OUTWARDLY a man seemingly possesses much—houses and lands, the consideration of the community, the partial regard of friends, and these are all good; yet with all these how miserably poor he may really be, how destitute of any real claim to the veneration of the wise, the loving respect of the good. And he is this, simply because he has forgotten the essential element of happiness, the only real claim a man can have to the confidence of his brethren, the existence within of an upright, generous and open nature, one that scorns a mean action, the faintest tinge of falsehood, or the remotest presence of deceit. He may be rich, and there are multitudes who will permit his gold to gild his follies; he may be distinguished, and there are plenty to fawn and flatter for the privilege of shining in his reflected light; but they who dwell with him in the narrow circle of his home, know him as he is. Wife, child, servants, it may be, know more of him than all the world beside, since if he be vicious, mean, selfish, profane, he must show himself truly somewhere, and he cannot afford to lose the world's esteem. He dares the judgment of the fireside, which is only the echo of God's voice. It is a mistake to suppose that the great battles of the world are fought with the implements of war, to the sound of martial music, upon broad fields, blackened with the tread of countless feet. There is many a fiercer strife in the breast of the lowly peasant in the wilderness of the mountains, where the din of battle never broke the appalling stillness; the contest of right with wrong, and only God to witness. It is indeed far easier to grasp the sword and rush headlong into the affray, than to pluck one darling sin from the heart's recesses, to control one rebellious appetite, to check the storm of passion; yet these last are the richer prizes, and far worthier of noble exertion than the laurel wreath wet with human blood.