Let any one set himself to the cultivation of this virtue of meekness and self-restraint, and he will find that it cannot be secured by one or a few efforts, however resolute; by a few struggles, however severe.  It requires industrious culture; it requires that he improve every little occasion to quench strife and fan concord, till a constant sweetness smooths the face of domestic life, and kindness and tenderness become the very expression of the countenance.  This virtue of self-control must grow by degrees.  It must grow by a succession of abstinences from returning evil for evil, by a succession of leaving off contention before the first angry word escapes.

It may help to cultivate this virtue, to practise some forethought.  When tempted to irritable, censorious speech, one might with advantage call to recollection the times, perhaps frequent, when words uttered in haste have caused sorrow or repentance.  Then, again, the fact might be called to mind, that when we lose a friend, every harsh word we may have spoken rises to condemn us.  There is a resurrection, not for the dead only, but for the injuries we have fixed in their hearts—­in hearts, it may be, bound to our own, and to which we owed gentleness instead of harshness.  The shafts of reproach, which come from the graves of those who have been wounded by our fretfulness and irritability, are often hard to bear.  Let meek forbearance and self-control prevent such suffering, and guard us against the condemnations of the tribunal within.

There is another tribunal, also, which it were wise to think of.  The rule of that tribunal is, that if we forgive not those who trespass against us, we ourselves shall not be forgiven.  “He shall have judgment without mercy that hath showed no mercy.”  Only, then, if we do not need, and expect never to beg the mercy of the Lord to ourselves, may we withhold our mercy from our fellow-men.

“ALL THE DAY IDLE.”

WHEREFORE idle?—­when the harvest beckoning,
  Nods its ripe tassels to the brightening sky? 
Arise and labour ere the time of reckoning,
  Ere the long shadows and the night draw night.

Wherefore idle?—­Swing the sickle stoutly! 
  Bind thy rich sheaves exultingly and fast! 
Nothing dismayed, do thy great task devoutly—­
  Patient and strong, and hopeful to the last!

Wherefore idle?—­Labour, not inaction,
  Is the soul’s birthright, and its truest rest;
Up to thy work!—­It is Nature’s fit exaction—­
  He who toils humblest, bravest, toils the best.

Wherefore idle?—­God himself is working;
  His great thought wearieth not, nor standeth still,
In every throb of his vast heart is lurking
  Some mighty purpose of his mightier will.

Wherefore idle?—­Not a leaf’s slight rustle
  But chides thee in thy vain, inglorious rest;
Be a strong actor in the great world,—­bustle,—­
  Not a, weak minion or a pampered guest!