Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker. 
OUR JIMMIE AND HIS BRIDE 
the opened door. New and untrodden paths await 
those records of labor—new hearths — strange 
firesides are visited. They are bidden full welcome 
by all save those who have no desire for true, 
intelligent copy. 
At the home of that boy setting out alone for a 
three mile walk to reach it, let us call and witness 
the scrutiny which the labor of the sanctum re¬ 
ceives. His parents are New Englanders — edu¬ 
cated and intelligent reading farmers, they left the 
early home land for this more fertile and promis¬ 
ing soil. Their labors have been blessed, and they 
are enjoying the decline of life as only the indus¬ 
trious can enjoy it. Not their smallest comfort is 
that boy whom we have seen hastening along the 
prairie path, hardly able to wait until he reaches 
home to enjoy the copy in his possession. Good 
copy has ever been his — parental copy without a 
fault, from which others, as well as himself, have 
profited. But yet the parents feel a want of what, 
without exchange of labor, they cannot gratify — 
a real, pressing, not-to-be-foregone want of ex¬ 
amples— of copy to point their boy’s mind on the 
way to yet higher development in science and 
truth. The age demands that he should receive 
not only the impress of their own proper, every¬ 
day, stereotyped habits and manners, but the mind- 
labor and choice product of some one educated for 
the duty, constantly. Such is the great need in 
this house where want seemeth a stranger so full 
is the ample-stored abundance, the content and 
happiness which marks its indwellers. But their 
want is not for the temporal supply of their bodies 
— it is instruction — added thought. The think¬ 
ing part of man requires strengthening and quick¬ 
ening as regularly as the body. He may acquire 
more consuming, hateful, burning thirsts, but un¬ 
til stifled, he possesses Nature’s in-planted relish 
for the congenial, sympathetic condiments of other 
mind-labor, which ever prompts him to higher ac¬ 
tion, and never satisfied, is constantly crying give, 
give. It is the yearning of the heart for true 
knowledge in the student of the farm as well as 
the laboratory. It is the want also of the parent 
for his offspring—the teacher for his pupils — 
the pastor for his flock — a want or association not 
to be denied. Money in the purse —herds in the 
field — measured stores in the garner, are naught 
compared with the want of the parents spoken of. 
They want the entire labor of him whose sanctum 
we have visited. They are not ambitious, neither 
extravagant, but after examining the stranger in¬ 
troduced by their school-boy son, resolve to bestow 
upon him the product of that Editor’s labor—think 
of it ye who flourished in the days of Pythagoras 
and Demosthenes — think of it ye who value too 
highly your insignificant flock and herd products, 
to give in exchange a few cankered shillings for 
fifty-two measures of a full mind’s action. Surely 
Alexander received less in his early training un¬ 
der the philosophic Aristotle, with national 
wealth at his beck, than this farmer boy of the 
Wonderful realization of desire—con- 
BY JENNY MARSH PARKER, 
I look upon a sunny path 
Where two walk side b 7 side; 
They love each other true and well. 
But, ah ! the future, who can tell? 
Kind Heaven keep 
Our Jimmie and his bride, 
No clouds are frowning o’er their heads, 
No thorns are ’ncath their feet, 
They thtnfc the wide world glad as they ; 
Dear Father, grant they ever may, 
And let no woe betide 
Our Jimmie and his bride. 
Their years are few, and may their looks 
Grow white before they part, 
But never let a snow-flake fail 
To blight their bloom of heart; 
We love them much, and to Thy care 
We leave them, and confide 
That angel wings will fold around 
Our Jimmie and his bride, 
Rochester, N. Y., 1859. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker, 
JESUS WEPT, 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE OLD HOUSE. 
On ! how sweet for weary ones 
Of earth’s sighing, fallen sons, 
As they travel here below 
In this world of weal or woe; 
Sweet, though life a troubled deep; 
Jesus wept that we might weep. 
Mourner, hast thou naught to cheer 
Thy lomc path while traveling here ? 
Art thou of a friend in need? 
Jesus is tbv friend indeed. 
He thy guide, thy hope will be; 
Jesus wept, He’ll weep with thee. 
Careless sinner, dost thou soorn 
Jesus Christ, for sinners born? 
Dost thou scom the path He trod t 
Ere thou feel His chast’ning trod, 
Pause, behold His love how free; 
Jesus wept.’ He wept for thee. 
Christians, journeying hand in hand 
Till ye reach the promised land. 
Can ye still inactivo be, 
While a world in sin ye see ? 
Sow in tears, in gladness reap ; 
Jesus wept and ye should weep, 
Tiffard, N. Y., 1869. Jane R, IL 
That little brown house ! I remember it well — 
’Mid roses and lilacs ombowered— 
No palace of kings was e’er loved half so well, 
Tho’ in pride and in grandeur it towered. 
With door always open to want and distress, 
Kind hearts there to comfort and cheer, 
And hands ever ready to give and to bless— 
Sure, peace and contentment dwelt hero. 
Its compass was small, yet there over was room— 
Its walls no rare pictures adorned — 
No costly upholstery there to shed gloom 
And discomfort on all things around. 
But the “ old kitchen chairs ” that so nicely did fit, 
The “ arm-chair” all covered so neat, 
And the “little chair,” too, where I first learned to knit 
Seated there at my dear mother’s feet 
Not these, in exchange for the sofas, divans, 
That modern apartments adorn, 
Would I give, though with time, and the oft busy hands 
Of children, disfigured and worn. 
Then the “old Gorman clock” that has hung on the 
wall, 
And numbered tho hours as they past, 
Though of joy, or of sorrow, it recked not the while, 
But whispered, “mot always they’ll last” 
And then the “ old cupboard ” with door never barred 
To guard the rich dainties within, 
But filled with a store of nice cakes, pies, and bread, 
Which wo buttered in slices not thin. 
O, such, bread and butter as there was produced, 
Never since have I tasted, or can ; 
It seemed that new life with each slice was infused 
As it came from our kind mother’s hand. 
’Twas the home of my childhood! that little brown 
house! 
Where I whiled its bright hours away, 
With the bird, and the bee, and the sly little mouso, 
As wild and as careless as they. 
And near it was thero an “ old barn,” which I ween— 
As piled with rich harvests it stood — 
Some other rude girl like myself must have seen 
And loved it as well as I could. 
Oh, many and sweet are the mem’ries that cling 
Around that loved home of my heart! 
’Tis hallowed by scenes that around me still fling 
A charm that can never depart. 
Tho’ it standeth no longer, and I am afar 
In a land that is new to my sight, 
Yet my spirit oft passes and wanders back there 
With a feeling of strange, wild delight 
Mina, N. Y,, 1859. Lute. 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
THE “SANCTUM”-WHAT IS IT LIKE? 
I wonder if any of the lady Rural Correspon¬ 
dents have ever seen the inside of an Editor’s sanc¬ 
tum? If you have, I wish you’d tell us how it 
looks, and initiate us somewhat, in its mysteries. 
Does he not have a great pile of letters, and 
newspapers, and periodicals, and books, to ex¬ 
amine every mail — subscriptions, queries, arti¬ 
cles for publication, &c. ?—and who opens them, 
and disposes of their contents ? Does the Editor 
himself, with assistants? Take, for instance, the 
office of the Rural New-Yorker. Does the Edi¬ 
tor condescend to look over all the communica¬ 
tions, deciding which to publish, and which not; 
or does he trust that department to some other 
I have often wondered how he, or any 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
“EXCELSIOR;” 
A STORY FOR THE STORY MAKERS 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
LITE’S MISSION. 
BY W. It. GARDNER, 
How many reminiscences sad and sorrowful do 
we find recorded upon life’s pages. Sad disap¬ 
pointments, hidden heart-aches, unrealized aspira¬ 
tions, and petty trials—how these at times come 
like a load of misery to crush our weary hearts, 
until it seems almost a burden to live, with such 
an array of bright hopes unrealized, and good re¬ 
solves broken for a future warning, Life! What 
depths of meaning does this simple word convey! 
How it speaks of earnest struggles for right and 
truth, of good resolves and noble deeds,—how it 
tells of crime, misery, want, and wretchedness. 
Though the discords of sin are continually drown¬ 
ing the beautiful harmonies of life,—though evil 
and temptation ever surround us,—though dis¬ 
appointments and hourly trials may attend us 
through life’s journey,—though the slanders of the 
malicious, and the faithlessness of those we have 
trusted may wound us; yet it will be but a short 
time before the winds above our graves will chant 
our requiem “ while we rest from our labors.” 
Life is not given us for vaia repinings and mur- 
murings, but for a higher and nobler purpose,— 
for the good of others. We have each a life-work 
to do, which noble and generous hearts should 
covet. It is to check the swelling tide of human 
wretchedness and woe, to comfort the broken¬ 
hearted, to scatter the gems of sympathy and kind¬ 
ness among the sorrowing sons and daughters of 
earth. Were it but the aim of every one to promote 
the happiness of others, how many hearts now sad 
would bound with life and joy—how many moments 
of anguish that are known only to the deeply sen¬ 
sitive heart, might be spared. How often has the 
unkind word, the thoughtless criticism, sent the 
burning tear of anguish unbidden to the eye, which 
by a simple word of kindness might have been seal¬ 
ed deep in their fountains. Ever, then, oh ! earth- 
pilgrim, speak and act kindly. Kind words and 
deeds are more precious than glittering diamonds, 
or the laurels wreathed around a victor’s brow. 
Perchance, by kindness and encouragement well 
bestowed, the erring wanderer from the path of 
purity and peace, may be led to return again to a 
better and a holier file—to the afflicted, a word or 
look of kindness may find a sunny resting-place, 
which may kindle the light of joy in his saddened 
heart, sheding a halo around his future pathway, 
cheering it to the tomb. 
“ Then ever speak in tones of kindness 
To the sorrow-stricken heart, 
And never let a word or action 
Cause the bitter tear to start; 
For how many spirits broken, 
Bowed beneath a load of care, 
Have boen cheered by kind words spokon, 
Cheered their daily cross to bear.” 
May it then be our “ life mission ” to crown each 
day of our lives with good and beautiful deeds, that 
when the snows of life’s December shall whiten 
our heads, we may look back upon a life well spent, 
and enjoy a hope of a resurrection unto life im¬ 
mortal, a rest in that “ Eternal Country ” which 
God hath prepared for those that serve Him. 
Wilson, N. Y., 1859. Marion. 
In a three-cornered, high-walled room, fronting 
upoD a busy, din-raising street sat a man surround¬ 
ed with books, letters, and newspapers. He plies 
his task diligently/silently, save the rustling of 
paper or the occasional scratching of his pen.— 
The rumble of machinery barely reaches him, but 
undisturbed he toils on — the written page length¬ 
ening— the piles of examined manuscripts and ex¬ 
change papers of various classes growing larger; 
until, after a time,— a long time of unceasing ef¬ 
fort,—he rises, having filled the iron band-measure 
which encircles the metallic signs of his brain-la¬ 
bor. He is the Editor — the parent mind of the 
establishment we have unceremoniously entered,— 
the thinking power, like the sun lighting and 
warming a whole solar system of satellite workers. 
In the room from which we entered this are 
stored thick volumes, containing the ligaments 
binding the sanctum to that portion of the outer 
world which feeds it. The result of the hand and 
brain-labor of w'hich wo are speaking, directed by 
those volumes, finds its way through the throb¬ 
bing, beating, iron-arteried world to the hearths 
and homes of thousands in our loved laud. The 
means furnished by enlightened and well-organized 
society are used — the universal mail conveyance 
of our domain — to pay to each creditor his dues, 
but this detracts naught from the praise which the 
master brain of the dosorres:. . 
In another apartment w*bear the click, click, of 
lettered type, and the constant use of copy, drawn 
from the tri-cornered fountain, tells the unremit¬ 
ting toil of him who feeds the stream from that 
inner “holy of holies.” Yes, copy is the constant 
want here— copy which, radiated upon the world, 
becomes real copy for an infinitude of forming, en¬ 
larging, progressive minds. The trickling stream 
from that worn pen-nib multiplied, is more effective 
in forming mind than the will of any tyrant who 
ever forged chains on a minion-supported throne. 
In yet another apartment is the magical product 
and invaluable servant of diffused science — the 
power printing-press. The product of the labor 
of that inner fount passing ’neath the magic touch 
of this machine may be exchanged for a trifle with 
thousands, instead of remaining only his. It is a 
wonderful consummation of labor to him who has 
passed more time in trapping than study — it is a 
wonderful success to every division of labor, and 
calculated to bring forth unconcealed wonder from 
even intelligent eyes. 
None but carefully educated eyes, hands and 
brains labor here. The final immortal product 
bound in mortal caskets is too precious to allow 
aught but finished, gilded gems to speak upon the 
page of the sheet whose inspection is rigid, and 
motto is “ Excelsior .” 
“Yet higher ” is the aim of the pen-guide in the 
sanctum, the printer at his “ case,” and the work¬ 
men at the press, and the impress of their thought 
is enstamped upon their labor, to be engraven upon 
the heart of the herd-tending school-boy, who 
nightly denies himself hours with his skates, that 
he may share their thoughts. “ Excelsior” is en¬ 
grafted upon all who come within its radius, and 
truth impressed for eternity, is photographed upon 
the heart by the Editor’s labor. 
It is a vain endeavor to trace the influences 
which conspired to produce the artizan who labors 
in the sanctum to furnish copy to set in living 
forms, imperishable as immortal. We imagine 
preparation, youthful study, training hope, and, 
finally, the adoption of the ever-retreating beacon, 
“Excelsior.” We have known him of the sanctum 
for more than half a score of years — we have 
within us caverned memories, youthful planted, 
fixed and unfading — ours for good from him for¬ 
ever. Others have them — we are not alone, and 
now proceed to give another view drawn from the 
sanctum’s influences. 
The snows of early winter were sifting upon 
farm-land and moor in the “Prairie State,” when 
a teacher in a beautiful school-room — from whose 
windows fully four hundred square miles of prairie 
could be seen at one sweep of the eve — laid upon 
his table before the wondering eyes of his pupils a 
package of papers, fresh from the post-office. Un¬ 
binding the bundle he found it to contain specimen 
sheets from the establishment described by ns.— 
When the hour of separation came, each tugging 
laborer for the lore garnered for him on the famed 
hill of science was bidden take one. Into capa¬ 
cious pockets they are thrust, and, one by one, 
with their noisy owners, have disappeared through 
person 
one else, could endure to inspect all the articles 
sent to them; and so far from feeling dissatisfac¬ 
tion, if a piece has been deemed unworthy, or 
overlooked, have been surprised to see it again.— 
How can we judge of the fitness of an article for 
publication ? It may be too late, or too early, or 
out of season, or on subjects not treated upon in 
that paper. In short, it may lack or possess too 
much, for that particular paper, or time, or re¬ 
gion; or, in the multiplicity of an Editor’s duties 
have been overlooked for months or years. As 
the Editor is responsible for the influence and im¬ 
pression his publications may exert or create, how 
impossible it would be for him to indorse the sen¬ 
timents of all who choose to address his paper, 
by giving them publicity thro’ its columns. 
Probably, the mass of people are very ignorant 
of the duties, and exertions, attending the success¬ 
ful publication of newspapers. Few men are quali¬ 
fied to fill with continued popularity an “ Editor’s 
Chair,” and wo Rcareoly know how approoiato 
the efforts he must make, and the obstacles over¬ 
come, before he can become fairly established in 
public opinion and receive an encouraging patron¬ 
age. And is it not in his power, to do more good, 
or harm, than any other class of our public teach¬ 
ers ? The Editor’s influence ranks the highest and 
most extended in our country, and through him, 
if it ever comes, we must look for “ the good time 
coming.” Queechy. 
[Without assuming to answer the queries propound¬ 
ed to Lady Correspondents, we would refer Queechy to 
an article in next column from the pen of a gentleman 
who has visited the Rural sanctum, and knows some¬ 
what whereof he affirms relative to its topography, &c. 
It is proper to remark, however, that though the princi¬ 
pal editor opens and cursorily examines all communi¬ 
cations, many are necessarily submitted to the close 
examination of assistants and contributors who have 
more leisure, and make certain branches their special¬ 
ities.—E d. Rural.] 
Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker. 
GOVERNMENT OF CHILDREN. 
prairie. 
summate success, the placing, by occasional revo¬ 
lutions of the press given in exchange for a few 
hours labor, the aggregate experience and wisdom 
of ages in the hands of our youth. 
The connection between the toiling Editor’s sanc¬ 
tum and the hearts and homes of the people is very- 
acute. While the latter are furnished mental sus¬ 
tenance by the former, the support of the sanctum 
is derived by supplying just such wants as the one 
described at the prairie hearth-stone. Although 
depending upon the voice of the people for success, 
intelligent, sufficient, honest labor fails not of ap¬ 
preciation and remunerating return. Liberal sup¬ 
port accorded to the sanctum, and careful prepara¬ 
tion of the product of the press with “ Excelsior” 
for its motto, will result advantageously to both 
parties, proving to each an untold augmentation 
of happiness, as the effect of a division of labor. 
Amboy, Lee Co., Ill., 1859. 
Nothing in this world presents a sight half so 
pleasing, beautiful, attractive, captivating, (I speak 
for one,) as a group or family of children atten¬ 
tively, aye, eagerly listening to the counsel of their 
parents. The divine injunction is explicit: — “ Tram 
u,p a child in the may he should go.” And I remark 
that the way here meant is, firstly, obedience to its 
parents. For a child to disobey its parents is to 
dishonor them, which is a violation of both the 
natural and moral law. 
Some one (I hope many,) may ask, flow would 
you have us do to prevent this. Pay attention, my 
friends, and, if I may be allowed, I will answer 
you as briefly and plainly as I can, and with all the 
pleasure imaginable. First, for your encourage¬ 
ment, I will here tell you that it is a work that well 
pays, and that no parent can neglect it without 
meeting with a loss far “ transcending all price.” 
Let me impress it into your minds that the obedi¬ 
ence of children to their parents depends wholly on 
carring out strictly in practice a few plain, simple 
rules. The most important of these I shall here 
lay down. 
1st. By all means both parents (if there are two 
living,) should be united— should act in unison, 
“in concert,” in harmony. Bitter conflicts and 
many evils grow out of a disagreement between 
parents. Of these squabbles children are much 
earlier observers than parents have any idea, and 
will seldom fail taking the advantage of such occa¬ 
sions and weaknesses, and fly for shelter and pro¬ 
tection to the one or the other that will take their 
part. Should parents differ as to their mode of 
government, as may sometimes happen, they should 
take the utmost cave that it does not come to the 
knowledge of the child. 
2 d. The next thing is to begin in season. Almost 
all parents are apt to put off bringing their chil¬ 
dren under wholesome discipline and restraint, 
until they have been left to their own way so long 
that the habit of disobeying becomes so fixed, and 
the will so strong, that it takes full double the 
medicine to operate. Parents who thus neglect 
and postpone, arc never known to make amends. 
The fact is, they have neither the disposition nor 
the ability. The child is beyond their control. 
8 d. At what age is it proper to commence ? As 
soon as the child is capable of understanding a 
plain, simple order,— somewhere, say, from ten to 
eighteen months old. Parents by a little attention 
can very easily and correctly determine. At this 
age commence a thorough, uniform, regular, sys¬ 
tematic, daily course of training. There are many 
in-door errands and offices which the child is 
capable of doing and should be required to do at 
this age; such as “ bring me the broom,”—“ carry 
sister the pan,”—“ pick up the cake,”—“ shut the 
door,” and the like. 
4 th. Let your orders always be given in language 
adapted to the child’s understanding—the plainest 
and simplest possible. Many children are blamed 
and cruelly punished for not understanding what 
it is utterly impossible for any one to understand. 
5th. See that your requirements are just and 
reasonable, so that there shall be no difficulty what¬ 
ever—that is, want of power on the child’s part in 
complying with them. The reason for this it is 
not necessary to give. Then, when they are made, 
—when the order is given, see that it is obeyed 
without any failure, by speaking only once. To 
this end let it be given in a firm and decisive man- 
How You May Know Good Fathers. —It is a 
good sign and true when you see amid a group 
of boys one dart from the rest, and, tossing his 
arms above bis head, shout — “ There!smy father /” 
as he runs to meet him. You may be sure, no 
matter what business soever, that man may have, 
that there is a spot in his heart still fresh and 
green, which the cares of the world have no 
power to blight. “There’s my father.” With 
what a pretty pride the little fellow shouts this. 
He must be indeed a brute, whose fatherly heart 
does not swell with love, whose eyes do not glisten, 
who does not at such a moment feel amply repaid 
for that day’s toil, no matter how wearisome. 
After all, love is the only thing worth having in 
this world. They who stand over new-made 
graves tell us so. Fame, money, and ambition 
dwindle into nothing, beside the white, calm brow 
of death, though God knows it may be the young¬ 
ling of the flock whose lips have never even learn¬ 
ed to syllable our names. 
THE INDUSTRY OF WOMEN. 
The last Edinburgh Review has an interesting 
paper on the labors and emoluments of women.— 
The writer affirms that education is the surest 
means of placing her in the position nature intend¬ 
ed her to occupy. Out of six millions of women 
in England and Scotland, he shows that no less 
than half are industrial in their mode of life, more 
than a third being self-supporting. The matrimo¬ 
nial cases under recent laws have disclosed an 
amazing amount of female industry; almost every 
wife who sought protection proving that she had 
supported the household and acquired property. 
The reviewer does not hesitate to attribute difficul¬ 
ties in regard to the industrial independence of 
women to the jealousy of men. This jealousy, he 
says: 
“ Shows itself with every step gained in civiliza¬ 
tion, and its immediate effect is to pauperize a large 
number of women, who are willing to work for 
their bread; and we need not add, to condemn to 
perdition many more who have no choice left but 
between starvation and vice. The jealousy which 
keeps country women from the employment of en¬ 
graving the brass work of a watch, and from past¬ 
ing patterns of floss silk upon cards, for trade 
purposes, long kept the School of Design in Lon¬ 
don closed against female pupils, and renders it 
still more impossible for an Englishwoman to 
qualify herself for treating the diseases of women 
and children. The same jealousy cost many lives 
in the late war, by delaying the reception of the 
nurses into the hospitals in the East, and by re¬ 
stricting their action when there. In the Stafford¬ 
shire potteries, women are largely employed in 
painting porcelain—an art which they are better 
qualified to practice than men. It will hardly be 
credited, but we can vouch for the fact, that such 
is the jealousy of men that they compel the women 
to paint without a rest for the hand, and the mas¬ 
ters are obliged by their workmen to sanction thip 
absurd act of injustice.” 
Very Touching. —Mr. Backus, the editor of the 
Canajoharie Radii, is a deaf mute; but how elo¬ 
quently he gives voice to the language of grief in 
the following passage from his last paper: 
We cannot this week fill our usual column— 
every time hitherto, before this, that we have sat 
in the old place, to the now regular recurring 
duty, we have had dear little fingers rambling 
along our knees, or making stray snatches at the 
paper. A little face, all lit with happy eyes, bo- 
peeping into ours. A little head, nodding, as it 
shook its curls, a mock “ by-by, papa,” and turn¬ 
ing back again to the sweet childish teasing. 
But now, alas! the little fingers are no longer here; 
the little eyes are dim with a dimness that shall 
never know the old lustre again, and the little 
curls are yonder, beneath that sod that gleams so 
greenly beneath the trees and the glimmering 
white tombstones. 
The Dignity ok the Ministry. —When the cele¬ 
brated George Herbert informed a court friend of 
his resolution to enter the holy orders, he endeav¬ 
ored to dissuade him from it, as too much below 
his birth and the excellent abilities and endow¬ 
ments of his mind. To whom Herbert replied:— 
“It hath been formerly judged that the domestic 
servants of the King of heaven should be of the 
noblest families of the earth. And though the in¬ 
iquities of the late times have made clergymen 
meanly valued, and the sacred name of priest con¬ 
temptible, yet I will labor to make it honorable by 
consecrating all my learning and all my poor abili¬ 
ties to advance the glory of that God that gave 
them, knowing that I can never do much for him 
that hath done so much for me as to make me a 
Christian. And I will labor to be like my Savior, 
by making humility lovely in the eyes of all men, 
and by following the merciful and meek example 
of my dear Jesus.” 
Aristocracy. —I can respect the aristocracy of 
family—the consciousness of blood that has flowed 
through historic veins and throbbed under blazoned 
shields of renown. I ean respect the aristocracy 
of talent, rising above all material conditions in 
its splendor and power. I can respect the aris¬ 
tocracy of enterprise that bursts all obstacles, and 
itself earns and holds with a modest self-exertion. 
But of all aristocracy, the aristocracy of mere 
vulgar, flaring wealth, and nothing else is the 
emptiest and silliest. — E. II. Chapin. 
Meditation on the Word of God. —By contin¬ 
ual meditation on the sacred writings, a man as 
naturally improves and advances in holiness, as a 
tree thrives and flourishes in a kindly and well- 
watered soil. All the fruits of righteousness show 
themselves at the proper season, as opportunity 
calls for them; and his words, which are to his 
actions what the leaves are to the fruit, fall not on 
the ground, but are profitable as well as ornamental. 
Men can better philosophize on the human heart, 
but women can read it better. — J. J. Rousseau. 
