MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
41 
♦ V" ' 
TRUTH IN A WELL. 
Once at mid-day toiled a youth 
In the bottom of a well, 
Delving for no mystic truth 
Down where sun-light never fell. 
All he sought was the revealing 
Of some stream from living fountain, 
Through Earth's hidden arteries stealing 
From the heart of yonder mountain: 
Which should spring, a well of joy 
To the sacred homestead ever; 
Sweet and pure without alloy, 
And bounteous as the all-bounteous Giver. 
Upward looked he to the light 
And the span of sky afar, 
And behold, as at midnight, 
Shone at noon a sparkling star I 
Then first learned he that the sun 
And the glare and stir of day 
Were but shrouds and darkness dun 
To the high and far away : 
That the light so prized, which made 
The near palpable around us, 
But the fyrant with us played, 
And to dust With short chain bound us. 
Only when the darkness falls, 
Veiling all the objects nigh, 
Look we freely o’er these walls 
To the glorious sphere on high ! 
Knickerbocker Magazine. 
For the Rural New Yorker. 
WINTER THOUGHTS. 
The winter winds are howling piteously 
among the leafless branches. Cold, gaunt 
winter, sways his sceptre over universal na¬ 
ture—and all around is dreary and desolate. 
The vegetable world is buried beneath a 
thick covering of snow—the limpid streams 
are bound in icy fetters, and the insect 
tribes are swept from existence. But thus 
it shall not always be. The germ remains. 
The icy bands of winter shall bo burst 
asunder—the death grasp shall bo loosod— 
and nature shall again come forth from her 
grave and put on her beautiful robes. The 
elements shall regain their myriad, happy 
populations—the groves bo vocal with rich¬ 
est melody. All, all shall unite their voices, 
and swell tho universal anthem of praise to 
the Infinite—tho Eternal. 
Thus with the soul. Death may throw 
around us his dark pall, and the clods of 
the valley may close over us. But the 
grave cannot bind us—tho germ—the soul 
—shall live. Wo shall not always sleep.— 
Tho spring will come—wo shall spring from 
our bondage and come forth immortal, re¬ 
joicing in newness of life. 
Romulus Centre, N. Y., 1853. S. Furman. 
HAWTHORNE AND BERKSHIRE. 
Of Hawthorne we feel at liberty to speak 
moro freely. The example which he him¬ 
self has sot us, in his introduction to “The 
Scarlet Letter,” is of itself sufficient to re¬ 
move all scruples that we might otherwise 
have. 
On the northern shoroof tho Stockbridge 
Bowl, in a spot of unrivaled loveliness, 
stands a small, uninviting red houso with 
green window-blinds, and with ono single 
pine treo boforo it. You might pass it al¬ 
most any time of tho day, and you would 
think it vacant; the doors would all bo shut, 
the blinds all closed, and that single pine 
tree would look as sullen as if it were con¬ 
scious of its loneliness. Thero would be 
no path to tho gate, and no knocker on tho 
door, and you would immediately concludo 
that the rod houso of the two gables was 
shut against the resort of men—and you 
would not bo far from right, for there lives 
Nathaniel Hawthorne. 
If, however, on a closer inspection you 
observed a wreath of smoko curling up 
from tho chimney of tho houso of the two 
gablos, and had curiosity enough to saunter 
about the precincts, in hopes of seeing signs 
of life, until about four o’clock, you would 
finally hear tho door creak, and there would 
stand before you a middling-sized, thick-set 
man, with a largo, vigorous face, and, lying 
under a profusion of coarso black hair, a 
head of massive development. There would 
bo no particular feature in his countonanco 
of especial beauty, except it wore his dark 
and intelligent eye, arched by a very black 
oyo-brow—yet you would gather from tho 
tout ensemble of tho expression that it be¬ 
tokened an intensely-working and thorough 
going intellect, Were it not that tho coun¬ 
tenance is reliovod and heightened by tho 
vigor and intensity of mental activity, that 
beams through it, you would think thero 
was something in it very heavy and sombre. 
If you ever had any hint that there was a 
vein of rancor and acrimony in his charac¬ 
ter, you would see no indications of it in 
his face, unless you fell to imagining what 
expression that black eye would take, and 
that heavy eyebrow, and that firmly drawn 
mouth, whon ho was belaboring tho Custom 
House officials, or spurring his bitterness 
against somo hypocrito—who was of course 
a Calvinist and a Puritan. But while you 
were making those observations, your hero 
would raise his eyes from tho ground long 
enough to give you one of those modest, but 
expressive glancos which mark the man 
of seclusion and reflection, and then, with 
a kind of swinging gait, which would assure 
you that ho was not used to bustle among 
tho crowds of business or fashion, would 
wend his way up to tho village Post Office. 
Mr. Hawthorne, even for a man of letters, 
leads a remarkably secluded life. He has a 
few literary friends, with whom hochorishes 
an intimacy congenial to a mind of such 
cultivation and sensibility, and a friendship 
which does honor to his heart, but he shows 
no disposition to mingle largely in society. 
This aversion to social intercourse has been 
remarkablo in him during his literary careor, 
and even far back into his youth, if wo may 
credit the accounts of his acquaintances.— 
Not only in his private life, but all through 
his writings there seems to breathe an un¬ 
sympathising, morbid spirit—a spirit that 
seems to take a satisfaction in keeping itself 
aloof from thoso who are guilty of tho foibles 
which it takes a still greater satisfaction in 
contemplating. This spirit ho could never 
have inherited from his ancestors, else thoso 
progenitors of his, who for so many genera¬ 
tions “followed the sea,” wero a strango set 
of tars ! Perhaps all his better sympathies 
were chilled in those speculations with his 
dreamy brethren of the Brook Farm Com¬ 
munity ; perhaps ho and Emerson, enrap¬ 
tured with tho mystic perfection of then- 
own fantasies, abjured all communion with 
this our gross humanity; he certainly could 
not have had his feelings frozen into hate 
by contact with the genial and sympathizing 
intellect of Ellery Channing, or at the warm 
hearthstone of Longfellow. 
Yet, after all, wo should be strangely in- 
sonsato and ungrateful, if wo were disposed 
to grumble at what may bo, in the caso of 
Mr. Hawthorne, but tho concomitant of se¬ 
clusion and literaty devotion, or what, at 
tho worst, is so admirably wrought into 
piquancy in his writings. The world, and 
we with them, would bo sorry were it far 
otherwise, and wo are perfectly indifferent 
as to which of tho two gables of his red 
house he shuts himself in, if ho will but 
open tho door occasionally, and send forth 
such volumes as he has of lato been giving 
to the public. But wo aro not so selfish 
that wo cannot see, or that we would not 
like to tell Mr. Hawthorne, that our gain is 
his loss, in one respect at least. We would 
tell him that tho church upon our hill—the 
church, too, wftose walls echoed the almost 
dying tones of his beloved Channing, in his 
last public address—is not the sanctuary of 
asceticism of any kind, and tho eloquent 
sincerity of a bolievihg Calvinist has attrac¬ 
tions even for thoso who have no sympathy 
with his piety; but the shadow of the occu¬ 
pant of tho house of tho two gables seldom, 
if ever, darkens a church door. Doubtless 
the remains of tho Puritan sermons which 
moaned through tho shattered timbers, and 
pealed through the tree tops of tho old 
manse at Concord, sufficed Mr. Hawthorne 
for tho remainder of his life, or else disgust¬ 
ed him with tho idea of anything which by 
any possibility could savor of the Puritan 
homilotics. 
FOREIGN TRAVEL FOR BOYS. 
I think tho sentiments embodied in a 
conversation which I had with Mr. Webster 
at Washington, previous to my visit to Eu¬ 
rope in 1851, aro worthy of record. 
“ Well, sir, I notice from your letter for 
passports, that you will tako three of your 
pupils. I am glad they are going. You 
will teach them things abroad which will 
be usetul to them when they return. Show 
them the great farms, the noble stock; let 
them see the rural life of England, and 
learn to love it. We want to have more 
love tor tho country. We want more beau¬ 
ty through our houses, and tho lads will 
come home with bettor taste. Try to cul¬ 
tivate their memories as to tho localities of 
England. Let them never forget tho places 
sacred to liberty. Tho Tower is a perfect 
study—it requires thought, it is no placo to 
bo despatched in a hurried visit. It is a 
history, sir. Westminster Abbey is a won¬ 
derful place, not only for what it is, but for 
what it is not. Smithfield, too, is full of 
glory. It over Jacob’s ladder rested upon 
earth, it was there, where bloody Mary 
made it the heaven for so many martyrs.— 
Bunhill fields ; I was too good a Puritan not 
to go thero. I wanted to stand where Ban¬ 
yan, Owen, Goodin and Defoe were buried. 
I should like to stand at tho grave of all tho 
great men of England. 
“This journey will do the lads great good; 
it will furnish them matter for thought in 
future life; and if they improve this oppor¬ 
tunity it will teach them what so few under¬ 
stand, how to grow old decently. An igno¬ 
rant, uncultivated old man is a poor affair; 
the tailor can pad out his wasted form, but 
nothing except early acquirements and good 
sentiments can make a fine old ago. You 
will see tho Duke, sir; he is tho most re¬ 
markablo man in the country; so practiced, 
such sterling sense, so self-reliant; a man 
is nothing who does not depend upon him¬ 
self. I shall givo you letters, sir, addressed 
to men I valuo highly, who aro ornaments 
to our nature. Pray make the lads notice 
tho attention paid to ago and position ; no¬ 
where can the proprieties of life be learned 
so woll. What a destiny lies before those 
two countries, England and tho U. States; 
tho same language, laws and religion. Did 
you evor think of tho wonderful conceal¬ 
ment of America from Europe, till the set 
time had arrived for its revelation ?”•— Rev. 
J. O. Choules’ Sermon. 
Wit that is Wit.— It was Sheridan w 
said to the tailor who asked him at least, 1 
tho interest ot his bill, “It is not my interi 
to pay tho principal, nor my principle 
pay tho interest.” And no matter what t 
witty Jones may have remarked, it was t 
witty Smith who retorted upon some o 
who called him an every day man: “ If I; 
an every day man you are a weak one.” 
was die same Smith, too, who, whon it w 
mentioned that a certain confectioner thk 
oned his isinglass with dissolved parch me 
observod that, “some fierce people ma 
you eat your words, but that he ate 1 
deed;” and if it wasn’t Smith, it was soi 
one one else, who described an epitaph 
“giving a good character to parties on goi 
into a now place, who sometimes had a vt 
bad character in tho placo they had ii 
left.” J J 
THE PERILS CF THE DESERT- 
By the time we wore approaching the 
most elevated point of Central Asia, a ter¬ 
rible wind had set in from the north, which 
lasted fifteen days, and increased the rigor 
of the cold to a degree that threatened us 
with great misfortunes. Tho sky was still 
clear, but the cold was so terrible that even 
at mid-day the influence of tho sun was 
scarcely perceptible. Even during the day, 
and of course still more during the night, 
we wero under tho continual apprehension 
of being frozen to death. 
I may mention one circumstance that 
will give an idea of the extremity of the 
cold. Every morning before setting off, tho 
caravan used to take a meal, and then not 
again till they encamped ; but as the tsam- 
ba is a kind of food so little agreeable, that 
it was difficult to tako enough of it at once 
to support us during the day, we used to 
soak in tea two or throe balls of it to keep 
in reserve for the days journey. We wrap¬ 
ped up this boiling paste in very warm lin¬ 
en, and placed it on our breasts; and over 
this we had our clothing, namely a garment 
of sheepskin, then a waistcoat of lamb’s 
skin, then a short garment of fox’s skin, 
and overall a great woolen coat. Now du¬ 
ring this fortnight wo constantly found the 
balls of tsamba frozen, and when we drew 
them from our bosoms thoy were so hard 
that wo almost broke our teeth in attempt¬ 
ing to eat them. 
Tho cattle suffered terribly, especially 
the mules and horses, which aro not so 
strong as the oxen. We had to dress them 
in felt carpets, and tie camel’s skin round 
their heads ; and in any other circumstan¬ 
ces their appearance would certainly have 
excited our hilarity, but now we wero in no 
humor for laughing, for, notwithstanding 
all precautions, the cattle of the caravan 
were decimated by death. The numerous 
frozen rivers that we had to pass occasioned 
us much trouble, especially tho camols, 
which were so awkward that wo were com¬ 
pelled to trace a path for them by strewing 
sand on the ice. and breaking the top of it 
with our hatchets; even then we had to 
lead them very carefully, cue after the oth- 
or; and if one of them chanced to make a 
false step and fall, it was scarcely possiblo 
to get it up again. First wo had to reliove 
them of their baggage, and then to drag 
them on their sides to the river bank, or 
spread carpets for them, and tug at them 
with all our might, but very often to no pur¬ 
pose ; they would not make tho slightest 
effort to rise, and they had at last to bo 
abandoned; for it wjas impossible, in this 
frightful country, to stay waiting on the 
whims of a camel. All these hardships 
threw many of the travellers into deep de¬ 
jection. 
To the mortality of the animals was now 
added that of men, whom the cold seized, 
and who wero left to perish on tho road.— 
One day, when the exhaustation of our 
beasts of burden had compelled us to slack¬ 
en our march, wo perceived a traveler seat¬ 
ed by the wayside, on a largo stone. His 
head was bent down, his arms pressed 
against his sides, and ho remained motion¬ 
less as a statue. Wo called him several 
times, but ho made no answer, and wo 
thought ho had not heard us. “What mad¬ 
ness,” we said, “ to stop on the road in this 
way in such weather. This unfortunate 
man will certainly die of cold.” We called 
him again ; but as ho still did not answer, 
wo alighted and wont toward him. His face 
had tho appearance of wax, his eyes were 
half open and glassy, and ho had icicles 
suspended to his nostrils and the corners of 
his mouth. lie just turned his eyes toward 
us with a terribly vacant expression ; but 
he was quite frozen, and had been forsaken 
by his companions. It appeared so cruel 
to leave him thus, without an effort to 
s;ivo him, that -wo determined to tako 
him with us; and wo lifted him up from the 
ground, and, after wrapping him up, we 
placed him on Sandadchiemba’s mule. As 
soon as we had pitched tho tent we went to 
seek out (he companions of the unfortunate 
man ; and thoy prostrated themselves be¬ 
fore us, saying we had excellent hearts, but 
wo had given ourselves trouble in vain; 
their comrade, they said, was lost, for tho 
cold had reached his heart. We returned 
to our tent to see what we could do for 
him, but ho was already dead. Moro than 
forty men perished thus in tho desert.— 
When they could no longer eat or speak, or 
support themselves on their horses, they 
were left on tho road, though still alive, a 
small bag of oatmeal and a little wooden 
bowl being placed besido them as a last 
mark of interest in their fate. When eve¬ 
ry ono else had passed by. tho crows and 
vultures were seen to wheol round them in 
the air, and probably they began to tear the 
unfortunate men before they were fairly 
dead.— Hue’s Travels, through Tartan/, 
Thibet, (|-c. 
SHORT SAYINGS. 
Do what good offices you can ; but leave 
yourself at liberty from promises and en¬ 
gagements. 
There is no condition so low but may 
have hopes; nor any so high that it is out of 
the reach of fears. 
To live above our station shows a proud 
heart, and to live under it, discovers a nar¬ 
row soul. 
Errors in religion may claim our pity, 
but excite no anger. 
Employment is the greatest instrument 
of intellectual dominion. 
Every man that is capablo of secrot in¬ 
jury is a coward. 
The church is out of tomporwhen chari¬ 
ty grows cold and zeal hot. 
Say nothing of my debts unless you mean 
to pay them. 
Judge not thy neighbor until thou art in 
his situation. 
Jfor % 3M.ics. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GOLDEN MEMORIES. 
BY EI.LEN E. MACK. 
They soinelimcs steal around me 
Those thoughts of other days. 
Like glad, low strains of music 
Or dancing sunlight rays. 
As they hover 'round my pathway 
With their music sweet and wild, . 
The bright delusion waves me, 
And again I am a child. 
Then I tread the hallowed places 
Where my infant footstep roved; 
I list to gladsome voices 
And see the forms I loved. 
And my spirit bounds within me, 
As I roam my native hills, 
Or list to wild-wood melody, 
And sweetly gushing rills: 
Oh childhood, blessed childhood, 
Oh bright and happy home, 
Oh verdant mead's and flower vales— 
Where fancy loves to roam. 
The crystal spring—the pleasant brook 
That wandered through the dell, 
Where I gathered pebbles many a day, 
For one I loved full well. 
These, these are “ golden memories,” 
Bright tokens of the past; 
Sweet, gushing springs of happiness 
That in my heart will last. 
Barre, N. Y., 1852. 
MY SCISSORS. 
BY FRANCIS D. GAGE. 
“ Good morning, Mrs. Wicks; hope I seo 
you well, this morning.” 
“Well, yes, pretty well, all but my hands.” 
“Your hands! What’s the matter with 
your hands; not been scalding thorn I 
hope ?” 
*• No ! worse than that; I havo got them 
all blistered up, trying to cut out tho chil¬ 
dren’s fall clothes with my old scissors; I’ve 
had ’em these ten years, and they’re just as 
dull as a hoe, and every time I cut a round¬ 
about, shirt, or pair of pants, I havo just 
such a time of it. Susau Willard is sewing 
for me now, and I wanted to get my cutting 
done while my hand was in, so I just wanted 
to see if you would not lend mo your nice 
large tailor shears, a day or two, for I won't 
do another thing with mine for a week to 
come.” 
“ Really, Mrs. Wicks, I would liko to ac¬ 
commodate you, but I am very busy with 
mine just now, cutting rags for my carpet, 
and could not possibly spare them without 
great inconvenience.” 
“ Well, I don’t know what Ill do; I can’t 
cut out any more with mine, and Susan bL.s 
only two weeks to stay. Do you know of 
any one that has a good pair ? 
“No, I do not. Would it not be better 
for you to purchase a good pair ? I could 
hardly get along without mine for a single 
day, without feeling the want of them.” 
•• What did yours cost ?’ 
“ T wo dollars and a half.” 
“Two dollars and a half—goodness ! Mr. 
Wicks would no more let mo have money to 
buy such a pair of scissors, than he’d fly.” 
“ Oh, I think you are mistaken; I havo 
always thought Mr. Wicks very indulgent.” 
“ There’s where you aro altogether mis¬ 
taken. I hardly ever ask him for money, 
but what lie says something to hurt my feel¬ 
ings, and I often do without things I really 
need, rather than have any words. Why, 
yes, to-day I asked him for money to get 
my fall trimmings for my bonnet and Ilosi- 
na’s, and it was all I could do to get it out 
of him—” 
*' How much did it require to fit your bon¬ 
nets up for winter ?” 
“ Only five dollars; it would cost ton you 
know to get us both new ones. I thought 
ho need not have complained at fixing up 
tho old ones.” 
“ And you have tho five dollars in your 
possession—” 
“ Yes, and we thought wo would get trim¬ 
mings at Grant’s. That beautiful royal 
purple with the orange edge, it’s a love of a 
ribbon, and so cheap, only seventy-five cents 
a yard.” 
“ My dear Mrs. Wicks, lot me give you a 
new idea. Would your husband complain 
if you should trim your bonnets with ribbon 
worth half that sum, and appropriate tho 
balance to the purchase of a good pair of 
scissors T 
“No, of course he would not; but who, 
I’d liko to know, is going to make them¬ 
selves the town-talk for the sake of gratify¬ 
ing a husband’s whims ?” 
“Do it to gratify yourself, to add to your 
own comfort. My bonnet, trimmings and 
all, will not cost me over one dollar and a 
half, and I don’t bolievo tho town will 
trouble itself ono bit about it. Town-talk 
or no talk, you may be sure I’ll never run 
about with my fingers in rags while I can 
save the price of a pair of scissors in one 
bonnet trimming. Now don’t be offended, 
Mrs. Wicks; I know you really think you 
can’t get along any other way than just as 
you do ; but if you will only make the effort 
to economise in your items of dress, &c., 
you will soon find yourself amply supplied 
with all these little household conveniences, 
which you seem so much to want, and my 
word for it, your husband will not make 
half the objection to furnishing money for 
usetuls that ho now does for tho purchasing 
of non-essentials.” 
“ Now, there is neighbor Ponnyman’s wife 
flourishing in a fifteen dollar crape shawl, 
but her girl complains that she has to bor¬ 
row wash-tubs, weekly, and that Mrs. P. 
says that it is all Mr. Ponnyman’s fault.” 
“ Why, Mrs. Smith, I thought you were a 
Woman’s Rights’ woman.” 
“ And so I am; but I assure you I am no 
advocato for woman's injustice and folly, 
and while I feel that the law of the land, in 
common justice, greatly oppresses woman, 
I also feel that she oftentimes greatly op¬ 
presses herself, and lays heavier burdens 
upon her own heart than sho herself is will¬ 
ing to bear, and to excuse her own foolish 
lovo of display, lays all tho blame upon her 
husband, who would willingly indulge every 
reasonable desire, and only frowns when un¬ 
generous demands are mado upon his 
means.” 
“ Well, I don’t know—Mr. Wicks seems 
more willing to give mo money for dress 
than anything else.” 
“ Is not that because ho does not feel at 
liberty to deny you any personal gratifica¬ 
tion, because he feels that lie can make you 
happier thus than in any other way ? Try 
tho experiment, Mrs. Wicks. Tell him you 
will reserve half your usual expenses for 
household conveniences, and if ho does not 
fill your purse with a moro cheerful heart, 
I am much mistaken in him. Begin on the 
scissors, and if ho makes one word of objec¬ 
tion, I will agree to change with you for a 
week, and wear my hands to blisters on 
your old ones.” 
“ Well. I’ll try this once. Good morning.” 
“ Good morning, Mrs. Wicks.” 
Mrs. Wicks went home, and when her 
husband came in to dinner, the first thing 
that attracted his attention was a beautiful 
pair of polished steel scissors, not worth 
less" than two dollars. 
“ Whose are these ? been borrowing again, 
Sarah ?” 
“No,” replied Mrs. Wicks; “I blistered 
my hands, yesterday, with my old ones, and 
I just concluded I would wear my old, last 
winter trimmings, and have me a good pair 
of scissors for my work. Don’t you think 
they are nice ones ? I thought you would 
not care how I spent my money.” Her 
voice was kinder than usual. 
“Of course not,” he replied. Nothing 
further was said. In the evening, instead 
of going out, he drew up his chair by the 
work-stand. 
“ Ain’t you going down street V said 
Rosina. 
“ No, I believe not to-night; I like the 
click of your ma’s new scissors, and if I go 
down street, I am afraid they will loso their 
pleasant tone.” 
Mrs. Wicks did not look up; her heart 
was full, for just then a little roll of “royal 
purplo with orange edge,” “cheap at seven¬ 
ty-five cents” fell into her lap. 
KEEP UP YOUR HEART. 
“ But Lady Anne, dinna be vexed for mo, 
for I’m keeping up my heart.” 
So says little Kaie Stewart in the beauti¬ 
ful story ot that name. Her lover had been 
pressed into the king’s service, and for ten 
long years she saw him not. In that time 
what doubts she must havo struggled with, 
what bitter tears shed. But bravely would 
she say from day to day, “ I will keep up 
my heart, Lady A’ n 
That’s the noble resolution for you—I will 
keep up my heart. Sorrow may press sore 
upon the soul, and the fainting spirit whis¬ 
per, it is more than I can bear; but no, says 
resolution, I will keep up my heart. 
A poor, and hard working woman died 
some years ago in a town near Boston, leav¬ 
ing a family of eight children. The oldest 
was scarce a woman—and how felt she sit¬ 
ting beside her mother’s corpse, while from 
the golden haired babe, lisping on her knee, 
to the sturdy boy weeping upon her neck— 
seven poor orphans were left wholly depend¬ 
ent upon her. 
Did sho sink beneath the thought ? Did 
she givo those little ones into the care of 
strangers, or send them to the pauper’s 
home ? Not she ; sho kept up her heart— 
untiringly she toiled after she had seen her 
dead mother laid under tho sod, and with 
but little aid she reared that family ; noble 
men and women they are to-day, and to 
what do they owe all they are ? Under 
God, to that sister, who, when the bitterest 
trials crossed her path, bravely kept up her 
heart. Heed not then the voice that would 
charm you from your duty. However often 
the cup of pleasure is dashed at your feet, 
keep up your heart. If the very waters of 
hope dry at their source, if the well becomes 
bitter, still keep up your heart. If hopes 
aro disappointed, friends prove faithless, 
and even vour own turn coldly from you, 
still keep up your heart; there is always 
some blue spot in the heavens—some little 
isle in the ocean, som'e fresh, beautiful oasis 
in the desert. Your time of triumph will 
come in God’s time; so till then keep up 
your heart.— Olive Branch. 
When a couple are now to be married 
mutual love, or union of minds, is the last 
and most trifling consideration. If their 
goods and chatties can be brought to unite, 
their sympathetic souls are ever ready to 
guarantee the treaty. Tho gentleman’s 
mortgaged lawn becomes enamored of the 
lady’s marriageable grove; the match is 
struck up, and both parties are piously in 
love — according to act of parliament.— 
Goldsmith. 
Fear is implanted in u3 as a preservative 
from evil; but its duty, like other passions, 
is not to overbear reason, but to assist it; 
nor should it be suffered to tyrannize in the 
imagination, to raise phantoms of horror, 
or beset life with supernumerary distresses. 
We should take a prudent care for the 
future, but so as to enjoy the present. It 
is no part of wisdom to be miserable to-day, 
because we may happen to be so to-mor¬ 
row. 
Fine sense and exalted sense aro not half 
as useful as common sense. 
Few are so generous as to praise without 
making some drawback. 
