and full of bitterness;
there the sad conduct of a wayward child. Here is the terrible
neglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized husband; there the wilful
and repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here is dread of
bankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is bitter
hatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silent
and hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, while
it paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undying
remorse in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and the
fatherless; there the suffering being the victim of foul slander;
here is imbecility, there smothered revenge. The bride and the
belle, both so seemingly blessed, have each their sacred but
poignant sorrow.

Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; you
have buried your only child--he has laid seven in the tomb. Seven
times has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; he
has no hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are a
Christian.

Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost your
all--no, no, say not so; your neighbour has lost houses and lands,
but his health has gone also; and while you are robust, he lies on
the uneasy pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menial
prepare his scanty meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears the
food to his parched lips.

Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night tests
your poverty; you have but money enough for the bare necessaries of
life; your children dress meagerly, and your house is scantily
furnished; you do not know whether or not work will be forthcoming
the following week. Your neighbour sees not, nor did he ever see,
want. House, wife and children are sumptuously provided for; his
barn is a palace to your kitchen. Step into his parlour and look at
him for a moment; papers surround him, blazing Lehigh floods the
grate, velvet carpets yield to the step; luxurious chairs invite to
rest--check the sigh of envy; there is a ring at the bell--hurrying
footsteps on the stairs--a jarring sound against the polished door,
and in bursts the rich man's son, his brow haggard, his eyes fierce
and red. He is a notorious profligate; gambling is his food and
drink, debauchery his glory and his ruin. Would you be that father?
Go back to your honest sons and look in their faces; throw the
bright locks from their brows, and bless God that there the angel
triump