MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
WINDOW GLIMPSES. 
BY H. W. PARKER. 
THE SEASON. 
No more the tulips hold their torches up, 
And chestnuts silver candelebra hear. 
The Spring, dethroned, has left her festive cup 
Of honey-dew, and other blosoms flare 
To light another feast with tinted glare. 
Summer has ta’en the scepter, and the trees 
In low obeisance bow their weight of green ; 
The locusts bloom with swarms of snowy bees 
That make the fragrant branches downward lean; 
Each snow-ball bush with full blown moons is hung, 
And all around, like red suns setting low, 
Lai ge peonies shed a burning crimson glow-, 
While—worlds of foliage on the shoulders swung 
Of Atlantean trunks—the orchards darkly grow. 
THE DISTRICT SCHOOL. 
Yon crowded school—small beer too closely pent— 
Bursts from the open door with sudden pop. 
And drowns the street in foaming merriment. 
They run and roll, they tumble, jump and hop— 
A bodied shout, each bubble of a boy— 
Each girl a rainbow-colored, dancing drop 
Of careless, happy, loving, laughing joy! 
Bright children 1 through your freer lips and limbs, 
Nature for tier great gladness finds a vent, 
While we, encased in custom’s iron whims, 
And raised on manhood's stilts, are children still, 
But feel the boy within us slow-Iy die. 
As slowly grows the angel there—until 
We fledge our wings, at death, to seek the freer sky. 
[New York 'Fribune. 
> THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN. 
) John Foster, in his essay “ On a Man’s 
| writing Memoirs of Himself,” truthfully re- 
> marks that “ places and things which have 
an association with any of the events or 
feelings of past life, will greatly assist the 
recollection of them. A man of strong as¬ 
sociations, finds memories of himself already 
traced on tho places where ho has convers¬ 
ed with happiness or misery. If an old man 
wished to animate, for a moment, tho lan¬ 
guid and faded ideas which he retains of his 
youth, he might walk with his crutch across 
the green, where ho once played with com¬ 
panions, who are now laid to repose prob¬ 
ably in another green spot not far off. An 
aged saint may meet again some of tho af¬ 
fecting ideas of his early piety, in tho place 
where ho first found it happy to pray. A 
walk in a meadow; the sight of a bank of 
flowers—perhaps oven of some ono flower; 
a landscape with tho tints of autumn; the 
descent into a valley; the brow of a moun¬ 
tain ; tho house where a friend has been 
met, or has resided, or has died ; have often 
produced a much more lively recollection of 
our past feelings, and of the objects and 
events which caused them, than the most 
perfect description could have done; and 
we have lingered a considerable time for tho 
pensive luxury of thus resuming tho long- 
departed state.” 
These sentiments were powerfully im¬ 
pressed upon my mind, a few months ago. 
on revisiting my natal homo after years of 
absence. On ono of those mentally clear 
days, when we can look back tho farthest. 
I repaired to tho old house in which I was 
born—now in the hands of a stranger and 
standing a little way off the homestead.— 
Tho front door faces tho west instead of the 
south, as it did when the house was origin¬ 
ally built; and. on entering it, I was at first 
troubled to make things within look natural. 
Indeed nothing could be made to appear 
just as it did when last I stood within the 
old mansion: hut memory and imagination 
were active,and events which occurred there 
in my early youth, wero re-called, and per¬ 
sons who have been in tho gravo for long, 
long years, stood before me. As I entered, 
I saw my grandfather sitting by the front 
door, with tho noontide beams of the sun 
sleeping on tho leaves of his open Bible, as 
it lay across his lap; I saw my grandmother 
spinning flax, and hoard her singing a pious 
hymn as she sat, with her glasses on, besido 
the wheel: tho good man who came from 
Virginia, when I was but fivo or six years 
old, and died of tho consumption at my 
father’s house, was still lying in tho bed¬ 
room, with his heavenly look on, and wait¬ 
ing patiently for tho angel to come with a 
shining robe; little Ann Maria, who died 
at the age of ono month, was sleeping in 
death,as she slept thirty years ago; and my 
mother was in her robes, just as she reposod 
on that beautiful yet sorrowful morning in 
June, 1826 ! IIow true it is, as the author 
of “A Journal of Summer Timo in the 
Country,”* remarks, that, “affection has its 
pure crystal, never-stained, or broken, ex¬ 
cept in death. Tho hand and the mirror 
fall together. On this bright surface of 
love’s remembrance, wo behold our friends 
with tho clearness of natural faces reflected 
in a glass; and we see them in connection 
with the parting, closing scone. That room 
may have crumbled bofore tho hammer, or 
tho saw—its furnituro may be scattered or 
destroyed — but for us all things remain as 
they were. Not a chair has been removed; 
*IJev. Robert Aris Willmott, “incumbent of Bear- 
Wood, Berks;” author, also, of “Jeremy Taylor, a Bi¬ 
ography.” 
not a fold of drapery has been rumpled by is part of an outline of proportion—destroy- 
time.” big what nothing can restore, from a mere 
Both of my grand parents diod and wore non ' re cognition of any mans property in 
• j • ^ i , . more than the fuel of a tree—is a thumb- 
bm ted in my absence; hence, they wero not and _ finger Fourth of July which I must ven- 
associated with death; but all those whom ture to wish somewhat abated. The young 
I had seen shrouded in that house, appear- gontlemen, of course, intended no especial 
ed before mo in waxen stiffness, as I enter- annoyance to me. I would have spoken to 
ed the rooms wherein they breathed their the , m on tbe subject—but they would have 
, . n ,, T „ i understood it as an economy of fire-wood, 
last. By tho power of imagination I called The Iiberty they take is part of a national 
them back to life and to tho dear old house habit ot mind. It is a pimple on the noso 
again, and could almost hear them speak to °f the republic, which must be reached by 
mo. In a brief period, however, the vision physicking through public opinion—not so 
faded-thoy were gone once more; and I rudely P Ick ? d b >V lny ° ne - i , nd j v u iduaI as to 
was alnnA ,lm)L,n™ *»,« p,,.* ™ ake » pock-mark memorial of his name- 
faded—they were gone once more; and I rui , e y P lc "f 
, ,. L , , ,, , ^ ’ make a pock-n 
was left alone to challenge tho 1 ast for his Home Journal 
Jowels: - 
“ Thine, for a space, are they— DRAW 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last; 
Thy gates shall yet give way, It is not WOl 
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past! every unneceSS 
All that of good and fair moie chanco t 
Has gone into thy womb, from earliest time, Ulay demand O 
Shall then come forth, to wear tion. Just Sta 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. English, and le 
m, , , ... , conclusions, an 
They have not perished—no! 
Kind words, remembred voices, once so sweet, Draw it mild 
Smiles, radiant long ago, than overstate 
And features, the great soul’s apparent seat. with an additio 
DRAW IT MILD, CHARLEY! 
All shall come hack; each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again; 
Alone shall evil die, 
And sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign.” 
Buffalo, N. Y., June, 1853. J. C. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THOUGHTS ON A BIRD'S NEST. 
With what wonder and admiration do we 
i ooviiio, \uui l! v iius uuiisuiiiaie iiypo- 
witness tho skill of the bird in forming its crites.” Better leave a little something to 
nest; each species having a way of its own. ■ ty next timo. The best of hens won’t lay 
and a way that it understands even hotter w 'thout a nest egg. Leavo one good sound- 
than ho who has learned a trade until he i> ^P® rIative ia the inkstand whon you 
called a perfect master of his art. It is a 
pleasant sight to see them so busy and ac¬ 
tive, some bringing hair and wool, others 
Draw it mild, Charley! it takes less time, 
it saves invention, it will spare you some 
hours of headache, and, in the course of half 
oumu uiuiguig ihxil aiiu wuui, UtlUjlS wuu, vuowuioo yi uciil 
twigs and moss,and twining them so nicelv a df ! ze J?. ^ ears ’ ^ be P rice °* a copy ot Web- 
. , , - , , ., , , , , . sters Dictionary, 
with no tool but the beak, and yet carrying rw • * Yu. , , , ,.. 
. . ^ J J * Draw it mild. Charley! greator things are 
their little structure forward to completion *■- ’ ■' ’ • ■ - - • 
--i-- to happen than have yet transpired—richer 
exact in every part and serving admirably murders, more desolating fires, more de- 
for the purpose intendod. Man with the s tructive floods, more terrific accidents, 
nicest implements that art can furnish could 111010 tremendous explosions than have yet 
not thus easily form such a house. Neither tr ‘ ins P'’ e ’ on t pile up ad the agony to- 
, . ,. / , * day. You know how carel jss wa are, how 
has tho bird any*teacher save tho innate reckless of life, how rash in purpose, how- 
power that directs it. headlong in rushing onward. We have 
Although there is so much that is beauti- wk(de volumes yet to write of horrible de- 
ful about the nest, our curiosity is no les« fads and startling developments, it we livo 
i • . r ^ „ . to watch this crazy old world much longer, 
excited. by tho inmates of tins wonderful Do „., , et „ waste ill our tri-syllabics before 
habitation. Tho constant watching and tho steam is fairly up. We’ve got to hurl a 
tonder caro manifested by tho parent bird, 'teal of indignation at evil-doers yet—let us 
for the welfare of its little onos, are truly bo a choice of our ammunition. Our 
surprising, and here a great lesson may 1 e rulminatlons Wl11 be required m many quar- 
. ,,,, s ters Y et - let °s not waste our thunder- 
taught those with human understanding, in Don’t make too “ awful a conflagration ” out 
the duties of parental affection ! O, that 
some who profess to be guided by reason 
might look hero and learn, for the heart is 
too often pained by the exhibition of feel¬ 
ings. in which there is not manifested even 
a moiety of the tenderness shown by the 
bird. 
If an idle boy come near their treasure, 
what an anxiety is manifested in their fiut- 
terings and chirpings, whilst they lose not 
the sight of the objects of their care till 
<>f a burning shanty—you know that all this 
wicked world is to be burned up yet.— JY. 
Y. Times. 
DISCIPLINE OF SOLITUDE. 
It is interesting to notice, in the Scrip¬ 
ture biographies, what part solitudo has in 
tho formation of character. Abraham goes 
forth from his homo and dwells in a strange 
land, a pilgrim and a sojourner. Thus his 
faith grew by living alone with God and ho 
became the father of all them that believe. 
O - - —j - ~ v,» viiou VrCfelU till t»U tUUUl tlitfiL UvJUU V U. 
fears of danger are past. With what cour- dac °b pursues a lonely journey on foot, and 
i i . « , sltJAnfi in tlia oil ___ 
age are their timid breasts fired, to defend 
sleeps in the field all night! heaven is open¬ 
ed to him, and ho vows a vow, which with 
ii w • i;x..i ^ > i j „ ou io iiiiii- ana no vows a vow. wnich with 
then iittlo onos when danger roallv assfiils • 1 • i i • 1 , ? . 
., c _ . f IWdiiy assails tho vision, decides his whole future life.— 
them. Self-preservation is then lost sight Moses is a shepherd; he leads his flock to 
of and their whole energy and stratagem 
exerted to defend their nestlings. 
the backside of the desert, and there ho 
comes to Horeb, and sees the burning bush. 
And it is amusing when they have become and b * s sodtai T meditations and corn- 
much fledged that the nest, will rnonio ° wl th God, is prepared for hisevent- 
so much fledged that the nost will no long- 
or hold them, and when they are tempted 
rul work. Elijah was the son of the desert. 
David had great experience of caves, and 
to make their first experiment at flying.— dens, and holes in the rock. David’s son, 
Perhaps their first attempt dashes them to ar ! d ^ avid s k 01 ' d must be driven into tho 
the ground where they remain lon«- in fear 'yi 1 d° rness > a °d be with the wild beasts be- 
but re-assured by tho encouraeoments of ,oro , l ; BCim P™ aBh - 
,, . , . , J * .““gomems oi apostles were taken from the solitary and 
the parent birds, they are induced again contemplative employment of fishers; and 
to make tho venturo, when in a Iittlo while John the Baptist lived in the wilds of Judea, 
their efforts are crowned with the highest or . 1 tbe l° cust a ud wild honey, covered only 
success, and they are enabled to rejoice T-'l-’ tbe , sba "Sy c ^ oth 0<? camel’s hair, so 
m 1 ^ J . dittereut from any fabric known to us bv 
, 1 , . c gad soarings else- that name, his waist girded by no belt from 
where, and the home which for a time was Tyre, or scarf from Persia, but with aleath- 
the centre of all their bird-joys, is now the ern thong. 
ce J _ , l i • i* r PU«_ * xl_ _ 
“ deserted bird’s nest.” e. ii. w. 
AN AMERICAN HABIT. 
And— speaking of greon leaves—I have 
There, in those wilds, from the com¬ 
mencement of his youth till near tho age of 
thirty, his parents, who were well stricken 
in years before he was born, being in all 
probability dead, he lived apart from tho 
—syucuving ui grtieu leaves —jl nave ™ apait uuui uio 
been vexing myself to-dav over a thumb- bos y ,P at hs of men, not perhaps, as a her- 
and-finger nationality that wo have. The mit > f ? r tbore wore scattered dwellings in 
laborers, at work upon our cottage grounds tko wilderness. He was, however, conver- 
during the earlier season, have gone to and san * with the rough face of nature, in her 
fro without damage, intentional of what did tan g\ ei l thickets, dark, pathless woods, over- 
not bolong to them. They respect one’* banging cliffs, swollen streams, diversified, 
property in a tree as well as in a wall or a a ^ with spring tide beauty, and summer’s 
door. But, with the opening season, the S^ or y and autumn’s melancholy, and win- 
mechanics—Americans, of course—have re- tor’s rage; his courage nurtured by dark- 
sumed their labors on the unfinished build- ness an< ^ storms, perhaps by conflicts with 
ing ; and tho marks of their passings in and wdd boasts, and by solemn awe with which 
out are very different. They board among s °btude and stillness sometimes oppress 
our neighbors around, and, oithor way, from even the bravest spirit.—JY*. Mams. 
tho public road, on the river or the village ---- 
side, the approach is through a long avenuo An American is as capable of strong mus- 
ot fir-trees. 1 ou may track them—(seeing cular effort, and as enduring as a European • 
any day whether they have gone to dinner but ho does not got half the pleasure from 
oi not) )v tho broken twigs ot fresh-green his vigor. Indigestion and nervous diseases 
tassels upon the ground. They never pass sour tho life of half our people. Tho evil 
near one ot my beautiful hemlocks or co- increases too; and the probability is. the 
dais without retreshing tho memory of their health of the nation is degenerating. These 
American thumb and finger as to its being facts are notorious in Europe, and our sharp 
a tree country breaking ofl a branch, slap- worn American faces are known everywhere, 
ping it once or twice against the log as they There is much diseaso and bodilv weakness 
walk along, and throwing it away. If it among the poorer classes of the Old World; 
wero grass, and ^only missed in a crop—or but as classes enjoyung equal comforts.it 
it their - bosses milked them when they will be found that “the Americans are con- 
got home I should say nothing. A trespass fessedlv inferior in robust health. The dys- 
on pasture at least benefits tho owner of tho pepsia which so curses our whole population 
cow. ut, tho disfiguring ot trees, whoso is comparatively unknown anions: the older 
overy graceful spray, from tho ground up, nations— Brace’s “ Home Life in Germany.” 
Jfor % JMb. 
It is not worth while to be extravagant; 
every unnecessary adjectivo gives you ono 
more chanco to bo wrong; every expletive 
may demand of you a troublesome explana¬ 
tion. Just state the facts in simple, quiet 
English, and leave your hearer to draw his 
conclusions, and utter the exclamations. 
Draw it mild, Charley ! rather understate 
than overstate it. better write a postscript 
with an additional incident to-morrow, than 
have to retract and apologize for saying too 
much. Libol suits grow out of too strong 
language. Charges of slander aro based 
on superlatives. It is not worth while to 
make every wound a “bleeding wound,” 
every push a “violent thrust,” to make a 
kick ot a hint, nor to “kill a man dead.”— 
You need not make all your villians “out- 
rageous vi Ilians,” your rascals “unmitigated 
rascals,” your hypocrites “consumate hypo- 
THE BEAUTIFUL. 
We have this charming composition, from a volume en¬ 
titled “ Revelations of the Beautiful,” by Edwin Henry 
Burrington. 
Walk with the Beautiful and with the Grand, 
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter ; 
Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand, 
But give not all thy bosom thoughts to her: 
Walk with the beautiful. 
I hear thee say, “ The Beautiful! what is it ?” 
O, thou art darkly ignorant 1 Be sure 
’Tis no long weary road its form to visit, 
For thou can’st make it smile beside thy door: 
Then love the Beautiful. 
Ay, love it; ’tis a sister that will bless. 
And each thee patience when the heart is lonely; 
The angels love it, for they wear its dress, 
And thou art made a little lower only : 
Then love the Beautiful. 
Sigh for it 1—clasp it when ’tis in thy way ! 
Be its idolator, as of a maiden! 
Thy parent bent to it, and more than they; 
Be thou its worshipper. Another Eden 
Comes with the Beautiful. 
Some boast its presence in a Grecian face; 
Some, on a favorite warbler of the skies; 
But be not fool’d 1 where’er thine eye might trace, 
Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise : 
Then seek it every where. 
Thy bosom is its mint, tiie workmen are 
Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee believing : 
The Beautiful exists in every star, 
Thou makest it so; and art thyself deceiving 
If otherwise thy faith. 
Thou seeth Beauty in the violet’s cup :— 
I’ll teach thee miracles I Walk on this heath, 
And say to the negUctcdflower, “Look up 
And be thou Beautiful 1” If thou hast faith 
It will obey thy word. 
One thing I warn thee : how no knee to gold; 
Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue, 
It turns the feelings prematurely old; 
And they w-ho keep their best affections young, 
Best love the Beautiful 1 
A PERFECT WIFE. 
Edmund Burke, the distinguished orator, 
presented to his wife on the anniversary ot 
their marriage, his idea of a “perfect wife,” 
which is supposed to bo a truo portrait of 
Mrs. Burke. It is certainly a lovely pic¬ 
ture, worthy of the pen of the author of 
-i The Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful.” 
The following passages are extracts : 
The character of-. 
She is handsome, but it is beauty not aris¬ 
ing from features, from complexion, or from 
shape. She has all throe in a high degree, 
but it is not by these she touches a heart; 
it is all that sweetness of temper, benevo¬ 
lence, innocence, and sensibility, which a 
face can express, that forms her beauty.— 
She has a face that just raises your atten¬ 
tion at first sight; it grows on you everv 
moment, and you wonder it did no more 
than raise your attention at first. 
Her eyes have a mild light, but they awe 
when she pleases; they command like a 
good man out of office, not by authority, but 
by virtue. 
Her stature is not tall, sho is not made to 
be the admiration of everybody, but the 
happiness of one. 
She has all the firmness that does not ex¬ 
clude delicacy - she has all the softness that 
does not imply weakness. 
Her voice is a soft low music, not formed 
to rule in public assemblies, but to charm 
those who can distinguish a company from 
a crowd ; it has this advantage— you must 
come close to her to hear it. 
To describe her body, describes her mind; 
ono is the transcript of the other; her un¬ 
derstanding is not shown in the variety of 
matters it exerts itself on, but in tho good¬ 
ness of choice she makes. 
She does not display it so much in say¬ 
ing or doing striking things as in avoiding- 
such as she ought not to say or do. 
No person of so few years can know the 
world better; no person was ever less cor¬ 
rupted by the knowledge. 
Her politeness flows rather from a natur¬ 
al disposition to oblige, than from any rules 
on that subject, and therefore never fails to 
strike those who understand good breeding, 
and those who do not. 
She has a steady and firm mind, which 
takes no more from the solidity of the female 
character than the solidity of marble does 
from its polish and lustre. She has such 
virtues as make us value the truly groat of 
our own sex. Sho has all the winning graces 
that make us love even the faults we seo in 
the weak and beautiful in hers. 
MEN AND WOMEN. 
In days not far distant men found their 
excitement, and filled up their time, in vio¬ 
lent bodily exercises, noisy merriment, and 
intemperance. They have now, in all but 
the very poorest classes, lost their inclina¬ 
tion for these things, and for the coarse 
pleasures generally ; they have now scarce¬ 
ly any tastes but those which they have in 
common with women, and, for tho first time 
in tho world, men and women are really 
companions. A most beneficial chango, if 
the companionship were between equals, 
but being between unequals, it produces 
what good observers have noticed, though 
without perceiving its cause, a progressive 
deterioration among men in what had hith¬ 
erto boon considered tho masculine excellen¬ 
cies. Those who aro so careful that women 
should not become men, do not see that men 
aro becoming what they have decided that 
women should be,—are falling into tho fee¬ 
bleness which they have so long cultivated 
in their companions. Those who are asso¬ 
ciated in their lives tend to become assimi¬ 
lated in character. In the present closeness 
of association between the sexes, man can¬ 
not attain manliness unloss woman acquire 
it.— Westminster Review. 
HE 18 SO AMIABLE. 
A beautiful girl, gay, lively and agree- 
ablo, was wedded to a man of clumsy figure, 
coarse features, and a stupid-looking physi¬ 
ognomy. A kind friend said to her ono day, 
“My dear Julia, how came you to marry 
that man ?” 
“ The question is a natural one. My 
husband, I confess, is not graceful in his 
appearance, nor attractive in his conversa¬ 
tion. But ho is so amiable ! And goodness, 
although less fascinating than beauty or wit, 
will please equally at least, and it is certain¬ 
ly more durable. YVe often seo objects, 
which appear repulsive at first, but if we see 
them every day, wo become accustomed to 
them, and at length not only view them 
without aversion, but with feelings of attach¬ 
ment. Iho impression which goodness 
makes on the heart is gradual; but it re¬ 
mains forever. Listen, and I will tell you 
how I came to marry my husband. 
I was quite young when he was introdu¬ 
ced for tho first time into the house of my 
parents. He was awkward in his manner, 
uncouth in his appearance, and my compan¬ 
ions used often to ridicule him, arid I con¬ 
fess I was frequently tempted to join them, 
but was restrained by my mother, who used 
to say to me in a low voice, ‘ He is so amia¬ 
ble !’ And then it occurred to me that ho 
was always kind and obliging ; and when¬ 
ever our villagers assembled together at our 
fetes and dances, ho was always at the dis¬ 
posal ot the mistress of the house, and was 
profuse in his attentions to those whose age 
or ugliness caused them to be neglected.— 
Others laughed at his singularity in this 
respect, but I whispered to myself ‘He is 
so amiable.’ 
One morning my mother called me to her 
boudoir, and told me that the young man 
who is now my husband, had made applica¬ 
tion for my hand. I was not surprised at 
this, for I already suspected that he regard¬ 
ed mo with an Aye of affection. When I 
recollected his ill-favored looks and his awk¬ 
wardness, I was on the point of saying, ‘ I 
will not wed him,’ and I blushed for him, 
which is a strong proof that I even then 
felt interested in him ; but when I recalled 
the many excellent traits in his character, 
and dwelt on his benevolent and good ac¬ 
tions, I dissmissed the idea of banishing him 
from my presence. I could not resolve to 
afflict him. and I whispered to myself, ‘Ho 
is so amiable !’ 
Ho continued to visit me, encouraged by 
my parents, and cheered by my smiles.— 
My other admirers one by one left me, but 
I did not regret their absence. I repeated 
the expression, • Ho is so amiable,’ so often 
that it seemed to me to carry the same 
meaning as * He is so handsome.’ I loved 
him, and took him as my husband. 
Since then I have not only been resigned 
to my fate, but happy. My husband loves 
me devotedly, and how can I help loving 
him ‘ He is so amiable.’” 
There is something exceedingly touching 
in this love which beauty entertains for 
goodness, and there is no“ longer a doubt 
that some women love from a fueling of be¬ 
nevolence, or tender compassion, regulated 
by reason. Such an affection will know no 
change. It has a firm basis, and will en¬ 
dure through life.— Exchange. 
THE SOCIETY OF LADIES. 
The following pertinent remarks occur at 
the close of an article on the dangers of 
“ College Life,’’from the pen of a New York 
clergyman, which appeared iu the New 
York Time*: 
The society of ladies has done much for 
me all my life long ; and it was the salutary, 
softening influence of such associations that 
with God’s blessing, restrained me from 
many an excess into which I might other- 
wme have been led while receiving my edu¬ 
cation. It is a bad sign when a young man 
has no relish for such company. Whatever 
be a man’s station in life, whether higher or 
lower, public or private, he will become a 
better man, and escape many a disaster, if 
he will listen in due season to the voice of 
tho intelligent and the refined among the 
other sox. Not only do they generally ex¬ 
cel us in their nice perception of the pro¬ 
prieties of life, and in their tender sense of 
duty to both Gou and man, but they are 
equally before us in their instinctive facility 
of forseeing evil before it is upon us, and of 
wisely discerning the character and motives 
of men. 
It was not all a dream which made the 
wife of Julius Cicsar so anxious that he 
should not go to the Senate Chamber on the 
fatal Ides of March; and, had he complied 
with her entreaties, ho might have escaped 
the dagger of Brutus. Disaster followed 
disaster in ihe career of Napoleon, from tho 
timo that he ceased to feel the balance wheel 
of Josephine's influence on his impetuous 
spirit. Our own Washington, when impor¬ 
tant questions were submitted to him, often 
has said that he should like to carry tho 
subject to his bed-chamber before he had 
formed his decision; and those who knew 
the clear judgment and elovated purposes 
of Mrs. Washington, thought all the better 
of him for wishing to make her a confiden¬ 
tial counsellor. Indeed, tho great majority 
of men who have accquired lor themselves 
a good and great name, were not only mar¬ 
ried men, but happily married—“both pair¬ 
ed and matched.” 
Little can be done without determina¬ 
tion, and certainly no great acquirement 
can be made without patience and steady 
application. 
If you have to depend upon the charity 
of others, you are undone ; therefore, always 
stand upon your guard. 
A Pleasant wife is a rainbow set in the 
sky, when her husband’s mind is tossed with 
storms and tempests. 
