MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AM AGRICULTURAL AMD FAMILY NEWSPAPER, 
MIS. 
Written for tile Rural New-Yorker. 
WHAT A GLORIOUS LOT 13 THE FARMER’S. 
What a glorious lot is the farmer's, 
In the hours of partisan strife, 
When so many are bleeding aud dying, 
For the charms of political life! 
While a legion of loafers, now seeking 
A chance to “grind in the mill,” 
Must meet with a sore disappointment. 
From the merciless popular will. 
The farmer pursues his vocation ; 
Content with “the powers that be,”— 
He stays at home peaceably gath’ring 
The fruits of “ the Land of the Free." 
The hopes of the demagogue, building 
On the smiles of dissolute men, 
By a sentence of public opinion 
Must return to the cold earth again. 
But the farmer has hopes far surer. 
He has gathered from mountain and bray; 
No whim of the “ Administration,” 
Can blight them, or sweep them away. 
On the plains of Washington’s country— 
On tiie fields that ne'er heard of defeat; 
A long line of “ wliipt” politicians, 
Are beating a sorry retreat. 
But the farmer is clothing in beauty, 
The valleys, the wastes, and the wood. 
Which were once but devoted to carnage, 
And drench’d in the patriots blood. 
What a glorious time have we farmers, 
In this melee of partisan strife 1 
When so many are weeping and sighing, 
O'er the woes of political life 1 
York, Nov., 1853. A. K. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
MY FIRST BOOK—“KIRKE WHITE." 
A RAMBLING REMINISCENCE. 
_ 
Home — that realization of all that affec¬ 
tion longs for — promised to become in re¬ 
ality mine, and I gathered thereat my scat¬ 
tered books; among them those that I had 
known earliest and lovod longest. One 
author — the first who condescended to 
enter my humble library — I have long de¬ 
sired to write about, and thus, perhaps, 
bring to the notice of now admirers; but 
the thoughts suggested arc so rambling and 
egotistical, that I scarco dare tear them 
from my note-book. But I give them to 
tho Rural, with tho hopo that even the 
general reader may find something of in¬ 
terest in what particular rcadors look upon 
so leniently — for tho few we know, must 
always measure for us tho many who are 
beyond our circlo of intimacy. 
It is well for tho young to possess a taste 
for reading, but tho indiscriminate and 
careless perusal of many books is moro 
frequently an injury than a benefit. A 
large library is valuabio to ono who knows 
how to draw needed aid from its treasured 
stores, but tho young mind is apt to confuse 
itself by the medley of information which it 
attempts to disposo of, and a mental dys¬ 
pepsia is produced, as injurious to intellec¬ 
tual vigor, as tho bodily disease is to the 
growth and power o.f the physical system.— 
Without a portion of ability to classify facts 
and assimilate ideas, for tho increase and 
aid of our own mental stamina; as far as 
tho cultivation of tho thinking powers are 
concerned, wo aro scarcely better off for the 
multiplied privileges of reading, now so 
generally possessed. Tho world is so full 
of books, tho schools are so full of “scien¬ 
ces brought down to the simplest capaci¬ 
ties,” and there are so many incentives to 
mero surface learning, that superficiality, 
far more than depth, is a mental character¬ 
istic of tho people of tho bustling present 
time. 
Not that my own privileges were thus 
limited, hut rathor from injury oxperi- 
oncod from a contrary courso — from tho 
too freo gratification of an appetito for 
reading — do I thus, even incidentally, dis- 
parago books, my dearest friends. From 
tho time when, sitting on an Uncle’s knee, 
I read with him that wondcrous story of 
adventure, “Riley’s Narrative,” to tho pres¬ 
ent anxious and sorrowful season, I have 
gained strength and solace from their po- 
rusal. And, it is always pleasant and profit¬ 
able to communo with the giftod and good 
who speak to us in books. Make a good 
book your friend, and you may always turn 
to it for companionship and consolation.— 
It has power to lead our thoughts to tho 
scenes and feelings it depicts, or tho senti¬ 
ments its inculcates, and wo seem, with it. 
to turn aside into some shady nook or quiet 
place, and forget tho cares and turmoils of 
wearying life. Yet there is danger here.— 
Lured by thoir fascinating power, wo may 
play truant to active duty, and while seek¬ 
ing to gratify this taste, evil thoughts and 
blighting influences, disguised with flow¬ 
ing robes and stately moving stops, may 
win our hearts from virtue. Wo may seek 
amusement and excitement merely, care¬ 
less of instruction, and thus enervate tho 
mind until it losos tho ennobling power of 
deriving its purest and highest pleasures 
from sources which call for earnest and 
patient thought. 
In my thirteenth year I first became 
possessor of a full-grown book, or one not 
made for children and school-boys alone — 
j and this was “ The Remains of Henry Kirke 
i White,” edited and prefaced by the poet 
Southey. It was in two volumes, and I 
have them yet, in about tho sumo condition 
as at first — with broken backs and missing 
leaves — for they wore obtained at third- 
hand, and by working at odd spells for a 
neighboring chair-maker. An apology might 
be made for introducing these simple de¬ 
tails, but in writing of “ My First Book,” 
they cannot well bo avoided. Happy was 
I in my lucky purchase, and, carrying them 
homo, I exorted all my book-craft to repair 
and hide their damaged condition, and pre¬ 
vent further dilapidation. 
An account of tho lifo of Kirke WniTE, 
prefaces his Literary Remains—tho letters, 
poems, &c., which go to make up tho work. 
From this wo learn that Henry was the son 
of a Nottingham butcher, and was born in 
1785, anit Hod in 1806, at Cambridge Uni¬ 
versity. His lovo of reading was manifested 
very decidedly at an early age, and ho had 
a talent for writing which produced compo¬ 
sitions quite remarkable for or.e so young. 
IBs father had ambitious hopes for his son 
and at fourteen .he was apprenticed to 
stocking-weaving — tho staplo manufacture 
of his native town. Tito business was very 
distasteful to him, and his mother procured 
his relcaso after a year’s time had been 
wasted. Ho was then articled to a legal 
firm in Nottingham, and applied himself to 
the study of lav/, and to the acquirement of 
tho ancient and modern languages, and a 
knowledge of general literature, with much 
diligenco and success. Tho farther he ad¬ 
vanced, tho more anxious ho becamo to ob¬ 
tain a thorough education; and, to aid in 
procuring tho means of entering college, 
his little volume of pooms was published in 
1803. In a pecuniary point of view, tho 
vonture was not successful, (though ho lost 
nothing by it.) but it brought Henry into 
notice, and tho malice with which it was 
attacked in certain quarters, raised up 
friends who were of material sorvico to him 
throughout his future brief career. 
With much anxiety and with varying 
hopes, ho sought tho paths of learning, and 
at ono time his prospect of entering the 
University seemed totally clouded. In tho 
pursuit sorao time had been lost from his 
law studies, and he felt that ho must apply 
himself moro severely than ever to regain 
his ground. lie allowed himself no time 
for relaxation, little for his meals, and 
scarcely any for sleep,—studying night and 
day until his health sank undor it, and a 
sharp fit of sickness was tho rosult. From 
this he never entirely recovered. His pros¬ 
pects for entering college becamo brighter, 
and the new hope seemed to give him new 
lifo. Ho went to Cambridge, and spent 
two years there, with varying and fast- 
declining health, but with unabated ambi¬ 
tion and industry. He sank rapidly to¬ 
wards the closo of his lifo, and his brother 
only arrived to see him die—after his speech 
had failod. It is sad to think of ono so 
gifted—whoso prospects for usefulness wero 
so bright — thus going down to tho grave, 
tho victim of his own high aspirations.— 
Speaking of this, Lord Byron beautifully 
says : 
“ ’Tvras his own Genius, gave the fatal blow 
And helped to plant the wound which laid him low: 
— So the struck eagle stretched upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart; 
Keen wero his pangs, but keener far to feel 
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel, 
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest. 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleediug breast.” 
But I havo failed to do justico to one 
great reason for his earnestness in seeking 
an education. At one time ho seemed of a 
skeptical turn of mind, but his thoughts 
wero providentially turned to tho subject of 
religion, and a total change in his views and 
feelings was tho rosult. Ho camo to tho 
determination to dovoto his lifo and talents 
to tho work of tho ministry, and to fully 
preparo himself, seemed tho ono end kopt 
constantly in view. His pioty was of tho 
purest and most evangelical character, and 
what ho did accomplish in the cause so 
much at heart, eIiows what an elevated in¬ 
fluence ho would have exorted had he been 
spared to bless tho earth. 
His privato character won him many 
warm, true friends. In all tho relations of 
lifo ho was most amiable and worthy of love 
and confidonco. An ailectionato son, a 
kind and tender brothor — ho wa3 tho con¬ 
fident and adviser of every member of tho 
family. His lotters show this; thoy also 
show how gonial and valuabio his friendship, 
to those who wore so happy as to enjoy tho 
blossed boon—for such indeed is a truo and 
wiso friend. Ilis gonius, his piety, his in¬ 
dustry, and his amiability, wore remarkablo, 
but his uniform good sonso was none the 
less so,—he seemed to show none of those 
oxcentricities of conduct and tomporament 
which so often cast a shado on the most 
gifted minds. It is this trait, running thro’ 
his whole lifo and writings, which makes 
them so worthy to bo held as a model to 
youthful aspirants in the commencement of 
their literary career, and I shall nover for¬ 
got how much I owe to this first book, in the 
humble collection I dignify with the name 
of “my library.” 
. Of his poetry thoro is scarcely room to 
speak as fully as I, and perhaps my readers, 
desire. It was mostly written before he 
entered the University, but a few later 
fragments prove how much it3 early excel¬ 
lence would have gained from his maturer 
powers. Among tho poems which made 
their deepest impress upon my memory, 
and to which I still recur with the greatest 
pleasure, aro “ Childhood,” his earliest, and 
“ Time,” which stands amongst his latest 
compositions. Of his shorter poems, one 
“ To tho Morning,” is eminently full of 
feeling and picturesque naturalness. An¬ 
other commencing, 
“ Go to tho raging sea and say ‘ Bo Still!’ ” 
answers with becoming earnestness tho 
twattle of those who, 
“ Recumbent on the laquered barge, 
Have dropt down joy’s gay stream of pleasant marge,”— 
who know nothing of misery and disap¬ 
pointment, and yet are always ready to tell 
the sufferer “ that lifo is wonderous fair”— 
brimming over with tho rarest happiness ; 
and how bravely he ought to bear up under 
tho pressure of sickness and poverty, for 
which ho sees no succor or remedy, and 
dares hopo for none. Tho sonnet was a 
favorite with Kirke White, and his compo¬ 
sitions in this form aro generally of a pen- 
sivo but pleasing character. I subjoin a 
single specimen: 
“ Yes, 'twill be over soon. This sickly dream 
Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; 
And death my wearied spirit will redeem 
From this wild region of unvaried pain. 
Yon brook will glide as softly as before,— 
Yon landscape smile—yon golden harvest grow. 
Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar, 
When Henry's name is heard no more below. 
I sigh when ail my youthful friends caress, 
They laugh in health and future evils brave; 
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless. 
While I am mouldering in my silent grave. 
God of the just,—Thou gavest the bitter cup; 
I bow to thy behest, and drink it up I” 
“Tho Shipwrecked Solitary’s Song” is 
full of pathos and beauty, but I must coaso 
to particularize, save to mention that he 
was tho author of tho beautiful hymn, 
every whore known and admired—“Tho Star 
of Bethlehem.” The poorn ho had most at 
heart, was “Tho Christian”—descriptive of 
tho life and character of tho Savior — of 
which ho had written somo thirty Spense¬ 
rian stanzas, which ovinco great power of 
execution. Just before his death ho added 
these touching lines to this noblo fragment: 
“ Thus far have I pursued my noble theme 
With self-rewarding toil;— thus far have sung 
Of God-iike deeds, far loftier they beseem 
The lyre which I in early days have strung; 
And now my spirits faint and I have hung 
The shell that solaced me in saddest hour, 
Ou tho dark cypress and the strings which rung 
With Jesus’ praise, their harpings now are o'er, 
Or when the breeze comes by, moan, and arc heard no 
more. 
“ And must the harp of Judah sleep again. 
Shall I no more re-animate the lay ! 
O thou who visitest the sons of men. 
Thou who dost listen when the humble pray, 
One little space prolong my mournful day ! 
One little lapse suspend thy last decree! 
I am a youthful traveler in the way, 
And this slight boon would consecrate to Thee 
Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.” 
Henry died soon after entering his twen¬ 
ty-first year. No youthful poet compares 
with him, except Chatterton, and perhaps, 
Keats, and none havo left brighter and 
purer memorials behind than tho pensive 
bard of Nottingham. If any youthful mind, 
led by theso thoughts, shall find a tithe of 
tho pleasure I have found in Kirke White, 
he will not say I have written in vain.— b. 
FASHIONABLE SLANG. 
The slang of tho fashionablo world is 
mostly imported from France ; an unmean¬ 
ing gibberish of Gallicisms runs through 
English fashionable conversation, and fash¬ 
ionable novels, and accounts of fashionable 
parties in tho fashionable newspapers. Yet, 
ludicrously enough, immediately the fash¬ 
ionablo magnates of England seize on any 
French idiom, tho French themselves not 
only universally abandon it to us, but posi¬ 
tively repudiate it altogether from their 
idomatic vocabulary. If you were to tell a 
well-bred Frenchman that such and such 
an aristocratic marriage was on tho tapis, 
ho would staro with astonishment, and look 
down on tho carpet in tho startled endeav¬ 
or to find a marriage in so unusual a place. 
If you wero to talk to him of the beau, monde , 
ho would imagine you meant the world 
which God mado, not half-a-dozen streots 
and squares botwoen Hyde Park Corner and 
Cholsea Buu IIouso. The ike dansante 
would be completely inexplicable to him.— 
If you wore to point out to him tho Dowa¬ 
ger Lady Grimguffin acting as chaperon to 
Lady Amanda Creamville lie would imagine 
you wero referring to the petit Chaperon 
Robue —to little Red Riding Hood. IIo 
might just understand what was meant by 
vis-a-vis, entremets, and somo other of the 
flying hordo of frivolous little foreign slang- 
isms hovering about fashionablo cookery 
and fashionablo furniture; but three-fourths 
of them would seem to him as barbarous 
French provincialisms, or at best, but as 
antiquated and obsolete expressions pickod 
up out of the tales ofCribillon tho younger. 
—Household Words. 
UCS. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE MILKMAID. 
Her sweet songs have cheered me often 
When returning from the fields, 
And my heart doth ever soften 
To the power her kindness wields. 
Dark her eyes, and brown her tresses, 
And her smile is free from art; 
He who sees her, soon confesses 
That she leads his captive heart. 
Sweetest lassie, maid the fairest; 
Brightest star o’er life’s dark ways 1 
W ell I know thou never carest, 
Aught for him who sings thy praise. 
But thy heart so kindly beating. 
Though it may not hold me dear; 
Ne’er will chide me for repenting 
What thou knowest is sincere. 
Rarest maiden, may life’s blessings 
Ever thickly strew thy way— 
But amid thy friends’ caressing* 
May no Judas-kiss betray! 
Kendall, N. Y., 1853. G. B. L. 
SINGLE WOMEN. 
Not being mother on their own account, 
they have leisure to ho mothers for every¬ 
body else. What a blessing in the circlo of 
the families to which sho belongs is an un¬ 
married sister! Sho watches by the aged 
father or mother with a vestal’s fidelity, 
while her sisters and brothers abandon the 
old homestead for Cupid, or cupidity. Who 
so ready as sho to solace tho bereavement 
of a friend, all of whoso earthly hopes have 
been swallowed up in the.grave? To the 
widowed brother, her sympathetic voice and 
spontaneity of kindness seem almost liko a 
return from tho tomb of tho idol ho had 
laid thero; and to tho bereaved sister, whose 
stay and support have been stricken down, 
sho becomes, as it were, tho strength of an¬ 
other manhood. Next to the mother her¬ 
self, she is tho last to cease her expostula¬ 
tions with a wayward daughter, or her ef¬ 
forts to reclaim an unfilial son. To child¬ 
ren bereft of parents, sho becomes both 
father and mother, and trains unconscious 
orphanage in tho way it should go. How 
Proetan her capabilities of usefulness, trans¬ 
forming herself by turns into friend, nurse, 
physician, or spiritual guideinto thegrave 
companion of the old, or tho frolicsome play¬ 
mate of the young, as ever-varying occasion 
may demand ! Who does not know that 
when any child of all her kindred is deaf, or 
blind, or halt, or whom a step-dame Nature 
has maltreated in any other wav. a never- 
failing resource is found in the* 4 universal 
Auntyas though she kept a full assort¬ 
ment of eyes and ears and faculties for all 
kinds of 4 impotent folk’ ? Then, for tho 
children’s dresses, does sho not always know 
the latest style; for their learning, has she 
not seen the sagest books, and for their 
health, has sho not tho newest cure-alls all 
by heart ? and O ! for the romping and 
roistering groups of the nursery, does she 
not carry all the toy-shops of France and 
China in her pockets ? Who, of all the 
household, can help paying homage to such 
a divinity, even though it sometimes does 
seem as though she would kill us with kind¬ 
ness ? 
Outside, and beyond the family relation, 
this porsonago often becomes a kind of pub¬ 
lic character, though without tho envy or 
the odium which attaches to tho notoriety 
of public men. As a teacher of schools, 
how she shames tho wisdom of the lawgiver 
and tho retributions of the judge, by saving 
where they sacrifice, and redeeming where 
thoy destroy ! To hospitals for disease and 
suffering, to prisons for penal retribution, to 
receptacles for reformation from deepest 
debasement and guilt, how divinely does 
she come, her head encircled with a halo of 
heavenly light, her feet sweetening tho earth 
on which she treads, and tho celestial radi- 
anco of her benignity making vice begin its 
work of repentance through very envy of 
the beauty of virtue 1 The two Misses Fel¬ 
lows of Boston, within tho last ten years, 
have found homes for more than a thousand 
destitute, orphan children, carrying on this 
warfare against ignorance and perdition, as 
tho apostlo said, at their own charges .— 
What mothers, unless it be such as tho 
mother of Washington, deserve so much as 
they the admiration and homage of man¬ 
kind ?— Horace Mann. 
HOME. 
As we repeat this word, wo have a feel¬ 
ing of comfort at tho heart, and bright, 
glowing images in tho mind. There is a 
firo on tho hearth, shedding a cheerful 
warmth through tho room. Mother sits in 
her easy arm-chair, holding and amusing 
tho baby, with many inquiries whether it is 
not 44 its mamma onneydony.” Willio has 
forsaken his toys and tho operation of put¬ 
ting “bob-tails” to his kite, and is helping 
Mary to get through with tho “hard words,” 
in her reading. While Tray sits near, look¬ 
ing as if ho understood tho whole lesson.— 
Occasionally, when Mary makes a ludicrous 
mistake, tho mother and children will 
laugh merrily, tho baby smiling and clapping 
its hands, and Tray barking in harmony.— 
It is a very happy place,"this home; and 
the poet said with truth that thero is no 
placo liko it to bo found, roam where we 
will. Then father comos in. He is wearied 
with his toil and is glad to get to his firesido. 
He takes Willio upon one knee and little 
Mary on the other. Tray settles down at 
his feet. Mother informs him that the baby 
has been so good, and he says he knew that 
it was a 44 dear little darling.” Then, while 
the party chat away, tho servant throws 
open the door and informs them that 44 the 
tea is ready,” and thoy adjourn, without de¬ 
lay, a happy group to tho supper-table.— 
Illustrated Family Friend. 
MISSPENT LABOR. 
Mrs. Swisshelm, tho editress of the 
Pittsburg Visitor, has recently visited the 
Crystal Palace in New York. She is a 
great advocate for utility —and consequent¬ 
ly conceives that every groat effort of hu¬ 
man skill and industry, should bo made for 
somo decidedly useful purpose. It may be 
interesting to see the views she express¬ 
es on tho subject of Mosaic work, making 
patchwork bod-quilts, and 44 working wors¬ 
ted.” Read what she says : 
44 To us, • nvsspent labor ’ was written all 
over tlie exhibition, or at best the propor¬ 
tion of things of no use, and of results 
which might havo been attained at a twen¬ 
tieth of tho labor, wero as two to one, of 
tho useful and tho sensible. 
The portrait of John the Baptist in Mosa¬ 
ic, is an object of great interest. Queen 
Victoria offered fifteen hundred pounds for 
it, hut it is valued at $60,000. Well, this 
great master-piece of Italian art, and mon¬ 
ument of human patience, looks very like 
St. John in ‘cross stitch,’ or a fine old 
painting cracked and about to chip off tho 
canvas. 
Some parts of tho shading and blending 
are very wonderful, when we reflect it is all 
done with minute pieces of stone, of the 
natural color; but in most parts, tho join¬ 
ing can easily be detected, and this gives it 
the 4 cross stitch’ appearance we noticed.— 
Altogether, it is certainly misspent labor, 
for tho effect could havo been much better 
obtained in an oil painting. 
Tho piece is a copy of a portrait in oil, 
and it is not according to tho natural order 
ot things to have an imperfect imitation 
worth moro than the original. It is not 
worth while to spend a lifetime making a 
stone picture, when a better ono in oil can 
bo mado in a month. 
All this applies to tho Mosaic tables, one 
of which is valued at $1,500 : to the minia- 
turo watches, ten cent locomotives, patch- 
work quilts, worsted worked cats and dogs, 
needlo worked Henry Clays, &c., &c., &c. 
It is all labor which brings no adequate re¬ 
sult, and which should send the laborer to 
a lunatic asylum. 
We never could understand how a woman 
in tho exercise ot reason, could spend her 
time cutting calico into little bits, and sew- 
ing it together again, when it looked so 
much better in tho whole cloth, or in work¬ 
ing cross stitch roses for stool covers, when 
for fifty cents they could get a bit of carpet, 
that would look better on a stool, than the 
work of six months in Berlin wool. 
f _ Well, the cutting of wood and stone into 
bits, and fitting them into a picture, when a 
better one can bo made by painting, is more 
conclusive evidence of insanity. 
Mosaic is tho worsted work of artists— 
the 4 patch-work ’ of tho 4 wiser sex.’ ” 
EEAUTIFDL TRIBUTE TO A WIFE. 
Sir James Mackintosh, tho historian, 
was married early in life, before he had at¬ 
tained fortune or fame, to Miss Catherine 
Stuart, a young Scotch lady, distinguished 
mere for tho excellencies of her character 
than for her personal charms. After eight 
years of happy wedded life, during which 
she became tho mother of three children, 
she died. A few days after her death, the 
bereaved husband wrote to a friend, depict¬ 
ing the character of his wife in the follow¬ 
ing terms: 
“ I was guided in my choice only by tho 
blind affection of youth. I found an intelli¬ 
gent companion and a tender friend, a pru¬ 
dent monitress, the most faithful of wives, 
and a mother as tender as children had ever 
the misfortune to lose. I met a woman 
who, by tho tender management of my 
weaknesses, gradually corrected the most 
pernicious of thorn. She becamo prudent 
from affection; and though of tho most gen¬ 
erous nature, she was taught frugality and 
economy by her love for mo. During the 
most critical period of my life, she preserv¬ 
ed order in my affairs, from the care of 
which sho relieved me. She gently re¬ 
claimed mo from dissipation; sho urged 
my indolence to all the exertions that have 
been useful and creditable to me; and sho 
was perpetually at hand to admonish my 
heedless improvidence. To her I owe what¬ 
ever I am ; to her whatever I shall be. In 
her solicitude for my interest, she never for 
a moment forgot my feelings or my charac¬ 
ter. Even in her occasional resentment, for 
which I but too often gave her cause, (would 
to God I could recall those moments !) she 
had no sullenness or acrimony. Her feel¬ 
ings were warm and impetuous, but sho was 
placable, tender and constant. Such was 
she whom I lost, and I have lost her when 
her excellent natural sense was rapidly im¬ 
proving after eight years of struggle and 
distress had bound us fast together and 
moulded our tempers to each other; when 
a knowledge of her worth had refined my 
youthful lovo into friendship, and before 
age had deprived it of its original ardor. I 
lost her, alas ! the choice of"my youth, tho 
partner of my misfortunes, at a, moment 
when I had tho prospect of her sharing my 
better days.” 
Cheerfulness.— The blessed results of 
cheerfulness can bo seen in every family 
where it. uniformly prevails. Unless the 
husband is a brute, the bright cheerful smile 
and tho kindly greetings of the wife, when 
ho returns worn, weary and dispirited it 
may be, from the scene of daily toil, will 
drive the cloud from his brow like mist be¬ 
fore the rising sun. Its reflex influences 
will in the end effect a change even in a 
disposition naturally morose,"so that the 
man who has a cheerful home to go to, will 
eventually bocomo a kinder husband, a more 
valuable citizen, and a better man. 
