, but it were awful to see how still and white she were! Aw- ful, sir; and I never want to see a sight liko it agin. u We all felt bad—for poor Jesse hadn't never said a harsh word to one of us and he'd borne many an insult. \ We couldn't see through it when be were living, but used to call him ' weak headed,' and a ( tame covey ;' but as he lay there in his coffin, there came « dif- ferent feeling over me, sir, you may de- pend upon it. Oh 1 if I'd a heard then to the lesson that was telling of me, if Pd only listened then to the voice of God, speaking as it were from the lips of tliat crushed dead body, I'd a saved myself many a day of sufferin'—many an hour of torment. But I didn't. \We all walked to the grave, and I tell ye it touched even hard fellows like us, to see that young widder with her little child in her arms, follcr close to the coffin—never crying, only holding her head down as if it were too heavy bowed with her sorrow to keep it up. \Well we had a talk at the grave by the same parson as we'd treated so badly. I don't know what his good words would a-done in after days, if I hadn't been a leader in wickedness, a hater of pious people, and everything that had to do witu religion,—a wicked, swearing,worth- less sinner! I say it to my shame, I don't boost, sir,—God forbid. I wish I could shut out of my thought all the years of my life that I ain't spent piously. But God, I hope, '11 be merciful to me. ** Well, sir—his wife—the poor young thing! took the death sadly to hoart.— They said the shock had been too sudden, dried up all her tears, like. She never cried onc't—only languished and pined, grew thinner and whiter, and died just three months after poor Jesse. That was how the little boy—Jesse's little boy— came to be an orphan, sir. 11 Well, we were all determined to take care of the little one, so we cbst lots every month to see which should have the maintainin' of him. It used to come to me pretty often, but 1 done it willing- ly, sir, because I considered I'd l>een hard to the man—very hard to poor dead Jesse. \ The boy was pretty, sir, but he didn't grow much. You Bee he hadn't no moth- er-love to thrive on. Hie women, they thought they did well by him, but they sort o' hustled him, and he wanted some- thing different, coming of a delicate stock. I don't ftposc nothing, sir, can give a child that feel, that having some- body to love fuuLcaU mother, docs—no, not all the coaaliftn' in the world by strangers. ; \ Well, the years passed, and the little fellow began to be handy in the mine.— It seemed a pity to see him beginning that hard sort o' life, but then we're not able evxm to take care of one more help- less hand, and there was plenty young as he down there, But he were so different from all the rest of the children. Ho looked for all the world l)efore he got the grim in his face, like a gentleman's child, sir. mti skin was like the Shells you some- times see \with a leette red tinge on 'em, i and bo had hie mother's large Thrown eyes, and his father's curly hair, and then he was so slim-like and girlish. But he Jiad spirit beyond hii strength, and gloried in work. \Things was going on abont as usual, except that I was harder down on reli* gion than ever. The soft feeling wore off my heart, and I think I hated what was pious wonw nor before* Our Bun- days was training-days—nothing good— everything evil, just as evil as could be. \ Well, sir—one day that little fellow was on my beat, and he had done up his work quick and airly,—BO he Btood some time beside me> talking. He wa* queer at talking—I never heard such strange things as he'd say. So says he, at I was fixing my tools-HMiys he: 4 Keene '— that's my name, sir—iwhere'd all this coal come from ?' \ * Come from the earth,' I said. \'Yes but what made it ?' \ I prided myself on my little larnin', so says I, 'Why, nater made it, Pinky;' we used to call him Pink, and Pinky. \' Well, what made natcr, Koene?' he still kept aftkin'. \'Why—why! natcr made itself!' I said. \ ' Oh, no V he cried; and with a sol- emn look as over I see on any face—and his voice somehow seemed strange, and deep, like a voice of warnin'—-I don't know why, but I never heerud anything like it; Bays he, * God made everything; God is down here in the dark!' \ I declare it was as nigh as if a man had struck me as could be. Sajs I, r Pinky, whore'd you get that from ?' \ Says he,' Tho good man told me.' \' What good man V I asked, and an ugly feeling came over me. \' What preached at mammy's funeral,' said he. \ * And wher'd you see him ?' I sort o' growled, like. \'Out in the road yesterday. I seed him on a horse, and fye took me up and rided me ever so far and back, and he told me all the good things.' \ I was silent—I toll yc. I didn't know what to say; but I was mad. Just then, in moving up quick, my lamp went out Now that's a thing that don't happen but a few times in a gopd many years, and I knew I'd have to wait ana holler till somebody come—for the pit was full of holes—and so I said, ' Don't be afraid, Pinky, they'11 be here soon;' but I was shaky, for we was in a dangerous part of the pit. \Says he, 'I don't feel afraid, Koeno; don't you s'pose God's close to us ?' \I declare I felt my blood trickle cold, and every wind that conic down the shaft- way I thought was his breath—the breath of God! \ Well, the hours passed, and nobody come. Presently says little Pinky, \I'll go for you, God will show me the way,' and I beard hU little feet patting along them dangerous places. It was awful! The sweat started out on me thick, and it seemed like I couldn't breathe, But when I called him back, he shouted with his little voice, ' God '11 allow me the way.' \It almost makes me tremble when think on't. sir—the boy went over tke worst roau in the pit, full of sunk shafts and dangerous places without no lamjp ! Oh 1 sir, when they came for me with plenty of ll^flit—T—I couldn't believe it, sir I couldn't; and though they kept tell- ing me that Pinky was safe, I tell yqu, sir, I thought it was a lie till I see him, and heard him cry out, ' I am safe, Kccnc —God showed me the way!' \ One day, after Pinky had been work- ing hard, he said he was dry and his head ached. Well, we always expected some- thing 'd !>e ailing him—so that night' I carried him home in my arms and laid him on IUB bed, and he never, sir,\—the miner choked for a moment, drew one rough hand across his eyes, turned away tor a brief second, then said, hurriedly— \ he never got up from it of himself agin. Every night I came home he was worse and worse, and I tell ye I felt as if all the light / ever see was going out! \ One morning he asked me in Ids Weak voic(j—* Wouldn't I send for the good man that preached for his mammy ?'— I didn't say no—'twan't in my heart to do that thing, and before long the parson was there, talking and pray- ing. Tliat seemed to do the child good! And as the miners dropped in, with their black faces, and the little lamps in their hands, he'd smile round at 'em so swoet, sir, it would a done your heart good to a seen it.\ The man paused again, overcome by the recollection of the scene. The mud- cles round his firm lips quivered, and over his great bronzed face there swept an expression of an almost womanly ten- derness. \ Did he die then 7\ The question was softly asked, and the dark eyes of the lady were full of tears. \Oh my dear mise—yes, yes, he died, then ! He grew very bright and lively, though, and we'd all set our hearts on his getting well, when there was another change, and the color left his face-—and his little hands hadn't no strength in 'em. The minister came again, and as he stooped down, says he,—'My dear child, are you afraid to go ?' \And what do you think, sir—what do you think, miss—he said ? Oh, how it went through me! \ ' Ood Wthqw me the way /' \ And He showed him the way, sir. I never see anything like that dying, sir— never. He held my hand,—he said, 1 Keene, you love God, too!' He gave a gasp and then a smile, and then there came a bright glory-light over his white q,#t^ —I—I—can't —tell it.\ The man held kis hud down and sobbed like a child—and his were not the only tears. The next morning was the Sabbath. A near bell was heard; a plain white meeting-house stood in sight. The stranger and his daughter met the miner, who, pointed to the heaven-ward spire, exclaimed, as a smile broke over his face.— \You see, sir, God shows us all the way!\ Lnrs mi GOOD. . Thousands of men breathe, move And live, pans off the, stage of life and are heard of no more. Why f They did not a particle of good in the world; and none were blessed by them, none could point to them as the instruments of their redemption ; not a wbrd they spoke could be recalled, and so they perished; their light went ont in darkness, and they were not remembered more than the insects'of yesterday. Will yon thus Bve and die, O, man immortal f Live for something! Do good, and leave behind you a monu- ment of virtue that the storm of time can never destroy. Write yonr name in kind- ness, love and mercy, on the hearts of thousands you come in contact with year by year, and you will never be forgotten. No; your name, yonr deeds, will be as legible on the hearts yon leave behind, as the stars on the brow of the evening.— Good deeds will shine as brightly on the earth as the stars of Heaven. RELIGION THAT WILL WEAE. There i* not muob -solidity in a religion that will not stand the test of ever* day experience. \There are a good many pious people,\ says Douglas Jerrold, \who are as careful of their religion as of their best service of China, only using it on holiday occasions; for fear it should get chipped or flawed in working-day wgar.\ Tliat species of religion may do for a show, but there's little substance in it It is not the kind to last. }t is too fine for use. DUJTJT ** There is a great want about all Chris- tians who have not suffered. Some flow- ers must be broken or bruised before they emit any fragrance. All the wounds of Christ sent out sweetness—all the sorrows of Christians do the same. Commend to me an afflicted brother, a bruised reed— one like the Son of Man. To me there is something sacred and sweet in all suffer- ing ; j t is so much akin to the Man of Sorrows. 01EAT TBVTH8. THE GOOD MAN.—Christianity is the good man's text j his life the illustration. THE more any one speaks of himself, the less he likes to hear another talked of.— Lavater. Vacillation hi religion is a weakness, I might say a sin; firmness is a very fruitful and beautiful virtue. TBUK goodness is like the glowworm in this, that it shines most when no eyes, except those of Heaven, are upon it. LOVE U our best gift to our fellow be- ings, and that which makes any gift val- uable in the sight of Heaven.— Umith. There are now but eighty-nine survivors of the army of the Revolution, whose names were placed upon the rolls for pen- sions. The American Ecclesiastical Tear Book sets down the population of the world at 2,296,000,000, or more than double the usual estimate. MIRTH AJKD WIT.—Mirth should be the embroidery of the conversation, not the web; and wit the ornament of the mind, not furniture. The great Dr. Johnson was wont to say that a habit of looking at the best side of every event is far better than a thousand pounds a year. TRUB glory takes root, and even spreads: all false pretenses, like flowers, fall to the ground; nor can any counter- feit Last long.— Cicero. The heart of woman draws to itself the loves of others as the diamond drinks up the sun's rays—only to return them in tenfold strength and beauty. PUOUD \Mm?.—Proud men never have friends; neither in prosperity, because then they know nobody; nor in adversity, be- cause then nobody knows them. A WIBB AJNBWJHL—A atx years old was offered an orange, if he would tell where God is. \Tell me,\ said the l>oy, where he is not, and I will give you two. God's work is carried on by oscilla- tions : now the truth swings to this ex- treme, now to that; ana between he weaves his steady and perfect plan. The income to the French Govern- ment front' tobacco—nearly one-half of which is from the United States and Cuba —last year was about 86,000,000. RELIGION IN SOCIETY.—A man who puts aside his religion because he is going into society, resembles a person taking off his shoes because he is aboufto TValV upon thorn* • HB that will often put Eternity an& the World before him, and who will dare to look steadfastly at l>oth of them, will find that the more often he contemplates them, the former will grow greater and the latter less.— Cotton.