MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
APRIL 26. 
JwMes’ Ifli’t'fclifl. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
■ OVER THE RIVER,” 
BY RUTH RUSTIC. 
She lay with her thin white hands 
Clasped over her heaving heart, 
And her beautiful limbs were still and cold 
As a sculptured form of art. 
And she looked like the mild Madonna, painted 
Aureola o’er head to speak her sainted. 
But a zephyr stole in at the blinds, 
And rippled the curls on her brow ; 
And she started as from a trance, and said: 
“ ’Tis time I were going, now.” 
0 ! her tones so soft made our wrung hearts shiver: 
“ They are calling me, over the river !” 
How we strove to hold her back ! 
It was sad, so sad, the parting ; 
But she broke from our clasp with a gentle force, 
And whispered : “ ’Tis time for departing ! 
The aureate rays o’er the hill-top quiver, 
And I must go over the river!" 
A plunge! and the parted stream 
Grew flecked with many a dimple, 
And she bowed her head to the billow’s breast, 
Like a babe in her trustfulness simple. 
And the waves translucent seemed, 
And dazzled e’en her bright vision ; 
And we knew that the angel she,d look’d for long 
Had come to fulfil his mission ; 
And we knew she saw the bright lights quiver 
On the other side of the river ! 
A glitter, and rustle of wings 
And of robes in snow-white brightness, 
And the soul, arrayed for its nuptial mom, 
Goes up in its bridal whiteness ; 
She clasps the stretched hand that is strong to deliver, 
And they welcome her over the river” 
But when the gates were shut— 
The gates of the beautifnl palace— 
■ Seemed as darkness, unfolding its sablest wings, 
Bushed down and blackened the valleys ; 
And we heard a sound as when brok’n hearts quiver 
Over this side of the river ! 
I Saturday Evening Mai!, 
Written for Moore’s Rural Now-Yorker. 
FIRST-RATE BOYS WANTED. 
Not many months since, while perusing your 
most excellent paper, the Rural, we observed 
some very sensible remarks, entitled “First- 
rate Girls Wanted.” The writer seemed to be 
quite positive of the “ fact” which he asserted, 
that “ They were in quest of something rather 
hard to find now-a-days.” 
We will not presume to contradict this state¬ 
ment, for in view of the facts considered and 
present circumstances, we must readily, though 
with shame for our sex, confess it to be too true; 
while we can but be pleased to learn that first- 
rate girls are actually in public demand, and 
' none other required. But while we are looking 
at the deplorable state of things, as it regards 
the cultivation and elevation of the female mind 
by practical and ornamental education, we 
should not overlook the same deficiency of im¬ 
provement in the opposite sex, whose influence 
is more extensive, whose position in life is 
necessarily higher, and as so, more responsible 
than the former. That first-rate boys only are in 
public demand, we think is also positive. We 
think we have somewhere seen (if not the card 
swaying to and fro) the notice —“First-rate Boys 
wanted.” Were they supplied ? We will not 
say no ; but we very much doubt it, consider¬ 
ing the scarcity of the article; therefore one 
can but apprehend the necessity of this “notice” 
being placed in a more conspicuous position.— 
By many it appears to have been entirely for¬ 
gotten that first-rate boys are wanted,—even by 
the “ Gents” themselves, upon whom rests so 
much responsibility, realize it not, saying they 
exert no influences—whose literary advantages 
are the greatest and notwithstanding unwisely 
misimprove them, to the great detriment of 
themselves and the community in which they 
live — who much prefer to be thought some¬ 
thing when they are nothing, desiring to live 
an “ easy life,” as they term it—whose love of 
idleness is manifest by their every-day conduct 
—to whom honesty and industry are strangers. 
They seem to have the idea that labor in any 
form is, at the least, degrading ; but their love 
of a cigar, or a splendid suit of clothes, and 
having all the money they can spend—in fact 
to be called the “ upper tendom”—is their high¬ 
est end and aim. They think it is far more 
honorable for their parents to toil early and late 
to get wealth than themselves, and then spend 
it as fast as possible. We cannot say they are 
first-rate boys. 
What shall we say of those who do not in¬ 
dulge in all these follies ?—who, surrounded 
with all the necessary opportunities that would 
serve to render them capable of being orna¬ 
ments to society and useful to the world at 
large, do not improve them, nor carefully avoid 
every thing that would eventually prove dele¬ 
terious to their future well-being — who obey 
not parents and kind instructors, but neglect 
the improvement of the many noble faculties 
which a kind Creator has so generously bestow¬ 
ed upon them ? We say of them likewise, that 
they are not destined to become great and good 
men—such as are needed to fill important sta 
tions in the affairs of this world that woman 
ea.-ivnot — to take the places of those passing off 
tbfe stage of action. 
Whenever we see a young man whose sole 
aim in his education is continually to do good, 
and endeavoring to make the best use of his 
time, talents and knowledge, in such a way as 
he may benefit himself and those with whom he 
associates, maintaining an honorable position in 
good society which a thorough education com¬ 
bined with virtue and temperance in all things 
will most assuredly secure, we say he is a first- 
rate boy —we could name a few, but one will 
suffice. We learn that Washington’s mother 
was not at all surprised when she was reminded 
of her son’s achievements, his greatness, <fcc., 
but very justly and quietly remarked— “ George 
was always a good boy.” And now we ask where 
are our little Washingtons and La Fayettes and 
Websters ? Truly the facilities calculated for 
the advancement and elevation of the human 
mind are greater now than in former years. 
When may we expect to see first-rate boys 
growing up to manhood, that shall be an orna¬ 
ment to our nation, if not in this nineteenth 
century ? Oh that parents and teachers would 
watch and remember to inculcate such princi¬ 
ples in the minds of our youth, as shall lead 
them to fear ignorance, vice and ruin—to follow 
virtue and truth in the light of knowledge. 
Then slrall we see the “good time coming,” 
when man shall be worthy <of the nobility of 
his name. e. 
Manchester, N. Y., 1856. 
THE THORN IN THE PILLOW. 
A little girl went to visit her grandmother 
some distance from her mother’s and her father’s 
home. She seemed very happy all day, and 
she had everything around her to make her 
happy ; but when her kind grandmother went 
to look at her after she was asleep, she observed 
a tear-drop on the little girl’s cheek. “ Ah,” 
said the old lady the next morning, “ you were 
a little home-sick last night, dear.” “ Oh no ; 
grandmother,” Mabel replied, “ I could never 
be home-sick here.” It was just so the next 
night, and the next; at length the grandmother 
thought, as the little girl seemed troubled, she 
would sit in the next chamber until the child 
Went to sleep. Presently, although Mabel was 
tucked up, she began to rustle up the quilt and 
shake her pillow, and the grandmother thought 
she heard a little sob ; so she went to the little 
girl’s bed, and said, “ Mabel, my child, you have 
got a thorn in your pillow,—what is it ?” Then 
the little girl hid her face and began to cry 
aloud. The grandmother was very troubled 
At length the little girl said, “ Oh, grandmoth¬ 
er, when I am alone here I cannot help think- 
ink how I said, ‘ I won’t, mother,” and I cannot 
unsay it; and mother is so good, and loves me 
so, and I—I was so naughty.” Then the tears 
streamed afresh down the child’s cheeks. Here, 
then, was the thorn in the pillow, and she could 
not withdraw it. Ah, so it will be, by and bye, 
with that little boy who is selfish and unkind 
at Jjpme now ; when he is away, among stran¬ 
gers, he will think of the home of his childhood, 
and the recollection of some unkind word on 
action will be a thorn in his pillow when he re¬ 
tires at night. And that little girl, who does 
not care to help her good mother now, will find 
a thorn in her pillow when that mother sleeps 
in the grave. 
THE PARTING HOUR. 
The hour is coming, and it is a fearful and 
solemn hour, even to the wisest and the best, 
the hour is coming, when we must bid adieu 
to the scenes which please us, to the families we 
love, to the friends we esteem. Whether we 
think or whether we think not, that body which 
is now warm an active with life, shall be cold 
and motionless in death—the countenance must 
be pale, the eye must be closed, the voice must 
be silenced, the senses must be destroyed, the 
whole appearance must be changed by the re¬ 
morseless hand of our last enemy. We may 
banish the remembrance of the weakness of our 
human nature, we may tremble at the prospect 
of dissolution ; but our reluctance to reflect 
upon it, and our attempts to drive it from our 
recollection, are vain. We know that we are 
sentenced to die, and though we sometimes 
succeed in casting off for a season the conviction 
of this unwelcome truth, we never can entirely 
remove it. The reflection haunts us still, it 
haunts us in solitude, it follows us into society, 
it lies down with us at night, it awakens with 
us in the morning. The irrevocable doom has 
passed upon us, and too well do we know it.— 
“Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt 
return.”— Townsend. 
That is not the most perfect beauty, which 
in public would attract the greatest observation, 
nor even that which the statuary would admit 
to be a fautless piece of clay, kneaded up with 
blood. But that is true beauty, which has not 
only a substance, but a spirit — a beauty that 
we must intimately know, justly to appreciate 
— a beauty lighted up in conversation, where 
the mind shines, as it were, through its casket; 
where, in the language of the poet — 
« The eloquent blood spoke in her cheeks, and so distinctly 
wrought, 
That we might almost say her body thought.” 
An order and a mode of beauty, which the more 
we know, the more we accuse ourselves for not 
having before discovered those thousand graces 
which bespeak that their owner has a soul.— 
This is that beauty which never cloys, possess¬ 
ing charms as resistless as the fascinating 
Egyptian, for which Antony wisely paid the 
bauble of the world — a beauty like the rising 
of his own Italian suns, always enchanting, 
never the same.— Selected. 
Tears the Dew of the Soul. —The tear itself 
often glows like a diamond on the cheek where 
the rose and lily blend. Its moral beauty as a 
perfect daguerre of compassion and benevolence, 
is still greater. It shone thus on the Saviour’s 
cheek at the tomb of Lazarus, and when he 
wept over Jerusalem. It still shines in his 
disciples in their missions of mercy. There are, 
indeed, tears of deceit, like those fabled of the 
crocodile. Let them pass. None but a fallen 
angel would gather them up. There arc tears 
of gratitude, of joy. These sparkle like the 
mornin ar.— Selected. 
tEjjuice fpsullamj. 
THE DEAD SONGSTER. 
BY EDWARD WEBSTER. 
Ah ! who has done this cruel deed ? 
What ruthless sportsman wandering here, 
Has caused thy little breast to bleed, 
And hushed thy voice so sweet and clear, 
That joyous hailed the early day 
With merry note— nor till the sun 
Had shed his last departing ray. 
Would end the song at morn begun. 
Oft on yon old oak’s waving bough 
I’ve seen thee sit, and heard thee sing 
With mellow throat; ’tis tuneless now, 
And powerless the tiny wing 
That bore thee through the yielding air 
Home to thy nest and helpless brood, 
Thy partner’s watchfulness to share, 
And bring a fresh supply of food. 
There sits thy mate with drooping crest, 
Mourning its loss as man would mourn 
Her whom on earth he loved the best, 
By Death’s unsparing mandate borne 
Beyond the sky ; yet he has hope 
Of meeting in a happier sphere ; 
While yon poor bird has not the Scope 
Of immortality to cheer. 
Could he whose wanton hand has slain 
This songster, now be lingering nigh. 
And feel no thrill of guilt or pain 
Steal o’er his heart, nor heave a sigh 
For act like this, I envy not 
His birth or rank whate’er it be ; 
His name humanity would blot, 
Though clothed in garb of royalty. 
Rest, little warbler; I will try 
To give thy young their humble meal, 
Though all my aid can ne’er supply, 
The loss that they are doomed to feel. 
And here, beneath these tall old trees, 
Whose branches sigh, and gently wave 
Their boughs in every passing breeze, 
I’ll make for thee a lowly grave. 
Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
ALL HONEST CALLINGS HONORABLE. 
In the dispensation of favors toward the crea¬ 
ture of his care, the All-Wise Creator has 
observed certain rules, which, if carried out, 
cannot fail to result in the happiest consequen¬ 
ces to man. The moral government of the world 
is not lelt to chance, nor to finite wisdom. He 
who “ sees the end from the beginning,” is the 
great director, and he delegates power to whom 
he will. To one he gives the five talents, to 
another two, and to another one—and he who 
receives the single talent will be equally com¬ 
mended with the others, if he make a proper 
use of it. Upon the great theatre of life, all 
cannot be chief actors,—there are subordinate 
parts to be performed, and that assigned to each 
is commensurate with his capability. Is there 
not as much praise due to those who act the 
minor parts well, as to those who occupy a more 
exalted position ? 
It is just as necessary in the social world, for 
a number to be elevated above the rest, as for 
the branches of the tree to be supported by the 
trunk, but the branches are equally necessary 
to its vitality,— and each branch, each twig, 
each leaf, adds to the beauty, and helps to form 
the fine contour of the whole. The tiny stream 
that silently glides among the hills, “ telling no 
tale of all the good it does,” helps to swell the 
mighty river, as well as the foaming cascade.— 
It is a strange idea men have, that of measuring 
their fellows by their wealth or talents ; and 
one gauge is as unjust as the other. They 
should be judged according to the ability and 
honesty with which they perform the duties de¬ 
volving on them as members of the great broth¬ 
erhood of man—according to the courage with 
which they demean themselves on the battle¬ 
field of life, whether as commanders or subal¬ 
terns. We do not inveigh against caste in 
society : on the contrary will go farther than 
most of our democratic fi iends, and say that it 
is necessary. It is requisite to maintain har¬ 
mony in the social world. 
“ Order is Heaven’s first law, and this confessed, 
Some are, and must be, greater than the rest.” 
But we do lift our voice against that system 
which will award no praise, and allow no dig¬ 
nity or honor to be attached to labor, and labor¬ 
ing men. In this land of mushroom prcten : 
sions, attaching, if not obloquy, at least a slight 
degree of contumely, to the more menial avoca- 
t ons of life, is most absurd. 
In the old world, aristocracy is at home ; it 
is a plant of native growth, and has firmly 
clasped its tendrils around the heart of every 
social system there. Here, every man in his 
proper sphere helps to form and support the great 
frame-work of our Commonwealth. What if 
the position occupied be an humble one, is not 
he and his work just as important, as dignified, 
as honorable ? How ridiculous is that man 
who, occupying a somewhat elevated position, 
shrinks from acknowledging any connection 
with those beneath him in point of wealth or 
intellect. If he stoops in the slightest degree 
from the pedestal of his pride and glory, it is 
with such a patronizing air, as if confessing a 
favor, for which the world will be under ever¬ 
lasting obligations. One would think he were 
another Atlas, bearing the world on his shoul¬ 
ders. Men of this stamp have sworn allegiance 
to the “ almighty dollar,” and as faithful sub¬ 
jects of their master, will have nothing in com¬ 
mon with any one who does not bear its mark. 
The aristocracy of intellect is less presuming, 
less arrogant, but more impudent, than that of 
wealth, and is formed on an entirely different 
basis. There is something amusing in the su¬ 
preme contempt with which those nature has 
endowed with superior mental gifts, speak of all 
who worship the same gods they do. Intellectual 
labor appears to them so much more ennobling, 
that all who are not pursuing it, are regarded as 
below their dignity. The honest'farmer, who 
labors to increase his wealth, is regarded half 
with pity, half with contempt; and the indus¬ 
trious plodding mechanic, who performs his 
daily routine of business, will answer very well 
to help fill up a world, but is considered as dust 
in the balance, when weighed in the great scale 
of intellectual good. 
Gardening is a delightful thing when consid¬ 
ered as a fine art, but when it assists one to the 
creature comforts of life, it loses all its charms ; 
and architecture, which so ennobles and ele¬ 
vates the mind, becomes void of all attraction, 
when it comes down to constructing houses to 
live in. These ideas usually prevail among learn- | 
ed professors, and “ bookish” young men, and 
authors. These things ought not to be. Dig¬ 
nity and honor ought to be connected with all 
useful employments, and all respectable classes 
in society. It is the want of this which causes 
so much murmuring and discontent. 
The human heart yearns for sympathy, for 
acknowledgment, and for appreciation. All 
that man wants is a recognition of the good he 
does. His work has been assigned him, and it 
is necessary that he should accomplish it; but 
if both himself and his work are underrated, 
can he do it cheerfully ? I candidly believe 
that encouraging young people who evince a 
degree of intellectual strength, to direct their 
ambition towards the attainment of professional 
or literary honors, is highly culpable. Rather 
teach them to dignify and ennoble the humble 
vocations they may have chosen. Man should 
elevate his profession, and not the profession 
the man. Were this done, and every honest 
calling duly esteemed, the world would be the 
better for it. “ The eye cannot say to the hand, 
I have no need of thee”—so in the body politic, 
one cannot say to another, “I have no need of 
thee.” There is a mutual dependence, and it 
ought to be felt and acknowledged. Who can 
tell what happy results might follow, if, in this 
land of professed equality, every one who puts 
forth the claim of brother, and equal, should be 
met with recognition, and be acknowledged as 
such. e. s. 
Livonia, N. Y. 
THE APPLE—A FABLE. 
There was a rich man at the Court of King 
Herod, he was his High Chamberlain, and was 
clothed in costly apparel, and lived in the great¬ 
est state and magnificence. And there came to 
him from distant lands, a friend of his youth, 
whom he had not seen for many years. Anxious 
to do him honor, the High Chamberlain made a 
great feast and invited all his friends; the ta¬ 
bles were laden with the most delicate viands 
on dishes of gold and silver, and many costly 
vessels filled with wines of all kinds: The rich 
man sat at the head of his table ; on his right 
hand sat the friend who had come from distant 
lands ; and they ate and drank, and were satis¬ 
fied. Then said the stranger to the King’s High 
Chamberlain, “ I have never seen such magnifi¬ 
cence as this in my native land.” And he 
praised all he saw, and esteemed his friend the 
happiest of men. But the rich man, the King’s 
High Chamberlain, took an apple from off a 
golden dish ; the apple was large and smooth 
and rosy as the cheek of a sleeping infant, and 
as he handed it to his friend, he said, “ Behold 
this apple, it lay upon a golden dish, and it is 
lovely to look upon.” And the stranger, the 
friend of his youth, took the apple, and cut 
it through; but, alas ! at its core was a worm! 
Then the stranger gave a glance towards his 
host. But the High Chamberlain looked down 
and sighed.— Krummacher. 
-- 
UNWRITTEN POETRY. 
Far down in the depths of the human heart 
there is a fountain of pure and hallowed feeling, 
from which, at times, swell up a tide of emo¬ 
tions which words are powerless to express— 
which the soul alone can appreciate. Full 
many hearts overflowing with sublime thoughts 
and holy imaginings, need but the “pen of 
fire” to hold enraptured thousands in its spell. 
The “ thoughts that breathe" are there, but not 
the “ words that burn.” Nature’s own inspira¬ 
tion fills the heart with emotions too deep for 
utterance, and with the poetry of the heart lies 
forever concealed in its own mysterious shrine. 
Unwritten poetry! It is stamped upon the 
broad blue sky, it twinkles in every star. It 
mingles in the ocean’s surge, and glitters in the 
dew drop that gems the lily’s bell. It glows in 
the gorgeous colors of the West at the decline 
of day, and rests in the blackened crest of the 
gathering storm cloud. It is on the mountain’s 
height, and in the cataract’s roar—in the tower¬ 
ing oak, and in the tiny flower. Where we can 
see the hand of God, there beauty finds her 
dwelling place. 
“ I was Mistaken.” —A lively writer has said, 
“ I was mistaken,” are the three hardest words 
to pronounce in ihe English language. Yet it 
seems but acknowledging that -ye are wiser 
than we were before to see our error, and hum¬ 
bler than we were before to own it. But so it 
is ; and Goldsmith observes, that Frederick the 
Great did himself more honor by his letter to 
his Senate, stating that he had just lost a great 
battle by his own fault, than by all the victories 
he had won. Perhaps our greatest perfection 
here is not to escape imperfections, but to see, 
and acknowledge, and lament, and correct 
them.— Jay. 
Gentility is neither in birth, wealth, manner 
nor fashion—but in the mind. A high sense of 
honor, a determination never to take a mean 
advantage of another, an adherence to truth, 
delicacy, and politeness towards those with 
whom we have dealings, are its essential char¬ 
acteristics. 
A MAN OVERBOARD. 
The clipper ship Flying Cloud, Capt. J. P. 
Cressey, on the last passage from China to New 
York, was in- the vicinity of Madagascar, going 
at the rate of twelve knots, with a fine breeze 
on the quarter, when a young man who was 
passing a studding-sail tack aft, outside of the 
bulwarks, fell overboard. The captain was in 
the forecastle, and did not notice him. Fortu¬ 
nately, Mrs. Cressey, who was in the cabin, look¬ 
ing out of a stern window, saw him, and imme¬ 
diately ran on deck and threw a life-buoy 
overboard. Still the ship was going along 
steadily on her course, for as yet, Mrs. Cressey 
alone knew there was a man overboard. The 
captain was on the forecastle, busy among the 
men, preparing to set another studding sail; 
the helmsman was intent only in keeping the 
ship in her due course. The ready “ aye, aye, 
sir,” might be heard, in response to some com¬ 
mand, when Mrs. Cressey rushed forward, with 
extended arms, too agitated to speak. “ What 
is the matter with Mrs. Cressey T asked one of 
the men who was near the captain. “ Eh! 
what ?” rejoined the captain, casting a glance 
on deck, and the next second his voice rang fore 
and aft:—“ Hard down the helm—one man 
aloft to look out—clear the lee-quarter-boat— 
call all hands !” He comprehended in an in¬ 
stant t he disaster, which Mrs. Cressey could not 
speak. 
The ship was hove to and the quarter-boat 
got afloat, to pull in the wake of the ship until 
recalled by signal. Sail was shortened and the 
ship put about to retrace her course as nearly 
as the wind would permit. The sea was rather 
rough, but the boat pulled steadily to the wind¬ 
ward, at the rate of three knots an hour. Capt. 
Cressey went aloft and scanned the horizon with 
his glass, but could see nothing of either man 
or the life-buoy. When the boat had been ab¬ 
sent an hour, the officer who had charge of it 
returned to the ship, but was again sent off, 
with imperative commands not to return till 
sunset, (the sun was then three hours high,) and 
in order to spread the chance of falling in with 
the man, another boat was despatched. Two 
hours had elapsed, when the life-buoy was dis¬ 
covered close to the ship—but not the man. 
Both boats were now about three miles from 
the ship, on each side of her course, and the 
captain, at once inferring that the man, if afloat, 
must be between the boats and the ship, signal¬ 
ized the boats to return, in the hope of their 
finding the man, for he still believed him to be 
alive, as he was a young fellow of good pluck 
and an excellent swimmer. The weather-boat, 
when about a mile from the ship, was seen to 
“ stern hard,” as the whalers say, until her way 
was stopped, then three men reached over the 
bow, and dragged inboard their loug-looked for 
shipmate. All hands were on the alert, eyeing 
them from the rigging, and when they saw what 
we have just described, sainted the boat’s crew 
with three times three. 
The man had been overboard two hours and 
a half, and was so much exhausted that he could 
hardly speak his thanks ; but his self-confidence 
was unsubdued, for he afterwards stated that he 
knew he would be saved the moment he saw 
the ship round to. He was sure Capt. Cressey 
would not give him up as lost until night set in ; 
but it seemed a small eternity to him from the 
time he fell overboard until the ship was bro’t 
to the wind. He never saw the life-buoy.— 
Upon his arrival on board, he was taken into 
the cabin and entrusted to the care of Mrs. Cres¬ 
sey, who put him in working order in ten days. 
He was very sick— at times delirious— during 
the first five days; but constant care and watch¬ 
fulness, such as woman only can bestow, over¬ 
came the fever, with which he was threatened, 
and gradually restored him to health. He was 
grateful, even to tears. “ Lucky dog,” said his 
shipmates, “ you were never born to be drowned; 
your time hadn’t come !” 
When he was brought on board, it must have 
been a glorious sight to see the cheerful alacri¬ 
ty with which the boats were hoisted up—to 
hear the stirring order—“Up helm, fill away 
the after yards,” &c., and feel the gallant ship 
once more move majestically on her course, un¬ 
der a cloud of canvas, homeward bound.— Bos¬ 
ton Atlas. 
OCCUPATION. 
What a glorious thing is occupation for the 
human heart. Those who work hard seldom 
yield themselves entirely up to fancied or real 
sorrow. When grief sits down, folds its hands, 
and mournfully feeds upon its own tears, weav¬ 
ing the dim shadows, that a little exertion 
might sweep away, into a funeral pall, the strong 
spirit is shorn of its might, and sorrow becomes 
our master. When troubles flow upon you, 
dark and heavy, toil not with the waves — 
wrestle n ot with the torrent! rather seek, by 
occupation, to divert the dark waters that 
threaten to overwhelm you, into a thousand 
channels which the duties of life always pre¬ 
sent, Before you dream of it, those waters will 
fertilize the present, and give birth to fresh 
flowers that may brighten the future—flowers 
that will become pure and holy, in the sunshine 
which penetrates to the path of duty, in spite 
of every obstacle. Grief, after all, is but a sel¬ 
fish feeling; and most selfish is the man who 
yields himself to the indulgence of any passion 
which brings no joy to his fellow-man.— Sel. 
A Humble Home. —Are you not surprised to 
find how independent of money peace of con¬ 
science is, and how much happiness can be 
condensed into the humblest home ? A cottage 
will not hold the bulky furniture and sumptu¬ 
ous accommodations of a mansion ; but if God 
be there, a cottage will hold as much happiness 
as might stock a palace.— llcv. Charles Hamilton. 
_ ' _ ____ — - ' 
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