he daily met him with his accustomed cordiality, and was more careful than ever to set him the example of integri ty and high-minded generosity. Whether the man who was guilty of this meanness ever felt ashamed of his conduct we cannot tell, but this we know, that the harmony which had existed between the two families remained uninterrupted; and they lived, side by side, year after year, in perfect peace.

Said another one, who lived near by, and witnessed this transaction, "It is an outrage which I would not tolerate. I would build a strong dam by the side of my fence, and drive the water back again upon him." This is the spirit of the world. Let us see how this plan would have worked. In the first place it would have enraged the individual thus frustrated in his sordid undertaking. And the more fully conscious he was that he was in the wrong, the more would his malignity have been excited. We can better bear the injuries which others inflict upon us than the consciousness that it is our own dishonorable conduct which has involved us in difficulties. He immediately would have adopted retaliatory measures, and either have thrust his bar through the opposing wall, or have contrived some other scheme by which he might annoy his adversary. Provocations and retaliations would have ensued in rapid succession. A family feud would probably have been at once enkindled, extending to the children as well as the parents, which might never have been extinguished. Immediately there would have ensued a train of petty annoyances, leading eventually to an expensive law-suit, and embittering years of life.

As it was, the christian governed his conduct by the principles of the Gospel. He submitted to the wrong; and probably, by submitting to it in the spirit which christianity enjoins, converted the event into a blessing to himself, his family, and his neighbor. The occurrence was forgiven, and in a few days forgotten; and the family lived years, side by side, in friendship, and prosperity, and perfect peace. Is it not better to follow the advice God gives, than to surrender ourselves to the dominion of our own passions?

A Mother's Last Hours.

1 WAS standing by the bedside of an aged and venerated mother, whose frame had been emaciated by a long and distressing illness, and whose mental powers were weakened. Life was rapidly spending. The shades of evening had set in, and ere morning should arrive, she might be no more. I had taken her hand-that hand, which in my infant days had supported my tottering steps, which had rescued me in the moment of falling-or, if fallen, had raised me up, and wiped away my tears-that hand, now feeble and cold, I had taken, and was endeavoring to impart to it the warmth of my own, when the door was softly opened, and the sound of vocal music was heard. I did not suppose she attended to it, for it was faint, and was excluded as the door again closed. But she inquired, what sound she heard; and, on being told that her daughters were singing, she requested that they might be called to sing by her bedside. They were soon present, when she inquired what tune they were singing. "Your favorite tune," one replied, "and in your favorite words""The Lord my shepherd is." "They have been comforting words to me," said she-" will you sing them?"

Accordingly, gathering round, they began, and sung the first stanza, during which she lay listening with deep attention; but on commencing the second, she joined in, and in a faint but melodious voice accompanied them through it.

Never shall I forget the scene, the soft and plaintive air, the softened and almost suppressed voice of my sisters, that we might hear a mother once more sing a song of Zion-the occasional dying away of her voice, and then, as if animated by the sentiment, gathering strength, and gently rising on the higher notes, and prolonging the sound-never shall I forget the scene. A mother-my own mother-one whom I had loved with all the filial fondness with which a son could love a mother-so fondly -may I tell it?—that a shawl which she had worn would lull me in my childish days to sleep-that mother now on the verge of the grave, and her eyes soon to close in death, awaking once more, and accompanying her weeping, yet joyful children. in a song of praise.

The sound of her voice I still seem to hear, as she ac companied in still another stanza :

last.

While he affords his aid,

I cannot yield to fear;

Though I should walk through death's dark shade,
My Shepherd's with me there.

Contrary to our expectations, that night was not her She lingered on a few days longer-but the night came which made me motherless. Before her departure -a half hour only-and while I was again holding her hand, she opened her eyes, and lifting them to God, recited the words :

Cast me not off when strength declines,
When hoary hairs arise;

And round me let thy glory shine,
Whene'er thy servant dies.

That mother is no more here. I hope I may one day see her again. I loved her, and she was worthy of my love. I believe I was kind to her; yet, with how many children, must I say, while a mother is sleeping in the grave-" How much kinder I might have been!"

First and Last Visit to a Dram Shop.

TIMOTHY TRUESDELL is the name we shall assign to a very worthy, industrious, and thriving mechanic of NewYork, who became a burden to himself, a curse to his family, and a nuisance to society at large. A writer, in strong language, says of him, that during his devotion to strong drink he would have uncorked the bottle amid the quakings and thunders of Mount Sinai, and drained it by the crater of exploding Vesuvius." Yet this miserable and abandoned drunkard was cured-cured by a woman's love mingled with a woman's independence.

Timothy Truesdell had a wife and five beautiful children; yet he neglected his work, squandered his earnings, which daily grew smaller, and spent his time at the pothouse, till the nigh prostration of all his faculties, or the distasteful words "no more trust!" warned him to seek the shelter of his wife's care and protection. His children could not go to school, because learning was dear and