MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
THE CHAECOAL VENDEE. 
I meet a fellow often in inv way, 
Urging a horse and wagon through the streets, 
And shouting “ Charcoal!” to each one he meets; 
I came upon him only yesterday, 
But did not feel so much disposed to smile 
At his crocked features and his brimless tile, 
As is my wont; the fact is, I had dined 
Extremely well, and felt benign and kind. 
Thought I, “ That fellow in those shabby clothes, 
Driving all day that shapeless horse and cart, 
Owes nothing'to the tailor’s magic art, 
Like all our gallant, well-dressed city beaux; 
And would tnat all of us, like him could say 
Each night, that our pursuits throughout the day 
Had left no tarnish harder to erase 
Thau what he had upon his hands and face 1 
There’s not a spot of black upon his heart, 
It’s all upon his face, and hands, and cart,— 
And he may stand a better chance to go 
To Heaven than I, or many that I know. 
But this was Fancy’s work, and we, 
Though better dressed, perchance, are just as good as lie. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
OLD FORT HILL! 
A REMINISCENCE CE THE GENESEE VALLEY. 
BY EDWARD WEBSTER, ESQ. 
There is unwritten romance as woll as 
history connected with our Valley of the 
Genesee. Every hillside and valley has as¬ 
sociated with it some faint, fast-fading tra¬ 
ces of a departed race. The magic wand of 
some “Wizard of the North” or “ Geoffry 
Crayon ” could endue its quiet recesses and 
shady nooks with life, and retouch with 
glowing colors the shadowy legends of other 
times. Like the silent string that waits only 
the touch of the musician in order to capti¬ 
vate the ear, the legends of tho Genesee 
want only to be moulded by a master hand; 
but, though still living in the memory of a 
few, thoy are fast passing to oblivion for 
want of a chronicler to render them immor¬ 
tal. 
Somo twenty miles south of Rochester, 
on a tributary of the Genesee, an old wool¬ 
en mill is located immediately at the foot 
of a stoop declivity known to tho present 
race of inhabitants as “ Old Fort Ilill.” Men 
have grown groy and gone to their long 
homes, since the foundations of that old 
mill were laid; and the mill itself has seen 
various vicissitudes of fortune, and almost 
as many revolutions as its own great wheel, 
which, for forty years past, has kept on its la¬ 
borious and unceasing circuit. Some money 
has been made by it, but more has been 
lost. Somo men have withdrawn from a 
connection with it unscathed in fortune, 
but many more havo been involved in bank¬ 
ruptcy and ruin. I have no reason to bear 
malice against it however. My first breath 
was drawn within hearing of its rattling 
looms. Almost my first experience of the 
primal curse inflicted upon mankind, name¬ 
ly, “ to eat his bread in tho sweat of his 
brow,” was had within its walls. My first 
faltering steps in the rugged road of science 
wore taken after the labors of tho day as a 
factory boy wore done. My first eftort to 
write an article for tho public press (and if 
it had boen rejected would have been my 
last) was made of a Saturday night after tho 
old wheel had ended a six-days run. Tho 
monoy, which served to carry mo through 
old Dartmouth College, was earned by my 
own hands in that temple of industry. My 
childhood’s home is there, but it is home no 
longer; the ties of kindred have beon sun¬ 
dered by removal and by death, and 
shadows now mingle darkly with the bright 
memories of early years. 
But of Old Fort Hill ! It was the burial 
place of tho Indian, and within my recollec¬ 
tion, before tho plow had furrowed its sum¬ 
mit, and obliterated tho traces of mortality, 
tho indentations of its sunken graves were 
within six feet of each other all over tho 
surface. Strange storios of ghosts and gob¬ 
lins, mysterious appearances, and buried 
troasuro, were connected with it; and when 
any of us would hie homo from an apple 
frolic or a dance lato at night, by a short 
foot-path over the hill, it would be with a 
hasty step and palpitating heart. The 
groaning of an old oak tree, rubbing its 
limbs against its giant neighbor, has caused 
our hair many a time to stand on end. Tho 
croaking of a bull frog, or tho distant whis¬ 
tle of a whippoorwill, connected with the 
image of a stump or thorn bush glistening 
in the pale, faint beams of a waning moon, 
lias often conjured up tho shadowy outlines 
of a ghost. 
Tho western brow of the declivity is sur¬ 
mounted by a mound mono thickly studded 
than the rest of the hill with human graves; 
and hero our boyish fancies ( and somo fan¬ 
cies not so boyish,) were wont to fis: tho 
abedo of tho spoctral watchers over tho 
sleeping multitude, and over a treasure hid¬ 
den somewhere in the vicinity. 
Gno fourth of July—a holiday for tho 
operatives of tho mill, as it is and ought to 
be for everybody throughout our land—the 
factory boys, by no means behind their sen¬ 
iors in patriotism, wore early astir and dis¬ 
charging divers pyroteehnical missiles in the 
shape of squibs crackers and pewter guns. 
They were assembled on the “ Pinnacle,” as 
tho mound was called, on Old Fort Ilill.— 
They had cut and drawn to tho spot a tall 
slim tree, for tho purpose of erecting a lib¬ 
erty pole, and one of the juvenile heroes was 
industriously wielding a pickaxe excavating 
a hole for its reception, when tho point of 
the instrument struck sullenly and grating¬ 
ly into what seemed to bo an earthen pot. 
All the stories of bidden treasure he had 
ever heard rushed into his mind, and with¬ 
out pausing to examine further, ho leaped 
from tho hole shouting at tho top of his 
voice,—“ I’ve found a pot of monoy ! I’ve 
found a pot of money!” The other boys 
took up tho shout —Weve found a pot of 
money! Wev’e found a pot of money!’ 
and the hills around reechoed the burden of 
“Found a pot of money—pot of money — 
money—oncy,” until it died away fainter 
and fainter, in a distant and sullen roar. 
In a moment tho little hamlet at the foot 
of the hill was deserted, men who had never 
been known to run before—women with ba¬ 
bies at their breasts, and small children 
clinging to their apron strings rushed up 
the hill; the old and the young—the active 
and the infirm—the man in health and the 
invalid, each according to his or her physi¬ 
cal abilities, made baste to tho spot of the 
discovered treasure, in order to come in for 
a share in the distribution of the spoils.— 
The agent of tho mill, a man of great con¬ 
sequence in the little community, for he was 
chief of fifty men and boys, and had also 
been a member of the Legislature, very cor¬ 
pulent, and covered with dust and sweat 
from his unwonted exertions, took upon 
himself the management of tho exhumation; 
and after carefully digging around tho mys- 
torious casket took out— not a pot of 
money, but a human scull. Instantaneous¬ 
ly tho excited countenances of tho crowd, 
from the pompous agent down to the veri¬ 
est boy, changed to an expression of blank 
disappointment and dismay. The boy, 
however, who made tho discovery, and sev- 
eralof those who joined in raising the shout, 
stoutly persisted in declaring that thay had 
struck a veritable pot of money; that they 
had heard tho chink of genuine coin, and 
seen the flashing of virgin gold, but that 
the genius the place had removed the same, 
and interposed in its stead, this poor rem¬ 
nant of mortality, empty even of what it 
was originally designed to hold, namely, a 
human brain. Whether such was tho fact 
oa not, I shall not undertako to say; but 
young as I was at the timo, my sentiments 
were akin to those which have sinco been 
expressed by the chief of American Poets : 
“ Gather him to his grave again, 
And solemnly and sof.ly lay, 
Beneath the verdure of the plain, 
The warrior’s scattered bones away. 
Pay the deep reverence, taught of old, 
The homage of man’s heart to death, 
Nor dare to trilie with the mould, 
Once hallowed by the Almighty’s breath.” 
A CHEERFUL HEART. 
I once heard a young lady say to an in¬ 
dividual, “ Your countenance to mo is like 
the rising sun, for it always gladdens me 
with a cheerful look.” A merry or cheer¬ 
ful countenance was one of the things which 
Jeremy Taylor said his enemies and perse¬ 
cutors could not take away from him. There 
are some persons who spend their lives in 
this world as thoy would spend their lives 
if shut up in a dungeon. Every thing is 
made gloomy and forbidding. They go 
mourning and complaining from day to day. 
that they have so little, and are constantly 
anxious lest what little they have should 
escapo out of their hands. Thoy look al¬ 
ways upon tho dark side and can never 
enjoy the good that is presont for tho evil 
that is to come. This is not religion. Roli- 
gion makes tho heart cheerful, and when its 
large and bcnovolont principles are exercis- 
od. men will ho happy in spite of themsolvos. 
The industrious hoe does not stop to com¬ 
plain that there are so many poisonous flow¬ 
ers and thorny branches in his road, hut 
buzzes on, selecting the honey where he can 
find it, and passing quietly by the places 
where it is not. There is enough in this 
world to complain about and find fault with, 
if men have the disposition. We ofton trav¬ 
el on a hard and uneven road, but with a 
cheerful spirit, and a heart to praise God 
for his mercies, wo may walk therein with 
comfort, and come to tho end of our jour¬ 
ney in peace. 
Crosses Necessary. —When fortune hu¬ 
mors, she corrupts us. Our own way is of¬ 
ten the wrong way. Rugged roads make 
wary travelers. Dark trials aro shining 
lights; and the more we are diverted from 
what we covet and love, the better aro we 
adapted to that kind of life which most peo¬ 
ple are compelled to lead ; which they robel 
against and denounce, hut which is the 
daily school of wisdom and self-knowledge, 
whose discipline is sharp and sovero, but 
appropriate to a warring and fluctuating 
world, whoso calms are as stagnating and 
baneful as its storms aro purifying and 
healthful; and where tranquility is not a 
fixed and permanent condition, but the casu¬ 
al quiescence and unstablo harmony of op¬ 
posing and conllicting forces. 
It is a shame, if any porson poorer than 
you is more contented than you. 
MR. BRYANT’S HABITS AND CHARACTER. 
Mr Bryant’s habits of life have a smack 
of ascetism. although he is the disciple of 
none of the popular schools which, under 
various forms.claim to rule the present world 
in that direction. Milk is more familiar to 
his lips than wine, yet ho does not disdain 
the “ cheerful hour ” over which moderation 
presides, lie eats sparingly of animal food, 
hut ho is by no means afraid to enjoy roast 
goose, lest ho should outrage the names of 
his ancestors like somo modern enthusiasts. 
He “ hears no music” if it be fantastical, 
yet his ear is finely attuned to the varied 
harmonies of wood and wave. Ilis health 
is delicate, yet he is almost never ill; his 
life laborious, yet carefully guarded against 
excessive and exhausting fatigue. He is a 
o a i of rule, but none the less tolerant of 
want of method in others; strictly self-gov¬ 
erned, but not prone to censure tho unwa¬ 
ry or the weak-willed. In religion hois at 
once catholic ai d devout and to moral ex¬ 
cellence no soul bows lower. Placable we 
can perhaps hardly call him, for impressions 
on his mind are almost indelible; but it 
may be with the strictest truth said, that it 
requires a great offence, or a great un¬ 
worthiness to make an enemy of him, so 
strong is his sense of justice. Not amid tho 
bustle and dust of the political arena, 
cased in armor off'ensivo and defend .e, is a 
champion’s more intimate self to bo estima¬ 
ted, hut in the pavilion or the bower, where, 
in robes of ease, and with all professional 
ferocity laid aside, we see his natural form 
and complexion, and hear in placid tones 
tho voice so lately thundering about the 
fight. So wo willingly follow Mr. Bryant 
to Roslyn ; see him musing on the pretty 
rural bridge that spans the fishpond ; or ta¬ 
king the oar in his daughter’s fairy boat; 
or pruning his trees ; or talking over farm¬ 
ing matters with his neighbors, or—to return 
to tho spot whence we set out some time 
ago—sitting calm and happy in that pleas¬ 
ant library, surrounded* by the friends he 
loves to draw about him, or listening to the 
innocent prattle of infant voices, quite as 
much at homo there as under their own 
more especial roof, his daughter’s within the 
same inclosure. 
In person, Mr. Bryant is quite slender, 
symmetrical and well poised; in carriage, 
eminently firm and self-possessed. He is 
fond of long rural walks and of gymnastic 
exercises—on all which his health depends. 
Poetical composition tries him severely—so 
severely that his efforts of that kind arc ne¬ 
cessarily rare. Ilis are no holiday verses ; 
and those who urgo his producing a long 
poem aro, perhaps, supposing that he would 
in gratifying thuir admiration, build for him¬ 
self a monument in which he would be self- 
enveloped. Let us rather content ourselves 
with asking “a few more of the same,” es¬ 
pecially of the later poems, in which, cor- 
tainly the poet trusts his fellows with a near¬ 
er and more intimate view of his inner and 
peculiar self than was his wont in earlier 
times. Let him more and more give a hu¬ 
man voice to woods and waters ; and, in act¬ 
ing as the accepted interpreter of nature, 
speak fearlessly to the heart as well as to the 
oye. Ilis countrymen were never more dis¬ 
posed to hear him with delight; for since the 
public demand for his poems has placed a 
copy in every house in the land, the taste 
for them has stoadily increased, and the na¬ 
tional pride in tho writer’s genius become a 
generous enthusiasm, which is ready to 
grant him an apothoesis while ho lives. 
A COMPARISON. 
At the opening of the Manchester, Eng¬ 
land, Froe Library, speeches were mado by 
Dickens, Thackeray, Bulvver, and others.— 
Among the good things said by Sir Edward, 
in his characteristic and figurative way, was 
the following: 
Gentleman :—You will remember that sto¬ 
ry of Aladdin, which we have read in our 
childhood—how a poor youth decendod into 
a cavern, and brought back from its recesses 
an old lamp. Accidentally he discovered 
that at the mere friction of the lamp a mighty 
genius appeared at his command. Awed by 
the terrors of tho spirit that ho had sum¬ 
moned, he at first, only ventured to employ 
its powers to satisfy his common and his hum¬ 
blest wants—to satisfy mere hunger and 
thirst—but gradually accustomed to the 
presenco of his gigantic agent, he employed 
it to construct palaces, to amass treasures, 
to baffle armies, and triumph ovor foes, un¬ 
til at tho close of tho story, the owner of 
the wonderful lamp is the sovereign of a 
peaceful empire, assured to his remote pros¬ 
perity. 
Gentlemen, that story is a type of labor 
at the command of knowledge. When we 
find tho lamp we are contented to apply its 
genius solely to our common and physical 
wants; but as wo aro accustomed to the^pres- 
enco of that spirit which wo have summoned, 
wo find that we have obtained a secret which 
places the powers of earth, air, and ocean 
at our command. That genius, left to it¬ 
self, would bo a threatening ministrant, be¬ 
cause it is only rude physical force; but to 
him who possesses the lamp, that genius is 
a docile and benignant ministrant, because 
hero physical force is the slave of intellec¬ 
tual will. 
Now, gentlemen, in that same physical 
force, which, in the phrase of tho day, is 
sometimes called the “ power of the masses,” 
lies a great problem for all thoughtful men 
to solve. Knowledge has brought us face 
to face with it, and knowledge must either 
instruct that force or it will destroy the in¬ 
voker. May, then, all thoso who possess 
tho knowledge, who are gifted with the 
lamp, uso it only for boneficont and useful 
purposes, so that the genius whose tread 
could arouse the earthquako, and whose 
breath could bring down tho storm, may 
only come to enricn the treasury and assure 
the empire. 
The industrious, modest boy will prosper. 
Jur tin Jabifs. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
TO MY CHILD, EDDIE. 
BY E. M. PHILLIPS. 
Sleep on, sweet babe, so pure, so fair, 
The angels love to bend above thee, 
And our continual tender care 
Shali prove how earnestly we love thee. 
How calm and innocent thou art 
In thy young morn of beatry sleeping; 
Shall sin e’er blast thy tender heart, 
Or sorrow whelm thine eyes with weeping ? 
Yea I pois’nous weeds will ever spring 
Where fruits and flowers are brightest, rarest, 
And storm its cloudy pall will fling 
O’er summer skies the gayest, fairest. 
But there was once a child like thee, 
Whose soul was pure, whose nature holy, 
From sin, but not from suffering free; 
They found him in a manger lowly. 
And as he walked his weary way 
Through life, keen sorrow on him pressing, 
For those who hated him, he’d pray, 
To those who cursed, return a blessing. 
To Him, my child, to Jesus turn, 
Let thy young heart to him be given. 
The gift he’ll not despise or spurn 
But lead thee to His home in Heaven. 
Albion, Dec. 1852. 
| finite number of glowing orbs all rolling in 
beauty and granduer, will be carefully con¬ 
sidered and inferences drawn. 
The fireside is a seminary of infinite im¬ 
portance, because it is universal. All are 
permitted to enjoy its priceless advantages. 
Ihejschools protfer their learning to a small 
number; the honors of a college are con- 
fered upon but few—yet all are graduates 
of the earth. Tho education received in this 
cherished and venerated spot, being woven 
in with the woof of childhood, gives form 
and color to the whole texture of life. The 
wreath of tho university may wither, its 
learning may tade from the recollection, its 
classic loro may moulder in the halls of 
memory; but the simplo lessons of homo, 
enameled upon the heart of childhood, defy 
the rust of years, and outlive the more ma¬ 
ture but less vivid pictures of after days. 
Rochester, N. Y. Dec. 6, 1852. A. J. E. 
THE FINE ART OF PATCHING. 
by kindred infiuences. The ideas of the 
mind and the passions of the heart are 
made evident. The influence is genial.— 
The expression of thought calls forth a re¬ 
in an untainted atmosphere. Unknown to 
it are the frivolities of mature youth, the re¬ 
alities of manhood, tho cares and perplexi¬ 
ties of riper age, and the misgivings and 
To those who cursed, return a blessing. We said a few words, in a late number, 
To Him, my child, to Jesus turn, j about the neglect of homely, household arts 
Let thy young heart to him be given, hi tho education ot girls. Wo find, in an 
The gift he’ll not despise or spurn Edinburgh papor, something further and 
But lead thee to His home in Heaven. better Oil the Same Subject, to which we in- 
Albion, Dec. 1852. vite the attention of mothers and teachers: 
- “ To patch — how vulgar is the term !— 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. Yet it is an operation requiring far more 
THE FIRESIDE. skill than does tho making a now garment, 
- and, when well executed, may save the pur- 
Tiie fireside is the most important spot c hase of many a costly ono; tho most ex- 
with which life is familiar. It is the centre pensive robe may, by accident, be torn, or 
and source whence all good and evil flow.— spotted, the first day of its wear; the piece 
Here the germ is planted which in after * nse ^-od in lieu ot tho damaged one is a 
. . , , , . , . A . , patch. If a figured material, the pattern 
years is to bud and blossom into virtue or has t0 be exactly matched; in all cases the 
vice. r lhe principle ot thought, of feeling, insertion must be made without pucker, and 
and of action, hero recoives the form tho kind of seam to bo such as, though 
which marks its future development. What- strong, will bo least apparent, the corners 
ever be the rank or position attained in a must turned with neatness. Is not this 
. , . , „ ,, . an art which requires teaching? So of 
subsequent period ot hio, the primary mo- darning> much instruction is necessary as 
tives ot action may ho traced to the associa- to tho number of threads to bo left by the 
tions of the fireside, the home-circle of child- needle according to the kind of fabric; 
hoods days. then there is the kind of thread or yarn 
. , , TT most suitable, which requires experience to 
The fiieside is a social place. Here lie determine; where the article is coarse, the 
receive our first lessons ot social feeling.— chief attention is directed to expedition, but 
This principle of divine origin, implanted by a costly article of embroidery on muslin can 
creative wisdom, is nurtured and brought on D he well darned with ravellings of a simi- 
out. It becomes animated and invigorated J" mu , sl , iu suc . h pai’ tic + u , lars do come , to 
... . . a .. ° . the girl by inspiration, they must be taught, 
by kindred influences. Ine ideas ot the 0 r left to be acquired by dearly-bought ex¬ 
mind and the passions of the heart are perience. 
made evident. The influence is genial.— The third mode of repair is well under- 
The expression of thought calls forth a re- stood and practised by our continental neigh- 
ciprocal. The deep, pent up emotions min- bora though rarolj in this country The 
r . , , , _ stocking stitch is neither more difficult nor 
gie and flow in unruffled harmony. It per- tedious than the darn, yet how many pairs 
vades the whole intellectual nature, giving of stockings are lost for want of knowing it 
power and vigor to the faculties of the soul, when a hole happens to be above-shoe ?— 
Min'd acts upon mind emitting sparkling Practice “j ^ ace switches is more desirable, 
. , \-p , ,. N . ° particularly tor repairing lace of the more 
rays in beautiful coruscations. It u the £ ost i y descriptions. The deficiency of a sin- 
altar whereon are placed the offerings of gj e loop, when lace is sent to bo washed, of- 
undying friendship. ten becomes a large hole during the opera- 
In early childhood the affections of the ^ a » d tl ™ th , 6 , beaut ? of the lace is de- 
, J . „ . _ , .stroyed. Indeed, lace when duly mended, 
heart are susceptible of deep and abiding on the a p pe arance of even the smallest 
impressions. The nature of youth is sin- crack, may, with little trouble, he made to 
cere and confiding. It is all innocence, pu- last twice or thrice the usual term of its du- 
rity, and loveliness. It lives and breathes ra ^ 0 _ n - the shawl stitch is never taught 
. . , , . in this countrv. though, bv emnlovino-it with 
in this country, though, by employing it with 
ravellings from the shawl itself, tho most 
costly cashmere can be repaired without a 
possibility of discovering the inserted part. 
Proficiency in such useful works might 
-Home Jour. 
FASHION. 
cred and divine associations, if it is taught 
reverently to contemplate tho works of De- 
repentings of declining years. Hence, its w ell merit as much approbation as is now be¬ 
trusting disposition, its love of all, its hope sto ' vct [ a P on crotchet or other fancy works, 
- f i- • • • i a./ , and might be considered as equally desira- 
ofgood. Ihe living punciple, the soul of b i e qualifications in a tradesman’s governess 
the affections, is inwoven with the objects ot as music. In populous places it might well 
attachments. The innocence and ardor of answer to establish schools where the ai’t of 
Humanity will direct to be particularly 
youth array all in tho garb of purity. It mending apparel should be the chief object 
sees no deformities, it marks no imperfec- of . ; . a ™ 0ml L 0r , tw0 8 P e f h \ ifc 
r „. ... might be sufficient for tho damsel, already 
tions. The ties which are formed, are form- a | 00 d plain needle-worker. It must far¬ 
ed forever. And in after years, though ther be observed, that without a practical 
keen bo the shafts of envy and malice, tho’ knowledge of needlework, no young lady 
the venomed tongue of slander pierce the can j ud S e whether her servant has or has 
font of cherished affections, still the heart n . ot do "“ a roa6 ,°!'i*'“ 1" an ‘ it 3' of “ a 
given time; and it this be true as to the 
lingers around the loved of other days. It p] a ; n seem, it is still more essential in re¬ 
preserves sacred the memories of childhood, gard to mending of all kinds.”— Home Jour. 
Fondly does it turn to those halcyon scenes-- 
and lives, over and oyer again, those happy FASHION, 
hours when there was naught to mar its Fashion rules the world, and a most ty- 
peaceful serenity. The same deep and rannical mistress she is,—compelling peoplo 
strong tide of feeling ever gushes from the t0 submit to the most inconvenient things 
fountain of tho heart. Its warm and glow- imaginable for her sake. 
,. .. ... . a She pinches our teet with tight shoes, or 
ing radiancy, its mild and genial influence, cllokes l us with a tight neck-kerchief, or 
its sweet and pure harmony are ever felt. squeezes the breath out of our body by 
The fireside is sacred as the source of fight lacing. 
deep toned morality, the altar of zealous She UP i^ n5g *t wh ® n 
. j T , . , . „ , they ought to be m bed, and keeps them m 
piety. Here the mind is fust imbued with bed ; n tbe m0 rning when they ought to bo 
the love of truth and warmed with a doYO- U p and doing. 
tedness for good. Whatever be the tenden- She makes it vulgar to wait upon ones’ 
deep toned morality, the altar of zealous She S? 0 ? 1 ® "f ni ^’ wh ® n 
. j TT .. they ought to be m bed, and keeps them m 
piety. Here the mind is first imbued with bed ; n tbe m0 rning when they ought to bo 
the love of truth and warmed with a devo- U p and doing. 
tedness for good. Whatever be the tenden- She makes it vulgar to wait upon ones’ 
cies it here receives, by such will it be charac- s<d L and genteel to live idly and uselessly, 
terized in after life. If the precepts bo pure makes people visit w-hen they would 
i . , , .e , ... , rather stay at home, eat when thov are not 
and upright, it the teachings be mild and , , . , l 
t ® hungry, and drink when they are not thirsty, 
salutary, the path of future good will be She invades our pleasures and interrupts 
traced. The vital spark, the principle co- our buisness. 
existent with the being, is roused and re- She compels people to dress gaily, wheth- 
ceives a direction which is to tell on its fu- er u P on their own property or that of 
, , , others—whether agreeably to the word of 
ture destiny. If it is familiarized with sa- God or the dictate f 0 f pride. 
ity, it will ever bear the impress of exalted cautious of treating with the least appear- 
virtue. High morality will touch every action, aI ? c ® oP . neglect, those who have lately met 
, , J with misfortunes, and are sunk in life, buch 
and bciate . its healthful influence on every p ersons are ap t t 0 think themselves slighted 
eaturo of life. If the desire is awakened to when no such thing is intended. Their 
comprehend, as far as the limited powers of minds being already sore, feel the least rub 
the mind are able, the nature and attributes severely. And who would be so cruel as to 
of the Creator, a thousand avenues will be add f ictions to tlm afflicted. __ 
explored, earth with its countless beauties A G00D word is an easy obligation; but 
and varying charms, and tho vast space of not to speak ill requires only our silence, 
tho empyrian, studded all over with an in- which costs us nothing. 
