Forgive what seemed my sin in me; Forgive them where they fail in truth, 184.-GOOD DEEDS PAST. SHAKSPEARE. Ulysses.-Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past: which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done. Persev'erance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright: to have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; Where one but goes abreast: keep then the path; That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, O'er-run and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o'er-top yours: For Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand; Grasps in the comer: Welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. Oh, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,— That all, with one consent, praise new-born gawds, More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object: Whose glorious deeds, but in these fields of late, Troilus and Cressida 185-A PSALM OF LIFE. H. W. LONGFELLOW. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is real! Life is earnest ! And the graye is not its goal; Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us 186-PULPIT ORATORY. DANIEL DOUGHERTY. The daily work of the pulpit is not to convince the judgment, but to touch the heart. We all know it is our duty to Love our Creator and serve him, but the aim is to make mankind do it. It is not enough to convert our belief to Christianity, but to turn our souls towards God. Therefore the preacher will find in the armory of the feelings the weapons with which to defend against sin, assail Satan and achieve the victory the fruits of which shall never perish. And oh, how infinite the variety, how inexhaustible the resources, of this armory! how irresistible the weapons, when grasped by the hand of a master! Every passion of the human heart, every sentiment that sways the soul, every action or character in the vast realms of history or the boundless world about us, the preacher can summon obedient to his command. He can paint in vivid colors the last hours of the just man-when, all his temptations and trials over, he smilingly sinks to sleep, to awake amid the glories of the eternal morn. He can tell the pampered man of ill-gotten gold that the hour draws nigh when he shall feel the cold and clammy hand of Death, and that all his wealth cannot buy him from the worm. He can drag before his hearers the slimy hypocrite, tear from his heart his secret crimes, and expose his accurséd villainy to the gaze of all. He can appeal to the purest promptings of the Christian heart, the love of God and hatred of sin. He can depict the stupendous and appalling truth that the Saviour from the highest throne in Heaven descended, and here, on earth, assumed the form of fallen man, and for us died upon the cross like a malefactor. He can startle and awe strike his hearers as he descants on the terrible justice of the Almighty in hurling from Heaven Lucifer and his apostate legions; in letting loose the mighty waters until they swallowed the wide earth and every living thing, burying the highest mountains in the universal deluge, shadows of the coming of that awful day for which all other days are made. He can roll back the sky as a scroll, and, ascending to heaven, picture its ecstatic joys, where seraphic voices tuned in celestial harmony sing their hymns of praise. He can dive into the depths of hell and describe the howling and gnashing of teeth of the damned, chained in its flaming caverns, ever burning yet never consumed. He can, in a word, in imagination, assume the sublime attributes of the Deity, and, as the Supreme Mercy and Goodness, make tears of contrition start and stream from every eye; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the Inexorable Judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as Felix quailed before St. Paul. 187.-THE CYNIC. H. W. BEECHER. The Cynic is one who never sees a good quality in a man, and never fails to see a bad one. He is the human owl, vigilant in darkness and blind to light, mousing for vermin, and never seeing noble game. The Cynic puts all human actions into only two classes-openly bad and secretly bad. All virtue, and generosity, and disinterestedness, are merely the appearance of good, but selfish at the bottom. He holds that no man does a good thing except for profit. The effect of his conversation upon your feelings is to chill and sear them, to send you away sour and morose. His criticisms and innuendoes fall indiscriminately upon every lovely thing, like frost upon the flowers. If Mr. A. is pronounced a religious man, he will reply: yes, on Sundays. Mr. B. has just joined the church: certainly; the elections are coming on. The minister of the gospel is called an example of diligence: it is his trade. Such a man is generous: of other men's money. This man is obliging: to lull suspicion and cheat you. That man is upright: because he is green. Thus his eye strains out every good quality, and takes in only the bad. To him religion is hypocrisy, honesty a preparation for fraud, virtue only a want of opportunity, and undeniable purity asceticism. The livelong day he will coolly sit with sneering lip, transfixing every character that is presented. It is impossible to indulge in such habitual severity of opinion upon our fellow-men, without injuring the tenderness and delicacy of our own feelings. A man will be what his most cherished feelings are. If he encourage a noble generosity, every feeling will be enriched by it; if he nurse bitter and envenomed thoughts, his own spirit will absorb the poison, and he will crawl among men as a burnished adder, whose life is mischief, whose errand is death. He who hunts for flowers will find flowers; and he who loves weeds may find weeds. Let it be remembered that no man, who is not himself morally diseased, will have a relish for disease in others. Reject then the morbid ambition of the Cynic, or cease to call yourself a man. 188.-MEMORY OF THE GOOD. H. HUMPHREY. Why is it that the names of Howard, and Thornton, and Clarkson, and Wilberforce, will be held in everlasting remembrance? Is it not chiefly on account of their goodness, their Christian philanthropy, the overflowing and inexhaustible benevolence of their great minds? Such men feel that they were not born for themselves, nor for the narrow circle of their kindred and acquaintances, but for the world and for posterity. They delight in doing good on a great scale. Their talents, their property, their time, their knowledge, their experience and influence, they hold in constant requisition for the benefit of the poor, the oppressed, and the perishing. You may trace them along the whole pathway of life, by the blessings which they scatter far and wide. They may be likened to yon noble river which carries gladness and fertility, from state to state, through all the length of that rejoicing valley which it was made to bless;-or to those summer showers which pour gladness and plenty over all the regions that they visit, till they melt away into the glorious effulgence of the setting sun. Christian Such a man was Howard, the prisoner's friend. philanthropy was the element in which he lived and moved, and out of which life would have been intolerable. It was to him that kings listened with astonishment, as if doubtful from |