estimation of ourselves. We are slaves to vanity and pride. We think we are not in the right station; our genius has been misunderstood; we have been slighted, we have been passed by, we have not been rewarded as we ought to have been. So long as we have this false opinion of ourselves, it is impossible for us to realize true rest. Sinners in a world of love, encircling you round on every side; blessings infinite upon infinite, and that again multiplied by infinity: God loves you; God fills you with enjoyment! Unjustly, unfairly treated in this world of love! Once let a man know for himself what God is, and then in that he will find peace. It will be the dawn of an everlasting day of calmness and serenity. I speak to some who have felt the darkness, the clouds, and the dreariness of life, whose affections have been blighted, who feel a discord and confusion in their being. To some to whom the world, lovely though it be, is such that they are obliged to say, "I see, I do not feel, how beautiful it is." Brother men, there is Rest in Christ, because He is Love; because His are the everlasting Verities of Humanity. God does not cease to be the God of Love because men are low, sad, and desponding. In the performance of duty, in meekness, in trust in God, is our rest-our only rest. It is not in understanding a set of doctrines; not in an outward comprehension of the "scheme of salvation," that rest and peace are to be found, but in taking up, in all lowliness and meekness, the yoke of the Lord Jesus Christ. "For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones." (224.) BETSEY AND I ARE OUT. [This clever American poem appears in the Farm Ballads by Will Carleton, published by Harper of New York. The authorship is generally attributed to Carleton, but it is also claimed by Mrs. N. S. Emerson, authoress of Little Folks' Letters.] Draw up the papers, lawyer, and make 'em good and stout; So I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with me, There was a stock of temper we both had for a start, The first thing I remember whereon we disagreed And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow; She had kicked the bucket for certain, the question was only—How? I held my own opinion, and Betsey another had; And when we were done a-talkin', we both of us was mad. And the next that I remember, it started in a joke; And the next was when I scolded because she broke a bowl; And so that bowl kept pourin' dissensions in our cup; And so the thing kept workin', and all the self-same way; And there has been days together—and many a weary week— If I can't live kind with a woman, why, then, I won't at all. And so I have talked with Betsey, and Betsey has talked with me, Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first paragraph— Give her the house and homestead—a man can thrive and roam; There is a little hard money that's drawin' tol❜rable pay: Yes, I see you smile, sir, at my givin' her so much; Once, when I was young as you, and not so smart, perhaps, Once when I had a fever-I won't forget it soon I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon; Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight— She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night. And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean, So draw up the And then, in the mornin', I'll sell to a tradin' man I know, And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I'll go. And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn't occur; That when I am dead at last she'll bring me back to her; And lay me under the maples I planted years ago, When she and I was happy before we quarrelled so. And when she dies I wish that she would be laid by me, (225.) HOW BETSEY AND I MADE UP. Give us your hand, Mr. Lawyer: how do you do to-day? For that 'ere written agreement was just the makin' of me Goin' home that evenin' I tell you I was blue. Thinkin' of all my troubles, and what I was goin' to do; They'd 've tipped me over, certain, for I couldn't see where to drive. No-for I was labourin' under a heavy load; No-for I was travellin' an entirely different road; For I was a-tracin' over the path of our lives ag'in, And seein' where we missed the way, and where we might have been. And many a corner we'd turned that just to a quarrel led, And things I had long forgotten kept risin' in my mind, Of little matters betwixt us, where Betsey was good and kind; And these things flashed all through me, as you know things sometime will When a feller's alone in the darkness, and everything is still. "But," says I, "we're too far along to take another track, When I come in sight o' the house, 'twas some'at in the night, And when I went in the house, the table was set for me- And I crammed the agreement down my pocket as well as I could, And fell to eatin' my victuals, which somehow didn't taste good. And Betsey, she pretended to look about the house, But she watched my side coat-pocket like a cat would watch a mouse; And then she went to foolin' a little with her cup, And intently readin' a newspaper, a-holdin' it wrong side up. And when I'd done my supper, I drawed the agreement out, Then Betsey she got her specs from off the mantle-shelf, And after she'd read a little she gave my arm a touch, But when she was through, she went for me, her face a-streamin' with tears, And kiss'd me for the first time in over twenty years! I don't know what you'll think, sir-I didn't come to inquire- And I told her in the future I wouldn't speak cross or rash And so we sat a-talkin' three-quarters of the night, And opened our hearts to each other until they both grew light; And the days when I was winnin' her away from so many men Was nothin' to that evenin' I courted her over again. Next mornin' an ancient virgin took pains to call on us, Her lamp all trimmed and a-burnin' to kindle another fuss; |