r 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL 
AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
SEPT. 27. 
farms' Iflit'lfllifl. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
SCENES I LOVE. 
I love to roam through forests wild, 
And pluck the tiny flowers, 
‘Tis sweet to be fair nature’s child, 
And mark the passing hours. 
The whispering wind I love to hear, 
It speaketh unto me, 
Its voice falls sweetly on my ear, 
In changeless harmony. 
I love the joyful biids of spring, 
Their motions light as air, 
I stand entranced to hear them sing, 
And bid adieu to care. 
The whippowil, the bird of night, 
Has charmed me with his song, 
As Luna spread her silvery light, 
The hills and dales among. 
I’ve listened to his plaintive note, 
Till past the midnight hour, 
The sweet sounds through my mem’ry float, 
With soft but thilling power. 
I dearly love the thunder’s voice, 
The lightning’s vivid path, 
It awes me, yet I do rejoice, 
To view dark clouds of wrath. 
I love the rugged mountains, too, 
The river, lake, and sea— 
All scenes of nature that I view 
Have untold charms for me. 
THE AGED MOTHER : 
“ SHE HAS OUTLIVED HER USEFULNESS.” 
< 
Not long since, a good-looking man, in mid 
die life, came to our door asking for “the min¬ 
ister." When informed that he was out of 
town, he seemed disappointed and anxious. On 
being questioned as to his business, he replied 
“I have lost my mother, and as this place 
used to be her home, and my father lies here 
we have come to lay her beside him.” 
Our hearts rose with sympathy,and we said, 
“You have met with a great loss.” 
“Well_yes,” replied the strong man with 
hesitancy, “a mother is a great loss in general; 
but our mother has outlived her usefulness; 
she was in her second childhood, and her mind 
was grown as weak as her body, so that she 
was no comfort to herself, and was a buiden to 
everybody. There were seven of us, sons and 
daughters, and as we could not find anybody 
who was willing to board her, we agreed to 
keep her among us a year about. But I’ve had 
more than my share of her, for she was too 
feeble to be moved when my time was out, and 
that was more than three months before her 
death. But then she was a good mother in her 
day, and toiled very hard to bring us all up.” 
Without looking at the face of the heartless 
man, we directed him to the house of a neigh¬ 
boring pastor, and returned to our nursery. We 
gazed on the merry little faces which smiled or 
p-rew sad in imitation of ours those little ones 
to whose ear no word in our language is half so 
sweet as “ Mother and we wondered if that 
day could ever come when they would say of 
us,"“ She has outlived her usefulness—she is no 
comfort to herself and a burden to everybody 
else 1” and we hoped that before such a day 
would dawn, we might be taken to our rest 
God forbid that we should outlive the love of 
our children! Rather let us die while our 
hearts are a part of their own, that our grave 
may be watered with their tears, and our love 
linked with their hopes of Heaven. 
When the bell tolled for the mother’s burial, 
we went to the sanctuary to pay our only token 
of respect for the aged stranger ; for we felt 
that we could give her memory a tear, even 
though her own children had none to shed. 
“She was a good mother in her day, and 
toiled very hard to bring us all up ; she was no 
comfort to herself, and a burdenTo everybody 
else 1” These cruel, heartless words rang in 
our ears as we saw the coffin borne up the aisle! 
The bell tolled long and loud, until its iron 
tongue had chronicled the years of the toil- 
worn mother. One —two-three—four-five. 
How clearly and almost merrily each stroke 
told her once peaceful slumber in her mother’s 
bosom, and of her seat at nightfall on her weary 
father’s knees. Six— seven—eight—nine—ten 
rang out the tale of her sports upon the green 
sward in the meadow, and by the brook.— 
Eleven—twelve — thirteen — fourteen —fifteen 
spoke more gravely of school days, and little 
household joys and cares. Sixteen seventeen 
—eighteen sounded out the enraptured visions 
of maidenhood, and the dream of early love. 
Nineteen brought before us the happy bride, 
Twenty spoke of the young 
heart was full to bursting with the new-strung 
love which God bad awakened in her bosom. 
And then stroke after stroke told her early wo¬ 
manhood—of the love, and cares, and hopes, 
and fears, and toils through which she passed 
during these long years, till fifty rang out 
harsh and loud. 
From that to sixty each stroke told of the 
warm-hearted mother and grand-mother, living 
over and over again to her own joys and sor¬ 
rows in those of her children and children’s 
children. Every family of all the group want¬ 
ed grand-mother then, and the only strife was, 
who should secure the prize; but hark ! the 
bell tolls on ! Seventy—seventy-one—two- 
three— four. She begins to grow;feeble, re¬ 
quires some care ; is not always pei fectly pa¬ 
tient or satisfied ; she goes from one child s 
house to another, so that no one place seems 
like home. She murmurs in plaintive tones, 
and after all her toil and weariness it is hard 
she cannot be allowed a home to die in ; that 
she must be sent, rather than a invited, from 
house to house. Eighty—eighty-one—’two- 
three— four— ah, she is now a second child; 
now “she has outlived her usefulness ; she has 
now ceased to be a comforter to herself oi any - 
bodythat is, she has ceased to be profitable 
to her earth-craving, money-grasping children. 
Now sounds out, reverberating through our 
lovely forest, and echoing back from our “hill 
for the dead,” eighty-nine ; there she now lies 
the coffin, cold and still—she makes no trouble 
now, demands no love, no soft words no ten¬ 
der little offices. A look of patient endurance, 
we fancied also an expression of grief fCr unre¬ 
quited love, sat on her marble features. Her 
children were there, clad in weeds and woe, and 
in an irony we remembered the strong man s 
words, “She was a good mother in her day.” 
When the bell ceased tolling, the strange 
minister rose in the pulpit. His form was very 
erect, and his voice strong, but his hair was 
silvery white. He read several passages of 
Scripture expressive of God’s compassion to 
feeble man, and especially of his tenderness 
when gray hairs are on him, and liisstiength 
faileth. He then made some touching remarks 
on human frailty, and of dependence on God, 
urging all present to make their peace with 
their Master while in health, that they might 
claim his promises when heart and flesh should 
fail them. “Then,” he said, “the eternal God 
shall be thy refuge, and beneath thee shall be 
the everlasting arms.” Leaning over the desk, 
and gazing intently on the coffined form before 
him, he then said reverently, “From a little 
child I have honored the aged; but never till 
gray hairs covered my own head, did I know 
truly how much love and sympathy this class 
have a right to demand of their fellow creatures 
Now I feel it. Our mother,” he added most 
tenderly, “ who now lies in death before us, was 
a stranger to me, as are all these, her descend¬ 
ants. All I know of her is what her son has 
told me to-day,—that she was brought to this 
town from afar, sixty-nine years ago, a happy 
fljjgctllamj. 
Written for Stoore’g Rural New-Yorker. 
TREASURES. 
BT C. A. KOLYJf. 
A Thoufaxd hopes, a thousand fears, 
A thousand prayers, a thousand tears, 
A thousand lets of good untold, 
Outweigh five thousand pounds of gold ; 
A thousand hopes in Heaven gain 
An interest that ne’er brings pain ; 
A thousand fears—ah ! these will spring 
And safety o’er thy treasures fling ; 
A thousand prayers for good below 
A mine of wealth and peace bestow ; 
A thousand tears from Pity’s eyes 
Are jewels bright set in the skies ; 
A thousand acts of kindness done 
A kingdom great by these are won. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE DACIAN CAPTIVE. 
bride—that here she has passed most of her 
Trajan had returned from his conquests 
loaded with the spoils of vanquished nations 
and dragging at the wheels of his triumphal 
chariot captive kings and princes. The city 
for four successive days had been the scene of 
his grand processions, and the haughty citizens 
had gazed delightedly on the rich treasures and 
splendid retinue of the conqueror. Never be¬ 
fore had the Imperial Capital witnessed such 
pomp displayed in the triumphal entry award 
ed to her victor chieftains. It was now the 
fifth day of this magnificent spectacle, and 
eighty thousand Roman citizens crowded the 
colossal Amphitheatre to witness the last act 
this mad drama—the savage contests of the 
gladiators, and thp still more inhuman combat 
of the doomed captive grappling in a death 
struggle with the fierce Numidian lion. 
„\Vitli a loud and warlike flourish of trumpets 
the gladiators, marshalled in ceremonious pro 
cession, entered the arena. They swept round 
the oval space slowly and delibeiately, that the 
life, toiling as only mothers have strength to Qrg migllt } iave full leisure to admire 
j •i i.: 1 ..V ~ .v A vnorofl o loro*P fnmilv of sons r ° • i _ 
toil, until she had reared a large family of sons 
and daughters—that she left her home here, 
clad in the weeds of widowhood, to dwell 
among her children ; and then till health and 
vigor left her, she lived for your descendants. 
You, who together have shared her love and 
her care, know how well you have requited her. 
God forbid that conscience should accuse any of 
you of ingratitude or murmuring, on account of 
the care she has been to you of late. When 
you go back to your homes, be careful of your 
word and your example before your own chil¬ 
dren, for the fruit of your own doing you will I ness - 
surely reap from them when you yourself tottei 
on the brink of the grave. I entreat you as a 
friend, as one who has himself entered the 
‘evening of life,’ that you may never say, in 
the presence of your families nor of Heaven, 
Our mother has outlived her usefulness. She 
was a burden to us.’ Never, never! A moth¬ 
er cannot live so long as that! No ; when she 
can no longer labor for her children, nor yet 
care for herself, she can fall like a precious 
weight on their bosoms, and call forth by her 
helplessness all the noble, generous feelings of 
their natures. 
Adieu, then, poor toil-worn mother. There 
re no more sleepless nights, no more days of 
pain for thee. Undying vigor and everlasting 
usefulness are part of the inheritance of the 
redeemed. Feeble as thou wert on earth, thou 
wilt be no more a burden on the bosom of Infi¬ 
nite Love, but there shalt thou find thy longed 
for rest, and receive glorious sympathy from 
Jesus and his ransomed fold.”— Selected. 
the diadem of Empire, as thou art so were the 
cities of fallen realms. Their greatness has 
perished from them ; they sleep amid ruins; 
their palaces and their shrines are tombs ; the 
serpent coils in the grass of their streets ; the 
lizard basks in their halls. Such their destiny 
—such shall be thine. The mighty hum which 
rolls aloDg thy marts of luxury and labor shall 
be stilled. The ocean itself, plowed by the 
keels of thy warlike trieremes,-shall become 
serene and tideless as the sea, hushed to softest 
silence, save that from its deep bosom may 
come, softened by the distance, a faint and reg¬ 
ular murmur, like the breathing of its sleep. 
The crested cities of the wide-reachiDg repub¬ 
lic shall crumble into ruins. The victorious 
eagles shall return no more bearing in their 
talons the reward of successful conflict. Dream 
not of freedom and power longer. The heart, 
the centre of the system, is stagnated with 
blood, and thou, 0 1 Rome, art like a bloated aud 
feeble giant, whose brain is imbecile and whose 
limbs are dead. Thy proud name shall be 
humbled ; the sceptre of power will soon be 
wrested from thy hands, and thou, haughty and 
Imperial Rome, who hast thriven on the ruins 
of other lands, shall soon be desolated by the 
ruthless invader, and the barbarian’s stud shall 
make his manger in the golden house of Nero.” 
Oloffe, the Dreamer. 
THU 
CIVILIZES. 
RISING IN THE WORLD. 
youthful friendships. 
What fond and generous friendships are 
often bred among youthful companions in the 
bright epoch of school-day life ! Then the 
innocence, gayety and hope of unsophisticated 
hearts create sky and land anew, and robe the 
scene in their own soft hues. No cynic frost 
has fallen on our disinterested sympathies.— 
The world has not laid its icy hands on our 
throbbing pulses. Our faith in each other, in 
whatever is lovely, virtuous, heroic, knows no 
limits. Then how frequent it is for attach¬ 
ments to grow up, at whose stainless sincerity 
and tender romance we smile in after-years, 
when, alas ! in too many cases, time has hardly 
brought enough to compensate for what it has 
taken away 1 Together we wander through the 
fields as through enchanted grounds. We 
dream dreams resplendent with the triumphs 
we fondly vow and think to win. In the art¬ 
lessness of that pure time our secret souls are 
transparent, and in the unawed clearness of our 
communion we look through each other. Our 
mother, trhose joys, our griefs, o„r whole hear s, are omted .0 
a free friendship whose strength and closeness 
foretell a sweeter and nobler life than the fair¬ 
est passages of history have as yet realized. 
These halcyon unions rarely survive a full en¬ 
trance upon the common pursuits of life. But 
they are prophetic. And when the cares of the 
world, the deceitfuluess of riches, and many 
sins, come upon us and alienate us, still their 
glorious oracles are never all forgotten. They 
haunt us like voices from fairy land. And oft 
the cliffs and shores of memory reverberate the 
plaintive echoes of our love, calling after many 
a beautiful Hylas ^vanished from beside the 
fountain of youth. How often the remembran¬ 
ces of the friends and the friendships o other 
days come back from the by-gone times w, en 
we knew them, and fill our hearts as with tb- 
wild, sad melodies of an Hioliau harp ! W bo, 
as he reviews the hallowed hours that went -o 
swiftly in the morning of life, and recalls the 
dear, familiar faces laid so early in the dust of 
the grave, would be ashamed to shed a tear to 
their mingled memory ?— Alger. 
their stern serenity of feature, their biawny 
limbs, and their rigid muscles knotted with the 
agony of the approaching conflict. The scorn 
of defiance was depicted on the countenance of 
those savage men as each glanced at his antag 
onist—the deadly hatred—the bitter scowl up 
on the brow—the foam of frenzy on the lips. 
A murmur of giddy and delirious excitement 
thrilled that vast assembly as the bloody strife 
began. The conflict increases. The feelingsof 
the audience are wrought up to a state of mad- 
Many a wild shout of joy and “ hoc ha- 
bet, hoc habet," echoes along those mighty arch¬ 
es, as some favorite gladiator plunges his fatal 
weapon deep into the heart of his foe. Ren¬ 
dered almost savage by the exhibition of blood, 
the inflamed populace still thirst for more. A 
wild and terrific cry of exultation simultane¬ 
ously burst from that infuriated mass, as a deep, 
hideous howl came from the cage of the hall- 
famished lion. 
Within the arana stands the captive chief.— 
His features are stately and majestic, and his 
eyes glitter fiercely with a savage gladness.— 
The frantic beast, foaming with rage, leaps 
adly from his dungeon den and springs fu¬ 
riously at his prey. Thou must no-w die, Da¬ 
cian, for no human arm can cope with the de¬ 
mon brute. But no ! —one well directed blow 
has transfixed the heart of the diead monster. 
And now, as he stands there amidst those as¬ 
sembled thousands, his right hand brandishing 
aloft the weapon still reeking with the blood of 
his slaughtered foe, when the deafening shouts I ness, 
of applause had died away, his dark eye flash¬ 
ing, his thin lips curling contemptuously, and 
his broad bosom swelling with exultant though 
scornful emotion, thus he spoke : 
“ Aye, ye would butcher me to make a Ro¬ 
man holiday ! These pillared domes would 
have rung with a longer, louder shout of ap¬ 
plause if my own limbs had been torn in pieces 
and my palpitating heart had been a dainty 
morsel in the crushing jaws of the famished 
lion. But, proud Romans, know that, though 
your prisoner, I am not your slave. This strong 
arm was never yet lowered in fair conflict with 
man or beast. Bring on, theD, your hired 
butchers,—aye, a score, if ye will,—and here, 
on the gore-stained sand of this arena, I will 
meet them all. 
“ Haughty patricians, living in all the splen¬ 
dor of princes, vaunting of high and noble lin¬ 
eage, I spurn ye, and here I taunt ye in your 
very teeth. Far away beyond the turbid 
waters of the deep rolling Danube is my rude 
hut, which I would not exchange for your royal 
palaces and marble halls. There, amid the 
vine-clad rocks and' orange groves, sport my 
young barbariaus. There, under a cloudless 
sky, in violet valleys and citron bowers, the 
delicious breeze fans a race hardy and free ; 
aye, free, and not as ye, vile Romans, slaves 
and menials. The blood that flows in their 
veins is purer, nobler than that which gives a 
feeble existence to your own pampered and 
bloated bodies. Yes, ye are a race of slaves, 
and cringingly do lick the dust beneath the 
tyrant’s iron heel. Freedom ! you know not of 
its strangs spell. Yet, Romans once were free 
and brave, and generous, but the spirit of your 
ancestors is frozen in your veins that you cU 
crouch and cower beneath a master’s lash. 
“Imperial Senators of Rome, robed in the 
ermine of power, yes, ye ‘ Conscript Fathers,’ 
falsely renowned for virtue, patriotism and jus 
tice, even here, as ye sit and with fond eyes 
gaze upon the mangled corse of many a bleed 
ing victim, I charge ye with corruption, with 
baseness and ingratitude, which every noble 
heart must loathe. 
« Queenly Rome, now the blazing jewel in 
Experience continually contradicts the notion 
that a poor young man cannot rise. If we look 
over the list of rich men in Philadelphia, we 
find that nearly all of them began life worth 
little or nothing. Girard was a poor boy. The 
late Mr. Ridgeway came to this city a country 
lad, almost penniless. What is true of Phila¬ 
delphia, is true, also, of New Ytork and Boston 
Astor began with nothing. Abbott Lawrence 
had only a pair of stout hands, a willing heart, 
and a good character, for his original capital.— 
To any person familiar with the millionaires 
of the United States, a score of similar exam- 
amples will occur. On the other hand, the sons 
of rich men, who began life with the capital 
which so many poor young men covet, frequent¬ 
ly die beggars. It would probably not be go 
ing too far to say that a large majority of such 
moneyed individuals either fail outright, or 
gradually eat up the capital with which they 
commenced their career. And the reason is 
plain. Brought up in expensive habits, they 
spend entirely too much. Educated with high 
notions of personal importance, they will not, 
as they phrase it, “ stoop to hard work. Is it 
astonishing, therefore, that they are passed in 
the race of life by others with less capital origi¬ 
nally, but more energy, thrift and industry ? 
for these virtues, after all, are worth more than 
money. They make money, in fact. Nay, 
after it is made, they enable the possessor to 
keep it, which most rich men pronounce to be 
more difficult than the making. The young 
man who begins life with a resolution always 
to lay by part of his income is sure, oven with¬ 
out extraordinary ability, gradually to acquire 
a sufficiency, especially habits of economy, 
which the resolution renders necessary, will 
make that a competence for him which would 
be quite insufficient for a more extravagant per 
sou. It is really what we save, even more 
than what we make, which leads us to fortune. 
He who enlarges his expenses as fast as his 
earnings increase, must always be poor, no 
matter what his abilities are. And content 
may be had on comparatively little. It is not 
in luxurious living that men find real happi- 
Ledger. 
A late missionary to Turkey finding his con¬ 
verts prescribed, in their relations as business 
men, by the authorities of the Church which 
they had left, he borrowed ten thousand dollars, 
bought a flour mill, and engaged in the making 
of bread, in order to give employment to his 
neophytes. The bread he manufactured proved 
so much superior to that generally sold at Con¬ 
stantinople—for it was there that he sought his 
market— that, before long, he had so large a de¬ 
mand for it as to give a livelihood to nearly all 
his converts. When the Eastern war broke out, 
and the British troops landed at Scutaria, good 
bread could not, at first, be had for the soldiers. 
In this emergency, the missionary stepped for¬ 
ward and offered to contract to furnish bread 
to the English. His tender was accepted, and 
a contract signed. The Sultan, finding what 
good brread was made for the British army, 
sent for the bakers who supplied his own, and 
compelled them to imitate the missionary. In 
the two years of the war, the mill, thus begun 
to feed a few converts, earned thousands oi dol¬ 
lars, which have been worthily dedicated, we 
believe, to building school houses in Turkey. 
The same missionary, visiting the barracks at 
Scutari, found the soldiers dying there by 
hundreds, and so little care taken of them—this 
was before Miss Nightingale’s arrival—that 
their linen very often remained unchanged for 
weeks. He found also that the refuse clothes 
were cast into a separate apartment, where they 
lay festering, rotting and tainting the atmos¬ 
phere. He aslted why this was. The British 
authorities answered that they could get nobody 
to wash the clothes, foi fear of infection. He 
offered immediately to undertake the job. But 
the prejudices of the Turks proved greater than 
even he, who had lived among them for eighteen 
years, had been led to expect. They cried out, 
when they saw the clothes, “The plague, the 
plague,” and refused to work. In this crisis, lie 
invented a rude washing machine, so that the 
articles might be partially washed without the 
intervention of hand labor. After this there 
was no difficulty. The labor-saving washing 
machine of the Yankee Missionary is still in 
use at Scutari, and will probably remain so, 
while there is washing to be done, even though 
the original necessity for it has passed away. 
A man, who does acts like these, is a true 
civilizer. Progress never goes backwards. A 
people, who have once practically seen even the 
rudest improvements on the implements they 
have used, are not apt to return to their old, 
clumsy way of acting. To teach even a few 
how to make better bread than before, or how 
to save labor and avoid infection in washing, is 
sowing broadcast the seeds of future civiliza¬ 
tion. All the wheat in the world has come, we 
are told, from a few grains that ripened, ages 
ago, on the table-land of Central Asia. Whether 
this be true or not, it is certain that the millions 
of horse, who now swarm upon the plains of 
South America, have sprung from animals turn¬ 
ed loose by the navigators. Missionaries have 
often been considered useless, and probably 
they do not always produce apparent effects 
commensurate with their cost, but when a mis¬ 
sionary goes forth, in the way this one did in 
Turkey, introducing material civilization, side 
by side with the spiritual and moral influences 
of Christianity, he cannot but to do good. It 
is the true way to spread civilization.— Selected. 
IMITATORS AND COPYISTS. 
The following anecdote is a complete illus¬ 
tration of the paltry course of imitators and 
copyists, who are incapable of devising any¬ 
thing new or useful, and are evei impertinently 
thrusting themselves in the way of those who 
are exerting themselves in some new and val¬ 
uable enterprise : 
While Col. Alden Spooner printed a paper at 
Sag Harbor, he was much encouraged by a lib¬ 
eral merchant, who advertised his wares in two 
long columns, specifying every item of wet or 
dry goods, shovels, stationary and mouse-traps. 
While this was working magically among the 
villagers, a rival merchant called in one day, 
and asked, with nonchalant air, the charge of 
inserting a couple of lines. He was told fifty 
cents, and paid the money. He thereupon pa¬ 
raded directly under the long advertisement, 
“I too. John Thompson.” The joke took 
mightily, and more particularly as John Thomp¬ 
son had borrowed his idea from a little squaw 
who used to sell her baskets at the harbor.— 
She had a rival in a large squaw, with a loud 
voice, who would cry her baskets with every 
necessary adjunct of descriptive eloquence. The 
feeble squaw keeping close at her heels, would 
squeak out, “ I too.” 
Tale-bearing.— Never repeat a story, unless 
you are certain it is correct, and even not then 
unless something is to be gained, either of inte¬ 
rest to yourself, or for the good of the person 
concerned. Tattling is a mean and wicked 
practice, and he who indulges in it, grows 
more fond of it in proportion as he is success 
ful. If you have no good to say of your neigh 
bor, never reproach his character by telling 
that which is false. He who tells you the faults 
of others, intends to tell others of your faults 
and so the dish of news is handed from one to 
another, untiFthe tale becomes enormous. “ A 
story never loses anything," is wisely remark 
ed ; but on the contrary gains in proportion as 
it is repeated by those who have not a very 
strict regard for truth. Truly, “ the tongue is 
an unruly evil, full of deadly poison. 
THE TURN OF LIFE. 
Between the years of forty and sixty, a man 
who has properly regulated himself, may be 
considered as in the prime of life. His matur¬ 
ed strength of constitution renders him almost 
impervious to the attacks of disease, and expe¬ 
rience has given soundness to his judgment.— 
His mind is resolute, firm and equal; all his 
functions are in the highest order; he assumes 
the mastery over business ; builds up a compe¬ 
tence on the foundation he has formed in early 
manhood, and passes through a period of life 
attended by many gratifications. Having gone 
year or two past sixty, he arrives at a'crilical 
period in the road of existence; the river of 
death flows before him, and he remains at a 
stand still. But athwart this river is a viaduct, 
called “ The Turn of Life,” which, if crossed in 
safety, leads to the valley of “ old age,” round 
which the river winds, and then flows beyond 
without a boat or causeway to affect its passage. 
The bridge is, however, constructed of fragile 
materials, and it depends upon how it is trod¬ 
den whether it bends or breaks. Gout, apo¬ 
plexy, and other bad characters are also in the 
vicinity to waylay the traveler, and thrust him 
from the pass; but let him gird up his loins, 
and provide himself with a fitting staff, and he 
rqay trudge on in safety with perfeet compo¬ 
sure. To quit metaphor, “ The Turn of Life” 
is a turn either into a a prolonged walk, or into 
the grave. The system and powers baling 
reached their utmost expansion, now begin 
either to close like flowers at sunset or break 
down at once. One injudicious stimulant, a 
single fatal excitement, may force it beyond the 
strength ; whilst a careful supply of props, and 
the withdrawal of all that tends to force a 
nlant, will sustain it in beauty and in vigor 
untu uiglu has entirely set in.— The Science of 
Life by a Physician. 
Persevere. —If a seaman should put about 
every time he encounters a head-wind, he cer¬ 
tainly would be a long time in making a voyage. 
So he who permits himself to be baffled by 
adverse circumstances, will never make head¬ 
way in the voyage of life. A sailor uses every 
wind to propel; so should the young man learn 
to trim his sails and guide his bark, that even 
the adverse gales should fill its belaying can- 
vass and send it forward on its onwaid couise. 
