When I was a young man, I taught school in——. Some act of discipline gave offense to a man living in the district. He showed his resentment by abusive language, misrepresented me, prejudiced some of my friends against me, and finally got me angry, which I suppose was what he wanted. I wrote a letter in pretty strong language. That afternoon, after school, an old man, who was one of my best friends, came into the school-room. I told him what I had done, and showed him the letter. He listened patiently, read the letter, then put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “My young friend, when you are angry, don't write. Words spoken may be air: words written are things.” I did not then think that I should make letter writing a great part of my life-work, but in the thousands of letters that I have had to write since then,—some of them under very trying circumstances,—the old man's words have been my guide, and they have kept me from writing when angry, from speaking when angry, and even from being angry. I remember in my childhood, hearing an old minister say something to the effect that Satan goes up and down the world, starting theaters, gambling-hells, and drinking saloons, “seeking whom he may devour,” but when he comes across a church-quarrel, he says, “No need of me here. They’ll devour each other fast enough,” and leaves the Christians to do his work for him. As he walks through our literature, where he certainly does walk, inspiring trashy novels, glorifying vice, filling our political journals with heathen and profane allusions, and our literary ones with masked infidelity, when he finds the bitter spirit of the world brought by Christians into their writings, and religious journals made the vehicles of harsh epithets, may not he well say, “No need of me here; Christians are doing my work better than I could do it?” So, as the cup of cold water given to our brethren is given to Christ, the sword with which we pierce our brethren pierces Christ. “Why don’t you write a book in reply? you could beat him completely,” said one of his parishioners to an old New England divine, who had been attacked in print, with more fervor than grace, by a brother minister. “Because,” the Christian man replied, “I don’t wish, when the Master comes, to be found beating my fellow servants.”—National Baptist.