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“He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities.” The mother-grace, humility, is the fittest ornament for those who profess to be disciples of Him who was “meek and lowly of heart.” Says an old Quaker poet:

“Humility the spring of virtue is;

Humbling thyself, virtue thou canst not miss."

Humility, like the modest violet, seeks the shade, and loves to nestle within a sheltered covert. Yet, not inactive or selfish through the plenitude of its own content, it joys to contribute to the general welfare, and sends forth, on each passing breeze, its sweet and salutary influences. An humble sphere is ever the most conducive to the attainment of heavenly greatness.

Good Mr. Flavel writes : “How dreadful was the situation of Pius Quintus, who died crying out despairingly, “When I was in a low condition, I had some hopes of Salvation; when I was advanced to be a cardinal, I greatly doubted; but since I came to the popedom, I have no hope at all !!” He that humbleth himself shall be exalted-and to what exaltation shall arrive the humble soul, when, within hail of the mighty battlements of Zion, he beholds her shining walls and sparkling turrets, and receives at the hand of her


Monarch, the snow-white robe and starry crown, and hears His voice, saying, in tones of incomparable melody, “ Come ye Blessed of my Father!

Ah, Salem, Salem, Home of the Blest! when we contemplate thy glories, faintly as they are pictured to us by the inspired Apostle, our hearts cannot repress the cry,

" Would God that we were there!"

A. B. G.

Only waiting."

A very aged man, in an almshouse, was asked what he was doing ?–He replied, “Only Waiting.”

NLY waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown,
Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown;
Till the night of earth is faded

From the heart, once full of day;
Till the stars of Heaven are breaking,

Through the twilight soft and grey.

Only waiting till the reapers

Have the last sheaf gathered home,
For the summer-time is faded,

And the autumn winds have come.
Quickly, reapers! gather quickly

The last ripe hours of my heart,
For the bloom of life is withered,

And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels

Open wide the mystic gate,
At whose feet I long have lingered,

Weary, poor and desolate.
Even now I hear their footsteps,

And their voices far away; If they call me, I am waiting,

Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows

Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer

Of the day's last beam is flown. Then from out the gathering darkness,

Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul shall gladly

Tread its pathway to the skies.

How to be Happy.

R. PAYSON, in a letter to a young clergyJP man, says:

man, says: “Some time since, I took up a little work purporting to be the lives of sundry characters as related by themselves.

Two of these characters agreed in remarking that they were never happy until they ceased striving to be great men. This remark struck me, as you know the most simple remarks will strike

us, when Heaven pleases. It occurred to me at once that the most of my sufferings and sorrows were occasioned by an unwillingness to be the nothing which I am, and by consequent struggles to be something. I saw, if I would but cease struggling, and consent to be anything or nothing, just as God pleases, I might be happy. You will think it strange that I mention this as a new discovery. In one sense it was not new. I had known it for years. But I now saw it in a new light. My heart saw it, and consented to it; and I am compara

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