Whose attributes, all-infinite, transcend
Whate’er the mind can reach, or mortal apprehend!
Whose words drew light from chaos drear and dark,
Whose goodness smoothes this state of toil and trouble,
Compared with it—the sun is as a spark—
The boundless ocean a mere empty bubble!”
Henry St. George Tucker.
“The pastor and his wife I see approaching the church,” observed Intemperance, glancing down in the direction of the path along which advanced a rather stout lady, with large features and high complexion, who was leaning on the arm of a tall, handsome, but rather heavily-built man, in whose mild, dark eyes might be traced a resemblance to those of his daughter.
“They come early,” said Pride; “he, to prepare for service; his wife, to hear the school children rehearse the hymns appointed for the day. This was once Ida’s weekly care; she is far more qualified for the charge than her step-mother, and the music has suffered from the change.”
“Ida showed humility, at least, in yielding up that charge,” remarked Intemperance.