u 
320 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
OCT. 4, 
fafe’ gcil-fulM. 
CONDUCTED BT AZILE. 
Written for the Rural New-Yorker. 
ANNABELLB. 
BY BMMA MOKTOIf . 
Fare-thkk- WELL, 
Still and sainted Annabklle I 
Grass is growing green beside thee, 
Ill rnay never more betide tbee ; 
Flowers are springing to the light, 
Where thou’rt hidden from my sight. 
Nevermore, — 
Till the toils of life are o’er 
Shall I wait thee in the gloaming ; 
Never listen for thy coming, 
Till withia the Shadowy Land • 
I shall stretch to thee my hand. 
Clothed in white, 
Thou wilt lead me to,the light, 
Tell to me a wondrous story 
Of the new, supernal glory, 
When my earthly faith sbail fail, 
And I pass within the veil. 
Wearily 
Come the hours ’tween thee and me, — 
Waiting to unclose the porta', 
Leading to the land immortal, — 
Until then I say farewell, 
Angel-sainted Annabklle ! 
Canandaigua, N. Y., Sept., 1856. 
THE RAINY- EVENING; 
OB, A LESSON FOB YOUNG LADIES. 
BY MRS. CAROLINE LEE HENTZ. 
A pleasant little group was gathered round 
Uncle Ned’s domestic hearth. He sat on one 
side of the fire-place, opposite Aunt Mary, 
who, with her book in hand, watched the chil¬ 
dren seated at the table, some reading, others 
sewing, all occupied, but one, a child “ of larger 
growth,” a young lady, who, being a guest of 
the family, was suffered to indulge in the pleas¬ 
ure of idleness without reproof. 
“ Oh ! I love a rainy evening,” said little 
Ann, looking up from her book, and meeting 
her mother’s smiling glance, “ it is so nice to sit 
by a good fire and hear the rain pattering 
against the windows. Only I pity the poor 
people who have no house to cover them, to 
keep off the rain and the cold.” 
“And I love a rainy evening, too,” cried 
George, a boy of about twelve. “ I can study 
so much better. My thoughts stay at home, 
and don’t keep rambling out after the bright 
moon and stars. My heart feels warmer, and 
I really believe I love everybody better than I 
do when the weather is fair." 
Uncle Ned smiled, and gave the boy an ap¬ 
proving pat on the shoulder. Every one smiled, 
but the young lady, who, with languid, discon¬ 
tented air, now played with a pair of scissors, 
now turned over the leaves of a book, then, 
with an ill-suppressed yawn, leaned idly on 
her elbow, and looked into the fire. 
“ And what do you think of a rainy evening, 
Elizabeth?” asked Uncle Ned. “I should 
like to hear your opinion.” 
“ I think it ever dull and uninteresting, in¬ 
deed,” answered she. “ I always feel so stu¬ 
pid, I can hardly keep myself awake—one 
cannot go abroad, or hope to see company at 
home ; and one gets so tired of seeing the same 
faces all the time. I cannot imagine what 
George and Ann see to admire so much in a 
disagreeable rainy evening like this.” 
“Supposing I tell you a story, to enliven 
you ?” said Uncle Ned. 
“ Oh ! yes, father, please tell us a story,” ex¬ 
claimed the children, simultaneously. 
Little Ann was perched upon his knees as if 
by magic, and even Elizabeth moved her chair. 
George still held his book in his hand, but his 
bright eyes, sparkling with unusual animation, 
were riveted upon his uncle’s face. 
“ I am going to tell you a story about a rainy 
evening'' said Uncle Ned. 
“Oh I that will be so pretty!” cried Ann, 
clapping her hands ; but Elizabeth’s counte¬ 
nance fell below zero. It was an ominous an¬ 
nunciation. 
“Yes," continued Uncle Ned, “a rainy eve¬ 
ning. But though clouds darker than those 
which now mantle the sky were lowering 
abroad, and the rain fell heavier and faster, the 
rainbow of my life was drawn most beautifully 
on those dark clouds, and its fair colors still 
shone most lovely on the sight. It is no longer, 
however, the bow of promise, but the realiza¬ 
tion of my fondest dreams.” 
George saw his Uncle cast an expressive 
glance towards the handsome matron in the 
opposite corner, whose color perceptibly height¬ 
ened, and he could not forbear exclaiming— 
‘All! Aunt Mary is blushiDg. I understand 
Uncle’s metaphor. She is his rainbow, and he 
thinks life one long rainy day." 
‘ Not exactly so. I mean your last conclu¬ 
sion. But don’t interrupt me, my boy, and you 
shall hear a lesson, which, young as you are, I 
trust you will never forget. When I was a 
young man, I was thought quite handsome—” 
“Pa is as pretty as he can be, now,” inter¬ 
rupted little Ann, passing her hand fondly over 
his manly neck. 
Uncle Ned was not displeased with the com¬ 
pliment, for he pressed her close to him, while 
he continued— 
“Well, when I was young, I was of a gay 
spirit, and a great favorite in society. The 
young ladies liked me for a partner in the 
dance, at the chess-board or at the evening 
walk, and I had reason to think some of them 
would have made no objection to take me as a 
paitner for life. Among all my young ac¬ 
quaintances, there was no one whose compan¬ 
ionship was so pleasing as that of a maiden 
whose name was Mary. Now, there are agreat 
many Marys in the world, so you must not lake 
it for granted that 1 mean your mother or aunt 
At any rate, you must not look so significant till 
I have finished my story. Mary was a sweet 
and lovely girl—with a current of cheerfulness 
running through her disposition that made 
music as it flowed. It was an under current, 
however, always gentle, and kept within itsle 
gitimate channel; never overflowing intobois 
terous mirth or unmeaning levity. She was the 
only daughter of her mother, and she was a widow. 
Mrs. Carlton, such was her mother’s name,was in 
lowly circumstaoces, and Mary had none of the 
appliances of wealth and fashion to decorate 
her person or gild her home. A very modest 
competency was all her portion, and she wished 
for nothing more. I have seen her in a simple 
white dress, without a single ornament, unless 
it was a natural rose, transcend all the gaudy 
belles, who sought by the attractions of dress 
to win the admiration of the multitude. But 
alas! for poor human nature. One of these 
dashing belles so fascinated my attention that 
the gentle Mary was for a while forgotten.— 
Theresa VaDe was, indeed, a rare piece of mor 
tal mechanism. Her figure was the perfection 
of beauty, and she moved as if strung upon 
wires, so elastic and springing were her ges¬ 
tures. I never saw such lustrous hair—it was 
perfectly black, and shone like burnished steel 
and then such ringlets I How they waved and 
rippled down her beautiful neck. She dressed 
with the most exquisite taste, delicacy and 
neatness, and whatever she wore assumed 
peculiar grace and fitness, as if art loved °to 
adorn what nature made so fair. But what 
charmed me most, was that sunshiny smile that 
was always waiting to light up her counte¬ 
nance. To be sure she sometimes laughed 
little too loud, but then hen laugh was so mu¬ 
sical, and her teeth so white, it was impossible 
to believe her guilty of rudeness or want of 
grace. Often, when I saw her in the social 
circle, so brilliant and smiling, the life and 
charm of everything around her, I thought how 
happy the constant companionship of such a 
being would make me—what brightness she 
would impart to the fireside at home—what 
light, what joy, to the darkest scenes of exist 
ence !” 
“ On I Uncle,” interrupted George, laughing, 
“ if I were Aunt Mary, I would not let you 
praise any other lady so warmly. You are so 
takeu up with her beauty you have forgotten 
all about the rainy evening.” 
Aunt Mary smiled, but it is more than pro¬ 
bable that he touched one of the hidden springs 
of her woman’s heart, for she looked down and 
said nothing. 
“Don’t be impatient,” said Uncle Ned, “and 
you shall not be cheated out of your story. I 
began it for Elizabeth’s sake rather than yours, 
and I see she is wide awake. She thinks I 
was by this time more’n half in love with The¬ 
resa Yane, and she thinks more than half right. 
There had been a great many parties of pleas¬ 
ure, riding parties, sailing parties, and talking 
parties; and summer slipped by almost uncon¬ 
sciously. At length, the autumnal equinox ap¬ 
proached, and gathering clouds, north-eastern 
gales, and drizzling rains, succeeded to the soft 
breezes, mellow skies and glowing sunsets, pe¬ 
culiar to that beautiful season. For two or 
three days I was confined within doors by the 
continuous rains, and I am sorry to confess it, 
but the blues actually got complete possession 
of me—one slrided upon my nose, another 
danced on the top of my head, one pinched my 
ears, and another turned summersetts on my 
chin. You laugh, little Nanny, but they are 
terrible creatures, these blue gentlemen, and I 
could not endure them any longer. So the 
third rainy evening, I put on my coat, button¬ 
ed it up to my chin, and taking my umbrella 
in my hand, set out in the direction of Mrs. 
Yane’s. * Here,’ thought I, as my fingers press¬ 
ed the latch, * I shall find the moonlight smile 
that will illuminate the darkness of my night 
—the dull vapors will disperse before her ra¬ 
diant glance, and this interminable equinoctial 
storm be transformed into a mere vernal show¬ 
er, melting away in sunbeams in her presence.’ 
My gentle knock not being apparently heard, 1 
stepped into the ante-room, set down my um¬ 
brella, took off my drenched overcoat, arranged 
ray hair in the most graceful manner, and claim¬ 
ing a privilege to which, perhaps, I had no le¬ 
gitimate right, opened the door of the family 
sitting-room, and found myself in the presence 
of the beautiful Theresa—” 
Here Uncle Ned made a provoking pause. 
“ Pray, go on.” « How was she dressed ?” 
“And was she glad to see you ?" assailed him 
on every side. 
‘ How was she dressed ?” repeated he. “ I 
am not very well skilled in the technicalities 
of a lady’s wardrobe, but I can give you the 
general impression of her personal appearance. 
In the first place there was a jumping up and 
an off-hand sliding step towards an opposite 
door, as I entered ; but a disobliging chair was 
in the way, and I was making my lowest bow, 
before she found an opportunity of disappear¬ 
ing. Confused and mortified, she scarcely re¬ 
turned my salutation, while Mrs. Vane offered 
me a chair, and expressed, in somewhat dubious 
terms, their gratification at such an unexpected 
pleasure. I have no doubt Theresa wished me 
at the bottom of the Frozen Ocean, if I might 
judge from the freezing glances she shot at me 
through her long lashes. She sat uneasily in 
her chair, trying to conceal her slipshod shoes, 
and furtively arranging her dress about the 
shoulders and waist. It was a most rebellious 
subject, for the body and skirt were at ophn 
warfare, refusing to have any communication 
with each other. Where was the graceful 
shape I had so much admired ? In vain I 
sought its exquisite outlines in the folds of that 
loose, slovenly robe. Where were those glist¬ 
ening ringlets and burnished locks that had so 
lately rivalled the tresses of Medusa ? Her 
hair was put in tangled bunches behind her 
ears, and lucked up behind in a kind of Gor¬ 
dian knot, which would have required the 
sword of au Alexander to untie. Her frock 
was a soiled and dingy silk, with trimmings of 
sallow blonde, and a laded fancy handkerchief 
was thrown over one shoulder. 
“ ‘ You have caught me completely en disha¬ 
bille,' said she, recovering partially from her 
embarrassment; * but the evening was so rainy, 
and no one but mother and myself, 1 never 
dreamed of such au exhibition of gallautry as 
this.’ 
“Never, in my life, had I seen her look so 
lovely. Her dress was perfectly plain, but 
every fold was arranged by the hands of the 
Graces. Her dark brown hair, which had a 
natural wave in it, now uncurled by the damp¬ 
ness, was put back in smooth ringlets from her 
brow, revealing a face which did not consider 
its beauty wasted because a mother’s eye alone 
rested on its bloom. A beautiful cluster ol au¬ 
tumnal roses, placed in a glass vase on the 
table, perfumed the apartment, and a bright 
blaze on the hearth diffused a spirit of cheerful¬ 
ness around, while it relieved the atmosphere 
of its excessive moisture. Mrs. Carlton was an 
invalid, and suffered also from an inflammation 
of the eyes. Mary had been reading aloud to 
her from her favorite book. What do you think 
it was ? It was a very old-fashioned one, in¬ 
deed. No other than the Bible. And Mary 
was not ashamed to have such a fashionable 
young gentlemau as I then was to see’whatlier 
occupation had been. What a contrast to the 
scene 1 had just quitted 1 How I loathed the 
infatuation which had led me to prefer the arti¬ 
ficial graces of a belle to this child of nature ! 
I drew my chair to the table and entreated that 
they would not look upon me as a stranger, but 
as a friend, anxious to be restored to the for¬ 
feited privileges of an old acquaintance. I 
was understood, and, without a single reproach, 
was admitted again to confidence and familiar¬ 
ity. The hours I had wasted with Theresa 
seemed a mesmeric slumber, a blank in my ex¬ 
istence, or, at least, a feverish dream. “ What 
do you think of a rainy evening, Mary ?” asked 
I, before 1 left her. 
“I love it of all things,” replied she, with 
animation. “ There is something so home- 
©iffliti DJimllatty. 
Written lor the Rural New-Yorker. 
HEART SHADOWS. 
BY C. A. ROLTK. 
Thb light of joy one year ago 
Soft o’er my heart was streaming, 
And nestling there in sweet repose 
The Dove of Peace sat drearaiDg ; 
Lulled to rest in its throbbing nest 
By the waves of hope’s light beating, — 
Its visions bright fled with the night 
That brought dark clouds and weeping, 
Ah I me dark clouds and weeping. 
And now the dark waters of my soul 
Unrippled by the waves of hope, 
Dark and troubled onward roll, 
And onward still life’s flowers float. 
Away ! beyond my trembling grasp — 
And to my heart with folded wings 
The Dove of Peace I ne’er shall clasp, 
Until its strained and bleeding strings 
To earth shall cease to cling. 
Pompey, Sept. 4th, 1856. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE BISING SUN. 
drawing, so heart-knitting, in its influence.— 
The dependencies which bind us to the world 
seem withdrawn; and, retiring within our¬ 
selves, we learn more of the deep mysteries of 
our own being.” 
“ Mary’s soul beamed from her eye as it 
turned, with a transient obliquity, towards 
heaven. She paused, as if fearful of unsealing 
the fountains of her heart. I said that Mrs. 
Carlton was an invalid, and consequently re¬ 
tired early to her chamber; but I lingered ; 
nor did I go till I made a confession of my 
folly, repentance and wakened love; and, as 
Mary did not shut the door in my face, you 
may imagine she was not sorely displeased.” 
Ah ! I know who Mary was. I knew all 
the time,” exclaimed George, looking archly at 
Aunt Mary. A bright tear, which at that mo¬ 
ment fell into her lap, showed that, though a 
silent, she was no uninterested auditor. 
“You haven’t done, father?” said little Ann, 
in a disappointed tone : “ I thought you were 
going to tell a story. You have beon'talking 
about yourself all the time.'' 
“I have been something of an egotist, to be 
sure, my little girl, but I wanted to show my 
young friend here how much might depend 
upon a rainy evening. Life is not made all of 
sunshine. The happiest and most prosperous 
must have their seasons of gloom and darkness, 
and woe be to those from whose souls no rays 
of brightness emanate to gild those darkened 
hours. I bless the God of the rain as well as 
the sunshine. I can read His mercy and His 
love as well in the tempest, whose wings ob¬ 
scure the visible glories of His creation, as in 
the splendor of the rising sun, or the soft dews 
that descend after his setting radiance. I be¬ 
gan with a metaphor. I said a rainbow was 
drawn on the clouds that lowered on that event¬ 
ful day, and that it still continued to shine with 
undiminished beauty. Woman, my children, 
was sent by God to be the rainbow of man’s 
darker destiny. From the glowing red, em¬ 
blematic of that love which warms and glad 
dens his existence, to the violent melting into 
the blue of heaven, symbolical of the faith 
which links him to a purer world, her blending 
virtues, mingling with each other in beautiful 
harmony, are a token of God’s mercy here, and 
an earnest of future blessings in those regions 
where no rainy evenings ever come to obscure 
the brightness of eternal day. 
Tiiere is something peculiarly delightful in 
viewing the rising sun — in beholding the 
steady progress with which he ascends in his 
glory towards the zenith, until a full tide of 
brilliancy is poured upon the earth, and every 
leaf, which in the morning lay impearled with 
drops of dew, glitters in its beams. The land¬ 
scape smiles, and the deep blue sea sparkles as 
if ten thousand gems were sprinkled upon its 
surface. 
As the sun leaves his meridian height, and 
slowly descends towards the horizon, how beau¬ 
tiful the lengthening shadows o’er hill and dale. 
How enrapturing to see the sun’s red disc sink 
as into a cooling stream to bathe his burning 
brow. How pleasant to catch his last rays, and 
view his last shadows on the mountain tops.— 
Pleasant, because be sinks with the assurance 
that his re-appearance will be as lovely as ever. 
How well this compares with human life. 
Childhood, like the morning, is fair and lovely, 
a stranger to care and sorrow, contented with 
its own innocent enjoyments; youth, like the 
ascending sun, imagines naught but a sea of 
light, thinks not of flying clouds nor declining 
shades. 
As we advance to years of maturity, we ex¬ 
perience the full flow of prosperity, and our 
hearts beat high with hope and anticipation. 
This is the zenith. All is bright,—this life 
seems a round of enjoyment. Could we stay 
the chariot of time,—arrest the fleeting hours,— 
keep disease and death at a distance, maturity 
would be a state ol perfect happiness. 
But what must be the feelings when assured 
that we have ascended the hill of time, have 
reached its summit and are going down. We 
advance towards the ocean of Eternity. There 
is no going back; our course is onward ; the 
world darkens and friends are few. The differ¬ 
ent stages of life have departed,— we have 
reached the horizon,— the zenith has faded 
away, and we sink like the sun, but are seen 
no more on earth. Dolly. 
Farmers, Seneca Co., N. Y., 1856. 
AEOUT LIVING. 
V hen shall we get rid of the insularity of 
being afraid to make the most of small re 
sources, and the best of scanty means of enjoy 
ment ? In Paris, (as in innumerable other 
places anil countries,) a man who has six square 
feet of house top, adorns it iu his own poor way, 
and sits there, in the fine, whether because lie 
likes to do it, because he chooses to do it, because 
has got nothing better of his own, and has never 
been laughed out of the enjoyment of what he 
has got. Equally he will sit at his door or in 
his balcony, or out on the pavement, because it 
is cheerful and pleasant, he likes to see the life 
of the city. 
For the last thirty years, his family have not 
been tormenting their lives with continual 
speculations whether other families, above and 
below, to the right and to the left, over the way 
and round the corner would consider these re¬ 
creations genteel, or would do the like. That 
abominable old tyrant, Madam Grundy, has 
never been of his acquaintance. The result is, 
that with a very small income and in a very 
dear city, he has more innocent pleasure than 
fifty Englishmen of the same condition ; and is 
distinctly, in spite of our persuasion to the con¬ 
trary (another insularity) a more domestic man 
than the Englishman, in regard of his simple 
phasures being, to a much greater extent, di¬ 
vided with his wife and children. It is a nat¬ 
ural consequence of their being easy and cheap, 
and profoundly independent of Madam Grundy. 
—Household Words. 
'ONLY ONE LEFT.’ 
Queen Victoria has eight children, four sons 
and four daughters. Their names and titles 
are as follows : Victoria Adelaide Mary Louisa, 
Princess Royal, now fifteen years of age, Albert 
Edward, Prince of Wales, fourteen years of age, 
Alice M. and Mary, twelve years of age, Helen 
Augusta Victoria, nine years old, Louisa Caro¬ 
line Alberta, seven years of age, Arthur Wil¬ 
liam Patrick Albert, five years old, and Leo¬ 
pold William Duncan Albert, two years old. 
Every eye loves beauty, and there is no 
countenance, not blushed or deformed by guilt, 
that may not—indeed does not—brighten and 
gladden some devoted soul. 
What is companionship, where nothing that 
improves the intellect is communicated, and 
where the larger heart contracts itself to the 
model and dimension of the smaller. 
“ Only one Left.” These are the words of a 
mother who has lately followed to the grave a 
little form that was more precious than herself 
a form that death envied and so changed into 
marble. We know how grievous a thing it is to 
hide our jewels in the dust. We cling to them 
with all the tenacity that lore engenders; we 
claim them as all our own, and often dispute 
the Creator’s right to them. But if we would 
remember that they are merely loaned to us, 
how much easier would it be part with them. 
We might indeed sigh and weep to give them 
up, but there would be no snapping of heart¬ 
strings, no insufferable pangs, no terrible deso¬ 
lation. 
“Only one left.” The* let your affection 
concentrate upon him. You cannot benefit the 
dead—then seek to benefit the liviBg. He is a 
noble boy, and will make a man worthy of the 
name if you direct his young mind aright.— 
Perhaps he who watches over us all saw that he 
needed all your care, and so took the rest 
away. Too much time cannot be spent upon a 
single soul. Eternity lies at the end of the 
path in which the boy has begun to walk. Be 
this reflection unto you a constaut monitor, and 
a ceaseless inspiration. 
“ Only one left." And do you murmur ?— 
They might all have been taken. More mercy 
has been shown to you than to many others.— 
There are many Rachels who weep over the loss 
of an entire household—will you repine who 
have one idol left ? You must not. It is base 
to do it. You insult the Almighty while you 
repine. He knew what was best for you. Re¬ 
ceive his chasteniBgs graciously, if you care for 
His benefits. 
“ Only one left.” One immortal spirit. One 
pledge of affection. One staff on which to 
lean. One joy. One consolation. Knows your 
heart no arithmetic ? Counts it a unit of so 
little value ? Mother 1 Mother 1 Bo content. 
That little one shall be to you an increasing 
source of pleasure, if you will but train his in¬ 
fant feet to walk in the pleasant ways of wis¬ 
dom. 
“Only one left.” Wait but a little and you 
shall have them all.— Anson O. Chester. 
HAPPINESS. 
To watch the corn grow and the^blossom set, 
to draw hard breath over plowshare or spade, 
to read, to think, to love, to hope—these are the 
things to make men happy ; they have always 
had the power of doing these ; they never will 
have the power to do more. The world’s pros¬ 
perity or adversity depends upon our knowing 
and teaching these few things, but upon iron, 
or glass, or electricity, or steam, in nowise.— 
And I am utopian and enthusiastic enough to 
believe that the time will come when the world 
will discover this. It has now made its exper¬ 
iments in every possible direction but the right 
one; and it seems that it must at last try the 
right one in a mathematical necessity. It has 
tried fighting, and preaching, and fasting, buy¬ 
ing and selling, pomp and parsimony, pride and 
humiliation—every possible manner of exis¬ 
tence in which it could conjecture there was 
happiness or dignity ; and all the while, as it 
bought, sold, and fought, and fasted, and wea¬ 
ried itself with policies, and; ambition, and 
self-denials, God had placed its real happiness 
in the keeping of the little mosses of the way- 
side and of the clouds of the firmament.— 
Ruskin. 
THE PROGRESS OF LIFE. 
ESSAY ON MAN. 
41 At ten, a child ; at twenty, wild ; 
At thirty, tame, if ever ; 
At forty, wise ; at fifty, rich ; 
At sixty, good, or never.” 
Men rejoice when the sun is^ risen ; they re¬ 
joice, also, when it goes down, while they are 
unconscious of the decay of their own lives.— 
Men rejoice on seeing the face of a new season, 
as at the arrival of one greatly desired. Nev¬ 
ertheless, the revolution of seasons is the decay 
ol human life. Fragments of drift-wood meet¬ 
ing in the wide ocean continue together a little 
space ; thus parents, wives, children, friends 
and riches remain with us a short time, then 
separate—and the separation isinevitable. No 
mortal caa escape the common lot; he who 
mourns for his departed relatives has no power 
to cause them to return. One standing on the 
road would readily say to a number of persons 
passing by, I will follow you. Why, then, 
should a person grieve, when journeying the 
same road whieh has been assuredly trodden by 
all our forefathers ? Life resembles a cataract 
rushing down with irresistible impetuosity.— 
Knowing that the end of life is death, every 
right-minded man ought to pursue that which 
is connected with happiness and ultimate bliss. 
—Dublin University Magazine. 
The Favoritj Name.— Mary surpasses all 
other names in universality ; it belongs not 
only to women throughout, all Christendom, but 
even to men, who bear it as a second name.— 
Thus, for instance, the Queen of Spain’s name 
is Mary, her husband’s name is Mary, her 
mother’s name is Mary, and even her sister’s 
name is Mary, her uncle and all her cousins are 
Mary's, and her cousin’s children are Mary’s— 
in fact all the royal family of Spain, males and 
females, are Marys, with scarcely an exception. 
This arises from the great devotion of that 
Bourbon race to the Virgin,—a devotion which 
has gone to such an excess of fanaticism as 
even to confound the sox of her name by ap¬ 
plying it to males and females indiscriminately. 
—Household Words. 
The Seconds of Eternity. —Prof. Mitchell 
in one of bis recent lectures, describing the 
gradual tendency of the earth’s orbit to assume 
a circular form, used the following magnificent 
illustration :—“Its short diameter wiyj gradually 
lengthening and would continue so to expand 
until it should become perfectly circular, when 
it would again contract to its original shape 
and dimensions. And so the earth would 
vibrate periodically, and these periods were 
measured by millions upon millions of years. 
Thus,” said Prof. M.,“the earth will continue 
to swing back and forth, and to and fro in the 
heavens, like a great pendulum beating the 
seconds of eternity. 
MrRTH is like a flash of lightning, that breaks 
through a gleam of clouds, and glitters for a 
moment; cheerfulness keeps a kind of daylight 
in the mind, and fills it with a steady and per¬ 
petual serenity. 
............. 
