56 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
FEB. 16. 
CONDUCTED BY AZIDE. 
THE LITTLE WINTER GRAVE. 
Composed on the Jlurial of a Child in a Grove three feet 
deep in Snow. 
HY SIIEI.DOX CHADWICK. 
Our baby lies under the snow, sweet wife, 
Our baby lies under the snow, 
Out in the dark with the night, 
While the winds so loudly blow. 
As a dead saint thou art pale, sweet wife, 
And the cross is on thy breast; 
Oh, the snow no more can chill 
That little dove in its nest. 
Shall we shut the baby out, sweet wife, 
While the chilling winds do blow ? 
Oh, the grave is now its bed, 
And its coverlet is snow. 
Oh, our merry bird is snared, sweet wife, 
That a rain of music gave, 
And the snow falls on our hearts, 
And our hearts are each a grave. 
Oh, it was the lamp of our life, sweet wife, 
Blown out in a night of gloom ; 
A leaf from our flower of love, 
Nipped in its fresh spring bloom. 
But the lamp will shine above, sweet wife, 
And the leaf again shall grow, 
Where there are no bitter winds, 
And no dreary, dreary snow. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
MUSINGS IN MY WHITING-CHAIR. 
BY ONE OF THE SENIORS. 
No. 2.—Beauty Steeped in Folly. 
With the female sex more especially beauty 
is considered as one of the highest prizes in the 
lottery of life. Most mothers covet it, above all 
things, for their daughters ; and most girls (if I 
may call them by this old-fashioned name,) had 
rather be handsome than wise. Yet mere 
beauty is of trifling weight in the scale of hu¬ 
man weal. The poet says truly— 
“ Beauty’s but frail, a charm that soon decays, 
Its lustre fades as rolling years increase.” 
These lines of the poet do not, however, contain 
the whole truth; for not only is beauty fading 
and transitory, but when it is so remarkable as 
to excite general admiration, it often excites at 
the same time such self-admiration as besots and 
spoils the mind. 
A man who values himself on the beauty of 
his person, is commonly, from that very cir¬ 
cumstance, slender in understanding, and be¬ 
comes ridiculous and contemptible. Nor was 
a woman ever yet found to be l e wiser or bet¬ 
ter natured, for her being over-handsome. This 
quality, so coveted anti so admired, has no ten¬ 
dency either to intellectual or moral improve¬ 
ment ; never yet was it known to make any one 
the more excellent in the relation of daughter, 
wife, mother, or neighbor. ^ - 
On the other hand, extraordinary female 
beauty is very apt to occasion such self-regard, 
such fatuity of mind, such a scornful temper, 
such a supercilious carriage, as render the pos¬ 
sessor of it not merely a useless but an uncom¬ 
fortable and disgusting companion. And be¬ 
sides all this, it often happens that a girl of 
singular beauty is ensnared and ruined by the 
very circumstance that swells her vanity. 
One evening a glow-worm was admiring its 
own lustre, and whispered thus to itself: “ What 
an elegant creature am I. and how shining a 
figure do I make ! I am not such a mean, vul¬ 
gar thing as the dirty ant, or the toiling bee, or 
the spinning silkworm. I am made to shine 
and be gazed at. My dazzling appearance 
raises wonder in every beholder. And all 
those stars above, ha ! how they shine and 
twinkle !—to mimic me." 
At that moment a hunger-bitten sparrow- 
hawk, happening to be perching near, upo i a 
branch of a tree, perceived the insect, by the 
light surrounding her body, and instantly dart¬ 
ing down, thus exclaimed, “ Vain little thing ! 
’Tis thy beauty that brings thee destruction.— 
Hadst thou not displayed the glare of thy 
charms, I should not have observed thee, and 
thus devoured thee as a delicious morsel.” 
Beauty is more prevalent among the Ameri¬ 
can fair than among any other nation on the 
face of the earth. But beauty, however, is often 
a dangerous quality. Many of the youth of 
the female sex, having, by the aid of a mirror, 
perceived they possessed some charms, and by 
the aid of their admirers, thought they pos¬ 
sessed many more, became vain of their 
personal attractions like the glow-worm, and 
excited by the adulation and encomiums of 
their lovers, neglect ornamenting their minds 
with the true beauties of literature, but make it 
their whole study to ornament their persons, 
and become a burthen to society, to which they 
should have been embellished members. 
If the female sex would but consider that it 
is not outward, but inward beauties, which will 
constitute their happiness in the world, so many 
of them would not be so devoid of erudition. 
The inward consists of a mind adorned with 
those never failing ornaments — literature, 
knowledge, and wisdom. This, too, is a dura¬ 
ble beauty which the hand of time cannot de¬ 
stroy, and when the superficial beauty moulders 
in the dust, it is handed down to posterity, as 
an example to future generations. 
Yet, notwithstanding the disadvantages un¬ 
der which they labor in this respect, many 
women possessed of unquestionable charms, 
have deservedly despised the fulsome adula¬ 
tion of their admirers, and permitting their 
good sense to rise superior to their vanity, have, 
by their merits as authors, proved to the world 
that the understandings and genius of the fe¬ 
male sex are equal to those of the others, not¬ 
withstanding whatever may have'been written 
on the subject. 
Although some may think the following not 
very appropriate, I will insert it for the benefit 
of our fair readers :— There are few women whose 
merit docs not last longer than their beauty. 
Staten Island, 1856. C. N. b. 
HOW SOME MEN LIVE. 
Men trace many paths for the journey of life. 
Some linger among the flowers that decorate 
the bosom of Nature; some grope in caves 
and mines, those hollow arteries of a pulseless 
globe; and some pursue the starry poetry of 
•heaven. Here one transfers to the canvas “ the 
human face divine there another catches and 
fixes, with ready pencil, the changing glories of 
a summer landscape, and the varying tints of 
summer skies. In this place, is one who knocks 
at the pale Parian tombs, till the dead he sees 
with the eyes of his soul, come forth at his bid¬ 
ding, throw off the marble habiliments of death 
and stand up in the day, rounded and fashioned, 
and everything but warmed into -life, by the 
magical touches of chisel and graver. 
In that place, is another, who does little but 
listen. There is music for him everywhere.— 
The great shout of the water-fall fills his soul 
with joy : the roll of the thunder is the base of 
a great anthem. The leaves does not rustle, 
but they whisper and sigh, and are every one a 
tongue. The winds are musical voices, and the 
brook sings solos for him. He lives in a voice¬ 
ful world, and he listens and records ; his scores 
are all harmonious, and His life nothing but a 
lyric. He utters in melody’s distinctest artic¬ 
ulations, what other men dimly feel. In winter 
he gives us the daughter of summer songs; in 
summer, he can mock December sighing in the 
pines.— Selected. 
THE DEATH OF A CHILD. 
It was a bright morning when we followed 
her to her rest, but we brought back with us 
only darkness. The home which she sunned 
and made musical, was as gloomy as a cavern, 
and so it remains. A few days ago, it seemed 
like heaven—but now the stars have faded out, 
and the lark that sang at the gate has fallen 
with an arrow in his breast. 
And when the night came on, how it brought 
a new measure—fully heaped—of lonely agony. 
How we sought to sleep, and were awakened 
by her blessed voice—her pattering foot-falls— 
her thrilling touch ! It did indeed seem as if 
she were there. But when we looked around 
and saw her not, then, the truth returned like a 
sudden blow, and we sank again into the trou¬ 
bled waters. 
She lies in her little coffin. There are rose¬ 
buds in her hand, and a wreath of myrtle en¬ 
circles her brow of alabaster. The leaves fall 
solemnly, the wind moans like a chained beast 
about her dismal bed. It is hard to leave her 
there—it seems so cold and dreary for the child, 
and yet we know it must be—and because it 
must be, it is.— Selected. 
TIME—AN EXTRACT. 
“ Time is the most undefinable yet paradoxi¬ 
cal of things; the past is gone, the future is not 
come, and the present becomes the past, even 
while we attempt to define it, and like the flash 
of the lightning, at once exists and expires.— 
Time is the measurer of all things, but is itself 
immeasurable, and the grand discloser of all 
things, but is itself undisclosed. Like space, it 
is incomprehensible, because it has no limits, 
and it would be still more so, if it had. It is 
more obscure in its source than the Nile, and 
in its termination than the Niger; and advances 
like the slowest tide, but retreats like the swift¬ 
est torrent. It gives wings of lightning to 
pleasure, but feet of lead to pain, and lends ex¬ 
pectation a curb, but enjoyment a spur. It robs 
beauty of her charms, to besthw them on her 
picture, and builds a monument to merit, but 
denies it a house ; it is the transient and deceit- 
tul flatterer of falsehood, but the tried and final 
friend of truth. Wisdom walks before it, op¬ 
portunity with it, and repentance behind it; he 
that has made it his friend, will have little to 
fear from his enemies, but he that has made it 
his enemy, will have little to hope from his 
friends.” 
THE BRIDGE OP SIGHS. 
“ Why is it that suffering should have a spell 
to fix the eye above the power of beauty or of 
greatness ? Is it because the cross is a religion 
of suffering, a faith of suffering, a privilege of 
suffering, a perfection arrived at by and through 
suffering only ? Half an hour was enough for 
the ducal palace. I -could gaze for hours upon 
those dungeon-holes, gaze and read there, as in 
an exhaustless volume, histories of silent, weary 
suffering, as it filed the soft heart of man away, 
attenuated his reason into a dull instinct, or 
cracked the stout heart as you would shiver a 
flint. 
“ There is seldom a line of glory written upon 
the earth’s face, but a line of suffering runs par¬ 
allel with it; and they that read the lustrous 
syllables of' the one, and stoop not to decypher 
the spotted and worn inscription of the other, 
get the least half of the lesson earth has to 
give.”— F. W. Faber. 
Happiness is the only true atmosphere for 
children, the best for the cultivation of all moral 
and mental excellencies. Moreover, it binds the 
family together more closely and firmly than 
aught else can do. 
Whatever you would have your children 
become, strive to exhibit in your own lives and 
conversation. 
W ere it not for tears that fill our eyes, what 
an ocean would flood our beauts ! 
Sljflin fpKtllaiig, 
[Tirts following picture — aye, look at it, for you cannot 
help seeing- it—is one of the most finished, complete^and 
pathetic word paintings which we have ever seen. It is 
by Bayard Taylor :] 
AT HOME. 
The rain is sobbing on the wold ; 
The house is dark, the hearth is cold ; 
And stretching drear and ashy grey 
Beyond the cedars, lies the bay. 
My neighbor at his window stands, 
His youngest baby in his hands ; 
The others seek his tender kiss, 
And one sweet woman crowns his bliss. 
I look upon the rainy wild ; 
I have no wife, I have no child ; 
There is no fire upon my hearth, 
And none to love me on the earth. 
FAMILIAR EPISTLES—NO. II. 
“ABOUT HIRED GIRLS.” 
Snowburg, Feb., 1856. 
Dear Moore :—I read you a homely homily 
on “Home” last week. A country home, I 
averred, was a perfect snuggery in winter. We 
happy rustics recognize here no law but that of 
attraction. Here all motion is centripetal. We 
nestle close in the nucleus, and ignore all neb- 
ulie. Home is our “ point.” It has “ breadth 
and thickness.” It is not the mere “end of a 
line,” as old geometers say; but the Alpha and 
Omega, the beginning and the end of all lines.— 
Our tracks — like those of Heroui.es’ oxen that 
Cacus stole and, for a ruse, backed into his own 
cave — all lead towards home. Were I asked 
by some sneering skeptic; whafi*fc/iay>e home was, 
I should say it was pretty near round. 
Martha interrupts me just as I am about to 
get off my best thing, by saying, over my left 
shoulder, “ put in something about hired girls.” 
“ That I will—and about wives too.” 
“ If you- do !” she retorts, with a terrible look 
of tender vengance. Martha has said enough 
to imhobby me from my subject. I began with 
charity, as the maxim says, “ at Homeand I 
proceed (with charity, I hope,) to express my 
feelings on the subject assigned me. 
Now, friend Rural, I do not aspire to sketch 
with a master-hand, a general, full-orbed view 
of the subject; but to give you a peep into our 
ways — mine of thinking, and my wife’s of 
“taking on” in regard to “domestics.” We 
have a kitchen (two, perhaps, for what we style 
our “ dining-room ” the old folks insist on call¬ 
ing kitchen still ) Well, I enjoy immensely 
the sight of a half-dozen “girls ” swinging and 
jostling, like full-blown roses in a breeze, up 
the road, through our gate, and around back into 
the kitchen proper. Now comes my wife’s dis¬ 
tress, and my feast. Our Johanna’s company 
sit around the room, their arms all folded up 
properly, and their elbows pinned (they look to 
be, at any rate,) to their waists. It is the duty 
of one to look at my wife and say, “ yes ma’am ” 
—« no ma’am,” for the rest. Another looks up ; 
a third looks down ; and a fourth looks sidewise, 
while a fifth says to JoH/y.\A, “Ye have a very 
good mistress, havn’t ye T On the whole, they 
get a very correct idea of our kitchen furniture. 
My wife troubles herself too much about these 
visits—their Sunday visitations especially, her 
soul abhors. 
I, myself, could never abide stealing^ But 
when Martha cries with vexation at the disap¬ 
pearance of something she childishly loved, I 
tell her not to trouble herself if the “ girl ” don’t 
steal more than the equal of half her wages.— 
“But these things were so nice,” she says. I 
admire Johanna’s assurance when told the “best 
way ” to do this or that,—“ La yes; sure that’s 
no way,” or, “ it’s a s.tupid way ye have in this 
country ”—and her arm flies with the impulse 
of her independence, scattering dust in the milk 
pans, or a wing in the soup. A head of hair, 
rough as a comet’s, engaged over a bowl of fresh 
butter, or a pot of preserves—it seems very in¬ 
appropriate to me. 
A few days since, I thought I detected in the 
domestic a neglect of the morning ablution. “ I 
believe Johanna has the hydrophobia,” I grave¬ 
ly said to Martha, a while afterward. “ Why, 
what ?” “ I mean,” said I, “ she didn’t wash her¬ 
self this morning.” “ Well, * you must scold her 
this time.” “Johanna,” I said, as she came in, 
“ the cistern is almost dry,—you must not waste 
any water.” “Sure, an I saw that, sir.” “But 
you may use some to wash you in the morning. 
I saw you were too saving of it this morning.” 
I do not recollect who it was that advanced 
the opinion that the “race, of servants” had 
about three crooks more in the conformation of 
their ears, than other people. He thus account¬ 
ed for their slow and distorted appreciation of 
your commands. I do not believe it. He, in 
my opinion, labors more to support a theory, 
than to deduce a natural truth from correct 
physiological data. 
I almost forgot the matter of the apron. That 
frontispiece of a garment, as you know, has 
played many a part in the world’s history since 
its adoption by our first parents. But that’s 
not what I was going to say. My wife thinks 
it plays too many parts now — she is emphatic 
about it, too ! 
There's the blowing of the nose with it; and 
the next minute, taking out hot potatoes for 
dinner; then handling the griddle, succeeded 
by another nasal application. A splendid bak¬ 
ing of royal white loaves next finds conveyance 
from the oven thereon. Mrs. “Joval,” —well, 
I think she’s nervous. I tell her I see in all 
this a natural genius for making means subserve 
ends ; besides it places the “ girl ” above sus¬ 
picion of stealing handkerchiefs. To see her 
set about for a breakfast of a morning, offensive¬ 
ly and defensively applying her apron to the 
end of everything, and leaving its mark in each 
place—wife says it’s horrible, I say its comical. 
I cannot agree with those persons who call 
hired girls “ necessary evils.” There are a great 
many (we don’t always find them!) good “girls,” 
honest, “not purloining but showing all good 
fidelity”—that’s the kind we want! We are 
always kind to them, and treat them with re¬ 
spect, for they have a good chance to rise, and a 
somerset of Fortune may make us change posi¬ 
tions of “master and servant.” I read this 
sentence to my wife, an* i she thinks I am get¬ 
ting too democratic, and had better stop. She 
isn’t always my brakeman, (don’t you think it!) 
but she gave me the text, and knows when the 
subject is perfectly elucidated. Joval. 
For Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE POOR. 
“ God pity the poor.” Yes, God pity the poor, 
and preserve them from want, but let man be 
an instrument in his beneficent hands to confer 
the bounty and cheer the despairing heart.— 
Oh ! the poor—destitute because sickness, mis¬ 
fortune, disappointment has robbed — because 
fortune has frowned, altho’ the struggle was 
honest—is there no relief for them ? Yes, there 
is relief in a benevolent soul,—relief when the 
heart and purse is opened,—relief, when love 
steps in and claims the frail, ragged, heart- 
stricken being, as brother or sister, and shields 
with love’s offering. 
“ God pity the poor !” This is the prayer of 
the divine in his desk—the prayer of the mil¬ 
lionaire at the family altar, or when poverty pe¬ 
titions for alms, and it is the prayer of the thin, 
care-worn beggar in the streets. 
“ God pity the poor !” Oh ! how much of 
faith is here required, and how little of works, 
which count most. Can God pity always, and 
man never ? Can God only feel for the poor, and 
man never ?—never open the heart—never give 
bread to the starving—never warm the cold— 
never soothe and comfort the sad and afflicted ? 
The poor, so forsaken, so friendless, can it be 
that poverty is a sin ? 
The wife sorrow-stricken, her strong protec¬ 
tion gone, and with him property and friends. 
The world now seems dark and forbidding— 
fierce storms gather around—the tempest wails 
madly about her lowly dwelling, and into her 
heart creeps care—sorrowing, cankering care— 
while want hovers like a destroying angel over 
her pathway. No one comes to the rescue. Ncf 
light—not one ray—beams upon her desolate 
soul; no words of comfort are said; no bread is 
given to relieve famishing nature. In silence 
she suffers—the Past, glittering like a star, 
which has set forever—the Present all blackness 
—and the Future, Oh !• the Future, without 
Hope. God only pities. 
The orphan sits upon the cold hearth-stone. 
The fire has gone out; there is no bread to 
break—no rest for the weary limbs. Nature 
cries for relief; he begs in the streets; but the 
despairing petitioner is unheeded—he is spurn¬ 
ed on every hand. Why should he not be ?— 
Rags should not ask for favors—the starving 
poor should be left to their sorrows. God looks 
down and pities, and the orphan is “ clothed 
with white raiment”—he finds “bread enough 
and to spare” in—heaven. 
Oh! ye who have plenty, open your hearts. 
Give—give to the poor—give to the afflicted, and 
around your souls shall cluster peaceful, self- 
approving, holy feelings ; for you have»lighted 
up the house of a brother—brought gladness to 
bosoms all darkness and desolation. 
Give—give freely, and you shall have in more 
abundance—your hearts shall be as full as your 
earthly store-houses, and beyond the grave shall 
be treasures, which shall never diminish—glo¬ 
rious forever. N ed. 
“ Old Mansion,” Jan., 1856. 
HOW NAMES ARE MADE. 
Young gentlemen ! let not the highest of you 
who hear me be led into delusion, for such it is, 
that the founder of his family was originally a 
greater or a better man than the lowest here.— 
He willed it, and became it. He must have 
stood low ; he must have worked hard; and 
with tools, moreover, of his own invention and 
fashioning. He waved and whistled off ten 
thousand strong and importunate temptations ; 
he dashed the dice-box from the jeweled hand 
of Chance, the cup from Pleasure’s, and trod 
under foot the sorceries of each ; he ascended 
steadily the precipices of Danger, and looked 
down with intrepidity from the summit; he 
overawed Arrogance with Sedateness ; he seiz¬ 
ed by the horn and overleaped low Violence ; 
and lie fairly swung Fortune round.— Landor. 
Good Nature redeems many faults. More 
than beauty, wealth, power, genius, it causes 
men and women to be loved. If there are no 
shining qualities whatever in the character, 
even should there be considerable intellectual 
deficiency, yet if a good temper beams bright¬ 
ly on the countenance, we ask for nothing more. 
We pause not; we do not question, nor hesitate, 
but surrender at once to the fascination of the 
good and honest soul, that has set upon his face 
the seal of this admirable quality.— Newark Adv. 
Old trees in their living state are the Only 
things that money cannot command. Rivers 
leave their beds, run into cities, and traverse 
mountains for it; obelisks and arches, palaces 
and temples, amphitheatres and pyramids, rise 
up like exhalations at its bidding ; even the free 
spirit of man, the only thing great on earth, 
crouches and cowers in its presence. It passes 
away and vanishes before venerable trees.— 
Landor. 
Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks 
through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a 
moment. Cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day¬ 
light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and 
perpetual serenity. 
A “ TIN WEDDING.” 
- * 
A few evenings since, a genial social gather¬ 
ing of iiimily friends was held at a residence in 
Brooklyn, to celebrate the fifth return of the 
matrimonial anniversary, or the “ Tin Wedding." 
We have had occasion recently, in our paper, to 
mention both a “ Silver Bridal,” and a “Golden,” 
the former commemorating the twenty-fifth, and 
the latter the fiftieth annual return of the mar¬ 
riage festival. A “ Tin Wedding,” in the mode 
of its celebration, is an affair of no less novelty 
than either of the others. 
The bride and groom were presented, by rel¬ 
atives and friends in turn, with various articles 
of tin ware, such as are eminently useful in 
household economy, making together a complete 
set of culinary apparatus which would do hon¬ 
or even to a king’s kitchen. These separate 
ceremonies were concluded by a more formal 
presentation of an “ ornamental service of tin,” 
prepared after the most approved form and 
fashion of silver, during which an address was 
delivered and a response given, both perform¬ 
ances being marked with as much solemnity as 
the occasion could impart. At the supper, the 
table was covered with plates and dishes only 
of tin; ham-sandwiches were laid out against 
a tin background; homely cake was served in 
baskets of tin ; sweet cider was poured from a 
tin pail, with a tin ladle, into tin cups; and fa¬ 
miliar odes were performed on trumpets of tin ! 
In fact, there could not have been more tin in 
any other place, except in a tinman’s ware-house 
or in the mines of England, j 
We were never before thoroughly convinced 
of the genuine value of plain tin, of the numer¬ 
ous useful appliances to which it may be put, 
and of the highly respectable appearance which 
it presents when handsomely scoured ; and we 
shall henceforth regard it, especially when as¬ 
sociated with a “Tin Wedding,” as one of the 
precious metals.— N. Y. Observer. 
EIGHTY YEARS A PRISONER. 
A hardy old fellow recently passed through 
Lyons, France, on his way to Savoy, his native 
country. No less than eighty years ago, when 
he was 41, he was sentenced to the French gal¬ 
leys for life, for some crime. At the commence¬ 
ment of our Revolution, being then a middle- 
aged man, he was shut out from the world.— 
The other day he was released, at tne age of 
121. No cause is assigned, but the probability 
is that the Government thought that he had 
worked out more than a natural life in the gal¬ 
leys, and that he was past doing any harm. It 
is said that he has a~little”properLy in Savoy, 
the interest on which has been accumulating 
exactly 100 years, or siucc he arrived at the age 
of 21. The old fellow enjoys perfect health, 
although he stoops so much that his face nearly 
touches his knees. 
The above paragraph we copy from an Italian 
newspaper We, of course, do not know upon 
what ground the Savoyard was released, but 
we may add that a condemnation to jierpetuity 
in the galleys of France is considered to have 
expired after 100 years confinement. Only one 
case of an individual having outlived his term 
of punishment was ever known, and that was a 
native of a little village in Daupliiny, who, at 
the age of 21, was condemned to the galleys at 
Toulon, for the hundreth year of penal labor, 
and according to the rule observed, was dis¬ 
charged. From Toulon, the patriarchial sinner^ 
numbering in years 122, found his way to his 
native village; but, alas! no one knew him. 
Nor did he seek to recall it to the memory of 
any one, for next day this melancholy man took 
the road to Toulon, in due time reached it, and, 
on imploring to be received at his old lodgings, 
was there allowed shelter, and died next year. 
—Glasgow Chronicle. 
THE DANES. 
The Danes are very English in manner and 
appearance. There is a very fair amount of 
business and bustle in the streets, well-appoint¬ 
ed carts and wagons driven rapidly about, and 
at every town one meets a workman or trades¬ 
man whose configuration of nose, whisker, and 
cheek-bone, is English every whit. Or if one 
strolls about the gardens, or takes an excursion 
to Tivoli, the Vauxliall of Copenhagen, one sees 
plainly enough from what source the tall slight 
figures, and the bright eyes and complexions of 
our English girls are derived. Often when 
traveling in Germany I have looked in vain 
among the flat-sided, broad-footed, wide-faced, 
low-caste natives, for some trace of kindred race 
anil origin with ourselves; but in Denmark you 
are constantly encountered by groups who would 
pass muster anywhere for the Anderson girls or 
the Johnsons, and upon inquiry they will pro¬ 
bably prove to be the Johannsen girls, or the 
Andersens. Indeed, we have no reason to be 
ashamed of our Danish cousins; they are^'a bold, 
energetic race, and if we have given them un¬ 
happily little cause to love us, they, on the other 
hand, have given us every reason to respect 
them.— Rev. R. E. Hughes. 
TRUE POLITENESS. 
Lord Chatham says,—“ I believe politeness is 
best to be known by description, definition not 
being able to comprise it. I would, however, 
venture to call it ‘ benevolence in trifles,’ or the 
preference of others to ourselves in the little 
hourly occurrences of life. It is a perpetual 
attention to the little wants of those with whom 
we are, by which attention we either prevent or 
remove them. Bowing ceremonies, formal com¬ 
pliments, stiff civilities, will never be polite¬ 
ness ; that must be easy, natural, unstudied; 
and what will give this but a mind benevolent, 
and attentive to exert that amiable disposition 
in trifles to all you converse and live with ?” 
m.i'u'wm,/ sunn, HuM'iiM./'ti’uM./'in./M'i/'n'i.no’i.M.ew’w'MseK'ue.co’w'uew'n'ii/’o’wM.utn.M.ew’n'',eu’t, 
