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dust, unfitting us to see or to judge; and when the dust bas blown away, and the face of society is calm, things look quite differently from what they at first appeared. Is it not a matter of daily occurrence that first reports deceive us? How wise, then, the rule which bids us suspend our judgments for further confirmation or correction. Let the evidence be ample, and that it may appear to be, or not to be so, give it time.

3. Always put the best construction upon what you hear to the detriment of others. Those who report may have self-interest in giving it a strong coloring. Even what is true may have much to palliate it. . It may have its ground in a peculiar weakness in the person. There may have been much ignorance in the case, which must be “winked at.” It may have been an unguarded expression, drawn out in confidence, which the reporter has betrayed. It may have been an error fallen into under an extraordinary press of temptation. In short, let every consideration which can palliate it be brought forward. Let there be that charity which is not easily provoked, which believeth all things and hopeth all things. As we do in the case of our dearest friend, when we think of a thousand constructions and explanations of what we hear, so as not to implicate him, so must we do to all. Hang to them, cling to them, till forced away by clear and overpowering facts showing his unworthiness. “0, Ephraim! how can I give thee up?"

Let, then, these three rules be observed. Believe unwillingly; believe not immediately; believe only when forecd to it. So shall you be much aided in withstanding this sin of rash and uncharitable judging. If any farther considerations are necessary to inspire us with suitable horror and disgust in view of this wickedness it is easy to find them. Let a few be considered.

It is always a proof of low life. It betrays at once a want of all proper cultivation. It is not found in truly refined society. Observation will prove that where rash judging is a habit, there is always a coarseness of character, meanness of disposition, a narrow and grovelling spirit. Our Saviour alludes to this when he reminds them that while they would censure defects which are small, like a mote, they themselves have them as coarse as a beam.

It always betrays a spirit of envy and jealousy. The one who is guilty of it betrays this meanest of dispositions. It seeks to elevate itself by depressing others. It cannot endure any excellence that rises above its own wretched self. This was the spirit of Satan; having fallen himself he could no more endure to see the happy innocence of our first parents. He is still the accuser of the brethren;" and all who do the like are his children. Quaint, solemn, old Jeremy Taylor, has well said: “There is not in all the world a worse devil than a devilish tongue."

Seeing the meanness and malice of this spirit in others ought to fortify us against the sin. We ought often to mirrow ourselves in



• the characters of "these persons who have stings instead of tongues, and venom in all the moisture of their mouth, and reproach in all their language-that make nothing of murdering their brother's or their sister's fame—that invent evil stories falsely and maliciously—or believing them easily report them quickly, and aggravate them spitefully, and scatter them diligently."

Young man, young woman, learn early to hate and shun this sin of rash judging. Cultivate a courteous, charitable and merciful spirit towards all your companions. Thus shall you be agreeable to them, and escape the censure of your Saviour.

When I long for sainted memories,

Like angel troops they come,
If I fold my arms to ponder

On the old, old home.
The heart has many passages

Through which pure feelings roam,
But its middle isle is sacred,

To thoughts of old, old home.

Where infancy was sheltered,

Like a rosebud, from the blast;
Where boyhood's brief elysium,

In joyousness was past. .
To that sweet spot, forever,

As to some hallowed dome,
Life's pilgrim bends his vision ;

'Tis his old, old home.

A father sat (how proudly!)

By that dear hearthstone's ray,
And told his children stories

Of his early manhood's day ;
And one soft eye was beaming-

From child to chill 'twould roam ;
Thus a inother counts her treasures,

In the old, old home.
The birth-day gifts and festivals,

The blended vesper hymn,
(Some dear ones who were swelling it

Are with the seraphim.)
The fond “good-nights" at bed-time,

How quiet sleep would come,
And fold us altogether

In the old, old home.
Like a wreath of scented flowrets,

Close intertwined each heart,
But time and change in concert

Have blown the wreath apart.
But sainted, sainted memories,

Like angels, ever come,
If I fold my arms and ponder

On the old, old home.


BY NATHAN. AMERICAN society is constitutionally impetuous. It partakes largely of the steam and telegraphic elements, the proud offspring of its native genius. Start it on the track of a principle and it will either dash to doom or into a ditch. And if it is seized with a stubborn fit it will run the wrong direction with all our law-makers on board, in spite of the remonstrance of a stifled conscience. We are predisposed to a species of mania. We have one among many proofs of this in the indiscriminate extravagance of conferring titles. Colleges, congress and communities, vie with each other in the solemn business of dubbing and breveting human worth. Whilst our ancestors required a long process of training and heroic trials to entitle them to marks of honor, our age has discovered a more expeditious route to fame. Great men is what the world needs just now, and institutions that can make them according to order, are certainly not the least wonderful of modern wonders make them, not by the circuitous route of a thorny educational pilgrimage, but by the fiat of a College-diploma or a Congressional resolution. One can no longer talk about “the hill of science,” for that is a term which has been levelled away by title-generators, and is no longer allowable even for the convenience of poets. The mountains have been made low, and the valleys exalted by medals and honorary degrees. So that now, a man may be the stupidest of mortals, the quintessence of all that is dishonorable, and yet receive the title of a great man, with a diploma testifying to his worth, in solemn classic eloquence, provided lie have money to pay the required fee.

Titles are feathers in the cap of character. They wave in graceful beauty on a man who has a sensible head and a brave heart, but are a stinging reproach to one who has neither. They are to some men what stilts are to boys. They often raise a man above the shoulders of his fellows when his own legs can not. They give him legs without a brain, sail without ballast, prominence without merit. In this way they often become a source of incumbrance. They entangle the limbs of his progress and bring him to the earth with an insurmountable tumble. They have brought many a one into a sad plight, these titles have. For the world expects that the quality of the goods answers to the label. Hard must be the heart that would not be moved with pity at seeing a man so bedubbed and bedoctored with titles without merit, as to lead us to expect in him a very Daniel in Wisdom, when he has nothing to sustain his great name. This is literally breaking a man's back by the corpulent weight of his body.



To some men titles serve the part of a valve in a balloon. If they are wise enough to keep it closed in silence they will rise in public esteem; the world will take their wisdom for granted. But if they are unskilled in pulling the valve-string, and permit the escape of too much gas, the balloon will collapse and descend to a sudden exposure of emptiness—a vacant brain under a doctor's cap.

Titles are of an intoxicating character. They create a morbid appetite for honor, which increases with its gratification. They are the artificial stimulants of the soul. Even by their moderate use, men will insensibly acquire a growing fondness. Once accustomed to their puffing flavor, and they need them just as much as the nervous toper his morning bitters, before he is fit to work. To use a drunkard's excuse, they can't do without them. If they can't get them honestly, they will resort to pilfering and planler. Inflated with vanity, they may be unconscious of their crimen. For we have seen men actually so befuddled with titles, so drunk with vanity, as to be unfit for grave and serious business,

Now wbilst it may be perfectly right to confer and use titles for their remedial properties, giving prominence to mental and moral greatness, whose virtues are as the salt of the earth and the light of the world, it is nevertheless very dangerous to use them as a beverage. To peddle them so abundantly and cheaply that men can drink sham honors like water, is a very unsafe policy. We need a sort of a "Maine Law," to stop the making and vending of intoxicating titles as a beverage; to check the abuse of a good principle, and prevent men from acquiring wrong habits by the use of false stimulants.

The power of conferring titles seems closely allied to the saintmaking power in the Romish Church. With this difference however, that the latter are more governed by merit, and are therefore deserving of more respect. Colleges have a kind of a sinking fund of merit and learning, perhaps ther esult of works of supererogation, wherewith they canonize men good and bad, gold and dross, into the third heaven of literary renown. For the practical object of a diploma after all is not to certify to the bearer's learning, but they answer the part of a begging certificate, in imposing a thankless tax on the credulous charity of a generous public, to urge men to regard him learned.

These titles moreover are endowed with a remarkable longevity. They are very tenacious of life. No amount of theoretical or practical beresy will kill them. They survive the wreck of character.' A man once dubbed a knight in philosophy or theology, and ever after the world will just as naturally say Dr. Jones as St. Patrick.

Every ware depreciates in value in proportion as the facilities for its production are increased. It seems that titles are doomed to the same fate. The article is becoming so cheap, by reason of a glutted market, that it has not only fallen in price but in respect. Almost every other man you meet with now, is Col., Gen. or Dr. Somebody. In addressing clergymen, it is always safer to append a title to their names. Very few that have not D. D., P. D., A. B., A. M. or something else to betitle them. At the present rate the hobby will either be rode to death very soon, or tired into & more rational pace. Like a great many exotics planted into our rank American soil, the business is rapidly growing into a humbug, a sort of multicaulus speculation, that will end in fire and smoke. There is still a considerable rush' for the article, and many go joyfully away with what they conceive to be a cheap ticket, little dreaming that every brainless dupe is destined to draw a blank. We have been favored with one title for our incipient greatness, which cost us five dollars. We value highly the autographs of the subscribers, but beyond that it is good for nothing. It is decidedly the dearest piece of furniture we ever bought. It told things that were not true, and we pity the men whose official position compels them to subscribe to an untruth. Three-fourths of these diplomas are not true in fact, and are no more reliable than the weatherprophesies of an almanac.

Well, if a man is too short-legged, it may be some comfort to have two' letters with which to stilt himself above the troubled waters of theological uncertainty. They bolster up the sore limbs of a deficient training and hide the ulcers of a diseased theology. They elevate him above the fogs of untitled vision into the purer atmosphere of undoubting certitude. One is almost tempted to envy the happiness of some, who regard all difficulties in science and religion as solved and finished forever, whilst they look down with profound astonishment upon the stupidity of their unbeknighted brethren whose minds are harassed with the church question, or who discern such ominous signs in the ecclesiastical heavens. And get their explanation of the difficulty is about the same as the empiric gave to the physicians of his King; “Gentlemen, you all seem to differ about the nature of an intermittent; permit me to explain it. An intermittent, gentlemen, is a disorder which I can cure, and which you can not.”

Most seriously be it spoken, there is but a step between the sublime and the ridiculous, but a span between titles and toys. They have degenerated into solemn play things, with which grave, sensible men are infinitely delighted. They parade them through the world like boys parade the streets in regimentals, playing the soldier. No wonder that Europeans have not even common respect for many of our titled worthies. In most American Colleges, any man that has money enough to keep him four or five years at a College, and a decent suit of clothes, can get his first degree. Three years and a few dollars to pay for his diploma, will secure him his second degree of A. M., provided he asks for it! Should he study the

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