97 
MOORE'S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND EMILY NEWSPAPER. 
THE PLEASURES OF SCHOOL TEACHING. 
BY A TEACHER. 
« Delightful task! to rear the tender thought; 
To teach the young idea how to shoot.” 
How sweet it is to watch the mind’s unfolding! 
To train the young thought and the guileless word; 
To see where plastic characters are mouldering— 
(“ Can I go out ?”—“ My lesson isn’t heard!”) 
Half formed ideas through the young mind flitting— 
(“Shan't George be still, marm ?”—“Joseph keeps a spit¬ 
ting !”) 
There is a throng of glad young faces round me, 
Bright with the freshness of life's eariy spring; 
And books, and slates, and maps on all sides bound me, 
(“Shan t them girls stop? they’re playing with a string!”) 
And eager looks, and minds intent on study— 
("Jim pushed me down, and got my books all muddy!”) 
No shade of earthly sorrow e’er has clouded 
Their brief, bright lives, so innocent and fair— 
(“Please marm make John move down! my seat is crowd¬ 
ed!”) 
No grief nor sadness—(“ Sammy pulled my hair 1”) 
Existence is to them all sunny weather— 
( ( ‘ Gill’s been a pinchiu’!”—“ No I haven’t nether!”) 
A precious charge to me has been intrusted, 
The guidance of each young, immortal mind— 
(« Can’t write with this steel pen ! it’s got all rusted!”) 
To nourish gentle thoughts and feelings kind, 
To lead them in the path which Heaven pleases— 
(“ My spelling book has got all tore to pieces!”) 
Oh ! for more strength! more gentleness of spirit! 
More wisdom in the better way to guide— 
(.< I've got my lesson now! Oh, please to hear it!”) 
More patience to endure when “ills betide !” 
(“Jim Taylor's give my arm a dreadful twist!”) 
Oh such confusion! school may be—dismissed. 
WEBSTER AND WIRT. 
For the Rural New-Yorker. 
TIIE MUSIC OF A CHILD. 
There 
ours, more 
is nothing in this wide world of 
musical than the laugh of a 
child. Its fair, open brow has not been 
darkened by the cares of after life. The 
glance of its loving eyo lias not been dim¬ 
med with the How of tears. Its confidence 
has rrot been botrayed, nor its affections 
blighted. But its merry laugh springs from 
the overflow of kindly feelings. Moore 
un lerstood this, when ho said : 
“ The laugh of a child—of a child in the street— 
Is sweeter by far than the viol’s sweet tone ; 
And it comes, with the clangor of hurrying feet, 
And leaves me here musing and dreaming alone. 
I love it—I love it—the laugh of a child; 
I love the sweet music that comes to mo now : 
And though other music my care has beguiled, 
’Tvvas uot like the child's, with a frank, open brow.” 
The individual is deserving of pity, who 
does not love the artless ways and merry 
music of a child. Such an ono has but a 
cold, unfeeling breast at best; and is a 
stranger to those finer feelings that throb 
in the breast of the true man. The nobler 
qualities of the heart are dead, and do not 
warm his soul with generous emotions. 
But to a gentler nature, the music of a 
child wakes the best sympathies of his heart, 
and warms his soul into a better apprecia 
tion of life’s enjoyments. lie can under¬ 
stand its unexprossed joy, and sympathize 
with its sorrows, which to other oyos may 
soom as trifles, unworthy of attention. Give 
us a homo, whoro shall bo heard the ringing 
laugh of childhood, and the fairy music of 
artloss childron. w. E. k 
There is a peculiar and striking differ¬ 
ence between the English and Irish states¬ 
man. The former uses the flowers of rheto¬ 
ric and power of Logic only to convoy gi’eat 
practical truths. The latter makes use of 
those truths as a foundation for oratorical 
display. Tho greatest speech ever deliver¬ 
ed by an English statesman, was about 
bread ! Tho greatest ever uttered by an 
Irish patriot, was upon tho abstract rights 
and woes of Ireland. 
The difference alluded to exists in Ameri¬ 
can oratory. Tho Northern statesman liko 
tho English, speaking for a purpose; the 
Southern, like the Irish, speaking for effect. 
The style of Webstor and Wirt are oppo¬ 
sites. Ono massive, grand, original and pe¬ 
culiar; tho other, light, airy sympathetica! 
Wirt, in the fairy-liko gorgeousness of his 
stylo, built his orations in perfect proportion 
from the foundation to tho turret. All was 
symmetry, all was happy harmony. There 
was no fault, or blemish, or absence of grace, 
or presenco of presumption, to mar the ef¬ 
fect of that oxquisito harmony which, blend¬ 
ing with tho melody of his genius, mado 
evei’ything beautiful and dramatic which he 
touched. IIo finished as ho fashioned ; he 
polished as he progressed. The edifico of 
his mind grew graceful under his efforts. 
Exquisite and perfect detail kept paco with 
his construction. A thousand pillars, nich¬ 
es and minutely wrought passages filled the 
inner temple. Elaborately ho engraved mo¬ 
mentary reflection upon tho passing thought. 
He spoke. He enlarged.. IIo beautified, 
and after his prolific imagination had done 
its work, the airy edifice stood revealed, so 
fragile and so fair it seemed that any con¬ 
tact would contaminate it, and any rudo en¬ 
counter prostrate it to the earth. 
Webster, like a groat giant ongagod in the 
construction of his castlo, with his massivo 
and gigantic mind, would place, now here, 
now^thore, a huge block of ungainly granite 
Tho foundation is rough ; gi’eat masses of 
thought aro thrown roughly on tho earth, 
as if by chance. And so the building grows 
at first rudo, then gloomy, until in the wild¬ 
est grandour of nature, it overawes and sub¬ 
dues tho mind. The cdifico of Vv irt is like 
templos of ancient Grecian grace. The 
monuments of Webster liko the pyramids. 
In departing years tho former with all their 
gracefulness aro lost in tho distanco. The 
latter in their sublimity seem to grow moro 
sublime, as their outlines strike the sky.—- 
The language of Wirt moved the sensibili¬ 
ties of his hearers. Tho words of Webster 
sunk into the hearts and memories of man¬ 
kind, stirring them in their profoundost 
depths. Tho mind associates with Wirt his 
smooth open brow, curling locks, and words 
of warm, poetic fondness or playfulness.— 
Wo seem to see in Webster the ideal of tho 
God-like and sublime. Upon tho horizon 
of tho past, present, and future, we bohold 
his form, standing as it wero upon the verge 
of eternity, with those superhuman eyes 
fixed on heaven. Wo sco at histeet strewn 
as wrecks, the fragments of some great work. 
Wo seo in his grasp the onsign of our liber¬ 
ties and our Constitution. From his grave 
wo hear the echo of his patriotic prayer.— 
Cotton Plant. 
LOVE-LETTERS. 
The first love-lottor is an epoch in love’s 
happy season — it makes assurance doubly 
sure — that which has hitherto only found 
utterance in sweet and hurried words, now 
seems to take a more tangiblo existence, 
lovo-lettcr is a proof how doarly, oven in 
absence, you are remembered. Wo once 
hoard a young friend regret her approaching 
marriage, bocauso she would then receive 
no moro charming notes. Alas ! tho charm 
ing notes aro not the only charming things 
that are no moro. But a lovo-letter ! how 
much of life’s most perfect happiness do 
these words contain ! With what anxiety is 
it expected ! with what delight it is roceivod ! 
it seems almost too great a pleasure to open 
it. Suddenly we mock ourselves for the 
charming delay—tho seal is hastily broken 
the contents eagerly devoured; then it is 
read slowly, dwelling on every sentence to 
lengthen out its enjoyments; how sweet 
does overy little word of endearment ap 
pear ! —what importance is attached to tho 
turn of phrase ! Through tho whole day, 
with what a caro it is road over, and at night 
its contents mingle with our dreams ! We 
often wonder, when wo seo people settled 
down in that cold calmness, too often the 
atmosphere around tho domestic hearth 
whether they ever recall tho words they 
used to say, and the letters they used to 
writo ! Would those letters appear absurd 
or exaggerated or would they for a moment 
bring back tho old feeling, or, at all events 
tender regret for its departure ? 
THE FARMER’S DAUGHTER. 
A BIT OF ROMANCE. 
I have often triod to catch tho murmur¬ 
ing of falling snow. Not when tho flakes 
dance and frolic in the dim air, as if parti¬ 
cipating in tho glee of youthful anticipation, 
but when they soberly and unitedly swoop 
from the sky, like a vast shroud to wrap na¬ 
ture in her necessary reposo. It reminds 
me of tho inlluenco of sympathy and affec¬ 
tion on the heart. Behold how nature’s 
rough out line is softened ! IIow ovei’y ab¬ 
rupt feature is mellowed, and tho bare, stript 
trees made lovely in their white array.— 
So on tho sterner phases of human charac¬ 
ter, tenderness and love oxoroise their gen¬ 
tle power, softening incongruities, and har¬ 
monizing jarring elements or else wrapping 
thorn in the subduing veil of Charity. 
About six years ago, a Dr. II-, having 
become involved in debt, loft his homo and 
wife in another State, for Texas, for tho 
purpose of improving his fortunes in a place 
whero ho would be free from tho demands 
of clamorous croditors. In the course ot 
time ho went with the army to Mexico, and 
finally wended his way to California. Alter 
rosiding there some time, he met a young 
man from the place of his former residence, 
who, however, no did not know, and inquired 
of him if he knew his wife, whom ho des¬ 
cribed, without, however, tolling him tho re¬ 
lation ho bore to her. The young man re¬ 
plied that Mrs. Ii-was his sistor, and the 
last ho hoard of her, she was in St. Louis. 
After accumulating a competence, Dr. II— 
left for St. Louis, for the purpose of seeking 
his wife, who had long since given him up 
as dead. 
In St. Louis he learned that she had left 
that place some time previously, and was 
believed to bo in Now Albany. Ho came 
hithor, and upon inquiry learned that she 
was earning a livelihood by sowing. IIo 
learned that she believed her brother to bo 
doad, not having heard from him for many 
years. Dr. II-wont to tho’house whero 
Ue understood his wifo was living, but found 
she bad left there a few days before. Ho 
inquired about her general conduct and de¬ 
meanor, and found that it had always been 
unexceptionable. She spoke but little ot 
her husband, but told evory ono that she 
considered him dead. Tho lady of whom 
Dr. II-was making inquiries discovered 
that he was tho long lost husband, and of¬ 
fered to accompany him to the house whore 
she was sowing. 
Upon arriving there, she said to her, “ Mrs. 
II-, here is a gentleman who saw your 
brother in California.” She appeared as¬ 
tonished, looked at tho visitor, but appar¬ 
ently did not recognize him. Ho brushed 
back his hair, and said quickly, “Eliza, don’t 
you know me?’ Mrs. H-immediately 
swooned away, and fell on the floor. In tho 
same moment a husband and brother, both 
supposed to be dead, were restored to her. 
Dr. H-. as wo have said, has returned 
with a competence, and tho supposed widow, 
it is presumed, will no longer sow for a 
livelihood. 
Tho above statement, wo aro assured, is 
strictly correct. Hero is a scene in real 
lifo equal in strangeness to any to which 
romance over gave birth.— JYew Albany 
(Iiul.) Ledger. 
Let no ono bo weary of rendering good 
offices; for by obliging others, wo aro really 
kind to ourselves. 
(Concludedfrom paye 100, lids number.) 
“ Mrs. Parsons will seo you now: she 
wishes it.” 
She held out her hand to him, as if to 
lead him gently to the room, involuntarily, 
and he took it respectfully, but his heart 
beat faster than before, when he felt her 
soft and trembling hand within his. As he 
approached tho bedside, the widow held out 
her hand to him, and thanked him with a 
naivette which started tears from his eyes. 
“ You are very kind and noble,” she said, 
“ and Alico too, God bless you both ! ’ 
A thrill ran through his heart as she said, 
“ God bless you both!” And he told her 
that she should never suffer—that Ellen 
should not, while ho had a dollar, and that 
ho had wealth, and what was wealth good 
for if not to help tho deserving ! As ho 
said this Ellen entered the room. She had 
been trying to sleep, but looked sadder than 
ever. 
“ And this Ellen” said Charles, softly and 
respectfully, “ she shall with yourself always 
havo friends and happiness.” 
Sho looked up sadly, at him. as if to say 
“No! no moro happiness.” Her pathetic 
face almost startled him, and he bade them 
all adieu, for tears wero running down his 
cheeks. 
When ho had entered tho parlor at Mr. 
Withers, tho Misses Anno and Sarah accost¬ 
ed him as to his rido and the state of Mrs. 
Parsons. 
“ She is very ill—poor woman,” ho re¬ 
plied, and that was all. He did not feel in 
the mood for idle talk. 
“ And Alice Neil, how did you fancy her?” 
“ She is very good to Mrs. Parsons and 
Ellen,” ho replied. 
“ Some people make a great show of do¬ 
ing good for the name of the thing,” replied 
Anne. 
“ And other folks,” said Henry Withers, 
just ontering tho room, “and other folks 
neither make the show nor the reality, nev¬ 
er do any good or pretend to do so.” 
It was in vain that Anne and Sarah ques¬ 
tioned Charles ; he had the good sense not 
to betray the state of his heart to them.— 
Almost every day he met Alico, either at 
the parsonage or at her father’s, and grad¬ 
ually ho discovered tho wealth of pure love 
that lay in her heart. Gradually they be¬ 
came intimato, and learned to love each 
other, but not a word had been spoken of 
love, nor was there a person in the village 
of s-who thought them lovers, nor did 
they think themselves so. 
One beautiful July morning, as Charles 
camo down into tho breakfast room at Mr. 
Withers, Henry said: 
“Mrs. Parsons is dead, Charles.” 
“ Dead !” ho replied with sorrow and as¬ 
tonishment, “ dead?—when did sho die?” 
“ Last night, at about midnight.” 
“ Alas, for poor, poor Ellen !” he said and 
tears ran from his oyes. 
“ She has no money, nor friends—where 
will she go?” said Anne. 
“ Sho is rich in friends,” said Charles, in¬ 
dignantly ; “ and as for money, I will share 
mino with her before she shail suffer.” 
Tho proud Anno was discomfited to hear 
him talk so, for sho had sat her heart upon 
winning the elegant, wealthy and noble 
Charles Davenport, and all once softened 
her heart towards tho orphan child of the 
old pastor. 
After breakfast, Charles rode over to the 
house of the dead. It was a fair, still, beau¬ 
tiful morning, yet tho very birds were silent. 
Tho parsonago as ho stopped before it seem¬ 
ed deserted. Ho entered tho drawing room, 
no one was there, but in a moment Alice 
came in with her face pale and anxious, and 
tears standing in her sweet bluo eyes. 
“ Dead !” ho said with sorrow, as he rose 
and took her hand, “ and poor Ellen.” 
There is something in sorrow which makes 
young hearts yearn to love each other strong¬ 
er than before; and Alice trembled, but did 
not start away when ho kissed her forehead 
and said : 
“ It shall be ours to lovo Ellen, and to 
cheer her stricken heart. And whero is 
she?” ho asked. 
“ Sho is asleep, poor thing ! I thought it 
would kill her to see her mothor die—it did 
almost. You know how for nights she has 
not slept, and now all is over, from mere 
exhaustion sho is in a deep, almost too deep 
sleep.” 
“ And do you think she will survive her 
mother long? Does she not already look as 
if she must soon dio?’’ 
“I fear so, at timos,” ropliod Alico, “but 
sho is young, and perhaps you will think me 
ogotist, but I think she loves me very much, 
and if I lovo her liko a sister and watch ovor 
her. sho may live and be happy yet.” 
Two days after, and tho whole village 
followed tho remains of tho old pastor’s 
widow to the grave. Everybody had lovod 
her while alivo, and mourned her now that 
sho was dead. 
There is always something peculiarly 
touching about a country funeral, where all 
the neighbors gather together and follow 
tho corpse to its final home, while the sol¬ 
emn village boll tolls mournfully; but this 
scene was sadder than any of tho villagers 
had witnessed since tho old pastor’s death. 
It was tho custom then and is now in that 
placo, to open the coffm-lid at the grave, and 
let all present take a last look, and last ot 
all the relations gaze upon tho face of tho 
departed, and tho dearest friend of the de¬ 
ceased folds down the muslin over the dead 
face, and shuts it away from human sight 
forever. Tho custom is a strange, almost 
cruel ono, but is still a custom in many parts 
of New England. When tho coffin rested 
beside the opon grave, the lid was raised, 
and one by ono of the villagers looked upon 
tho widow’s faco, some with tears and sobs, 
some without any visible emotion, though 
they wero few. 
Charles Davenport stood not far from 
Ellen, who was leaning upon Alice in a state 
of wild sorrow. He walked up to tho coffin 
with Anno Withers upon his arm ; she gazed 
down upon that placid face, for through all 
tho sorrow of tho countenance there gleam¬ 
ed a look of holy happiness, without a tear. 
But Charles burst into a flood of tears as he 
looked upon the touchingly beautiful face 
beforo him, and thought of her sufferings 
and Ellon’s bitter sorrow. 
Ellon came last, leaning upon the farmer’s 
daughter, kind Alice, who would not lot 
her*g° up alone to take the last— last look. 
Her face was very palo and sorrowful, and 
as she reached the coffin-side, she sank upon 
her knees. There was a look of agony in¬ 
tense and bitter upon her face, and the tears 
ran down like rain from her eyes. She 
kissed the white forehead, and stretched out 
her trembling hand to replace tho muslin 
over her mother’s face. It was more than 
sho could bear, for throwing herself into 
Alice's arms and whispering, “ I cannot! I 
I cannot!” sho fainted away. Charles was 
at her side in an instant, and covering up 
that sorrowful yot sweet dead face, bore El¬ 
len away to fresh air and cool water. The 
lid was shut, and tho coffin lowered into the 
grave; a few remarks, which sounded 
strangely cold, made by the fashionable 
young clergyman, and the people turned 
away to their homes. 
It was in vain that Anna Withers waited 
for Charles ; ho and Alice had borne Ellen 
to the farmer’s home, and were doing all 
that they could to softon her agonizing sor¬ 
row. In the evening ho came back to Mr. 
Withers’, but started the next day for ever, 
in a few days. He told his father all that 
bad happened while ho was gone, and with 
all tho enthusiasm of his nature pictured 
Alice Neil to them, with her beauty and 
grace, and education too, and moro than all 
her love and kindness. 
“And you love Alico, Charles !” said his 
mother. He said nothing but blushed scar¬ 
let. 
“ Go and win her if you can,” said his 
father; Lve shall love her for her gentlo vir¬ 
tues and herself, as well as for your sake.— 
She may be humbly born, but she is nobler 
and far more worthy than those rich and 
fashionable women who live but to rido in 
their carriages and look coldly down upon 
tho virtuous poor!” 
When Charles was again in tho village of 
S-.he went at once to farmer Neil’s. 
Jur % IeMcs, 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
SUNNY DAYS. 
How sunny are our childhood's days, 
How full of life and glee,— 
A halo beams o’er all our ways. 
Our hearts how light and free : 
Unfetter’d as a bird on wing 
Our happy spirits bound. 
Nor dream that time can ever bring 
A note of sorrow’s sound. 
How bright all nature to our view. 
Its every change a charm— 
The siiv’ry stars, the shies so blue, 
The summer days so warm : 
The pearly streams, the tiny brooks, 
The woods and forests wild— 
How dear were then their quiet nooks, 
How oft tiie hours beguiled. 
And Autumn with its faded flow’rs 
And leaves of varied hue, 
* Brings still its joys for weary hours, 
Its sports so fresh and new— 
And Winter with its chilling winds, 
And frost, and hail, and snow, 
Hath visions bright to youthful minds 
Of pleasure s ruddy glow. 
The seasons each with equal zest 
Amusements gay impart, 
Where dwells content within the breast 
And sunshine in the heart: 
Our childhood’s wishes are but few, 
To make life glad and bright— 
In later years we oft pursue, 
In vain, the hidden light. 
Rochester, March, 1853. A: 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
MY COUSIN HELEN. 
Alice and Ellen were together in the parlor, 
the former looking sweetly beautiful, and 
the latter, though sad, yet more cheerful 
than he had ever seen her. As if guessing 
tho object of his visit, Ellen arose in a little 
while to go out. The color crimsoned the 
chebk of Alice as she tried in vain to detain 
her—and they were alone. 
I will not describo whatfollo'wed. A half 
hour afterwards, Charles left the farm bouse 
the happiest fellow in -: and Alice 
with her cheeks very red, her eyes full of 
happy tears, entered the kitchen in search 
of Ellen. 
“What is the matter, Ally?” asked her 
father. “ Has young Davenport been mal 
ing love to you? He should have better 
manners than to try to rob me of my bird I’ 
Her cheeks flushed redder than ever, and 
sho looked almost painted. Ellen sprang to 
her side, and looked beseechingly into the 
old farmer’s face, and he added— 
“ Ally, I am joking—you may love whom 
you choose—I shall never complain.” 
“But, father—if—it—I love him!” said 
Alice, softly and tremblingly. 
‘ Why, you would love a noble fellow 
and if ho loved you, the world would say 
you had maried very high, but* good and 
noble as he is, Ally, you are worthy of him.” 
The next day Charles explained all to tho 
father. 
Months passed away, and thoy were mar¬ 
ried ; and now Alico is the mistress of a 
beautiful home which she graces more 
beautifully than ever Anno or Sarah With 
ers could do. Sho is loved by old Mr. and 
Mrs. Davenport. She and Charles spend 
tho warm dog-days always with her father 
in S-, and are happy. Ellen is with 
thorn like a sister, growing more beautiful, 
though there is a sadness in her blue eyes, 
at times, which only makes her beauty the 
more touching to see. She is a favorite with 
many wealthy people, but her gentleness 
makes her also loved by the poor. Sho re¬ 
members the kindness of friends when she 
was poor—old Mr. Davenport has mado her 
wealthy, and is kind always to those who 
are as he onco was. 
THE TYRANTS OF THE HOUSEHOLD. 
And so it is, and for his rule over his fami¬ 
ly and for his conduct to wife and children I pv by whom she was surrounded 
How strange is human life. What a mys¬ 
terious link in the great chain of being, is 
our earthly existence. We live, wo die.— 
Oh, what weighty responsibilities, what 
solemn thoughts do these words suggest. 
Various are tho scenes that cluster around 
life’s pathway. Some are bright and radiant 
with beauty, casting a holy and lovely sen¬ 
sation over the soul; some are dark and sad, 
whose melancholy influence is sorely felt. 
We live amid smiles and tears, amid joys 
and sorrows. The things of earth are tran¬ 
sient. What we most cherish, what we most 
love, is soon torn from us. Tho flower 
blooms in beauty, unfolds its rich colors to 
the sunlight, breathes its soft fragrance upon 
tho air, withers, and dies. The loved, tho 
pure, the good, in whom our affections 
centre, thus wither and die. They fade 
from our sight, and their forms are seen on 
earth no more. Though they have laid aside 
the earthly tenement, and gone to join the 
choir that tune their harps to celestial mel¬ 
ody, they “ still live.” They hold a sacred 
place in our hearts. To their remembrance 
our holiest and purest hours are given. 
How sad yet calm and holy quiet steals 
over mo, as my mind recalls the form of one 
now slumbering in the grave. Yes, methinks 
I now seo that youthful form, that light, 
elastic step, and hear the rich melody of 
that gentle voice. The eyo, in itself a soul, 
boamed with angelic light. The innocent 
and lovely expression of that youthful coun¬ 
tenance, mado a deep impress on the heart. 
And then so good was every motive, so full 
of thought and feeling was every action^ 
that none could but love. 
I saw her, day by day, as she grew up 
from tho little child, and burst into lovely 
womanhood. All our fond anticipations, 
centered in infancy, were now dawning into 
realization. She was tho soul, the life, tho 
light of tho circle in which she moved.— 
How many a saddened heart has been calmed 
by her soothing words of consolation. How 
many poor and afflicted ones have implored 
blessings upon her, for her numberless deeds 
of kindness. 
Sho stood before the altar and yielded up 
her heart’s best affections to one by whom 
she was tenderly loved. Now she was to act 
in a different sphere. The future appeared 
all bright and beautiful. She seemed to 
live not for herself, but to render those hap- 
But how 
—subjects over whom his power is mon¬ 
archical—any one who watches tho world 
must think with trembling, sometimes of the 
account which many a man will havo to ren¬ 
der. For in our society there’s no law to 
control tho King of tho Fireside. IIo may 
kill a wifo gradually, and be no more ques¬ 
tioned than the grand seignor who drowns 
a slave at midnight. He may make slaves 
and hypocrites of his children ; or friends 
and freemen ; or drive them into revolt and 
enmity against tho natural law of love. I 
have heard politicians and coffee-house wise¬ 
acres talking over the newspaper, and rail¬ 
ing at tho tyranny of the French King, and 
the Emperor, and wondered how these (who 
aro monarchs, too, in their way,) govern 
their own dominions at home, where each 
man rules absolute! When the annals of 
each little region aro shown to the Suprome 
Master, under whom we hold sovereignty, 
histories will be laid bare of household ty¬ 
rants as cruel as Amurath and as savage as 
Nero, and as reckless and dissolute as 
Charles.— 'Thackeray’s Esmond. 
One great and kindling thought from a 
retired and obscure man, may live when 
thrones aro fallen and tho memories of those 
who filled thorn obliterated, and, like an un¬ 
dying fire, may illuminate, and quicken all 
future generations. 
fragile aro human hopes, how disappointed 
are human expectations ! Death, the fell- 
destroyer, entered the happy home and cut 
down a lovely victim. 
I stood beside the death-bed. The roses 
had fled from the cheek, and the color from 
tho lips. Tho eye once bright and animated 
was dim, and its cold, feeble gaze, plainly 
told that its fires were going out. That 
fair, pale forehead, around which the bright 
curls had clustered, was now cold with the 
dews of death. The accents of that gentle 
and harmonious voice wero now feeble—the 
last faint breathings of a departing spirit. 
Yet how calm, how quiet, how contented 
was that suffering one. No regret was heard 
save for those sho left behind. Angels 
hovered over that death-couch, and bore the 
ransomed spirit to its Maker. 
Wo followed Helen to the tomb and placed 
her mortal remains in the cold, narrow grave. 
Wo hallowed it by our tears. And when 
we turned away from that spot which con¬ 
tained our buried lovo, our hearts bled 
afresh. But wo were comforted by tho well 
assured hope, that she, who had been so 
kind and good on earth, was now a saint in 
Heaven. a. j. a. 
Rochester, March 7,1853. 
