MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
SEPT. 20. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
LINES, 
Written at Mount Hope, by a Mother, at the Grave 
of her Child. 
Herb my babe is sweetly sleeping 
Beneath the old oak tree, 
Whilst the myrtle above her head is creeping, 
And her gentle face is wisely hid from me. 
Thou hearest not thy mother’s lullaby, 
My own, my darliDg Lotty, 
But music softer, sweeter far— 
It is the Seraph’s holy melody. 
Thou feelest not that fond caress, 
As when so lovingly thou lingered on my breast, 
And that dear, precious little head 
I so fondly to my bosom prest. 
Thou feedest now among the blest, 
Thy Heavenly Father’s milk is ever new ; 
Thy bread is that of Righteousness, 
Thy drink celestial dew. 
One short year of joy and gladness, 
Thy loved presence cheered our home, 
Then all was gloom and sadness, 
The wintry wind thy requiem moaned. 
The brightness of the summer sky 
Shone liquidly in thy soft blue eye, 
And the soul’s mysterious beauty lay hid; 
Beneath its deep fringed lid. 
But why ! ah why ! at this green spot 
Do my footsteps love to linger ? 
Is it because flowers with fragrance scent the air, 
And gladsome birds their merry notes prepare ? 
Ah no, ah no ! it’s a blest, a hallowed spot, 
Where the white fringe and the pine-tree o’er me 
Their lengthened shadows fling, 
And murmuring bees at noontide sing. 
But not for this, ah no ; 
The casket of my jewel here is hid, 
Beneath the dark, deep coffin lid, 
But she, a shining star, set in her Savior’s diadem. 
Guide me, O my angel-child, 
Guide me to thy home above, 
For thou, my God, alone canst know, 
The deep, deep fount of a mother’s love. 
Rochester, Sept., 1856. Mart. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
JEWELRY. 
Stars are the jewelry of the skies—flowers of 
earth their sweet reflection. Angels are the 
jewelry of Heaven. God made a bright circle 
of gems to beautify His glorious universe; blight, 
shining ones—the stars; softly smiling ones— 
the flowers ; some of pure and holy lustre—the 
angels; one glorious in its beauty, but to be 
easily tarnished by the baleful glance of sin, or 
to grow still brighter beneath the smiles of the 
Spirit of Truth—and this was man. God look¬ 
ed upon his jewels and He loved them; He 
called them good and beautiful. 
The flowers bloom still, the stars shine on, 
and still the holy angels watch above us. But 
one bright jewel has lost its radience—one is 
dimmed, the circle is broken. The lost gem 
was beautiful, and weeping Truth seeks and 
seeks. But alas! it clings to sin, the _ dark 
spirit covers it over with its dusky robe, and 
Truth weeps ou. 
YVe all make up that jewel. And is it sweeter 
to live on in unblest sinfulness, than to be pure, 
and by our purity again join in harmony the 
gems God smileth upon in the perfection of 
their beauty? We know we should be far 
more happy in the warm, heavenly sunlight of 
His love, than in the dark, cold shadow where 
sin shuts away its glory. 
Therefore, as Truth is calling, let us hasten 
with her, and tarry not at the abode of Fashion 
or of Pride; nor at the Wine-cup ; nor with 
Oppression ; nor with Falsehood ; nor any who 
abide with Falsehood. So may the circlet 
again be perfect, and so may we win a home in 
that Heaven, where angels are its jewelry, and 
we may be its angels. Ellen Estes. 
August 18th, 1856. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
“THE SUMMER IS ENDED.” 
Dear Rural : — In this quiet September 
morning there is a profound temptation to a bit 
of gossip with yourself. The blue hills repose 
calmly against the sky, and the lake rests,— 
scarcely rippled by the dream-laden winds, 
while over all broods a bewildering haze, mak¬ 
ing just enough of mystery. 
Is it true, dear Rural, that “ the harvest is 
past, and the summer is ended ?” Has the year 
no more blue violets, and "trailing arbutus;” 
no more wealth of roses, no more billowy fields of 
grain, no more burning, passionate sunshine, no 
more merry mowers, and no more harvest homes ? 
Have the beautiful days of bird and blossom 
all gone by ? Assuredly, not quite all of blos¬ 
som ; but there is no more of the freshness and 
fragrance of the spring beauty, and the blush¬ 
ing June roses,—only the gorgeous Dahlias, and 
the pale, pining snow-drop. 
And yet, is there not in the autumn time a 
profounder beauty,— a deeper sounding of 
thought ? The sly, sensitive spring was rich 
in purpose, and the impassioned summer 
wrought the harvest; but autumn, crowned 
with fruits, and standing where the year begins 
to slope, is the perfected dream of the seasons,— 
like a character, just rounded into culmination, 
rich in its own resources, proud, and dignified, 
and self-reliant. But this is true only of the 
early autumn. Already the spirit of decay has 
breathed upon the fields and forests. Already 
the delicate grasses are withering, and the 
leaves are murmuring sadly to the winds. 
There are those who claim the autumn to be 
dreary. Upon the delicate sympathies of such 
an one we would never make a demand. To 
him the dying leaves whisper no secrets,— the 
changing shadows weave no beautiful dreams ; 
the quiet and repose never appeal to his earn¬ 
estness of nature, and the enchanted airs of the 
Indian Summer are to him only smoke and un¬ 
pleasantness. Ho, dear Rural, to such we will 
never open our hearts. 
Somebody has said, “ True sentiment is twin 
with melancholy, though not with gloom,” and 
there is profound significance in that worship 
of the ancients that made Ceres and Pomona 
deified attendants upon the autumn. They 
read the secrets of Nature better than we, and 
saw in the maturity of harvest more than a 
ministration to physical necessity. 
Oh, let us reverence the autumn ! Let us sit 
at her feet, and learn well the lessons that only 
she can teach us 1 She opens to us three beau¬ 
tiful volumes,—bidding us read and consider. 
The dream of the spring-time has been wrought: 
“The harvest is past, and the summer is ended.” 
But, dear Rural, we forget how far our pen 
has slipped from its starting point and is mak¬ 
ing demands upon your patience. 
“ Some future time may bring us here, 
But farewell now, farewell till then.” 
Canandaigua, Sept., 1856. Emma Morton. 
QUEER ELIZABETH: 
HOW HEK DINNER WAS SERVED UR. 
A gentleman entered the room healing a rod, 
and along with him another, who had a table¬ 
cloth, which, after they had both kneeled three 
times with the utmost veneration, he spread 
upon the table, and, after kneeling again, they 
both retired. Then came two others, one with 
the rod again, the other with a salt-cellar, a 
plate, and bread. When they had kneeled as 
the others had done, and placed what was 
brought upon the table, they too retired with 
the same ceremonies performed by the first.— 
At last came an unmarried lady, ( we were told 
she was a Countess,) and along with her a mar¬ 
ried one, bearing a tasting-knife. The former 
was dressed in white silk, who, when she had 
prostrated herself three times in a most grace¬ 
ful manner, approached the table and rubbed 
the plates with bread and salt with as much 
awe as if the Queen had been present. When 
they had waited there a little while, the yeomen 
of the guard entered bare-headed, clothed in 
scarlet, with a golden rose upon their backs, 
bringing in at each turn a course of twenty-four 
dishes, served in plate, most of it gilt. These 
dishes were received by a gentleman in the 
same order they were brought, and placed upon 
the table, while the lady-taster gave to each of 
the guard a mouthful to eat of the particular 
dish he had brought, for fear of any poison.— 
Daring the time that the guard—which consist¬ 
ed of the tallest and stoutest men that can be 
found in all England, being carefully selected 
for this service—were bringing dinner, twelve 
trumpets and two kettle-drums made the hall 
ring for half an hour together. At the end of 
all this ceremonial a number of unmarried ladies 
appeared, who, with peculiar solemnity, lifted 
the meat off the table, and conveyed it into the 
Queen’s inner and more private chamber, 
where, after she had chosen for herself, the rest 
goes to the ladies of the Court. The Queen 
dines and sups along with very few attendants, 
and it is very seldom that anybody, foreigner 
or native, is admitted at that time, and then 
only at the intercession of somebody in power.— 
Shakspeare’s England. 
Smiles and Frowns. —Which will you do— 
smile, and make your household happy, or be 
crabbed, and make all those young ones gloomy, 
and the elder ones miserable ? The amount of 
happiness you can produce is incalculable, if 
you show a smiling face, a kind heart, and 
speak pleasant-words. Wear a pleasant coun¬ 
tenance ; let joy beam in your eyes, and love 
glow on your forehead. There is no joy like 
that which springs from a kind act or a plea¬ 
sant deed ; and you will feel it at night when 
you rest, in the morning when you rise, and 
through the day when about your business.— 
Home Journal. 
He that flings the colorings of a peevish tem¬ 
per on things around him, will overlay with it 
the most blessed sunshine that ever fell on ter¬ 
restrial objects, and make them reflect the hues 
of his own heart; whereas he whose soul flings 
out of itself the sunshine of a benevolent dis¬ 
position, will make it gild the darkest places 
with a heavenly light. 
Gentility. — 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 adher¬ 
ence to truth, delicacy and politeness towards 
those with whom we have dealings, are its es¬ 
sential characteristics. 
Love for Trees.—W e love trees. They seem 
like things of life. They stand like sentinels 
while we sleep, and whisper to us through the 
day. It seems as though they were our kin¬ 
dred, and we hold converse with them as we 
watch their swaying branches through the long 
summer days. 
ivy—("wedded love.) 
Yes, woman’s love’s a holy light, 
And when ’tis kindled, ne’er can die ; 
It lives through treachery and slight 
To quench its constancy may try ; 
Like Ivy, where to cling ’tis Been, 
It wears an everlasting green. — Anon. 
Intelligent conversation is the great charm 
of man, the finest solace of intellectual labors, 
and the simplest yet most effectual and delight¬ 
ful mode of at once resting and invigorating the 
mind, whether wearied by study or depressed 
by struggles with fortune. 
djjiiire fjjjgtellatuj;. 
ONE BY ONE. 
BY CHARLES DICKENS. 
One by one the sands are flowing, 
One by one the moments fall; 
Some are coming, some aie going, 
Do not strive to grasp them all. 
One by one tby duties wait tbee, 
Let thy whole strength go to each, 
Let no future dreams elate thee, 
Learn thou first what these can teach. 
One by one (bright gifts from Heaven,) 
Joys are sent thee here below : 
Take them readily when given, 
Ready, too, to let them go. 
Ope by one the griefs shall meet thee, 
Do not fear an armed band ; 
One will tado as others greet thee, 
Shadows passing through the land. 
Do not laugh at life’s long sorrow ; 
See how small each moment’s pain ; 
God will help thee for to-morrow, 
Every day begin again. 
Every hour that fleets so slowly. 
Has its task to do or bear: 
Luminous the crown, and holy, 
If they set each gem with care. 
Do not linger with regretting, 
Or for passion hours respond ; 
Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 
Look too eagerly beyond. 
Hours are golden links, God’s token, 
Reaching Heaven ; but one by one 
Take them, lest the chain be broken, 
Ere the pilgrimage be done. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
A SEASONABLE EPISTLE. 
Dear Editor :—In these after-harvest days 
of peace and plenty, when man’s stomach and 
garners are full, and his heart consequently 
satisfied; when people are no more engaged in 
efforts to make it rain, but submissively leave 
their corn and potatoes in the hands of Provi¬ 
dence ; when there is no more inquiry of our 
Rural oracle, the time to sow and the time to 
reap, the time to prune and the time to culti¬ 
vate,—I think your less-crowded pages will 
gladly welcome an old aquaintauce. I am in 
full flesh and in good spirits, and possibly my 
company may be as good as a trip into a land 
of milk, cheese and honey, nice bread, honest 
words and homely manners. Though at times 
I become somewhat heated by a touch of the 
political fever, yet I habitually fall in with Na¬ 
ture’s various moods. Nature is now in a free 
and easy state of mind. Her work is done.— 
She has furnished man^and beast with a full 
cupboard for a year to come, and so she just sits 
quietly down bent on fully enjoying the first- 
fruits. Ou an aftennjjn of such days as these 
you find yourself “ clcyir gohe” into the common 
feeling. Everything \is in a» sort of careless, 
listless, good-nature. Animals are neither mer¬ 
ry nor sober. The weather is not hot nor is it 
cold. 
The “ melancholy days” of October have not 
cast their shadows before them, nor has red¬ 
faced July left the hot light of his countenance 
behind him. There is neither glare nor shade, 
for the sunbeams are stopped by the fuzzy, 
milky-way looking clouds, strained, and then 
dropped softly down over the hills and woods. 
All the grass and tree-leaves, plowed land and 
stubble look warm iu their embrace, and send 
up their hazy breath that wreathes about and 
beclouds the far-off hill-tops. Like as our first 
good old Dutch Governor, WouterVan Twiller, 
sitting in his gubernatorial chair and schmoking 
his pipe till his executive head was crowned 
with the curling wreathes, was innocent of a 
word, or a wink, or an idea, and wholly oblivi¬ 
ous to the vexatious cares of govern ment; so 
now iu the mellow atmosphere lie “small and 
great beasts and creeping things,” taking im¬ 
mense comfort. Crickets, as innumerable as 
they are invisible, are piping away each to 
himself and all together. Grasshoppers sing 
their shrill, stitching demisemiquavers. Little 
bunches of elm, beach and maple leaves shake 
their heads here and there in the frisking breeze, 
while the more attentive hickory and oak qui¬ 
etly occupy themselves in the domestic duty of 
raising their nuts and acorns. 
Spring birds are gone, but we have left the 
little sunshiny yellow bird that prattles con¬ 
tentedly on the head of a thistle or bobs its way 
from this to that mullen. A single crow drops 
down from a tree in the distant wood a single 
caw, to satisfy himself that he’s “there.” Tiny 
winged things float about among the dry grass 
stems, or higher in air, manifesting various de¬ 
grees of foresight and definite aim, from the 
thistle-blow down to the butterfly aad darning- 
needle. The cow no longer seeks the tree’s 
shade, but munches the grass about her fore 
feet, wherever they go—raising her head when¬ 
ever she gets a stone in her mouth, or a thought 
strikes her. If the question is one demanding 
prolonged deliberation, she lies calmly down 
in the contemplative posture peculiar to cows 
given to the study of bosoiogical science, and 
concentrates her mind, like her body, in one 
place, until she comes to satisfactory conclu¬ 
sions. The boy following the plow or drag 
whistled for a half dozen bouts after dinner till 
he had blown out all his ideas and lost his tune ; 
and now follows his steers as one of the team— 
to be brought back to humanity only by hun¬ 
ger, change of employment, or a chance visitor. 
There is a natural sympathy between the va¬ 
rious orders of creatures and the condition of 
their great earthy house and the arrangement of 
its furniture. There is a universal harmony, 
that does not affect poets and lazy people mere¬ 
ly, but finds the ear and heart of whoever lis¬ 
tens. The human mind can successfully resist 
its influences—but why should it ? Is it not a 
voice calling to man “ to rest from all the labors 
that he has done under the sun ?” Shall not 
man, bountifully blessed from the Horn of 
Plenty, in thankfulness and content, exclaim, 
( Enough, I am satisfied !”—and not, with 
swollen desires, cry “more!—more!” “Let 
the earth rejoice and all that is therein.” 
In my next you shall hear how we spend 
these evenings. Joyal. 
THE SNOW OP AGE. 
“No snow falls lighter than the snow of age ; 
but none is heavier, lor it never melts.” 
The figure is by no means novel, but the 
closing part of the sentence is new as well as 
emphatic. The Scripture represents age by the 
almond tree, which bears blossoms of the pur¬ 
est white. “ The almond tree shall flourish”— 
the head shall be hoary. Dickens says of one 
ol his characters, whose hair was turning gray, 
that it looked as if time had lightly pushed his 
snows upon it in passing. 
“ It never melts”—no never. Age is inexo¬ 
rable ; its wheels must move onward ; they 
know not any retrogade movement. The old 
man may sit and sing, “ I would I were a boy 
again,” but he grows older as he sings. He 
may read the elixir of youth, but he cannot 
find it; he may sigh for the secrets of alchemy 
which is able to make him young again, but 
sighing brings it not. He may gaze backward 
with an eye of longing upon the rosy cheeks of 
early years, but as one who gazes on his home 
from the deck of a departing ship, every mo¬ 
ment carrying him further and further away. 
Poor old man ! he has little more to do than 
die. 
“ It never melts.” The snow of winter comes 
and sheds it white blossoms upon the valley 
and mountain, hut soon the sweet spring fol¬ 
lows and smiles it all away. 
Not so with that upon the brow of the totter¬ 
ing veteran ; there is no spring whose warmth 
can penetrate its eternal frost. It came to stay; 
its single flakes fall unnoticed, and now it is 
drilled there. We shall see its increase until 
we lay the old man in his grave ; there it shall 
be absorbed by the eternal darkness, for there 
is no age in heaven. 
Yet why speak of age in a mournful strain ? 
It is beautiful, honorable and eloquent. Should 
we sigh at the proximity of death, when life 
and the world are so full of emptiness ? Let 
the old exult because they are old ; if any must 
weep let it be the joung, at the long succes¬ 
sion of cares that are before them. Welcome 
the snow, for it is the emblem of peace and 
rest. It is but a temporal crown, which shall 
fall at the gates of Paradise, to be replaced by 
a brighter and better one.— Selected.. 
THE SHADOWS OP CHILDH^D. 
God bless the little children ! We like their 
bright eyes, their happy faces, their winning 
ways, their rosy dreams! Nothing seems to 
weigh down their buoyant spirits long; mis¬ 
fortune may fall to their lot, but the shadows it 
casts upon their life path are fleeting as the 
clouds that come and go in an April sky. Their 
future may, perhaps, appear dark to others, but 
to their fearless gaze it looms up brilliant and 
beautiful as the walls of a fairy palace. There 
is no tear which a mother’s gentle hand cannot 
heal, no anguish which the sweet murmuring of 
her soft, low voice cannot soothe. The warm, 
generous impulses of their nature have not been 
fettered and cramped by the bold formalities of 
the world; they have not yet learned to veil a 
hollow heart with false smiles, or hide the 
basest purposes beneath honeyed words.— 
Neither are they constantly on the alert to 
search out our faults and foibles with Argus 
eyes; on the contrary, they exercise that bless¬ 
ed charity which “ thinketh no evil.” 
Memory, who can escape it ? No sorrow, or 
sigh, or bitter heart-wound can be forgotten or 
entirely healed. We may seem to forget for a 
time, and our lives may glide on in apparent 
tranquility, but in some unexpected moment, a 
word or look may stir the long silent chord of 
memory, briuging back each painful event and 
even thoughts to the miud, and causing a dull, 
leaden pain, as difficult to bear as the first sharp 
agony. “ A wounded spirit, who can bear ?” 
’Tis hard, yet how many of earth’s children are 
suffering in silent, uncomplaining sorrow from 
an inward -wound ? 
Moral Greatness. —Only moral greatness is 
truly sublime. The gladiator may discipline 
his sinews, and almost compete in strength 
even with his maddened adversary. And there 
are modern as well as ancient names, which 
awaken pity, if not contempt, for their owners, 
on account of the fearful perversion of their 
splendid talents. But when we read or hear of 
Howard, the illustrious philanthropist, the soul 
—debased as it may be—bends with instinctive 
homage, and feels as if a ray from his beauti¬ 
fied spirit illumed and purified its purposes.— 
Dr. Wayland. 
Determination. —“ The longer I live,” says 
Sir T. F. Buxton, “ the more I am certain that 
the great difference between men — between 
the feeble and the powerful, the great and in¬ 
significant—is energy,invincible determination, 
a purpose once fixed upon, and then death or 
victory. This quality will do anything that 
can be done in the world ; and no talents, no 
circumstances, no opportunities, will make a 
two-legged creature a man without it.” 
In youth the appetite, for fame is strongest.— 
It is cruel and inhuman to withhold the sus¬ 
tenance which is necessary to the growth, if 
not the existence, of genius, sympathy, encour¬ 
agement, commendation. ' 
AUTUMNAL DAYS. 
Once more the beautiful Autumn ! For days 
and weeks the cricket has chirped at the door¬ 
step, a|d by the road-side, chanting sweetly 
aad plaintively forth the prophetic dreams of 
silence; the- katy-dids have rasped the night 
air to a harsher edge, and a deep stillness, felt 
in the soul rather thau apprehended by the 
sense, has calmly settled down upon nature.— 
The sky, the atmosphere, the cool clouds sun¬ 
ning their brows in the day’s descending glo¬ 
ries, the fruit-laden tree, the maturing corn, the 
shorn meadows, are all pervaded—bathed and 
blent—by the very spirit of poetry. Thank 
God for Autumn ! Thank God for its deep, still 
joy, for its dear associations, and for the new 
tension it gives to the heart’s poor dangling 
strings ! 
The latter harvest comes apace. The fringed 
broom-corn tables will quickly be set for the 
harvesters, the burnished hoe will soon reveal 
the earth’s treasured bulbs, the corn will be 
stacked and husked, the pumpkins will drowse 
and drtam of gold in the sun, and, on some still 
night, while all are sleeping, the frost will come 
down, and softly put out the flaring lights of 
the autumn flowers. And the smoke, in a 
dreamy haze, will veil the front of the mountain, 
and hide the face of the forest, blushing scarlet 
as it bares its limbs to the dim light, and the 
hickory nuts will peep palely out from their 
hiding places, waiting the loosening fingers of 
the rain, and troops of pigeons will haunt the 
stubble by the side of the forest cover, and, from 
the distant hill side—ever and anon—the hun¬ 
ter’s rifle will startle into faint resonance the 
sleeping echoes. 
All these sweet sights and sounds will steal 
into the soul that keeps an open door, and make 
autumn there, for the soul, like and with nature, 
has its seasons. The golden corn of a year’s ex¬ 
perience ripens and hardens in the autumn air. 
The fruits of the soul’s culture acquire flavor 
and mellowness in the autumn’s reflective sun. 
And in the dim and smoky forests that darkle 
here and there in the spirit’s mystic realm, a 
startling shot shall question the life that nes¬ 
tles in its foliage and shock the echoes into 
dreamy replies. 
A welcome, then, to autumn ! Let us imbibe 
its spirit, and wrap its mantle round us. Let 
us drink the full cup it raises to our lips. Let 
us, if we have never done it before, yield our 
being to its informing breath and moulding 
hand, for the spirit of grace and of God is in it. 
Day unto day uttereth speech, and night unto 
night showeth knowledge. In every landscape 
and river and mountain and cloud are the ele¬ 
ments of divinity. The fields are the preachers 
of Providence, and every good and beautiful 
thing is a minister from Heaven. Revelation 
itself is but the translation into human lan¬ 
guage of law, love and beauty expressed in 
things from the foundation of the world. To 
this first revelation let no one longer be deaf 
and blind. So, when the days of autumn shall 
have passed by, and another season sweeps 
down from the Throne with its severer minis¬ 
tries, we shall find our hearts in harmony with 
nature, and prepared to take her hand, and 
walk gladly and hopefully into a field of new 
experiences.— Springfield Repxcblican. 
MERCANTILE HONOR. 
It might tempt one to be proud of his spe¬ 
cies when he looks at the faith that is put in 
him by a distant correspondent, who, without 
one other hold of him than his honor, consigns 
to him the wealth of a whole flotilla, and sleeps 
in the confidence that it is safe. It is, indeed, 
an animating thought, amid the gloom of this 
world’s depravity, when we behold the credit 
which one man puts in another, though sepa¬ 
rated by oceans and by continents; when he 
fixes the anchor of a sure and steady depend¬ 
ence on the reported honesty of one whom he 
never saw ; when, with all his fears for the 
treachery of the varied elements through which 
his property has to pass, he knows, that should 
it only arrive at door of its destined agent, all 
his fears and all his suspicions may be at an 
end. We know nothing finer than such an act 
of homage from one human being to another, 
when, perhaps, the diameter of the globe is 
between them ; nor do we think that either the 
renown of her victories, or the wisdom of her 
counsels, so signalized the country in|Which we 
live, as does the honorable dealing of her mer¬ 
chants ; all the glories of British policy and 
British valor are far eclipsed by the moral 
splendor which British faith has thrown over 
the name and the character of our nation ; nor 
has she gathered so proud a distinction from all 
the tributaries of her power, as she has done 
frftm the awarded confidence of those men of 
all tribes, and colors, and languages, who look 
to our agency for the most faithful of all man¬ 
agement, and to our keeping for the most in¬ 
violable of all custody.— Chalmers. 
Wealth. —Wealth—true wealth—is that pos¬ 
session which satisfies the heart. Palaces and 
lands may leave a man miserable. To be sat¬ 
isfied in one’s cell—to feel no aching, no void, 
to sleep peacefully and wake without pain, re¬ 
gret, or remorse, such is wealth. With these 
the hardest pillow becomes soft, the roughest 
way smooth, the darkest future bright, and their 
possessor stands up a man thau whom God has 
made none nobler; free from the canker which 
follows power and fame, and independent of 
exigencies which make and may shiver crowns. 
Life.— There is much truth iu the following 
lines : 
Our life is but a tale, a dance, a dream, 
A little wave, that frets and ripples by ; 
Our hopes the bubbles that it bears along. 
Born with a breath, and broken with a sigh ! 
