Wednesday, 26th.—­The end of man, says Carlyle, is an action, not a thought.  This is partly true, though all noble action has its root in thought.  Thought, indeed, in its true and highest sense, is action.  It is never lost.  If uttered, it may breathe inspiration into a thousand minds and become the impulse to ten thousand good actions.  If unuttered, and terminating in no single outward act, it yet has an emanative influence; it impregnates the man and makes itself felt in his life.  A man can not do so noble and godlike a thing as to think, without being the better for it.  Indeed, the distinction between thought and action is not always an accurate one.  Many thoughts deserve the name of activities much better than certain movements of the muscles and changes of the outward organization which we denominate actions.  In this sense, it is better of the two to think without acting than to act without thinking.

Mrs. Hopkins was the author of the following works, intended mostly for the young.  Some of them have had a wide circulation.  They are written in an attractive style and breathe the purest spirit of Christian love and wisdom:  1.  The Pastor’s Daughter. 2.  Lessons on the Book of Proverbs. 3.  The Young Christian Encouraged. 4.  Henry Langdon; or, What Was I Made For? 5.  The Guiding Star; or, The Bible God’s Message; a Sequel to Henry Langdon. 6.  The Silent Comforter; a Companion for the Sick-room.  A Compilation.

* * * * *

E.

The following is the rhapsody referred to by Mr. Butler:  (The words to be used were Mosquito, Brigadier, Moon, Cathedral, Locomotive, Piano, Mountain, Candle, Lemon, Worsted, Charity, and Success).

  A wounded soldier on the ground in helpless languor lay,
  Unheeding in his weariness the tumult of the day;
  In vain a pert mosquito buzzed madly in his ear,
  His thoughts were far away from earth—­its sounds he could not hear;
  Nor noted he the kindly glance with which his brigadier
  Looked down upon his manly form when chance had brought him near. 
  It was a glorious autumn night on which the moon looked down,
  Calmly she looked and her fair face had neither grief nor frown. 
  Just as she gazed in other lands on some cathedral dim,
  Whose aisles resounded to the strains of dirges or of hymn. 
  But now with locomotive speed the soldier’s thoughts took wing: 
  Back to his home they bore him, and he heard his sisters sing—­
  Heard the softest-toned piano touched by hands he used to love. 
  Was it home or was it heaven?  Was that music from above? 
  Oh, for one place or the other!  In his mountain air to die,
  Once more upon his mother’s breast, as in infancy, to lie!