384 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER: AN AGRICULTURAL AND FAMILY NEWSPAPER. 
NOV. 19. 
Halm/ lart-ffllia. 
CONDUCTED BY AZILE. 
For Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
LINES 
In reply to “ Do you Pray for Me ?” 
V 
I pray for thee at morning-time, 
With a heart all light and free, 
I watch the sun in splendor climb 
The heavens, and I pray for thee. 
I pray for thee at fervent noon, 
For I know tkou’rt weary then, 
I weep that one in “ life’s young moon” 
Should sorrow, and I pray again. 
I pray for thee at sunset’s glow, 
X pray at hush of even, 
When angels catch the murmur low, 
And the dews are fresh from heaven. 
I weep when thou art weary, love, 
I pray in holy trust for thee, 
My way is dark and dreary, love, 
Then, darling wilt Ikou pray forme. 
E. E. 
LITTLE LIZZY. 
“ Take mo unto thee, oh, my Father,” and the 
pale face of the child was turned upward to 
Heaven, and the setting sun crimsoned over her 
countenance, and surrounded her little form 
with the light that may environ the angels.— 
How pure and worthy of its Heavenly Father 
seems the young child, and where can we find 
a more spotless type of innocence, to revere and 
to love, than the infant, lifting with reverence 
and regard, the words of her childish prayer ! 
Little Lizzy had retired to her bed and 
dreamed. She dreamed of two kind and beau¬ 
tiful faces that haunted her waking hours, and 
cast around all about her a seeming strange in¬ 
terest and connection with.the past. She dimly 
saw again the little parlor of the cottage where 
those two were, and she in the arms of one of 
them. The word mother rose to her lips, she 
stretched out her arms to clasp her, and awoke 
with her soft cheeks wet with tears ; and then 
again came over her that misty knowledge of 
events, and loved ones she knew that she had 
somehow lost, but wondered tearfully how it had 
occurred. She had known parents, and her lit¬ 
tle lips lisped the words father and mother, but 
wondered till she sank slowly into sleep again, 
what had become of those dear ones she loved 
to recall and embrace in her thoughts and 
prayers. 
The remembrance was a link with the past; 
there were two who had loved their little girl 
with a firm and true love, such a love as parents 
feel for their first born, and eyes had glanced 
into hers, while she was embraced again and 
again, as those who traced out the future life of 
the child that now lay with her head pillowed 
on her mother’s breast, so pure and innocent.— 
But they had been forced to part, and leave to 
the mercy of another their so dearly loved little J 
one; a few short months, and the ocean sepa 
[rated the first born from her parents, who slept 
lonely and sadly, thinking of Lizzy, in their 
home beneath an Eastern sky. 
Months passed, and the father mourned the 
loss of his wife, and buried, beneath the spread 
■ ing boughs of foreign trees, the lily of his Eng 
lish home. How his strong heart turned to the 
young life that bound him to existence, and 
how his thoughts all took their cast from the 
beautiful remembrance that was left him, of the 
pictures of his wife and little one ; his young 
bride and his young child ; the head with its 
bright ringlets pillowed on the mother’s bosom. 
Oh.! these are beautiful thoughts, and holy ties 
to bind us to our homes, and its loved ones; ties 
that bind us to our Maker, the Great Father of 
us all, and the Guardian of our dear young child. 
Poverty came upon the father, and he felt 
that death would be welcome but for his Lizzy; 
but even to the nurse who guarded her tender 
youth, he could send nothing to assist in main¬ 
taining her charge. He poured forth his heart 
in a letter to the good soul, and entreated her 
to be a mother to his helpless little one, and she 
did so. What was the world’s dross to her ?— 
She loved her charge who was of the same age 
as her own child, and so she kissed the orphan 
and gave to her the welcome of a loving heart. 
So there was another bright page added to the 
world’s book ! 
And Lizzy grew, and soon five years had 
passed, and grace visited her, and love beamed 
gently forth from her pure eyes. She loved to 
curl her slender arms round her foster-brother’s 
neck, and her rosy little lips would often kiss 
his. The young children loved each other 
dearly, and would walk far and near by the sea, 
listening to the murmur of its blue waves, as 
they rolled softly, almost lovingly, upon the 
shore, f Then they would come—those same 
jblue waves—up to the children’s feet and kiss 
[them with their bright foam, and the merry 
faugfli would sound as the two drew back from 
rude, but kindly waves, and higher up upon 
shingly beach sat them down to think, or 
ichance to dream of who was their Great 
|up in the distant sky; and Lizzy thought 
jehow her two fathers were one, and 
>ne was a beautiful spirit, to watch 
all her life from the blue heavens, 
( ther was somewhere guarding her on 
he loved them both, they were both 
and so she prayed, and in one 
their^ 
Ld passed. Lizzy and 
ir seventh year, 
red a young, 
had 
led as 
to 
Maker, was now only an image of what it had 
been, the essence that had animated it to life 
and reason, and kind loving thoughts, was gone 
So it lay without sense or animation ; no longe 
with the joyful, love-moving features upturned 
to meet the mother’s face, but cold and answer 
less to her embrace, and unknowing of her love, 
All that remained—how little—of her child 
she buried under the trees in the country 
churchyard, and upon the spot thenceforth flow 
ers grew and shed their fragrance, and there 
would come to sit, and think, and weep, the 
companion of his living days. There was an 
angel who now always sat at her Father’s side, 
in her visions of Him ; could that bright, beau¬ 
tiful thing be the playmate of her love ? 
Time passed ; the nurse was a mother to her 
child; she loved her with a deeper affection 
than she had felt before. There was a remem 
brance that threw a halo round her Lizzy. Two 
hearts, two faces, two forms, all appeared in 
Lizzy. The mother saw them ; she kissed her 
own dear child when she pressed the lips of 
Lizzy, and every kindness lavished upon her 
remaining little one was a kindness also given 
to her boy. So would we have thought in his 
heavenly home, and so an eternal Father would 
have thought, and he would have said :—«It is 
a kindness done unto me.” 
Lizzy wandered alone now, but she seemed 
to hold converse with all nature. The trees — 
huge, time-worn old trees — seemed to smile 
gently on her as she passed, and the branches 
to spread further beyond her when she shelter¬ 
ed herself beneath them to avoid the hot sun. 
Kind old trees they were, and she loved them; 
but what did she not love ? Her whole being 
was love ; love unto all things ; love for every 
little creature that had life and moved, and for 
every tree and flower that grew. Poor, deform¬ 
ed fellow creatures, too, she felt for earnestly 
and deeply, and weak and helpless as she was, 
would encourage with kindness and cheering 
words ; many sad, withering hearts grew almost 
young again, when communing with young 
Lizzy. 
Yet, how thin and pale she grew ; how she 
dreamed more and more, and became weaker 
and weaker; sitting for hours in the sunshine, 
watching the clouds sailing over the sky, or 
thinking of her little brother and good nurse ; 
with sometimes a loving face, all pure and holy, 
visiting fitfully and seldom her quiet hours, yet 
looking so lovingly as to cast a sweet sunshine 
for days around her. That pure creature, how 
much she thought of her ! Was that the mother 
of whom she had so often heard, and remem¬ 
bered in the dim tracery of the past ? 
There was one upon whom sorrow and suffer¬ 
ing had done their work, and who had died but 
for the hope that encouraged him. Upheld in 
adversity and trouble by brief thought, and by 
one picture imprinted unfadingly upon his 
heart, years passed — years that had seen his 
oung child’s playmate die, and her own life 
fading gently as a drooping flower—and these 
years had seen riches grow round him, who 
lived only in the hope of a future union 
It was a calm summer evening, nature seem 
ed sank in a sad repose ; the wind appeared to 
sigh gently through the rustling leaves, breath 
ing tales of death that had come softly, un 
known and gently upon the young lives that 
decayed in so holy a calm as to appear to melt 
slowly into spirit, and to linger around as still 
as an all purifying influence upon our hearts.— 
It was such an evening, and the father had 
come to take to their English home the nurse 
and the young child ; for an instant he paused 
and watched the smoke slowly curling over the 
trees, and the sleeping dog at the door, and the 
reclining flocks that were around, sleeping in 
the beams of the fading sun. The repose that 
was on all things fell upon his soul and stilled 
the eager beatings of his heart; and in that 
same hour, in the dying sunlight, went up the 
sweet child’s prayer :—“ Take me unto thee : 
oh, my Father,” and the setting sun crimsoned 
over her pale face, and surrounded her little 
form with the light that may environ the angels 
Hours had passed, courage had come to the 
father’s heart, and he stood at the door of his 
child’s room. Another moment he had fallen 
upon the bedside, and called upon her name. 
Her eyes spread open with a momentary light, 
but were glazed and cold as she extended her 
arms, and springing forward fell upon her 
father’s breast, murmuring in her confusion, the 
prayer, “ Take me unto thee, oh, my Father.” 
Sweet children clad in white garments of 
mourning, came and sang hymns over her grave, 
and as their pare voices mounted seraph-like 
on high, bearing the burden of the requiem for 
the dead, an old man, with forehead bowed low, 
was heard to murmur, “ Thy will be done.” 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
KNOWLEDGE AND PRAISE. 
E T J. it. S. 
Every leaf’s a tiny scroll, 
Written o’er with soDgs of praise ; 
Each small vein a line of love ; 
Every pore a wondrous phrase. 
Every bud’s a holy cell, 
Wherein lurks a secret lore ; 
Each flower breathes a tuneful hymn, 
Mighty aa the ocean’s roar. 
Every soul’s a master-piece 
Of the Great Creator’s art; 
Each one plays unconsciously 
Anthems loud on Nature’s harp, 
GIVE ME THE HAND. 
BY FRANCIS A. CARL. 
Give me the hand that is warm, kind and ready, 
Give me the hand than is calm, true and steady, 
Give me the hand that will never deceive me, 
Give me the grasps that I aye may believe thee. 
Soft is the palm of the delicate woman, 
Hard is the hand of the rough, sturdy yeoman ; 
Soft palm or hard hand—it matters not—never, 
Give me the grasp that is friendly forever. 
Give me the hand that is true as a brother, 
Give me the hand that has harmed not another, 
Give me the hand that has never foreswore it, 
Give me the hand that I aye may adore it. 
Lovely the palm of the fair blue veined maiden, 
Ugly the hand of the workman o’er-gladen ; 
Lovely or ugly—it matters not—never, 
Give me the grasp that is friendly forever. 
Give me the grasp that is honest and hearty, 
Free as the breeze and unshackled by party ; 
Let friendship give me the grasps that become her, 
Close as the twine of the vine of the Summer, 
Give me the hand that is true as a brother, 
Give me the hand that has wronged not another ; 
Soft palm or hard hand—it matters not—never, 
Give me the hand that is friendly forever. 
THE TOILET AND ITS DEVOTEES. 
THE MOTHER’S INFLUENCE. 
The solid rock whicb tin us the edge of the 
chisel, bears forever the impress of the leaf and 
the acorn, received long, long since, ere it had 
become hardened bj time and the elements. 
If we trace back to its fountain, the mighty 
torrent which fertilized the land with its copi¬ 
ous streams, or sweeps over it with a devasta¬ 
ting flood, we shall find it dripping in crystal 
drops from some mossy crevice among the dis¬ 
tant hills; so too the gentle feelings and affec¬ 
tions that enrich and adorn the heart, and the 
mighty passions that sweep away all the bar¬ 
riers of the soul, and desolate society, may 
have sprung up in the infant bosom, in the 
sheltered retirement of home. “ I should have 
been an atheist,” said John Randolph, “if it 
had not been for one recollection, and that was 
the memory of the time when my departed 
mother used to take my little hands in hers, 
and cause me on my knees to say :—Our Fa¬ 
ther who art in heaven !” 
“ Smilingly fronting the mirror she stands, 
Her white fingers loosening the prison’d brown bands, 
To wander at will—and they kiss, as they go, 
Her brow and her cheek, and shoulders of snow, 
Her violet eyes, with the soft changing light 
Growing darker when sad, and when merry more bright, 
Look in at the image till the lips of the twain 
Smile at seeing how each gives the smile back again.” 
Dean Swift proposed to tax female beauty, 
and to leave every lady to rate ber own charms. 
He said the tax would be cheerfully paid, and 
very productive. 
The intimate relations between woman’s beau¬ 
ty and ber toilet-glass, render it impossible for 
tbe fair possessor to be unconscious of her endow¬ 
ment, and consequently it would be always at 
premium; we remember a young surgeon 
once professed be would any day prefer a good 
dissection to a good dinner; we question bis 
taste, and if the dinner challenge were pre¬ 
sented to us, in behalf of beauty, we would 
prefer to accept of to. A good dinner, it is 
true, makes its app i-Jj o tbe hungry, but a vis¬ 
ion of beauty is delectation to the eye if less 
substantial, far moi etrpfining.' 
Beauty is flexible. It appears to us a dream, 
when we contemplate the works of the great 
artist; it is a hovering, floating, and glittering 
shadow, whose outline eludes the grasp of defi- 
ntiion. Mendelssohn, the philosopher, grand¬ 
father of the composer, and others, tried to catch 
Beauty as a butterfly, and pin it down for in¬ 
spection. They have succeeded in the same 
way as they are likely to succeed with a but¬ 
terfly. Tbe poor animal trembles and strug¬ 
gles, and its brightest colors are gone ; or, if 
you catch it without spoiling the colors, you 
have at least a stiff and awkward corpse. But 
a corpse is not an entire animal; it wants what 
is essential to all things, namely, life—spirit, 
which sheds beauty on everything. 
Lord Bacon observed justly, that the best 
part of beauty is that which a picture cannot 
express. 
Beauty is indescribable and inexplicable ; it 
fascinates, dazzles, and bewilders us with its 
mystic power. Woman has been defined some¬ 
thing midway between a flower and an angel, 
as the sunny half of the earth. It has been 
well said t,b&t woman’s beauty does not consist 
merely in what is called a pretty face. An old 
lyric writer of the seventeeth century, thus 
apostrophises it 
“There is a garfle-n in her face, 
Where roses and white lilies grow ; 
A heavenly Paradise is that place, 
Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow ; 
There cherries grow, that none may buy 
Till ‘ cherry ripe !’ themselves do cry. 
These cherries fairly do enclose 
Of orieiit pearls a double row, 
Which when her lovely laughter shows, 
They look like rose-buds filled with snow ; 
Yet these no peer, no prince, may buy, 
Till ‘ cherry ripe 1’ themselves do cry. 
Her eyos, like angels, watch them still; 
Her brows, like bended bows, do stand, 
Threatening, with piercing frowns, to kill 
All that approach with eyes or hand 
Those sacred cherries to come nigh, 
Till * cherry ripe !’ themselves do cry.” 
“Women are the poetry of the world, in tbe 
same sense as tbe stars are the poetry of heaven. 
Clear, light giving, harmonious, they are ter¬ 
restrial planets that rule the destinies of man¬ 
kind.” 
“ I saw her, upon nearer view, 
A spirit, yet a woman, too, 
Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin liberty ; 
A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet, 
A creature not too bright ©r good 
For human naturo’s daily food, 
For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.” 
Wordsworth’s charming portraiture of wo¬ 
manly sweetness is worthy alike of the subject 
and the writer; it is doubtless familiar to the 
reader. 
Another pen has dilated upon it in prose, as 
followeth : 
“ Those who are accustomed to enlightened 
views of female beauty well know that there 
are different kinds of personal beauty, among 
which that of form and coloring hold a very in¬ 
ferior rank. 
“ There is a beauty of expression, for in¬ 
stance, of sweetness, of nobility, of intellectual 
refinement, of feeling, of animation, of meek¬ 
ness, of resignation, and many other kinds of 
beauty, which may be allied to the plainest 
features, and yet may remain to give pleasure 
long after the blooming cheek has faded, and 
silver gray has mingled with the hair. And 
how far more powerful in their influences upon 
others, are some of those kinds of beauty. For, 
after all, beauty depends more upon tbe move¬ 
ment of tbe face, that upon the form features 
when at rest; and thus, a countenance habit¬ 
ually under the influence of amiable feelngs, 
acquires a beauty of the highest order, from the 
frequency with which such feelings are the orig¬ 
inating causes of the movements or expressions 
which stamp their character upon it. Who has 
not waited for the first opening of the lips of a 
celebrated belle, to see whether ber claims 
would be supported by ‘ the mind, the music 
breathing from her face ?’ and who has not oc¬ 
casionally turned away repelled by the utter 
blank, whicb the simple movement of the mouth 
in speakiBg or smiling, has revealed ? 
“ The language of poetry describes the loud 
laugh as indicative of the vulgar mind; and 
certainly there are expressions, conveyed thro’ 
the medium of a smile, which need not Lavater 
to inform us that refinement of feeling, or ele¬ 
vation of soul, has little to do with the fair 
countenance on which they are impressed. On 
the other hand, there are plain women some¬ 
times met in society, every movement of whose 
features is instinct with intelligence; who, from 
the genuine heart-warm smiles which play 
about the mouth, the sweetly modulated voice, 
and the lighting up of an eye that looks as if it 
could comprehend the universe, become per¬ 
fectly beautiful to those who live with them 
Before such pretensions as these, how soon does 
the pink-and-white of a merely pretty face 
vanish to nothing 1” 
Among the many tributes to beauty is an old 
epigram, that may be new to some—it runs as 
follows: 
“ The world’s a prison, a sad, gloomy den, 
Whose walls are the heavens in common ; 
The j ailer is SiB, an I the prisoners men, 
And the fetters are nothing bat women.” 
[ Salad for the Social. 
A PRIDE OF A KITCHEN. 
CHARACTER BETTER THAN CREDIT. 
We often bear young men, who have small 
means, dolefully contrasting their lot with that 
of rich men’s sons. Yet the longer we live, the 
more we are convinced that the old merchant 
was right, who said to us when we began life;, 
—“Industry, my lad, isjbetter than ingots of 
gold, and character mnrG vnlucUls than credit.” 
We could furnish, if need, were, from our own 
experience, a score of illustrations to prove the 
truth of his remarks. In all branches of busi¬ 
ness, in all avocations, character, in the long 
run, is the best capital. Says Poor Richard— 
“The sound of your hammer at five in the morn¬ 
ing, or nine at night, heard by a creditor, makes 
biin easy for six months longer, but if he sees 
you at a gambling table, or hears your voice at a 
tavern, when you should be at work, he sends 
for his money the next day.” What is true of 
the young mechanic, is true also of the young 
merchant or of the young lawyer. Old and sa¬ 
gacious firms will not long continue to give 
credit for thousands of dollars, when they see 
the purchaser, if a yoimg man, driving fast 
horses, or lounging in drinking saloons. Clients 
will not entrust their cases to advocates, how¬ 
ever brilliant, who frequent the card table, tbe 
wine party, or the race-course. It is better, in 
beginning life, to secure a reputation for indus¬ 
try and probity, than to own houses or lands, 
if, with them you have no character. 
A facility of obtaining credit at the outset is 
often an injury instead of a benefit. It makes 
the young beginner too venturesome, fills him 
with dreams of too early fortune, tempts him too 
much to neglect hard work, forethought, caution, 
and economy. Excessive capital is as frequent¬ 
ly a snare to a young man. It has passed al 
most into a proverb, in consequence, that th< 
sons of rich men never makegood business men. 
To succeed in life we must learn tbe value of 
money. But a superfluity of means at the out¬ 
set is nearly a certain method of rendering us 
insensible to its value. Ho man ever grew rich 
who bad not learned and practiced tbe adage 
“ if you take care of tbe pennies the dollars will 
take care of themselves.” Knowledge of men, 
self-discipline, a thorough mastery of our pur¬ 
suit, and other qualifications, which all persons 
of experience look for, are necessary to give the 
world security that a young man is of the right 
metal. Capital may be lost, but character 
never. Credit once gone, the man without 
character fails. But he who has earned a repu¬ 
tation for capacity, integrity and economy, even 
if he loses his capital, retains his credit, and 
rises triumphant over bankruptcy itself A 
man with character can never be ruined. It is 
the first thing a young man should seek to se¬ 
cure, and it may be had by every one who de¬ 
sires it in earnest. A poor boy with character 
is more fortunate by far than a rich man’s son 
without it .—Baltimore Sun. 
A Paris correspondent of the Express pens 
the following bagatelle :—“There resides in the 
Rue de la Chaussee d’Antin a worthy lady who 
makes a single apartment in her house more el¬ 
egant than all the rest combined. This grand 
apartment is—the kitchen. Whenever this la¬ 
dy receives company, all sorts of ingenious 
plans are formed, and every description of little 
artifices employed, to induce her guests, with- 
out actually asking them, to have a peep at this 
den—generally kept as much as possible in the 
background, for obvious reasons, (nothing is so 
disgusting to a true epicure as the smell of 
cookery.) In most houses, therefore, the kitchen 
is as far distant from the drawing-room as pos¬ 
sible. In this instance, on the contrary, the lo¬ 
cal topography is so arranged that many per¬ 
sons wishing to go out, mistake the door, and 
just as they are about hastily backing out, are 
accosted by the most dazzling of cooks, who 
cries, with a smiling air, ‘it’s the kitchen, 
Monsieur, (or Madame). There’s no harm 1— 
Walk in, if you please!’ By this time, the 
glance of the visitor has taken in all sorts of 
unexpected things hung about tbe room, and be 
is induced to enter tbjs curious boudoir kitchen. 
The walls and the floor are composed of mosaic 
bricks of numerous colors—the prevailing being 
blue and white. Gas burners issue from rare 
and beautiful china saucers, or burn through 
the artificial wicks of antique lamps. The 
dressers and closets are covered with burnished 
copper, and contain the thousand and one uten¬ 
sils of the cuisine , all shining with dazzling pol¬ 
ish—the kitchen girl being a Holland lass who 
spares neither brick dust nor muscle in keeping 
up the proud reputation for cleanliness of her 
country. 
What is most surprising in this model kitchen, 
is tojsee the saucepans and gridirons, bright as 
so many new watches, hung up with rose-col¬ 
ored ribbons. Evidently these utensils consume 
more ribbon than even madame’s bonnet! A 
short time ago, the friends of the proprietress 
of this unique establishment begged her to give 
a breakfast in this elegant kitchen. She con¬ 
sented, on one condition : the guests should 
themselves cook the breakfast they were to eat, 
and afterward they must wash the dishes and 
put everything back in the same order in which 
they found it. The proposition was stoically 
accepted. Two ladies who have four or five 
hundred thousand francs a year to spend, the 
lady of an admiral, a duchess, and the wives of 
two foreign ministers, were present on the oc¬ 
casion, and took part in the novel proceedings. 
The dish-washing efforts of these fashionable 
butterflies must have been amusing.” 
DEATH OF SIR JOHN ROSS. 
Rear-Admiral Sir John Ross, K. C. B., died 
lately at 43 Gillingham-street, Pimlico. This 
gallant Arctic voyager entered the navy as far 
back as 1786. His most important services 
were rendered in the Arctic regions where in 
1818 he proceeded along with Sir W. E. Perry, 
fn the Driver he proceeded for the purpose of 
exploring Baffin’s Bay, and inquiring into the 
probability of a northwest passage. The re¬ 
sults of his investigations are detailed by Cap¬ 
tain Ross in his “Voyage of Discovery,” pub¬ 
lished in 1819. He was afterwards, from May, 
1819, until October, 1833, employed in the 
Y ictory steamer, on a fresh, expedition to the 
Arctic regions, equipped at the expense of the 
present Sir Felix Booth. He received the hon¬ 
or of knighthood, together with the companion¬ 
ship of the Bath, Dec. 24, 1834. On March 8, 
1849, he was appointed Consul at Stockholm, 
where he remained several years. During the 
war Sir John Ross, in three different actions, 
was thirteen times wounded. In consideration 
of his services, he was presented by the Patri¬ 
otic Society with a sword valued at £100, and 
for services performed by him in the Baltic he 
was nominated a knight commander of the 
Swedish order of the sword. He was also a 
knight of several other foreign orders.— Loyd. 
Latin Prophecy of Washington. — In the 
writings of Marcus Tullus Cicero, the celebra¬ 
ted Roman orator, who was basely murdered by 
tbe orders of Mark Antony, in bis sixty-third 
year, and forty-two years before the Christian 
era, the following remarkably prophetic lan¬ 
guage occurs, which seems particularly appli¬ 
cable to Washington Across the ocean, if 
we may credit the Sybiline leaves, and after 
many ages an extensive and rich country will 
be discovered, and in it will arise a hero, who, 
by bis counsel and arms, shall deliver his coun¬ 
try from the slavery by which she was oppress¬ 
ed. This shall he do under favorable auspices ; 
and O ! how much more admirable will he be 
than our Brutus and Camillus ! These predic¬ 
tions were known to our Accius, and were em¬ 
bellished with the ornaments of poetry.” 
Remember that the wheel of Providence is 
always in motion, and the spoke that is upper¬ 
most will be under; therefore mix trembling 
with your joy. 
Self-Culture.— It is our business carefully 
to cultivate in our minds, to rear to the utmost 
vigor and maturity every sort of generous and 
honest feeling that belongs to our nature. To 
bring the dispositions that are lovely in private 
life into the service and conduct of the com¬ 
monwealth ; so to be patriots as not to forget 
we are gentlemen. To cultivate friendships, 
and to incur enmities. To model our principles 
to our duties and situation. To be fully per¬ 
suaded that all virtue which is impracticable is 
spurious; and rather to run the risk of falling 
into faults in a course which leads us to act with 
effect and energy than to loiter out our davs 
without blame and without use. He trespasses 
against his duty who sleeps upon his watch, as 
well as he that goes over to the enemy.— Burke. 
The thinking man hath wings; the acting 
man hath only feet and hands. 
