MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
Mistcllancffiis. 
THE POPULAR CREED. 
BY CHARLES P. SHIRRAS. 
Dimes atid dollars! dollars and dimes! 
An empty pocket’s the worst of crimes 1 
If a man is down, give him a thrust— 
Trample the beggar into the dust! 
Presumptous poverty’s quite appalling— 
Knock him over ! kick him for falling 1 
If a man’s up, Oh 1 life him higher ! 
Your soul’s for sale and he’s a buyer.— 
Dimes and dollars 1 dollars and dimes! 
An empty pocket’s the worst of crimes I 
I know a poor, hut a worthy youth, 
Whose hopes are built on a maiden’s truth; 
But the maiden will break her vows with ease, 
For a wooer cometh, whose claims are these— 
A hollow heart and an empty head, 
A face well tinged with the brandy red, 
A soul well trained in villany’s school— 
And Cash !—sweet Cash!—he knoweth the rule : 
Dimes and dollars, dollars and dimes ! 
An empty pocket’s the worst of crimes! 
I know a bold and an honest man 
Who strives to live on the Christian plan, 
But poor he is, and poor will be, 
A scorned and a hated wretch is he— 
At home lie mecteth a starving wife, 
Abroad he leadeth the lepers life— 
They struggle against a fearful odds, 
Who will not bow to the people’s gods 1 
Dimes and dollars! dollars and dimos I 
An empty pocket’s the worst of crimes t 
So get ye wealth, no matter liow ! 
“ No questions asked” of the rich I trow— 
Steal by night, and steal by day, 
(Doing it all in a legal way,) 
Join the church and never forsake her, 
Learn to cant and insult your Maker; 
Be hypocrite, liar, knave and fool; 
But don't be poor!— remember the rule : 
Dimes and dollars I dollars and dimes! 
An empty pocket’s the worst of crimes! 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
THE FELICITIES OF ILLNESS. 
Were you ever ill ; so ill that your friends 
fcarocl to inquire for you, lest they might 
bo told you were gone from their midst for¬ 
ever ? No ! 
Then you know nothing of that state 
which is capable of affording, more than 
any other, unalloyed gratification to the 
senses. Truo, the illness is a rather serious 
affair, and withal not over agreoablo; but 
then the recovery ! The weakness when 
the crisis is passed, forbidding all mental 
exertion, which might hinder the perception 
of those indescribable sensations, known 
only to him who oven yet scorns suspended 
over the yawning abyss,—and needing hut 
a breath to usher him into eternity. The 
feeling that you are loved with an oarncst- 
ness, for which you dared not hopo. The 
consciousness that warm, loving hoarts are 
praising God for this unhoped for chango, 
and asking in the name of tho Nazarene for 
your entire recovery. To feel your head, 
which yourself have not strength to turn 
upon tho pillow, raised by one gontlo hand, 
while the other, unwearied through the long 
watchings by your bed, brings tho life-giv¬ 
ing cup to your lips; and then as your head 
is returned to its place, to feel smiling lips 
pressed softly to your own, and hoar low 
whispored words of true, Christian lovo, 
breathed close to your oar'! And all this 
continued day after day,—during your long 
convalescence—with the outbursts of joy at 
every exhibition of returning strength, tho 
watchfulness to anticipate your every de¬ 
sire,—your own childish gladness expressed 
in laughter, which you are unablo to control 
—tho consciousness of how very necessary 
you arc to tho happiness of thoso around 
you, moro flattering than any words. 
To know—to feel all this is enough to pay 
for all one suffers in tho severest sickness. 
Words can not describe it. It is known only 
to thoso who have drawn very near the grave, 
and been recalled by loving prayers and gen¬ 
tle hands, to life. 
It is enough to repay all yourself may cn- 
duro; but what will repay tho suffering, the 
agony of others, whoso pain exceeds your 
own ? And then, how many have no friends 
to watch beside their couch, and support 
their trembling limbs in the first attempt to 
walk ! 
It is very pleasant to recover; but many 
would willingly forego that pleasure and 
save their friends from tho anxiety attend¬ 
ant on tho preparatory steps to that most 
blissful portion of life. Suissac. 
Friendship. — There is truo onjovmont in 
that friendship which has its source in tho 
innocence and uprightness of a true heart. 
Such pleasures do greatly swooton lifo, eas¬ 
ing it from many a bitter burden. A sym¬ 
pathizing heart finds an echo in sympathiz¬ 
ing bosoms that brings back cheering music 
to tho spirit of tho loveliest. Bo all honor, 
then, to truo friendship, and may it gather 
yet more fragrant blossoms from tho dew- 
bathed meadows of social iutcrcourso to 
spread their aroma along tho toil-worn road 
ot life. x. e. w. 
If ever you wore dangerously ill, what 
built or folly lay heaviest upon your mind ? 
Take care to root it out, without delav, and 
without morey. 
COMPLIMENTARY TO THE COUNTRY. 
The Newark Advertiser discourses thus 
upon the influence which place has upon 
character: 
Did you ever notice in the course of your 
travels, how people change in coming from 
the country to tho city, only in tho course 
of a singlo day ? It was more observable in 
the times when stago coaches were tho ve¬ 
hicles for travelers ■>.: now. 3. ting on 
a beautiful, serene morning from tho quiet, 
cozy, country village, where it had boon call¬ 
ing round from house to house for passen¬ 
gers, every inmato of tho coach felt intro¬ 
duced to one another by the simplo circum¬ 
stance of such accidental position; or from 
belonging to the same vicinity, or town, at 
least for tho time. On thoso easy and com¬ 
panionable terms they jogged along from 
town to town, occasionally taking in a pas¬ 
senger, and then again letting one out; hut 
still keeping tho number good, as the prin¬ 
cipal ones continued in company, for they 
were going to the great city. 
But when they arrived within a dozen 
miles or so of tho metropolis, a new faco 
began gradually to creep over the company, 
or rather a new expression over their faces. 
Till then, no difference was perceptiblo be¬ 
tween tho city and tho country bred. All 
were equal, and sympathetic. Now they 
silently laid aside by degrees their sweet, 
natural companionship, and resumed tho 
old conventional badges of distinction, which 
had been forgotten among the mountains.— 
Tho hard and disagreeable characteristics of 
social castes bogin to darken; and tho lato 
chatting, charming party, which set out to¬ 
gether in tho morning, and made each other 
happy throughout tho day, has disappeared 
like the morning dew, and other very differ¬ 
ent actors have taken their places.- It is a 
shocking metamorphosis to those who ex¬ 
perience it for the first time. But it is so 
common to many now, such as visitors to 
watering places and tho like, that they soon 
ceaso to mind it. Tho effect which place 
has on persons, brings to mind a homely 
comparison, and as it really resembles the 
operation that rennet has on milk souring, 
and resolving it into substances of very un¬ 
like qualities and appearanco, wo see no rea¬ 
son why the likeness, though vulgar, shall 
not bo noticed. 
This deterioration of character in persons 
approaching tho city from rural scenes of 
more equal and sociable intercourse, has in 
some respects a parallol in tho mountain 
stream. Issuing from lofty recesses, the 
water at first is delightfully soft and pure. 
Soon it becomes a river from little tributary 
accretions along its hanks, continuod to be 
marked by tho same qualities, till it nears 
the ocean. Then it gradually acquires the 
impurities of a dense population, and the 
hard, brackish character of tho mighty re¬ 
servoir of waters, and at last mingles with 
its waves and loses its sweetness and soft¬ 
ness forever. 
NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE. 
Nothing is impossible. Strike out a new 
path—court honor, fame, glory, wealth.— 
All shall be yours, if you so will. But with 
the will there must be energy, courago, fore¬ 
sight, prudence. The heart must bo steel¬ 
ed cither to boar tho shafts of envy, or to 
hear unmoved the sigh of tho widow and 
tho fatherless. In many cases tho sweet 
joys of homo must bo foregone, and the 
wifo considered an appendage, worth the 
money sho saves; the children as only so 
many incentives to layup tho gold that per¬ 
ishes in the using. 
Ask you for fame ? Nothing is easier ob¬ 
tained. Turn your hat inside out, wear a 
shoo on ono foot and a hoot on tho other; 
make yourself known by your oddities ; get 
“ posted up” about town ; you are a marked 
man—the property of tho public; you are 
famous, do what you will. 
Ask you for wealth ? Bogin your search 
early. Sleep on your pallet of straw— 
toil till after the midnight hour—breakfast 
on a crust—eat no dinners—never allow 
yourself the luxury of a warm supper. Tie 
yourself to a penny, and he tho bond slave 
of a dollar. Deny yourself tho pleasuro of 
a book—consider a newspaper a nuisance— 
forget that you have a soul; turn a deaf ear 
to distress—time for benevolence when you 
get rich; then you may set down with the 
pious reflection that your deeds are honest 
—for, good man, have you ever demanded 
more than your due ? 
What if your brother perishes in destitu¬ 
tion and misery—art thou thy brother’s 
keeper ? What if that poor debtor died in 
a prison-house—was not his debt a lawful 
ono ? Was your demand moro than the 
strictest justice might warrant ? 
Then you can tako your gilded Bible, turn 
over its embellished pages, and its clear, 
beautiful print, rejoice the sight of thine 
oyos. But, what, if unthinkingly, they 
should rest upon tho following passage: 
“ Thou hast sent widows away empty, and 
tho arms of the fatherless have been bro¬ 
ken. Therefore, snares are around about 
thee, and sudden fear troubloth thee.” 
Never think to get away from the justice 
of that sentence. Hodge thyself in with 
golden thorns as thou wilt, snares are round 
about tlieo. and sudden fear troubloth thee. 
—Boston Olive Branch. 
When Anaxagoras was told of tho death 
of his son, ho only said, I knew he teas mor¬ 
tal. So wo, in all casualties of life, should 
say, I knew my riches were uncertain, that 
my friend was but a man. Such considera¬ 
tions would soon pacify us. because all our 
troubles proceed from their being unex¬ 
pected. 
There is hardly any bodily blemish which 
a winning behavior will not conceal or make 
tolerable; and there is no external grace 
which ill-nature or affectation will not de¬ 
form. 
FAGTS ABOUT TEA. 
In tho ninth century certain Arabian doc¬ 
tors mentioned a fragrant and fascinating 
Chinese beverago, prepared from a plant 
called schah. After the lapse of somo six 
hundred years—in 1633—Olearius discover¬ 
ed that tea was domesticated as a luxury 
among the higher ranks of society in Per¬ 
sia. Now, all through tho wastes of Central 
Asia, tho Calmucks, the Baschkiri, S:c., tea 
is supremo. But their use of it is accord¬ 
ing to their condition. With thorn it is no 
drink, but a solid nourishment. It has no 
appearance of delicately rolled leaves, but 
sticks and stalks of tho plant aro made into 
heavy, stone-like cakes, of the color of tan- 
balls, and of tho consistency of iron bolts. 
This is moistened and baked with tho water 
of the steppes, mixed with tho blood of ani¬ 
mals, and enriched with the fat of beef, or 
mutton, and it is then eaten with spoons 
like a thick soup. 
“ It is poison,” said an old woman to Dr. 
Johnson. “Madam, it may be poison, but 
I hare been seventy years dying of it,” said 
he, draining his sixth evening bowl. 
In eight years tho leaves of tho tea plant 
aro fully charged with their peculiarities.— 
In the ninth year they begin to loso them. 
Yet tho plants are stripped sometimes to the 
eleventh and twelfth year — and hence the 
endless varieties of tea. Each year thero 
are four harvests, of which that of February 
is tho least in quantity and tho host in qual¬ 
ity. The April harvest is a kind of rowen, 
tho second cutting of tho best. That of 
Juno yields mainly largo leaves, and that of 
August is of the inferior quality. A careful 
bath completes tho preparation for picking, 
and then, with gloved hands, the work is 
conimonced. An industrious workman may 
collect from ton to fifteen pounds in a day. 
But on the samo day ho must strew them 
upon a heated platter, and on tho same eve¬ 
ning wrap them in a cloth, and dip them for 
somo moments in hot water. After they 
havo dripped during the night, they are 
spread the noxt morning in hot iron pans, 
in which they are constantly stirred. They 
aro laid upon mats, rolled with tho open 
hand, completely cooled with largo fans du¬ 
ring tho process, then skilfully packed in 
chests. 
POLITENESS. 
Coming down Broadway last evening, won¬ 
dering what some rowdy would knock us 
down for—for every man’s turn has to come 
sooner or later, to be maltreated by rowdies 
and rioters in New York—beforo wo knew 
it, wo had run into a stout follow whoso 
presenco obstructed the side-walk and 
knocked ourselves as far out of balanco 
as wo knocked him. With our blandest 
smilo^ve asked his pardon, and hoped wo 
had not hurt him. “ I'll thank you to look 
where you aro going next time, Sir,—run¬ 
ning into a man in that style,” was his surly 
reply. “Pardon us, Sir, we answered, for 
apologising to a brute. We mistook you 
for a gentieman. Please keep out of tho 
way next time,” and traveled on thinking 
all the while what a surly crew managed 
matters in this world, growing fiercer with 
evory block,-and getting quite indignant at 
last with the cross world in general. Sud¬ 
denly, darting asido to avoid three young 
sprigs who were pursuing their way, arm- 
in-arm, we came plump against a pleasant- 
looking gentleman who must have suffered 
some from tho concussion, unless wo re¬ 
ceived tho lion’s share of it. Again we 
asked pardon, not caring a straw, however, 
whether it was granted or not. “No con¬ 
sequence, Sir,—accidents will happen,” said 
tho gentleman with a how that put us in 
good humor with him at once, and with all 
the world beside. Thero aro a great many 
clever fellows around, thought we, and it is 
worth one’s while to live a little longer just 
to get a glimpse of their smiling counten¬ 
ances and hear their pleasant words as wo 
moot them. They go about sowing kind, 
charitable thoughts unawares. It is not 
necessary to invoke a blessing on tho head 
of the trul y polito man—every child in tho 
streot blesses him. But the churl—may 
heaven bless him, for nobody needs it more. 
— JY. Y. Times. 
BEAUTIFUL IMAGE. 
Mr. Webster possessed tho poetic or im¬ 
aginative faculty to a much greater extent 
than is generally supposed, or than ono 
would infer from a perusal of his solid and 
argumentative speeches. Ono of the most 
beautiful and poetic images to bo found iu 
tho range of English composition, is that 
employed by him in his speech on tho Pro¬ 
test, in reference to tho territorial power 
and conquests of Great Britain. lie spoko 
of her as—“a power which has dotted over 
tho surface of tho whole globo with her pos¬ 
sessions and military posts, whose morning 
drum beat, follotcing the sun and keeping 
company with the hours, circles the ea rth with 
one continuous and unbroken strain of the 
martial airs of England.” 
This imago, Mr. Webster once said, oc¬ 
curred to him while ho was ono morning 
witnessing tho parade at sunrise in Quebec. 
Mr. Edward Curtis, of New-York, was 
standing by his sido, and when tho drum 
beat, Mr. W. turned to him and gavo utter¬ 
ance to the idea which several years after¬ 
wards he clothed in the beautiful language 
above quoted from his speech. 
Be true and courageous. —Thero is noth¬ 
ing like courage in misfortune; next to faith 
in God, and in His overruling providence, a 
man’s faith in himself is his salvation. It 
is the secret of all power and success. It 
is the secret of all good luck—so called.— 
It makes a man strong as tho pillared iron, 
or elastic as tho springing steel. And while 
others bow to chance and accident, ho makes 
chance and accident bow to him; and he 
moulds them to his purposo, and harnesses 
them to the car of his fortune. 
if0.r the Safe 
For the Rural New Yorker. 
THE HUSBAND’S NEW YEAR’S GIFT. 
BY KATE WOODLAND. 
It was not a casket of jewels rare, 
To clasp on her neck and arm, 
It was not pearls for her soft brown hair, 
Or robes for her graceful form, 
It was not rings for the gentle hand 
That was pledged to him through life, 
Nor the curious and rich of a foreign land, 
Which the husband gave his wife. 
But his step was light on that New Year's eve, 
And his face wore a happy smile, 
And “ Mary,” he said, “ the children leave 
To themselves and their play awhile, 
And get your bonnet and shawl and walk 
With me a little way to-night, 
And together we’ll have a pleasant talk, 
’Neath the pale moon’s silver light.” 
And slowly they walked o’er the little hill, 
’Neath the beam of the lighted sky, 
And he spake of the evening so bright and still, 
And the starry lamps on high, 
And tho time when they sat ’till the night had sped 
To gaze on their glorious tide, 
Long, long ago when they first were wed, 
And she was his fair young bride. 
Then he talked of the home they had loved so well, 
Of the home that was theirs no more, 
Of the maple trees with their swing for Nell, 
And the lilac beside the door, 
Of the garden and spring where the roses grew, 
And of every thing bright and fair, 
Of all the joy and the bliss they knew, 
Ere the bowl spread its fatal snare. 
Then he paused, for the hand he held in his own 
Was trembling, and cold, and weak; 
And a glittering tear in the moon-light shone 
| As it rested upon her cheek : 
And his voice was low when he spake again, 
Of the tempter and the fall. 
How the wine had fired liis heart and brain 
’Till he staked, and lost his all. 
“ And oh,” said he, “ on that New Year’s night. 
When I found that my home was gone, 
I vowed that when next the sun should light 
With his beam, a New Year's dawn, 
My hand should restore the ruin I’d wrought. 
And my promise hath not been vain, 
Nor my toil and labor gone for naught, 
For the cottage is mino again. 
We have reached it, Mary, ’tis sad and lone; 
Thine eyes to behold it lift, 
And take it Mary, ’tis all thine own, 
’Tis thy husband’s New Year’s gift 
Her hands round his neck were tightly pressed, 
Bright tears to her soft eyes crept, 
And she laid her head on her husband's breast, 
And he kissed her tears as she wept. 
Carlton, N. Y., January, 1S53. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
NEW YORK TO COUNTRY EYES. 
BY ANNIE LINWOOD. 
Dear Rural : —In obedience to tho im¬ 
pulse of an undefined, yet irresistablo long¬ 
ing to speak to somo dear old friend, I write 
to you this chill December night. It is a 
long, long time since I held converse with 
your friendly pages, and my heart so yearns 
for communion with some congenial spirit, 
that I have ventured to intrude upon your 
patience. I cannot talk to tho peoplo by 
whom I am surrounded; they cannot under¬ 
stand me,—they never want what I do, so of 
course, cannot meet my wants. I have just as 
little sympathy with the world now around 
me, as it has with my tastes and feelings. 
Poor silly thing that I was, to think a 
winter in New York w r ou!d ho something- 
worth while—something I should enjoy— 
(or perhaps something to tell of in after 
time.) I ought not to havo come, expect¬ 
ing to stay so long among the bustling, hur¬ 
rying, jostling world, collected in this me¬ 
tropolis of our land. Oh! how I have 
' already wearied of gay, uncongenial scenes, 
and longed for old familiar ones : dearer by 
far, to me, aro tho broad green fields of the 
summer time, and tho white robed ones of 
winter, than all tho fino things displayed in 
Broadway, from the Battery to Bulls-Head. 
When one is far away from homo, the 
next best thing to seeing friends, is to write 
to them; but I dare not take my pen to 
write home, for, surely as I do, all my pont- 
up, homesick feelings will break forth, and 
those I lovo, and who think me happy, will 
bo distressed, and summon mo homo. And 
then tho friends with whom I’m staying will 
open wide their worldly eyes,—and wonder: 
for they think life is nothing, out of New 
York; and I can give no reason for tho step, 
only, that their society does not suit mo, and 
that would’nt he just the thing. 
But while I write, tho night waxes later, 
and the wind rises higher; and with its 
roaring, as it comes sweeping from off old 
Ocean’s troubled brow, over tho Islands, 
through the narrows, up the river, and round 
about tho house;—with the distant melody 
of Trinity Church bells’ chiming, and tho 
watchman’s rattle—comes tho soul’s pining 
for home. Oh 1 how the feeling of utter 
loneliness comes ovor me, now and in tho 
midst of tho densest Crowd, as well as when 
alone; making my poor heart ache, and 
throb, and swell as though ’twould break 
like the tenth wave of Ocean on tho barren 
shore; and mine eyelids have closed ner¬ 
vously over unbidden tears, remanding them 
back to their fountain as unwelcome tale¬ 
bearers of tho state of things within. And 
not only thus is it with tears, but cheerful, 
happy, independent thoughts and feelings, 
for fear of misapprehension, aro all sent 
back to thoir source, thero to congeal and 
form a bulwark of ice-bergs around a once 
happy, confiding heart. It is a pity ovor to 
bo obliged to take a lesson in deceit.— this 
wearing a smiling face, when the heart is 
like a tompest-tost vosscl, agrees hut sadly 
with my code of practico. 
Thero is a something,— an air of repul¬ 
sion, or a lack of sympathy about thoso by 
whom I am surrounded, that makes mo feel 
my isolation; and doubly drear is it some¬ 
times thoughtlessly made to me, until the 
full heart can bear no more, and scalding- 
tears melt down tho icy wall of reason and 
self-retreat. I know not what I should do 
witho ut this safety-valve for pent-up feelings. 
In tho retirement of my own room, I sum¬ 
mon to my spirit’s presence, father, mother, 
sister and brother : with them, again I tread 
the halls of my childhood’s home, again I 
visit overy favorite haunt: now my head is 
lying on my mother’s lap, listening to her 
admonitions and loving counsel; now I am 
reading something to my father, or helping 
him form plans for gardening and farming, 
(for I confess to a decided partiality for 
things earthy.) and anon I see his looks of 
gratified pride and affection, as I accom¬ 
plish somo feat in housewifery, gardening, 
or horsemanship ;—now a sisters arms are 
round about me, and her loving eyes aro 
reading thoughts in mine, ere words can 
form them; and now a lifctlo brother’s griefs 
and cares, hopes and joys, aro laid open for 
my sympathy and approval. Once again, 
I am sitting in my accustomed seat in church 
and hear from the lips of the pastor I so 
much lovo, the words of peace and promise, 
of warning and rebuke. 
All theso scenes and joys I sco and tasto 
with a keener relish, when tho world is still 
around me, and tho pure bright stars, “ the 
forget-me-nots of tho angels,” are keeping 
their ceaseless watch on high: and imagi¬ 
nation sees the white robed angels going up 
and down, on silver ladders wreathed with 
flowers, from tho “ illimitable gardens” 
where those forget-me-nots do bloom, to 
this earth of ours, bearing good gifts to 
thankless, fallen man. 
It is this very thanklessness, I fear, that 
makes mo feel oft-times so wretched in tho 
midst of so much abundance ; hut where is 
the affluonco and luxury among strangers, 
even though they stylo themselves, “ doar 
friends,” that can compare with the poorest 
of home-comforts, surrounded by loving, 
trusting hearts ? 
Last Sabbath I attended Dr. Beecher’s 
church, in Brooklyn, and, if the audience a 
man draws can be taken as any token of 
his talent, or merit, then indeed docs Dr. 
Beecher occupy an enviable position. Such 
a crowded house of eager listeners, I never 
saw beforo ; I’ve not seen any thing like it 
in Now York: he seems to be as much be¬ 
loved and listened to as his sister, Mrs. 
Stowe, in “ Uncio Tom’s Cabin.” 
He says evil is a gouty old monster, and 
could never stand, wero it not that good 
comes along, putting a helping hand to each 
shoulder, raising him upon his crutches, 
helping him to stalk abroad over the land. 
And were it not that somo good, respectable 
men, upheld license, and the liquor traffic, 
’twould die for want of support. IIo thinks 
tho temperance question ought to he made 
a matter of serious business consideration ; 
taken separately from church and political 
affairs, and every man be known to he either 
in favor of, or opposed to drunkenness. 
New York, December, 1852. 
[ Concluded next week.) 
GRIEF. 
It is true that sore affliction maketh tho 
heart sad, but time will at length restore 
joy and serenity. As cheerfulness promotes 
health and adds length to days, how impor¬ 
tant, if grief must at any time bo indulged, 
that tho proper' remedy be applied to as¬ 
suage it. 
We find one sitting in solitude whose tear¬ 
ful eye and sad expression, bespeak the 
heart under sore oppression, from grief.— 
The hand of sympathy is extended, but it 
is not recognized, and is therefore of no 
avail. We pass on, and again meet the indi¬ 
vidual. Time has not mellowed his anguish, 
and taken the cloud from his brow, and in 
place is a calmness and serenity that speak 
of ditt’eront feelings in tho heart. What 
remedy is there for grief so effectual as 
Time? E. n. vr . 
Love of the Beautiful. —Women havo 
a much nicer sense of the beautiful than 
men. They are, by far, the safer umpires 
in matters of propriety and grace. A more 
school-girl will bo thinking and writing 
about tho beauty of birds and flowers, while 
her brother is robbing the nests and de¬ 
stroying the flowers. Herein is a great nat¬ 
ural law, that tho sexes have their relative 
excellencies and deficiencies, in tho harmo¬ 
nious union of which lies all the wealth of 
domestic happiness. There is no better test 
of moral excellenco, ordinarily, than the 
keenness of onos senses, and the depth of 
ones love of all that is beautiful. 
