208 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
JUNE 28. 
Ktim' ftet-Jfiilifl. 
CONDUCTBD BY AZILE. 
ASLEEP. 
Ax hour before she spoke of things 
That Memory to the dying brings, 
And kiss’d me all the while ; 
Then, after some sweet parting words, 
She seem’d among her flowers and birds, 
Until she fell asleep. 
’Twas Summer then : ’tis Autumn now ; 
The crimson leaves fall off the bough, 
And strew the gravel sweep. 
I wander down the garden walk, 
And muse on all the happy talk 
We had beneath the limes ; 
And, resting on the garden seat, 
Her old Newfoundland at my feet, 
I think of other times. 
Of golden eves, when she and I 
Sat watching here the flushing sky, 
The sunset and the sea ; 
Or heard the children in the lanes, 
Following home the harvest swains, 
And shouting in their glee. 
But when the daylight dies away, 
And ships grow dusky in the bay, 
These recollections cease ; 
And in the stillness of the night, 
Bright thoughts that end in dreams as bright, 
Communicate their peace. 
I wake and see the morning star, 
And hear the breakers on the bar, 
The voices on the shore ; 
And then with tears I long to be 
Across a dim, unsounded sea, 
With her forevermore. 
[Household. Words. 
MAY BE SO. 
A CHAPTEK POE MOTHEES. 
“Next time you go out, you’ll buy me a 
wagon, won’t you, mother ?” said my little boy 
to me one day. 
I didn’t want to say “ no,” and destroy his 
happy feelings, and I was not prepared to say 
“ yes and so I gave the evasive reply so often 
used under such circumstances, “Maybe so,” 
and which was meant rather as a negative than 
an affirmative. The child was satisfied ; for he 
gave my words the meaning he wished them to 
have. In a little while after, I had forgotten all 
about it. Not so my boy. To him the “ may 
be so” was “yes and he set his heart confi¬ 
dently on receiving the wagon the next time I 
should go out. This happened to be on the 
afternoon of that very day. It was towards 
evening when I returned. The moment I rung 
the bell at my own door, I heard his pattering 
feet and gleeful voice in the entry. 
“Where’s my wagon ?" said he, as I entered, 
a shade of disappointment falling suddenly 
upon his excited, happy face. 
“What wagon, dear ?” I asked. 
“ My wagon. The wagon you promised to 
buy me.” 
“I didn’t promise to buy a wagon, my son.” 
“Oh, yes, you did, mother! You promised 
me this morning.” 
Tears were already in his eyes, and his face 
wore a look of distressing disappointment. 
“ I promised to buy you a wagon 1 I am 
sure I remember nothing about it," I replied 
confidently. “ What in the world put that into 
your head ?” 
“ Didn’t I ask you ?” said the child, the tears 
now overflowing his cheeks. 
“Yes, I believe you did ask me something 
about a wagon ; but I didn’t promise to buy 
you one.” 
“ Oh, yes you did, mother. You said ‘ May 
be so.’ ” 
“But ‘ may be so’ doesn’t mean yes.” 
At this the little fellow uttered a distressing 
cry. His heart was almost broken by disap¬ 
pointment. He had interpreted my words ac¬ 
cording to his own wishes, and not according to 
their real meaning. 
Unprepared for an occurrence of this kind, I 
was not in the mood to sympathize with my 
child fully. To be met thus, at the moment of 
my return home, disturbed me. 
‘ I didn’t promise to buy you a wagon ; and 
you must stop crying about it,” said I, seeing that 
he had given way to his feeling, and was cry¬ 
ing in a loud voice. 
But he cried on. I went up stairs to lay off 
my things, and he followed, still crying. 
“ You must hush now,” said I, more positively. 
I cannot permit this. I never promised to buy 
you a wagon.” 
“ You said ‘ may be so,’ ” sobbed the child. 
“‘May be so,’ and yes, are two different 
things. If I had said that I would buy you a 
wagon, then there would have been some rea¬ 
son in your disappointment; but I said no such 
thing.” 
He bad paused to listen ; but, as I ceased 
speaking, his crying was renewed. 
‘ You must stop this now. There is no use 
in it, and I will not have it,” said I, resolutely. 
My boy choked down for a few moments at 
this, and half stifled his grief; but overmaster¬ 
ing him, it flowed on again as wildly as ever.— 
I felt impatient. 
“Stop this moment, I say!” And I took 
hold of his arm firmly. My will is strong, and 
when a little excited it often leads me beyond 
where I would go in moments of reflection. My 
boy knew this by experience. By my manner 
of speaking, he saw that I was in earnest, and 
that, if he did not obey me, punishment would 
follow. So, with what must have been a pow¬ 
erful effort for one so young, he stifled the ut¬ 
terance of his grief. But the storm within 
raged none the less violently, and I could see 
his little frame quiver as he strove to repress 
the rising sobs. 
Turning away from me, he went and sat 
down on a low seat in a corner of the room. I 
saw his form in the glass as I stood before it to 
arrange my hair, after laying aside my bonnet; 
and for the first, time my feelings were touched. 
There was an abandonment in his whole atti¬ 
tude ; an air of grief about him that affected 
me with pity and tenderness. 
“Poor child !” I sighed. “ His heart is almost 
broken. I ought to have said yes or no, and 
then all would have been settled.” 
« Come,” said I, after a few moments, reach¬ 
ing my hand towards the child; “let us go 
down and look out for father. He will soon be 
home.” 
I spoke kindly and cheerfully. But he nei¬ 
ther moved, looked up, nor gave the smallest 
sign that he heard me. 
“ Oh, well,” said I with some impatience in 
my voice, “ it doesn’t matter at all. If you’d 
rather sit there than come down into the parlor 
and look out for dear father, you can please 
yourself.” 
And fuming away as I spoke, I left the cham¬ 
ber, and went down stairs. Seating myself at 
a window, I looked forth, and endeavored to 
feel unconcerned and cheerful. But this was 
beyond my power. I saw nothing but the form 
of my grieving child, and could think of noth¬ 
ing but his sorrow and disappointment. 
“ Nancy,” said I to one of my domestics, who 
happened to come into the parlor to ask me 
some question, “ I wish you would run down to 
the toy store in the next block, and buy Neddy 
a wagon. His heart is almost broken about 
one.” 
The girl, always willing when kindly spoken 
to, ran off to obey my wishes, and in a little 
while came back with the article wanted. 
“Now,” said I, “go up into my room, and 
tell Neddy that I’ve got something for him.— 
Don’t mention the wagon ; I want to take him 
by surprise.” 
Nancy went bounding up the stairs, and I 
placed the wagon in the centre of the room, 
where it would meet the child’s eyes on the 
moment of his entrance ; and then sat down 
to await his coming and enjoy his surprise and 
delight. 
Alter the lapse of about a minute, I heard 
Nancy coming down slowly. 
“Neddy’s asleep,” said she, looking in at the 
door. 
“ Asleep !” I felt greatly disappointed. 
“Yes, ma’am. He was on the floor asleep. I 
took him up and laid him in your bed." 
“ Then he’s «ver his troubles,” said I, attempt¬ 
ing to find a relief for my feelings in this utter¬ 
ance. But no such relief came. 
Taking the wagon in my hand, I went up to 
the chamber where he lay, and bent over him. 
The signs of grief were still upon his innocent 
face, and every now and then a faiut sigh or sob 
gave evidence that even sleep had not yet 
hushed, entirely, the storm which had swept 
over him. 
Neddy I” I spoke to him in a voice of ten¬ 
derness, hoping that my words might reach his 
ear. “Neddy, dear, I’ve bought you a wagon.” 
But his senses were locked. Taking him up, 
I undressed him, and then, after kissing his 
lips, brow, and cheeks, laid him in his little bed, 
and placed the wagon on the pillow beside him. 
Even until the late hour at which I retired 
on that evening, were my feelings oppressed by 
the incident I have described. My “ May be 
so,” uttered in order to avoid giving the direct 
answer my child wanted, had occasioned him 
far more pain than a positive refusal of his re¬ 
quest could have done. 
“I will be more careful in future,” said I, as 
I lay thinking about the occurence, “how I 
create false hopes. My yea shall be yea, and 
my nay, nay. Of these, cometh not evil.” 
In the morning when I awoke, I found Neddy 
in possession of his wagon. He was running 
For -Vi 00 re'8 Rural New-Yorker. 
THE ANGEL’S TEST. — A FANCY. 
BY B. F. BURLESON. 
Fresh from the boundless realms above, 
An angel once the earth did rove ; 
And the glitter of ostentatious pride, 
By the humble garb walked side by side ; 
And it puzzled him sorely, ’neath whose breast 
The heart beat warmest, kindest, best: 
And he asked himself if the outward view 
To the heart within gave any clue. 
To know the truth, and the fact descry 
Who stood the first in their Maker’s eye, 
He clothed himself in a beggar’s dress. 
And borrowed his tale of deep distress— 
Gave to himself a famish’d form, 
And expos’d his limbs to the pelting storm ; 
Then leaned on his staff in the busy street, 
To ask for aid all he chanced to meet. 
The first that happened along that way, 
Was a man attired in a rich array. 
With a tear-dimm’d eye, in a pleading mood, 
He asked for alms to buy him food ; 
’Twas a vain appeal—for the man of pride 
Walked stately on, and his pray’r denied ; 
And the angel said with his feelings marr’d, 
“ His robes are soft, but his heart is hard.” 
The next that came was a lady fair, 
The only child of a millionaire. 
The old man told while his tears did flow, 
To the lady fair his tale of w oe ; 
But her proud lip curled as she pass’d him by, 
And she frowned on him with a haughty eye : 
And the angel said, with a look demure, 
“ Her face is fair, but her heart impure.” 
Next a deacon came where the old man stood, 
And his purse was full and his coat was good ; 
And his fame by the world was loudly rung, 
For his liberal hand and his nimble tongue. 
The old man plead, but in vain besought, 
For he clutched his purse and gave him naught: 
And the angel said with a saddened smile, 
“ He is fair to view, but his heart is vile.” 
The next that came to the sacred place, 
Was one with a care-worn, wrinkled face ; 
Her diess was faded, thin, and old, 
But she heard with tears the tale he told, 
And largely gave from her scanty store, 
Then sighed for grief that she had no more : 
And the angel said as she passed from sight, 
“ Her dress is poor, but her heart is right.” 
The next came a farmer jogging along, 
And he cheered his way with a gladsome song ; 
His clothes were soiled, his face was tann’d, 
And rough and hard was his Titan hand ; 
Yet his eyes with tears at his tale o’erran, 
And money he gave to the poor old man : 
And the angel said as he passed behind, 
<l Though his hand is hard, yet his heart is kind.” 
And now came a girl of sweet sixteen, 
With rosy cheeks and a faultless mien ; 
Though her dres3 was tern and her feet were bare, 
Yet little for these did the maiden care. 
As she passed him by in his hand she laid, 
A shining coin ere he asked for aid : 
Then the angel said “ I have tried the test,— 
Warm hearts may glow ’neath the rough-clad breast 
And yet ’neath the robes of the richest dye, 
The heart most steeped in guilt may lie.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
PIC-NICS. 
with it around the room, as happy as if a tear 
had never been upon his cheek. I looked at 
him for many miuuies without speaking. At 
last, seeing that I was awake, lie bounded up 
to the bedside, and kissing me, said, 
“ Thank you, dear mother, for buying me this 
wagon ! You are a good mother !” 
I must own to having felt some doubts on the 
subject of Neddy’s compliment, at the time.— 
Since this little experience, I have been more 
careful how I answer the petitions of my chil¬ 
dren ; and avoid the “ May be so,” “ I’ll see 
about it,” and other such evasive answers that 
come so readily to the lips. The good result I 
have experienced in many instances. — Ike 
Mother's Rule, by T. S. Arthur. 
Suffering is Universal. —Sufferings fill a 
large space in the present life ; they press upon 
us on every side. Throughout the intertaugled 
web of existence may be seen its dark threads 
and sombre colors; and no condition of life, 
however fortunate, but which has its full share. 
Over the entire field ot human existence the 
thorn and the thistle spontaneously grow.— 
They may in some measure be rooted out by 
constant care, or cut down before they reach 
maturity. But in some nook or corner of the 
inclosure, some neglected spot, often, indeed, 
where the soil is the richest, they will spring 
up and reach their perfection, and scatter a new 
harvest over the more cultivated portion of the 
field. 
It is to the virtues and errors of our conver¬ 
sation and ordinary deportment we owe both 
our enemies and our friends, our good or bad 
character abroad, our domestic peace or troubles, 
and in a high degree the improvement and de¬ 
privation of our minds. 
Home comprises all the space that a woman 
should desire to shine in. 
Now is the time for pic-nics. All nature is 
alluring and winning. The fields and groves 
are clothed in their green robes and blooming 
in beauty and brightness amid the hues of the 
fresh blossoms of summer. The little songsters 
have become merry and seem to express their 
exuberant joy in the sweet melody of their song, 
The holiday is at hand ; all the voices of the 
free air echo it. In some balmy day of June, 
the prettiest mouth of the year, the gi’ateful 
shade of the grove will be sought by hundreds 
of eager, joyous, happy children, accompanied 
by parents, teachers and friends, marching with 
music and banners. Here, from the rude 
stand, perhaps some youthful speaker, with in 
spired eloquence, will address the gladsome 
throng on the great subjects of the day. All 
is beauty and order, while music,sentiment and 
song continue to cheer and enliven the scene.— 
The company assembled are pleased with 
themselves, with each other, with the day and 
the occasion. Nothing seems wanting to com¬ 
plete their enjoy ment. The landscape is beau¬ 
tiful, the air delicious, the sky clear. Gardens 
of roses, myriads of flowers, numberless ever¬ 
greens have been collected to beautify and 
adorn the numerous festooned arches and arti¬ 
ficial bowers which enhance the picturesqueness 
of the scene. In a beautiful dell overhung with 
heavy and fragrant foliage is the long line of 
tables loaded with all the luxuries of the season ; 
gigantic pyramid cakes with their white-capped 
summits wreathed with artistic skill; straw¬ 
berries and cream, cakes and crackers, lemons, 
fruits and many of the substantials of the sea¬ 
son are all exquisitely arranged by the good 
taste of hands formed for the graceful. 
The scene enlivens—a youthful choir, sweetly 
accompanied by instrumental music, fill the air 
with melody. Music awakens new emotions of 
the soul—all is harmony and delight. The 
little girls, “ those angels of the household,” 
with ruddy, healthy countenances, singing 
cheerily and merrily, while the little boys, per¬ 
haps, have heard a word of encouragement that 
will inspire them to noble action for the future 
in the great cause of humanity. Such is the 
pride of the parent and the glory of the country. 
Whole neighborhoods are brought together to 
enjoy these natural delights. Here are assem¬ 
bled all ranks and conditions of society to bless 
and make glad the hearts of each other by the 
little kind acts which form the sum of human 
happiness. Associations of this kind are harm¬ 
less in their nature, and have a refining influ¬ 
ence upon the rude,—a harmonizing one upon 
persons of different tastes and habits, and give 
opportunity for a generous interchange of 
thought and feeling which must work for the 
benefit of all. s. h. s. 
Naples, June, 1856. 
RELAXATIONS OF GREAT MEN. 
It is interesting to note the amusements of 
learned and great men of present and past 
times. Their predilections, their private tastes, 
their amusements, their domestic habits, their 
relaxations—in a word, all that satisfies them, 
amuses them—are capable of furnishing useful 
lessons to our race; for a man’s manners and 
habits help us to a knowledge of him, and are 
the best evidence of his real character. 
Many great men have delighted in passing 
their hours of relaxation in the company of 
children. This betokens a pure and loving 
nature. Richter says the man is to be shunned 
who does not love the society of children.— 
Henry IY. was passionately fond of them, and 
delighted in their gambols and little caprices. 
One day, when crawling round his room on all 
fours, on his hands and knees, with the Dauphin 
on his back, and the other children about him 
urging the king to gallop in imitation of a horse, 
an ambassador suddenly entered and surprised 
the royal family in the midst of their fun.— 
Henry, without rising to his feet, asked, 
“ Have you children, Mr. Ambassador ?” 
“ Yes, sir.” 
“ In that case I proceed with the sport,” re¬ 
plied the king. 
The Duke of Wellington was extremely fond 
of children, and was a general favorite with 
them. He enjoyed their gambols, took part in 
them, and was constantly presenting them with 
little keepsakes and presents. 
Leibnitz used to pass months together in his 
study, engaged with his laborious investigations. 
At such times his only relaxation consisted in 
collecting about him in his study children of 
both sexes, whom he watched, and sometimes 
he took part in their frolics. Seated in his easy 
chair, he delighted to observe their lively move 
ments, to listen to their conversation, and to 
observe their several dispositions ; and when 
his soul had sufficiently enjoyed the innocent 
spectacle, he would dismiss the children with 
sweetmeats, and return to his studies with re¬ 
newed energy. 
Louis Racine says of his father that he took 
part in all the children’s sports. “ I remember 
a procession we once had,” says he in his merii- 
oirs, “in which my sisters played the part of 
the clergy, I was the curate, and the author of 
Athalie, singing in chorus with us, carried the 
cross.” 
Napoleon, like Wellington, was fond of child¬ 
ren. He used to take the infant king of Rome 
in his aims, and standing in front of a mirror 
with him, there made the oddest grimaces in 
the glass. At breakfast he would take the 
child upon his knee, dip his finger in the sauce, 
and daub his face with it; the child’s governess 
scolded, the Emperor laughed, and the child, 
almost always pleased, appeared to delight in 
the rough caresses of his father. Those who on 
such occasions had a favor to solicit from the 
Emperor, were almost always sure of being 
favorably received.— Selected. 
THE FIRESIDE. 
MARY JJffiMISON; 
THE WHITE WOMAN OF THE GENESEE. 
The fireside is a seminary of infinite impor¬ 
tance. It is important because it is universal, 
and because the education it bestows, being 
woven in with the woof of childhood, gives 
form and color to the whole texture of life.— 
There are few who can receive the honors of a 
college, but all are graduates of the hearth. 
The learning of the university may fade from 
the recollection, its classic lore may moulder in 
the halls of the memory, but the lessons of 
home, enamelled upon the heart of childhood, 
defy the rust of years, and outlive the maturer 
but less vivid pictures of after cfcys. 
So deep, so lasting indeed, are the impres¬ 
sions of early life, that you often see a man in 
the imbecility of age holding fresh in his recol¬ 
lection the events of childhood, while all the 
space between that and the present hour is 
a blasted and forgotten waste. Ytou have, per¬ 
haps, seen an old and half-obliterated portrait, 
and in the attempt to have it cleaned and re¬ 
stored, you have seen it fade away, while a 
brighter and still more perfect picture, painted 
beneath, is revealed to view. This portrait, first 
drawn upon canvas, is no inapt illustration of 
youth,and though it may be concealed by some 
after design, still the original traits will shine 
through the outward picture, giving it tone 
while fresh, and surviving it in decay. Such 
is the fireside—the great institution furnished 
for our education.— Goodrich. 
FLOWERS.-THEIR MISSION. 
Flowers, sweet flowers ! how they spring up 
around our pathway; how they sprinkle the 
fields and pastures, and smile in our gardens ! 
They come to us in the early spring, speaking 
of the sweet hours that are to follow their ad¬ 
vent, and point upward to the blue dome above, 
telling us, in their own quiet way, of Heaven 
and immortal glory ! The come to us in Sum¬ 
mer gaily dressed as for a festival, and so 
brightly glowing in the warm sunshine, they 
almost carry us back to the happy days of child¬ 
hood, when we wandered among them, free from 
the trials that beset life’s pathway, and thought 
that gay flowers and bright dreams were im¬ 
mortal ! They come in the lone, still Autumn, 
whispering of the great change that awaits us 
all; gently saying, “though we die, though we 
pass away from sight, yet we shall bloom again; 
when the bright Spring returns with its warm 
and cheering light, we shall come up from the 
dark, damp earth, clothed in new beauty !”— 
thus sweetly reminding us, that when the sun 
of righteousness shall return, we shall come 
up from the cold tomb, clothed in the garments 
of holiness and crowned with glory !— Boston 
Cultivator. 
The life of Mary J emison was one of singular 
vicissitude and trial. Taken captive at the 
early age of thirteen years, and trained in the 
wilderness to the ordinary duties of the Indian 
female, she became imbued with their senti¬ 
ments, and transformed essentially into one of 
their number. Born on the sea, as it were, the 
child of accident, made an orphan by the toma¬ 
hawk of the red man, it was her sad destiny 
to become lost to the race from which she sprang, 
and affiliated with the one she had every reason 
to abhor. This transformation, the reverse of 
the order of nature, was perfected by her be¬ 
coming the wife of an Indian, and the mother of 
Indian children. As if in punishment of this 
unnatural alliance, two of her sons met with a 
violent death at the hands of their brother, and 
afterwards, to complete the tragedy, the fratri¬ 
cide himself dies by the hands of violence. 
Notwithstanding the severity of these do¬ 
mestic calamities, and the toilsome life she was 
forced to lead, she met her trials with fortitude; 
and lived to the great age of ninety-one years. 
Her life, however, was not without its “sunny 
side.” She found attached friends among her 
Seneca kindred, and was ever treated by them 
with consideration and kindness. The esteem 
and affection with which she was cherished is 
indicated by the liberal provision made for her 
by the Seneca chiefs, before they disposed of 
their hereditary domain. They ceded to her in 
fee simple, and for her individual use, the “Gar- 
deau Reservation,” upon the Genesee River, 
which contained upwards of nineteen thousand 
acres of land ; and thus raised her and her pos¬ 
terity to an affluence beyond the utmost dreams 
of the imagination, had she afterwards chosen 
to retain it and return to civilized life. It was 
not the least hardship of her case, that when 
liberty and restoration were finally offered and 
urged upon her, she found they came too late 
for her acceptance, and she was forced to fulfill 
her destiny, by dying as she had lived, a Sene¬ 
ca woman. 
The narrative of her life cannot fail to awa¬ 
ken our sympathies, while it may serve to re¬ 
mind us of the perils that surrounded our fathers 
during the period of colonization. As time 
wears away, we are apt to forget, in the fullness 
of our present security, the dangers which sur¬ 
rounded the founders of the original colonies, 
from the period of the French and Indian War 
to the close of the Revolution. It is well not to 
lose our familiarity with these trying scenes, 
lest we become insensible to our ever-continu¬ 
ing debt of gratitude to those who met those 
dangers manfully, to secure to their descendants 
the blessings we now so happily possess. 
This narrative, while it brings to light a few 
of the darkest transactions of our early history, 
is therefore not without some instruction. 
It is proper to state that this work was first 
published in 1824, during the lifetime of Mrs. 
Jemison, and that shortly afterwards the author, 
to whose diligence we are indebted for the pre¬ 
servation of the incidents of her history, himself 
deceased in 1842. The work was revised by 
Ebenezer Mix, Esq., who also added several 
Chapters, and a portion of the Appendix. 
The frequent inquiries made of the Publisher 
for the work, since it has been out of print, in¬ 
duced him to undertake the publication of the 
present edition. The engravings which form 
the frontispiece, and also the illustrations, are 
entirely new, and were expressly designed for 
this edition. 
As the progress of Indian research, made 
since that time, has revealed some errors in the 
text, numerous foot-notes— Historical aiid Geo¬ 
graphical —have been added, which are now, for 
the first time, published with the original nar¬ 
rative. This work forms an interesting portion 
of our early Indian History. It cannot fail to 
find its way into all our public and private 
libraries. 
* The Life ok Mary Jemison, De-iik-wa-mis, (the old 
White Woman of the Genesee.) By Jas. E. Skavkr. Re¬ 
vised, Corrected and Enlarged. Just published by D. M. 
Dewey, Rochester, N. Y. Pp. 312. Price $1. 
The less you leave your children when you 
die, the more they will have twenty years af¬ 
terwards. Wealth inherited should be the in¬ 
centive to exertion. Instead of that, “ it is the 
title deed to sloth.” The only money that does 
a man good is what he earns himself. A ready¬ 
made fortune, like ready-made clothes, seldom 
fits the man who comes into possession. Ambi¬ 
tion, stimulated by hope and a half-filled pock¬ 
et-book, has a power that will triumph over all 
difficulties, beginning with the rich man’s con¬ 
tumely, and leaving off with the envious man’s 
malice. 
Idle Visits. —The idle are a very heavy tax 
upon the industrious, when by frivolous visita¬ 
tions they rob them of their time. Such per¬ 
sons beg their daily happiness from door to 
door as beggars do their daily bread, and, like 
them, sometimes meet with a rebuff. A mere 
gossip ought not to wonder if we evince signs 
that we are tired of him, seeing that we are in¬ 
debted for the honor of his visit solely to the 
circumstance of his being tired of himself.— 
He sits at home until he has accumulated an 
insupportable load of ennui, and then sallies 
forth to distribute it among his acquaintance. 
• NIGHT. 
How beautiful is nigbt I 
A dewy freshness fills the silent air ; 
No mist obscures, nor cloud 1 , nor speck, nor Btain 
Breaks the serene of heaven ; 
In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine 
Rolls through the dark blue depths. 
Beneath her steady ray 
The desert circle spreads, 
Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. 
How beautiful is night! — Shelley. 
